In the beginning of 1625, while the snow was yet mantling the mountains in white, the symbol of moral purity and goodness, the king was grimly planning to debase and corrupt the best people in his realms. He gave orders to celebrate Easter with a Communion according to the Articles of Perth, announcing a severe penalty against all who would not comply. The decree was not enforced, for the Lord came suddenly to the unhappy monarch, saying, "Thy soul is required of thee." Easter came with its soft winds and opening buds, its singing brooks and flowery nooks, but King James was not there; the Judge had called him, death had conquered him, the grave had swallowed him; his miserable life was broken off under sixty years of age; and after death, eternity; the long, long eternity.
His Son, Charles I., inherited the father's troubled kingdom, despotic principles, and wilful doggedness. The young ruler began his reign by breathing out threatenings against the Covenanters. Yet the Lord in many ways strengthened His people. He gave them at this time some remarkable Communions and memorable seasons of refreshing. He pitied them for they were nearing the fiery trials that would try their faith to the utmost. To prepare them for the testing times. He led them up into the mountain of His loving favor and gave them another memorable privilege of renewing their Covenant.
John Livingston, an honored minister of Jesus Christ, was of great service to the Church at this time. He preached Christ and his contested truths with power and striking effect. He stood in the strength and majesty of the Chief Shepherd and fed the flock given into his care. This flock was very large. Multitudes gathered about him waiting for the Word at his lips; the church could not hold them. God gave the people spiritual hunger that brought them from afar; they came over the hills and along the vales, converging upon the place of worship as doves fly to their windows. They journeyed solemnly from their homes to the House of God, both in the calm of summer and in the storms of winter. They came in the dew of the morning and tarried till protected by the gloaming. Men and women, old and young, gathered around this man of God who ministered comfort, strength, and eternal life, through Jesus Christ, with wonderful power and grace unto their troubled souls.
Our Monday service of the Communion originated under Mr. Livingston. The Sacrament of the Lord's Supper had been administered to a large congregation. The preaching and serving of tables filled the long summer Sabbath. It was June 20, 1630. The great congregation had come with souls lifted up to God in prayer; the church was not large enough to hold the people, and the churchyard was filled with devout worshipers. They sat upon the grass like the thousands that were fed by Christ in the days of old. The soft wind blew upon them as it listed, and the Holy Spirit, too, came with mysterious power; the vast assembly was deeply moved. The long Sabbath was followed by a short night. Monday came, and the people, having been profoundly affected by the services of the preceding day, were again early on the grounds. They felt that they could not separate without another day of worship—a day of thanksgiving to the Lord for the wondrous revelations of His love at His holy table. Mr. Livingston was constrained to preach, and that day proved to be the great day of the feast. An unusual awe fell upon the preacher and his hearers; the Holy Spirit wrought marvelously, melting the hearts of the vast congregation and filling them with comfort, strength, and thankfulness.
| [!--IMG--] Jean Geddes Throwing Her Stool. Jean Geddes sat convenient to the pulpit on the eventful Sabbath, when the dean attempted to introduce the new "Prayer Book" in St Giles' Church. The innovation had by anticipation filled the people with intense indignation. A storm was brewing. This heroine, unable to restrain herself, sprang to her feet and hurled her stool at the dean's head, exclaiming. "Villain, dost thou say mass at my lug?" The dean dodged the stool and escaped. Confusion followed, and the service for that day was abandoned. |
Mr. Livingston and his people declined to conform to the "Articles of Perth." A goodly number of other ministers and their churches likewise refused. The king determined to force them into submission by authorizing a "Book of Public Worship", called the Liturgy. July 23, 1637, was the day appointed for its introduction. An attempt to force a mode of worship upon Scotch Presbyterians! No experiment could be more perilous to the king; it was indiscretion bordering on insanity. The very announcement produced an underground swell such as precedes a moral earthquake. Murmurings, groanings, threatenings, dark forebodings swayed the nation. These were gusts fore-running the storm.
The day for testing the Liturgy arrived. Attention was chiefly concentrated upon the Church of St. Giles at Edinburgh. The large auditorium was filled with Presbyterians who were accustomed to worship God in the plain, solemn manner of the apostles. The suspense preceding the service was painful. Each heart was beating fast, repressed emotion was at white heat, the atmosphere was full of electricity, no one could tell where the fiery point would first appear. At length the dean stood in the pulpit before the gaze of his insulted audience. He opened the new book and began. That was enough, the spark struck the powder, the explosion was sudden. Jean Geddes, a woman whose name is enshrined in history, and whose stool is a souvenir in the museum,—Jean, impelled by a burst of indignation, bounced from her seat and flung her stool at the dean's head, crying with a loud voice, "Villain, dost thou say mass at my lug?" The unpremeditated deed acted as a signal; the whole congregation was immediately in an uproar; the dean fled and the service came to an undignified conclusion.
The indignation manifested itself in many other places that Sabbath. In the Greyfriars' Church, there were deep sobs, bitter crying, and wails of lamentation. Over the entire kingdom the excitement was intense. The Scotch blood was stirred; the king had outraged the most sacred feelings of the people. They held meetings, prayed to God, and petitioned the king. The king replied to their petition, like Rehoboam, with blustering insolence. The Covenanters were not intimidated, their determined resistance was contagious and stirred vast communities, national sympathy was aroused; the Holy Spirit wrought mightily upon multitudes. Three days after the king's haughty reply had been received, a procession, including twenty-four noblemen, one hundred ministers, and bands of commissioners from sixty-six churches, marched boldly into Edinburgh and enforced their petition by a demonstration of strength, with which not even the king could afford to trifle.
Do the children of these Covenanters appreciate the value and power of the truth? Have the fundamental principles of the kingdom of Jesus Christ become incarnated in our lives? Do the doctrines of the Word circulate in the blood, throb in the heart, flash in the eye, echo in the voice, and clothe the whole person with strength and dignity? Is the Covenant of these ancestors a living bond that binds the present generation to God, through which His energy, sympathy, purity, life, love, and glory descend upon us in continual streams of refreshing? Then will our mission on earth be fulfilled, our work in the Church will be blessed, our testimony for the Lord will be powerful, and our efforts to win others for Christ will be fruitful.