Old Wine and New: Occasional Discourses

by Joseph Cross

"Earnestly contend?" Whence this necessity? What more at variance with the prevalent ideas of the day? Who dreams now of warfare in the cause of Christian truth? Is not Christianity pre-eminently the religion of peace and love? Must we reject and oppose, as unsound or heretical, every thing that does not happen to fall within the limits of our own particular belief? May not every man hold his own opinion without assailing that of another man? Is not the gospel platform broad enough to afford room for all? Earnestly contend? "This is a hard saying; who can hear it?" I answer: there is one faith delivered, not many faiths; there is one system of divine truth revealed, not many systems. That one faith, that one system, whatever it is, we are required to adopt and maintain, to keep as we would keep a treasure, to guard as we would guard the crown-jewels of our King, to fight for as we would fight for what is dearer to us than life, and devote ourselves with the zeal of martyrs to its propagation among those who are ignorant of the blessing. The apostles knew nothing of compromise in matters of faith, and they bequeathed an unfinished warfare to their followers; who maintained the cause heroically, among sages and savages, in temples and dungeons, before thrones and tribunals, on the rack and amid the flames. All this, we know, is the very opposite of the popular sentiment of the age. Few among us seem to have any conception of a Christian's duty to defend the truth as it is in Jesus "to the last of their blood and their breath," battling and dying for a creed. The spear and the shield of the warrior are laid aside, and the trumpet no longer sounds for the battle, because peace is deemed more precious than purity, and controversy is more deprecated than false doctrine, and a man's belief is regarded as having nothing to do with his conduct and his character. But the apostles knew that the Church held a trust which involved inevitable warfare, and would turn the world into a battle-ground. This trust they transmitted, through their successors, from generation to generation, to us; and we are signed with the sign of the cross in baptism, as a token of our consecration to "the good fight of faith." The struggle may be strenuous as that of the wrestler in the arena, or fierce as that of the hero in the marshalled host; but this is every man's duty, to maintain the faith against all assailants, and strive to win for it a home in every human heart. Do men light a candle to put it under a bushel or a bed? Does the sun refuse to shine lest he should offend the bat or blind the owl? And shall the Christian conceal his faith or suppress his convictions to please those who hate the light because their deeds are evil? Nay, let him proclaim it boldly and defend it bravely, like a knight-banneret in the army of the Lord of hosts; and, whatever the cost, let him urge its claims with becoming zeal upon all whom his voice can reach. To neglect this is not charity, but apathy; not humility, but lukewarmness; not liberality of opinion, but infidelity to Christ. "The Lord hath spoken; who can but prophesy?" Christ hath commanded us to proselyte all nations; shall we be recreant to our responsibility? What value do we set upon the faith which we are not willing to defend—which we attempt not to teach to the world? Where is his love for man, or his loyalty to Christ, who says nothing, does nothing, gives nothing, for the diffusion of this heavenly light? His creed may be right, but his life is wrong. He may have a Christian head, but he has no Christian heart. He entertains the faith as a guest, but he does not fight for it as a prize.

Here, then, is the lesson of the text: our duty, the duty of all Christians, to contend earnestly for the dogmatic faith of the Church. Amid the deluge of ignorance and error and sin, this is the only ark of safety. Amid the mighty conflict of human speculations and philosophies, this is the only evangel of hope. From the beginning the faith has ever had its enemies and assailants. Wherever angels lodge, the Sodomites will batter at the door. All along through the ages, the saints have had to fight for the one faith, and they must fight for it to the end. Oh! not of peaceful homes, and tranquil communities, and brethren dwelling together in unity, do the words of the apostle breathe; but of divided tongues, and imbittered spirits, and the tenderest relations of life bristling around us like the iron front of battle; and as one who rides along the line of his marshalled host, he shouts to us across the centuries, and bids us earnestly contend for the faith. All those sublime verities for which "the noble army of martyrs" bled, are committed to the vigilance and championship not only of the clergy, but of each baptized believer. Some are to vindicate them by argument; all by practical exhibitions of their regenerating power. Who does not kindle at the thought of being associated in such a struggle with St. Paul and St. John, with Ignatius and Polycarp, with Athanasius and Augustine—men whose names yet thrill the hearts of millions? Now let us have done with concessions. Away with truce and armistice. The faith is worth the conflict. None can afford to be neutral. We must all fight or perish. Look practically, then, at the solemn necessity before you. "Multitudes, multitudes, in the valley of decision; for the day of the Lord is near in the valley of decision." Arise, my brethren, armed with the whole armor of God, and go forth to battle! Remember that the saints of all ages are with you; that the victor Lamb is the captain of your host; that the weapons of your warfare are mighty through God; that your guerdon is an unfading crown of glory, and your destined home a house eternal in the heavens! Go and contend for the faith, as those contended who now sleep in Jesus! Go and battle valiantly under his banner, who hath promised you a seat in his throne!

[[1]] Preached at a convocation, Illinois, 1874.

XX.

THE FRUITLESS FIG-TREE.[[1]]

How soon is the fig-tree withered away!—Matt. xxi. 20.

Next Friday we follow our Saviour to the cross. The last few days before his death are crowded with some of the most significant acts of his ministry. One of these we are now called to contemplate—the withering of the fruitless fig-tree by his word. To-day being the anniversary of that event, it is appropriately chosen as the theme of our discourse. Like all the other miracles of our Lord, this is a parable in action. The fruitless tree represents the Jewish people, and its fate foreshadows their terrible doom. In this interpretation we are warranted by a parable of the divine Teacher uttered a few days earlier—that of the barren fig-tree in the vineyard, for which the vine-dresser intercedes with the proprietor and obtains a further probation. The apostles, who had heard the parable and now saw the miracle, could scarcely fail to connect the one with the other, and to refer both to the infidelity and fearful punishment of the chosen people, as they exclaimed—"How soon is the fig-tree withered away!"

Fifteen hundred years before, God had brought a goodly shoot out of Egypt, and planted it in a very fruitful hill, and hedged it about with wondrous providences, and watered it with constant dews and seasonable rains, and enriched the soil around it with a thousand gracious appliances, and waited on it patiently with a careful and diligent husbandry. And it sent down its roots deep into the earth, and threw up its leafy branches high toward heaven, and gave good promise of abundant fruit. Then he sent his prophets to prune it, and stir the soil around it, and watch over it night and day. And the wild beast that gnawed its bark was pierced by the arrow of the Almighty, and the hand that raised an axe against it fell smitten by the lightning of heaven. But, instead of producing figs, it wasted its luxuriant life in leaves. Then came the Proprietor in person, hungering for the fruit of his labor; and, finding none, he tarried and toiled with it three years, and watered with frequent tears its deceitful foliage. But all was in vain, and he was forced at last to pronounce its doom, and leave it blasted and decaying upon its fruitful hill.