From Death into Life Part 20

I replied, "Do I know it now?"

"Yes," he said, "you preached it experimentally this morning; and I shall be very much surprised if you have not some inquiries on the subject before the day is out."

I felt reproved before this stranger's steady gaze, and confessed that I had received the blessing that very morning; but thinking that it might be a temptation, I had determined to say nothing about it.

He said, "That was a temptation from the devil, sure enough, to hinder you; for the Lord spoke on this subject through your sermon as dearly as ever I have heard. Do not be afraid, but go on and tell others."

So in the evening I preached on Sanctification, and we had an after-meeting in the schoolroom. Many believers stayed behind to ask questions upon the subject of my sermon. I do not remember how I replied to them; but imperfect as my statements must have been, it nevertheless led others to desire to enter into the experience of this same blessing.

The following morning, I happened to take up a tract by John Fletcher, of Madeley, in which I read, that at a breakfast party on the occasion of a wedding, to which he was invited, just in the middle of idle and frivolous conversation which was going on, he was constrained to rise up and say, "I have three times had an experience of joy and liberty, which I believe to be Sanctification, and it has pa.s.sed away; now that it has returned again, I take this opportunity to testify." The company were all struck with amazement; the power of G.o.d was present; and the festive gathering was turned into a meeting for prayer and praise. I took warning from this tract never to withhold my testimony on this subject.

Soon after this, I was holding an afternoon Bible cla.s.s in another part of the parish; we were going through St. Luke's gospel, and had come to the fifth chapter; I said with reference to the miraculous draught of fishes, that the fish had been swimming about in their native element in all quietness and freedom, till they came in contact with a net, and it came in contact with thorn. Observe, I said, three things: 1. They are caught in the net. 2. They are drawn out of their native element. 3.

They are laid in the boat at the feet of Christ. So it is, where people are caught in' the Gospel net--this is conviction; they are drawn out of the state in which they were--this is conversion; but they are not yet in the state in which they should be, this is why it is so hard to hold them: they ought to be drawn to Christ Himself, for this is the ultimate object of catching souls; the one thing needful is to be brought to the feet of Christ.

I intentionally abstained from using the word "Sanctification," though I was endeavouring to typify the experience of it, and to contrast it with conversion. As I went on speaking, a woman in the small a.s.semble put up her hands and began to shout and praise G.o.d, "That is Sanctification!"

she cried; "I have it! I know it! Praise the Lord!" There was a great stir the cla.s.s; some cried, and some asked questions. One woman, who was more advanced in general knowledge and experience than most of the others declared, that she did not believe in Sanctification, for she had known so many who professed to have it, and had lost it. "Lost what?" I said, "you cannot lose an experience; the joy of it may depart, and certainly does where people rest on their feelings instead of the fact, on the effect, instead of the cause." She confused the sanctification of the believer, with the effect it produced on him. The Spirit which works sanctification in our souls can keep us in it, if we continue to look to Him, instead of looking at His work, I said to her, what I have said ever since to all who are inclined to argue on the subject: Believers too often dispute about Sanctification, in the same manner as the unconverted do on the subject of Justification. It is not worth while for those who know, to contend with those who only think. I told her to go home and pray about it and ask the Lord if He had anything more to give, to let her have it.

She was sullen, and hard to persuade; but after a little more conversation and prayer, she consented to lay aside her prejudice and do as I had told her. She did so, and came again the next morning to see me. Fortunately, I was not in my house, but shut up, as my custom was in the church for meditation and prayer. She followed me thither, but being engaged with my Master, I answered no knocks or taps, whether at the doors or windows; even on this occasion I did not respond, although I heard some one walking round and round the church and knocking impatiently for admittance. When I came out, I heard that Hannah--had called and wished very much to see me; for she wanted (to use her own expression) "to hug the dear head of him, if she could catch him." She was happy beyond expression, for she had had a dream; and what is more she said that she had entered into the "second blessing."

In her dream she saw a well of water as clear as crystal; it was beautiful, and the clean pebbles at the bottom quite glistened with brightness, so that she could count them. "There, there," she said, "What does any one want clearer and cleaner than that?" As she looked into this clear well, my voice said to her, "Throw a pebble into it,"

when she did so; in an instant the water became thick and dirty. "Ah,"

said my voice again, "The water of grace is always clear as crystal, but the well in which it is--that is your heart is most unclean. The Lord can give you a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within you" (Ps.

51:10). She woke up from her sleep, and immediately began to pray, asking the Lord for a clean heart, until she obtained it.

Some may say, "But what did she obtain?" This question is seldom if ever asked by persons who know the experience of this blessing; but to those who do not, it is very difficult to convey an idea of what it is by definitions. Let it be enough to understand that there is something desirable to be had, which may be obtained by doing as the woman did.

"As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man" (Prov.

27:19). Those who know it, understand one another and rejoice together.

There is no such mutual sympathy and joy as that which brethren have who are partakers of this higher blessing.

After this, Hannah became a restful, peaceful soul; and many others, with her, found that quiet confidence which can only belong to those who can and do trust a risen and living Christ.

It was quite a new era in the work, and called out fresh energies; but like every new thing, it absorbed too much attention, to the exclusion of the simple Gospel for the unsaved. "Christ died for our sins," is only part of the Gospel, though a very important part. "Christ rose again the third day according to the Scriptures" (1 Cor. 15:3, 4), is also a part, which should not be omitted in its due time and place.

These two important truths, I am sure, are needful for scriptural work, and they should both be systematically preached.

CHAPTER 25

The Removal, 1855.

When I was on the eve of leaving Perranzabuloe, and before I knew that I was to go, I felt there was a gulf between the people and myself.

Whatever else they held they were quite ignorant of ecclesiastical antiquities, Church history, and Catholic truth; what is more, they were unwilling to learn about such matters.

Now I began to feel that another gulf was opening between my present people and myself. It was not as before, about ecclesiastical things; but on another score altogether. I wanted them to believe in a living Saviour: they were trying to content themselves with salvation instead.

I wanted them to trust the Giver: they preferred to rejoice in the gift.

I longed to lead them on to trust Christ as the object of faith, and from this to go on to devote themselves to His service, for very love of Him--to be loosed from the present world, by the hope of the Lord's coming. I could not get the people to receive this teaching, though it was G.o.d's truth, and could be verified by the Word.

I confess that this threefold truth was not so satisfying to my own soul as I expected it would be. I remembered that I had not learned it from men or books, but experimentally, by G.o.d's teaching, in answer to prayer. I could not imagine what was wanting, and did not discover, for several years after, that the mere knowledge of a truth by itself, even though it is about Christ, cannot deliver. It is not the truth of Christ that delivers, but the Christ of the truth. In itself, it is but an instrument in the hand of the Spirit; and our expectation should be not from it, but from the Divine Person, whose it is.

I have found that the power is Christ Himself; that where He is really the object of faith, He keeps the believer in peace; and that if there is no peace, it is only because there is a deficiency of trust: that He, as the object of love, constrains us to work for His Father's glory; and that He, as the object of hope, can and does separate us from the world and its entanglements, by drawing our affections to things above and beyond the present. Not having discovered this simple yet important truth, I was restless; and from G.o.d's Word came down to read the words'

and thoughts of men. I fell in with the "Life of Madame Guyon." Here I found much sympathy, but somehow not that peace I was looking for. Then I read the writings of the Port Royal school, the Jansenists, Butler's "Lives of the Saints," and other such books. These diverted my mind, employed and interested it; but I cannot say they satisfied me. I was craving for something which I had not found yet, and had to wait three years or more before I did so.

About this time I was invited to go to a parish in Plymouth, to a church where sacramental teaching was the rule. The inc.u.mbent was evidently as much dissatisfied with the state of his congregation as I was with mine.

He wanted something new, and I thought I did likewise. Accordingly I went and preached in his pulpit, and the word spoken produced a marked sensation. My sermon brought to the vicar's mind many truths he had heard and loved in early days, and for this reason he urged me to stay and preach again. Then, to my surprise. He invited me to leave Cornwall and come to Plymouth. in order to take a district in his parish, that I might help him occasionally in his church. This was altogether such an unsought-for thing, and so unexpected, that I took time to consider. The next day I told him that I could not entertain his proposition, and that for three reasons:--

1. I said, "I am sure that the Bishop would not consent."

2. "I have a debt laid on me by my patron for nearly 3,000 l., which I spent in building the church for him."

3. "I am responsible for a debt of 300 l. as security."

He still urged it, and said he would go and see the Bishop, and speak with him on the subject. In his zeal he set off that very morning. The Bishop at first said flatly, "No;" and then, upon further inquiry, recalled the word, and said, "You may try it if you will." He returned in the evening with this information, which surprised me greatly. But what made me wonder still more, was the receipt of two letters the next morning by the same post--one from London and the other from Paris, releasing me from the responsibility of the two debts; and this without any request on my part. The three difficulties, which were like mountains before me only three days before, were now removed. I did not know what to say, and therefore determined, in all haste, to go home and consider the step.

When I had related these astonis.h.i.+ng circ.u.mstances to my dear wife, we agreed to go together to consult with Mr. Aitken. On arriving I said to him, "You must please to sit still and hear all before you speak." Then I told him of the invitation to go to Plymouth, the result of the preaching, the unexpected proposal to remove thither, the Bishop's answer, and the remission of the 3,300 l.

"Now," I continued, "what do you say?"

"You must go, my brother," he replied; "for you will never make Catholics of the Cornish people: the Methodist mind is far too deeply rooted in them."

Our friend's decision was firm; and so there remained nothing for us to do but to follow it. The novelty of the proposition, and the surprising circ.u.mstances connected with it were exciting, and took away our thoughts for the time from the place which was to be left. When the decision was given and accepted, then Baldhu seemed to lift up its voice, and urge its claims. Certainly it was a strong tie which bound us to this place; but nevertheless, on our return home, I wrote to the Bishop, and' proposed to resign my present inc.u.mbency, in order that I might take a district in Plymouth. He replied in due course, that he would accept my resignation. After I was thus pledged, my wife's mind veered from her consent to go; and Mr. Aitken changed his tone also, and said that the text had come to him, "Cast thyself down," and that I was tempting G.o.d. Yet all the steps I had taken had been in prayer, and had been taken very reluctantly, for I was much attached to Baldhu.

For nearly three months I was torn with distractions; sometimes hope lifted up the mist from the horizon, and then let it down again. I did not know what to do; the work at home had come to a stand; but there was one thing, my successor was not yet appointed, nor had I signed my resignation; therefore every now and then the thought came over me, that I would stay. Then a letter came from Plymouth, urging me to come away at once, "for the iron was hot for striking." Sometimes people came in and said, "You had better go;" then others would come in and say, "You will do no good if you do go." It was desolating, as well as distracting beyond description.

I had a family of six children and three servants; it was a great expense to move there; and yet, if G.o.d was calling, it was quite as easy for Him to move eleven people as one; and I had ten claims upon Him. At last, suspense was over; my successor was appointed, and the day fixed for our going. I signed my resignation, having to pay four pounds ten s.h.i.+llings for it; then, suspense was changed into unmitigated sorrow.

I had designed and built that church and house, and had seen them rise; had made the garden, and had had many happy and wonderful days in this place. I found it had taken a deep root in my heart, and therefore it was like tearing one up altogether to go away. But it was done now, and the friends who had advised me not to resign, seemed to have their triumph; and those who advised to go, were discouraged and grieved at my sorrowful state. My dear wife cheered up when she saw me down, and rose to the occasion; she began to pack up as if delighted at going, and went about everything most cheerfully.

I told the people that I could not bear a leave-taking, but there would be a service in the church, and Holy Communion, at seven o'clock on the morning we were to leave. Many came, but the majority could not sum up the courage to do so. I put my resignation on the offertory plate, and gave it to G.o.d with many tears. A kind neighbour came to officiate for me, so that I did not take any part in the service, being exceedingly dejected and overwhelmed with sorrow. It was chiefly for fear, lest I was doing that which G.o.d would not have me do, and taking my family out from a comfortable home, I knew not whither, or to what discomforts.

One thing I certainly saw plainly enough, that my affections were too deeply rooted in earthly things. I had no idea till then, that that place of my own creation had taken such a hold upon me. It was well to be loose from that, and free for my Master's service.

After breakfast we left the old place; many people stood weeping by the roadsides; some ventured to speak, and others only thrust their hands into the carriage windows for a hearty grasp, without saying a word. It was indeed a sorrowful day, the remembrance of which even now makes my heart sink, though it is more than twenty-five years since.

In the evening we arrived at the house of some friends, who had kindly invited us to break our journey, and remain the night with them; and in the morning we proceeded on our way to Plymouth. When we reached the house, we found our furniture unpacked, and distributed in the various rooms, and the table spread ready for us to take some refreshment. The word "Welcome" was done in flowers over the door, besides many other demonstrations of kindness; but I am afraid we were all too sorrowful at the time to show our appreciation of, or to enjoy them.

We never settled in that house, and did not care to unpack anything more than necessary, or hang up the pictures or texts.

My work did not prosper here, for I found I was unequally yoked with strangers, and accordingly felt dry and wretched. I sent my resignation of Baldhu to Bishop Phillpotts, and with it my nomination and other necessary papers, saying that I would wait on his lords.h.i.+p for inst.i.tution on a certain day.

At the appointed time I went to him, when to my great surprise, he very calmly said he could not appoint me to that district. I could not understand this, for as I had told him, I had only resigned conditionally, and reminded him that I had asked his permission to resign, for the purpose of taking this district.

"How can I consciously appoint or license you to anything in my diocese?" he said, looking me full in the face, and then in his courteous way he laid his commands on me to stay to luncheon, saying he would be obliged "if I would do him this honour;" he bade me walk in the garden, as he was busy, and would be occupied till luncheon.

I felt that I needed a little quiet and fresh air to get over this climax of my troubles--out of one living, and not into another; and that with a wife, six children, and three servants, with very little to live on. Here was a state of things! I had plenty to occupy my thoughts and prayers. I feared and mourned, above everything, lest G.o.d should be angry with me. "Oh, if I could only know this is the will of G.o.d, then I should not care a fig for all the bishops on the bench, and would not ask one of them for anything!"

I was soon roused from my reverie, by the presence of Miss C. P., the Bishop's daughter, who had come out at her father's request to show me the garden and the view. I had known this lady slightly for several years, and so she was not altogether a stranger to me, or I to her. She talked so cheerfully and pleasantly, that it came to my mind, "Perhaps after all, the Bishop is only trying me. He will not appoint me to this bare district, because he has something better with which he means to surprise me." This sanguine thought cheered me up greatly. At luncheon he was as kind and happy as if he had neither done anything dishonourable, or had any intention of doing so; so that I felt quite sure something good was coming. I began to wonder at intervals, "What part of the diocese I was to be sent to?--Where is there a vacancy?" and so on.

The Bishop was as friendly to me as he used to be in other days. After the repast, he summoned me to his study again. "Now," I thought, "I shall hear where I am to go;" but instead of this, he said that he was "much engaged, and must take leave of me."

I was more than astonished at this, and said, "I can scarcely believe that you refuse to appoint me!"