Part 16

As the two brothers were different in their age, so were they in their dispositions. The elder son was sober, industrious, and found in the care of the flocks and the quiet enjoyments of rural life enough to occupy and interest him. The father could put confidence in him, could go away from home and leave all his business to his care, sure that it would be completed as if he himself were present. But though sober, industrious, and trustworthy, and held by the restraints of his education, yet he was not of an affectionate and generous nature, but penurious and severe in his temper, and much more feared and respected than beloved by his servants and his equals. But the younger son was the very opposite. He was full of life and energy, but fickle and restless, and directed his energies to no good purpose. He cared nothing for business nor for cattle. He would not remain at home, but wandered from tent to tent and from vineyard to vineyard and into the distant city; the farm life was dull and distasteful to him. His father could put no trust in him. If so be that his father went from home and left him in charge of the flocks and the servants, he was sure to find on his return that the flocks had strayed, that some of them had been lost or devoured by the wolves, or to find his son frolicking with the servants instead of directing their labor. Thus while he could trust the elder son with everything, he could trust the younger with nothing, and must always watch him with constant anxiety.

Yet, with all his faults, the younger son was generous and affectionate, keen to perceive and understand, and of great determination to accomplish when he was so minded. The father often said to himself: “Oh, that my son would only do well! How much comfort and honor would he be to me! And how much good he might accomplish!” Indeed, it seemed ofttimes that the boy could not help his wrong-doing; his wild, frolicsome, headstrong nature did so hurry him along. Afterward he would be sorry and even shed tears, and then go straightway and do the same again. Yet was the heart of the father more after this wild slip of a boy than after the other.

There is in the heart of the parent a principle, not possible perhaps to be explained, which leads him to be more attached to and indulgent of the youngest child. There is something also in the very anxiety that the follies of the disobedient child occasion which calls out and fosters the affections of the parent more strongly for him than for the one who never gives that cause for uneasiness. The father also felt that the boy, though carried away by the impulses of his own imaginations and the romance of his nature and spirit, was after all of deeper affections and nobler impulses and greater capacity than the other son, and had in him all the raw material of a noble, useful character, could this impetuous spirit and these burning impulses be subdued, not destroyed, and these energies wisely directed. Many a bitter tear he shed, and many a prayer he put up to God for this child of his love and his old age.

Matters went on in this way from bad to worse, the son becoming more and more discontented and uneasy. He listened to the tales of travellers who had been to distant lands and over the sea till his blood boiled, and he said to himself: “Shall I never see anything but these same hills and valleys? Shall I never hear any discourse but about sheep and goats and fleeces of wool and cheese and barley? Shall I never see anything of the great world of which I hear so much? Must I stay here and milk goats when there is so much pleasure in the world to be enjoyed?” But now the time draws near when he shall be of age and his own master to go where he pleases. How he has been counting the days and reckoning up the time when he shall escape the restraints of home! No sooner has the time arrived than he goes to his father and says to him, “Father, give me so much of your property as belongs to me, my share.” He does not ask it as a gift, but as a debt which the father was under obligations to pay him. What right had he to demand anything of the father? Had it been his elder brother who made this demand, who for many years after he was of age had labored hard and given the proceeds of his labor into the common stock, there would have been some justice in the request. But this man had never done anything, had spent all he could get, had tried his father to the utmost, and now had the assurance to come to his father and say: “Such a part of the property belongs to me. I want it, that I may go where I like and spend it as I wish.” He had been so long in the habit of receiving from his father without effort of his own that he had come to consider it as a matter of right.

The father was pained by this ungrateful conduct, and the prodigal in his own heart felt ashamed of himself; in the bottom of his heart he loved and respected his father, but the love of pleasure, his lofty imaginations of the enjoyments to be found in the world of which he had read, heard, and dreamed so much, overpowered all other feelings. Could he only escape from the restraints of home and obtain money and means to gratify his desires, he should be happy. The father without any reproach divides his living and gives to him his share. He has never seen so much money before in his life. He is mad with joy. He thinks it will never be exhausted. He can hardly stop to bid good-by to his family, to his father whose heart aches to see this son of his love so glad to leave him. He takes his journey into a far country, just as far from home as he can get, that his friends may not be able to know what he is doing or to trouble him with advice. He’s had advice enough. He’s had enough of home. He’s going to try the world. Now he gives loose rein to all his lusts. He is soon surrounded by a circle of generous, jovial companions who would die for him; who every day pledge him health and happiness in the social glass; who, so far from troubling him with advice, tell him he is a noble-hearted, princely fellow, and that everything he says and does is just right. How much better they are than his father’s old, stupid, hard-working servants, or than his sober brother who thought only of sheep and begrudged him every cent, or than his father who was always telling him about the temptations of life! These noble, large-hearted fellows tell him money is made to spend and life is made to enjoy.

While he is thus going onward in the pursuit of pleasure, there comes a famine in the land. The prices of food rise to a fearful extent. His money is exhausted, and he is amazed to find that his friends so kind begin to cool in their affections just in proportion as his means diminish. He finds that, so far from dying for him, their intention is to live upon him till he has nothing left and then reproach him for his extravagance. The friend who begged him to make his house his home, just as though he were in his own father’s house, intimates that times are very hard and every one must look out for himself. Hunger succeeds and rags. He who never had a serious thought before is serious enough now. He who never bestowed a thought upon food or raiment must now find food or perish. In his necessity he resorts to the house of a farmer and with humble tone begs work. He who demanded of his father the property he had never earned a dollar of begs for the meanest employment that may keep him from starving! The farmer tells him that he may go into his fields and feed swine and eat a morsel with the servants in the kitchen. But the servants’ fare is scanty, just sufficient to preserve life. In the morning after taking his morsel, he goes with a heavy heart to his work. What a contrast! He thought his home lonesome; but where and what is he now? All around him the land is scorched, the streams are dry, the trees leafless. He thought it hard to feed cattle; he must now feed hogs and beg for the privilege. Corn is so scarce that the swine can have only the husks, and he is so hungry that he would fain fill himself with the husks that the swine eat and no man gives unto him. Not one of all his former friends upon whom he has spent so much will give him a crust.

He now comes to himself; for the first time in his life he begins to think. He thinks of his kind old father, of his home where there is plenty. He says, “How many servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!” He says, “Shall I go home?” Pride whispers: “Go home? How can I look upon my father’s face, on my brother who was always steady and industrious, and the old neighbors? My very looks will tell what I am, and where I have been, and what I have been doing. No, I won’t go home. I can’t go home. I will starve to death first.” But it is much easier to talk about starving than it is to starve. Hunger and poverty are hard masters. Long is the struggle, terrible. At length he decides. “I will go while I have strength enough left to get there. ’I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’” And before his resolution has time to cool, he sets out on his journey.

How truly and strikingly does this illustrate the condition of one who wanders from God, and breaks the commands and deserts the house of his Father in heaven. A young man has grown up the inmate of a Christian family, but God has created him. His abilities of body and mind are from God. The property which he acquires, the ability to obtain it, and the opportunity and the time are God’s ability, God’s property, God’s time. God declares that by using these in his service, he shall be happy in life, and in eternity receive the crown of glory. But these commands are not agreeable to him any more than the commands of the father were to the prodigal. He does not feel that his abilities and happiness are the gift of God, that he is under any obligation to his Father in heaven. In the flush of youth and health and hot blood, he feels that his strength is the strength of stones and his flesh brass. He says to his heavenly, as the prodigal to his earthly, Father, “Give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.” He feels that they are his own to use as he pleases, and thus he means to do; though like the prodigal all the return he has ever made to God is to sin against Him. He loves not to think of God and eternity and Christ and sin. So, like the son in the parable, he goes into a far country.

It is not literal space that is here meant; it is the distance of thought and feeling and affections and obedience. A man need not go out of his country to get far from God. At home, in the practice of all the outward duties of morality, regular in the attendance upon the sanctuary, he may yet live as far from God, as unwilling to submit to His commands, as though living in the most disorderly manner and in open sin. But whether on the ocean and in foreign lands he lives in sin and spends his substance in riotous living and looks everywhere among all forbidden pleasures for happiness, or on the land conceals a proud heart under a correct life, the result is that he is wretched, finds no peace. But now the Spirit of God touches his heart, leads him to reflect upon his true condition. He comes to himself. “I have broken the laws. I have grieved thy spirit. I deserve not the least of thy mercies. Do with me what seemeth good in thy sight.” But then the thought arises,--and it is a bitter one,--”How can I go into the presence of that pure and holy God? I, so vile a sinner, who have blasphemed His name! Can such a sin be forgiven?”

Let us now consider the reception the son meets with. It is noontide, the time of burning heat. The cattle have sought the groves and the cool places of the hills, or are standing in the running streams beneath the tall reeds of the jungles. The goats seek the clefts of the rocks. In his tent door, beneath the drooping branches of a sycamore that screen it from the sun, sits an aged patriarch. On his face is that submissive look that neither tongue nor pen can describe, and that tells of high and holy communion with God. All around is peace inviting to repose. The faint breath of the dying breeze is gently rustling the leaves mingling with the hum of bees and the low murmur of a distant brook. The servants are sleeping in the shadow. But the old patriarch slumbers not with his slumbering servants. On his meek face is a troubled look, and now and then a silent tear steals down his cheek and falls upon his clasped hands. He is thinking of his absent, dearly loved, wayward child! From the past he argues disastrously of the future. If so headstrong and reckless under the mild restraint of home, what will become of him when all check is removed? Where is he, on sea or on land, this child of many prayers, many counsels, and bitter anxieties? Is he living in riot and folly, or is he already in suffering and distress, having not where to lay his head? Has he remembered any of the words of affectionate counsel that have been spoken to him? Do his thoughts ever turn toward his home and the friends of his youth?

While the good father is thus sitting in his tent door praying for and thinking of his son, he sees a traveller far off upon the plains, so far that he just discerns him. He thinks, What if that should be my son? So he steps out from the tent door and he looks long and eagerly, for the traveller comes slowly. But as he approaches, the father sees he is lame, footsore, and ragged, and his heart tells him: “This is just the condition in which I might expect my son to come. Ah, yes, that is he.” And instantly the father runs to meet him.

But what are the feelings of the prodigal as he draws near his native country and the old familiar features of the landscape strike his eye, and he sees in the distance his father’s tent and the old trees under whose shadows he played when a boy? How does he feel? He does not feel one-half the resolution he did when he set out. His hope which at first sustained him begins to waver. He does not feel so much confidence now as he did when he was farther off. He begins to think of his rags, and the appearance he makes. He goes into the thicket and washes his face in the brook and sleeks up his rags, and tries to make himself look decent and respectable to meet his father. But it is no use. Wherever he touches them they tear and finally fall off altogether, they are so rotten. At length he gives up in despair and says: “Well, I must go as I am, miserable wretch. I can’t make myself any better; the more I try the worse I look. There’s nothing to make decency out of. Oh! what will my father say to me, miserable? God help me!”

While he is thus talking and going along, he sees his father in the tent door. “Oh,” he says, “there is my father now!” Then he stops right short in the road and looks down upon the ground, and is of a good mind to turn back and run away. But while he is hesitating, his father comes running and falls right on his neck and kisses him. And when he feels his old father’s arms embracing him, his lips on his cheeks, and his tears on his neck,--oh, that is the worst of all. Then his heart is like to break with sorrow. He did not expect such treatment as this. If his father had only reproached him and said, “You vile, wicked boy, is this what you have come to?” he could bear that better. But this kindness and love,--it quite breaks his heart. Then as soon as he can find voice for tears, he slips out of his father’s arms and falls down on his knees and says: “’Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’ Don’t call me son; it breaks my heart. Make me thy servant, thy slave. Thou didst give me a goodly fortune which I never earned a dollar of. I have spent it all in folly, wasted thy substance, and disgraced thy name in foreign lands wherever I have been. I come here in wretchedness and rags to disgrace thee still more among the neighbors that know thee and thy goodness. Now, Father, let me be thy servant and serve thee, that I may earn thee something to atone for spending thy property and to show that I am really sorry.” But the father will hear nothing of all this, and while he is speaking, cuts him short, saying to the servants who stand wondering, “Bring forth the best robe; take off his rags; wash his sores; put a ring on his hands, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”

Thus it is with the returning and repentant sinner. When he is far from God and is first drawn by the Spirit and assured by revelations of His mercy, he with considerable courage begins to seek and pray. But as he comes nearer and the light from the Excellent Glory grows stronger, and he sees more of his sins, he begins to doubt and to falter. But when God sees him thus afar off, sees a little love in his heart, He comes to meet him. He puts the robe of Christ upon him and gives to him the signet ring.

My dear friends who are out of Christ, you are away from home. You are perishing. You have no food for your souls. You will die and be lost. Why sit here and perish in a foreign land? Why feed on husks when you may have the choicest of the wheat? There is bread enough in your father’s house. Many have gone there; more are on the road; others are coming. Won’t you join the goodly company? Be resolute. Say, “I will.” Be resolute as in the emergencies of life and business; as when the lee shore is on one side and the gale on the other, and the seaman presses the canvas on the cracking spars and the straining rigging, and the ship must carry it or be dashed upon the breakers; be resolute as when one sees his friend perishing in the water and says, “I will save him or die with him.”

My dear hearers, won’t you say: “I will go. Nothing shall keep me back from my Saviour. Sins nor fears nor devils shall not stop me. I will try if I die. I know that God is merciful.”

WRESTING THE SCRIPTURES

The Second Epistle of Peter, Chapter III, part of 16th verse. “_In which are some things hard to be understood, which they that are unlearned and unstable wrest, as they do also the other Scriptures, unto their own destruction._”

In speaking from this text I might dilate upon the etymology of the words “unlearned” and “unstable.” I might go on to observe that we must take the Bible as a whole and be taught of the Spirit in order to practice its plain truths and fathom its more difficult ones; that as in the schools of human science the elementary text-books are simple while those designed for the advanced classes are more abstruse, thus the Bible contains many things which are now far beyond the reach of our minds, but to the comprehension of which we shall clamber up in eternity; that in the Bible, the book of time and eternity, the two volumes are bound in one. Here we only read the preface and the introduction; in the hereafter we shall peruse the whole of the book.

But as these themes are frequently discussed with more of learning than I can presume to bring to the task, I shall pursue a less beaten path and content myself with observing that to “wrest” a thing signifies to wrench or twist it from its true position; the very word implies violence. Thus to wrest a truth of Scripture signifies to detach it from the other truths of the system, to make it bear a false meaning, or to rob it of all meaning. A truth of Scripture thus wrested is no longer a truth, and is, therefore, of no avail to the man who has wrested it. It can do him no good; he can no more get to heaven with it than a man who should tear a plank or a breast-hook from a ship could cross the Atlantic upon it. But as there are capillary veins and nerves in the bodily organization which discharge important though minute functions, and becoming diseased affect larger vessels and tissues, the consequence of which is sickness, and the result death, so there are methods of wresting the Scriptures less violent but not less fatal in their consequences. So great, my friends, is the evil bias of our nature and so deceitful is the human heart that we are prone to deceive ourselves, imagining that we are doing the will of God while we are doing our own will, obeying while we are wresting the Scriptures. This principle, following the example of Jesus of Nazareth, I will illustrate by a parable.

In that never-to-be-forgotten year when the Pilgrim Fathers of New England rose up from their knees beneath the cliffs of Holland and embarked, there dwelt, where Derwent-Water pours its swift current into the black gorges of a lonely tarn, the descendant of a house, rich in ancestral memories and renowned in arms. Often had these massive walls rung to the battle clarion and its floors echoed to the tread of mail-clad men. But their descendant, though inheriting all the lofty heroism of his race, is, with a heart subdued by grace, a man of scholarly tastes, of peace, and of God.

Amid the family circle where are the mother that reared, the wife that cherishes him, and the children who climb his knees, he lives, labors, and prays. “Surely,” said some looker at the outward appearance, “this man does not serve God for naught. Has not God made a hedge about him and all that he has? He would have his good things in both lives. Is he willing to sacrifice anything? Would he do anything with the Cross of Christ other than build it into the masonry of his castles or inscribe it upon the banner folds of his vassals?” Let us see.

He enters his library, a room of antique mould; the roof groined and blazoned reflects a thousand hues of soft light from lamps of fretted gold. The thickly carpeted floor returns no echo to the footfall. View him as he stands beneath that mellow light: The face is the face of a prophet. The pure white brow, which no hardship has bronzed and around which the locks of early manhood are clustering, is as radiant with goodness as heaven’s own light. The eyes suffused, not dimmed, by that mist which is the forerunner of tears, are turned toward heaven, while from their calm depths, pure as those through which wanders the light of stars, beam glances of gentle affection, a humility not assumed but ingrained like the summer flush upon the cheek of a ripened grape. The strong, firm lips are slightly parted with an expression of purpose and action; motionless they seem to utter, “Father, what wilt Thou have me to do?”