Part 12 (1/2)

Rest in the Lord. This thought comes home to me more than it used to do. I like to bring all the perplexities of life--the thoughts and feelings which I can explain to no one--of some of which I cannot say whether they are right or wrong, or where the right shades into wrong--and to leave them with Him to develop (if right), to sift, to correct. What a blank life would be without G.o.d! . . .

Easter brings fresh hope and life. It is glorious to begin existence in a world which has been redeemed. I am sure--since He rose and defeated death--we ought to trust to life, to delight in it. 'I am the Life.'

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Breathe in the fresh air. It is one of the best gifts that the good G.o.d has bestowed upon us. We want fresh air not only in our lungs but all through, if I may say so, our being. I long to be more natural and happy--not that I wish for 'religious happiness,' but something quite different--the happiness which comes in the right exercise of power and in conscious dependence upon Him in whom we live.

_In reply to a letter from H. P., a master at Clifton College, who was in doubt whether he ought to resign his masters.h.i.+p and go down to the College Mission in Bristol._

Christ's College, Cambridge: May 1, 1901.

I have not had time to think over the matter yet, but my first feeling is that you ought to be very slow to move. If men in your position, who feel keenly interested in the highest welfare of their pupils and long to influence them in spiritual matters, all go away to parish work, what is to become of our public school boys? Masters are only too anxious to leave for more 'directly spiritual' work, as they say.

But in doing so they leave a work of exceptional difficulty and importance behind, and who is to take their place? I understand and appreciate your feelings, but I am not at all sure that you have any call to go.

How much directly 'spiritual' work have you with the boys? Could you, if you desired, get more?

I will pray over the matter. Do be slow before you decide to leave. I believe you ought to stay, {146} although it may be more difficult to maintain your own spiritual life and ideals in a school than in a parish. You may be doing more good than you know. It is easier to find men to do parish work than to do school work of the highest kind.

There is a sermon of Lightfoot's in which he urges clergymen at the University not to go away, because it is hard to maintain their spiritual ideals at Cambridge, and because they seem to have so little direct spiritual influence. May not this apply to your work also?

_To one about to be ordained._

Cambridge: May 1901.

It seems so clear to us that you have a call, that I find it hard to realise that you yourself are uncertain. But the very fact that you have been 'counting the cost,' and that you have no ecstatic joy at the prospect before you, encourages me. I am glad you realise the difficulties beforehand. What you don't fully see is the strength upon which you will be able to draw. I often think of those lines of Tennyson:--

O living Will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow through our deeds and make them pure.[1]

That Will can transform our will, and the very weakness of our natural will is then a help. The strength {147} is seen and felt to come from an invisible source: 'Thy will, not my will.'

The terrible need of men to fight against the forces of evil impresses me. The call is so loud on every side. And if men like you cannot hear it, I am driven almost to despair. . . . I often think of my father's words on his deathbed: 'If I had a thousand lives I would give them all--all to the ministry.'

The thought that gave me comfort at my own ordination was a text suggested to me by my brother: 'He had in His right hand seven stars.'

In His right hand--we are safe there. I felt such a worm as I had never felt before. 'But fear not, thou worm Jacob.' . . . Don't look for happiness or peace at this time, but for the presence and power (whether felt or unfelt) of that G.o.d whom we both love and try to love better. Do not persuade yourself that you do not love G.o.d. You do, more than you have any idea of. The part of your 'Ego' which you would least wish to lose is not even your love for men--but for G.o.d. If you had your choice now, and had to decide what part of your being you would retain for eternity, it would be the latter. Beloved, if our heart condemn us, G.o.d is greater than our heart. . . . 'He who loves makes his own the grandeur that he loves.'

_He had in His right hand seven stars_. He is the Judge, but He also is our refuge and strength and hope.

[1] _In Memoriam_, cxxi.

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_To D. B. K._

Cambridge: July 1901.

When we set to work to help others we discover something of our own weakness. But along with that discovery comes the realisation of an inexhaustible fund of strength outside ourselves. We are fighting on the winning side. G.o.d must be stronger than all that opposes. It is uphill work, especially at first. But just as in learning a language or learning how to swim, after toiling on with no apparent result, there comes a day when suddenly we realise that we can do it--how we know not: so it is in spiritual matters. There is effort still, sometimes gruesome effort; but it is all different from what it was.