Many young people think that happiness and joy depend upon the number of dances they are able to attend, or upon exterior circumstances. It is not their fault that they are neither happy nor glad. It is due to the environment, living conditions, to those with whom they associate. And while all this may be of importance it is, profoundly seen, a delusion, nevertheless. It is true, also, in the case of the young man and the young woman that their happiness essentially depends upon their hidden life. If that is a life of impure thoughts, of sinful cravings—then happiness will be meagre, no matter how favorable the environment may be. There will be no calm and deep-seated joy, no real happiness. If, on the other hand, that hidden life means a life of pure thoughts and noble ambition, a life in God, then it will mean happiness even though the environment may be unfavorable.
It is a law in the life of mankind that happiness depends upon the manner in which the hidden life is lived. By creating this law, God has given rich and poor an equal chance of happiness, and has shown Himself as the friend of the poor.
King Charles IX of France once asked the Italian poet, Tasso: "Who, think you, is the happiest?"
Without a moment of hesitation, the poet answered:
"God."
"Yes, yes, very well," the king said, "but then next to God?"
"The one who resembles Him most," was the answer.
The first thought is that of the infinite worth of the soul.
In one scale of the balance Jesus places all the world with its gold and gems, its art and science, its limitless values of woods and prairie soil—and in the other, a human soul. And then He says: Behold all this splendor! Look at it all, thou yearning child of man! It is not equal to the worth of your soul.
Everything great and beautiful in life originates in the human soul. Through that, all noble thoughts and great ideas have come into being. Every work of art was formed in a human soul before it was painted upon the canvas, chiseled in marble, or written in a book. It is the stamp of the human soul that lends value to the work.
Revere that mark of the soul wherever you recognize it! But have reverence, above all, for the soul itself. That has the worth of infinity. To "lose your soul" is to suffer everlasting damage which cannot be repaired or substituted by values of the world.
The other thought is that about exchange for your soul.
Wherever that precious soul is demanded of you, you can give nothing else in exchange. There is nothing in the whole, wide world that has value enough as exchange for a human soul. Neither is there anything whose value can equal that of the mark of your soul upon your work.
If you owe your neighbor ten bushels of wheat, you may pay him back by giving him twenty bushels of corn or cash in exchange, and he will realize that he is paid in full. But this cannot be done where rests upon you the giving of your soul.
This first of all you must consider in your relation to God who gave you your soul. He will demand it from you when your earthly life has ended. If your soul then is seen to have suffered corruption, it is not fit to enter into eternal life, and you have nothing else to give God in its place. It avails you nothing that you say: "O, Lord, I know that I have been so occupied with worldly things that I have not taken care of my soul, as I should have done. But, in this way I have made $10,000 which I now donate to missionary work."—My dear, that cannot compensate for the wrong that has been inflicted upon your soul.
David understood this. Therefore he said to God: "For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it: thou delightest not in burnt offering." But God delights in a prayer like this: "Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin!" There is a human soul in this prayer—it is true that it is a suffering soul—but it is there.
Thus God demands that your soul be in your prayer, your praise, and your worship, and there is nothing else that can take its place.
The worship of the Pharisee was perfect, from the point of form. Everything was done according to rules and regulations. But it was soulless. Therefore, Jesus condemns it. But where He hears the prayer or sees the tears of repentant sinners, He stands still. There he stoops, and in their wailing and stammering worship He beholds a human soul that has suffered wrongs—one, perhaps, which is deeply tainted. But the soul is there, and it has worth to Him. He can heal all the wounds of the soul. And where the wounds of the soul are being healed, worship takes place. But, then, the human soul must take part.
This is true, also, in worldly things. Where your soul is demanded of you, you can give nothing else in barter for it.
You may give your wife food and shelter, dresses and footwear, but that is not enough. She has a right to your soul. Golden rings and splendid dresses cannot take its place. But if you do give her your soul—in smiling joy or in a burst of weeping—she will cling unto you with everlasting rejoicing in her heart. In this devotion she will recognize infinite worth.
Or your children! You may give them a good education, may even leave them a substantial legacy. But what God above all else demands of you, is that you give them your soul—a father's soul and a mother's soul, which they can learn to honor and to love. To give them a substantial legacy as an equivalent to this spiritual partnership is to give them stones where bread is wanted.
Remember, then, your soul's infinite worth—remember that wherever it be demanded of you, in your relations to God or men: You can give nothing in its place.
There is nothing in this world which is valuable enough to take the place of the human soul.
No one sees it, thinks the burglar when in the hours of the night he breaks into a house. It is hidden by darkness.
No one sees it, think the adulterer and the adulteress when they satisfy their sinful lust. It is hidden to others. It is their secret.
No one sees it, and no one will know about it, the young man thinks when, covered by darkness, he sneaks into the saloon.
Yes, God sees it!—Yes, God! But, to be sure, He doesn't tell the neighbors about it the next morning. No, to be sure! But, nevertheless, it will be brought forward in the light of the day—all these secrets of darkness.
If that consciousness could but be vivid and strong within us—how many criminals would then keep away from the paths of evil!
And how many secrets of darkness would be revealed to God through repentant confessions—and be forgiven instead of concealed in the innermost chambers of the heart like a guilty secret—a guilty secret only to be covered by a new transgression.
"The Lord discovereth deep things out of the darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death," says Job (12, 22).
When Judas had agreed to betray Jesus, he concealed that evil secret in the innermost chamber of his heart. But Jesus saw it in there. He saw that this secret of darkness would push Judas into the darkness without—down to despair—to perdition.
Therefore Jesus made an attempt to bring out that secret from the darkness when they sat together at the Easter meal. That is my understanding of Jesus' pointing out Judas as the traitor. It is as though he would say to him: O, listen, Judas, let us bring that dark secret out into the light so that it may be forgiven! But Judas arose and went away. He wanted to keep the evil secret to himself.
Happy he or she who asks Jesus to bring forth the evil secrets from the heart so that they may be repented and forgiven—so that their power may be crushed! Then, on the great day they shall be revealed as having been repented of and forgiven—to the glory of the Lord who has released us from the fetters of the evil secrets.
But it is not only the evil secrets that are to be revealed in the light of the day. All secrets are to be revealed.
Does man possess other secrets than those of the darkness? Will there not be very little to bring forth in the way of good secrets from the recesses of the heart?
No, thank God, there will be thousands of them.
All those loving thoughts which you conceived in secret, and which you never found a chance to express—they shall be revealed on that great day.
All the heavy sighs and all the burning prayers which have issued forth from the depths of the heart in secret, shall be made known in the light. And they are countless. Generation after generation has witnessed parents praying for their children—O, could we but realize a small part of all that which has been fought for and prayed for in secret! Then we would be surprised to know that someone had thought so lovingly, had prayed so fervently, and struggled so earnestly for our sake—in secret.
All these good and pure secrets shall be revealed on the great day.
How radiantly they will testify that the human heart has not been merely the battlefield of the secrets of darkness, as some seem to believe.
And together with all the evil secrets, repented of and forgiven, they shall glorify our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ who endowed us with the gift of wanting to think lovingly, pray fervently, and struggle earnestly in secret.
Five little girls stood in a garden telling each other how dearly each one of them loved her mother. The words became more and more emphatic until finally Bertha—the eldest of them—poking her nose upward, said decisively: "I love my mamma so much that I could die for her sake." And thus everyone was brought to silence.
But on a bench a little farther away in the garden Bertha's aunt sat sewing; she overheard it all, and then said: "It is strange that a little girl who loves her mother so much that she would be willing to die for her, does not love her enough to wash dishes for her. I heard this noon, Bertha, that you didn't want to do the dishes for your mamma!"
It is strange, indeed!
"My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth."
The young man says to his bride: "I love you, darling, so much that I could carry you on my hands all through life!"—A year after the wedding it may happen that he cannot carry up a bucket of coal from the basement for her.
That's strange, too.
The young woman says to her fiancé: "I love you so much that I could die for you!"—But if it is a question of that new Easter bonnet, she cannot save a dollar out of regard for her husband's pocketbook: She doesn't love him that much.
You do not love each other enough to sacrifice for each other's sake—or to be a bit patient with each other—or to cut down a little your own personal demands out of regard for each other. Therefore we have so many divorces.
"My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth."
Charles Dickens tells in one of his books of two sisters who are discussing how intently they wish to do something really great and good. Under the petty circumstances at home they couldn't get the chance. But if they might be sent out as missionaries among the heathens—O, how they would toil just to help those poor people! It didn't matter that perhaps they would have to suffer the pangs of hunger and persecution—if they only could show people their love.
Just then their old grandmother who was sick abed in the next room, said: "O, girls, won't one of you come and scratch my back?"
"You can do that," the one said. "No, you'd better do it," said the other. "It's always up to me—you might do it once in a while!"
That was the end of the glory—and of the love. On distant shores; under other circumstances they would do deeds of love. But in that everyday life where God had placed them, it wasn't quite as easy as all that to show their love.
We can all catch ourselves in similar shortcomings. We would like to be charitable on a grand scale if we were elsewhere or differently situated; but in everyday life—it is so prosaic just to help an old mother, or a grandfather, or some sick and poor person. And yet it is that which submits us to the crucial test.
"My little children, let us love not in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth."
The woman is a sinner, a former prostitute with whom Simeon is disgusted; yes, he sees her, all right! He knows her!
It is as when I ask someone: Do you know the ocean? and he then answers: I should say so! I have been standing in the downs watching the waves; I have seen them soaring to the height of houses while the wind whipped their foam into my eyes. Yes, I have seen the ocean—I know it, all right!
Then I answer: Pardon me, my dear—but if that is all you have seen, you do not know the ocean. You have not seen it while it lay calm and glittering and smooth like a mirror in the sunshine, nor have you noticed it when its surface was all alive with ripples, and when it roared with that hollow sound that betrays the presence of violent undertows far beneath the surface.
Thus with Simeon. That which he had seen and heard of this woman, had been brought to him, like the wind-swept foam of the sea, in the storm of evil tongues, and then he says: I should think I know her, indeed! I know to what kind she belongs. I see her—a low-down, vulgar and lewd woman!
But the undertow in the depth of her soul he had not seen; the heaving sighs from within he had not heard. He did not know how often she had been tossing restlessly upon her couch in moaning and anguish, nor how firmly she had been clutched by the wound-inflicting bonds of vice, nor how strongly she had tugged at them in order that she might set herself free.
And that was not the only thing Simeon did not see. The wind-swept foam had veiled his eye so he could not see what was really good in her at that moment despite her appearance stamped with sin. There were bitter tears of repentance. There was warmth of heart. There was love for Jesus.
Seest thou this woman? Seest thou this man?
How do you look at the people among whom you live? Do you notice only the uncouth exterior? Do you listen only to that which is carried to you by the wind of the evil tongues? Or do you listen to the undertow in the depths of the heart, to the heaving sighs, the hollow roaring from within?
The famous Italian sculptor, Michelangelo, once stood before a large coarsely chiseled slab of stone which he surveyed carefully, and with increasing pleasure, from all angles. "There is nothing extraordinary about this stone," a friend remarked, "what peculiarity do you notice?"
"What do I notice?" Michelangelo answered, "I see an angel within this stone, and I must release it."
It may be that our Lord Jesus did not exactly see an angel within this woman—nor does He see one in you and in me—but beneath the rough surface He saw a human soul created in the image of His Heavenly Father and after His likeness, and He said: I will release it!
By looking at the undertow in the depths of the soul and by listening to the heaving sighs from within, you will be enabled to look at your fellow-beings with ever-increasing interest and—delight!
Recently a learned professor proclaimed from his speaker's chair that no single individual, no organization of any kind, could rid the world of the devil, but Time would—Time would most certainly get him away. And the assemblage applauded enthusiastically from out the joy of their hearts. Most likely they did not stop to think at that moment that Time would undo them long before it could ever undo the devil. That may, however, be excused, for learned people often are somewhat thoughtless—and all these were scholars.
Or was the charity of the auditors so far-seeing that it rejoiced in behalf of generations yet unborn? Well, who knows—for that kind of people also possess a heart.
Be that as it may.
But, concerning the devil—whether a devil actually exists or merely is a creature of imagination; whether he is a really dangerous foe or simply a phantom from the days of yore—I must try to make clear to myself, and you must do likewise.
It doesn't appear to be so difficult, after all, when the matter is approached without any frills and furbelows. I look at it this way: I have been baptized to renounce the devil, all his works and all his ways. That was told me at the moment of my baptism. I affirmed it in order to be incorporated into the Kingdom of God. Jesus Christ demands of me that I renounce the devil if I am to be His disciple. If, then, no devil existed, He who is Himself the Truth and the Lord of the Kingdom of Truth, at the outset must expect of me that I affirm a lie—He whose own lips never knew untruth and deceit, would ask that I in order to become a part of His Kingdom, renounce a devil who does not exist: That would not only be senseless: It is impossible! When my Lord and Saviour tells me to renounce the devil, then I do believe a devil exists, and that my own welfare now and hereafter makes it necessary that I keep away from him.
In this matter, the word of my Lord sufficeth for me!
It is my faith in this which relieves me of many of those speculative difficulties which entangle so many others. I must choose between the word of my Lord and the speculative mind of man. To me the choice offers no difficulties at all. I choose the word of my Lord—no matter whether or not the scornful laughter sounds derisively from the other side. And let me say it once more: The word of my Lord sufficeth.
When, then, I meet some of those people who claim there is no devil; that all talk about the devil is a relic of ancient superstition, I simply say: You must excuse me, but in this matter I abide by the word of the Lord. I cannot ignore His word and accept yours, and, furthermore, I have no reason whatever for doing so; I have never yet found that I could not depend upon His word.
And if I then consider the ways of the world, as they are—then I most certainly am not tempted to abandon the covenant of my baptism. The works of the devil are apparent to all: Murder, adultery, theft, robbery, fraud, deceit, drunkenness, etc. Many may say that these are the doings of evil people, but if we look a little closer at these evil people we will find that back of it all is one whose thralls these poor creatures are.
If I try to look into the spiritual anguish of these pitiful individuals, I am not tempted to give up my belief in the devil. To be sure, I do not behold him physically, but I see his works. To me it seems to be as when I see a building is being erected. I ask: Who is building this place? I am told: It is Mr. Smith who builds this place, and we are his laborers. I do not see Mr. Smith himself, but I notice that his work goes on, and I do not doubt that he exists. I see his laborers working, some sing and joke while others are sullen and indifferent just because it happens that they have entered into an agreement which for the time being makes them realize their obligations to Mr. Smith. If the latter could only find a way to wriggle out of that relationship, they would feel unspeakably relieved to do so.
Thus I see the works of the devil in the life of man, and by seeing them I find no reason to doubt his existence. The evil people are his laborers. They work in order to complete his job—some singing and joking, others under compulsion. It is clear that especially the latter are the slaves of the devil. By looking into the spiritual life of these miserable ones I find confirmation of the word of my Lord that there is a devil that must needs be renounced if we are to live contentedly. It is from him our generation needs relief, and not from all that ancient gossip about him.
I said a little while ago that the word of the Lord sufficeth for me in this matter, and that is true. It does not correspond with the theories of the wiseacres, but with Life itself. From the learned infidels the cry is sounded: It isn't true. But from the depths of real human life we hear the sigh: We are sorely troubled by the devil!
The ambulances were sent out with help for those who fell in the fight. Where moans were heard, they went, raised the wounded limb a trifle, asked sympathetic questions and bandaged the wound as well as could be done in a hurry; then the wounded were taken to the field hospital.
But if one looked more carefully, other figures were discernible; half hidden by the darkness they sneaked about among the wounded and dead.
Who were they?
It didn't look as though they heeded the moans of the dying, nor did they raise them to carry them off to the field hospital. What were they doing, then?
They were plundering those who fell, taking from them their little articles of value: A hideous thing, truly a deed of darkness! Who would have believed that anyone could have the heart to plunder the dying.
You and I would not do such a thing. We become intensely indignant and disgusted when told of such heartlessness. "God, I thank thee, that I am not as the other men are, extortioners——"
No, on that battlefield where the wounded lie, having been hit by shells and maimed by swords, we do not go in order to plunder and loot. That is true enough.
But—alas, there is a "but" about it.
The world is a huge battlefield. Right and left we see about us the wounded who are moaning and suffering from pain; they are sighing for just a little aid, a kind word, a gentle smile. They need succor—they need being taken to the hospital. They still have a remnant of the sense of honor left. There is a possibility that they may right themselves; that they may be able to qualify as good fighters in the next skirmish—perhaps to conquer where now they have suffered defeat. But instead of the gentle smile, the kind word, and the little aid—we took away from them whatever was left and let them lie where they were. We deprived them of the last remnant of honor, extinguished the last faint glimmer of hope. The bruised reed was broken. The smoking flax was quenched.
On Life's vast battlefield you and I may, after all, have taken part in the plundering of the wounded; or we may have gone by just like the priest and the Levite. At least we have not always done as did the Samaritan: Bound up their wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and brought them to an inn!
Old Dr. Bengel says: "I am kept constantly busy by reading proof upon myself."
Let us do likewise. Then we will be better and better enabled to heed the moans of the wounded on the vast battlefield of Life, and to bring them to the inn, to the church of the Lord where there is healing for all wounds. This is our task toward the wounded, and it was that which was in the mind of Jesus when He said:
"Go, and do thou likewise!"
During the Civil War it became necessary to remove one of the officers serving under General Sherman; "Removed because of mischief" was the way it was entered upon the record.
General O. O. Howard succeeded him in command and continued to have charge of the unit until the end of the war.
Then the army arrived at Washington, where a parade was to be held followed by disbanding.
The day before the parade General Sherman said to Howard:
"The political leaders demand of me that the officer whose place you took, resume his charge tomorrow and ride at the head of his unit in the parade, and I wish you would help me out of this predicament."
"But it is my unit now, General," Howard said, "and it is but fair that I ride at its head tomorrow."
"Yes, of course," General Sherman answered, "but—are you a Christian, Howard?"
"What do you mean by that?" Howard asked astonished.
"I mean that you can bear that disappointment and let him have the honor. You are a Christian," Sherman added; "well—what do you say?"
Like a brave officer, jealous of his honor, Howard had anticipated this day with delight, but, after hesitating a moment, he said:
"Yes, looked at from that point of view, only one answer is possible: Let him ride at the head of his old unit tomorrow!"
"All right then," said Sherman, "but you will report at headquarters tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock."
The next morning at the appointed hour Howard reported that everything was arranged. The officer who had been removed because of mischief had resumed his old post.
"Very well," Sherman answered, "then you ride by my side today."
"I have no right to do that," Howard replied.
"It is an order," Sherman answered smilingly.
Thus O. O. Howard rode beside General Sherman at the head of the entire army in the parade at Washington—he who had renounced glory and right for the benefit of one who had forfeited both, so that the latter might be honored.
"Removed because of mischief." That might have been written upon the brow of Adam when the portals of Paradise were closed behind him. Removed from the living God because of mischief—that was the legend above the whole story of mankind until the fullness of time.
Removed because of mischief—from one another, from the respect of fellow-beings, from honor and enviable positions among men: That was the legend above the lives of so many—of him who had stolen money from his master's till; of him who had suffered a moral lapse, etc.
But into the life of him who has been removed from God because of mischief one came and said: It is my will that you resume your old place of the child in the arms of his Father. It is my will that you take part in the ride into the new Jerusalem. I will share my rights with you and give you my glory. Yes, thus speaks the Son of the King of Heaven in His church upon earth.
This I have done for thee, Jesus says. But then, when you go among those people who have been removed because of mischief from good positions or from the respect of their fellow-beings: How much of your glory and rights can you give to them?
You are a Christian.
We ask, almost as surprised as O. O. Howard: What do you mean by that, Lord? Too often, we ourselves think too little of it. But Jesus sayeth: Remember that you are a Christian when you associate with those who have lost the respect of their fellow-beings. As a Christian you must be able to sacrifice a little of your honor and your rights for their sake.
To be a Christian is not merely to be a child and to rest upon the arm of the Father. It is to make real the love of the Father, in the steps of Jesus Christ, among those who have fallen by the wayside.
You are a Christian.
Are you?
And one thing more. Howard did not lose anything by relinquishing his glory and rights like a Christian. Far from it! He gained by it. He was placed beside the supreme commander at the head of the entire army. Thus with us.
When Jesus demands of us that we as Christians shall bring sacrifices, then it is not for the purpose of causing us any loss, or to make us advance something for which we will not be reimbursed, but simply to enable us to receive more from Him. Such advances He changes into an income for us. We will receive a hundredfold. We will be qualified to be at the front, and by His side we approach the goal.
Isn't this a strange way of speaking?
If Jesus had said: "By thy works thou shalt be justified, and by thy works thou shalt be condemned", then I would have immediately conceded that this was good common sense. Actions are something tangible, something you can get the actual "feel" of, but words—why, they often are nothing but hot air.
Still Jesus says: "By thy words shalt thou be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned"—so, I must accept that.
When, then, I think of the words I have spoken, at home, in the church, in the midst of the congregation, I cannot conceal to myself the fact that there were many empty words among them. Not only that—there were also some mean words, and when they are to be measured by Him who never sinned, and whose lips never knew deceit, then I must tell myself: There is enough right here to condemn you! And I am possessed with fear and worry because of my own words.
If I revert to the good words I may have spoken, it isn't much better. And still, I cannot say but that I doubtless have spoken some good words, and that they may have been of benefit to some. I am quite certain that I often have spoken good words at sick-beds, in the homes and in the church—words that were willingly listened to just because they were good words, that really did comfort those who were sick and had sorrowful souls—words that were something more than sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal—words that were inspired and filled with the warmth of my heart—words in which I myself rejoiced sincerely, and for which I could never sufficiently thank God that He gave me the grace to utter them.
But, yet—in spite of all this—it does seem to me that when my words are to be judged by Him who always spake the pure, the powerful, the pungent, and the perfect word—then mine will be found wanting. In other words: I doubt that those words of mine were so faultless that He who is Himself faultless, would consider me justified by my words. No, to the contrary—I must tell myself: Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting!
Thus I find myself placed between fear and doubt—fear because of my evil words, and doubt about the faultlessness of my good words.
What shall I do, then? Shall I timidly withdraw from the words of the Lord: "By thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned"?—Shall I attempt to forget them, imagine that they were not meant for me, have no bearing upon me—or shall I try to avoid them as some fearfully avoid cemeteries at the midnight hour?
No, I cannot do that!
I must have these strange words clear in my mind. I must work them through. To stand between fear and doubt, timidly withdrawing from the words of my Lord! No, that cannot be possible. Where shall I seek refuge? Where shall I seek that explanation which reconciles me with the word of the Lord, and which brings peace into my soul?
I will seek refuge in the pledge of my baptism—as so many others have done in the hour of worry and distress. I let it pass upon my lips, and the word is: "I renounce the devil and all his works and all his ways." But to renounce means that I break off from, separate myself from, and become a foe of, the evil one and all that is evil—also my own words. But can He, the fair judge, condemn me for that which I disavow and separate myself from, what I personally oppose?
No, it is impossible! That cannot be!
This gives me surcease. The fear of my evil words must vanish, and, thus unburdened, I go on.
"I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth.... I believe in Jesus Christ His only Son, our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary; suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried; He descended into hell; the third day He arose again from the dead; He ascended into Heaven and sitteth on the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead.... I believe in the Holy Ghost; the holy Christian church; the communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting."
The word of the Apostles' Creed is the word of faith. And what did I say? I believe! It may be feebly, alas, but nevertheless—with all its frailty the heart embraces the word of faith, and doubt vanishes before this word.
Almost astonished I ask myself: Is it possible? Is it possible that I who found myself placed between fear and doubt, conquer both by the word of faith?
That word of faith has thus passed upon my lips, not like a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal, but as a truth of the heart. It was not a hollow saying, it was not a faulty word, and yet it was my own. It was given to me in the early morn of my life as a gift from God in my baptism. Now it asserts itself in spite of all the evil, empty and faulty words I have spoken—reaches to the Lord Himself as an expression of the innermost life of my heart, and the answer of the Lord to this word is: By thy words shalt thou be justified!
Thus, through the words of the Lord I gained peace in my soul, and my heart bursts out its "Praised be God!"
Against these gigantic powers we must needs fight, and we must vanquish them. But we cannot do so by our own power. We must be "girt about with truth," must be clothed in "the whole armour of God." This is not an armour that can be forged from the steel within ourselves—although we say that with all due deference to bravery, shrewdness and wisdom; but in the great struggle against the powers of darkness we must be girt with something stronger. Fortified with our own, we sustain wounds, but win no victory. The armour of God gives victory, but protects against wounds if we know how to use it rightly.
But when Paul describes the whole armour of God, he strongly emphasizes a particular part of it, for he says: "Above all, taking the shield[A] of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked." Thus it is a question of making proper use of the shield rather than of the sword. The church of the Lord has hitherto laid stress on the use of the sword, and therefore the result of the fight has often been a number of wounded souls, for the sword wounds, while the shield protects.
It is said of our heathen forefathers that they knew how to fight as well as how to rest behind the shield. They knew how to grasp all the hostile arrows in their shield while they fought; when they had fought themselves weary or spent all their arrows, while the foe still had plenty of deadly arrows to hurl against them, they knew the art of taking a rest behind their shield in the midst of the shower of arrows. Covered by the shield they gathered strength for the purpose of resuming the fight with axes and spears while the enemy uselessly wasted his supply of arrows.
I wish sincerely that we possessed somewhat more of this ability of our forefathers to use the shield, to fight and to rest behind the shield of faith, spiritually speaking. That would make it possible for us to give battle the thunder of which would resound in the remotest corners of the earth, as in days of yore the song and the hammer strokes of our forefathers were heard in distant countries. Then we would not use our fighting ability to plunder foreign shores, but to lead the fight against the spiritual powers of evil—to be in the front ranks during the fight that shall be fought from the sea to the ends of the earth, in which thousands must bleed because they have not learned how to use the shield of faith.
We shall make a stand against the wiles of the devil!
If I am not very much mistaken by the signs of the age, the attacks on the church of the Lord will during the present century become still more marked by diabolical cunning and cleverness than ever before. The arrows will be sharpened with all the shrewdness of science, directed against us with cunning, glowing with a devilish hatred against everything that is of heavenly birth, and aims at heavenly goals. Indecent jokes, cutting scorn and cleverly formulated inquiries will constitute a cloud of arrows which will darken the sun to many. They will be hurled against us through the means of literature and science, with violent haughtiness, with fierce hatred. And we—we have not that unconquerable courage which enables us to say with the hero of Thermopylae: "So much the better—then we fight in the shade!"
How shall we approach the struggle of the twentieth century?
Someone may say: We shall sharpen our arrows, make them pointed, and send them forth with shrewdness and wisdom. We shall use our common sense, meet the opponents on the battlefield of thought and cleverness, show them what is unenduring in the chimera of the atheists and what is depraved in the life without God. In the church of the Lord we have men who are not inferior to our opponents in respect to cleverness and wisdom—indeed, we have, praised be God!
But it does seem to me that many a valiant fighter will succumb in this kind of a struggle, and many plain-thinking Christians may flee, as did the Philistines in ancient days when their giant had fallen. All honor to those who defend and promote the Kingdom of God by thought, by reasoning and by wisdom! But along that way we do not accomplish much more than to humbly admit that