And then ofttimes the little good which the Christian accomplishes in the world is enough to drive him to dejection. The Tishbite fled because he saw no good from all his labors. Doubtless he had expected that, with the support of miracles, he should soon have worked a reformation in Israel.

But though at his word the heavens had been shut up, and though at his prayer the fire of G.o.d had descended to attest his mission, still the whole outlay of means seemed to end in nothing. His expectations had not been met; and under the burden of the keenest mortification, the most hopeless dejection, he lies down by the juniper-tree and prays for death.

Have you never lain there with him, Christian?

When cast down in spirit, in view of your personal infirmities, you have asked for the good you have done in the world around you; when your efforts for Christ seem all to prove abortive; when your kindly warnings are disregarded, and in spite of your prayers and solicitude, iniquity abounds, and none turn to the Lord; when the more you strive for the Redeemer, the more your good is evil spoken of; when the wicked around you seem growing worse and worse, and disappointment and unbelief becloud your heart, and you see no hope, and the wilderness is around you--Oh, when thus the heart droops, do you not feel that you are in the wilderness? 'Tis indeed a dreary situation. But in life's pilgrimage, the Christian sometimes journeys that way. He has his hours of sadness, of heart-sickness, of deep despondency and dejection, of bitterness which a stranger intermeddleth not with. He is at times left to experience the burdens of life, the faintings of faith and hope--to feel that notwithstanding his long trial of the Christian life, all is jeoparded, and that nothing remains for him but to cast himself down with the fugitive prophet under the juniper-tree, and say, "It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life."

But what we would observe is this: that the Saviour has provisions for his children however desolate may be their condition. It was in this dreary extremity of the prophet, that G.o.d revealed unto him his presence. Worn out with hunger and fatigue, despairing of hope, and feeling even life itself to be a burden, the fugitive drops to sleep. And now G.o.d, by a miracle, comes to his rescue. A cake baken on the coals is beside him, and the cruse of water, to refresh him and keep him from destruction. Here G.o.d came to his prophet and revived his confidence. Here he gives him a token that he has not given him up, but sends his Angel to rouse him from his dejection and bid him eat.

Not to the prophet alone has G.o.d manifested his presence and aid, but to all his dear children as they sit and sigh under the tree where the prophet slept. Not that, when we are cast down and desolate, we actually feel a hand touching us, and see before us the cruse of water and the cake upon the coals; but we find the same deliverance, and the rustic table is virtually set before us and served by a spirit hand. In the appointed means of grace we find the aliment that sustains our souls. The divine ordinances seem to us more precious than ever while we sit under the juniper-tree. In the sweet promises of the word of G.o.d, in the dawn of Sabbath hours, in the tender and timely lessons of the sanctuary, in the Bethel seasons of prayer, in these means afforded to us, we find the cruse of water and the cake that will refresh us. We may lightly esteem them in a time of ease and plenty; we may think little of a cruse of water and a cake when we repose in abundance; but in the wilderness, when hunger and faintness come over us, and the juniper boughs are our only covering, then they are as sweet to us as to the weary Tishbite.

When spiritual famine is gnawing at our hearts, and all is desolate and forsaken around us; when sickness has prostrated us, or death has cut down our companions around us, till the world seems empty, and a hue of decay and death tinges all the objects which we look at; when darkness and disappointment and disaster all weigh upon our spirits, and G.o.d is all that is left to us--how should we live were it not for the cake and the water cruse? How do we grasp the very means which we before had too often slighted.

We call up the neglected promises, and there is life in them. Our troubled thoughts find vent in earnest prayer; and whether we lie stretched on the bed of languishing, or wrestle in the closet, or meditate in the sanctuary, we find the water cruse is beside us, and we are kept from fainting. Oh, it is when, under the load of crushing sorrow and dejection, the wanderer sinks down by the shrub of the desert, it is then he prizes the cruse and the cake. Many of you, I doubt not, were you to call to mind the season when you valued most the presence of the Master, when you wrestled nearest the mercy-seat and experienced the most surprising deliverances, would point to the days of sore trial and weariness, when you gave up all hope, and when, turned out from the world, you sat alone and sighed under the juniper and waited for death. There you fed upon the bread of life. And though you felt that you were pilgrims in the desert, you still felt that you were not forsaken.

But, brethren, we need not only the provisions made for us in the means of grace, but we need also a friendly hand to help us to partake of them. We need our attention called to them with a voice that can reach the inner ear; for too often, with all our distress and dejection, there comes also a lethargy and insensibility which, if unbroken, must at last prove fatal.

The care-worn prophet, with all his wretchedness and despair, still reclined his head and slept. Hungry and weak and way-worn, a drowsiness nevertheless came over him, and he must needs be aroused if he was to be strengthened. The cake is there, and the cruse of water is there, and the coals are glowing, but the pilgrim heeds them not. What a figure is this of the complaining and dejected Christian who is starving for the spiritual food that is beside him, and at the same time sleeping in his sorrow. Despondency and unbelief have so paralyzed his heart that he takes no nourishment, even though the promises and the Sabbath and the sanctuary are before him; but they are dead to him, they are useless to us all, so long as we sleep on.

But beside the man of G.o.d, as he lay and slept under the juniper-tree, there was not only the cake and the water cruse, but the Angel too. And here, in the touch and the call of the Angel, methinks I discover a most beautiful emblem of the Holy Spirit standing by the means of grace, and bidding the believer "_arise and eat_." The presence of that ministering spirit was necessary to the prophet's preservation. Without his friendly touch, he would doubtless have slept on, and death closed the scene ere the day dawned, and the cruse of water and the cake have been in vain.

Thus too we need a present Spirit to rouse us to partake of the blessings that are brought to us; for though we may complain of want, we are too indifferent to the supplies afforded us. Though we feel that we are pilgrims in the desert, though we sigh and faint by the juniper boughs, we sleep there too. Our eyes are heavy, and we do not see the water cruse, though it is at our side. We do not appreciate our privileges, nor draw nourishment from them. They may all be at hand--the Sabbath with its sacredness, the Bible with its promises, the sanctuary with its lessons, the mercy-seat with its covenant--but not till the Holy Ghost shall bid you arise and eat, will these means avail you aught.

That Spirit is sent out to accompany the means of grace. He bids you arise and eat. He comes to rouse you from your slumbers. He comes to stop your murmurs. He comes to point you to the provisions at your side, and bid you rise and eat. Eat of these means of grace; use them to revive your fainting spirit, to increase your strength. Though you may have used them many a time before, still you are called upon to eat and eat again. The Spirit and the bride say, Come.

We would second the Spirit's voice, and call to you in the wilderness to arise and eat. It becomes you to-day to heed the call. There is reason for the Spirit's rousing you, for you are yet away from home, and the journey is too great for you. Perhaps you may feel no pressing need. Perhaps, like the Tishbite, you have tasted a little, and you would lie down to sleep.

But the prophet knew not what was before him, as the Angel did; and hence he is again aroused with the warning, "The journey is too great for thee."

Christian, you know not what awaits you. You need these ordinances. You need this Lord's table spread before you. You need these means of grace, for you are in the wilderness, and the desert must be crossed. Your strength and patience will be sorely tried, and your provisions will be short. Arise and eat, for you will have no other supply but this. You must take up with a pilgrim's fare. The remainder of life's journey is before you, and it will be too great for you unless you prepare in time.

You may stand aloof from this our table, and despise our humble ministrations as though they were not good enough for you. We do not pretend that our supper is equal to the one above. We can give you but travellers' fare, but such as it is it will sustain you on your journey.

Our entertainment to-day is as simple as the prophet's rude meal which he ate beneath the juniper-tree; but remember, that but for that water cruse and baken cake he would have perished in the lonely solitudes. And we lay as high a claim for the gospel inst.i.tutions to-day. Without them you must faint and die. Underrate them as you will, G.o.d has appointed them to sustain his children in the desert. Your neglect of them will be followed by exhaustion, for "the journey is too great for thee."

We cannot indeed antic.i.p.ate the circ.u.mstantial history of any one of you.

We cannot trace out in the wild desert sands the pathway over which each one of you must wander. No, we cannot discover where one of us will be to-morrow. Our experiences may be far different from each other. We shall each have our peculiar difficulties, and no two of us will travel with the same footstep and the same burden.

But though we cannot tell the future to a single one of you, though we cannot calculate your reckoning at all, still we can a.s.sure you that "the journey is too great for you." We shall all of us need the cruse of water and the cake ere we get through, for we have no abiding place here. There will doubtless be many days when this world will look more desolate than ever, days of temptation and of conflict. The adversary will doubtless hara.s.s your wanderings, and hedge up your way; you must yet fight "the world, the flesh, and the devil."

Again and again will you be obliged to retrace your wayward steps, and water your path with the tears of bitter repentance and regrets. Again and again will the world so bedim your eyesight and bewilder your thoughts that you shall have lost sight of heaven and plunged in its vanities. And the heart-work too is not yet all done. You must yet keep up the warfare with corruption. You must yet keep up the struggle of grace and fight the fight of faith.

"The journey is too great for you." There may be years of conflict yet before you. There may be fiery trials in reserve. Light as may seem the enterprise now, you will find it great enough before you get to heaven.

'Twill seem great when sorrow and disappointment shall gather round us, and when the hours of fierce temptation give way only to the hours of deepest darkness; 'twill seem long when the cross seems ever to stand by the roadside, and when year after year we get no clearer views of heaven, our home.

Great is the journey; and we shall feel it so when onward and onward we travel, and our companions one by one drop at our side, till we are left to tread our way alone. 'Twill be great when the dependencies of life fail, and the calamities of life shall thicken around us. When the hopes of earth shall wither, and the friendships of earth shall vanish; when the past shall appear as vanity, and the heart shall recoil from the future; when fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters, and all the loved ones of our early days, shall have vanished from our sight, and no long familiar voice shall speak to us in the solitudes of earth's wilderness; then, as we stagger on, with our staff trembling in our hand, shall we feel that the journey is too great for us.

You may say that it will be short to some of us; that even now the sandals are loosening and the city is coming nearer. Yes, some of us will not journey long. But short as may be that journey, it is too great for you.

For remember how it winds up with the death-groan, the faintness, the weakness, the sinking, the dimness, the m.u.f.fled farewell. Great journey this through the dark valley and through the wild surges--_too great_ for us. We cannot explore the pathway; 'tis dark and dubious. We have seen mult.i.tudes set foot upon it, and they all turned pale. The pilgrims have not come back to us to tell us of it, but we know enough about it to know that the journey is "too great for us."

Yet, brethren, we are all hurrying thitherward. Are we strong enough? What shall sustain us in the desert? Behold, G.o.d has supplied us with his gifts. Behold, ye who are desponding, ye who are wayworn, ye who are despairing beneath the juniper-tree, the cruse of water is beside you.

Rise and eat, for the journey is too great for you. Oh, who of us will not gladly come?

What should we do without these blessed ordinances and precious privileges? To-day the Master spreads our table in the wilderness. Once more he would refresh our hearts and lend vigor to our graces. He meets us with the tokens of his love. Come, beloved, and meet the Master. Come from your murmurings at the waters of Meribah. Come from your drowsiness and despondency beneath the juniper. Arise and eat, for the wilderness is yet before you. Take the cruse of water and the cake to-day, for it may be long before you have another opportunity. Supplies in the desert are at best precarious; and so uncertain is our pilgrimage, that we know not that we shall meet again.

Have we full strength for the onward advancement? Would not a look at the Master profit us? Would not a friendly seat by the side of our fellow-pilgrims, and a kind look and a mutual, fervent prayer encourage us? Or are we equal to the journey without all this? Beware, my Christian friend, how you neglect the gospel means which are given you. Beware how you turn a cold shoulder to the simple cruse of water which G.o.d sends down to you, for he tells you that the journey is too great for you.

XII.

The Other Side.

LET US Pa.s.s OVER UNTO THE OTHER SIDE. MARK 4:35.

The facts and incidents in the history of our blessed Lord which the Holy Ghost has seen fit to preserve and hand down to us through the evangelists, furnish us materials for instruction and profitable meditation. The gospel is not all didactic; nor need the religious discourse be wholly such. It is well at times to omit the carefully framed propositions of a systematic theology, and dwell upon the simple narratives of the New Testament not merely as naked facts, but as pleasing allegories, or reflections of spiritual things. May we not read this narrative with such a purpose? As we follow the disciples in their night expedition across the sea of Galilee, may we not have suggested to our minds the Christian's course through the voyage of life towards the distant, unseen sh.o.r.e of eternity? Let us carry this idea with us while we study the parts of this simple, but graphic narrative of the evangelist.

1. It was _at the call and command of Christ_ the disciples embarked upon their expedition. "Let us pa.s.s over unto the other side." There is no intimation that they had planned the journey, or had thought of leaving Capernaum before; but they took their departure solely in obedience to the direction of their Master. They acknowledged his authority; they trusted in his wisdom. Their faith and confidence in him prompted them to do his bidding; and without questioning the reasons of his orders, they at once loosed from the harbor and set their sails, outward bound, for the other side.

It is even so with the believer when he forsakes the world of sin and vanity, and sets out on a Christian life. He hears a call from G.o.d, like that which Abraham heard when he left his country and his kinsmen for another land which G.o.d would show him. The invitations and commands of Christ prompt him to give up the world. Were it not for such a call he would live and die in his natural state of sin. No inward promptings of his own; no feelings of dissatisfaction with his present condition; no mere natural longings and aspirations, however deep felt, would move him to an earnest outlook beyond the present vanity, and to a heartfelt separation from the seen and the temporal which is around him. But when the external call of the gospel is attended by the internal call of the Holy Spirit, he feels a quickening power; he hears and obeys the divine command. Faith in the Redeemer leads him to obedience. He quits the world; he tears himself away from its deceitful charms, and consents to follow Christ.

2. I speak of their destination as expressed in the command of the Master.

It was, "_The other side_." They set sail, not for a short excursion along the coast, or an evening trip off from the mainland, and then to return; but across the sea to another country and a different sh.o.r.e. The words of the Master point onward, onward beyond the billows to the far-off land. To "the other side" is the sailing order by which the disciples set their helm and trim their sail; to "the other side" they point while they loose from their moorings at Capernaum, and say good-by to the fishermen left behind upon the beach.

And is there not another side to our existence than the one we are now on?

Is there not some shining sh.o.r.e beyond this one--beyond the billows, beyond the cloud-banks; something, if not discernible by our sense vision, at least discoverable by faith?

_This side_ is familiar enough to us. We have trodden it and explored it; we know its features--a state of sin and disappointment, of temptations and illusions, a thousand vanities and shams; life ofttimes seeming a chaos of contradictions, pleasures glittering, syrens singing, sorrows brooding, hopes decaying.

"_This side_" where we are is a strange side, a dim, dubious sh.o.r.e, where tides ebb and flow we know not how; where the mirage plays upon our vision, and fills the atmosphere with phantoms which seem to us realities; where we seek for happiness in vain, till death removes us from the fitful, toilsome scene.

But is this all? Is there not another side, a different state, a better life to look to? The Christian who has heard the call of Christ has learned of another side than this one, another life besides the present.

The call of Christ to him is to _the other side_. It directs him not to the things seen and temporal, but to the unseen and eternal. It points him far over the sea of life to the distant sh.o.r.e, the other and the better country. This is the Christian's destination. For this he sails when he cuts loose from the world of sense and sin. Faith catches glimpses of its glories; for it is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." For this he lives in expectation; for this he parts with sinful pleasures, and waits with patience till it comes. So long as he hears the Saviour's voice saying, "_To yonder sh.o.r.e_," he can content himself with being a stranger here. Oh it is this "looking for a better country" that sustains him in temptations now. How cheering is the prospect!

When, Christian, you are troubled on every side here, how refreshing the Master's words, To "the other side." Yes; the pious heart often exclaims, Blessed be G.o.d, there is the other side, far different from this side; a future unlike the present; a heavenly land, whose scenery and surroundings are not those of earth. That other side is what you live for, Christian.

Oh forget it not when tempted here; remember it, my brother voyager, when you hear the music along these sh.o.r.es of time, and would steer towards the havens of carnal ease and lie becalmed among the spice islands of worldly indolence and pleasure; remember, when the Saviour called you to a Christian life, he pointed far away and said, To "_the other side_."

3. The time of their departure. "When the even was come, Jesus said unto them, Let us pa.s.s over unto the other side." The din and turmoil of the day were past; shadows thickened; the world was growing dark; the curtain of night was silently overspreading the land and the sea: it was time to embark for the other side. And is not this suggestive of the circ.u.mstances under which the Christian enters upon a Christian life and sets out for heaven?

Oh if the present life had no shadows, we should never look beyond it; if this side was always bright, we should care little for the other. But it is a part of our heavenly Father's discipline, to visit us with trials and disappointments to wean us from this world. Ofttimes the sun of our prosperity goes suddenly down at noon; worldly plans miscarry; sickness preys upon us; friends die, and families are broken up; the world don't seem so bright as it used to be: this side gathers gloom and shadows. Then it is the soul is more open to the call of Christ; then it is, often, that the sinner is brought to forsake the world, and obey the voice of the Master saying, "Pa.s.s over unto the other side." It is at evening, when this world is growing dark, that the believer obeys the command of Christ, tears himself away from his sinful l.u.s.ts with bitter, repenting tears, and exchanging sight for faith, embarks on his voyage to the distant heavenly sh.o.r.e.

It is evening; for although there be no temporal calamities sore pressing you when you become a Christian, it is still a time when the world has lost its sunlight to your soul, and when eternal things have flung their shadows over the heart and made every thing on these sh.o.r.es of time look dim and fading. Then we are ready for Christ. Then, when conscience is aroused, and the overhanging clouds of divine justice darken this side and alarm us, then we set out for heaven, and heed the invitation of the Saviour which beckons us to the other side. It is at such a time the believer enters on a Christian life.

4. We follow him on his voyage to the other side, and notice the important fact that _Christ's presence_ is with his people through all their way.

Standing on the seaside at Capernaum, he sent not the disciples away alone. His word to them was not, "_Go yonder_;" but stepping on board their vessel, he says, "Let _us_ pa.s.s over unto the other side." He himself will share their fortunes; he will go with them; though night be setting in, and dangers hover on the deep, they shall not go alone. No more shall the Christian. "Lo, I am with you always," is the blessed a.s.surance of his Saviour. The presence of Christ is the great source of a Christian life.

This is all the saint can depend upon; this is what the gospel promises to him. Christ is said to dwell in his disciples--to abide with them. His divine influences are their only guarantee of safety. As well might the mariner be far at sea in a night of tempests, without helm or chart or compa.s.s, as the Christian attempt to navigate the troubled waters of life without the Saviour with him.

Better not _attempt_ the voyage than start out alone for the other side.

If you would leave these sh.o.r.es of sin and worldliness at all, see to it, first of all, that Jesus is with you in the ship, and that it is _his_ voice alone you hear, as you set sail, saying, "Let us pa.s.s over unto the other side."

Once more, in the night voyage of the disciples over the sea of Galilee I see shadowed forth the changing phases of a Christian life. As they cast off from Capernaum, the evening breezes gently pressed their sails; the silvery ripples murmured on the sh.o.r.e; their little ship moved smoothly out at sea. The disciples sit in the cool evening air on deck, and watch the stars which, one by one, light up the vault above them as the shadows deepen and the sh.o.r.es grow dim. They have hardly missed their Master. They scarcely noticed that he had retired from their presence. But as the night wore on, alarmed at the dangers which surrounded them, the affrighted disciples look around for their absent Lord; and finding him asleep, they waken him with their cries for help. The Saviour, calmly rising from his pillow, looks out upon the angry elements, and speaks the word of power: "_Peace, be still_." And the mad winds cease their roar, and the wild waves lie down to rest.