From Death into Life by William Haslam

W >> William Haslam >> From Death into Life

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

In the middle of the great undertaking I was called away for a few
weeks. During this time the reporter came again and again, but saw no
progress; he therefore put an advertisement into his paper to this
effect:--

"Stolen or strayed, a monkish priest, who paints apostles. He is not to
be found. Any person or persons who can give information concerning this
absent personage, will greatly oblige."

My preaching was not acceptable in this church, neither was my
connection with it; and my apostles were no better appreciated, for they
were soon after whitewashed over, and disappeared like a dream.
Sometimes, in damp weather, they were still to be seen "craning" their
necks as heretofore (much to the amusement of the chorister boys) though
with a kind of veil upon them. Doubtless, in a future generation, when
the plaster begins to blister, some antiquarian will discover this
"wonderful mediaeval fresco," and call the attention of the public to
it.

My ideas and dreams about catholic advancement were thus brought to a
calamitous end. This church to which I had come was one in high credit
for much private and public devotion; but, alas! I found what I might
easily have expected, that without spiritual vitality everything must be
dry and dead! Dry and dead indeed it was. The conversation of these
supposed ascetics was for the most part secular, and at the highest only
ecclesiastical. Their worship, on which a great amount of pains and cost
was bestowed, was but a form carefully prepared and carefully executed,
as if critics were present; yet it did not, and could not, rise to
spirituality. A lady presided at the organ, and had the teaching and
training of the choir. Much of her own personal and religious character
were imparted to the performances, which in tone and manner were
admirable and precise. She made the boys understand the sense of the
words they sang, till I have seen them even in tears during the singing.
The "chaste old verger" (as our reporter called him), who headed the
procession at least four times a day, up and down the church, was a very
important and successful part of the machinery, and from him, up to the
highest official, everything was carried out with exact precision.

But oh, how unsatisfying and disappointing it was!--to a degree which I
was ashamed to own! How could I be so foolish, to give up a living,
where there was vitality, though it was rough, for a superficial and
artificial semblance of religion? In the book of Ecclesiastes we read,
that "a living dog is better than a dead lion;" and though I had often
quoted this saying, I never felt the truth of it so deeply as now. The
dead lion and the dead elephant are quite immovable things for a live
dog to bark at or fret about. It was a hard and trying time to me in
that place. I could not see my way, or understand at all what was the
Lord's will towards me. While in this state of mind I had a vivid dream.
I thought that the ornamental iron grating, which was for ventilating
the space under the floor of the church, was all glowing with fire, as
if a great furnace were raging there. I tried to cry "Fire!" but could
not. Then I ran into the church, and saw it full of people reverently
absorbed in their devotions. I tried again to give the alarm, and cry
"Fire! fire!" but I could not utter a sound. When I looked up, I saw
thin, long, waving strings of fire coming up among the people through
the joints of the floor. I called attention to this, but no one else
could see it. Then I became frantic in my gesticulation, and at last was
able to tell some of the congregation of the great fire which was under
them; but they looked at one another, smiling, and told me to go about
my business--that I was mad! I woke out of my troubled sleep in a very
agitated and perturbed state. Since that, whenever I have seen or heard
of churches, where Church and Sacraments are preached, instead of
Christ, as the one way of salvation, I long to warn the people of the
fire raging underneath, and to show them the way of the Lord more
perfectly.

One day, when I was feeling more desponding and wretched than before, a
lady called, and said she wanted to speak to me--would I come to her
house for this purpose? I went, and she was not long before she opened
the conversation by charging me with being uncharitable. "You say we are
all unconverted."

I replied, "Of course, as children of Adam we are, till conversion takes
place; there can be no mistake about that! But when did I say that you
were unconverted? Is it not your own conscience that tells you that?
When we preach to people as unconverted, those who are changed, and
brought from death into life, know as well as possible that we do not
mean them; and they pray for a blessing on the Word, that it may reach
others, as it once reached them. They do not sit there and resent the
charge, for they know what has passed between God and their souls, and
are anxious for others to share the same blessing." She was silent; so I
continued, "May I ask you the question. Are you converted? Can you tell
me that you are?"

She replied, "I do not know what you mean."

"Well, then, why do you suppose that I mean something uncharitable or
bad?"

"Because I know very well it is not a good thing to be unconverted.
But," she added, "it seems such an unkind thing to put us all down for
'lost,' while you suppose yourself to be saved."

"You may know more about this some day, perhaps; but in the meantime
will you allow me to ask you one thing: Do you believe in the Lord Jesus
Christ?"

She replied indignantly, "Of course I do. Now, this is the very want of
charity I complain of-the idea of asking me such a question!"

She was one of the Rev. --'s, (the confessor's) favourite devotees, and
had been absolved by him for several years; the very idea of asking her
if she believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, made her quite impatient, as
well as indignant.'

I said, "Do not be angry with me, but what do you believe about Him?"

"Believe everything, of course! I believe the creed."

"Yes, I do not doubt that, for a moment. But do you believe that Jesus
died for you?"

"Why, yes, certainly: how could I do otherwise; He died for us all."

"That is not the point. I mean, do you believe that He died; and that
you have a personal interest in His death?"

She hesitated, and then looking at me said, "Do you mean objectively, or
subjectively?"

"May I ask what I am to understand by these words?"

"Dr. -- taught me that, 'Christ died.' is objective, and that 'Christ
died for me.' is subjective."

"Very good indeed," I answered, "I like that very much; it is quite
true. But it is one thing to know about subjective faith, and quite
another thing to have it. Now I will come back to my question. Do you
believe that Christ died for you?"

"You evidently mean something that I do not understand," she said, in a
perplexed manner. Then looking at the crucifix on her table, I said,
"What does that remind you of?"

"Oh, I pray before that every day, and ask the Lord to take my sins
away."

"Then you do not think your sins are forgiven yet. How can you ask for
forgiveness, and have it at the same time?"

"Do you mean to say then," she replied, with surprise, "that you have no
sins?"

"Yes, I mean to say that my sins were atoned for, once for all, on the
cross; and that, believing this, I have peace and remission of sins. My
past sins are cast like a stone into the deep; and as to my daily sins
of omission and commission, I do not take them to the cross like a
Romanist, but to the throne of grace, where the risen and living Christ
is now making intercession for me."

She was silent; and so was I, inwardly praying for her. Presently she
looked up and said, "I do thank Him for dying for me. Is that what you
want me to say?"

"Thanksgiving is an indication of living faith. How can I believe that
Jesus died for me, and not thank Him?"

"But I do thank Him, and it is very uncharitable of you to say, we do
not thank Him; we all thank Him!"

She was gone again, and I wondered whether I should ever bring her back!

"You remind me," I said, "of three ladies of good position, whom I met
last year. They all professed to thank God for Christ's death; but yet
they had no peace, and were not satisfied. Seeing they were in real
earnest, I proposed to go over the General Thanksgiving in the
Prayer-book with them. They did so, and thanked God for creation,
preservation, and all the blessings of this life, but above all--then as
I emphasized this 'above all,' they said, almost together, 'That is where
we are wrong. We have not 'put the redeeming love of God as shown in
Christ's death, above all.' These three ladies found peace and pardon
that same evening."

"That has been my mistake too," said the lady, interrupting me. "I have
never put Jesus above all; but I do desire to do so, and that with all
my heart."

"Then do so," I said, "and thank Him for His love in dying in your
stead, and shedding His blood to wash your sins away."

"He shall have all my heart!" she exclaimed.

So saying, she knelt before the crucifix, and bowing gracefully and most
reverently, she reproached herself for not putting Jesus first, and
said, "Thou art worthy! Glory be to Thee, for Thy great love to me."
Then she rose from her knees, and once more tuning to me, said, "Thank
you so much! God bless you for your kindness and patience with me! I
cannot tell you how much I thank you. Do you remember once preaching
about Abraham offering up his son Isaac? You said, 'God the Father has
done more than this for us; and yet how few cry to Him and say, "By this
I know that Thou lovest me!"' I thought, and felt then, that you knew
something which I should like to know; and I have been longing to speak
to you ever since. Oh, I do thank you so much!"

"Dear friend, I cannot refuse your thanks, but I should like to see you
thanking God more than you thank me."

I knew that she could sing and play, so, pointing to the piano, I asked
her if she would sing a hymn. "Yes," she said, "I will. What shall I
sing?"

"Find 'When I survey the wondrous cross,'" I said.

She did not need to find the music, for she knew it without; so, sitting
down, she began to sing, till the tears came into her eyes, and her
voice broke down. "I never knew the meaning of these words before," she
said; "'Sorrow and love flow mingled down.' How could I be so blind and
ignorant? 'Love so amazing, so divine,' does 'demand my life, my soul,
my all!' O Lord, take it!"

After this, I had a few parting words with her, and pointing to the
crucifix I said, "Remember Christ is not on the cross now. He died; that
is past. He is risen, and has ascended up on high. The throne of grace
is not the crucifix or the confessional, but where Christ sits--at the
right hand of God; and we, as believers, may in heart and mind thither
ascend, and with Him continually dwell. Have done, then, with this dead
Popery; you know better now. Testify for the glory of God."

This lady's conversion vexed her husband greatly, and brought down the
frowns and disapprobation of the reverend doctor; altogether, it did a
deal of mischief in the camp. The "Sisters of Mercy" with whom she was
connected were kept aloof from her contaminating influence, and soon
afterwards were altogether removed from the place. There was one,
however, a particularly hard-headed looking individual, who used to
stare at me through her round spectacles whenever I met her, as if I
were an ogre. I heard that she was a great mathematician. She looked
like it; and evidently there was no fear entertained of her being
converted. She and one other were left behind; but otherwise the house,
which had been built at great cost, was empty. The lady was not allowed
to speak to me any more; but I hope she continued to go to the true
throne of grace, and not to the crucifix to a living, not a dead Christ.

All this, doubtless, was intended to sicken me of my reverence for the
Catholic theory. I was evidently under an infatuation on the subject,
which, for the time, nothing could dispel. I had some poetic or
imaginary fancy of spiritual catholicity before my mind, which I
supposed was something better than the fleshy spirituality of Methodism,
to which I had taken a great dislike; but where to find this Utopia, or
how to embody it, I knew not. These specimens of catholic people I
certainly had no sympathy with; nor had I any patience with their hollow
devotion and their studied imitation of Popery. I plainly saw that light
could have no fellowship with darkness, or life with death. I was more
and more convinced that when a man has more sympathy with dead Catholics
than with living Dissenters, he is not a living soul at all. There is no
necessity to go to one extreme or the other. I believe the reformed
Church of England (in her principles, at least) occupies the middle path
between these two extremes, with the excellences of both, and the faults
of neither. I think I was permitted to be thus unsettled in my mind,
because I did not keep to my work with a single eye to God's glory.

CHAPTER 27

Devonport, 1855.

I was at this time invited to preach in a church in Devonport, where it
pleased the Lord to give blessing to His word. With this exception, my
work was, generally speaking confined to individual cases. I will give
an account of a few which present the most instruction and interest.

The first I will mention is that of one of the curates of the church in
which I was asked to preach. At this time he was preparing for
confession, and his self-examination had brought him to see and feel
that he was a sinner. Under this course of preparation, the preaching of
the Gospel had much effect upon him, and he came to tell me of his
state. I was able to show him from the Word of God that he was in a
worse condition than he supposed--that actually, by nature, we are lost
sinners now. Under the operation of the Holy Spirit he was brought to
feel this also, and was very miserable.

One day, while officiating at a funeral, the Lord spoke peace to his
soul; so great was his joy, that, he said, he could scarcely refrain
from shouting aloud in the middle of the service. After it was over he
went about everywhere, telling of his conversion, and the Lord's
dealings with his soul.

The result of this was that his fellow-curate (who was also preparing
for confession) was awakened, and came to me in great distress of mind,
declaring he "could not say he was converted," and that he was very
unhappy. He acknowledged that he should not like to die as he was, and
therefore knew he ought not to be satisfied to live in that state.
However, when I got to close dealing with him about his soul, he said
that though he could not say he was saved, he certainly thought that he
was being saved by continual absolution and the sacrament. Upon this, I
was enabled to show him that he did not go to the means of grace, or
even to the Lord's table, because he was saved, but in order to be
saved; and that he was working for life, and not from life. He gave up
disputing, and was not long before he too found peace in believing.

The time was approaching for these two curates to go, as usual, to
confession. They came together to ask me about it. I counselled them to
go, by all means, to the reverend doctor, who usually received their
confession, and to tell him in their own words how the Lord had
convicted and converted them. I said that Bilney, one of the first
martyrs of the Reformation, when he was converted, went immediately to
make confession to Latimer, and by doing so he became the means of his
conversion. "Go, by all means; you do not know what use the Lord may
make of your testimony."

They went accordingly, but did not meet with the happy success of
Bilney, for they were sent indignantly away one after the other for
saying their sins were pardoned and their souls save, and that by direct
and personal faith in Christ, without the intervention of a priest. The
reverend confessor, unlike the honest Latimer, said these young men had
come to mock him.

Notwithstanding these instances of usefulness and encouragement, I
continued to be very unhappy, for want of more general work, and felt as
if God had cast me off. I can now see that this testing and perplexing
dispensation through which I was passing, was not altogether such a
barren desert as I felt it to be at the time. It was fraught with many
lessons, which have stood by me ever since, though I must confess I
never revert to this period without many unhappy memories.

I will record one more lesson which I was taught in this place, and then
go on to other subjects.

One warm spring day, while I was sitting in my house with the doors and
windows open, a gentleman came running into it in great haste, somewhat
to my surprise, he being a perfect stranger to me, and I to him.
Standing in the passage, and looking into the room where I was seated,
he said, "Sir, are you a clergyman?"

I replied, "Yes, I am."

"For God's sake, come; follow me!"

So saying, he went away. I immediately took up my hat, and ran after him
down the side of the square, and noticing the gate where he turned in, I
walked leisurely to the same place, and found him in the passage of his
house panting for breath. He had run so fast that he could not speak,
but made a sign to me to go upstairs; then pointing to a door, he bade
me go in. On doing so, I saw at once it was a sick-chamber, and found
myself alone in the presence of a lady, who was sitting up in the bed. I
bowed to her, and said, "Can I help you?"

She said, "Oh, no! it is too late!"

"Too late for what?"

"I am dying; I am lost! I am lost! It is too late--too late!"

"But Christ came, and is present, to-save the lost."

"Oh, yes! I know all that. I taught it to others, but I never believed
it myself. And now it is too late: I am lost!"

"Then believe it now! Why not 'now'?"

"Because it is too late!"

"While there is life there is hope! Lose no more time. 'God so loved the
world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on
Him should not perish'" (John 3:16).

"That is not for me. I know that text very well, but it will not do for
me. I am lost! I am lost! It is too late!"

While I was speaking I saw her falling over the side of the bed.
Springing forward, I put out my arm, and, with her head resting on it,
and her despairing eyes looking into my face, she expired. I could
scarcely believe it, when I saw that flush on her face fade away unto
the pallor of death. She was gone! I placed her poor head on the pillow,
and rang the bell for assistance. Her mother and sister came in, saying,
"Is it not dreadful?"

I said, "Look at her. She is gone. She said it was too late, and that
she was lost for ever."

"Oh," exclaimed the mother, "it is most dreadful!--most dreadful!" This
poor young lady used to be a Sunday-school teacher and district visitor;
but she was never converted, and she knew it. She had full
head-knowledge, but no heart experience, and thus she died in unforgiven
sins. Lost---for ever lost!

Notwithstanding this, and other solemn lessons which the Lord was
teaching me at this time, I was still restless and unhappy. I felt as if
my life, with its work, was cut off in the very beginning of its
usefulness, and that there was no more for me to do. As the weather
became hot with the advancing summer, I was more and more dejected in
mind and body. I lived now among strangers, and had no settled
occupation, nor could I apply myself to study.

One very hot and dusty afternoon, as I was slowly toiling up a steep
hill, two women overtook me; and as they were passing, I heard one say
to the other, in a very sad and disheartened tone, "I wish I had never
been born;" and the other responded much in the same spirit, though I
could not hear what she said. A fellow-reeling makes us wondrous kind,
and has the effect of drawing out our sympathies. I followed these poor
women, and when we were on the top of the hill, I spoke to them, and
then added, "You seem very weary. Will you come in and take a cup of tea
and rest a little?" They thanked me, and consented. So I took them into
the house, and asked for some tea. While it was being prepared, I said
to them, "I overheard you talking on the road as you passed me. Do you
really wish you had never been born?" The poor woman who had uttered
these words burst into tears; and as soon as she could command her
feelings sufficiently, she told me her sad tale of sorrow and trouble.
She was a soldier's wife, as was also the other, and they were both in
the same distress. "Well," I said, "trouble does not spring out of the
ground; and we may be equally sure that God, who sends, or at least
permits it, does so for our good. One thing is certain, that if we
humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God, He can and will lift us
up, for He has promised to do so. He will make all things work together
for our good, if we trust Him." I then asked them if they had given
their hearts to God.

One of them said, "Ah, that is what I ought to have done long ago; I
know a deal better than I do. I was brought up well, no mistake; but I
was giddy, and went after the red-coats, and married an ungodly man, and
now I am suffering for it."

"Dear woman," I said, "you may thank God for hedging up your path. He
might have given you over to prosperity and a false happiness, or left
you altogether. Thank God that it is not worse with you; and give Him
your heart. Do you believe that the Lord Jesus died for you?" She would
not speak. Then I turned to the other, who was also crying, and said,
"Do you believe?"

"I did once," she said, in a dejected tone; "but I have gone back from
everything."

By this time their tea was ready, so I refreshed them with it; and after
that we resumed our conversation and united in prayer. They both gave
their hearts to God. I found that they lived not far off, so I had the
opportunity of seeing them from time to time, and was able to instruct
and cheer them on their way. I can see now how God was speaking to me
through these women; but somehow I did not hear or recognize His voice
then.

About this time, my dear wife became very prostrate in health and
spirits--so much so, that we felt anxious about her. I went to a famous
physician, who was in the neighbourhood, and asked him to come and see
her. He did so, and after careful examination, said that there was
really nothing the matter more than that she was one of those persons
who could not live in that limestone town in the summer. He said, "She
will be perfectly well if you take her away into the country. You must
do this at once, for the longer she remains here, the weaker she will
be." He refused to take any fee, and said he would send a carriage at
two o'clock, and that we must be ready to start by that time. This was
more easily said than done; for where could I take the children, or how
could I leave them at home? However, as the doctor was very peremptory,
we prayed about it, and considered how we were to accomplish the task.

At this critical moment a friend arrived in his carriage, and said he
had driven in from the country to bring some relatives of his to the
train, and did not care to go back alone. "Would one of us, or both,
take pity on him, and give him our company?" As soon as he heard of our
position he greatly rejoiced, and said, "Come, all of you; I have plenty
of room!" He took the invalid, with some of the children. I shut up the
house, and followed with the others and the nurse, in the fly, which
duly arrived at two o'clock. By five o'clock we were all out in the
green fresh country, and our patient was already revived, and walking
about the garden.

There happened to be a farm-house vacant, which we took, and removing
some of the furniture, made it comfortable for the present. This we
called "home" for a little time during my unsettled state.

CHAPTER 28

A Mission to the North, 1855.

When my family were all comfortably settled and surrounded by kind
friends, I went off to the north of England, on a visit to a clergyman,
who had invited me. He had already suffered for doing this on a previous
occasion, in the diocese of Oxford; where the bishop took away his
licence, because he had me to preach for him. The real cause of offence
was, that there was a revival in the parish; and complaint was made to
the bishop, that people were kept up till "all hours of the night,
howling and praying." His lordship sent forthwith for my friend's
licence; I advised him to send it, saying, "He will be sure to return it
to you; but perhaps with a reprimand." Instead of this, the bishop kept
it, and said that he would countersign his testimonials to go to another
diocese. My friend was at first disgusted and disposed to rebel; but
instead of this, he bore the treatment patiently; and went to another
position and charge at G--, in the north of England.

Thither, nothing afraid, he invited me to come. In this part of the
country I found a hearty lively people, something like the Cornish. Here
I soon regained my spirits, and got to work in right earnest.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21