THEORY OF BOOK II.

The Effectiveness of the Message arises from the Completeness with which it Meets the Needs of Men. We believe that the Measure of the Gospel is the Measure of Man's Spiritual and Moral Necessity, and we plead for a Full Statement thereof in order that it may Prove its "Power unto Life."

What are the Essential Notes of the Message?

CHAPTER I.

The Note of Accusation.

In a purely heathen country the first business of the preacher must naturally be concerned with the publication of the great historical facts upon which the Christian faith is based. In such a land as ours, where these facts are already the subject of common knowledge, his first service to every soul to whom he is sent is to bring home the truth of that soul's condition and necessity. It is not a pleasant task. It is not an easy one. It forms a duty from which we instinctively shrink, but no ministry is complete in which it is neglected. No ministry that is incomplete can be effective and successful.

Now an examination of the history of preaching will reveal to us that all the great preachers have been examples of faithfulness concerning, not only the softer, but also the sterner portions of their message. Before us are the Hebrew prophets. By them was Israel arraigned at the bar of God. Could anything be more fearful than the indictment they laid? Kings, priests, councillors and commoners—against them all was the testimony maintained. "Art thou he that troublest Israel?" asks a conscience-stricken monarch of the seer from Mount Gilead. Troublers of Israel they were, exposing, denouncing, declaring judgment against evil doers. Such was their mission. Troublers of Israel, they were sent to be.

After the prophets, when, at last, the fulness of time began to dawn, he appeared who was to be the great herald of the Redeemer. "In those days came John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness of Judea, and saying, Repent ye, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand." John, too, was an accuser. Hark, how he addresses the Pharisees; how he speaks of "the axe laid at the root of the tree!" Once more did Israel hear of her rebellion and transgression. Again was the veil torn from her heart, the trappings of ceremonialism, the rags of hypocrisy. Again were men made to tremble by warning of the doom about to break. Wonderfully effective this ministry seems to have been—"Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judea, and all the region round about Jordan, and were baptized of him in Jordan confessing their sins." To the preacher came martyrdom, and that as the direct consequence of his faithfulness. It is dangerous to play the accuser at the foot of the throne, and for this, in the lone dungeon of Machaerus, the Baptist dies, but not until He whom he announced, and of whom the law and the prophets did speak, has lifted up His voice to preach to the nations and the ages. To the world came Jesus also as an accuser, and such accusations were His as men had never heard—accusations founded upon an infinite knowledge of mankind, on an infinite hatred of sin, on a perfect vision of the end of all wrong-doing. To convince and convict the world—for this first of all was He made flesh. Over the land His "Woe unto you" rang out as the thunder of a divine sentence, blanching the cheek and smiting the soul with shame and fear. For this testimony He died.

And after He had ascended up on high the apostles carried on this accusing work. Knowing "the terrors of the law" they persuaded men. As Paul "reasoned of righteousness, temperance and judgment to come, Felix trembled." To him the prisoner of that memorable day spoke as the representative of outraged deity. In his voice the hardened Consul heard the echo of his own disregarded conscience, and was reminded of his "more perfect knowledge of that way" which would one day make all the deeper the blackness of his condemnation. The joints of his harness were undone.

And so in that time of beginnings was set forth for all after years on the stage of that Eastern land the pattern of Gospel preaching, and its great copyists in all subsequent generations have come forth bearing, as their first word to men, the message of accusation. "All have sinned and come short of the glory of God;" such has been their opening announcement. Sin is rebellion against God; such has been their all-embracing definition. "The soul that sinneth it shall die;"—this "certain fearful looking for of judgment" they have held up before mankind. "Thou art the man!" has been the constant challenge of the Christian ambassador. It would be an interesting employment to journey back across the past and listen for this note as it fell from the lips of the great preachers of bygone ages. Our own Connexional fathers, however, as the figures most familiar to our minds, may remind us how faithful the pulpit used to be in the execution of this hard task. Some of us are old enough to remember as common, a phrase which now we hear only occasionally and in the out of the way corners of our Church. It was the expression "black sermon" as descriptive of a discourse in which the sterner side of the revelation was enunciated. Such sermons in those days formed part of every preacher's armoury. They were sermons of accusation; sermons about sin; sermons diagnostic of the state of the human heart. In these discourses the sinner was assailed through the gateway of his fears. The old preachers believed there was such a place as Hell, and said so,—sometimes with a great wealth of staking, figurative language which was perhaps used less symbolically than literally. They believed in a final and general judgment in which the dead, small and great, with such as shall be then living upon the earth, will be called to stand before the Great White Throne to give an account of the deeds done in the body. Clearly did they see this coming day and clearly did they proclaim that at any time its terrors may break upon a careless and prayerless world. Some of them gained celebrity by the vigour and colour of their descriptions. In the North of England they still speak of the sermon with which Joseph Spoor transported multitudes into the circumstances of that awful hour. Hugh Bourne, it is well known, gave himself to this kind of preaching to a degree which has made his name the more to be remembered on its account. His language was literal indeed! To our mind, at the moment of writing, returns something of the emotion with which in the days of boyhood we listened to a sermon on "The Pale Horse and his Rider" from a local preacher not long since passed to his reward. Another discourse on "The Swellings of Jordan" has been with us vividly, though forty years have flown since we heard it in a tiny chapel among the Northern hills. We can remember, too, an expression now used no more, but which we have often heard as part of the final appeal with which such sermons were wont to close. "My friends," the preacher would say, "I have cleared myself this day of your blood." Sometimes this declaration would be followed by a challenge in which the ungodly of the congregation were called to meet the preacher, "on that day when the books shall be opened and the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed," there and then to bear witness of his guiltlessness as to their damnation. It was very terrible, no doubt, very harrowing, and often as unpleasant to listen to as to utter, but such preaching was justified by its results. Many a sinner trembled as his heart was opened before him. Many a strong man broke into cries and tears as he saw himself a rebel against divine justice and mercy. Many an one smote upon his breast in terror as the veil of the future was lifted, and he saw himself standing guilty before the last tribunal, and praying for the mountains to fall and hide him from the eyes of an angry God. In our time, however, such preaching has become a tradition. It might be centuries since it was a fashion in the land, for hardly does its echo reach our ears to-day. And concerning this fact there emerges a curious thing. Confessedly the effect of such preaching was often the offending of the hearer. It has ever been so—was so, as we have seen, with the prophets; the apostles; the Lord Himself—and yet there is complaint when accusation and warning are withheld, and that, strangely, from the very people who would probably protest the most against it. It is said, even by these very people, that nowadays the preacher does not hurt; that he fails to find the conscience. The fact is, there exists in the heart of man an instinctive expectation that the messenger of God will do these things. It is one of the criticisms of to-day that sternness has died out of theology. The preacher is no longer the representative of a judge; no longer in God's stead the accuser of men. In every age the Church displays favouritism in her doctrinal attachments. In our time it is the doctrine of the divine Fatherhood of which the most is heard. This were well if the whole truth were told; but what manner of fatherhood is that of which we all too often hear? A fatherhood of colossal good nature, of blind, of foolish, indulgence; a conception of paternal wisdom and affection against which the conscience of the thoughtful instinctively revolts. The man in the street is not satisfied, and never will be satisfied, with a merely sentimental God. Some day, perhaps, it may be discovered that he is outside the churches, not because preaching, asking too much, has made him afraid, but because preaching, asking too little, has left him contemptuous.

And how has the change come to pass? Some say that the lack of the hour is a sense of sin. This sense, they tell us, has been lost as a result of our theorising about the origin of moral evil. There are some, indeed, who talk as if the tragedy of sin was not really a tragedy at all, but actually a blessing in disguise. We have been assured that the only hope for humanity lay in a moral fall which had to come to pass that the race might achieve its destiny through its experience of what is only called "wrong-doing," and of the suffering resulting from it. Only by this rugged and shadowed road, so are we informed, can we ever come to perfection and reach the golden age for which our hearts are sighing. Others see in sin a proof that man is struggling to be better. They regard his transgression as a hopeful symptom of divine discontent. Many do see tragedy in it all, but the blame lies otherwhere than with the transgressor. Sin grows less terrible, but more hopeless, as they talk about heredity, as they transfer the responsibility from the criminal to his circumstances, his education, the conditions of his life or the state of society. Not a sentence of punishment but a vote of sympathy should crime evoke if all that is said along such lines be true.

But not in any one of these things, nor in all of them put together, lies the whole reason of our modern tenderness in dealing with sin. Even preaching has its fashions, and he is a bold man who dares to disregard the prevailing mode. The convention of the time may decide that it is not quite "the correct thing" to lay too much emphasis on the harder teaching of the Christian belief. Whether unpopular with the people or not, this teaching may be unpopular with the preachers. We do not speak of these unpleasant things, for why be singular in direful prophecy? Of some preachers, to summarise, we will say that their need is a recovery of the sense of sin; of others that a deepened consciousness of every man's power to triumph over his inherited tendencies, his circumstances, his training and the temptations of his age, must precede the return of success. To others we would venture a reminder that the preacher might, perhaps, be all the better for a little more personal independence, and for the realisation that he is not responsible only to men for the manner in which his work is done, but to Him who sent him out to preach the whole message of His heart. The thing for the preacher to do is to learn the truth and tell it, even though it be bitter to the hearer and bitterer to himself; even though it make short work of social respectability and conventional religiosity, bringing the blush of shame to the cheek and setting the pulses throbbing with the fear of the lightnings of God.

Faithfulness, then, is essential to the completeness of the message—faithfulness as to the true condition of the soul and its position in the sight of God. As Samuel stood before Saul in that fateful hour when the king, having disobeyed the commandments of the Lord, had brought of the sheep and of the oxen which he should have utterly destroyed; as the prophets, the apostles, the Master alike lifted up their witness against a corrupt and stiff-necked people, so the preacher of to-day must bear his testimony against the sins of men; must pronounce the penalties of ungodliness. A revelation of the transgression of the individual, of the lost state of every soul out of Christ, are part of the Word received from Him who sent him. This declaration must not concern the individual alone. To the age, also, he has a message of kindred truth. The pulpit is erected as a witness against the generations as they come and go. It is by the preacher that Jesus Christ speaks to successive centuries. He is the true oracle of God. Against the carelessness, the covetousness, the debauchery and corruption of the nations, God would speak through him. Against the oppression of the poor, the robbery of the widow, the exploitation of the savage; against the crimes of the empires, the Almighty, through his lips, would make His anger known. He has done so often and often. Again and again has the preacher turned back the tides of national iniquity, again and again prevented the wrongful purpose upon which a people had set its heart. The need is with us still. This warning and accusing note of sternness must be regained. To tell men of their sins and that they are lost unless God delivers them; to tell the age of its iniquities and that the sure end of national vice is national destruction—here is our work to-day.

So there needs something in the nature of a reversion to the methods of days that are no more. Yet a full return to the mode of our fathers is impossible. Let this be acknowledged frankly and fully and at once. Those "black sermons" to which we listened forty years ago can never be preached again. The day has gone, at least within the area of civilisation, for painting flaming pictures of hell, for realistic and horrible descriptions of the tortures of the damned. That kind of thing has had its day and can be done no more. Preachers could not do it; hearers would not hear it. The misfortune has been that the passing of our fathers' methods has not been followed by the discovery of others in which the truth they conveyed could be expressed in forms more suitable to different times. Even the man outside the Church has left behind him the literal understanding of those old figures of speech. Few now think of heaven as our grandsires thought of it; few imagine hell as they imagined it. Yet is there still a heaven; yet is there still a hell.

And, hard as it is to write it, it is to the preaching of hell that we must return—the hell of degradation and of loss and of sure retribution. That hell is the latter state to which every path of wrong-doing leads with the inevitability of eternal law. Sin is hell in the making. Hell is sin found out, perhaps, alas, too late. This word is needed in our churches this very day.

It is needed, it was recently suggested to us, especially by our young people. With good reason the churches are all anxious as to the young people, so many of whom, alas! show a disposition to leave the temples of their fathers. It cannot be said that the Church has not done her best along certain lines to keep the coming generation at home. Older men and women have been heard to murmur that too much has been done for the young person's sake, too many things sacrificed. Religion has been made very easy—too easy, it is said. Unpleasant demands have been kept, it is suggested, too much in the background. We all know parents who confess that their children are permitted to do things at home of which they, the parents, disapprove, lest they should go elsewhere and do worse. It is alleged that the same thing often happens in the Church for the same reason. Ah! you must be careful what you say lest you offend the young! This is an indulgent, a good-natured, a compromising time. Behind this solicitude the best reasons lie, but is there no danger to these young people in all this amiability? Is it quite impossible for a young man to be put in peril by our very anxiety to save him?

Yes, there is such a possibility. It arises when we shrink from that plainness of speech which is, after all, friendship's best service. Is it not better to offend, even to wound deeply, than to speak only the smoother things, however kindly the intent, and, so speaking, fail to produce that great renunciation, that strengthening of bands, that strong grasp of the Eternal which alone mean safety in future years? We know that the whole question is encompassed with difficulties. It is hard to write it, but the best friends of the young are not always those preachers who are most tender concerning their feelings.

And not for the sake of the young only is this note of sternness needed. It may be recalled that, some time ago, the columns of a well-known religious weekly contained a discussion as to which are morally the most perilous years of a man's life. The conclusion reached therein was startling, but bore the test of reflection. We have generally assumed that "the dangerous years" are those of early manhood, the years that lie between leaving school and marriage. In those years the youth has probably left the Sunday School behind him, probably hangs only loosely to the Church. He feels the vigour of his young manhood stirring within him. He is drinking his first draughts of the wine of life. Restraints are being relaxed and companionships are being formed, while there is a sense of freedom almost intoxicating in its exhilaration. These are the days that we have commonly described as the most perilous of life.

Probably, however, we have been wrong in this conclusion. In the discussion referred to it was contended, perhaps established, that the period of greatest moral and spiritual danger lies a score or more years further along the road. From forty to fifty, and nearer fifty than forty, was maintained to be the fateful age. Youth has innocence, ambition, enthusiasm, ideals. Youth has generous impulses, has not yet been soured by disappointments, has not yet found out the cynicism of the world, has not become infected by the canker of covetousness. It has made no enemies, is not corrupted by success, is not daunted by failure. A score of years later some or all of these things will have happened to a man. Harder has become the world, fiercer the battle in which he is engaged, lower burn the fires of life; enthusiasm has faded as grey hairs have come. These are the perilous years.

There is one thing the preacher must never forget:—That the men and women before him go in constant peril from temptation. Not of the avowedly non-Christian only is this true, but of all. Yonder man, known for his respectability, his regular attendance at the sanctuary, falters, perhaps, this very day on the crumbling edge of a moral precipice. Ever and anon some one is missed from the means of grace. Where is he? Hush! Tell it softly and with tears. He has fallen who but recently bade so fairly to carry his cross to the summit of the hill. Can it be that he fell because in the House of Prayer no voice warned him? Can it be that he has committed the greater sin because no reproof was whispered in his ear concerning the beginnings of transgression? Was there no message committed to the preacher for that man as he drew near the parting of the ways? Did the messenger suppress the truth because it was hard to utter?

What, then, is it that is asked? Not, of course, a ministry of continual denunciation, of constant reproach, of endless accusation—not that, but a ministry in which the witness shall be not one-sided but complete. Let us hear, if you please, of the sweeter things; tell us again, and again, of that divine Fatherhood in which must be our final trust; whisper in our cars of the gentleness of God and the infinite tenderness of His Son; but tell us all, for so wayward are we, so presumptuous, so prone to go astray that we need to hear of chastisement as well as mercy. We must be reminded that "the way of transgressors is hard" as well as of the blessing that the Lord has in His heart for us.

To the preacher, then, we would say:—Here is a task which must not be neglected however hard it be. The word should be a hammer to break, a sword to pierce, an arrow in the heart. Here is something for us all to do:—To cultivate the arts of the counsel for the prosecution. In the exercise of those arts all our knowledge of human nature, all possible learning in the word will be needed to their very last syllable. It is not true that any one is qualified to wave the lamp that shall reveal the pitfall in the path of the over-confident disciple. He must be a wise physician who has to diagnose the sickness of the soul. He must be a lawyer learned in the law who has to explain the position of the rebel before his flouted Sovereign. He must have larger skill than most who has to bring home the broken will of God to the soul. A reflection, more important still, has yet to be suggested. For this work the preacher will need to be a man of holiness, for, though he speak to his brother only as a fellow-sinner saved by Grace, he must speak as one who has escaped from bonds. Thus comes character into the business. "Woe is me," said the prophet, called to witness against the transgression of Judah, "for I am a man of unclean lips." Only by prayer, by the cleansing of the fountain, by sustaining grace shall we be sufficient for these things. For this manner of preaching one man alone can ascend into the hill of the Lord:—"He that hath clean hands and a pure heart, and hath not lifted up himself unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully."

CHAPTER II.

The Note of Pity.

In the chapter just concluded we have tried to lay down that one essential of the preacher's message is the note of sternness, that the preacher is, on God's behalf, the accuser of his hearers, charging them before the bar of conscience, declaring to the soul its state and condition, pronouncing, also, the punishment which must follow persistent rebellion against God. It becomes us immediately to say something as to another note which must be heard in unison with this of sternness, and that is the note of pity. It is time to insist upon this. Only that man can declare the terrors of the law who knows something of the spirit of the prophet who cried, "Oh, that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!" Only he can cry out against Jerusalem who, when he beholds the city, weeps over it as he sees its crime and shame and notes the tempest gathering to burst over its "cloud-capp'd towers, its solemn temples, its airy palaces." The preacher, like his Lord, must be "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief." It must be true of him that for "the hurt of the daughter of My people was He stricken." His heart must have bled for the tragedy of the world!

And into the delivery of the message this pity must find its way and have expression, if not always in word, certainly in tone. In tone, we say, for the tone of the preacher's utterance is almost, if not quite, as important as its words. Lacking the accent of pity, the accusations of the preacher will degenerate into scolding, and of all scolds the pulpit scold is the most objectionable. Without a pitiful heart his exposure of human nature will become mere fault-finding, and a fault-finding ministry is a ministry of desolation. Again, without a pitiful heart the preacher's utterance of the divine judgment will be but more or less terrifying threats, and the pulpit is not set up to threaten but to pronounce. We have heard preaching of this order. "I am not at all well to-night," said a clergyman of whom we once read, "and I shall give it 'em hot." Men are sometimes reminded of their sins, not out of a sense of duty borne in upon a reluctant spirit, but because the wind happens to be in the east, or the preacher's nerves are badly out of order. The Church is told of her coldness, her indolence and unfaithfulness, her narrowness, bigotry and greed, not because, after a struggle to win permission to tell a more flattering tale, the preacher comes forth under a divine compulsion to "cry aloud and spare not," but because his digestion is upset, or his temporal concerns are awry, or even because his personal ambitions have been disappointed and himself unappreciated. There is such a thing as bad-tempered, ill-natured preaching, in which the weapons of the Bible armoury are borrowed for the expression of the preacher's chagrin and spite. In a literal sense every word he speaks may be true, but the spirit of the message destroys all possible good effects and turns the word of God into an angry snarl. It might, therefore, be well to decide to preach along lines of accusation, exposure, judgment or warning only on those days when the heart is happiest, when life goes well and the cheek of health glows with its brightest bloom. Perhaps the resolution might take such a form as this:—Resolved: Never to preach a hard sermon when I feel like doing so.

All this is no fancy picture, and the peril indicated is not imaginary but real. The story of Jonah is left to all time for the warning of the preacher. Seated yonder in his booth, biting his nails in vexation, he is the type of the preacher whose righteous indignation, because of its lack of that element of unselfishness, and that spirit of pity by which moral anger should always be qualified, becomes simply grim and merciless wrath. "Doest thou well to be angry?" the eternal voice asks of him and of all who follow in his prophetic line. It was not thus that Jesus looked upon the multitude. They despised Him—many of them. That He knew. They accused and slandered Him one to another and in their own secret hearts. Some of them said He was a glutton and a wine-bibber, others that He had a devil, others, again, that He was the friend of publicans and sinners. They ate His bread, accepted His healing kindness, and all the time were making ready to cry, "Not this man, but Barabbas," when opportunity should arise. All this He understood, but "when He saw the multitudes He was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted and were scattered abroad as sheep having no shepherd."

"All His words are music,
Though they make me weep,
Infinitely tender,
Infinitely deep."

And the absence of this undertone of pity from the message of the preacher always destroys the effect of his warnings and causes the hearer to be less afraid than angry, as is always the case when men are captiously scolded and found fault with and threatened. On the other hand, its presence gives power and penetration to the terrors borne upon its breath. It is instinctively felt that the hard words of the preacher are spoken as by one who weeps before he speaks. He does but speak because he must, because it would be cruellest cruelty to be silent. "For Zion's sake I will not hold my peace." "Zion's sake"—here, then, is the motive of all this unfolding of the secret history of the hearer's heart and life. From very pity this man cannot speak of health when he sees the canker in the rose which blooms upon the cheek, when he perceives that, despite the appearance of strength and vigour, "the whole head is sick, the whole heart is faint." He has not told us pleasant things to-day, though we would have liked to hear them, and he would have been glad to tell them, because he is too deeply concerned for us to prophesy golden groves at the end of a journey whose every footstep is taken upon the broad road leading to destruction. With meekness can we receive the reproofs of a parent knowing that, however hard his word, his heart is tender. "Whom He loveth He chasteneth," was written of the Lord. When it can be written of the Lord's ambassador, then again it will be true that although "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous but grievous," yet will it yield "the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." Let us take it, then, that pity is an essential of the preacher's message, and must make its presence felt, if not in word, at least in accent, or tone, or atmosphere. Is it too late in the argument to ask what this pity really and truly is?

In Theodore Hunger's volume, "The Freedom of Faith," a book which will be found in many of our libraries, there is a chapter on the pity of Jesus Christ which would probably repay us for another perusal. Very powerfully the author maintains that pity is a deeper and sublimer passion than love. In "The Alchemist," Balzac, depicting an ideally perfect affection makes the object of it deformed, indicating that love has not attained its highest height until it has become pity. Thus the mother's love for her child is never so noble as when expressed in ministering to its sickness. How near to the little one does she come in those painful, anxious hours when, perchance, all the reward her love seems like to bring is the blighting of her dearest hopes. She loves her child in health, but that love is rewarded with joy; she loves it as it triumphs in its little tasks of intellect, but that love is rewarded with pride; its moral achievements awaken her admiration; its spiritual victories arouse her gratitude, and in admiration and gratitude, love has compensation; but none of these emotions so carry over her soul into fellowship with the soul of that dear one, none bring her into a touch so close, or give such gentleness to the fingers, such softness and tenderness to the voice as does pity, "when pain and sickness wring the brow." And what of the parental feeling for that other child—the child, we mean, whose name no one speaks in her ear, who has gone out from the family circle, who is away in the far country, wasting his substance in riotous living; who, indeed, has wasted it, and who is now feeding the swine of the stranger, and longing to fill his belly with the husks that the swine do eat? Behold, now, the father standing upon the threshold shading his eyes as longingly he gazes along the road which climbs the distant hill. A world of trouble is in his eyes. "Yonder young fool who has wandered away is not worth a single sigh of this grand old man," we say. "He is reaping as he has sown," we moralise. Time was when this youth went brightly to and fro in the homestead, when innocence sat throned upon his forehead, when truth shone brightly from his eyes, when purity and modesty mantled with blushes his boyish cheek. The old man loved him then. But this watching from the threshold, this long, long tearful look down the road winding away to the land of profligacy and shame, these are the glories of his love. Here is pity. This is affection glowing in its fairest flower, its most precious fruit. Before us is a dim adumbration of the pity of God, the highest manifestation of His love for man. Similarly the pity of man for man is the highest manifestation of our love one for another. It is by pity, and by pity only, that humanity can be brought into true unity. It is by pity that the preacher comes into oneness with his congregation. There is a sense in which he comes nearer to his hearers through their sufferings and their sins than through their joys and their virtues, for suffering and sin give occasion for compassion. Only let the man in the pulpit feel this emotion toward the man in the pew; only let the tragedy of his wrong-doing, the poverty of his soul resultant from his neglect of higher things, the awful fact that he is without God and hope in the world come home to the preacher's heart; only let the shadow of this man's fate cast its darkness upon the preacher's soul and oh! how precious does that man become, sinner though he be. Let the man in the pew but feel that the heart of the man in the pulpit is almost breaking for the longing it has toward him and how differently will he receive the reproof that man may bring; with what new reverence will he attend to the solemn warning he may utter. At last a brother seeks his soul!

For another result of pity will be that the Gospel of reconciliation will be preached indeed. If from the compulsion of compassion the preacher declared the terrors of the law, from the same divine concern he will glory to declare the way of return, the counsel and invitation of mercy. Even as none but a pitiful man can declare the words of the law so only a pitiful man can declare the provisions and conditions of the Cross. If the words of the Law, without pity are mere scolding and fault-finding and threatening, the words of the Gospel without pity must be cold, perfunctory and lifeless. Calvary was the expression of infinite compassion. In its own spirit alone can its message be set forth. You may preach even the justice of God in such a way as to make His judgments seem full of the kindest intention to the heart. On the other hand, you may preach the sacrifice of love in such a manner as to make the story hard as judgment thunders. You may throw a pardon at a man in such a fashion as to make the forgiveness it expresses more bitter than a curse.

But how are we so to abound in pity as to be able, at all times, to fill our message with its gracious influence, for pity is not always easy, in which fact is one element of its high nobility? The sins of men, their vices with their results in life and character, often make it hard to pity them. A horrible thing is sin, and so horrible its effects that it seems, at times, almost impossible to look upon those in whom these effects are evident with any emotions save those of loathing and disgust. It was no very natural thing for Jonah to look with any sort of tenderness on that great, debauched, besotted Nineveh, reeking in its vileness, foul with the accumulated moral filth of many generations. Out of a man's own righteousness, too, his jealousy for God and his reverence for goodness, there may grow a certain hardness and, from very loyalty to God, it may not be easy to look with compassionate eyes upon the transgressor. We cannot but remember that every blessed purpose of the Kingdom is delayed by sin. By this black impediment every golden dream of devout saints, of moral and spiritual reformers is held back from happy fulfilment. It is difficult, indeed, to feel pitiful when the heart for Christ's sake is longing to behold the glories He died to bring to pass and sees those glories thus wantonly postponed. Yes, the note of pity is often hard to strike. The more we think of all that is involved the more emphasis we throw into the question—how has it to be done?

The truth is that pity for such a service needs to be earnestly and constantly cultivated. It only follows as the result of spiritual processes in the preacher's own soul. It is not the mere outflowing of a natural kindliness of disposition, of inborn good nature. It is more than mere sloppy sentimentality. That kind of pity, if you may call it by such a name, never tells the truth excepting when it is pleasant, never preaches a sermon of rebuke, never reasons concerning "judgment to come." There is no such word as Hell in its vocabulary; there is no accusation in its programme. The pity we mean blazes up into moral anger, smites and wounds, and compassionates the while. This pity requires cultivation. Quoting an old phrase, "it never grew in Nature's garden." An understanding of men is absolutely essential to attainment herein. Some one has said that "if we knew all we would pity all." God does know all and does pity all. The compassion of Jesus was aided by His knowledge of the multitude; so must ours be. It is a terrible story—this story of transgression—but those who know it best water it with tears. Nothing is served by closing our eyes to facts, though the temptation is great to exercise the mistaken charity of declining to know. Is there no danger of a cowardly refusal of vision, of making the fellowship of saints a hiding place whither we can escape from the sights and shames of the world? Are we quite guiltless of seeking in the Christian Society a forgetfulness of the things that wither and blast human souls without? Do none of us make of the Church "a little garden walled around," where the sound of crying and of cursing breaks not upon our peace as we dream our happy dreams? We are sent to look steadfastly upon the sore, to behold and analyse the very truth, for it is in the measure in which our souls are pierced that we compassionate.

But the greatest school for the learning of pitifulness is yonder at the feet of Jesus. In His company hearts grow hard to sin and tender to sinners. "Is there any sorrow like unto My sorrow?" He cries, and we know that His sorrow was not for Himself, but for those who spurned Him. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do," He prays, and, lo! the cry is for His very murderers, and the music of it melts our spirit toward the transgressor while the transgression becomes more hateful in our eyes. Where do you abhor sin as you abhor it upon the slopes of Calvary? Where do you pity sinners as you pity them there? There is the fountain of judgment. There is the fountain of forgiveness.

Yes, the greatest school of pitifulness is in the presence of Christ. From Him, in Temple court and city street, on mountain brow and sea-shore, in the wilderness and in the domestic circle of Bethany, the preacher catches that new tone which shall give his accusation commendation and power. But there is another teacher, still, who will greatly help to fix the lesson in his heart if only he be heard. That teacher is Memory. Memory is always waiting to whisper in the preacher's ear. "And such were some of you," writes St. Paul to the Corinthians, "but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the spirit of our God." Ah! the preacher, himself is but a sinner saved by grace. There was a time when he, also, was in the far country, when he, also, was a rebel against law and love, when even he was "lost already." Can he forget those days of darkness and of shame? Can he forget how the warning ambassador of his hitherto despised Redeemer came to him? Can he forget the mire and the clay and the horrible pit from which a strong hand brought him forth? Let him "think on these things" as he looks upon his congregation, as he rebukes their contumacy. Let him remember that he has come into the pulpit only by the steps of mercy, by the long-suffering grace of a sin-pardoning God.

Here, then, is an essential part of the preacher's training—the training of his own heart to tenderness. If he fail in giving attention to this, all other education will be worse than fruitless. The age needs the pitiful Church. The age and the Church need the pitiful ministry. This is not to say that men look to the pulpit for nothing but softly spoken indulgences. Conscience has taught them that the message should hurt where hurt is salutary. They will not recognise as kindness the withholding, or the dilution of any truth. On the other hand they give to the motive of the preacher who does these things a less flattering name. They will say—have we not heard the criticism?—that the preacher is afraid to be faithful, afraid to offend for reasons that are selfish and cowardly. The offence of unwelcome truth is covered when that truth is watered by a preacher's tears.

So let us preach—declaring "the whole counsel" concerning sin for pity's sake, preaching the whole truth concerning salvation too. Something is in our mind to ask concerning our presentation of this last-named portion of our message:—Are we always quite faithful as to what we call the conditions of salvation? In the presentation of these conditions great skill and great care are required. It is so easy to under—or over—emphasise, so easy, out of jealousy for God, to make the way too hard or, out of a desire to win men, to make it too easy. Perhaps in the latter possibility lies, in our time, the greater danger. Do we always ask for penitence as unmistakably as we ought? There should be repentance "toward God" as well as "faith in our Lord Jesus Christ." We may at least suggest the question:—Whether we do not sometimes call for the latter, saying too little of the former. Again, in calling for faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, is it not easy to appear to demand a mere belief in historic facts when what is required is the trustful surrender of the soul to the Redeemer? We have seen fifty people hold up their hands, at the request of a preacher, to signify their turning to God, and we have noted that no outward sign of deep emotion accompanied the act. We have watched a multitude pass through an inquiry room where, though inquirers were many, tears were few. That "there are diversities of operations" we know. "Old times are changed, old manners gone." All this we admit, and, perhaps, we should not demand to see again such things as Time has cast behind him. But, oh! those were great days when the returning rebel smote upon his breast and would not so much as lift up his eyes unto heaven, as with sobs and groans, he cried, "God be merciful to me, a sinner." Those were glorious scenes when, in one and the same hour, he broke for ever with old habits, old companionships, old loves and, with eyes still streaming went forth exclaiming, "'Tis done, the great transaction's done!"

CHAPTER III.

The Note of Idealism.

The Christian preacher is not only the accuser of men and the ambassador of reconciliation; he is also the Prophet of a new order. "Go, preach, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand," so runs his commission. His message must convey more than the promise of a deliverance from the consequences of sin. It must proclaim new possibilities for the individual. It must point to higher altitudes for the race. The preacher announces a New Jerusalem descending out of heaven. His ministry is not to lead to the better only, but to the best.

For such preaching as this there is, deep down in the heart of man, a great hunger and thirst. Sordid and materialistic as is the life of the age, engrossed as the multitudes appear to be in the pursuit of mammon, of vain glory and of pleasure, there still lingers in the human breast a suspicion that men were fashioned for something higher than the things that, so often, first engross and then exhaust their powers. The millionaire is not satisfied with his millions and, of late, has told us so. The man of pleasure is not satisfied with his pleasures, and, when he unburdens his secret mind, confesses his disappointment and disgust. Corn, wine and oil, houses, lands and station are all the objects of loathing as well as of pursuit, to those who, having won them, have found out their real quality. It is a primal instinct of the race that "the life is more than meat and the body than raiment."

To the student of our times there is nothing more pathetic than to observe the struggles of those upon whom materialism casts its spell to escape from their bondage. To aid them in this endeavour they call the painter, the sculptor, the dramatist, the man of letters, the player skilled in the language of music, and to one and all they say, "Idealise! Idealise!" Periods of realism in art never last long, though, in a sense, realism is easier to the artist than idealism. The explanation is that it is not realism that is really in demand. The artist must give us not man as he is, but as he ought to be; not life as we know it, but life as we would know it and live it, too; not the human face scarred and seamed by vices inherited from a thousand tainted years, but fresh, and sweet, and beautiful as it came from the hands of God, new washed in the dews of His infinite affection. Even nature must be idealised, and the painter struggles to produce the perfect landscape, the sculptor to represent the perfect form. The artist who mixes no imagination with his colours never holds for long the public honour. The heart of man asks for the ideal; the actual is not enough.

And to the preacher, also, these unsatisfied spirits bring the same request. If it is not upon their lips, you may read it in the deep longing of their unquiet eyes. The age is not a happy age, and its lack of happiness does not arise, alone, from its sicknesses, its bereavements, its shattered hopes, the cruelties of "offence's gilded hand." Some one has said that men would be happy if it were not for their pleasures, and the saying contains a profound truth. In this unhappiness they turn to see if, peradventure, the preacher can show them higher and clearer heights of joy. Sometimes, thank God! the vision splendid is spread before them. It is a vision no poet or painter, save such as have been to the springs of the Eternal, can depict, and if the glory of it find its way into the seeker's soul life for him is never the same again. But sometimes, alas! he is disappointed. The voice in the pulpit is little more than a sanctimonious echo of the voices of the street. Then goes the sorrowing seeker hence, and lo, the tiny glimmer of hope with which he came has all but been put out!

For it is a criticism one all too often hears, that the modern preacher, instead of asking too much, asks too little, and that, when he does ask for much, his asking is more for great faith than for great living from both the individual and the age. It has been remarked that almost the whole of the difference between the Christian preacher and the heathen moralist is expressed in the statement that the preacher adds to his teaching a flavour of Jewish history and sweetens with the promise of a future life. Otherwise the heathen moralist points as far up the mountain side as he. There is such a possibility as that of preaching along too low a level. It is an ill thing when the preacher becomes content with the straw and forgets the crown.

For the preacher like the rest of men may become enslaved to things and powers material. "Where there is no vision the people perish," and of vision, in the larger sense, the preacher may share the general poverty. After all, even he belongs to the age into which he was born, and it needs qualities that are none too common to resist the influences of the times and of environment. Beside all this, are there not personal experiences in the lives of all of us which make it hard to keep our eyes upon the stars? We think of the local preacher spending his week in the market or behind the counter, in office or mine or factory or in the field wrestling with Nature for the bread that perisheth. We think of the minister often worried, almost distracted, by "the care of the churches," by the crabbed foolishness and miserable jealousies of contentious men and women. We must remember that for many a preacher life is not a May Day festival, but a question and a struggle. Surely the wonder is not that sometimes the man in the pulpit speaks in a minor key, but that, under all the conditions of his life, we hear from him so much of the higher music as we do. The memory comes to us as we write of a man who preached the Gospel for years with the cruel disease of cancer gnawing at his vitals. We can recall others who came to proclaim the golden year from domestic circles blighted by the debauchery and vice of children but too well beloved. Did these men sometimes speak falteringly, and with hesitation, the message in which they asked and promised glorious things? Did they, from the very darkness of the clouds lowering above them, see only the lower slopes of the Mountains of the Lord? Who could wonder? The preacher is but a man!

Yes, the preacher is but a man, and as a man finds out something else:—That, after all, it is not out of his experiences of life, nor from the influences of his time, nor from both together that the greatest hindrance to altitude of tone in his preaching arises. As a man is in heart and life so in some degree he preaches. The call of the Gospel is to perfection, and the perfect man is not yet, though many there are, even in these days, whose lives are a constant and noble struggle to reach this far-off mark. Is it strange that sometimes a preacher's own failure to gain the wished for heights should cause him to put before others possibilities, not, indeed, according to his own low level of attainment, but still far below those he is sent to declare? Living on low levels means inevitably preaching on low levels, though, as a man's preaching is derived from higher sources than are found in his own soul, his call to others ought always to be of higher things than he has, himself, attained.

Here, then, are some of the reasons why it often happens that our preaching lacks the elevation of high idealism. This idealism is none the less needed that there are reasons for its absence. Along these lines lies one of the great struggles of the preacher's life, which is so triumphantly to resist the influences of his day and the depression of his personal experiences, so to live his own life that he shall always be able to act as a joyful guide to the Alps of God.

And what are these higher heights to which he has to point his fellows? We ask the question first as concerning the individual and then as concerning the nations. We shall surely find it easy to obtain an answer to the inquiry in both its forms.

"Easy!" Yes; for the heights designed for us to reach are so clearly mapped out in the teaching, and especially in the life of Him whose word the preacher comes forward to declare, and whose example it is his glorious employment to put before the world. "The prize of the mark of our high calling" is the utter conquest of sin in the heart, its eradication not only in branch but in very root. Our goal is the utterly blameless life. It is more glorious, even, than this. It is the realisation in their perfection, not of negative virtues alone, but of virtues positive, active, aggressive. It is in brief the "perfect man in Christ Jesus."

And of what use is any lower understanding or interpretation of the purpose of Christ? Indeed, is any lower interpretation possible on the face of things? We cannot bring ourselves to believe that He would of set purpose come to secure a partial triumph in the subjects of His grace. We speak of the difficulties of this our doctrine, but, after all, greater difficulties would have to be overcome in consenting to any lower conception of the divine intent. Try to imagine the Master effecting the saving of a soul with the design that it shall still hold to some remains of former vices, to some of its old lusts, of its ancient enmities. Imagine Him, again, agreeing that a man shall continue to be the prey of evil tempers, of covetousness, of jealousy, of pride and falseness. Imagine Him entering into a tacit compromise with the forces of evil, that He will take so much and expect no more in the worship and ownership and conquest of those for whom He died. The idea is unthinkable! Jesus Christ came, suffered, bled, died, rose again, and ascended up on high that once more the eyes of God might look upon a perfect man.

Now, all this sounds very old-fashioned and very much like the teaching that we have heard, and perhaps in varying degrees disparaged, from the lips of those whom we call, sometimes with a slight, but none the less real, touch of sarcasm, "holiness men." How afraid we are that any one should ask us to be too good! But the teaching of Scriptural holiness was once one of the glories of Methodism and clear in the forefront of her preaching. To-day, perhaps, we hear less concerning that gospel than once we did. Is it absolutely certain that this fact always works out to the advantage of the preacher and his people? To-day, also, we hear less concerning the joy of the Christian life than formerly; less concerning new triumphs in the conversion of sinners than in days it is glorious to remember. To-day men complain, as we have already heard, that the preachers ask too little and do not bid them look so high as something in their bosoms tells them they ought to look. The preaching of Scriptural holiness has been discredited, it must be confessed, by the language into which it has often been thrown; by a disposition to censoriousness in those who have given it a large place in their ministry; by a disposition, too, on the part of its preachers to label as sins many things which were capable of innocent use and enjoyment, to cut out of life more than they sought to put in, dealing rather in prohibitions than in inspirations. This doctrine has suffered, again, more than most, from the inconsistencies of its apostles, as was indeed inevitable and should have been expected, for the higher a man's preaching the more clearly his personal imperfections are brought out by force of contrast, which may be rather to the glory of the preaching than to its discredit. Say, however, all that can be said in this direction concerning the doctrine of Christian Perfection; the ideals of the Gospel for human living are no lower than the highest word the Perfectionist has ever uttered. These ideals, as put before us and required of us, are part of the message of the Cross, and the preaching which does not include and enforce them is incomplete and cannot become, in the highest sense, effective in the accomplishment of its divine purpose. When a man's preaching presents ideals higher than those of the Sermon on the Mount; when he asks for a whiter purity, a more embracing charity, a nobler style of living than are required by Jesus Christ, then will have come the time to call a halt. Up to this point he has behind him not only divine permission but divine command. By his ears, if he but listen, may be heard, also, the voices of men who are weary of the valleys and the swamps, and who long to climb the heights and pierce the clouds that hold their vision from the skies. We need a new Puritanism, and it must not be a Puritanism principally of prohibitions, as was the old. It must be a Puritanism in which all the glories possible to heart and mind and soul are set forth in charm and beauty.

But the preacher has a message for society, as well as for the individual, and it is essential to the highest uses of that message that sublimer notes should be struck than are commonly heard. Jesus Christ showed an interest in trade, and the sellers of doves and changers of money heard from Him, one day, words of such a sort as made their ears to tingle. The preacher must not be afraid to insist on perfect integrity, perfect honesty, and even perfect brotherhood in commerce. We have heard somewhere the story of a business man in Brighton to whom, one day, a customer chanced to speak concerning F. W. Robertson—perhaps, taking one thing with another the most influential preacher of the Victorian era. Leading his client into a little room behind the shop he pointed, with these words, to a portrait upon the wall: "That is F. W. Robertson, and when, standing behind the counter, I feel a temptation to do a dishonest thing in trade, I come in here and look up at that face." What a tribute this to a great ministry which had its message for the office and the shop and turned commerce and handicraft into great religious acts. To the world of industry the messenger of Christ must also bring the new ideals he has learned. Why should the relationships of master and servant, of capital and labour, be poisoned by suspicion and marred by covetousness, oppression, evasion of mutual obligations? The problem to be solved in this twentieth century is probably this of the relations between the man with money to spend and the man with work to sell. Ah, if only Jesus Christ were President of the Board of Trade! Paul was not afraid to lift up his voice on these extremely practical subjects, and even now, the sixth chapter of Ephesians is far from out of date: "Servants," he says, turning to the one class, "be obedient to them that are your masters .... not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart." To the masters also, he has something to say: "And, ye masters, do the same things unto them, forbearing threatening, knowing that your Master also is in heaven; neither is there respect of persons with Him." St. James, that great practical homilist, could not be silent here. Of all who ever addressed the capitalist upon his responsibilities surely never one spoke more strongly than did he. "Go to, now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you..... Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth." Here is denunciation hot and stirring, and the preacher may at times have to denounce, and when the time comes, must face that duty manfully for the sake of God and men. On this page, however, we plead not for denunciation but for idealism,—idealism supported by the truths of the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man, and enforced by all the tender meanings of the Cross.

For the world of statesmanship, again, the preacher has a teaching of idealism, which is a very different thing from the preaching of party politics, which has done more harm a thousand times than any good it has ever effected. In the nation as Christ would have it there should be no jealousy between class and class; no oppression of the poor by the rich; no reproach for either honest poverty or honest wealth. In such a state there would be a chance for every man. Government would not mean tyranny; liberty would not mean licence. There would be purity of administration. There would be consecration of national resources to the good of all. War, by such a state, would be as impossible as it is now imminent. In such a state, again, sermons on the text, "Our country right or wrong," would neither find preachers to deliver them nor audiences to listen to them. When the New Jerusalem is built in England, the slum, the gin palace, the workhouse, and the gaol will be things of the past. "Thus saith the Lord of Hosts; there shall yet old men and old women dwell in the streets of Jerusalem, and every man with his staff in his hand for very age. And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in the streets thereof." Oh, the dream is overpowering in its glory; and it is not a dream, but a prophecy from Calvary to the sorrowing nations of a sinful world!

So the errand of the preacher is to declare the Golden Age for which men have longed with, oh, such longing! amid the sins, and crimes, and miseries which have made up so much of human history. Of this so greatly desired time have they dreamed. To bring it in they have schemed and laboured, bled and died. They have thought to hasten its dawn by the founding of "Utopias," of "Merrie Englands," by many a promising, but disappointing device. There is but one man who can tell them how it must come—how indeed it will come—and he is the man who has sat at the feet of Jesus Christ; who has seen His arms extended wide upon the Cross and learned those politics in which eternity is set. The Golden Age will come when the world shall listen to him, and give itself to the practice of that old doctrine which is to be the creation not only of a new Heaven, but, also, of a new Earth.

But the preacher must do more than formulate the divine command; more than paint glowing pictures of glorious possibilities. It is required that his idealism shall be shown to be practicable. It is of no use to tell a drunkard that Christ wants sobriety, or a liar that the Lord wants truth in the inward parts; it is of no use preaching about the conquest of temper and of passion; about the crucifixion of covetousness and envy and jealousy; about patience, gentleness, kindness, love, unless, along with the demands of this new scheme of living, the great evangelical watchwords and promises ring strong and true. The glory of the preacher is that he, alone of those who bring forth programmes for the lives of men, can tell us how his programme may be carried out. He has a wonderful authority given unto him in his dealings with the weak and erring. He can make to every man who gives himself to Christ, and to the living of the life He asks, the promise that Christ will give to him nothing less than His own very self. To any man who tremblingly, tearfully "makes up his mind to try," the preacher may pledge his Lord in guarantees which will be honoured to the very uttermost. Power! There is God's for his promising. Grace! There is Christ's for his disposal. He is the almoner of an infinite bounty. Then to the preacher there comes from his own vision a courage which he can communicate to others. No other man sees such possibilities in human nature as he, for he looks on man in Jesus Christ, and discerns better things in him than man had hoped for in himself. He beholds, also, the Spirit of God at work in the world; hears His footsteps as He goes to and fro in the land. Hence he can cry to the nations to lift up their head, knowing that "the Lord Omnipotent reigneth." He is the idealist whose ideals—more "impossible" than all the dreams of moralists and poets—are the true practical politics of individual and national life. The time is ripe for a new preaching of the possibilities of humanity, for a new setting forth of what life and character, personal and national, may be, and must be, to please Him and realise the blessing the Creator had it in His heart to give to man when first He sent him forth in the glory of His image. For such preaching, we have already said, men are waiting, listening, longing. They wait, too, for a new declaration of the high provisions of help available for human endeavour. Men instinctively anticipate that the ideals of God concerning them will be high, but they anticipate, also instinctively, that the provision for the realisation of these ideals will be sufficient. They do not ask that, for the sake of human weakness, God shall make honesty less than honest; truth less than true; purity less than pure, but they do ask that for all these things He shall give grace and guidance. Does our preaching answer these instinctive expectations, these deep longings, these inborn hopes in those to whom we are sent? Do we truly put before them that high life their spirits yearn to live? Do we show them the path "o'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent," to the heights that kiss the stars?

If we do, well; but if not:—Then, perhaps, we should not wonder, nor be astonished, if pews are empty, if church membership declines, if men say that there is little profit in coming to hear thoughts no higher than their own. They look for the preacher to ask for better, higher, harder things than all their other leaders. If he fail in this his church has but little to draw them within its doors. Practical idealism is essential to effective and successful preaching.

CHAPTER IV.

The Note of Edification.

The preacher is appointed for the upbuilding of the Church and of the individual believer upon "the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief corner stone." Upon this foundation, with almost infinite care, with untiring labour and solicitude and prayerfulness, has he to rear "a temple fitly framed together" of "gold, silver and precious stones;" upon this foundation he has to build the fabric of saintly character in men. Only that preacher is truly successful who, in the end, is able humbly to claim to have been in this sense a "wise master-builder;" who can point to the results of his labours in the beauty and strength of the churches in which he has toiled, in the saintliness of the men and women to whom he has spoken the re-creating, re-edifying word.

Now, in our day, it is, perhaps, specially needful that this part of the preacher's duty should be particularly emphasised. Of the Church it has to be said that she has fallen on somewhat evil times, for there is evidence of the growth of a tendency toward a Churchless Christianity. Many there are who take the view that union with the Church is of small importance to the development of Christian faith and character. There are more who regard such union as something which, while it may have certain advantages, is nevertheless entirely optional with the Christian believer. Again and again have we been told that Christianity consists of belief in Jesus Christ resulting in an attempt to imitate Him, and that, as this belief and this attempt can be achieved outside of any organised religious community, a man may be essentially a Christian without being a member of the Church. The reasons for this attitude are not far to seek. Among them are a selfishness which fears the sacrifice that membership of the Church might involve; a slothfulness anticipating with apprehension the possible demands for Christian service which the Fellowship might make, and a lack of real intensity and enthusiasm in conviction, which hesitates to make an out-and-out stand for Christ and truth.

From the same causes, in all ages, men have kept outside the organised flock of God and, therefore, such reasons as these need not greatly alarm us. But there is another objection to joining the Church which, alas! is often heard, which peculiarly concerns the preacher and ought to lead him to much careful inquiry. It is that objection which quotes against the Church her own condition. It is alleged that, nowadays, the faith of the Church is in a state of flux; that her enthusiasm has cooled to the point of chill; that her members are in such small degree better than the men and women outside their society that their company does not promise any moral and spiritual help to a man in search of saving and ennobling companionships. It is said, moreover, that the Church is so divided, sub-divided and sub-sub-divided that it is impossible to be sure as to where the true Church may be found. Finally, we are told that in all probability if Jesus Christ came to earth in the flesh, He would in these times be found outside the sanctuaries in which His name is supposed to be honoured.

Now, many of these assertions may surely be shown to be the result of misunderstanding, of delusion, even of prejudice, and so should not be taken too much to heart. They may serve, however, to remind us of two truths which ought to be often in mind. The first is that Christianity needs the Church; the second, that the Church needs Christianity. As to the former proposition:—The Church is the Christian organism. It is principally through her agencies and activities that the purposes of Christianity are to be realised. This is true not only of those universal purposes which include the ideals of world-wide sovereignty, but, let men say what they will, it is true of those which relate to the realisation of Christ's will in the individual soul. It is not the fact that men find it as easy to live the Christian life outside the Church as within. This is sufficiently demonstrated by experience. Personal religion grows in the fellowship and the sacrifice, in the labours, the strength and inspiration consequent upon membership in a great and imperial family.

But the Church needs Christianity, and this, too, the preacher, for her sake, must deeply and constantly realise. The best antidote to the tendency toward a Churchless Christianity will be found, not in argument or command; certainly not in denunciations addressed to those who are outside the fold, but in the realisation by the Church herself of her glorious possibilities both as to character, labour and conquest. What is needed to save the Church from the opposing influences of our times is simply more of what she may have if she will. She needs a definite and not a nebulous belief. She needs a living and burning enthusiasm; a joy that will not be silent, and a hope that will not cower before the pessimism of the age. She needs such a piety as shall furnish a splendid contrast to the lives of all around her. In short, she must realise the ideals of her Founder, and every glorious prophecy shall be fulfilled. All the nations of the world shall flow into her. Kings shall come to the brightness of her rising. Men shall flock to her courts as doves to glowing windows from the cold and darkness of the wintry night.

So, for the sake of the world which cannot spare the Church, and for the sake of the Church which cannot dispense with what the preacher has to give, it is required that this duty of the Christian ministry be emphasised. Another reason must be stated that it may be underlined:—Faith, piety and enthusiasm, labour, sacrifice and victory are vital to the inner health and joy of the Church herself. This, too, the preacher must remember. Solemn, indeed, is the obligation resting upon him, and solemnly have the great preachers of all ages taken this responsibility to heart. "The care of the churches!"—how heavily it lay upon the shoulders of those early ambassadors whose confessions of fear concerning failure are written in the epistles. How it has driven to the Mercy Seat for help and guidance those whose work it has been in troublous times, to keep the flock of God committed to their custody! The feeding of the sheep in the wilderness, the care of the lambs, the strengthening of the weak, the endless, patient, prayerful striving needed in the pursuit of erring, foolish, falling ones, that all may be presented perfect in Christ Jesus—what demands do these make upon the preacher's noblest powers! In the dressing and polishing, to change the figure, of each quarried stone that the result may be seen in a building after the similitude of a palace, flashing in the light of God—here has lain the task in which many a glorious life has been gloriously spent; for even Jesus could not entrust to a man a grander or more onerous task than this!

And what manner of preaching is needed for the service of this saving and edifying end? It must surely be a preaching of the Church to the Church. It is to be questioned whether we have not largely failed to place before our people the New Testament doctrine of the Church. With such a failure may be associated another:—To emphasise duly the importance of those sacraments which are the inheritance of the Church from age to age. Can we deny that there is among our members a tendency to view very lightly the privileges and obligations of their membership in what we call—we have sometimes thought unhappily and with unfortunate effect—our societies? Again, can it be denied that amongst us as a people the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is undervalued? Faithfulness to the Church and to her sacraments run together. How many are there who have but the dimmest possible conception of what the Church is and of what membership in the Church really signifies and involves? There is much work to be done here—spade work we might almost call it—for the ground has hardly yet been broken amongst us. May we venture a suggestion that, among things inherited from an earlier day, the word "societies" as signifying churches should be dropped in favour of the nobler word, and that the preacher, in particular, should cease to use it in this relationship? Unless we are wrong in our reading of history this use of the term grew out of the view, long held by the founder of Methodism, that while the Anglican community was the Church, the assemblies collected by himself were merely groups of people meeting for mutual help in spiritual things. The time came, no doubt, when he would have been willing to allow to these assemblies, as to the great community of which they were the individual congregations, the title for which we plead; though he himself it must be remembered, remained a member of the Church of England until his death. Let the preacher take very high ground on this matter. This little band of lowly men and women meeting in their humble sanctuary by the wayside for intercourse on spiritual things, for the hearing of the word of life, for mutual encouragement in the celestial pilgrimage, for praise and prayer and breaking of bread; this little company "gathered together in My name," Jesus being "in the midst;" this little circle upon which is shed abroad the Holy Ghost for the teaching, comforting, sanctifying and anointing of the heavenly Bride—this little company, we say, is more than a "society." Its members form a church, and theirs are the glory, the privileges, the obligations of that "upper room" of eternal memory. Let them be told this—kept in remembrance of it—led to delight in it—encouraged to glory concerning it. Let it be laid down that it is not for this village fellowship to thank any man or woman, however exalted his or her social station, for condescending to membership therein, but that the honour of the association lies in being permitted an entrance into the fold, small as is the number of the flock and lowly as its members may be. We are confident that the scattered churches of our name need lifting into a realisation of their high dignity in Christ Jesus. Of all the subjects waiting for earnest study, and to which we as preachers, both ministers and laymen, need for the sake of present day necessities to turn our minds, none is more important than this. The Church can only retain, or rather, perhaps, we ought to have said—can only enter into her power through self-realisation. Here is need for a systematic educational work, and, should it be left undone, we must not be astonished if our members wear the bonds of their union lightly, and easily find ways out of a fellowship whose true significance they have never understood. Another eventuality, too, must not astonish us:—The Church of England does hold and preach a doctrine of the Church, preaches it diligently; preaches it, sometimes, with such limitations of application as we may well resent. The Roman Catholics do the same, and with limitations that are still more uncompromising. We of the Free Churches must not be astonished if, as a result of definite and positive teaching within other walls and a lack of such teaching within our own, the people drift away from us. To build up the Church we must preach the Church. She needs the sense of herself.

Important, however, as is the enunciation of the doctrine of the Church, the work of her edification will demand that the preacher have many other things to say. We have already referred to the presentation of a high idealism as essential to the completeness of the Christian message. It is indispensable to the adequate accomplishment of this duty that the preacher give himself to a systematic exposition of the Scriptures. May we even dare to say that it will be necessary for him to devote much of his strength to what has been termed doctrinal preaching? That these words will have a terrible sound in many ears we are aware. It is very unpopular, nowadays, to lay emphasis on the necessity for creed as well as for conduct—for creed, indeed, for the sake of conduct. We will, nevertheless, make bold to remark that one of the great desiderata of the day is a revival of expository preaching, while another, equally great, is a renaissance of doctrinal preaching. There is not too much theology taught in the churches, but too little. We are told that the preacher's first business is to treat of what are called "living issues"; that he should, above all, exalt conduct and charity as the great concerns of the soul. It is contended that men need guidance on public questions and that the preacher, as the representative of the Lord Jesus Christ, and of the Church, should endeavour to meet that need. Of course there is truth in it all, but it is also true that men need, most of all, the knowledge of God, and that, whatever bewilderment may exist in relation to public questions and moral issues, there is bewilderment, even greater, as to "the faith once delivered to the saints." There is no truly edifying preaching that is without theology. By such knowledge is the Church built up, and the preacher will teach it to his people in the form in which it can be assimilated. One thing he will surely not forget:—That upon him rests a great responsibility, not only in regard to the Church of to-day, but also concerning the Church of to-morrow, as now gathered before him in the persons of the young people preparing for life and service. He ought, certainly, to provide strengthening food for them in view of responsibilities to come. It is a great charge, this of building up the body of Christ, and it is upon us all to ask ourselves to what extent we have endeavoured to discharge this obligation. We admit that the temptations to evade it are many. Doctrinal and expository preaching require so much thought, such careful preparation, such scrupulous exactness in expression. It is little wonder that, wearied by other activities, the preacher sometimes seeks for subjects which can be treated with greater ease and less expenditure of intellectual effort than those we have indicated.

And such wonder as we may have is further diminished when we recollect that the idea is very commonly held that the people do not want preaching of this type; that, even within the churches indeed, they prefer being pleased to being taught. Possibly this is not so true as has been assumed. Perhaps again, in that degree in which it is true, the lesson to be learned from the fact is not that such preaching should be withheld, but rather that an effort should be made to invest it with elements of interest and attractiveness which have possibly too often been lacking. On this point we will have something to say later on. Meanwhile we are open to maintain that people do not dislike exposition and theology as such. The late Doctor McLaren was an expository preacher, and his sermons were as charming as fairy tales, multitudes flocking, through a long course of years, to hear them. C. H. Spurgeon was a doctrinal preacher, and untold thousands hung entranced upon his lips. Each man built up a great congregation, in which the fruits of the spirit flourished in a perpetual harvest of virtues, works and sacrifice. To-day the greatest churches in London are, almost without exception, those whose members sit at the feet of great preachers who are also, according to their separate schools, great theologians and masters in the art of interpreting the Scriptures. We remember as we write a cold and depressing Sabbath evening last autumn when we turned into Westminster Chapel. Only a few years ago this great sanctuary was a wilderness in which might be realised the tragedy that is contained in the phrase "a down-town church." At this moment it is the home of a mighty spiritual fellowship. On the night of our visit the immense temple was crowded from floor to ceiling. The congregation had obviously been drawn from all ranks and conditions of society. Professional men sat side by side with horny-handed sons of toil, fine ladies with servant girls, the old with the young. What new device of sensationalism had brought them together? What startling announcement had been flung out over the city to attract this mighty concourse? Absolutely none! The sermon was a closely reasoned doctrinal address, full of quotations from the Scriptures and of comparison of passage with passage. It was a sermon to tax attention. We mention this experience to show that doctrinal preaching need not mean empty sanctuaries, as is often asserted. Here was a great congregation and, better still, here was a living Church.

A further duty of the preacher, that the message may become approved in the building up of the Church, is that of impressing the demands of Jesus Christ upon those who bear His name. Preaching needs to be more exacting than it is. There are vast multitudes in the Church whose religious life—if indeed they have such a life—is absolutely parasitical. They render no service; they offer no sacrifice; their only confession of faith is a more or less intermittent attendance at the public sessions of worship. By such people, one has humourously said, the Church seems to be regarded as a Pullman car bound for glory. Their chief desires are that the train may run so slowly as to enable them to enjoy the scenery by the way; that the time-bill shall allow of frequent and lengthy stoppages on the journey, and especially that the conclusion of the trip shall be postponed to as late an hour as possible, as they labour under no extravagant anxiety to come to its end. Are we uncharitable in suspecting that the chief reason many of these people have for making some degree of preparation for Paradise is that they cannot remain on earth and that Heaven is, on the whole, to be preferred to the only other country available? Ah! the preacher has much of this kind of material on his hands and, notwithstanding its quality, the commission to build it up into strength and beauty still applies.

Clearly, in such cases, the duty of the edifying preacher is not to hide, but to emphasise the demands of Jesus Christ for active participation in some form of Christian service. "The harvest truly is plenteous but the labourers are few," and altogether apart from the advantages to be gained by the Church from the bringing in of the sheaves, there is a benefit to be won by the reaper as he garners the grain, which is entirely beyond calculation. Our fathers made it their business in the case of every new convert to find him "something to do." Sometimes the results were unfortunate, in that men were put to work they were not qualified to attempt; but the new employment kept many a man from falling, and often helped to make useful and polished instruments out of very unpromising material. Nearly a thousand years ago Peter the Hermit passed like a flame of fire across the provinces of Europe calling upon men to wrest the Holy places from the hands of the Saracen. In countless thousands they responded to his call, even little children arising and pressing eastward on the great emprise. Surely there is need enough for crusading to-day. Surely, too, there are multitudes who, for their own souls' sake, and for the sake of the Church, would be all the better for the health and vigour which a little crusading would bring. Upon us rests the obligation in Christ's name to call these hitherto unemployed and ineffective ones to the standard of the Cross.

And to this demand for service it is the preacher's duty to add, in view of the advantages to follow in the life and character, the faith and influence of the Church, an equally strong demand for sacrifice. It is no kindness of the pulpit to cut down the requirements of the Lord upon the time, the strength, the comfort and the substance of those who profess themselves His followers. He that would have life eternal "let him go and sell all that he hath and give to the poor." "He that will be My disciple, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me." "He that would save his life the same shall lose it." In these figurative words lies one secret of spiritual growth and health.

So then it comes to this:—That the edification of the Church and of the individual believer, so far as it forms part of the task of this, our messenger, is to be accomplished by the faithful preaching of such things as the Master has left on record for the learning of His followers, and by calling them to make proof of truth in the exercise of Christian activity, self-denial, sacrifice and self-culture. We believe, notwithstanding all that may be said to the contrary, that the Church and her children long to hear this message and that they will respond to it. Once more we admit that to the preacher, it may not be the easiest kind of preaching to attempt, for here he will soon be among the deep things of God, and he will have to ask for great endeavours and great surrenders. But the divine commission is in his hands, and has he not undertaken to speak what God shall teach him

"Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land"?

CHAPTER V.

The Note of Cheer

The chapter now to be added is written under the influence of a Sabbath afternoon service in which, a few hours ago, we occupied a pew. The scene was a village chapel among the mountains of the North of England. The preacher was a layman well advanced in age, who told us that, for five-and-forty years, he had been coming from the head of the circuit to take appointments in the village. The sermon was not eloquent. It was neither learned nor profound. It gave no evidence of any great acquaintance with modern thought. There was absolutely no attempt at exegesis. Indeed, the discourse would have failed to satisfy most of those elementary canons upon which the homiletical professors lay such stress. Yet, one great excellence it had, which, to its simple-minded auditors, more than atoned for all its many imperfections:—It was effective; it was successful. We came away thanking God for the testimony we had heard.

And herein lay the success of this local brother's unpretentious discourse:—It cheered us, one and all. Faces brightened and drooping heads were lifted up as the old man pursued his way. The last hymn was the heartiest of all, not because, as is sometimes the case, the people were encouraged by the thought of approaching liberation, but because of the spiritual "uplift" they had realised. We heard a happy buzz of pleasant talk from young and old as they poured through the door to assemble in friendly groups for mutual "good-days" on the pavement in front of the little temple. With most of them we were well acquainted. Some were aged and infirm. Others found the struggle of life a hard one. One pew was filled with mourners who, during the latest week, had stood around an open grave. There were Christian workers to whom recent days had brought disappointments and weariness—labourers in the vineyard who had much to try their faith, for religious work in the villages has many difficulties in these days when the great towns attract so many of our most hopeful young people from the lanes to the streets. The widow was there, the orphan, the poor, the man who had failed in life. Ah! those people had come together bringing with them to the sanctuary much doubt and care and perplexity and fear. It was good to watch them as the preacher went on; good to feel that these hearts were losing their loads, these minds their anxieties. "Not a great discourse," the critic would have said. Perhaps not—from some standpoints. Having reached the end of fifty years of preaching, this white-haired patriarch had long given up the idea of great discourses. To him the Master had said, "Comfort ye, comfort ye My people," and he had walked long, long miles up the mountain side to do it. Pace the critic! This preaching was the very thing for those needy folk this wintry afternoon.

And now, in recollection of that blessed sermon, and under its gracious influence, we are strengthened to assert that it is an essential of the message that it contain good cheer for those who need it. The preacher is more than the accuser of men in Christ's stead; more, even, than the mouthpiece of a divine invitation. His task is not completed in the edifying of churches, in the building up of individual souls in faith and doctrine and righteousness. Jesus saw the sorrow of the world, anticipated the afflictions through which men would have to pass and the burdens they would have to bear. "He was touched with the feeling of our infirmities," He drank of our bitter cup. Our griefs were in His mind when He sent His preachers forth. To be the agents of a great purpose of consolation, ministers of cheer and encouragement to hard-pressed and burdened men and women to the end of time were they sent!

And for this work of consolation He not only gave a commission but He furnished, as well, an example to all who should ever preach His word. Surely one great secret of the wondrous effectiveness of that brief ministry lay in the fact that while, as we have seen, it spoke to the consciences of men, bringing home the truths of righteousness and judgment; while it set before them the way of spiritual salvation and formulated the demands and conditions thereof, indicating the higher path, the strait gate and the narrow way, it was also directed to the bruised hearts and broken spirits of those who attended His steps. We are told, after all, but very little of the words and deeds of Jesus during those eventful years in which He trod the highways and byeways of the land breaking the bread of life from city to city. Of the period passed in Nazareth in preparation for the strenuous days to come we are told nothing at all. The world, it is said, would hardly contain the books if all had been written down. But enough is told to give us visions of those unrecorded days, and to show that He was a cheering Christ, a messenger of comfort—this Saviour of ours. Healing was in His words. "Did not our hearts burn within us while He talked with us by the way, and while He opened to us the Scriptures?" said, one to another, those two disciples who, with saddened countenances, had set out together to Emmaus on that troubled day. Watch Him yonder in the house at Bethany, what time bereavement casts its shadow upon the dwelling. "And He took little children in His arms and blessed them." Here, again, is a whole history of tenderness. From this one act a flood of light streams backward and forward upon His whole earthly life, and we can see the kindly glance that brought the little ones around Him. We can hear the gentle voice that dispelled their shyness and gave confidence to their hearts. Even in that old time, and in the quiet and dreamy East, life had many cares. There were push and drive and hard and grinding rivalry even then. Those days had their economic questions as well as ours. It was only by hardest struggle that many a cupboard was furnished and many a table spread; for poverty is no new thing, and sorrow, affliction, oppression, dread and death are as old as the hills. We read of the beggar by the wayside, of Lazarus writhing in hunger and smitten with sores on the threshold of Dives, who wore purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. The widow's house was robbed; the orphan was cheated of his small inheritance; life, even for the fortunate, went much as it does now—the music of gladness to-day, the solemn tones of the dirge to-morrow. How gracious to many a hearer would be that Sermon on the Mount with its passages for the special blessing of perplexed and worried souls, spoken, also, for the teaching of all who may be called to stand before the children of grief and want. "Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?" .... "For your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things." .... "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself." .... "And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?" .... "Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings? And not one of them is forgotten before God: But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows." .... "Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much more are ye better than the fowls?" Think of it all! Imagine that great multitude gathered out of the cities and villages round about. It was a hard world from which they had come to hear this man of Nazareth, and, even as they came, care had tugged at their skirts; fear had rattled upon the doors of their hearts. Think what music would be in that sweet new Gospel of divine providence and affection, spoken in that calm and gentle voice whose every tone was vibrant with understanding, sympathy and love! Can we not see the people as darkness throws its veil across the blue Syrian sky turning once more to their distant homes, new hope and courage enthroned upon the forehead so recently seamed by care? Can we not follow them to the dawning of another day, and behold their going forth, once again, to the tasks of life brightly, bravely, cheerily? To them, indeed, had come glad tidings of great joy!

And if the Master so gave Himself to this ministry of brightening the lives of men, His first preachers caught the lesson and went forth, the same good purpose lively in their hearts. To "lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees;" to heal "that which was lame," that "it be not turned out of the way;" "to visit the widow and the fatherless;" to "speak peace" to the people—in these happy duties lay a large part of their work. Dark, indeed, were those early days for the infant Church; heavy the clouds above her; terrible the storms of hate and persecution which spent their fury upon her and scattered abroad her fellowship, but amidst it all more songs were heard than sighs, more triumphs than complaints. In the midnight hour a strange new music ran through the prison, for Paul and Silas "prayed and sang praises and the prisoners heard them," and so, to crushed and bleeding souls, even there, a breath of heavenly comfort came. We have sometimes heard people talk of St. Paul in such a way as to picture one who was above the tenderness wherefrom sad hearts are blessed—the great theologian, the mighty logician, the lone, strong, sublime man whose self-mastery lifted him above sympathy with common men. Great he was, but great in compassion as well as in mind. Among the watchwords of encouragement you will find none more inspiring than those written by his fettered hand. Was it not he who wrote that assurance which has so often come between us and despair:—"And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God"? From him, also, came that glowing word which has shed radiance upon many a couch of pain: "For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." There is a more noble picture of the great Apostle to the Gentiles than that above referred to. The ship is "driven up and down in Adria." Euroclydon roars through the rigging. Mighty billows come crashing over the bulwarks. "Neither sun, nor moon nor stars" have "for many days appeared." Nearer and nearer the helpless craft is being swept to the cruel rocks of yonder savage coast. The ship's company is in an agony of dismay. Suddenly from the cabin comes he of Tarsus. "Wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer," he cries, above the blast, "for I believe God." Thus does he summarise in one great assuring word the message learned at the foot of the cross. Behind it is all the authority of God's revelation to his soul upon the Damascus road!

So ministered the Master, and so, His first preachers, and hence it came to pass that the early disciples of the infant faith were known for their calmness, their courage and their joy. Men "took knowledge of them that they had been with Jesus." This was the very age of which the poet has told us:—

On that hard Pagan World disgust
And secret loathing fell;
Deep weariness and sated lust
Made human life a hell.

But the servants of the Galilean, more persecuted than any other men, walked abroad with a gladness which was at once the perplexity and the condemnation of the time. "Rejoice evermore" was a sacred command and a glorious possibility of the new religion, for they were taught to believe that "All things are yours and ye are Christ's and Christ is God's"; they were assured that "Nothing shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord"!

That was the first century, and with us now is the twentieth; and it is said that the burdens of men become more numerous and more heavy as the years pass on. Older grows the world, but there is no lessening of its care, no relief from its perplexity, its pain, its sorrow. As civilisation becomes more complex the "drive" of life waxes ever more and more fierce. Along with this complaint, it is said by some, that in the Church there is less joy than in those old days—less, indeed, than in times within the memory of the grey-haired among us. We who are Methodists are often reminded of a former Methodism which was vocal with praises and electric with joy. They whisper that it is different with us now; that even the pulpit has lost its note of gladness. Care sits upon the preacher's brow. The songs of Zion are timed to the throb of hearts that lag for very weariness. "Some are sick and some are sad." "Cares of to-day and burdens of to-morrow" haunt us in the very means of grace, and little is said to make us forget. "Fightings without and fears within," from these we seek deliverance in vain. The prophet has forgotten how to comfort or, if he have not forgotten, he thinks the task unworthy of hours which might be more learnedly and impressively employed.

If we admit, as perhaps we may, the existence of a measure of truth in this complaint, it will only be to claim that there is some excuse for those whom it asperses. The intellectual problems bred of a materialistic age have so compelled the preacher to the defence of the walls of Zion that it may well have come to pass that the inhabitants of the city—the men and women down in the streets and dwellings, for the security of whom he has been contending—may have had to go short of many things; a time of siege is a time of deprivations and hardships for citizens as well as soldiers. The great social questions of the present day have also claimed much of his thought and effort. He has felt, and justly, that these questions ought to receive more pulpit recognition. It is possible, and should not be thought surprising, that in the ardour of the social crusade the preacher may have sometimes given to these things time and strength which might have been better spent in ministering to the personal griefs and perplexities of such as sat before him for their need's sake. It may be well for us each to make inquiry concerning ourselves in these matters. As a result we will realise again, no doubt, how numerous and insistent are the demands made upon us to turn aside in our ministry to treat of a hundred things which once upon a time we did not think of as pulpit questions. Be this as it may, here lies work for the preacher which he must not neglect. It is as certainly his duty to cheer and encourage the heart of the individual as to indicate the path to better conditions of life for the multitude.

And this he can only effectively do as he perfects himself in his understanding of their needs. Of this understanding, and of the ways in which it must be sought, we have already written and will say no more, except to point out how every new discovery concerning the preacher's duties furnishes additional illustration of the absolute necessity that he study not books only, but also men and the conditions of their lives. It is of little use knowing the contents of well-filled shelves if we have never read the living volumes before us in the pews. Again we say, "if we only knew."

Still knowledge is not the whole of the preacher's need in order that his message may contain this cheering quality. It is even more needful that he shall, himself, be one of those who abide in the comfort of God. He must have learned the efficacy of the great consoling and gladdening verities by experience of their application to his own soul. He only can surely cheer others who himself is cheerful, and no man who has ever felt the pressure and care of life can be cheerful excepting in so far as these great guarantees have become real to his own spirit. Only with "the comfort wherewith he is comforted of God" will he comfort others!

And what are the verities whose application he must have experienced? There is not one of all the glorious circle of revealed truths that is not of use for the strengthening and encouraging of men; but there are some of these truths which might almost have been designed for this special use. Do we receive—do we preach them as we ought?

There is the doctrine of Divine Providence. Surely this truth should be preached more frequently than it is. Surely, too, it should be preached in such a way as to link its meanings to the common hours, the common needs and anxieties of life. For the vast majority of men life is actually a struggle for bread for themselves and their dependants. We had almost said that it is a constant escape from ever threatening evils. The question of food and raiment is full for them of the direst probabilities. Many a man listens to the preacher whose life is, indeed, from hand to mouth. Fierce competition seeks at every turn to rob him of his little opportunity of bread winning. Such a man had rather be told of a providing God than of the newest discoveries in Biblical criticism. If we forget his need and suffer him to go from the Sanctuary no more hopeful and brave than when he came—then, so far as he is concerned, we have surely failed.

There is again the doctrine of the Divine Presence. "I will be with thee in the six troubles, and in the seventh I will not leave thee." The wonderful truth of Jesus Christ in living, constant, saving nearness to every man, ready to help, to deliver and guide—here is a doctrine, mighty to comfort all the world. Before us are men who, morning by morning, go forth with trembling to spend the day in associations full of such temptations and dangers as are undreamed of by us. Here are men and women haunted by bitter memories, whose midnight solitude is disturbed by the ghosts of buried years. There are many lonely people in the world, many from whom lover and friend have been put far away. For such is this treasure of promise committed unto us. Send yonder man back to his conflict; yonder stranger to his loneliness; yonder memoried soul to his solitude to face again the spirits of his bygone days, with this thought: that every step of the way—whether in the city or in the desert—Jesus Christ will be by his side. Such a preaching will be sweeter to him a thousand times than perplexing metaphysical discussions.

Then let us not forget to apply the promises by which the Master has strengthened the exhortations given to His servants in all times to labour in the fields of Christian service. Of such promises there is surely a varied and glorious store, and for all of them there is need enough. Never do we preach but before us is some toiler almost ready to give up because of long delay in the appearance of the first signs of harvest. Encourage him! Tell him that the God of the sowing is also the God of the reaping. Tell him not to be "weary in well doing, for in due season" he "shall reap if" he "faint not." Tell him that "he that goeth forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him." Tell him this. He has heard it all before, of course, or else he had not so long struggled on in the work. Tell it him again and again, for again and again the need to hear it all will come. Tell it him gloriously, confidently. He will go back to his Sunday School class, back to his labour among the poor, out to his next appointment on the plan, with a new hope which will be also a new power!

And let us remember that there has been given unto us for the comforting of His people the revelation of the glory laid up for them that fear Him. To the writer a little while ago an able and spiritually minded Unitarian minister made this statement:—"In every service I conduct I announce, at least, one hymn on immortality. The people need to hear of it." There is food for thought in such a confession from such a source. Once upon a time it was common in Methodism to hear sermons on Heaven. To-day how infrequent such sermons are! Yet surely the King has not withdrawn this portion of the message from our hands. And surely there is occasion for such reminders to be given. How many there are to whom "Earth's but a sorry tent;" how many, again, who go in bondage to the fear of death all their days; how many more who look mournfully after departed dear ones and wonder how it goes with them across the stream. To all such people is the preacher commissioned, and they look wistfully toward him for the word that may let the glory in!

And that word we do not speak nowadays as often as we might, perhaps not as often as we ought. Here, again, is something to be recovered by the present-day preacher. Possibly when he comes to talk of the glories "laid up," this same preacher may find need for some new forms of expression. Perhaps he will not find it possible to speak with the old literalism of his predecessors. But the living core of the message is still his as it was theirs. The divine example, too, is before him every time he harks back to his Master's presence. In that great day of sorrow when He spake to the disciples of His early departure, He, seeing their grief, said, "In My Father's house are many mansions .... I go to prepare a place for you." Preach Heaven! This very day there are hearts breaking for the story!

To cheer the souls of men by the use of this, or any other material, and in any legitimate way we can—to this must our preaching be absolutely and resolutely bent. To make brighter the lives of men; to take out of the future its dark dreads and fears and to fill it with beckoning blessings; to make the sanctuary a place of healing, a house of bread, a rock of cooling streams; to make of every service a season of refreshing—for all this are we responsible to the King who sent us out to His suffering children. The message He entrusted to us contains the sufficiency for it all!

But more, we repeat, than the mere letter of the message is needed. The best of words may be so spoken as to bring but small assistance to such as hear. Again we say that the preacher must, himself, live in the comfort and courage he preaches to others, or else there will be somewhat in his voice that will spoil it all. The word and also the tone! "The tone" must be the tone of absolute realisation and assurance. Pronounced in any other accent the words of the Gospel of joy sound impossible; the blessings they promise seem dim and far away; the fact of providence becomes a mere theory; the future harvest of holy sowing a pious but foolish hope; the sweet fields of Eden a fair but airy dream. Nothing is colder than perfunctory, official, professional consolation and encouragement. When fear whispers "Courage!" the chattering of his teeth makes our terror worse!

So, once again, the preacher's success and effectiveness are found largely to depend upon his own heart's condition. The message will carry little more cheer than the messenger can pour into it out of the stored up happiness and confidence of his own breast. In the cheer of God must he abide who would scatter a little comfort among his fellow men!