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Of
the great danger and folly, of not intending to be as
eminent and exemplary as we can, in the practice of all
Christian virtues.
ALTHOUGH
the goodness of God, and His rich mercies in Christ Jesus,
are a sufficient assurance to us, that He will be merciful
to our unavoidable weakness and infirmities, that is, to
such failings as are the effects of ignorance or surprise;
yet we have no reason to expect the same mercy towards
those sins which we have lived in, through a want of
intention to avoid them.
For
instance; the case of a common swearer, who dies in that
guilt, seems to have no title to the Divine mercy; for
this reason, because he can no more plead any weakness or
infirmity in his excuse, than the man that hid his talent
in the earth could plead his want of strength to keep it
out of the earth.
But now,
if this be right reasoning in the case of a common swearer,
that his sin is not to be reckoned a pardonable frailty,
because he has no weakness to plead in its excuse, why
then do we not carry this way of reasoning to its true
extent? why do not we as much condemn every other error of
life, that has no more weakness to plead in its excuse
than common swearing?
For if
this be so bad a thing, because it might be avoided, if we
did but sincerely intend it, must not then all other
erroneous ways of life be very guilty, if we live in them,
not through weakness and inability, but because we never
sincerely intended to avoid them?
For
instance; you perhaps have made no progress in the most
important Christian virtues, you have scarce gone half way
in humility and charity; now if your failure in these
duties is purely owing to your want of intention of
performing them in any true degree, have you not then as
little to plead for yourself, and are you not as much
without all excuse, as the common swearer?
Why,
therefore, do you not press these things home upon your
conscience? Why do you not think it as dangerous for you
to live in such defects, as are in your power to amend, as
it is dangerous for a common swearer to live in the breach
of that duty, which it is in his power to observe? Is not
negligence, and a want of sincere intention, as blameable
in one case as in another?
You, it
may be, are as far from Christian perfection, as the
common swearer is from keeping the third commandment; are
you not therefore as much condemned by the doctrines of
the Gospel, as the swearer is by the third commandment?
You
perhaps will say, that all people fall short of the
perfection of the Gospel, and therefore you are content
with your failings. But this is saying nothing to the
purpose. For the question is not whether Gospel perfection
can be fully attained, but whether you come as near it as
a sincere intention and careful diligence can carry you.
Whether you are not in a much lower state than you might
be, if you sincerely intended, and carefully laboured, to
advance yourself in all Christian virtues?
If you
are as forward in the Christian life as your best
endeavours can make you, then you may justly hope that
your imperfections will not be laid to your charge: but if
your defects in piety, humility, and charity, are owing to
your negligence, and want of sincere intention to be as
eminent as you can in these virtues, then you leave
yourself as much without excuse as he that lives in the
sin of swearing, through the want of a sincere intention
to depart from it.
The
salvation of our souls is set forth in Scripture as a
thing of difficulty, that requires all our diligence, that
is to be worked out with fear and trembling. [Phil. ii.
12]
We are
told, that "strait is the gate, and narrow is the
way, that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find
it." [Matt. vii. 14] That "many are called, but
few are chosen." [Matt. xxii. 14] And that many will
miss of their salvation, who seem to have taken some pains
to obtain it: as in these words, "Strive to enter in
at the strait gate: for many, I say unto you, will seek to
enter in, and shall not be able." [Luke xiii. 24]
Here our
blessed Lord commands us to strive to enter in, because
many will fail, who only seek to enter. By which we are
plainly taught, that religion is a state of labour and
striving, and that many will fail of their salvation; not
because they took no pains or care about it, but because
they did not take pains and care enough; they only sought,
but did not strive to enter in.
Every
Christian, therefore, should as well examine his life by
these doctrines as by the commandments. For these
doctrines are as plain marks of our condition, as the
commandments are plain marks of our duty.
For if
salvation is only given to those who strive for it, then
it is as reasonable for me to consider whether my course
of life be a course of striving to obtain it, as to
consider whether I am keeping any of the commandments.
If my
religion is only a formal compliance with those modes of
worship that are in fashion where I live; if it costs me
no pains or trouble; if it lays me under no rules and
restraints; if I have no careful thoughts and sober
reflections about it, is it not great weakness to think
that I am striving to enter in at the strait gate?
If I am
seeking everything that can delight my senses, and regale
my appetites; spending my time and fortune in pleasures,
in diversions, and worldly enjoyments; a stranger to
watchings, fastings, prayers, and mortification; how can
it be said that I am working out my salvation with fear
and trembling?
If there
is nothing in my life and conversation that shows me to be
different from Jews and Heathens; if I use the world, and
worldly enjoyments, as the generality of people now do,
and in all ages have done; why should I think that I am
amongst those few who are walking in the narrow way to
Heaven?
And yet
if the way is narrow, if none can walk in it but those
that strive, is it not as necessary for me to consider,
whether the way I am in be narrow enough, or the labour I
take be a sufficient striving, as to consider whether I
sufficiently observe the second or third commandment?
The sum
of this matter is this: From the abovementioned, and many
other passages of Scripture, it seems plain, that our
salvation depends upon the sincerity and perfection of our
endeavours to obtain it.
Weak and
imperfect men shall, notwithstanding their frailties and
defects, be received, as having pleased God, if they have
done their utmost to please Him.
The
rewards of charity, piety, and humility, will be given to
those, whose lives have been a careful labour to exercise
these virtues in as high a degree as they could.
We cannot
offer to God the service of Angels; we cannot obey Him as
man in a state of perfection could; but fallen men can do
their best, and this is the perfection that is required of
us; it is only the perfection of our best endeavours, a
careful labour to be as perfect as we can.
But if we
stop short of this, for aught we know, we stop short of
the mercy of God, and leave ourselves nothing to plead
from the terms of the Gospel. For God has there made no
promises of mercy to the slothful and negligent. His mercy
is only offered to our frail and imperfect, but best
endeavours, to practise all manner of righteousness.
As the
law to Angels is angelical righteousness, as the law to
perfect beings is strict perfection, so the law to our
imperfect natures is, the best obedience that our frail
nature is able to perform.
The
measure of our love to God, seems in justice to be the
measure of our love of every virtue. We are to love and
practise it with all our heart, with all our soul, with
all our mind, and with all our strength. And when we cease
to live with this regard to virtue, we live below our
nature, and, instead of being able to plead our
infirmities, we stand chargeable with negligence.
It is for
this reason that we are exhorted to work out our salvation
with fear and trembling; because unless our heart and
passions are eagerly bent upon the work of our salvation;
unless holy fears animate our endeavours, and keep our
consciences strict and tender about every part of our
duty, constantly examining how we live, and how fit we are
to die; we shall in all probability fall into a state of
negligence, and sit down in such a course of life, as will
never carry us to the rewards of Heaven.
And he
that considers, that a just God can only make such
allowances as are suitable to His justice, that our works
are all to be examined by fire, will find that fear and
trembling are proper tempers for those that are drawing
near so great a trial.
And
indeed there is no probability, that any one should do all
the duty that is expected from him, or make that progress
in piety, which the holiness and justice of God requires
of him, but he that is constantly afraid of falling short
of it.
Now this
is not intended to possess people's minds with a
scrupulous anxiety, and discontent in the service of God,
but to fill them with a just fear of living in sloth and
idleness, and in the neglect of such virtues as they will
want at the day of Judgment. It is to excite them to an
earnest examination of their lives, to such zeal, and
care, and concern after Christian perfection, as they use
in any matter that has gained their heart and affections.
It is only desiring them to be so apprehensive of their
state, so humble in the opinion of themselves, so earnest
after higher degrees of piety, and so fearful of falling
short of happiness, as the great Apostle St. Paul was,
when he thus wrote to the Philippians: "Not as though
I had already attained, either were already perfect: . . .
but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are
behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are
before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high
calling of God in Christ Jesus." And then he adds,
"Let us therefore, as many as are perfect, be thus
minded." [Phil. iii. 12-15]
But now,
if the Apostle thought it necessary for those, who were in
his state of perfection, to be "thus minded,"
that is, thus labouring, pressing, and aspiring after some
degree of holiness, to which they were not then arrived,
surely it is much more necessary for us, who are born in
the dregs of time, and labouring under great
imperfections, to be "thus minded," that is,
thus earnest and striving after such degrees of a holy and
Divine life, as we have not yet attained.
The best
way for any one to know how much he ought to aspire after
holiness, is to consider, not how much will make his
present life easy, but to ask himself, how much he thinks
will make him easy at the hour of death.
Now any
man that dares be so serious, as to put this question to
himself, will be forced to answer, that at death, every
one will wish that he had been as perfect as human nature
can be.
Is not
this therefore sufficient to put us not only upon wishing,
but labouring after all that perfection, which we shall
then lament the want of? Is it not excessive folly to be
content with such a course of piety as we already know
cannot content us, at a time when we shall so want it, as
to have nothing else to comfort us? How can we carry a
severer condemnation against ourselves, than to believe,
that, at the hour of death, we shall want the virtues of
the Saints, and wish that we had been amongst the first
servants of God, and yet take no methods of arriving at
their height of piety, whilst we are alive?
Though
this is an absurdity that we can easily pass over at
present, whilst the health of our bodies, the passions of
our minds, the noise, and hurry, and pleasures, and
business of the world, lead us on with eyes that see not,
and ears that hear not; yet, at death, it will set itself
before us in a dreadful magnitude, it will haunt us like a
dismal ghost, and our conscience will never let us take
our eyes from it.
We see in
worldly matters, what a torment self-condemnation is, and
how hardly a man is able to forgive himself, when he has
brought himself into any calamity or disgrace, purely by
his own folly. The affliction is made doubly tormenting,
because he is forced to charge it all upon himself, as his
own act and deed, against the nature and reason of things,
and contrary to the advice of all his friends.
Now by
this we may in some degree guess how terrible the pain of
that self-condemnation will be, when a man shall find
himself in the miseries of death under the severity of a
self-condemning conscience, charging all his distress upon
his own folly and madness, against the sense and reason of
his own mind, against all the doctrines and precepts of
religion, and contrary to all the instructions, calls, and
warnings, both of God and man.
Penitens
was a busy, notable tradesman, and very prosperous in his
dealings, but died in the thirty-fifth year of his age.
A little
before his death, when the doctors had given him over,
some of his neighbours came one evening to see him, at
which time he spake thus to them:--
I see, my
friends, the tender concern you have for me, by the grief
that appears in your countenances, and I know the thoughts
that you have now about me. You think how melancholy a
case it is, to see so young a man, and in such flourishing
business, delivered up to death. And perhaps, had I
visited any of you in my condition, I should have had the
same thoughts of you.
But now,
my friends, my thoughts are no more like your thoughts
than my condition is like yours.
It is no
trouble to me now to think, that I am to die young, or
before I have raised an estate.
These
things are now sunk into such mere nothings, that I have
no name little enough to call them by. For if in a few
days or hours, I am to leave this carcass to be buried in
the earth, and to find myself either forever happy in the
favour of God, or eternally separated from all light and
peace, can any words sufficiently express the littleness
of everything else?
Is there
any dream like the dream of life, which amuses us with the
neglect and disregard of these things? Is there any folly
like the folly of our manly state, which is too wise and
busy, to be at leisure for these reflections?
When we
consider death as a misery, we only think of it as a
miserable separation from the enjoyments of this life. We
seldom mourn over an old man that dies rich, but we lament
the young, that are taken away in the progress of their
fortune. You yourselves look upon me with pity, not that I
am going unprepared to meet the Judge of quick and dead,
but that I am to leave a prosperous trade in the flower of
my life.
This is
the wisdom of our manly thoughts. And yet what folly of
the silliest children is so great as this?
For what
is there miserable, or dreadful in death, but the
consequences of it? When a man is dead, what does anything
signify to him, but the state he is then in?
Our poor
friend Lepidus died, you know, as he was dressing himself
for a feast: do you think it is now part of his trouble,
that he did not live till that entertainment was over?
Feasts, and business, and pleasures, and enjoyments, seem
great things to us, whilst we think of nothing else; but
as soon as we add death to them, they all sink into an
equal littleness; and the soul that is separated from the
body no more laments the loss of business, than the losing
of a feast.
If I am
now going into the joys of God, could there be any reason
to grieve, that this happened to me before I was forty
years of age? Could it be a sad thing to go to Heaven,
before I had made a few more bargains, or stood a little
longer behind a counter?
And if I
am to go amongst lost spirits, could there be any reason
to be content, that this did not happen to me till I was
old, and full of riches?
If good
Angels were ready to receive my soul, could it be any
grief to me, that I was dying upon a poor bed in a garret?
And if
God has delivered me up to evil spirits, to be dragged by
them to places of torments, could it be any comfort to me,
that they found me upon a bed of state?
When you
are as near death as I am, you will know that all the
different states of life, whether of youth or age, riches
or poverty, greatness or meanness, signify no more to you,
than whether you die in a poor or stately apartment.
The
greatness of those things which follow death makes all
that goes before it sink into nothing.
Now that
judgment is the next thing that I look for, and
everlasting happiness or misery is come so near me, all
the enjoyments and prosperities of life seem as vain and
insignificant, and to have no more to do with my
happiness, than the clothes that I wore before I could
speak.
But, my
friends, how am I surprised that I have not always had
these thoughts? for what is there in the terrors of death,
in the vanities of life, or the necessities of piety, but
what I might have as easily and fully seen in any part of
my life?
What a
strange thing is it, that a little health, or the poor
business of a shop, should keep us so senseless of these
great things, that are coming so fast upon us!
Just as
you came in my chamber, I was thinking with myself, what
numbers of souls there are now in the world, in my
condition at this very time, surprised with a summons to
the other world; some taken from their shops and farms,
others from their sports and pleasures, these at suits of
law, those at gaming tables, some on the road, others at
their own firesides, and all seized at an hour when they
thought nothing of it; frightened at the approach of
death, confounded at the vanity of all their labours,
designs, and projects, astonished at the folly of their
past lives, and not knowing which way to turn their
thoughts, to find any comfort. Their consciences flying in
their faces, bringing all their sins to their remembrance,
tormenting them with deepest convictions of their own
folly, presenting them with the sight of the angry Judge,
the worm that never dies, the fire that is never quenched,
the gates of hell, the powers of darkness, and the bitter
pains of eternal death.
Oh, my
friends! bless God that you are not of this number, that
you have time and strength to employ yourselves in such
works of piety, as may bring you peace at the last.
And take
this along with you, that there is nothing but a life of
great piety, or a death of great stupidity, that can keep
off these apprehensions.
Had I now
a thousand worlds, I would give them all for one year
more, that I might present unto God one year of such
devotion and good works, as I never before so much as
intended.
You,
perhaps, when you consider that I have lived free from
scandal and debauchery, and in the communion of the
Church, wonder to see me so full of remorse and
self-condemnation at the approach of death.
But,
alas! what a poor thing is it, to have lived only free
from murder, theft, and adultery, which is all that I can
say of myself.
You know,
indeed, that I have never been reckoned a sot, but you
are, at the same time, witnesses, and have been frequent
companions of my intemperance, sensuality, and great
indulgence. And if I am now going to a judgment, where
nothing will be rewarded but good works, I may well be
concerned, that though I am no sot, yet I have no
Christian sobriety to plead for me.
It is
true, I have lived in the communion of the Church, and
generally frequented its worship and service on Sundays,
when I was neither too idle, or not otherwise disposed of
by my business and pleasures. But, then, my conformity to
the public worship has been rather a thing of course, than
any real intention of doing that which the service of the
Church supposes: had it not been so, I had been oftener at
Church, more devout when there, and more fearful of ever
neglecting it.
But the
thing that now surprises me above all wonders is this,
that I never had so much as a general intention of living
up to the piety of the Gospel. This never so much as
entered into my head or my heart. I never once in my life
considered whether I was living as the laws of religion
direct, or whether my way of life was such, as would
procure me the mercy of God at this hour.
And can
it be thought that I have kept the Gospel terms of
salvation, without ever so much as intending, in any
serious and deliberate manner, either to know them, or
keep them? Can it be thought that I have pleased God with
such a life as He requires, though I have lived without
ever considering what He requires, or how much I have
performed? How easy a thing would salvation be, if it
could fall into my careless hands, who have never had so
much serious thought about it, as about any one common
bargain that I have made?
In the
business of life I have used prudence and reflection. I
have done everything by rules and methods. I have been
glad to converse with men of experience and judgment, to
find out the reasons why some fail and others succeed in
any business. I have taken no step in trade but with great
care and caution, considering every advantage or danger
that attended it. I have always had my eye upon the main
end of business, and have studied all the ways and means
of being a gainer by all that I undertook.
But what
is the reason that I have brought none of these tempers to
religion? What is the reason that I, who have so often
talked of the necessity of rules, and methods, and
diligence, in worldly business, have all this while never
once thought of any rules, or methods, or managements, to
carry me on in a life of piety?
Do you
think anything can astonish and confound a dying man like
this? What pain do you think a man must feel, when his
conscience lays all this folly to his charge, when it
shall show him how regular, exact, and wise he has been in
small matters, that are passed away like a dream, and how
stupid and senseless he has lived, without any reflection,
without any rules, in things of such eternal moment, as no
heart can sufficiently conceive them?
Had I
only my frailties and imperfections to lament at this
time, I should lie here humbly trusting in the mercies of
God. But, alas! how can I call a general disregard, and a
thorough neglect of all religious improvement, a frailty
or imperfection, when it was as much in my power to have
been exact, and careful, and diligent in a course of
piety, as in the business of my trade?
I could
have called in as many helps, have practised as many
rules, and been taught as many certain methods of holy
living, as of thriving in my shop, had I but so intended,
and desired it.
Oh, my
friends! a careless life, unconcerned and unattentive to
the duties of religion, is so without all excuse, so
unworthy of the mercy of God, such a shame to the sense
and reason of our minds, that I can hardly conceive a
greater punishment, than for a man to be thrown into the
state that I am in, to reflect upon it.
Penitens
was here going on, but had his mouth stopped by a
convulsion, which never suffered him to speak any more. He
lay convulsed about twelve hours, and then gave up the
ghost.
Now if
every reader would imagine this Penitens to have been some
particular acquaintance or relation of his, and fancy that
he saw and heard all that is here described; that he stood
by his bedside when his poor friend lay in such distress
and agony, lamenting the folly of his past life, it would,
in all probability, teach him such wisdom as never entered
into his heart before. If to this he should consider how
often he himself might have been surprised in the same
state of negligence, and made an example to the rest of
the world, this double reflection, both upon the distress
of his friend, and the goodness of that God, who had
preserved him from it, would in all likelihood soften his
heart into holy tempers, and make him turn the remainder
of his life into a regular course of piety.
This
therefore being so useful a meditation, I shall here leave
the reader, as I hope, seriously engaged in it.
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