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660 lines
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<h4 style="text-align: center">
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A Sermon<br>
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(No. 109)<br>
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Delivered on Sabbath Morning, December 21, 1856, by the<br>
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REV. C. H. SPURGEON<br>
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at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens.<br>
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</h4>
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<p class="scripture">
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"Go home to thy friends, and tell them how great things the
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Lord hath done for thee, and hath had compassion on
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thee."— <a onClick="return mV('Mar', 5, 19);">Mar 5:19</a>
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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THE CASE of the man here referred to is a very extraordinary
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one: it occupies a place among the memorabilia of Christ's
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life, perhaps as high as anything which is recorded by either
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of the evangelists. This poor wretch being possessed with a
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legion of evil spirits had been driven to something worse than
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madness. He fixed his home among the tombs, where he dwelt by
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night and day, and was the terror of all those who passed by.
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The authorities had attempted to curb him; he had been bound
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with fetters and chains, but in the paroxysms of his madness he
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had torn the chains in sunder, and broken the fetters in
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pieces. Attempts had been made to reclaim him; but no man could
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tame him. He was worse than the wild beasts, for they might be
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tamed; but his fierce nature would not yield. He was a misery
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to himself, for he would run upon the mountains by night and
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day, crying and howling fearfully, cutting himself with the
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sharp flints, and torturing his poor body in the most frightful
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manner. Jesus Christ passed by; he said to the devils, "Come
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out of him." The man was healed in a moment; he fell down at
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Jesus' feet; he became a rational being—an intelligent
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man, yea, what is more, a convert to the Saviour. Out of
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gratitude to his deliverer, he said, "Lord, I will follow thee
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whithersoever thou goest; I will be thy constant companion and
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thy servant; permit me so to be." "No," said Christ, "I esteem
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your motive; it is one of gratitude to me; but if you would
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show your gratitude, 'go home to thy friends and tell them how
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great things the Lord hath done for thee, and hath had
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compassion on thee.'"
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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Now, this teaches us a very important fact, namely, this, that
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true religion does not break in sunder the bonds of family
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relationship. True religion seldom encroaches upon that sacred,
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I had almost said divine institution called <i>home</i>; it
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does not separate men from their families, and make them aliens
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to their flesh and blood. Superstition has done that; an awful
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superstition, which calls itself Christianity, has sundered men
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from their kind; but true religion has never done so. Why, if I
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might be allowed to do such a thing, I would seek out the
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hermit in his lonely cavern, and I would go to him and say,
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"Friend, if thou art what thou dost profess to be, a true
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servant of the living God, and not a hypocrite, as I guess thou
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art—if thou art a true believer in Christ, and would show
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forth what he has done for thee, upset that pitcher, eat the
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last piece of thy bread, leave this dreary cave, wash thy face,
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untie thy hempen girdle; and if thou wouldst show thy
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gratitude, go home to thy friends, and tell them what great
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things the Lord hath done for thee. Canst thou edify the sere
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leaves of the forest? Can the beasts learn to adore that God
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whom thy gratitude should strive to honor? Dost thou hope to
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convert these rocks, and wake the echoes into songs? Nay, go
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back; dwell with thy friends, reclaim thy kinship with men, and
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unite again with thy fellows, for this is Christ's approved way
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of showing gratitude." And I would go to every monastery and
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every nunnery, and say to the monks, 'Come out brethren, come
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out! If you are what you say you are, servants of God, go home
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to your friends. No more of this absurd discipline; it is not
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Christ's rule; you are acting differently from what he would
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have you; go home to your friends!" And to the sisters of mercy
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we would say, "Be sisters of mercy to your own sisters; go home
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to your friends; take care of your aged parents; turn your own
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houses into convents; do not sit here nursing your pride by a
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disobedience to Christ's rule, which says, "go home to thy
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friends." "Go home to thy friends, and tell them how great
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things the Lord hath done for thee, and hath had compassion on
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thee." The love of a solitary and ascetic life, which is by
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some considered to be a divine virtue, is neither more nor less
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than a disease of the mind. In the ages when there was but
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little benevolence, and consequently few hands to build lunatic
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asylums, superstition supplied the lack of charity, and silly
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men and women were allowed the indulgence of their fancies in
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secluded haunts or in easy laziness. Young has most truly
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said,—
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</p>
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<p style="text-align: center">
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"The first sure symptoms of a mind in health<br>
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Are rest of heart and pleasure found at home."
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</p>
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<p>
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Avoid, my friends, above all things, those romantic and absurd
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conceptions of virtue which are the offspring of superstition
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and the enemies of righteousness. Be not without natural
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affection, but love those who are knit to you by time of
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nature.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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True religion cannot be inconsistent with nature. It never can
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demand that I should abstain from weeping when my friend is
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dead. "Jesus wept." It cannot deny me the privilege of a smile,
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when providence looks favorably upon me; for once "Jesus
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rejoiced in the spirit, and said, Father, I thank thee." It
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does not make a man say to his father and mother, "I am no
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longer your son." That is not Christianity, but something worse
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than what beasts would do, which would lead us to be entirely
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sundered from our fellows, to walk among them as if we had no
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kinship with them. To all who think a solitary life must be a
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life of piety, I would say, "It is the greatest delusion." To
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all who think that those must be good people who snap the ties
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of relationship, let us say, "Those are the best who maintain
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them." Christianity makes a husband a better husband, it makes
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a wife a better wife than she was before. It does not free me
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from my duties as a son; it makes me a better son, and my
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parents better parents. Instead of weakening my love, it gives
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me fresh reason for my affection; and he whom I loved before as
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my father, I now love as my brother and co-worker in Christ
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Jesus; and she whom I reverenced as my mother, I now love as my
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sister in the covenant of grace, to be mine for ever in the
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state that is to come. Oh! suppose not, any of you, that
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Christianity was ever meant to interfere with households; it is
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intended to cement them, and to make them households which
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death itself shall never sever, for it binds them up in the
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bundle of life with the Lord their God, and re-unites the
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several individuals on the other side of the flood.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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Now, I will just tell you the reason why I selected my text. I
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thought within myself, there are a large number of young men
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who always come to hear me preach; they always crowd the aisles
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of my chapel, and many of them have been converted to God. Now,
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here is Christmas-day come round again, and they are going home
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to see their friends. When they get home they will want a
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Christmas Carol in the evening; I think I will suggest one to
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them—more especially to such of them as have been lately
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converted. I will give them a theme for their discourse on
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Christmas evening; it may not be quite so amusing as "The Wreck
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of the Golden Mary," but it will be quite as interesting to
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Christian people. It shall be this: "Go home and tell your
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friends what the Lord hath done for your souls, and how he hath
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had compassion on you." For my part, I wish there were twenty
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Christmas days in the year. It is seldom that young men can
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meet with their friends; it is rarely they can all be united as
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happy families; and though I have no respect to the religious
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observance of the day, yet I love it as a family institution,
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as one of England's brightest days, the great Sabbath of the
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year, when the plough rests in its furrow, when the din of
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business is hushed, when the mechanic and the working man go
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out to refresh themselves upon the green award of the glad
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earth. If any of you are masters you will pardon me for the
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digression, when I most respectfully beg you to pay your
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servants the same wages on Christmas-day as if they were at
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work. I am sure it will make their houses glad if you will do
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so. It is unfair for you to make them feast or fast, unless you
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give them wherewithal to feast and make themselves glad on that
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day of joy.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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But now to come to the subject. We are going home to see our
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friends, and here is the story some of us have to tell. "Go
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home to thy friends, and tell them how great things the Lord
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hath done for them, and hath had compassion on thee." First,
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<i>here is what they are to tell</i>; secondly, <i>why they are
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to tell it</i>; and then thirdly, <i>how they ought to tell
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it</i>.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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I. First, then, HERE IS WHAT THEY ARE TO TELL. It is to be a
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story of <i>personal experience</i>. "Go home to thy friends,
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and tell them how great things the Lord hath done for thee, and
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hath had compassion on thee." You are not to repair to your
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houses and forthwith begin to preach. That you are not
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commanded to do. You are not to begin to take up doctrinal
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subjects and expatiate on them, and endeavour to bring persons
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to your peculiar views and sentiments. You are not to go home
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with sundry doctrines you have lately learned, and try to teach
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these. At least you are not commanded so to do; you may, if you
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please, and none shall hinder you; but you are to go home and
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tell not what you have believed, but what you have
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<i>felt</i>—what you really know to be your own; not what
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great things you have read, but what great things the Lord hath
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<i>done for you</i>; not alone what you have seen done in the
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great congregation, and how great sinners have turned to God,
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but what the Lord has done for <i>you</i>. And mark this: there
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is never a more interesting story than that which a man tells
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about himself. The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner derives much of
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its interest because the man who told it was himself the
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mariner. He sat down, that man whose finger was skinny, like
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the finger of death, and began to tell that dismal story of the
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ship at sea in the great calm, when slimy things did crawl with
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legs over the shiny sea. The Wedding guest sat still to listen,
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for the old man was himself a story. There is always a great
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deal of interest excited by a personal narrative. Virgil, the
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poet, knew this, and therefore he wisely makes Aeneas tell his
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own story, and makes him begin it by saying, "In which I also
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had a great part myself." So if you would interest your
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friends, tell them what you felt yourself. Tell them how you
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were once a lost abandoned sinner, how the Lord met with you,
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how you bowed your knees, and poured out your soul before God,
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and how at last you leaped with joy, for you thought you heard
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him say within you, "I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy
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transgressions for my name's sake." Tell your friends a story
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of your own personal experience.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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Note, next, it must be a story of <i>free grace</i>. It is not,
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"Tell thy friends how great things thou hast done thyself," but
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"how great things <i>the Lord</i> hath done for thee." The man
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who always dwells upon free will and the power of the creature,
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and denies the doctrines of grace, invariably mixes up a great
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deal of what he has done himself in telling his experience; but
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the believer in free grace, who holds the great cardinal truths
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of the gospel, ignores this, and declares, "I will tell what
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the Lord hath done for me. It is true I must tell how I was
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first made to pray; but I will tell it thus—
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</p>
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<p style="text-align: center">
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'Grace taught my soul to pray,<br>
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Grace made my eyes o'erflow.'
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</p>
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<p>
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It is true, I must tell in how many troubles and trials God has
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been with me; but I will tell it thus:—
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</p>
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<p style="text-align: center">
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''Twas grace which kept me to this day,<br>
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And will not let me go.'"
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</p>
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<p>
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He says nothing about his own doings, or willings, or prayings,
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or seekings, but he ascribes it all to the love and grace of
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the great God who looks on sinners in love, and makes them his
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children, heirs of everlasting life. Go home, you man, and tell
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the poor sinner's story; go home, young woman, and open your
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diary, and give your friends stories of grace. Tell them of the
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mighty works of God's hand which he hath wrought in you from
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his own free, sovereign, undeserved love. Make it a free grace
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story around your family fire.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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In the next place, this poor man's tale was a <i>grateful</i>
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story. I know it was grateful, because the man said, "I will
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tell thee how great things the Lord hath done for me;" and (not
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meaning a pun in the least degree) I may observe, that a man
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who is grateful is always full of the greatness of the mercy
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which God has shown him; he always thinks that what God has
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done for him is immensely good and supremely great. Perhaps
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when you are telling the story one of your friends will say,
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"And what of that?" And your answer will be, "It may not be a
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great thing to you, but it is to me. You say it is little to
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repent, but I have not found it so; it is a great and precious
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thing to be brought to know myself to be a sinner, and to
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confess it; do you say it is a little thing to have found a
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Saviour." Look them in the face and say, "If you had found him
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too you would not think it little. You think it little I have
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lost the burden from my back; but if you had suffered with it,
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and felt its weight as I have for many a long year, you would
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think it no little thing to be emancipated and free, through a
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sight of the cross." Tell them it is a great story, and if they
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cannot see its greatness shed great tears, and tell it to them
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with great earnestness, and I hope they may be brought to
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believe that you at least are grateful, if they are not. May
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God grant that you may tell a grateful story. No story is more
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worth hearing than a tale of gratitude.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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And lastly, upon this point: it must be a tale told by a poor
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sinner who feels himself <i>not to have deserved</i> what he
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has received. "How he hath had <i>compassion</i> on thee." It
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was not a mere act of kindness, but and act of free compassion
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towards one who was in misery. Oh! I have heard men tell the
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story of their conversion and of their spiritual life in such a
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way that my heart hath loathed <i>them</i> and their story too,
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for they have told of their sins as if they did boast in the
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greatness of their crime, and they have mentioned the love of
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God not with a tear of gratitude, not with the simple
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thanksgiving of the really humble heart, but as if they as much
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exalted themselves as they exalted God. Oh! when we tell the
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story of our own conversion, I would have it done with deep
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sorrow, remembering what we used to be, and with great joy and
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gratitude, remembering how little we deserve these things, I
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was once preaching upon conversion and salvation, and I felt
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within myself, as preachers often do, that it was but dry work
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to tell this story, and a dull, dull tale it was to me; but on
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a sudden the thought crossed my mind, "Why, you are a poor lost
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ruined sinner yourself; tell it, tell it, as you received it;
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begin to tell of the grace of God as you trust you feel it
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yourself." Why, then, my eyes began to be fountains of tears;
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those hearers who had nodded their heads began to brighten up,
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and they listened, because they were hearing something which
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the man felt himself, and which they recognised as being true
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to him, if it was not true in them. Tell your story, my
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hearers, as lost sinners. Do not go to your home, and walk into
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your house with a supercilious air, as much as to say, "Here's
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a saint come home to the poor sinners, to tell them a story;"
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but go home like a poor sinner yourself; and when you go in,
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your mother remembers what you used to be, you need not tell
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her there is a change—she will notice it, if it is only
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one day you are with her; and perhaps she will say, "John, what
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is this change that is in you?" and if she is a pious mother,
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you will begin to tell her the story, and I know, man though
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you are, you will not blush when I say it, she will put her
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arms round your neck, and kiss you as she never did before, for
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you are her twice-born son, hers from whom she shall never
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part, even though death itself shall divide you for a brief
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moment. "Go home, then, and tell your friends what great things
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the Lord hath done for you, and how he hath had compassion on
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you."
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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II. But now, in the second place, WHY SHOULD WE TELL THIS
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STORY? For I hear many of my congregation say, "Sir, I could
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relate that story to any one sooner than I could to my own
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friends; I could come to your vestry, and tell you something of
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what I have tasted and handled of the Word of God; but I could
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not tell my father, nor my mother, nor my brethren, nor my
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sisters." Come, then; I will try and argue with you, to induce
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you to do so, that I may send you home this Christmas-day, to
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be missionaries in the localities to which you belong, and to
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be real preachers, though you are not so by name. Dear friends,
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do tell this story when you go home.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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First, for <i>your Master's sake</i>. Oh! I know you love him;
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I am sure you do, if you have proof that he loved you. You can
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never think of Gethsemane and of its bloody sweat, of Gabbatha
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and of the mangled back of Christ, flayed by the whip: you can
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never think of Calvary and his pierced hands and feet, without
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loving him; and it is a strong argument when I say to you, for
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his dear sake who loved you so much, go home and tell it. What!
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do you think we can have so much done for us, and yet not tell
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it? Our children, if anything should be done for them, do not
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stay many minutes before they are telling all the company,
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"such an one hath give me such a present, and bestowed on me
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such-and-such a favor." And should the children of God be
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backward in declaring how they were saved when their feet made
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haste to hell, and how redeeming mercy snatched them as brands
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from the burning? You love Jesus, young man! I put it to you,
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then, will you refuse to tell the tale of his love to you?
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Shall your lips be dumb, when his honor is concerned? Will you
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not, wherever you go, tell of the God who loved you and died
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for you? This poor man, we are told, "Departed and began to
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publish in Decapolis how great things Jesus had done for him,
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and all men did marvel." So with you. If Christ has done much
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for you, you cannot help it—you must tell it. My esteemed
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friend, Mr. Oncken, a minister in Germany told us last Monday
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evening, that so soon as he was converted himself, the first
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impulse of his new-born soul was to do good to others. And
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where should he do that good? Well, he thought he would go to
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Germany. It was his own native land, and he thought the command
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was, "Go home to thy friends and tell them." Well, there was
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not a single Baptist in all Germany, nor any with whom he could
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sympathise, for the Lutherans had swerved from the faith of
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Luther, and gone aside from the truth of God. But he went there
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and preached, and he has now seventy or eighty churches
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established on the continent. What made him do it? Nothing but
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love for his Master, who had done so much for him, could have
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forced him to go and tell his kinsmen the marvellous tale of
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Divine goodness.
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</p>
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<p class="indent">
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But, in the next place, are your friends pious? Then go home
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and tell them, in order <i>to make their hearts glad</i>. I
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received last night a short epistle written with a trembling
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hand by one who is past the natural age of man, living in the
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country of Essex. His son, under God, had been converted by
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hearing the Word preached, and the good man could not help
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writing to the minister, thanking <i>him</i>, and blessing most
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of all, his God, that his son had been regenerated. "Sir," he
|
|
begins, "an old rebel writes to thank you, and above all to
|
|
thank his God, that his dear son has been converted." I shall
|
|
treasure up that epistle. It goes on to say, "Go on! and the
|
|
Lord bless you." And there was another case I heard some time
|
|
ago, where a young woman went home to her parents, and when her
|
|
mother saw her, she said, "There! if the minister had made me a
|
|
present of all London, I should not have thought so much of it
|
|
as I do of this—to think that you have really become a
|
|
changed character, and are living in the fear of God." Oh! if
|
|
you want to make your mother's heart leap within her, and to
|
|
make your father glad—if you would make that sister happy
|
|
who sent you so many letters, which sometimes you read against
|
|
a lamp-post, with your pipe in your mouth—go home and tell
|
|
your mother that her wishes are all accomplished, that her
|
|
prayers are heard, that you will no longer chaff her about her
|
|
Sunday-school class, and no longer laugh at her because she
|
|
loves the Lord, but that you will go with her to the house of
|
|
God, for you love God, and you have said, "Your people shall be
|
|
my people, and your God shall be my God, for I have a hope that
|
|
your heaven shall be my heaven for ever." Oh! what a happy
|
|
thing it would be if some here who had gone astray, should thus
|
|
go home! It was my privilege a little while ago to preach for a
|
|
noble institution for the reception of women who had led
|
|
abandoned lives—and before I preached the sermon I prayed
|
|
to God to bless it, and in the printed sermon you will notice
|
|
that at the end of it there is an account of two persons who
|
|
were blessed by that sermon and restored. Now, let me tell you
|
|
a story of what happened to Mr. Vanderkist, a city missionary,
|
|
who toils all night long to do good in that great work. There
|
|
had been a drunken broil in the street; he stepped between the
|
|
men to part them, and said something to a woman who stood there
|
|
concerning how dreadful a thing it was that men should thus be
|
|
intemperate. She walked with him a little way, and he with her,
|
|
and she began to tell him such a tale of woe and sin
|
|
too—how she had been lured away from her parents' home in
|
|
Somersetshire, and have been brought up here to her soul's
|
|
eternal hurt. He took her home with him, and taught her the
|
|
fear and love of Christ; and what was the first thing she did,
|
|
when she returned to the paths of godliness, and found Christ
|
|
to be the sinner's Saviour? She said, "Now, I must go home to
|
|
my friends." Her friends were written to; they came to meet her
|
|
at the station at Bristol, and you can hardly conceive what a
|
|
happy meeting it was. The father and mother had lost their
|
|
daughter, they had never heard from her; and there she was,
|
|
brought back by the agency of this institution<sup><a href="#note1">1</a></sup>, and restored
|
|
to the bosom of her family. Ah! if such an one be here! I know
|
|
not; among such a multitude there may be such an one. Woman!
|
|
hast thou strayed from thy family? Hast thou left them long?
|
|
"Go home to thy friends," I beseech thee, ere thy father
|
|
totters to his grave, and ere thy mother's grey hairs sleep on
|
|
the snow-white pillow of her coffin. Go back. I beseech thee!
|
|
Tell her thou art penitent; tell her that God hath met with
|
|
thee—that the young minister said, "Go back to thy
|
|
friends." And if so, I shall not blush to have said these
|
|
things, though you may think I ought not to have mentioned
|
|
them; for if I may but win one such soul, I will bless God to
|
|
all eternity. "Go home to thy friends. Go home and tell them
|
|
how great things the Lord hath done for thee." Cannot you
|
|
imagine the scene, when the poor demoniac mentioned in my text
|
|
went home? He had been a raving madman; and when he came and
|
|
knocked at the door, don't you think you see his friends
|
|
calling to one another in affright, "Oh! there he is again,"
|
|
and the mother running up stairs and locking all the doors,
|
|
because her son had come back that was raving mad; and the
|
|
little ones crying because they knew what he had been
|
|
before—how he cut himself with stones, because he was
|
|
possessed with devils. And can you picture their joy, when the
|
|
man said, "Mother! Jesus Christ has healed me; let me in; I am
|
|
no lunatic now!" And when the father opened the door, he said,
|
|
"Father! I am not what I was; all the evil spirits are gone; I
|
|
shall live in the tombs no longer. I want to tell you how the
|
|
glorious man who wrought my deliverance accomplished the
|
|
miracle—how he said to the devils, 'Get ye hence,' and
|
|
they ran down a steep place into the sea, an I am come home
|
|
healed and saved." Oh! if such an one, possessed with sin, were
|
|
here this morning, and would go home to his friends, to tell
|
|
them of his release, methinks this scene would be somewhat
|
|
similar.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
Once more, dear friends. I hear one of you say. "Ah! Sir, would
|
|
to God I could go home to pious friends! But when I go home I
|
|
go into the worst of places; for my home is amongst those who
|
|
never knew God themselves, and consequently never prayed for
|
|
me, and never taught me anything concerning heaven." Well,
|
|
young man, go home to your friends. If they are ever so bad
|
|
they are your friends. I sometimes meet with young men wishing
|
|
to join the church, who say, when I ask them about their
|
|
father, "Oh, sir, I am parted from my father." Then I say,
|
|
"Young man, you may just go and see your father before I have
|
|
anything to do with you; if you are at ill-will with your
|
|
father and mother I will not receive you into the church; if
|
|
they are ever so bad they are <i>your parents</i>." Go home to
|
|
them, and tell them, not to make them glad, for they will very
|
|
likely be angry with you; but tell them <i>for their soul's
|
|
salvation</i>. I hope, when you are telling the story of what
|
|
God did for you, that they will be led by the Spirit to desire
|
|
the same mercy themselves. But I will give you a piece of
|
|
advice. Do not tell this story to your ungodly friends when
|
|
they are all together, for they will laugh at you. Take them
|
|
one by one, when you can get them alone, and begin to tell it
|
|
to them, and they will hear you seriously. There was once a
|
|
very pious lady who kept a lodging-house for young men. All the
|
|
young men were very gay and giddy, and she wanted to say
|
|
something to them concerning religion. She introduced the
|
|
subject, and it was passed off immediately with a laugh. She
|
|
thought within herself, "I have made a mistake." The next
|
|
morning, after breakfast, when they were all going, she said to
|
|
one of them, "Sir, I should like to speak with you a moment or
|
|
two," and taking him aside into another room she talked with
|
|
him. The next morning she took another, and the next morning
|
|
another, and it pleased God to bless her simple statement, when
|
|
it was given individually: but, without doubt, if she had
|
|
spoken to them altogether, they would have backed each other up
|
|
in laughing her to scorn. Reprove a man alone. A verse may hit
|
|
him whom a sermon flies. You may be the means of bringing a man
|
|
to Christ who has often heard the Word and only laughed at it,
|
|
but who cannot resist a gentle admonition. In one of the states
|
|
of America, there was an infidel who was a great despiser of
|
|
God, a hater of the Sabbath and all religious institutions.
|
|
What to do with him the ministers did not know. They met
|
|
together and prayed for him. But among the rest, one Elder
|
|
B_____ resolved to spend a long time in prayer for the man;
|
|
after that he got on horseback, and rode down to the man's
|
|
forge, for he was a blacksmith. He left his horse outside, and
|
|
said, "Neighbour, I am under very great concern about your
|
|
soul's salvation; I tell you I pray day and night for your
|
|
soul's salvation." He left him, and rode home on his horse. The
|
|
man went inside to his house after a minute or two, and said to
|
|
one of his faithful friends, "Here's a new argument; here's
|
|
Elder B_____ been down here, he did not dispute, and never said
|
|
a word to me except this, 'I say, I am under great concern
|
|
about your soul; I cannot bear that you should be lost.' Oh!
|
|
that fellow," he said, "I cannot answer him;" and the tears
|
|
began to roll down his cheeks. He went to his wife, and said,
|
|
"I can't make this out; I never cared about my soul, but here's
|
|
an elder, that has no connection with me, but I have always
|
|
laughed at him, and he has come five miles this morning on
|
|
horseback just to tell me he is under concern about my
|
|
salvation. After a little while he thought it was time he
|
|
should be under concern about his salvation too. He went in,
|
|
shut the door, began to pray, and the next day he was at the
|
|
deacon's house, telling him that he too was under concern about
|
|
his salvation, and asking him to tell him what he must do to be
|
|
saved. Oh! that the everlasting God might make use of some of
|
|
those now present in the same way, that they might be induced
|
|
to
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p style="text-align: center">
|
|
"Tell to others round<br>
|
|
What a dear Saviour they have found;<br>
|
|
To point to his redeeming blood,<br>
|
|
And say, Behold the way to God!"
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
III. I shall not detain you much longer; but there is a third
|
|
point, upon which we must be very brief. HOW IS THIS STORY TO
|
|
BE TOLD?
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
First, <i>tell it truthfully</i>. Do not tell more than you
|
|
know; do not tell John Bunyan's experience, when you ought to
|
|
tell your own. Do not tell your mother you have felt what only
|
|
Rutherford felt. Tell her no more than the truth. Tell your
|
|
experience truthfully; for mayhap one single fly in the pot of
|
|
ointment will spoil it, and one statement you may make which is
|
|
not true may ruin it all. Tell the story truthfully.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
In the next place, <i>tell it very humbly</i>. I have said that
|
|
before. Do not intrude yourselves upon those who are older, and
|
|
know more; but tell your story humbly; not as a preacher, not
|
|
<i>ex-cathedra</i>, but as a friend and as a son.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
Next, <i>tell it very earnestly</i>. Let them see you mean it.
|
|
Do not talk about religion flippantly; you will do not good if
|
|
you do. Do not make puns on texts; do not quote Scripture by
|
|
way of joke: if you do, you may talk till you are dumb, you
|
|
will do no good, if you in the least degree give them occasion
|
|
to laugh by laughing at holy things yourself. Tell it very
|
|
earnestly.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
And then, <i>tell it very devoutly</i>. Do not try to tell your
|
|
tale to man till you have told it first to God. When you are at
|
|
home on Christmas-day, let no one see your face till God has
|
|
seen it. Be up in the morning, wrestle with God; and if you
|
|
friends are not converted, <i>wrestle with God for them</i>;
|
|
and then you will find it easy work to <i>wrestle with them for
|
|
God</i>. Seek, if you can, to get them one by one, and tell
|
|
them the story. Do not be afraid; only think of the good you
|
|
may possibly do. Remember, he that saves a soul from death hath
|
|
covereth a multitude of sins, and he shall have stars in his
|
|
crown for ever and ever. Seek to be under God—Saviours in
|
|
your family, to be the means of leading your own beloved
|
|
brethren and sisters to seek and to find the Lord Jesus Christ,
|
|
and then one day, when you shall meet in Paradise, it will be a
|
|
joy and blessedness to think that you are there, and that your
|
|
friends are there too, whom God will have made you the
|
|
instrument of saving. Let your reliance in the Holy Spirit be
|
|
entire and honest. Trust not yourself, but fear not to trust
|
|
him. He can give you words. He can apply those words to their
|
|
heart, and so enable you to "minister grace to the hearers."
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
To close up, by a short, and I think, a pleasant turning of the
|
|
text, to suggest another meaning to it. Soon, dear friends,
|
|
very soon with some of us, the Master will say, "Go home to thy
|
|
friends." You know where the home is. It is up above the stars.
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p style="text-align: center">
|
|
"Where our best friends, our kindred dwell,<br>
|
|
Where God our Saviour reigns."
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p class="indent">
|
|
Yon grey-headed man has buried all his friends; he has said, "I
|
|
shall go to them, but they will not return to me." Soon his
|
|
Master will say, "Thou hast had enough tarrying here in this
|
|
vale of tears: goo home to thy friends!" Oh! happy hour! Oh!
|
|
blessed moment, when that shall be the word—"Go home to
|
|
thy friends!" And when we go home to our friends in Paradise,
|
|
what shall we do? Why, first we will repair to that blest seat
|
|
where Jesus sits, take off our crown and cast it at his feet,
|
|
and crown him Lord of all. And when we have done that, what
|
|
shall be our next employ? Why, we will tell the blessed ones in
|
|
heaven what the Lord hath done for us, and how he hath had
|
|
compassion on us. And shall such a tale be told in heaven?
|
|
Shall that be the Christmas Carol of the angels? Yes, it shall
|
|
be; it has been published there before—blush not to tell
|
|
it yet again—for Jesus has told it before, "When he cometh
|
|
home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying
|
|
unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was
|
|
lost." And thou, poor sheep, when thou shall be gathered in,
|
|
wilt thou not tell how thy Shepherd sought thee, and how he
|
|
found thee? Will thou not sit in the grassy meads of heaven,
|
|
and tell the story of thine own redemption? Wilt thou not talk
|
|
with thy brethren and thy sisters, and tell them how God loved
|
|
thee and hath brought thee there? Perhaps thou sayest, "It will
|
|
be a very short story." Ah! it would be if you could write now.
|
|
A little book might be the whole of your biography; but up
|
|
there when your memory shall be enlarged, when your passion
|
|
shall be purified and your understanding clear, you will find
|
|
that what was but a tract on earth will be a huge tome in
|
|
heaven. You will tell a long story there of God's sustaining,
|
|
restraining, constraining grace, and I think that when you
|
|
pause to let another tell his tale, and then another, and then
|
|
another, you will at last, when you have been in heaven a
|
|
thousand years, break out and exclaim, "O saints, I have
|
|
something else to say." Again they will tell their tales, and
|
|
again you will interrupt them with "Oh, beloved, I have thought
|
|
of another case of God's delivering mercy." And so you will go
|
|
on, giving them themes for songs, finding them the material for
|
|
the warp and woof of heavenly sonnets. "Go home," he will soon
|
|
say, "go home to thy friends, and tell them how great things
|
|
the Lord hath done for thee, and hath had compassion on thee."
|
|
Wait awhile; tarry his leisure, and ye shall soon be gathered
|
|
to the land of the hereafter, to the home of the blessed, where
|
|
endless felicity shall be thy portion. God grant a blessing for
|
|
his name's sake!
|
|
</p>
|
|
<p>
|
|
</p>
|
|
<ol>
|
|
<li>
|
|
<a name="note1"></a>The London Female Dormitory.
|
|
<p>
|
|
</p>
|
|
</li>
|
|
</ol>
|
|
<br>
|
|
<br>
|
|
</div></div>
|
|
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