THE MINISTRY OF SUFFERING.

You must know, Mr. Wilton,” said Mr. Hume, “that my mind is full of objections, whether I speak them out or keep silence. I have looked so long upon one side only that I find it hard to look upon other sides also; and if there be a Satan, as the Bible teaches, I think he must be marshaling all his legions to overwhelm me by the force of his impetuous assaults. I cannot disguise the fact—I do not attempt to disguise it—that my mind is not at ease. It used to be at rest, at least comparatively so—not happy, yet not agitated and distressed. My heart was not satisfied, but I believed that my position of unbelief was logically impregnable. But I confess it, my unbelief has of late been shaken. I am no longer contented. How I came into this state, I do not know. I am certain that my present unrest was not produced by the force of arguments which I had heard. It seems to me as if it sprang up uncaused. The old arguments which I have thought impregnable do not now satisfy me. Why, I cannot tell. I think this statement is due to you to explain my position in your Bible class, and also to prepare the way for a question which I wish very much to propose. I have no objections to make to the marks of wisdom and benevolent design seen in the works of creation which I cannot myself answer and remove. Good-will and goodness to the inhabitants of the earth lie on the very surface of things; or, if I go beneath the surface, I find them no less manifest in the profoundest and subtlest arrangements of the universe. If I say, ‘This is all the work of chance,’ my very language is self-contradictory and looks me out of countenance, for the very idea of chance is the opposite of wise and orderly arrangement. The difference between design and chance is that the one works by orderly arrangements adapted to the accomplishment of a foreseen end, while the other shows itself in chaotic disorder, with no adaptation to the accomplishment of a purpose. To say that a universe like this, filled in every part with order and beauty, with subtle and unseen elements and agencies working out into the boldest relief in the accomplishment of beneficent ends, all minute elements blending in the sublime sweep of the universal plan,—to say that such a universe is the work of chance is to use language without meaning.

“If I deny a providential plan in the creation and government of the world, and attribute to brute matter a nature that, by its own inherent force, spontaneously develops into all these contrivances of use and beauty, I see that the wisdom of the whole universe is concentrated in the nature of matter, and, if it be possible, infinite subtlety of design is doubly manifest. To create a machine which, upon its elements being thrown into an indiscriminate pile, shall arrange itself, adapt part to part, and set itself in motion; which shall repair all its breaks, produce other machines as curious as itself, and thus reproduce itself and perpetuate its existence for ever—that would certainly be the acme of intelligent design.

“Or if I go farther and deny a Creator, ascribing to the universe an eternal, uncreated existence, I see that I only entangle myself in a complication of difficulties. I find myself standing face to face with the best-established facts of geology. If the fact that the animal tribes which inhabit the earth, and especially the human race, had a beginning be not well established, then no fact in geological science can be reckoned as fixed. Geology has overturned the idea of an infinite series of generations of animals and men. Nor do I see that I gain any advantage or give any explanation of the universe by attributing to matter everything which others refer to an intelligent and almighty Creator. The distinction between mind and matter is that mind is endowed with intelligence and will, while matter has neither intelligence nor will, but only blind forces, blind attractions and repulsions. If I attribute the order, beauty, design, and benevolence of the universe to mere matter, I clothe matter with the attributes of spirit. In fact, I only set up another God and ascribe to the universe a true divinity. I make myself a kind of pantheist, investing all matter with the attributes of mind and spirit. All this I have pondered over for many a day, and I cannot deny that a belief in an intelligent Creator of the universe is logically more satisfactory. But there is one question which confronts me at every turn. I suppose that I might at length work out an answer for myself and that I should now see the explanation if all my thinking for so many years had not been upon the other side.”

“I am afraid that I shall not be able to give you satisfaction,” replied Mr. Wilton, “but I shall be glad to hear your question. I can at least appreciate your state, and sympathize with you in your groping and struggling. I am glad that you are walking the road you have just described. You say that you do not know what has brought you to your present state. I can easily tell you: your experience at this point is not singular; I think the Holy Spirit of God has been leading you and has brought you to your present position. I trust in God that he will lead you still farther. You have great cause for thankfulness and great cause for trembling. Let me caution you: be careful how you treat the divine Spirit; walk softly; be honest, sincere, and simple-hearted as a little child. ‘Except a man become as a little child, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’ Above all things, be sincere and straightforward. Deal truly and frankly with the Spirit. If you will only be honest and frank,—honest and frank to yourself, honest and frank to all men, honest and frank with God,—God will soon give you cause to praise him and love him for ever and ever. But what is the question which you wished to propose?”

“My difficulty is this: Along with the many arrangements for conferring enjoyment and promoting the well-being of man are other arrangements for suffering. Man is made as capable of suffering as of enjoyment, and there are appliances provided which are certain to inflict that pain of which man is capable. How is this provision for suffering in man and in all sentient creatures consistent with the benevolence elsewhere shown? How are we to combine these two sets of arrangements in our thinking?”

“A full unfolding of the ministry of pain in the good providence of God would lead us entirely aside from our course of study.”

“But for me,” said Mr. Hume, earnestly, “it would be not at all aside; for if I can once see that the provision for suffering made in the constitution of man and of Nature is not repugnant to the idea of a wise and good Creator and Disposer of human affairs, I will admit whatever you shall have to say afterward, and I shall feel that the gospel of Christ comes to man and comes to me with a moral force which ought not to be resisted. I know that I have no right to come into your class and ask you to turn aside from your course of study, and the gospel certainly owes nothing to me, yet I do hope you will give the opinions which you hold upon this subject, if you have formed any positive opinions.”

“I am sure,” exclaimed Peter, “that we shall all be very glad to have you spend the time of this lesson in speaking of this subject.”

“But how would it please you if my talk upon the ministry of pain should prove to be very much like a sermon?”

“I think we like your sermons. I know that we were never so much interested in them as now.”

“Very well, then; I will give you, as Mr. Hume says, some of my conclusions touching this matter of pain and suffering; and if my opinions are not satisfactory or do not cover the facts in the case, it will not be because I have given the subject little thought or have had little experience of suffering. The Lord has led me by a rugged road; he has given me tears to drink and mingled my cup with weeping. But for this I thank him, and I expect, when I shall look back from the life to come upon my earthly course, to see my days of pain and grief shining more brightly than the hours of radiant sunshine.

“First of all, then, I believe that with the clear exhibition of benevolent design which we see in this world we ought not to doubt the goodness of the Creator, even if we can give no rational explanation of the suffering which abounds. We ought not to believe, we cannot believe, that the Creator’s own attributes are self-contradictory and antagonistic, that the same infinite Being is both good and evil, partly benevolent and partly malignant. If God is good at all, he is wholly good. Nor can we believe that a good being and an evil being—God and Satan—hold joint sway over the universe and co-operated in the work of creation, and that the good is to be ascribed to the one, and the pain and suffering to the other. Whether we can explain it or not, we must believe that there is a good reason for the existence of suffering; unless, indeed, we count the infliction of pain the chief end of the creation, and refer the happiness which men enjoy to some incidental arrangements not contemplated as important in the work of creation. But no sane man can think that this world is the work of a demon seeking to fill the earth with groans and wretchedness. Our consciences and our reason alike require us to believe in the supremacy of goodness.

“In presenting my views, I of course cannot attempt to prove everything from the beginning: I must take some things for granted between us. We must start with the admission that there is a God, and that he is a righteous, moral governor. We must at least believe what Paul declares to be needful: ‘He that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.’ We must also believe our own consciences when they testify that men are responsible, free moral actors, and that sin and guilt are not false notions arising from diseased and morbid mental conditions, but realities, true ideas which arise in the mind when it works as God designed. Do you freely admit these points of belief, Mr. Hume?”

“Yes, sir; I could not ask you to prove every point touched upon in the argument, for that would require half a score of volumes, nor will I deny the testimony of my own conscience that there is a God, and that men are rightly responsible to him.”

“Starting, then, with these fundamental principles, we will look first at the provision made for physical pain. Men and, I suppose, all living creatures are created with the capacity of suffering. The same nerves of sensation which if excited naturally give rise to pleasure may be excited unnaturally and inflict pain. But why not endow living creatures with nerves of sensation which could experience pleasure, but could not feel pain? Is this possible? Perhaps so, but no man can affirm it with certainty. I do not think that any man can clearly conceive such a thing. To us the capacity of enjoying and that of suffering seem inseparable. But there is no need of insisting upon this point, for the capacity of feeling pain is a most benevolent provision of the Creator for the benefit of living creatures. It is designed to save life and limb. Pain is the sentinel set to guard the outposts of the citadel of life. If there were no pain, men would thrust their hands into flames without knowing it. They would indulge in all manner of destructive excesses, and no sufferings would warn them of danger. They would drink poison, and no pain would bid them make haste to take the antidote. Tear men limb from limb, hew them in pieces with the sword, and no painful sensations would rouse them to self-defence. Without this benevolent provision of pain the race of man could hardly be saved from extinction. How much more would this be true of the animal tribes, which are wholly dependent on instinct for guidance and impulse to action! We accordingly find pain possible in those parts of the body where pain can subserve the purpose of protection; elsewhere no provision is made for pain. Nerves of sensation abound in those parts which require especial care or are especially exposed. The skin is exposed, therefore the skin is well supplied with nerves. The parts beneath the skin are less exposed, and are injured only by first wounding the skin; they are therefore less sensitive. The heart, though so very important, is almost insensible to pain, because the capacity of suffering at that point would confer no protection. The eye is delicate and requires the greatest care, and to secure that needed care the Creator has made it delicately susceptible of pain. The sole of the foot, as its work demanded, was made capable of bearing the roughest usage, and hence the sole of the foot is but little supplied with nerves of sensation. Still farther, when on account of injury any part of the body requires unwonted care, provision is made that the injured part shall become especially sensitive. A bone when well and sound may be cut or sawed almost without pain, but when the bone is injured it becomes inflamed and feels pain most keenly. When a limb for the sake of its own safety ought to be kept quiet, Nature makes it painful to move it. For the benevolent object of preserving life and guarding the well-being of living creatures pain is given. The provision for pain shows the presence of danger, the liability of receiving injury, and the kind design of putting men on their guard. It is the automatic guardian of our happiness. This is all that I have to say about bodily pain.

“Mental suffering and pain of conscience are designed, first of all, to subserve the same purpose. The sense of guilt when a man commits a wicked act is designed, first, to lead him to repentance. It is the divine alarum placed within the soul to remind men that they have done evil and received moral damage which must be repaired. It is the moral goad which pricks men to warn them to turn from wickedness. If evil-doing were as pleasant as well-doing, men would see no difference between right and wrong; all moral ideas would be subverted and the glory and beauty of man would be trailed in the dust.

“But a guilty conscience continues to trouble wicked men after the day of repentance has passed; Remorse indeed seems to rise up with preternatural power when Mercy has withdrawn for ever from the sight of Hope. What is the meaning of this? It means that which we admitted in the beginning, that sinners are guilty in God’s sight, that guilt is a real thing and deserves punishment, and that God, the holy and righteous King of men, does actually punish the guilty. God is holy and abhors sin. Remorse of conscience is the shadow of the Creator’s frown, the voice of his eternal indignation echoing and re-echoing in the soul of man. It is the divine wrath penetrating the human spirit and making itself felt. As the holy God abhors sin for ever, the wicked must expect to feel that abhorrence for ever. He who puts himself into a rebellious position toward his Creator must stand in that unnatural attitude guilty and suffering. We can conceive that this should be otherwise only by subverting the foundations of the moral world. Beings created in the image of God, created with a conscience and moral affections, created with moral freedom, can attain blessedness only by aspiring to heavenly things and becoming God-like. If they break away from the divine will and order, they must suffer the divine frown, they must feel that frown. How can God make his frown felt except by looking pain, so to speak, into the sinner’s conscience?

“But this whole subject of pain and suffering derives a double significance from the fact that the human race is a fallen race, alienated from God by wicked works, yet under a merciful dispensation in which they are called to return to obedience. There is no moral quality good and beautiful to our eyes or pleasing to God in which men are not altogether lacking, and what is still worse, men grow in evil; their last state is worse than the first. There is no healing power in the man which can renovate his heart and bring him back to holiness. It would seem as if some satanic power were hurrying the human race along the road to ruin. If men are to be saved, it must be by a force of renovation outside of themselves, which shall reverse the evil bias of their nature. You say that the world seems fitted to develop man’s capacity for suffering, and that this appears to be as much a part of the divine plan as the impartation of happiness. What, think you, would be the result if the human race were planted in a world where nothing could give pain, where everything would afford gratification? What, Mr. Hume, do you think the effect would be upon creatures such as we all know men to be?”

“I hardly dare answer with the little thought I have given to the subject. I would rather listen than speak.”

“I have noticed,” exclaimed Ansel, “that those boys who have everything done to suit them at home are the most unmanageable in school and the most disagreeable to play with.”

“Picture to yourselves,” continued Mr. Wilton, “a man who from childhood should have nothing to suffer, no pain or weariness or hardness to bear. From childhood he has no bodily pain, and the comforts of life are so carefully and bountifully provided that he receives no unpleasant sensation. Winter never chills him, summer never heats him. His slightest wants are all anticipated. All his sensations are pleasure. Let the same be true of his mind. His will is never crossed; whatever he wishes is given him; there is no call for self-denial or self-control or abstinence or patience. He feels no pressure of need spurring him to exertion. His whole life is enjoyment. His very body would grow up, not strengthened and compacted for exertion, but fitted only for the softness of indolence and ease. His will would be the selfishness of self-will rather than an intelligent, reasonable self-control. There would be no tenderness and power of love, no endurance and patience in labor, no strength of moral purpose under temptation, no self-denial and self-sacrifice of love for the good of others or for the attainment of a higher blessedness, no faith in God nurtured in darkness and trial. We should have a mushroom growth of luxurious tastes and indolent ease, impulsiveness and impatience, strength only in selfish, passionate self-will and rampant, luxuriant vices. No other result would be possible with creatures like us. Strength is developed only under circumstances which call for the exercise of strength. A certain hardness and hardihood of living is needed to develop a manly body. Resolute intellectual exertion in the face of difficulties is demanded to educate the mental faculties. An earthly life not wholly satisfactory is needed to awaken in faithless men a longing for a better land. We may look upon the sufferings of this world, taken as a whole, as an expression of God’s displeasure at sin. How very much is such an expression needed! If life were nothing but pleasure, how completely men would forget sin and duty and God and heaven! All the varied experiences of joy and sorrow, of good and ill, of trial and triumph, are needed for man’s spiritual discipline. I think you will bear me witness that the noblest, sweetest, most beautiful characters are found in those who have drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs.”

“I cannot deny it, Mr. Wilton. There is old Deacon Smith. We all know something of his history, I suppose. He was a poor boy; when he was twelve years of age his father died, and his mother died four years later. But he worked his way, first to a good education, and then to an honorable position and ample fortune. Then the dishonesty of a partner brought him back to poverty too late in life for him to recover himself. Now in his old age he works for a small salary in the office of another. But he is as cheerful and as grateful as if he had all that heart could wish, and had never in his life suffered a pang. I think he verily believes that everything which has befallen him has been an expression of God’s love for him. He sheds no tears except for the griefs of others. I think he truly rejoices with those that rejoice and weeps with those that weep. As for faith in God, I suppose he would go into a lion’s den as calmly as did Daniel. If every professor of religion were like him, I am sure that nobody could say a word against the gospel. I freely confess that Deacon Smith’s character has affected me more than all the arguments I have heard in favor of Christianity.”

“As to that, Mr. Hume,” replied Mr. Wilton, “we have both of us, doubtless, seen men who would hate a man the more bitterly in proportion as he should show himself Christlike. And as to every church-member being like Deacon Smith, we could hardly expect such a character to be nurtured in a day or a year. Deacon Smith has become what he is by a lifetime of severest spiritual discipline and patient endeavor. Such characters are wrought out only by a discipline of every form of trial. This world is constituted as it is for the purpose of giving just such a discipline of effort and patience.

“This explanation brings us, however, only to the vestibule of the great mystery of suffering in the work of recovering man from the Fall. The Captain of our salvation, who put himself in man’s place and took upon himself all human conditions, was made perfect through suffering. The full preparation for his work as the Saviour of man called for a discipline of pain. I shall not attempt to explain this experience of Christ, but salvation brings the believer into a state of profoundest and most mysterious union with Christ. The believer must walk in the footsteps of Jesus. As Christ first came into a condition of sympathy with man, so must man come into a condition of sympathy with him. The believer must share and repeat, in a feebler way, of course, the experiences of the Lord Jesus. He must fill up that which is behind of the sufferings of his Saviour. By this union with Christ in the discipline of pain the Christian is prepared for a union of blessedness. ‘If we suffer, we shall also reign with him.’ How broad and deep this union of the believer with Christ may be, I cannot tell. I am not able to measure this idea. It seems to me like one of God’s infinite thoughts, revealed in its dimness to overawe the souls of men by its shadowy sublimity—seen only enough to suggest how much vaster is that which remains unseen—an iceberg, one part standing out and nine parts sunk in the unfathomed sea. It is a thought to be felt and experienced rather than weighed and measured by human logic. This is all that I have to say upon this subject. Do these views commend themselves to you, Mr. Hume?”

“I do not know,” was the reply; “I want to revolve the subject in my own mind. I have received some new ideas, but I judge that a man needs experience in this matter as well as thinking. If I had Deacon Smith’s experience of life, I could form a better opinion. As much as this I can see to be true—that provision for bodily pain is a safeguard to the happiness and life of men, and that a world which should anticipate every human want, leaving nothing to be struggled after and nothing to be endured, would have a disastrous influence upon human character. I will admit that the provision for pain is wise and good.”

“One other point,” continued Mr. Wilton, “we ought to notice before leaving this subject. The word of God says, ‘We know that all things work together for good to them which love God,’ but it says no such thing of those who do not love him. The afflictions of this life work out for the righteous ‘a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.’ The ministry of pain is a ministry of love only to those who submit to Christ. To those who kick at God’s mercies the best blessings turn to evils and curses; to the faithful in Christ the greatest griefs and calamities become choice blessings. A submissive heart and the agency of the Holy Spirit are needed to sanctify pain. It is a great mistake to think that all men are made better by afflictions. Only the few get good from the discipline of life. With many persons troubles only stir up the worst passions till they rage like caged tigers.”

“This last remark, Mr. Wilton, has thrown a flood of light upon this subject. But it seems strange to me to find myself saying this. I see how it is that so large a part of the pains of life is found in the end to accomplish no good. The evil remains evil. Do you think that my long trial of doubt and unrest and pain of heart can ever be blessed to my good?”

“That it can be so blessed to your good and to the good of many others I have no doubt; but whether it will be, I cannot tell. That depends upon yourself, upon your coming through Christ to God as your heavenly Father. It is my earnest prayer that from your unrest of spirit deep peace in Christ may break forth; and many others unite in the same.”

“I certainly hope,” said Mr. Hume, “that my life may not come to nothing. It seems as if something better than a few years of mingled pain and pleasure, overshadowed by most painful doubt and darkness and followed by a plunge into nothingness, must be possible for me.”

“God give you grace,” said Mr. Wilton, earnestly, “to forget the things which are behind, and reach out your hands toward the worthiest destiny! But remember that there is a destiny more terrible than to cease to be, there is a death deeper and darker than the grave.

‘There is a death whose pang
Outlasts the fleeting breath;
Oh, what eternal terrors hang
Around the second death!’”

Mr. Wilton did not think it best to attempt to draw out Mr. Hume farther at that time. He saw that he appeared to be under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and hoped that he would soon experience the new birth by which old things pass away and all things become new. He knew that time is an element even in the operations of the Spirit, and he feared to shake the bough too roughly lest the fruit should fall untimely only to wither in his hand. Happily, the superintendent’s bell brought the conversation at that point to a natural conclusion.