But the "practical" man stands aside and looks on and says, "Jonathan, you have made a great mistake. You never wore a crown and you never wielded a scepter. You took your opportunity for earthly greatness and threw it away. It was a great mistake." And we take the words of Judas and say, "Why this waste?"

But after all, was it a mistake? He lost his crown, but he won his friend. He helped banish the discord and increased the melody of the world. He threw aside his scepter of temporal power to lay hold on an eternal scepter. He threw aside the crown that he might have worn for a day to lay hold on a crown that will last forever more.

If ever I get to Heaven I expect to give particular attention to the Visitors' Gallery. I think there is going to be an especial place, a very choice place in Heaven for the visitors. Not, you will understand, for those who are visiting Heaven, but those who were good at visiting here. For mark you, the Lord has spoken of a special reward that He is going to give to those of whom He could say, "Ye visited me." And about the handsomest, the loveliest face I expect to find among the immortal and blood-washed visitors is the face of this man Jonathan.

And now, will you hear this closing word? Jonathan uncrowned himself for his friend. And he won his friend and he won an immortal crown. But there was another who gave up infinitely more than Jonathan. And He came to you and me when we were in an infinitely worse plight than that in which David was. He came to us when we were dead in trespasses and in sin. And what He says to us this morning is this, "I have called you friends. Ye are my friends."

The Prince who did that for us was not the son of Saul, but the Son of God. Through His renunciation He was crowned. By His stooping He was forever elevated. "Wherefore God has highly exalted Him and given Him a name that is above every name." But what I ask is this: Have you responded to His friendship as David responded to that of Jonathan? He has been a friend to you. Have you, will you be a friend to Him? That is what He is seeking. That is what He is longing for to-day as for nothing else in earth or Heaven.

You know why He came. You know why He is here now. Why did Jonathan visit David in the gloomy wood that day and uncrown himself for him? It was just this reason: It was because he loved him. Again and again the story had said that Jonathan loved David as his own soul. I thought it was a mere hyperbole at first. I thought it might be a kind of poetic way of putting it, but it was only sober truth. And David spoke sober truth in that noble and manly lamentation when he said, "Thy love was wonderful to me, passing the love of women."

And it is love that seeks you and me to-day. It is a love that longs to gain our friendship. It is a love that had been told to us, but at last was shown to us in the death of the cross. And we know it is true. David responded to the love that was shown him. He did not disappoint his friend. May the Lord save you and me from disappointing our Friend. "For He is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother."



VI

THE WOMAN OF THE SHATTERED ROMANCES—THE WOMAN OF SYCHAR

John 4:4-26

Look, will you, at this picture. There sits a man in the strength and buoyancy of young manhood. He is only thirty or thereabouts. About him is the atmosphere of vigor and vitality that belong to the spring-time of life. But to-day he is a bit tired. There is a droop in his shoulders. His feet and sandals are dusty. His garment is travel stained. He has been journeying all the morning on foot. And now at the noon hour he is resting.

The place of his resting is an old well curb. The well is one that was digged by hands that have been dust long centuries. This traveller is very thirsty. But he has no means of drawing the water, so he sits upon the well curb and waits. His friends who are journeying with him have gone into the city to buy food. Soon they will return and then they will eat and drink together.

As he looks along the road that leads into the city he sees somebody coming. That somebody is not one of his disciples. It is a woman. As she comes closer he sees that she is clad in the cheap and soiled finery of her class. At once he knows her for what she is. He reads the dark story of her sinful life. He understands the whole fetid and filthy past through which she has journeyed as through the stenchful mud of a swamp.

As she approaches the well she glares at the Stranger seated upon the curb with bold and unsympathetic gaze. She knows his nationality at once. And all her racial resentment is alive and active.

A bit to her surprise the Stranger greets her with a request for a favor. "Give me a drink," he says. Christ was thirsty. He wanted a draught from Jacob's well. But far more He wanted a draught from this woman's heart. She was a slattern, an outcast. She was lower, in the estimation of the average Jew, than a street dog. Yet this weary Christ desired the gift of her burnt out and impoverished affections. So He says, "Give me to drink."

There is no scorn in the tone, and yet the woman is not in the least softened by it. She rather glories in the fact that she has Him at a disadvantage. "Oh, yes," she doubtless says to herself, "you Jews with your high-handed pride, you Jews with your bitter contempt for us Samaritans—you never have any use for us except when you need us." "How is it," she says, "that you being a Jew ask drink of me who am a woman of Samaria? You don't mean that you would take a drink at the hand of an unclean thing like me, do you?"

But this charming Stranger does not answer her as she had expected. He makes no apology for His request. Nor does He show the least bit of resentment or contempt. He does not answer scorn with scorn, but rather answers with a surprising tenderness: "If thou knewest the gift of God and who it is that saith unto thee, Give me to drink, thou wouldest have asked of Him and He would have given thee living water."

Mark what the Master says. It is one of those abidingly tragic "ifs"—"If thou knewest." "The trouble with you," He says, "is that you do not know the marvelous opportunity with which you now stand face to face. Your trouble is that you are unaware of how near you are to the Fountain of Eternal Life. You do not realize how near your soiled fingers are to clasping wealth that is wealth forever more."

"If thou knewest"—if you only knew how He could still the fitful fever of your heart. If you only knew the message of courage and hope and salvation that He could speak through your lips, you would not be so listless and so careless and so indifferent as the preacher is trying to preach. If you knew the burdens that are ahead of you—if you knew the dark and lonely places where you will sorely need a friend, you would not lightly ignore the friendship and abiding companionship that is offered you in Christ Jesus, our Lord.

"If thou knewest." Do you not hear the cadences of tenderness in the voice of our Lord? Do you not get a glimpse of some bit of the infinite compassion that looks out from those eternal eyes? "If you only knew the gift of God, if you only knew who I am, instead of my having to beg you, instead of my having to stand at the door and knock—you would be knocking. You would be asking of me."

Now, isn't that a rather amazing thing for Christ to say about this fallen woman? There she stands in her shame. Once, no doubt, she was beautiful. There is a charm about her still in spite of the fact that she is a woman of many a shattered romance. Five times she has been married, but the marriage relationship has had little sacredness for her. Her orange blossoms have been dipped in pitch and to-day she is living in open sin.

Who would ever have expected any marked change in this woman? Who would ever have dreamed that underneath this cheap and tarnished dress there beat a hungry heart? Who would ever have thought that this outcast heathen had moments when she looked wistfully toward the heights and longed for a better life? I suppose nobody would ever have thought of it but the kindly Stranger who now sat upon the well curb talking to her. He knew that in spite of her wasted years, in spite of her tarnished past, in spite of the fact that the foul breath of passion had blown her about the streets as a filthy rag—there still was that within her that hungered and thirsted for goodness and for God.

And, my friend, you may assume that that thirst belongs to every man. There is not one that is not stirred by it. It belongs to the best of mankind. It belongs to the elect company of white souled men and women that have climbed far up the hills toward God. It belongs to the great saints like David who cries, "My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God," who sobs out in his intensity of longing, "As the hart panteth after the water brook, so panteth my soul after thee, O God."

And thank God it does not belong to the saints alone. It belongs also to the sinners. It does not belong simply to those who have climbed toward the heights, but also to those who have dipped toward the lowest depths. About the only difference between the saint and the sinner in this respect is that the saint knows what he is thirsting for. He knows who it is that can satisfy the deepest longings of his soul, and the sinner does not know. But both of them are thirsting for the living God.

Jesus Christ knew men and women. He knew the human heart, and knowing man at his deepest, He knew what we sometimes forget. He knew that in every man, however low, however degraded he may be—that in every woman, however soiled and stained she may be, there is an insatiable longing for God. They do not always realize that for which they are thirsting. But I am absolutely sure that Augustine was right when he said that "God has made us for Himself and we never find rest till we rest in Him." Every human soul that is in the Far Country is in want, is hungry for the Bread of Life and thirsty for the Water of Life.

Do you remember what the Greeks said to Andrew that day at Jerusalem? "'Sir, we would see Jesus.' We would have a vision of the face of God's Son." And this is a universal longing. It is a thirst that has burned in the heart of man from the beginning of human history. It is older than the pyramids. It is a cry that is the very mother of religion.

As we sit by our Lord and see this unclean woman coming with her earthenware pot upon her shoulder we would fain warn Him. We would whisper in His ear, "Look, Master, yonder comes a degraded woman, yonder comes that creature that in all the centuries has been the most loathed and the most despised and who has been regarded as the most hopeless. Yonder comes an outcast." But Jesus said, "You see and know only in part. Your knowledge is surface knowledge. You do not know her in the deepest depths of her soiled soul. Yonder comes one, who in spite of her sin longs to be good and pure and holy. Yonder comes an immortal soul with immortal hungers and thirsts. Yonder comes a possible child of mine that longs ignorantly but passionately for the under-girding of the Everlasting Arms."

And believe me, my friends, when I tell you that this longing is universal. You have feared to speak to that acquaintance of yours who seems so flippant, who seems so utterly indifferent to everything that partakes of the nature of religion. But that is not the deepest fact about him. Whoever he is and wherever he is, there are times when he is restless and heartsick and homesick. There are times when he is literally parched with thirst for those fountains that make glad the city of God. Dare to speak to him as if he wanted Jesus Christ. For he does want Him, though he may not know it and may be little conscious of it.

"If thou knewest the gift of God . . . thou wouldest have asked of Him." That was absolutely and literally true, though I seriously doubt if the woman herself would have believed it of herself. If you knew the gift of God, if you knew what God could do for you, how much he could mean to your wasted and burnt out affections—you would ask Him. You would seek for Him. You would change this well curb into an altar of prayer. You would change this noon-tide glare into an inner temple, into a holy of holies where the soul and God would meet and understand each other.

This reply of the Stranger awakens the interest of the woman while at the same time it mystifies and bewilders her. He is evidently sincere, and yet what can He mean? And in puzzled wonderment she asks Him, "Whence then hast thou living water? You have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Are you greater than our father Jacob who gave us the well and drank thereof himself and his sons and his cattle? Jacob was a great prince, a man of power with God and man. Do you know a secret that he did not know? Can you do what he could not do?"

And this winsome Stranger does not hesitate to say that He can. Will you listen to the claim that He makes to this woman. No other teacher however great and however egotistical ever made such a claim before or since. "Yes," He replies, "I am greater than your father Jacob. I am greater because I can give a gift that is infinitely beyond his. 'Every one that drinketh of this water shall thirst again, but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst. But the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.'"

Did you notice here the two-fold declaration of the Master? He said in the first place that this old well would not satisfy permanently. And what is true of that well is true of all wells that have ever been digged by human hands. What is wrong with them? For one thing, they never satisfy. They never slake our thirst. To drink from them is like drinking sea water—we become only the more parched and thirsty as we drink.

Do you remember "The Ancient Mariner"? He is on a ship in the ocean and he is parched and dying with thirst. What is the matter? Has the sea gone dry? No—

"Water, water everywhere And all the boards did shrink; Water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink."

There is water, but it is not water that will satisfy.

And so men have digged their wells. They have been real wells. They had held real water of a kind, but it has been water that was utterly powerless to slake the thirst of the soul. Here is a man who has digged a well of wealth. Treasure is bubbling up about him like the waters of a fountain. He is rich beyond his hopes, but is he satisfied? Listen! "Soul, thou hast much good laid up for many days, eat, drink and be merry." But his soul has no appetite for that kind of bread. His soul has no thirst for that brackish and bitter water. It is hungry and thirsty for the living God, and nothing else can satisfy.

Here is another who has made the same tragic blunder.

"I'm an alien—I'm an alien to the faith my mother taught me; I'm an alien to the God that heard my mother when she cried; I'm a stranger to the comfort that my 'Now I lay me' brought me, To the Everlasting Arms that held my father when he died. I have spent a life-time seeking things I spurned when I had found them; I have fought and been rewarded in full many a winning cause; But I'd yield them all—fame, fortune and the pleasures that surround them; For a little of the faith that made my mother what she was.

"When the great world came and called me I deserted all to follow, Never knowing, in my dazedness, I had slipped my hand from His— Never noting, in my blindness, that the bauble fame was hollow, That the gold of wealth was tinsel, as I since have learned it is— I have spent a life-time seeking things I've spurned when I have found them; I have fought and been rewarded in full many a petty cause, But I'd take them all—fame, fortune and the pleasures that surround them, And exchange them for the faith that made my mother what she was."

Here is one who has dug a well of fame, but he cannot count up twelve happy days. And though he has drunk draughts that might have quenched the thirst of millions, he is dying of thirst because there is no more to drink.

"Oh, could I feel as once I felt, And be what I have been, And weep as I could once have wept O'er many a vanished scene.

"As springs in deserts found seem sweet, All brackish though they be; So midst the withered waste of life Those tears would flow to me."

"Oh, what is fame to a woman," said another. "Like the apples of the Dead Sea, fair to the sight and ashes to the touch." Here is another and he has digged wells of wealth and fame and power and pleasure. He seems afloat upon a very sea in which all the streams of human power and glory and wisdom mingle. He tastes them all only to dash the cup from his lips in loathing and disgust as he cries, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity and vexation of spirit."

And so Jesus says to this woman, "This well can never permanently satisfy you. No well of this world can. But if you are only willing, I can give you a well that will satisfy. I can impart that which will meet every single need and every single longing of your soul." What a claim is this! How marvelous, how amazing! And yet this tired young man, sitting here by the well, makes this high claim, and through the centuries He has made it good.

"I can give you," says He, "a well that will satisfy you now. I can touch the hot fever of your life into restfulness now. I can satisfy the intensest hunger of your starved soul even now. And not only can I do this for the present, but I can satisfy for all eternity. I can give you a fountain that will never run dry. I can bless your life with a springtime where the trees will never shed their leaves and the petals of the rose will never shatter upon the grass."

"If you will allow me, I will give you that which will enrich and satisfy your life to-day and to-morrow and through all the eternal to-morrow." In all world feasts there comes a time when we have to say, "There is no wine." There comes a time when the zest is gone, when the wreaths are withered. There comes a time when joy lies coffined and we have left to us only the dust and ashes of burnt out hopes. But Christ satisfies now and ever more. And this He does in spite of all circumstances and in the presence of all difficulties. For His is not an external fountain to which we have to journey again and again and from which we may be cut off by the forces of the enemy. His is a fountain within. It is that which makes us independent of our foes and even, when need be, of our friends. Dr. Jowett tells how he visited an old, ruined castle in England and found far in the inner precincts of that castle a gurgling and living spring.

What a treasure it was to the man who lived in that castle! His enemies might besiege him and shut him in, but they could never cut off his water supply. No foes however great were able to overcome him by starvation for water because he had a fountain within. There was within the castle a well of water springing up, and he was independent of all outside sources.

Now, when Jesus had told this woman of the wonderful gift that He had the power of imparting it is not at all strange that she answered, "Sir, give me this water that I thirst not, neither come all the way here to draw." And that is just what Jesus desires above all else to do for her. But there is one something in the way. Before Christ can impart His saving and satisfying gift the woman must be brought face to face with her need. She must be made to face her own sin eye to eye and to hate it and confess it. She must be willing to turn from it to Him who is able to cleanse from all sin by the washing of His blood.

And how tactfully does Christ bring her face to face with her past! Nothing could be more tenderly delicate than His touch here. "Go call thy husband," He says. "I have no husband," is the ready response. And then He compliments her.

If you are to be successful as a soul winner, if you are to be successful as a worker anywhere—it is fine to have an eye for that which is praiseworthy. There is something commendable about everybody if we only seek for it and find it. A disreputable dog came to our house the other day. My wife looked at him and said, "What a horrible looking dog!" But our small boy looked at him with a different eye and found something good about him and remarked that he could wag his tail well.

There was not much in this woman to compliment. But Jesus picked out one thing that was commendable. He complimented her on the fact that she had told Him the truth. He said, "You have been honest in this. You have no husband. You have had five husbands, but the man that thou now hast is not thy husband. In that saidst thou truly." And now the woman stands looking her soiled and stained past eye to eye. She does not like it. She would like to get away from it. She wants to start a theological discussion. She is ready to launch out into an argument over the proper place to worship God. But Christ holds her face to face with her sin till she loathes it, and utters that deepest cry of her inner nature, the longing for the coming of the Messiah. And then it is that Christ made the first disclosure of Himself that He ever made in this world. He seems to lift the veil from the face of the infinite as He says, "I that speak unto thee am He."

And this woman has found the Living Water. She forgot her old thirst. She forgot the errand that brought her to the well. She left the empty water pot by the curbstone and bounded away like a happy child into the city. She is under the compelling power of a marvelous discovery. She has a story infinitely too good to keep. And in spite of the fact that her past had been a shameful and sordid past—she would not let it close her lips. She gave her testimony, and as a result we read these words, "Many believed because of the saying of the woman."

Heart, this woman never had your chance and mine. She was placed in a bad setting. She wasted the best years of her life. She never found Jesus till the sweetest and freshest years of her life had been squandered in sin. She only met him in the last lingering days of autumn or maybe in the winter time of life. Though she met Him so late, when she stood in His presence a little later in glory she had her hands full of sheaves.

You have had a great chance. Is there anybody that believes because of what you have said? Has any life been transfigured and transformed by the story that you have told? Will you not give a little more earnestness and a little more thought and a little more prayer and a little more effort to the doing of this work that Jesus Christ did not think was beneath Himself as the King of Heaven and the Savior of the world?

And if you have never found the fountain that satisfies, if you know nothing of the spring that flows within—will you not claim that blessed treasure now? Will you not do so, first of all, because of your own needs? Then will you not do so not only because of your own needs but because of the needs of those about you? You are thirsty men and women, and this is a thirsty world. You need God and God needs you. Will you give Him a chance at you?

Remember that this well of water is not to be yours on the basis of merit. It is not to be bought. It is not to be earned. It is not found in the pathway of the scholar or of the rich or of the great or of the gifted. It is God's gift. If you want wages serve the devil, for "the wages of sin is death." "But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord."

In oriental cities, where water is often scarce, water carriers go through the streets selling water at so much per drink. And their cry is this: "The gift of God, who will buy? Who will buy?" And sometimes a man will buy the whole supply, and then allow the water carrier to give it away. And as he goes back down the street, he no longer says, "The gift of God, who will buy?" but "The gift of God, who will take? The gift of God, who will take?" That is my message to you: "The gift of God, who will take?" It is yours for the taking. May God help you to take it now.



VII

A GOOD MAN—BARNABAS

Acts 11:24

This is the text: "He was a good man." Doubtless you think me daring to the point of rashness to undertake to interest and edify a modern congregation by talking about a virtue so prosaic as goodness. "He was a good man." We do not thrill when we hear that. It is not a word that quickens our pulse beat. We do not sit up and lean forward. We rather relax and stifle a yawn and look at our watches and wonder how soon it will be over. We are interested in clever men, in men of genius. We are interested in bad men, in courageous men, in poor men and rich men, but good men—our interest lags here, nods, drowses, goes to sleep.

The truth of the matter is that the word "good" is a bit like the poor fellow that went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. It has fallen among thieves that have stripped it of its raiment and have wounded it and departed, leaving it half dead. It is a word that has a hospital odor about it. It savors of plasters and poultices and invalid chairs. Its right hand has no cunning. Its tongue has no fire. Its cheeks are corpse-like in their paleness. It seems to be in the last stages of consumption. If people say we are handsome or cultured we are delighted, but who is complimented by being called good?

What has wrecked this word? What is the secret of its weakness and utter insipidity? Answer: bad company. The Book says, "The companion of fools shall be destroyed." And this word is an example of the truth of that statement. It has been forced to rub elbows with bad company till it has come into utter disrepute.

Its evil companions have been of two classes. First, it has been made to associate with the gentleman about town whose greatest merit was that he would smoke a cigar with you, if you would furnish the cigar, or take a drink with you, if you would furnish the liquor. He also graced a dress suit, even though it were a rented one with the rent unpaid. And he looked well in pumps. He was a graceful dancer and good at poker. He also was very skilled in never having a job. And his friends all said that "he was a good fellow." And, of course, being forced to keep company with said fellow was enough to ruin the reputation of the word forever more.

But as if that were not enough calamity to befall any innocent and inoffensive word, it was forced into another association that was but little less disreputable. There was an individual—sometimes a man, sometimes a woman—who did not swear, nor lie, nor steal, nor dip snuff; whose conduct was as immaculate as that of a wax figure in a show window; who never made a mistake, nor did he ever make anything else. He was as aggressive as a crawfish and as magnetic as a mummy. He was "faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null." And one day we felt called upon to clothe this colorless insipidity, this incarnate nonentity, with some sort of an adjective, and so we threw around its scrawny shoulders this once glorious robe "good." We said, "Yes, he isn't much account, it is true, but he is a good fellow." And the garment fit him as the coat of Goliath would fit a pigmy. But little by little the once great cloak seemed to draw up and to come to fit the figure of the dwarf.

Thus the word "good" lost its reputation, fell, as many words and many folks do fall, through bad company. But let me remind you that, in spite of popular misconception, "good" is not after all a weak word. It is a strong, brawny, masculine word. It has the shoulders of a Samson. It has the lifting power of a Hercules. And the reason God employed it here to describe this man Barnabas was not because He had to say something about him and could not find anything else decent to say. It was not a word to cover up the deformity of uselessness or the glaring defect of a moral minus sign. He used the word because there was none other that would fitly describe the fine and heroic man of whom He was speaking. It means here all that "Christian" means.

"He was a good man." That was what God said about him. That was how he looked when seen through "the microscope of Calvary." He had matriculated in God's school, and after faithful and patient study, his Master gave him a degree. And what was that degree? Barnabas, the genius? No. Barnabas, the gifted? No. It was a higher degree than either of these. It was the highest degree that Heaven itself can confer. He gave him the degree of "good." Barnabas, the good. "For he was a good man."

Now, why did God call him good? Or, in other words, what are the characteristics that go to make up a good man? When is a man good in the sight of "Him who sees things clearly and sees them whole?" In what branches must a man show himself proficient in order to receive this degree? I ask these questions with the hope that some of us who are here to-day may want to matriculate in God's school to receive the high degree that was conferred upon Barnabas.

The first branch in which Barnabas showed himself proficient in his preparation for this degree was the branch of Christian Stewardship. And I make bold to say that no man will ever receive the degree that Barnabas received who is not proficient in the grace of stewardship.

Here is the story. Barnabas is in Jerusalem at the time of Pentecost. The Church is in the early spring-time of its power. Many Jews, both home-born and foreign-born, have been brought into the fold. They have thereby broken with their kindred, and many of them are without any means of support. Then Barnabas comes forward. He is a wealthy land owner. He sells his land and puts every dollar of it upon the altar of his Lord, for the saving of the church in its hour of crisis.

What does this mean? It means that when Barnabas became a Christian, that when he gave himself to Christ, he gave his money also. Now, stewardship for you may not mean that you, as Barnabas, sell what you have and give it all away. God does not call upon all men to do that, but what He does do is to call upon every man to put both himself and his money at His disposal. He calls upon every man to recognize God, and not himself, as the owner. That is the first step in Christian Stewardship: that God owns all; He owns me; He owns my home; He owns my children; He owns my property. I have called your attention before to the fact that the modern idea of ownership is pagan. The Christian idea is this: that God is the absolute owner of all things.

I am sure that we are as ready as was Barnabas to acknowledge this fact. We nod our heads and agree, but a truth like this demands something more than simply a nod of the head. If God owns everything, then I am to acknowledge that ownership. How was God's ownership acknowledged throughout all the Old Testament days? By the devoting of a tenth to His service. That was required of the rich and of the poor. No man was exempt. Christ never at any time set that law aside. I do not see how any man dare do less than that to-day. The Jews, without one thousandth part of our light, were cursed because of their failure to do this very thing. Since when has it come to pass that the greater the light the less the responsibility?

There is nothing more needed to-day than a Christian attitude toward money. There has been a reaction from the altruism that prevailed during the war, and the world is more money mad than ever before. And men are making money as scarcely ever before, and the man who is making money is the man who stands in the position of a peculiar danger. For the men who can rapidly accumulate money and at the same time be loyal to Jesus Christ are few indeed.

While I was in Dallas the other day I talked to a friend who was a man of wealth. He said without enthusiasm, "I have made more money this year than I ever made before." And then I questioned him regarding his work in the Church. At one time he had been the teacher of a very large class of boys. He told me that he had given up his Sunday School work, that he had given up all his religious work. Then I said, "If you had a thermometer for registering happiness, I suppose your thermometer would register lower to-day than at any other time since you came into the Church." And with sadness he acknowledged that such was the case.

Yes, Barnabas was sound in the doctrine of stewardship. And I am fully persuaded that the man who is genuinely Christian in his attitude toward money will be Christian in every other relationship of life. And I am likewise fully persuaded that the man who fails here, who falls short of the standard of goodness here, will fall short everywhere. A man may be a liberal man and fail to be a good man, but no man can be a good man and at the same time be a gripping, grasping, covetous man. It is an utter impossibility. Barnabas got a degree in goodness, and the first course he mastered was a course in Christian Stewardship.

Second, Barnabas was proficient in that difficult branch that we call faith. He had acquired faith till he was full of it. Faith in God? Yes, he had faith in God. That lies back of all that he did and all that he became. But the faith that shows itself most in his life, as we see it, is his faith in men. How he did believe in folks! Confidence in men is an essential to true goodness. I do not believe that any cynic was ever a really good man. I know we sometimes pride ourselves on being hard to fool. We congratulate ourselves at times on being able to see more through a key-hole than other folks can see through a wide-open door. We boast of our ability to read character and to see behind the scenes and to detect sham where other folks dreamed there was sincerity. And I am not arguing for blindness or stupidity, but what I do say is this: that the really good men are the men who believe in their fellows.

You have met the man who says that every fellow has his price. But whenever you hear a man say that you may know that there is at least one man who does have his price, and that is the man who is making the statement. You can compromise till you come to persuade yourself that compromise is the law of life. You can play with honesty till you come to believe in the dishonesty of the whole world. And the man without confidence in his brother is a man who personally knows that he himself would not do to trust.

Barnabas believed in men. One of the greatest enemies that the Church ever had returned one day from a tour of persecution in Damascus. He declared that he had been converted on the way, but nobody in Jerusalem believed him. Yes, there was one glorious exception. That exception was Barnabas. He believed in Paul, staked his reputation, his life, his Church, which was dearer to him than his life,—he staked all these upon his faith in Paul's sincerity. But for that, Paul might have been lost to the Church.

And here is another instance: Paul and Barnabas are on their first missionary tour. With them is a young man named Mark. He has been tenderly nurtured. He finds the missionary life harder than he expected. He proves a coward and goes home. Years after, when the faces of Paul and Barnabas are again set to the battle front, Mark once more offers his service. But Paul will not accept him. He knows that the mission field is no place for parlor soldiers. And so he flatly refuses to allow him to become a part of the army of invasion.

But Barnabas,—somehow he cannot bring himself to give him up. He believes that even if a man failed once he may succeed at a second trial. He believes that a coward may become a hero, that a deserter may yet become a trusted and faithful soldier. And so he stands by John Mark even at the great price of parting company with Paul. And his confidence was gloriously justified, as our confidence so often is. Who wrote the second Gospel—one of the choicest pieces of literature in the world? It was written by John Mark, the deserter.

Then years later, when bitter days of persecution have come, Paul is in prison. He especially needs men about him now on whose loyal courage and devotion he can count absolutely. For whom does he now ask? Listen! "Take Mark and bring him with thee, for he is profitable to me for the ministry." Mark has come back. He has been saved to Christ and to the Church. And the one to whom we are mainly indebted for his salvation is none other than the good man Barnabas. And Barnabas won because of his sturdy, persistent faith.

Now to some this virtue may seem a bit of a weakness, but if weakness, how like it is to the weakness of Christ Himself! For certainly one of the most marvelous characteristics of Jesus is His faith in men. How Jesus could expect that the poor slattern who was dragged into His presence taken in adultery could be utterly different from that hour, I do not know. I certainly would not have expected it of her, but He did. And I hear Him saying to her, "Go and sin no more." How Jesus could expect that twelve faulty, unlearned, self-seeking men, such as His disciples were, would ever be the means of remaking the world, I cannot for a moment see. They failed Him in His hour of supremest need. They slept in the garden and ran like frightened sheep when He was arrested. And yet, knowing their cowardice and their weakness, He tumbles the responsibility of world conquest upon their frail shoulders with the declaration that "the gates of hell should not prevail against them." Certainly the wildest faith that was ever exercised is the faith that God exercises in men. And the faith of this man Barnabas was a quality born of a goodness that was close akin to the goodness of God.

That is the way, I think, that this man got his name. You know they did not always call him Barnabas. The folks over in Cypress knew him as Joses. They named him Barnabas because that was the word that best described him. It was a verbal picture of the man. What does it mean? A son of consolation. Isn't that fine? James and John were called the sons of thunder. That speaks of power, might, dash, the lightning's flash, the thunder's crash. There is storm wrapped up in their personalities. But Barnabas is the peaceful sunset after the storm. He is the light at eventide. He is a son of consolation.

Now, if there is anything finer than that I do not know just what that something might be. To be incarnated encouragement, embodied comfort, flesh and blood consolation,—it would be hard to find a better vocation than that. This man had the tongue of the learned that he might be able to speak a word in season to him that was weary. He delivered men from the bondage of their self-despisings, from the burden of their self-contempt. He brought hope where there had been despair and turned the westward gaze toward the east. He pointed out the streaks of dawn that were lighting the sky. He made men hear the bird's song within the voiceless egg and to catch the perfume of flowers under the snow. He was a son of consolation. "Be pitiful," says Dr. Watson, "for every man is having a hard time." There are some folks who depress us. There are some wet blanket personalities who stifle us. And there are others like Barnabas who refresh us, and when they come and knock at our doors we pass out of the stuffy atmosphere of a mental prison into a flower garden where the air is fresh and sweet with perfume and musical with the morning song of birds.

Third, this man was thoroughly missionary. He had taken a course in God's doctrine of evangelism. He believed that the Gospel was for all mankind. Some Christians of that day were trying to keep it a Jewish sect. When they heard that folks were actually being converted down in Antioch there seems to have been not the least bit of joy in the fact. But under the leadership of the Spirit they sent Barnabas to investigate. He came and saw the same light in their faces down in Antioch that was in the faces of those who were Spirit-baptized up in Jerusalem. And the story says that when he saw the work of the Lord he was glad. And not only was he glad, but he threw himself at once into the work of evangelizing that foreign city.

Then he did another big thing. Seeing the great opportunity that was there, he went and sought Paul out over at Tarsus and brought him over as his helper. And it was there as they labored together and ministered to the Lord and fasted that the Holy Ghost said, "Separate me Barnabas and Saul, for the work whereunto I have called them." And they went forth as the world's first foreign missionaries. An army has gone forth since that day,—the choicest spirits that this world has ever seen. And those who have gone have consecrated the soil of every continent by their prayers, their tears and their sacrifices. Their ashes rest to-day upon every shore and the songs of the redeemed are sung to-day under every sky because they have labored. Who was the vanguard of that great army whose going forth was as the going forth of the morning? The vanguard was made up of two men. One of them was Paul, the other Barnabas, a man not marvelously clever, not greatly gifted. His supreme merit was just this, that in a real and genuine sense he was a good man, full of faith.

And last of all, Barnabas was a spiritual man. The inspired writer says that he was full of the Holy Ghost. And that implied, of course, that Barnabas was a man fully given up to God, There can be no deep spirituality apart from that. Our surrender is the condition of our being full of the Spirit. "For we are His witnesses of these things, as is also the Holy Ghost, whom God hath given to them that obey Him."

So you can readily see why Barnabas has a right to the fine compliment that is paid him here by the writer of the Acts. Barnabas was generous with his possessions. He had the Christian attitude toward money. Barnabas was generous in his judgments. He had a brother's attitude toward his fellows. He was thoroughly missionary. He made Christ's program for world conquest his own. He was profoundly and genuinely spiritual. And because of these fine qualities one who knew him well said of him, "He was a good man."

Now, there are compliments more flashy than being called good. There are encomiums that are much fuller of glitter, but in spite of that, I am convinced that nothing greater or better could possibly be said about any one of us living to-day or any one that ever has lived than just this that is written about Barnabas: "He was a good man." I had rather my boy would be able to say that about me when he stands by my grave, sunken and grass-grown, than to say anything else in all the world.

Brother, let us covet goodness. Let us seek that rare treasure. For there is nothing better or finer or more beautiful or more useful. "Goodness." It is the fairest flower that can ever bloom in your soul garden. It is the sweetest music that even God's skilled fingers will ever be able to win from your thousand stringed heart harp. It is the virtue in those we love that grips us tightest and holds us longest. And wonderful to say, it is within reach of every one of us.

There are certain fine things that you and I can never possess. We know that. Genius, greatness,—they are high and forbidding mountain peaks. Their sides are rugged and precipitous. They have pulled iron hoods of snow and ice upon their brows. But goodness,—that is a peak that may be scaled by the tender feet of little children and by the tottering feet of old age. It may be scaled by the reluctant feet of those in life's prosaic middle passage. Let us address ourselves then to this high task. Let us matriculate this morning in God's school for this degree, the degree of "goodness." And one day it may be written of us as it was written of Barnabas, "He was a good man."



VIII

THE INQUEST—PHARAOH

Exodus 14:30 and 9:16

In Exodus 14:19 we read these words: "And Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the seashore." It is rather a ghastly and grewsome sight. There they lie, the soldiers of the once proud army of Egypt. They are in all sorts of positions, these dead men. Some have their heads pillowed peacefully upon their arms as if in sleep. Others have their hard faces half buried in the sand. Others still lie prone upon their backs with bits of seaweed in their hair and their sightless eyes staring in terror at nothing.

They are very much alike, these corpses. But here is one that is different. Look at the rich costume in which it is dressed. Look at its bejewelled fingers. There is no crown upon its brow. There is no sceptre in that nerveless hand. Yet it is easy to guess that this corpse, this "pocket that death has turned inside out and emptied" was once a king. Yes, this is the body of Pharaoh, the one time ruler of Egypt. But here he lies to-day among the meanest of his soldiers. He is sprawled in unkingly fashion upon his face as if the sea had spit him out in sheer nausea and disgust.

And now comes the big question that we want to consider. How came this famous Egyptian here? He was once a king, you remember. He was ruler over the proudest nation in the world. And here we find him dead. He died away from home. He died a violent death. Let us hold an inquest over him for a moment and see how he came to die. He did not leave Egypt and march into the Red Sea for that purpose. He never intended that life should end thus. Nor is he here because his enemy Israel has proven stronger than himself. What is the cause? And the question is answered by the voice of God. We read it in Exodus 9:16, "For this cause have I raised thee up that I might show forth my power in thee."

Will you notice what this strange text says. Without the least equivocation it says that God raised this man Pharaoh up that He might show forth His power in him. And that purpose He accomplished. This ghastly piece of royal rottenness has not been thrown upon this shore by the hand of man. As we look at him we see in him a monument of the power of God. And strange to say, he is not a monument of God's power to save and to keep and to utilize, but of God's power to thwart and to disappoint and to wreck and to utterly destroy. And in his destruction God tells us that He has achieved His purpose.

You will agree with me that this is an amazing statement. The teaching seems to be that God has raised this man up that He might glorify Himself by making a complete and utter wreck of him. I wonder if that can be true. We agree, I suppose, all of us who believe the Bible, that God has a plan for every life. All nature tells of a planning God. All revelation teaches it also. We have the message direct from the lips of the Lord, "As my Father hath sent me, even so send I you."

But in admitting that God plans every life, can we believe that He plans for some to go wrong and for others to go right? Can we believe that He plans for one to become a Judas and the other a St. John? Is it the purpose of God that one shall develop into a Moses and the other right at his side shall grow up into a miserable and distorted wreck that we call Pharaoh? In other words, is Judas as much a part of the plan of God as John? If so we are of all men most miserable because we have a wicked God.

But we know that such is not the case. God never planned that any man should go wrong. He is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance. He is the eternal lover. He loved Moses, but He loved Pharaoh no less. And Judas was as dear to God's heart as John. And whatever failure they made of their lives, and whatever failure you and I make of our lives, we do not make because God forces us to do so. In whatever way we go wrong, we do not do so because God planned that we should. We do it because of our own willfulness and wicked rebellion against God.

In other words, though God plans your life and mine, He cannot in the very nature of things, force us to enter into His plan. You who are fathers and mothers realize that. Many parents have made beautiful plans for their children only to have those plans despised. Our children are not ourselves. They have independent wills. They have the capacity for entering into our purposes for them and thus bringing us joy unspeakable. They have also the capacity for despising those purposes and breaking our hearts.

How, then, do we explain this strange text, "For this cause have I raised thee up that I might show forth my power in thee"? Because it is a fact that this death in the Red Sea was not an accidental death. It is a fact that this corpse here upon the beach is not here by mere chance. This king was flung here by the power of a disappointed and grieved and rejected God. He lies here dead upon the shore according to the deliberate plan and purpose of God. But while this is true, we need to keep this big fact in mind: Though Pharaoh lies here according to the purpose of God, this was not God's first and highest purpose for him. But Pharaoh resisted and rejected every noble and worthy purpose that God had in his life. By his own rebellion he made it impossible for God to realize any purpose in him at all save the last and the worst.

Do you remember that story in Jeremiah? One day the word of the Lord came unto the prophet Jeremiah saying, "Arise and go down to the Potter's house and there I will cause thee to hear my word." And Jeremiah went down and heard the message. Arrived within the Potter's house, three objects at once drew his attention. There was a man working, the Potter. There was the instrument with which he worked, the wheel. And there was the substance upon which he worked, the clay. In the Potter's hand the clay was misshapen and unsightly. The cup was not yet finished in the Potter's hand. But there was a place where it was finished, and that was in the mind of the Potter. The Potter could already see the finished product. He was trying to make the cup according to the ideal that he had in his mind.

But we read that the cup was marred in the making. That is, there was something in the clay that resisted the Potter. Now, what did he do with the marred cup? We would have expected him to throw it away, but he did not. He made it again. What a gospel that is for failing and sinning men like ourselves. How glorious that, when we resist God's purpose and all but wreck ourselves, He will make us again. Truly we would be a hopeless race but for the fact that we have a mighty God who is able to remake us even when we have rebelled against Him and have thwarted His blessed plans for us.

He made it again. Yes, but notice this. He made it again "another vessel." He changed his plan for this latter vessel. He realized that he could not make it according to the fine ideal that was in his mind for the first vessel. That one refused to realize the best, therefore he made it into another vessel. He sought to make it realize the second best.

There is a truth here of tremendous importance that we are prone to forget, and that truth is this, that having rejected and resisted God for days and months and years, God cannot make of us what He could have made if we had entered into His plans from the beginning. If you reject God's best for you, then He tries to get you to realize His second best. If you reject this, then He seeks to bring you to the next best. But remember this, God cannot, in the very nature of things, make as much out of a fraction of a life as He can out of the whole of a life.

Now, suppose, the clay upon which the Potter was working had been marred again. Again he would have undertaken to have made it into another vessel. But all the while that clay would have been becoming less and less plastic. All the while it would have been becoming more and more difficult for the Potter to shape it according to his purpose.

Thus the time would inevitably come when it would no longer be capable of being shaped by his hand at all. Then what would be the result? Step outside the Potter's house and you are in the Potter's field. About you lie broken crockery and shattered earthenware. Why is it there? Not because the Potter made vessels for the stupid purpose of breaking them to pieces. They are there because there was something in the clay that so resisted the hand of the Potter that he was able to make nothing of them but these shattered and misshapen and broken wrecks.

Now this is the story of Pharaoh, king of Egypt. God had a noble purpose in this man's life to begin with. He gave him every opportunity. He brought to bear all that infinite love and mercy could bring to bear to get Pharaoh to be a good man. The reason Pharaoh ended as he did end was not because God did not love him and did not do His infinite best to save Him. It was because Pharaoh resisted and resisted, rebelled and rebelled till at last he threw himself a corpse upon this distant seashore. And the message we hear from his clammy lips this night is this, "Look at me and see what a terrible thing it is to rebel against God. Behold me and see the tragic failure of the man that persistently throws himself in wicked madness against the bosses of the buckler of the Lord Almighty."

Look now how hard God tried to make something of Pharaoh. In the first place, He gave to him a great and faithful minister. Pharaoh had the privilege of knowing Moses. He had an opportunity of hearing about the greatest individual that the world has ever seen. He threw himself away, did Pharaoh. He chose God's worst instead of God's best, but he did not do it because he did not know better. Neither are you wasting your life because you do not know better. If you have not had a teacher great as Moses, you have yet been faithfully warned, and in your sin you are without excuse.

God gave Pharaoh a chance to cooperate with Him, to help Him in saving Israel and making her into a great nation. Moses' first word to Pharaoh was this, "The God of Israel saith, Let my people go." Now, Pharaoh's answer to this demand was haughty enough. He answers, "Who is the God of Israel? I do not know him." And he didn't, though he might have known Him. But God did not throw him away after this one chance. On the contrary, He gave him ample opportunity to know Him.

With this end in view God brought His infinite energies into play. Wonder after wonder He worked in the presence of Pharaoh by the hand of Moses. At first these wonders were imitated by the magicians. These fakes, by their cunning, made it easy, at least for a while, for Pharaoh to resist God. They helped the King to close his royal eyes to the truth. They helped him to start with decision on his course of rebellion.

But the magicians were soon outdone. Moses began to perform wonders that they could not imitate. And they themselves were forced to believe in the presence and might and reality of God. And they who had helped their king to go wrong, turned to him with this acknowledgment on their lips, "It is the finger of God." But it is easier to lead a man astray than it is to lead him back. It is easier for you, by your godless and worldly life, to lead your children to despise Christ and the Church than it is to lead them back after they have gone astray. Pharaoh listened to the magicians when they counseled him to do wrong, but he turned a deaf ear to them when they counseled him to do right.

Then followed that series of plagues upon Egypt that were always preceded and always followed by this demand of God spoken through the lips of Moses, "Let my people go that they may serve me." You see what God was demanding of Pharaoh. It is the same that He demands of you and me, obedience—that is all. He is commanding us to surrender ourselves to Him, to enter into His purpose. And the one thing that God wanted was the one thing that Pharaoh did not want. But he was becoming afraid and so he proposed to compromise.

In his fright he tells Moses that he will obey. He will let the people go. That is, he said, "I will let part of them go. I will let the men go. Leave the children here." Pharaoh knew that just so long as he kept the children in Egypt, just so long would Israel remain in bondage. And the devil knows to-day just so long as our homes remain unchristianized, just so long will the world remain unchristianized. We will never bring in the Kingdom by simply seeking to save an adult generation. We must give God a chance at the children or the cause of righteousness is going to be defeated. But if we will save the child, we will surely save the world.

Then Pharaoh offered a second compromise. He said, "I will let you and the children go, but you must leave your cattle and your sheep. You must leave all your flocks and your herds." That is, you may go into Canaan if you must, but leave your business in Egypt. And the devil to-day is perfectly willing that you and I be just as pious and prayerful as we want to be on Sunday, provided we forget all about such things on Monday. He is willing for you to be devoutly religious if you will only confine your religion to the church. But a religion that does not permeate and purify and uplift and sanctify business and business relations is not the religion of Jesus Christ.

And then Pharaoh offered a third compromise. He said, "I will let the people go, but they must not go far." Why was that? For the very human reason that he wanted the privilege of getting them back. He said, for instance, "I will obey God, but I do not want to promise to make my obedience permanent." You have seen plenty of instances of that. Here is a man who has decided to be a Christian, but he won't join the church. He wants to see how he gets along first. Such a man is already making provision for going back. "Take up thy bed," said the Master to the paralyzed man whom He had healed. He ever wants us to make a complete break with the past.

But the plagues grow worse. Pharaoh is becoming more and more frightened. While the scare is on he promises again and again that he will obey the Lord unconditionally. There was a terrible storm, you remember. The hail stones fell like shrapnel and the lightning dropped from the clouds and fairly played along the earth, and terror gripped the King's heart. And he sends for Moses. When Moses comes he tells him, all atremble, "I have sinned this time. I will let the people go." But when the storm ceases and the sun shines out he is quite ashamed of his weakness. He is so ashamed that he forgets altogether the promise that he made when the fear of death was upon him.

This is a side of human nature that is a bit disgusting, yet we dare not shut our eyes to it. There are scores listening to me at this very moment who have acted for all the world as Pharaoh acted. And you have done so with all the light that he had and far more. I do not know of a man that is in greater danger of being ultimately lost than that man who never cares for religion except when he is scared. Because the truth of the matter is that a man of that kind does not care for goodness or for God at all. Not even in his moments of most abject terror does he want to be truly saved. He simply wants to escape the results of his sin. He does not want to pay the penalty for wrong doing. He wants to defeat the ends of justice. He is not interested in being good and pure and true. He is simply interested in keeping out of hell.

How patient God was with Pharaoh. We are amazed at it till we think how infinitely patient He has been with ourselves. By storm, by black night, by adversity after adversity, God is doing His best to fight Pharaoh back from the Bed Sea. He is doing all He can to turn him away from committing suicide in body and suicide in soul. But Pharaoh, as some of ourselves, seemed absolutely greedy for damnation. He seemed completely bent on working out his own utter destruction.

After the king had broken one vow after another and lied and lied and lied again, God brought the last dark providence into his life. He made one final effort to save him from his ruin. Pharaoh was called to kneel by the coffin of his first born. And his hard heart seemed softened at last. By the grave of the Crown Prince he made a solemn vow that he would obey God. And he set about putting the vow into execution at once. And the children of Israel were not only allowed to go, but they were hurried out of Egypt.

At last, at last, we say, with what infinite expense the man is brought to obey. But would you believe it the grass had not yet grown green upon the grave of his boy till he forgot his vow and turned back to the old life again. Oh, what a grip sin gets on us. Oh, how blind we become if we persistently refuse to follow the light. So Pharaoh brushed his tears out of his eyes, gathered his army and set out after the departing children of Israel.

I see the bustle and hurry of the setting out. I see the look of hate on the king's face as he comes within sight of his one time slaves. He laughs a mirthless laugh as he sees their predicament. They are shut in on either side. The sea is in front and he and his army in the rear. What a sweet revenge he is going to have.

But look. Something has happened. There is a path through the sea. These hunted slaves are marching in. But it doesn't matter. Wherever Israel can go, the Egyptians can go. So he and his army march in behind. They keep the Israelites in sight. Now in the distance they see that the last Israelite has reached dry land.

And then there is a great shriek that is quickly choked. The waters have come together again. The sea waves roar about these struggling soldiers like liquid hate. The King is forgotten. His men are madly trying to save themselves. A jeweled hand flashes in the light for a moment. There is an oath, a cry for help, a gulp, and silence. And the hungry sea has its prey.

Pharaoh, why are you here? And if those dead lips could speak he would say, "I am here because I persistently refused to obey God. He offered me the best and I spurned it and spurned it again till at last He threw me here. He did it because I made it impossible for Him to do anything else." And as I look at this wreck I think how different the story might have ended. This man might have had a part in the making of a great people. He might have been associated with Moses in giving to the world a new nation. He might even now be in the fellowship of Moses among the tall sons of the morning. For the difference between this man and the great man Moses is not in the fact that God purposed evil for the one and good for the other. It is in this, that one was obedient unto the heavenly vision, that one could say, "The grace that was bestowed upon me was not in vain," and the other resisted and kept resisting till he ran by every blockade that God could put in his path and plunged headlong into destruction.



IX

A SON OF SHAME—JEPHTHAH

Judges 11:35

"I have opened my mouth unto the Lord and I cannot go back." I like these big words. There is a ring of sterling strength in them. They have a robust masculinity that grips my heart. They are not the words of a weakling. They have absolutely no savor of softness or moral flabbiness. They are not cheap. They are high priced words. They are words made costly by a plentiful baptism of tragedy. They are words literally soaked in blood and tears.

This man Jephthah has made a vow. And now the hour is upon him in which it is his duty to make the vow good. His vow involves far more than he ever expected. But that fact does not cause him to be untrue. He has given his promise. Pay day has come. His promise involves measureless sacrifice. To keep it is to put out every star in his sky. It is to pluck up every flower in his garden. It is to change life's music into discord. It is to take from him the one he loves far better than he loves his own life. But even though the price is big, he will not refuse to pay it. Even though his promise is hard, he will keep it. "I have opened my mouth unto the Lord and I cannot go back."

Jephthah has had many hard things said about him. He has been wronged since before he was born. I do not think that justice has been done to his memory. Frankly, I think he is one of the most heroic souls of Old Testament history. It is true that he would not fully measure up to all our modern ideals, but remember this, he lived in the morning of human history. He lived when the light was dim. And he was true to the light that he had. He was true with a rugged fidelity that will cause him to rise up in the day of judgment and condemn many of us.

Jephthah, I say, has been greatly wronged. He never had a fair chance. He was wronged in his very birth. He was the son of a father who was unfaithful to his marriage vows. Jephthah was a child of shame. His father had chosen to sacrifice upon the wayside altar. His father had had his fling. He had sown his wild oats, and of necessity there was a harvest. His father suffered, but sad to say, he was not the only sufferer.

How we need to be reminded again and again that no man ever sins alone. No man ever walks from the path of virtue without he walks upon bruised and bleeding feet. He himself suffers, but what is sadder still, he causes somebody else to suffer. I cannot go to hell alone. I cannot plunge out into the dark without involving another soul, at least in some measure, in my tragedy. This father sinned. It meant suffering for him. It also meant suffering for one who was altogether blameless. It meant suffering for his boy.

Not only did Jephthah have as part of his life tragedy an unclean father, but he had an unclean mother as well. Jephthah's mother was not one of those unfortunate souls, more sinned against than sinning, who had made one false step for the sake of the man she loved. She was a professional outcast. She was a woman who made it her business day by day to sell herself over the counters of iniquity. She was one of those whose feet in all ages take hold on hell.

So Jephthah had a bad chance. He was the fragment of a home that never was. He had no father that dared to own him. And the first eyes into which he looked were the eyes of an unclean woman. And the first lips that kissed him were lips soiled and stained by years of sinful living. Poor little baby. Poor little foundling. Poor little outcast. How much he missed.

What are the most precious memories in your life to-night? What are the scenes to which you look back with deepest love and tenderness? I know. They are the scenes of your childhood's home.

"How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection, presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood, And every loved spot that my infancy knew."

But the secret of the fascination of those dear scenes is this, that we saw them by the glow of the light of love. We think tenderly of our early homes because they were presided over by a father and mother who knew God. And the one cord that has failed to snap between us and a good life is the cord that ties us still to the faith of our fathers and our mothers.

But Jephthah missed all this. His father was unfaithful. His mother was an unclean woman. There were no tender and holy associations that made it easy for him to be good. There were no memories to come in after years and whisper old half forgotten prayers. There were no fond recollections to lay their hands upon him with angelic tenderness and lead him away from his City of Destruction. He was a child of sin, a child of blackness and of night, a child bereft of the inspiration of a good mother's life and the sweet uplift of a pious home.

And not only was this man wronged in what he missed, he was equally wronged in what he suffered. Early he was branded with a shame not his own. I know of few places where society has been so unjust and unkind as it has in its condemnation of those innocent ones who are the victims of another's sin. We forget that every child comes into the world with the Father's kiss upon its clean soul regardless of the circumstances of its birth. We forget also that that child is no more to blame for those circumstances than it is to be blamed for the currents of the sea or for the darkness of the night.

But Jephthah was blamed. Ugly names were flung at him before he was old enough to know their dark and sinister meaning. He was forbidden to go to the big house of his father before he knew why he was not allowed to go. He was excluded from the games of those more fortunately born than he, when he could no more understand why he was excluded than he could keep back the bitter tears of childish disappointment. I can see him as he watches his half brothers and sisters play in the distance, and his little heart is lonely and he is hungry for a playmate. And the gate is shut in his face, the gate of a shame not his own.

By and by youthhood comes, and early manhood. The parental estate is to be divided. Jephthah is disinherited. He is driven from among his people. He is forced to flee for his life. And he goes to take refuge in Tob with its mountain fastnesses and with its rude heathens who are less unkind than those kinsmen of his who claim to be worshippers of Jehovah.

So we have here the material out of which this young man is called on to build a life. He has no parentage. He has no kindred. He has no friends. Nobody believes in him. Everybody expects him to go wrong. It seems even at times as if everybody wanted him to go wrong. They said, "Oh, yes, I know him. I used to know his mother. She died in the gutter. You can't expect anything of him."

And it is not at all difficult to go down when everybody expects you to go down. It is a great thing to have somebody to trust you. That is a tremendous help. As long as you feel that there is somebody who counts on you, who believes in you, you are not without an anchor. I read the other day of a little newsboy who was given a quarter that he might get change. And on his way back he was run over and crushed by an auto. And the last word he said was, "Be sure and hunt him up and give him back the change. He trusted me." But here is a young fellow exiled, robbed, persecuted and mistrusted. And out of this charred and ugly material he is called upon to build a life.

And what is the result? Well, he refused to surrender. He said, "If nobody else will believe in me I will believe in myself. Since nobody else will help me, I will help myself. If I am to be robbed of my inheritance I will make a way of my own." And so he set to work. He did not spend his time hunting up his neighbors to tell them of his misfortunes. He did not put in his time boasting of what he would do if he were as well off as his half brothers down in Israel. He went to work to build his fortune in the here and now. And little by little he won.

And then one day a runner came to him in the field and said, "Jephthah, you have company at your house." And the man looked up in surprise and said, "Company! Who is it?" "A committee of elders from Israel." And Jephthah is astonished. He is filled with wonder. He is trying to guess why they came. And with the problem unsolved he goes to meet his guests.

These elders greet him like a long lost son. They tell him how they rejoice in his prosperity. They informed him how they had always known that he would make good. They let him know that they would never have sent him out of Israel if they had had their way about it. And then at last they gather courage to tell him their errand. And they say, "Israel is being besieged by the Ammonites and we want you to come and be the commander-in-chief of our armies."

Well, now that was a shock. Here was a young fellow who began with nothing, and worse than nothing. But instead of whining, instead of quitting, instead of complaining that he had no chance, instead of putting in his time wishing that he was somewhere else, he did his duty where he was. And folks found it out and came to kneel at his feet and ask him for help. And I am not saying, young man, that every man gets his just deserts, but I do say that in the overwhelming majority of cases, if a man is really any account, sooner or later somebody will find it out. It may be true that

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

But I doubt if any gem of real human worth ever lies permanently concealed. I seriously question if any radiant flower of human character ever wastes its sweetness on the desert air. Learn to do something that the world needs to have done and men will make a path to your door even if you live in a desert.

They came and asked Jephthah for help. It is a humiliating experience. Now, I suppose those half brothers of Jephthah's down in Israel, those fellows who had scorned him in his childhood, those fellows who had robbed him of his share in the estate,—I suppose they did some loud talking about the general being a kinsman of theirs. Oh, they are very much like we are. We seldom boast of our relationship to an outcast, but if we are one hundred and first cousin to somebody who is prominent we are mighty apt to go about telling it.

Jephthah heard their request and promised to help them. I think that was fine of him. It would have been so easy for him to have said, "Oh, yes, you kicked me out when I was a little helpless waif. When I needed help you would not give it. When I needed help you laughed at my childish tears. Now you need help, I will laugh at you." But there was nothing of revenge in him. Wronged as he had been, he would not nurse his wrongs. He would not allow his bitter treatment to make him bitter.

I wish we all were so wise. You were injured years ago by somebody. That somebody perchance was in the church. And so you have never had any use for the church since. You have never had any use much for anybody since. You have been snarling and snapping. Do you remember Miss Harrisham in "Great Expectations"? She was to be married. All arrangements were made. The wedding cake was on the table. But at twenty minutes to nine a cruel note came telling her that the groom was not coming. Therefore, the clocks were all stopped at twenty minutes to nine. The cake stood upon the table till it rotted. The blinds remained drawn and no sunlight was ever allowed in the house again. And life for her stopped at twenty minutes to nine. One disappointment wrecked her, embittered her, made her throw her life away. But Jephthah refused to be embittered.

He consented to go. But before he undertook the campaign he stood beside the altar of God. This man had lived for years among heathens, but they had not heathenized him. He still stood true by the altar. Circumstances were against him, but religion is not simply for the easy situations in which we find ourselves. Your test, as one has said, is not how good you can be if you have a devoted saint on either side of you down at the office. Your test is what your religion can do for you in the midst of a godless crowd. Daniel's God was tested not in the pleasant situations of his early home life. The test was among his foes. It is amidst the horrors of a lion's den that the king's question echoes, "Oh, Daniel, servant of the living God, is thy God whom thou servest continually, able to deliver thee?"

Jephthah went to battle from the altar of prayer. As he went he made a vow. It is the vow for which he has been most severely criticized. It is a vow that has caused his name among some to be branded with shame. He vowed that if God would give him the victory he would offer to Him whatever first came out of the door of his house to meet him on his return. It was a rash vow, I am ready to admit. Yet rash as it was, I do not find it in my heart to be severely critical of him. I rather join with Dr. Peck in my admiration. You know what is the matter with a great many of us smug church members? We are so prudent. We have such admirable possession of all our faculties. We are in danger of dying of self-control. This man in the white heat of his enthusiasm made a solemn pledge to the Lord of that which was destined to be infinitely the most precious thing in his life. But some of us in our prudence will not even make a pledge of a few dollars. We say we do not know how well we will be fixed next week or next month or next year.

You have heard of the man who subscribed $50 and refused to pay it, saying that he was too religious that day to look after his own interests. Some of us never get that religious. But all the encomiums throughout the Word of God are uttered upon those who are utterly rash in their giving. The widow foolishly gave away all that she had. And Mary squandered a whole box of ointment when a few drops would have been amply sufficient. But it was their mad recklessness that made them immortal.

Jephthah made his vow and went to battle. He went confidently. He went believing that inasmuch as he had put himself and what he had at God's disposal, that God would put Himself at his disposal. And God did not disappoint him. He won the fight. And now the victorious army is marching home. The soldiers are rejoicing. But there is a strange tenseness and anxiety in the general's face that the soldiers do not understand. Nobody understands but God and Jephthah. At last they round the bend in the road and the general comes in sight of his own home. And then suddenly his bronze face goes deadly pale. He reels upon his horse. For out from the door of his home has come a lovely girl with dark hair and sunny face, and she is singing a song of welcome.

Father and daughter come face to face. The girl is perplexed, and the general strains her hard to his heart. He is father and mother to her at once, and she is all he has. And the cup is bitter almost beyond the drinking. And he says, "Alas, my daughter, you have brought me very low." And he tells her his story. And the girl with sweet resignation understands, and the great sacrifice is made.

Jephthah was a hard man, you say. Do not judge him in the light of the twentieth century. Judge him in the light of the day in which he lived. And remember this, that he had the manhood to keep his promise. Remember that he had the sturdy courage to pay his vow. "I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back." Oh, the world is saved by the "cannot" men, by the men who have big impossibilities in their souls. Joseph says as he faces the temptation of his life, "I cannot do it." The apostles ordered to keep silent, say, "We cannot." And Jephthah with breaking heart and tear-wet face, tempted to break his vow, says, "I cannot go back."

Oh, I know what we would probably have done. We would have said to ourselves, "Nobody knows that I made that vow anyway, nobody but God. I made it in the secrecy of my own heart. I never breathed a word into any human ear. If I go back on it, it will not matter so much. It is simply a promise that I made to God." This man had not told his vow. It was a secret between himself and his Lord. He was not driven to the performance of it by public opinion. He was not urged to it, as flabby Herod, "for the sake of those that sat with him." He was urged to it by his own unstained conscience and his sterling manhood.

Or he might have said, "I made the vow, it's true, but I made it under pressure. A great danger was threatening and a man is not to be held responsible for a vow he makes in the presence of danger." Did you ever get frightened when a storm was on and promise God things, and then go back on it? Of course you have. We have been false to one another, some of us. How many of us have been false to God! How far is this old hero ahead of ourselves!

Think of the vows that you have made as members of the church. You have not even fulfilled the vow you made to your groceryman. Some of you have not paid for the clothes that you have on, and never will. Some of you have made pledges to the church and have forgotten them. And just because the church won't sue you, you are going to break the promise that you have made, not simply to men, but to God.

And what have you done with your church vows? You have promised to renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world. Have you kept your vow? You have promised to obediently keep God's holy will and commandments. Have you been honest with God in this matter? You have promised to be subject to the rules of the church and to attend upon its services, and some of you have trampled on those rules flagrantly, openly, knowingly. And remember that when you took that vow it was not a pledge that you made to me. You opened your mouth that day unto the Lord.

And you that are here outside the church, may the lord help you to pay your vows unto the Most High. For there is hardly a single one of you but that at some time has opened your mouth unto the Lord. What about that promise you made to God when you were sick? I do not say you made it into any human ear, but you breathed it in prayer into His ear. What about the promise you made to God by the coffin of your baby? What about the promise of consecration you made by the bedside of your dying mother? May the Lord help us to make this day a pay day. May the Lord give us the courage to say, "I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back."



X

A CASE OF BLUES—ELIJAH

1 Kings 19:4

One day you were reading in the New Testament and you came to that surprising word from James: "Elijah was a man subject to like passions as we are." And if you were reading thoughtfully you stared at that sentence in wide-eyed amazement. And then in your heart you said, "It isn't true. Elijah's story doesn't read a bit like mine."

Then you thought of how he came and put his finger in Ahab's face and made that face go white. You thought of how he carried Heaven's key in his pocket for three years and six months. You thought of his lifting the dead boy into life; of his victory on Carmel; of his quiet walk to the little station beyond the Jordan where the Heavenly Limited met him and took him home. And again you felt like saying that James was altogether mistaken.

To fortify yourself more fully you reread his story. Then you came to this passage and you read it with a gasp: "And he came and sat down under a juniper tree," etc. And down by the print of your foot you saw the big footprint of the old prophet and you said, "After all, we are very much alike. After all, he got in the dumps, fretted and broke his heart with the blues, even as I."

Now, what was the matter with Elijah? He was not a natural and deliberate pessimist. There are some folks that are, you know. There are some people who study to be pessimistic. They are the "self-appointed inspectors of warts and carbuncles, the self-elected supervisors of sewers and street gutters." They pride themselves on being guides to the Slough of Despond and on holding a pass key to the cave of Giant Despair.

One such woman, being asked how she felt, said, "I feel good to-day. But I always feel the worst when I feel the best because I know how bad I am going to feel when I get to feeling bad again." Two buckets went to a well one day. One sobbed and said, "Oh, me! it breaks my heart to think that however full we go away from the well, we always come back empty." And its companion laughed outright and said, "Why, I was congratulating myself on the fact that however empty we come to the well, we always go away full."

One morning when the world was brimming with spring, two little girls ran out into a garden where the dewdrops and the sunlight and God had wrought the miracle of a hundred full-blown roses. They looked at the lovely scene and one went back and said tearfully, "Oh, mother, the roses are blooming, but there is a thorn for every rose." The other looked and went back singing and said, "Mother, the roses are blooming and there is a rose for every thorn."

No, this man was not a deliberate pessimist. Had he been his name and memory would have rotted long ago, for the men that bless us are the hopeful men, the forward-looking men. I read of a man who was put in jail during the Boer War simply because he was always prophesying disaster. He was a discourager. He refused to see anything hopeful. And a man of that kind ought to be in jail because he is as harmful as a man with the small-pox. "He who steals my purse steals trash, but he who filcheth from me" my sunny outlook, my expectation of the dawn of a to-morrow, "takes that which not enriches him, but makes me poor indeed."

What was the matter with Elijah? Well, in the first place, he was tired. He was utterly spent. He had just passed through a very trying and exacting ordeal. We can well imagine that the days just preceding the test upon Carmel were toilsome days and the nights were sleepless nights. Then came the great day of contest and victory. There was, of course, no rest that day. And, in the exhilaration of victory, you know how he ran before the chariot of Ahab from Carmel to Jezreel, a distance of seventeen miles.

Arrived there, he got a message from Jezebel threatening his life. He had expected, of course, that the men who had shouted "The Lord He is God" would stand by him. But they did not. He had expected that even Jezebel would be afraid to lift her voice in defense of the old defeated heathenism of the past. But here again he was much mistaken. In fact, instead of tamely acknowledging defeat she sends him this word: "So let the gods do to me, and more also, if I make not thy life as the life of one of them by to-morrow about this time."

Jezebel's threat totally upset the prophet's sense of victory. He came to feel that he had not won after all. For the first time he gave way to fear. Cowardice rushed upon him and drove him, without rest, down the road that led into the wilderness. The terminus of this road was, quite naturally, the juniper tree.

So one source of his discouragement, one secret of his being in the blues, was that he was utterly tired. It is hard indeed for a man to be hopeful when his nerves are on edge. It is hard for him to keep out of the blues when he is completely exhausted. As a tired body yields at such times far more readily to physical disease, so does it yield more readily to the exquisite torture of discouragement and depression.

A second reason for his collapse was a lost sense of the divine fellowship. Up to this time Elijah's every step had been ordered of the Lord. He had a sense of the Divine Presence that was continuous. But Jezebel's threat had made him believe that he must look out for himself. So he took his case into his own hands. And that is the road that must always lead to the juniper tree.

Such a collapse is next to impossible as long as we keep on intimate terms with God. Yonder is man named Paul on a ship that is going to pieces. The sea "curls its lips and lies in wait with lifted teeth as if to bite." The sailors' faces are ghastly with hunger and panic. But while despair grips every other heart and while death laughs with hollow laughter amidst the popping timbers of this wrecking ship, this man steadies himself and shouts, "Be of good cheer." What is the secret of his cheer? "There stood by me this night the angel of God whose I am." He was saved by an intimate and personal sense of the Divine Presence. Elijah had lost this sense of the Divine. Hence the deep, dark night of utter discouragement was upon him.

Thus utterly wearied and his old intimacy with the Lord gone, the worst naturally followed. All his hopes seemed to fall about him. There came to him a heart-breaking sense of personal failure. He sobbed out the complaint: "I am no better than my fathers. They allowed Israel to drift into idolatry. I have not been able to bring it back. I have accomplished nothing. I toiled long and hard, dreaming that at the end I would clasp the warm, radiant hand of success and victory, but in reality I only clasp the skeleton hand of failure."

Have you ever had a feeling that you were of no account and never would be; that in spite of all that God had done for you, you were a failure? There are few things more fraught with heartache and bitterness and discouragement than that. That is something that makes you want to sob and give over the fight utterly. And there are a lot of folks that allow themselves to come to that dismal conviction. They work, and nobody seems to appreciate it. They toil, and nobody compliments them. Then they decide that they do not amount to anything, and they feel like giving over the fight.

I read the other day a fascinating essay from Frank Boreham. In this essay the author spoke of a certain discouraged friend of his. He declared it his purpose to help this friend by sending him a present. And the strange present that he was going to send him was an onion. Yes, he was going to wrap this onion in lovely tissue paper and put it in a beautiful candy box and tie it with pink ribbon and post it to his friend at once.

Now, why send him an onion? Well, for the simple reason that though an onion is one of the most valuable of all vegetables, though it is the finest of relishes, though it has added piquancy to a thousand feasts, yet nobody praises the onion. Of course you know the author is right here. You may have read some great poetry in your time, poems on daffodils, violets, roses, daisies. Even you have known a great poet who could write about a louse and a field mouse, but where do you find a poem about an onion? What orator waxes eloquent in its praise? What bride ever carries a bouquet of onions as a bridal bouquet?

This is true, of course, but why is it true? Not because the onion is useless. The real reason is because it is so strong. It is harder to grow sentimental over great strong things,—though tears have been shed over onions, as our essayist has pointed out. There are some we praise, you know, because we think that they need it to keep them going. They are weak. There are others we do not praise because they are so strong, or because, being strong, we expect strong things of them. The football hero receives an ovation when he makes a touchdown, but no greater than the baby receives when it takes its first step. There was more noise in the former case, but only because there was a larger crowd of spectators. So it is not wise to conclude that because nobody is praising you, you are of no account in the world.

Not only did Elijah for the moment lose faith in himself, but he lost faith in others as well. He thought there was not a good man in all Israel. And if you want a short cut to wretchedness, get to a place where you do not believe in anybody. Some people seem to cultivate this disposition as if it were an asset. It is not an asset. It is the worst possible liability. If you want to make a hell for yourself in the here and now, cultivate the habit of seeing a selfish motive back of every seemingly unselfish act. School yourself to believe that all men and all women have their price. Say not in haste, but deliberately, that "All men are liars."

That is the leading characteristic of the devil. "Hast thou considered my servant, Job," the Lord asked, "that there is none like him?" "Yes," replied the devil, "I have considered him. I know him through and through. I know him better than you do. He is deceiving you. He is putting it over on you. You think he loves you for yourself,—I know that he loves you simply, because you are feeding him bonbons. Let me touch him and he will curse you to your face." That is the devil's habit. That is what makes him such a success as a devil.

If you do not believe in people no wonder you are miserable. If you do not believe that a fluctuating Simon can be changed into a rock; if you do not believe that a Magdalene can, through the grace of God, become a herald of the resurrection; if you do not believe that this world of men is a salvable world; then it is not to be wondered at that you are blue. If you do not believe in the honesty and goodness and purity of at least a few, I do not see how you can be in any other place than a veritable perdition.

There are bad men, vicious men, godless men, but they are not all so. Do not believe that they are.

"There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave; There are souls that are good and true, Then give the world the best you have And the best will come back to you.

"Give love, and love to your heart will flow And strength for your utmost need. Give faith and a score of hearts will show Their faith in your worldly deed.

"Give truth and truth will be paid in kind, And honor will honor meet; And a smile that is sweet is sure to find A smile that is just as sweet.

"For life is the mirror of king and slave; It's just what we are and do. Then give the world the best you have And the best will come back to you."

But if you frown at the world the world is going to frown at you, and if you mistrust it, it will mistrust you. I used to stand as a boy on the river bank on my father's farm and shout at the great rugged cliff across the silver Buffalo River. If I spoke kindly to the grim old cliff, its answer would be in the same kindly tone. If there was harshness and menace in my voice, it came back the same way. And life is a big echo. It speaks to us in the tone of our own voice. It gives us the faith or the unbelief that we ourselves give.

And with faith in self gone and also faith in men, it is not to be wondered at that Elijah requested for himself that he might die. But though he made this request, it is not the real sentiment of his heart. It is not the real Elijah speaking. A man ought never to make an important decision when he is in the blues. He is not himself any more than is a man under the influence of drink. Elijah is not himself here. How do we know? He really doesn't mean what he is saying. How do we know that?