"In ages past," says Mr. Badger, "God has seen fit to raise up, qualify, and send forth ambassadors to the people. He has frequently sent angels with celestial messages to men. Men also have been employed in the same work, have received the word from Him and declared it to the people. Aaron, Moses, Jeremiah, Isaiah and others, are striking illustrations of the truth that God has appeared unto men to make them ministers and witnesses of those things they have seen, and of those which he shall reveal unto them. John said, 'We speak the things we do know, and testify the things we have seen.' The Gospel is not something learned by human teaching, as are the mathematics and divers natural sciences. St. Paul was nearer its fountain-head and true attainment when he said, 'I neither received it from man, neither was I taught it but by the revelation of Jesus Christ.' 'Wo is unto me if I preach not the Gospel.' Neither reputation nor worldly recompense prompted the apostolical preaching. 'We preach not ourselves, but the Lord Jesus Christ.' 'Freely thou hast received, freely give.' The Gospel is not an earthly product, but a divine institution for divine ends. The preaching of it, therefore, is the highest possible work, demanding the greatest deliberation and integrity. Its effects are either 'a savor of life unto life, or of death unto death.' How delightful also is this employment, as it brings life, light and comfort to all who yield to its elevating, enlightening and purifying power."
These passages, written in the early years of his ministerial life, at once recalled the second sermon[11] that the writer of this ever heard him preach, founded on the heroic text of St. Paul, "I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ,"[12] in which he announced the Gospel as a divine science, as a refining power, as according with human nature and its wants; and, indeed, as "the only perfect science of human happiness known on earth." Such is the supremacy he unwaveringly gave to Christ, to his Gospel, and to its genuine ministry.
The feeling that drew the mind of Mr. Badger into the ministry, was an early one, having birth almost contemporaneously with the deep strivings of his mind already narrated in the previous chapter. It was the highest aspiration of his youth. Often, when at work, as early as the autumn of 1811, then nineteen years of age, his mind scarcely within his own control, he was frequently in a preaching frame, and often fancied that he was speaking to audiences of people on the attractions of Christ; so thoroughly was his mind engrossed in these meditations, that he often spoke several words before being aware of it, and not unfrequently did he find himself suffused with tears. "I had at this time," says Mr. B., "no idea that I should ever be a minister."
"As soon as I had myself partaken of the pardoning love of Christ, I felt as though all others should be sharers in eternal life. In prayer, my mind was drawn out for all men, for the chief of sinners. My mind was quickly weaned from earthly delights, and all my powers were devoted to spiritual interests. The few good ministers I knew I esteemed as the best and happiest of human beings; and, as the harvest seemed great, I often prayed that the Lord would send forth more laborers into the field. I thought if I were in such a minister's place I would go to the ends of the earth to sound the message of redeeming love. It was in the midst of such meditations that, in the first of the year 1812, all at once the idea broke into my mind that I must leave all and preach Christ. My soul shrunk away from the overpowering greatness of the thought, which I immediately banished from my mind; but with its banishment there came a gloomy despondency, as through the winter I continued at times to be exercised with the spirit of a station, which I supposed I never could fill.
"In the spring I went into the woods to make sugar, a business much followed in that country. Night and day for several weeks I was here confined, a scene that might once have been gloomy, but now was delightsome, as I enjoyed much of God's presence in my secret devotions. I kept my Bible with me, had some opportunity of reading, which I eagerly improved with the greatest satisfaction. Here my mind was again powerfully exercised in relation to preaching; these impressions always brought with them the greatest solemnity. At such times I sought the most retired places I could find, wishing that I might hide, as it were, 'in the cleft of the rock,' as the sacred vision passed before me. I said, 'Lord, who is sufficient for these things?' and with Jeremiah I was constrained to say, 'I cannot speak, for I am a child.' While these things like mountains were rolled upon my mind, I frequently spent the greater part of the whole night in prayer, in which I asked that I might be excused, and that these things might be taken from me. Hours in the lonely woods I passed in tears, and none but the angels witnessed the action and utterance of my grief. Once I opened my Bible wishing to know my duty, and the first words I beheld were, 'The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved;' language that impressed me with the great importance of the present time as an opportunity to lay up treasure in heaven; to call the attention of men to their salvation, before the lamentation of the prophet should become their sad and unhopeful song. From the depth of my spirit I said, Oh! my soul, can I be excusable for my silence, when I behold the dark tide of sin on which myriads are rushing to eternal wo? Hearing the voice of Heaven perpetually resounding 'Why will ye die?' and beholding the crimson tide of the loving, dying Christ, that ever spoke of mercy, whilst angels appeared to my view as waiting and longing to rejoice over one repenting sinner, I said, Can I refrain from warning men of their danger, from inviting them to the Christ of their deliverance? For several days the above named scripture occupied my mind, and I was satisfied that God was drawing me into the ministry by these impressions, and soon I was willing to leave all, and suffer the loss of all things for Christ.
"Late in the spring I left my retirement, with a countenance wan and fallen, and a heart filled with 'wo is me if I preach not the Gospel.' I was silent, no company seemed agreeable, and to no one did I confide my feelings. In the summer of 1812, I searched the Scriptures, and often did my mind so extensively open to an understanding of what I read, that I was impressed to communicate what I felt and what I saw. On some particular passage my mind would rest for several days at a time, and ideas of which I had never before thought, would present themselves. Well do I remember the great power in which the words of the apostolical commission came to my mind: 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature;' words that seemed night and day to sound as a voice of thunder through my spirit. I regarded this as the divine voice; as Job says, 'God thundereth marvellously with his voice.' From all the scripture I read I gathered something that taught me the moral situation of mankind, God's willingness and ways for saving them, also my own duty to my race. Remarkable dreams at this time united with other evidences to confirm me in my duty, as often in the midnight slumber I dreamed of speaking to large assemblies in the name and spirit of the Lord. Frequently, under these exercises, I spoke so loud as to awaken the people in the house, and sometimes awoke in tears calling on sinners to repent and embrace the Saviour. When sleep departed from my eyes, as it frequently did, I would spend most of the night in prayer to God. Often could I say, with the weeping Hebrew prophet, 'Oh, that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night.' But none, except those who have passed through similar trials, can understand the peculiar experience touched upon in these last paragraphs."
The passage of men, called in any divine way, from worldly business into the work of reclaiming souls from sin, cannot be as smooth and easy as the passage one makes from a machine-shop to a counting-room. Fashion and custom may render it so, but these are far from being God's prime ministers. Is there no preparatory process by which the spirit of the prophet is stirred to its depth? Did not the fine nature of Jesus undergo temptations and trials in the wilderness for forty days before he entered upon his public mission? Did he not there feel the grandeur of his mission, when he foresaw the cost of all that the world and its ambition holds dear, as the result of his future procedure? He casts the worldly crown beneath his feet, and steadily fixes his eye on the immortal good of the world as his end. The coarser heart of Arabia's prophet also sought solitude as its home ere it gave to the East its lasting oracles. The question of the calculating European and New Englander, as to which one of his family he shall select with whom to stock the sacred profession, never came from the land of inspiration and of divine missions. He that was too dull to be a rogue, or a successful practitioner in law, medicine or merchandise, the old maxim thought to promise best for the pulpit. No such plottings had aught to do in the election of this young man. It was warm from his heart, was seasoned in prayers, baptized in tears, and cherished in sleepless night-watchings and lonely meditations. Preaching skilfully, learned as an art, may be had almost as cheaply as Parisian dancing; but the living word that "breaketh the rocks in pieces" never comes in it.
Mr. Badger attended meetings through the summer, heard, when they had no minister, one of John Wesley's sermons read, as dictated by the discipline; mingling with others his own voice of exhortation and prayer. The eyes of all were soon fixed upon him, and the brethren began to complain of his disobedience to the heavenly vision long before he had intimated to any one the state of his mind. Some assured him confidently that they had an evidence from God that it was his duty to preach, and that their meetings were impoverished by his unfaithful withholding. "This," says he, "I could not deny." Though encouraged by the kindred sympathy of Mr. Gilson, who narrated to him his own trials before entering the ministry, though finding a response to his own conviction of duty in the hearts of all the spiritually minded about him, he did not immediately or hastily go forth in ministerial action and armor. He waited the call of circumstance and occasion. His journal narrates a most beautiful visit he had at the house of Capt. Felix Ward, where the conversation was wholly devoted to religion; where scripture inquiry, prayer and holy song united to enlighten their minds, and to lay the basis of a valuable lasting friendship; and though strangers to each other, the family spoke of him afterwards as one whom they then believed would be a chosen vessel to bear the honor of God before the Gentiles. "I thought," says Mr. B., "I scarcely ever saw a house so full of the glory of God."
But particular occasion calls. In June or July, 1812, persecution arose in Ascott, which drove from the province two successful ministers, Messrs. Bates and Granger, because they would not swear allegiance to King George, which they boldly affirmed that they would never do. Thanking God that they were counted worthy to suffer for Christ, they meekly submitted to the persecution that seized them as prisoners in the midst of a happy meeting, and that drove them, after a lengthy arbitration, back into their own country, the State of Vermont.