Part 3 (2/2)

Pa.s.sion.

There is a page in Tyerman's monumental ”Life of George Whitefield,”

which ill.u.s.trates, as few pages do, the quality of that essential of true and effective preaching in regard of which we are now to speak.

It is that page in which are described the last hours of the great evangelist.

On Sat.u.r.day morning, September 29th, 1770, being exceedingly weak and ill, but bent upon the continuance of his preaching work, Whitefield set out from Portsmouth (U.S.A.) to ride to Boston. Fifteen miles from Portsmouth, at Exeter, he was stopped and persuaded to preach. A friend said to him, ”Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach.” ”True, sir,” replied Whitefield, and then, clasping his hands and looking up to heaven, he added, ”Lord Jesus, I am weary in Thy work but not of it. If I have not yet finished my course, let me go and speak for Thee once more in the fields, seal Thy truth, and come home and die.” At the commencement of his discourse he was unable for some time to speak, but recovering himself he preached for two hours.

At Exeter, to pursue the story, the Rev. Jonathan Parsons, who, for twenty-four years, had been Presbyterian minister at Newbury Port, met the preacher. The two friends dined together at Captain Oilman's, and then started for Newbury Port, a few miles further on. ”On arrival there,” says the biographer, ”Whitefield was so exhausted that he was unable to leave the boat without a.s.sistance, but in the course of the evening he recovered his spirits.”

Let us give the rest of the story in the words of Mr. Tyerman:--”While Whitefield partook of an early supper, the people a.s.sembled at the front of the parsonage, and even crowded into its hall, impatient to hear a few words from the man they so greatly loved. 'I am tired,'

said Whitefield, 'and must go to bed.' He took a candle and was hastening to his chamber. The sight of the people moved him; and, pausing on the staircase, he began to speak to them. He had preached his last sermon, this was to be his last exhortation. There he stood, the crowd in the hall gazing up at him with tearful eyes, as Elisha at the ascending prophet. His voice flowed on until the candle which he held in his hand burned away and _went out in its socket_! The next morning he was not, for G.o.d had taken him.”

Now, surely, here is a picture worth the painting, if only one could catch the true spiritual significance and lesson of it all. Imagine the scene: the listening mult.i.tude crowded into the s.p.a.cious entrance hall; the preacher, wearied and worn by disease, and still more by his restless and sublime labours in preaching the word in field and temple for many a wondrous year. The candle flickers and fails as the glorious voice, which has made heavenly music for tens of thousands of seeking souls, becomes weaker and weaker. The feeble flame, at last goes out, and leaves the preacher still pleading the cause of the Lord, whose face he is so soon to behold. History has no n.o.bler scene to show in all its gathered years!

We have appropriated this story because it appears to us to hold an explanation of the meaning of the word at the head of this chapter.

Possibly there has never been, in all the years of the Church, a greater preacher than this same Whitefield, and Whitefield's greatness has, to a large extent, its explanation in this, the last scene of his ministry. How many he led to G.o.d eternity alone can reveal. His spiritual descendants are numbered by mult.i.tudes as the sand on the sea-sh.o.r.e, the stars in the firmament, for number. When he died millions in both the old world and the new wept the going of one who to them had been the prophet of a great deliverance. To this day the little New England village where he sleeps is the object of pious pilgrimage to numbers to whom the echo of his voice still comes across the breadth of intervening years. The secret is largely hidden in ”this last scene of all.” In this mighty _pa.s.sion_ to preach the word, a pa.s.sion which neither persecution nor betrayal nor disappointment nor disease nor even the icy breath of approaching death could cool--in this lies the explanation of a ministry that shook the world!

And without this pa.s.sion even Whitefield's gifts of oratory would have left no record for our reading, for it is absolutely essential to effective preaching; absolutely essential to success. Without it the choicest gifts, the profoundest learning will achieve but little.

_With_ it, even humble qualifications and limited scholastic equipment will accomplish--have often accomplished--great things for G.o.d and the lives of men.

And this pa.s.sion for preaching will be a pa.s.sion for preaching for its _own sake_. To the true preacher preaching, and everything connected with preaching, will be things in which his soul delights. He will glory in sermon making and sermon preaching more than in any of his life's other activities. It is not implied that he will always approach his task without fear, or even without shrinking, or, at times, a pa.s.sing desire to shun the duty devolving upon him. There may be hours when, as he truly realises the purpose of his work, a sense of his responsibility will so surge through his spirit as almost to unman him. Other times, again, may come, when even ”nerves” may get the better of him, for every preacher worth the name has ”nerves,” and should thank G.o.d for them. There may be days in which, seeing as in a vision something of the mighty issues dependent upon his faithfulness, he will tremble lest he be, indeed, one of those fools who ”rush in where angels fear to tread.” All these experiences may be--most likely will be--his, and yet he will find in the exercise of his art, both in preparation and performance such a pleasure, and such a sense of mental exaltation, as nothing else can bring. A born artist loves to paint for painting's sake; to such an one there is something almost sacramental in the very mixing of the colours. The true sculptor hears music in the tapping of the mallet upon the chisel as he shapes the marble into grace and beauty. There is no drudgery in the calling that is yours by ordination of nature, by right of true heartfelt affection.

The kind of preacher we mean would rather talk about preaching than about any other subject, providing he meet with one like-minded with himself. He is happy to the glowing point when he can discuss with some sharer of the call the latest homiletic creation of his mind or of the mind of his friend. When his creation comes to the stage of delivery he is conscious of that perfect pleasantness which is always felt by a man when engaged in the labour which, of all others, he loves best to perform. ”I'd rather preach than be King of England,” he will tell you sometimes; and though, on occasion, he may have his ”hard times,” a form of discipline sent upon him for his soul's good, he will generally be found within a single circling of the Sun as eager as ever to return to the place of his humiliation. Many a preacher who has felt, on Sunday evening, that the only thing left for him to do was immediately to send in his resignation to the proper quarter, has, before Monday evening, known what it was to hunger again for the Sabbath's sweet return. A strange thing is this preaching madness when it possesses a man, as it often will, body, soul and spirit; which no place can satisfy save the preacher's place, no task save the preacher's task, no honour save the honour of telling men about Jesus Christ. Without it there can be no grand success. He who is not thus possessed should decline to be drawn for this duty. Of such as he there are more than enough already in the pulpit--in it, but _not at home_ in it, not glad, gloriously glad, to be there--slaving to make a sermon because ”in three days Sunday will be here;” taking with them at service time this so-called sermon, strong with the smell of books and of midnight oil; speaking it in pain of utterance, and delighted when the ordeal is over, with a delight most certainly shared by many who neither came to scoff nor remained to pray. Heaven help the man whom fate in the shape of foolish friends, or parents, or mistaken church-officials has sentenced to hard labour in the pulpit; who is condemned to preach without possession of that love of preaching which makes for him in whose heart it dwells the business of declaring the Gospel the n.o.blest and most rapturous occupation in all the great, wide world! If preparation be invariably irksome--_invariably_, we say, for all men have their moods and no mere pa.s.sing spell of depression is worth more than a little special prayer; if preaching be always a pain and a cross--_always_, we say--for G.o.d may cause the chariot wheels to run heavily for reasons of His own, and the difficulty may not point to retreat, but to supplication; if preparation and preaching be invariably irksome and painful, the fact ought to make the preacher ask whether a mistake has been made in his choice, which ought to be rectified as soon as possible. The true preacher will be in love with preaching for its own sake. This love will be part of the great all-conquering pa.s.sion of his life.

A ”part,” yes; but only a part. May we call it the human, the temperamental, dispositional part? The pa.s.sion we desiderate for the present-day pulpit includes something almost infinitely higher than this. It must include _the pa.s.sion for Christ_. It is the hunger to preach because Jesus Christ is the chief theme of preaching; because it is in _His_ honour; because out of the fulness of the heart the mouth would speak; because the soul's deep reverence for the Redeemer _must_ extol its object. He is to be _obeyed_, too, in preaching. It is a form of service rendered to _Him_. The truth is _His_ truth, ”the truth as it is in Jesus,” and _He_ gave the command which is honoured in its publication. By this act of preaching _He_ is pleased. It is an evidence of the preacher's glad surrender to _His_ will. It moves others, too, to the same surrender. It extends _His_ kingdom; increases the number of those who ”bear _His_ name and sign.” It helps _Him_ to see ”of the travail of His soul and be satisfied.” It pushes further back the bounds of _His_ empire; widens the area of _His_ sovereignty. It ”crowns _Him_ with glory and honour.” So the preacher ”makes his boast in the Lord,” and is ”glad.”

Thus it can be said that all true preaching is wors.h.i.+p, which is always the expression of awe, reverence and love. We sometimes speak of wors.h.i.+p, _and_ preaching. To the true preacher this distinction does not exist. No act in all the service is more truly an act of adoration than is the preaching of such a man, because it is the pouring out of his inmost heart's affection. With the spirit with which he prays and sings; with the spirit of the Te Deum and the Magnificat, will he preach; and out of the same emotions toward Him whom thus he serves.

Such preaching is a bringing of the fruits of the mind and the spirit to the altar of sacrifice. The whole Doxology is in it!

Yes, preaching is wors.h.i.+p. We Free Churchmen need to emphasise this truth. Again and again have we heard the criticism that in our churches there ”is much sermon and little wors.h.i.+p.” We have not only heard this criticism from the quarter whence it might be expected, but, also, sometimes even from some of our own fellows.h.i.+p. There is an answer to this complaint which proceeds from a misunderstanding of what true wors.h.i.+p really is, as well as from an underestimation of the true sacredness of the preacher's work. It is this:--That preaching is wors.h.i.+p when offered in the spirit of wors.h.i.+p, and that neither song nor prayer becomes wors.h.i.+p except upon the same condition. Further we would say that _hearing_ is wors.h.i.+p, too, when the hearer listens as in the spirit. The hearer to whom song and supplication are wors.h.i.+p, indeed, will also make an act of adoration of his hearing of the word which is sent unto him.

Behind such preaching as this, and producing the pa.s.sion out of which it will proceed, there must be high experiences of grace. Such pa.s.sion can only proceed from a personal knowledge of Christ and from that full surrender which such knowledge at once brings to pa.s.s. Love has caught the preacher in the way and led him to Calvary, where his heart has been set on fire. He does but preach because he must, the Lord having done for him such mighty things. As the memory of that divine arrest on the road to Damascus abode with Paul, and so sustained a sense of the mercy of his Lord that he could not help but preach the gospel, so the recollection of the preacher will ever linger around the glad hour when the Master met him in the path, having come down from heaven to seek and to save even him. In these remembrances has the pa.s.sion of the preacher its origin and its reinforcement. It is the first fruit of a melted heart. The true preacher is--the word is not a pleasant one, but it is the only form of expression that, at the moment, occurs--the devotee. He is the slave of love to Christ.

And without this whole-souled devotion--we say again--there can be no great moving and saving preaching. Eloquence there may be, intellectualism, sublimity of conception and description, pathos--all the qualities which are needed in high public address, but something will be lacking. None can speak of a maiden as can her lover, though others may describe her with a choicer diction than he. None can speak of a child as can his mother, to whom the little life is more precious than her own and every childish way of significance and beauty.

”_Lovest_ thou _Me_?” said the Lord to Simon Peter on that grey morning on the sea-sh.o.r.e. ”Lovest thou Me?” He asked again, and yet again.

”Yea, Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee,” cried the disciple, his soul aflame with a living pa.s.sion never more to be extinguished or bedimmed, ”Thou knowest that I love Thee.” Then said the Saviour, ”Feed My sheep,” ”Feed My lambs.” Peter's preaching hour was come now that this fire had been kindled in his soul. In that confession rang the promise of all the after years, of the ministry in Jerusalem, of his declaration of the Christ in many a heathen city, of the death he was to die in Rome. Lack this flame of affection and preaching will be a task, a penance, a weary iteration and reiteration of things so often spoken as to render them threadbare and hackneyed to the speaker.

Possess this all-consuming love and preaching will be as ”a song of the Well-Beloved!”

But the pa.s.sion of preaching has in it another ingredient--if in this way the matter may be expressed. To be effective and successful the preacher must have in his heart the _pa.s.sion of humanity_. True preaching is the supreme effort of a man burning to bless and save his fellow-men. Precious to him are the souls before him; terrible to him the thought that any one of them should come short of the salvation he has been sent to proclaim, that one life should wither and be wasted.

He is ”kindly affectioned” toward them. He _loves_, therefore he preaches. As long as there are souls to be warned and invited, penitents to be enlightened and led into the peace of G.o.d, hearts to be comforted, powers to be taught a better way--as long, in short, as there are men to whom his message may bring help and hope and life he cannot hold his peace. He will be ”all things to all men that peradventure” he ”may save some.”

Now this is a harder thing--this pa.s.sion for men, as that man must possess it who aspires to preach the gospel with power and full accomplishment of the purposes thereof. For the love he must feel must be a love not only for such as of themselves inspire it, but for those whose life and character are hateful. Of what is called ”affinity”

between the man to be loved and sought and the preacher there may be none. How can the amba.s.sador of Jesus Christ, who has looked upon the face of the Son of Man and in that look caught a conception of humanity in its fairest beauty,--how can he be in love with men and see, as he must see, their meanness and wrong-doing? The lawyer and the preacher, it is said, see the seamy side of life, and there is no need for wonder if, as has been reported, the lawyer often becomes a cynic. The wonder is if the preacher do not become a cynic too. Seeing what he must see, knowing what he must know, how is he to preserve that longing after the souls of the very vilest which alone can sustain him in his search for them ”away on the mountains cold?” _Can it really be done_?

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