[December 14.]
There are some thoughts which, however old, are always new, either because they are so broad that we never learn them thoroughly, or because they are so intensely practical that their interest is always fresh.… Now, among such thoughts we may reckon that which all children know—that God loves every one of us with a special love. It is one of the commonest thoughts in religion, and yet so amazing that when we come to look steadily at it we come nigh to not believing it. God does not look at us merely in the mass and multitude. As we shall stand single and alone before his judgment seat, so do we stand, so have we always stood, single and alone before the eye of his boundless love. This is what each man has to believe of himself. From all eternity God determined to create me, not simply a fresh man, not simply the son of my parents, a new inhabitant of my native country, an additional soul to do the work of the nineteenth century. But he resolved to create me such as I am, the me by which I am myself, the me by which other people know me, a different me from any that have ever been created hitherto, and from any that will be created hereafter. Unnumbered possible creatures which God saw when he chose me, he left to remain in their nothingness. They might have worshiped him a thousand times better than I shall ever worship him. They might have been higher, holier, and more interesting. But there was some nameless thing about me which he preferred. His love fastened on something special in me. It was just me, with my individual peculiarities, the size, shape, fashion, and way of my particular, single, unmated soul, which in the calmness of his eternal predilection drew him to create me.…
Must I not infer, then, also, that in the sight of God I stand in some peculiar relation to the whole of his great world? I clearly belong to a plan, and have a place to fill, and a work to do, all which are special; and only my specialty, my particular me, can fill this place or do this work. This is obvious, and yet it is overwhelming also. I almost sink under the weight of the thought. It seems to bring God so very near.… I come in sight of the most overshadowing responsibilities. Responsibility is the definition of life. It is the inseparable characteristic of my position as a creature. I am constantly moving, constantly acting. I move impulsively and I work negligently. What, then, becomes of my special place and of my special work? From this point of view life looks very serious. Surely we must trust God with a huge confidence, or we shall be frightened into going and burying our talent in the earth!
Now, what is it about us which was the prime object of God’s love when he chose us for creation? It can not be put into words. It is just all that which makes us ourselves, and distinguishes us from all other selves, whether created or possible. It was precisely our particularity which God so tenderly and intensely loved. The sweetness of this thought is almost unbearable. I draw in my breath as if to convince myself that I am alive, I lay my hand on my heart to feel its beating. First I smile, and then I weep. I hardly know what to do with myself, I am so delightfully entangled in the meshes of divine love. This specialty of God’s love startles me more and more, the longer I familiarize myself with it. I am obliged to make acts of faith in God, acts of faith in all his different perfections, but the greatest act of faith in this specialty of his love of me, of such as I am, such as I know myself to be, even such as he knows me to be. Deeper and perpetually deeper, taller and perpetually taller, the shadow of my responsibilities is cast upon me. But it is not a dark shadow, not depressing, but inspiring; sobering, but not paralyzing. I see plainly that my love of God must be as special as God’s love of me. I must love him out of my special place, love him through my special work; and what is that place, and what is that work? Is not this precisely the question of questions?—Faber.
[December 21.]
Though violent persecution is not an event, under the present circumstances of the Christian profession in this country, within the range of probability, yet serious and faithful opposition may be expected. Vigorous attempts will be made to deprive you of your crown, at one time by an assault on your doctrinal, at another by efforts to corrupt your practical, principles. A strong current will set in from the world to obstruct your progress, swelled by the confluence of false opinions, corrupt customs, ensnaring examples, and all the elements of vice, error and impiety, which are leagued in a perpetual confederacy against God and his Christ. Your faith will often be beset, not merely by the avowed patrons of error, but by such as “hold the truth in unrighteousness;” who, never having experienced the renovating power of divine truth, will be among the first and foremost to ridicule and oppose its genuine influence. While you live like the world, you may with impunity think with the church, but let the doctrines you profess descend from the head to the heart, and produce there the contrition, the humility, the purity, the separation from the world which distinguish the new creature, that world will be armed against you. “They think it strange that ye run not to the same excess of riot, speaking evil of you.” In order to stand your ground, it will be requisite for you to “quit yourselves like men, and be strong.” Aware that he is everywhere and at all times surrounded with danger, the life of a Christian is a life of habitual watchfulness; in solitude, in company; at home, abroad; in repose and in action; in a state of suffering, or a state of enjoyment; in the shade of privacy, or in the glare of publicity. Aware of his incessant liability to be ensnared, he feels it incumbent on him to watch. The melancholy history of the falls of Noah, of David, and of Peter, is adapted and designed to teach us this lesson.
An opportunity may present itself, perhaps, in your future course, of growing suddenly rich, of making at least a considerable accession to your property; but it involves the sacrifice of principle, the adoption of some crooked and sinister policy, some palpable violation of the golden rule; or, to put it in the most favorable light, such an immersion of your mind in the cares and business of the world as will leave no leisure for retirement, no opportunity for “exercising yourself unto godliness,” no space for calm meditation and the serious perusal of the Scriptures. Are you prepared in such a conjuncture to reject the temptation; or are you resolved at all events to make haste to get rich, though it may plunge you into the utmost spiritual danger? “Count the cost;” for with such a determination you can not be Christ’s disciple.
By the supposition with which we set out, you have solemnly renounced the indulgence of sinful pleasures. But recollect that sin will return to the charge, she will renew her solicitations a thousand and a thousand times; she will sparkle in your eyes, she will address her honeyed accents to your ears, she will assume every variety of form, and will deck herself with a nameless variety of meretricious embellishments and charms, if haply in some one unguarded moment she may entangle you in those “fleshly lusts which war against the soul.” “Count the cost.” Are you prepared to shut your eyes, to close your ears, and to persist in a firm, everlasting denial?—Robert Hall.