From Death into Life by William Haslam

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I had to wait for more than a fortnight before it arrived, and then how
great was my joy! I remember spreading a white cloth on my table, and
opening out the tracing-paper upon it; and there was the veritable
picture of the Good Shepherd! His countenance was loving and kind. With
one hand He was pushing aside the branch of a tree, though a great thorn
went right through it; and with the other He was extricating a sheep
which was entangled in the thorns. The poor thing was looking up in
helplessness, all spotted over with marks of its own blood, for it was
wounded in struggling to escape. Another thing which struck me in this
picture was that the tree was growing on the edge of a precipice, and
had it not been for it (the tree), with all the cruel wounds it
inflicted, the sheep would have gone over and perished.

After considering this picture for a long time, I painted it in a larger
size on the wall of my church, just opposite the entrance door, so that
every one who came in might see it. I cannot describe the interest with
which I employed myself about this work; and when it was done, finding
that it wanted a good bold foreground, I selected a short text-"He came
to seek and to save that which was lost."

God was speaking to me all this time about the Good Shepherd who gave
His life for me; but I did not hear Him, or suspect that I was lost, or
caught in any thorns, or hanging over a precipice; therefore, I did not
apply the subject to myself. Certainly, I remember that my thoughts
dwelt very much on forgiveness and salvation, but I preached that these
were to be had in and by the Church, which was as the Ark in which Noah
was saved. Baptism was the door of this Ark, and Holy Communion the
token of abiding in it; and all who were not inside were lost. What
would become of those outside the Church was a matter which greatly
perplexed me. I could not dare to say they would be lost forever; but
where could they be now? and what would become of them hereafter? I
longed to save John Bunyan; but he was such a determined schismatic that
it was impossible to make out a hope for him! Sometimes I was cheered by
the thought that he had been duly baptized in infancy, and that his
after-life was one of ignorance; but this opened the door too wide, and
made my theory of salvation by the Church a very vague and uncertain
thing. So deeply was the thought ingrained in my mind that one day I
baptized myself conditionally in the Church, for fear that I had not
been properly baptized in infancy, and consequently should be lost
hereafter. I had no idea that I was lost now; far from that, I thought I
was as safe as the Church herself, and that the gates of hell could not
prevail against me.

I had many conversations with the earnest people in my parish, but they
were evidently resting, not where I was, but on something I did not
know. One very happy woman told me, "Ah! you went to college to larn the
Latin; but though I don't know a letter in the Book, yet I can read my
title clear to mansions in the skies." Another woman, whenever I went to
see her, made me read the story of her conversion, which was written out
in a copy-book. Several other, men and women, talked to me continually
about their "conversion." I often wondered what that was; but, as I did
not see much self-denial among these converted ones, and observed that
they did not attend God's House nor ever come to the Lord's table. I
thought conversion could not be of much consequence, or anything to be
desired.

I little knew that I was the cause of their remaining away from church,
and from the Lord's table. One thoughtful man told me, "Cornish people
are too enlightened to go to church! A man must give up religion to go
there; only unconverted people and backsliders go to such a place!" Yet
this was a prayerful man. What did he mean? At various clerical meetings
I used to repeat these things, but still obtained no information or
satisfaction.

I made it a rule to visit every house in my parish once a week, taking
from twelve to twenty each day, when I sought to enlighten the people by
leaving Church tracts, and even wrote some myself; but they would not
do. I found that the Religious Tract Society's publications were more
acceptable. To my great disappointment, I discovered too, that
Evangelical sermons drew the people, while sacramental topics did not
interest them. So, in my ardent desire to reach and do them good, I
procured several volumes of Evangelical sermons, and copied them,
putting in sometimes a negative to their statements, to make them, as I
thought, right.

Now I began to see and feel that there was some good in preaching, and
used the pulpit intentionally, in order to communicate with my people,
carefully writing or compiling my sermons. But I must confess that I was
very nervous in my delivery, and frequently lost my place--sometimes
even myself; and this to the great confusion of the congregation.

I will tell how it pleased the Lord to deliver me from this bondage of
nervousness, and enable me to open my lips so as to plainly speak out my
meaning.

One day, a friend with whom I was staying was very late in coming down
to breakfast; so, while I was waiting, I employed myself in reading the
"Life of Bishop Shirley," of Sodor and Man. My eyes happened to fall on
a passage, describing a difficulty into which he fell by losing his
sermon on his way to a country church. When the prayers were over, and
the psalm was nearly sung, he put his hand into his pocket for his
manuscript, and, to his dismay, it was gone. There was no time to
continue his search; so he gave out a text, and preached, as he said, in
dependence upon God, and never wrote a sermon afterwards.

When my friend came to breakfast, he asked me what I had been doing all
the morning. I told him. "Ah!" he said, quietly. "Why do you not preach
in dependence upon God and go without a book like that good man? .... I
preach like that!" I said in amazement, terrified at the very thought.
"Yes." he answered, mischievously, "You. Who needs to depend upon God
for this more than you do?" Seeing that I was perturbed at his
suggestion, he went on teasing me all breakfast time, and at last said,
"Well, what is your decision? Do you mean to preach in future in
dependence upon God?" I said, "Yes; I have made up my mind to begin next
Sunday." Now it was his turn to be terrified, and he did all he could to
dissuade me, saying, "You will make a fool of yourself!" "No fear of
that," I replied; "I do it already; I cannot be worse. No; I will begin
next Sunday!"

I came back with the determination to keep my promise, but must confess
that I grew more and more uneasy as the time approached. However, on
Sunday, I went up into the pulpit, and spoke as well as I could, without
any notes, and found it far easier than I had feared. In the evening it
was still easier; and so I continued, week by week, gaining more
confidence, and have never written a sermon since that day--that is, to
preach it. Once I was tempted to take a book up into the pulpit, feeling
I had nothing to say, when something said to me, "Is that the way you
depend upon God?" Immediately I put the volume on the floor, and
standing on it, gave out my text, and preached without hesitation. This
going forward in dependence upon God has been a deliverance to me from
many a difficulty besides this one, and that through many years.

One day I went, in my cassock and cap, to the shop of a man whom I
regarded as a dreadful schismatic. He sold the publications of the
Religious Tract Society. On entering, he appeared greatly pleased to see
me, and took unusual interest and pains in selecting tracts, giving me a
double portion for my money. His kindness was very embarrassing; and
when, on leaving, he followed me to the door, and said "God bless you!"
it gave me a great turn. A schismatic blessing a priest! This, indeed,
was an anomaly. I was ashamed to be seen coming out of the shop, and the
more so, because I had this large Evangelical parcel in my hand, I felt
as though everybody was looking at me. However, the tracts were very
acceptable at home, and in the parish. I even began to think there was
something good in them. So I cent for more.

Three men, one after another, told me that they had been converted
through reading them. One of these said that "the tract I had given him
ought to be written in letters of gold;" and a few months after this
same man died most happily, rejoicing in the Lord, and leaving a bright
testimony behind. I mentioned the conversion of these three men to many
of my friends, and asked them for some explanation, but got none. Still,
the thought continually haunted me---What can this "conversion" be?

I had made it a custom to pray about what I had to do, and anything I
could not understand; therefore I prayed about this. Just then (I
believe, in answer to prayer) a friend offered to lend me Southey's
"Life of Wesley," and said, "You will find it all about conversion;" and
a few days after came a tract, "John Berridge's Great Error Detected."
This tract was carefully marked in pencil, and had several questions
written in the margin. I found out that it came from a person to whom I
had given it, and who was anxious to know its meaning.

I read it with much interest, for I saw that the first portion of the
history of Berridge corresponded with mine; but as I went on reading, I
wondered what he could mean by "Justification." What was that wonderful
thing which God did for him and for the souls of his people? What could
he mean by having his eyes opened to see himself a wretched, lost man?
What was "seeing the way of salvation"? He said that he had preached for
six years, and never brought a single soul to Christ; and for two years
more in another place, and had no success; but now, when he preached
Christ instead of the Church, people came from all parts, far and near,
to hear the sound of the glorious Gospel; and believers were added to
the Church continually. I grappled with this subject; but I could not,
by searching, find out anything, for I was in the dark, and knew not as
yet that I was blind, and needed the power of the Holy Spirit to awaken
and bring me to see myself a lost sinner. My soul was now all a stir on
this subject; but, as far as I can remember, I wanted the
information-not for myself; but because I thought I should then get hold
of the secret by which the Wesleyans and others caught and kept their
people, or rather my people.

Soon after, my gardener, a good Churchman, and duly despised by his
neighbours for attaching himself to me and my teaching, fell seriously
ill. I sent him at once to the doctor, who pronounced him to be in a
miner's consumption, and gave no hope of his recovery. No sooner did he
realize his position, and see eternity before him, than all the Church
teaching I had given him failed to console or satisfy, and his heart
sank within him at the near prospect of death. In his distress of mind,
he did not send for me to come and pray with him, but actually sent for
a converted man, who lived in the next row of cottages. This man,
instead of building him up as I had done, went to work in the opposite
direction-to break him down; that was, to show my servant that he was a
lost sinner, and needed to come to Jesus just as he was, for pardon and
salvation. He was brought under deep conviction of sin, and eventually
found peace through the precious blood of Jesus.

Immediately it spread all over the parish that "the parson's servant was
converted." The news soon reached me, but, instead of giving joy,
brought the most bitter disappointment and sorrow to my heart. Such was
the profound ignorance I was in!

The poor man sent for me several times, but I could not make up my mind
to go near him. I felt far too much hurt to think that after all I had
taught him against schism, he should fall into so great an error.
However, he sent again and again, till at last his entreaties prevailed,
and I went. Instead of lying on his bed, a dying man, as I expected to
find him, he was walking about the room in a most joyful and ecstatic
state. "Oh, dear master!" he exclaimed, "I am so glad you are come! I am
so happy! My soul is saved, glory be to God!" "Come, John," I said, "sit
down and be quiet, and I will have a talk with you, and tell you what I
think." But John knew my thoughts quite well enough, so he burst out,
"Oh master! I am sure you do not know about this, or you would have told
me. I am quite sure you love me, and I love you--that I do! but, dear
master, you do not know this--I am praying for the Lord to show it to
you. I mean to pray till I die, and after that if I can, till you are
converted." He looked at me so lovingly, and seemed so truly happy, that
it was more than I could stand. Almost involuntarily, I made for the
door, and escaped before he could stop me.

I went home greatly disturbed in my mind--altogether disappointed and
disgusted with my work among these Cornish people. "It is no use; they
never will be Churchmen!" I was as hopeless and miserable as I could be.
I felt that my superior teaching and practice had failed, and that the
inferior and, as I believed, unscriptural dogmas had prevailed. My
favourite and most promising Churchman had fallen, and was happy in his
fall; more than that, he was actually praying that I might fall too!

I felt very jealous for the Church, and therefore felt deeply the
conversion of my gardener. Like the elder brother of the Prodigal Son, I
was grieved, and even angry, because he was restored to favour and joy.
The remonstrance of the father prevailed nothing to mollify his
feelings; in like manner, nothing seemed to give me any rest in this
crisis of my parochial work. I thought I would give up my parish and
church, and go and work in some more congenial soil; or else that I
would preach a set of sermons on the subject of schism, for perhaps I
had not sufficiently taught my people the danger of this great sin!

Every parishioner I passed seemed to look at me as if he said, "So much
for your teaching! You will never convince us!"

CHAPTER 7

Conversion, 1851.

This was a time of great disappointment and discouragement. Everything
had turned out so different to the expectation I had formed and
cherished on first coming to this place. I was then full of hope and
intended to carry all before me with great success, and I thought I did;
but, alas! there was a mistake somewhere, something was wrong.

In those days, when I was building my new church, and talking about the
tower and spire we were going to erect, an elderly Christian lady who
was sitting in her wheel-chair, calmly listening to our conversation,
said, "Will you begin to build your spire from the top?"* It was a
strange question, but she evidently meant something, and looked for an
answer. I gave it, saying, "No, madam, not from the top, but from the
foundation." She replied, "That is right--that is right," and went on
with her knitting.

_______________________

* See Tract, "Building from the Top," by Rev. W. Haslam
_______________________

This question was not asked in jest or in ignorance; it was like a
riddle. What did she mean? In a few years this lady passed away, but her
enigmatic words remained. No doubt she thought to herself that I was
beginning at the wrong end, while I went on talking of the choir, organ,
happy worship, and all the things that we were going to attempt in the
new church; that I was aiming at sanctification, without justification;
intending to teach people to be holy before they were saved and
pardoned. This is exactly what I was doing. I had planted the boards of
my tabernacle of worship, not in silver sockets (the silver of which had
been paid for redemption), but in the sand of the wilderness. In other
words, I was teaching people to worship God, who is a Spirit, not for
love of Him who gave His Son to die for them, but in the fervour and
enthusiasm of human nature. My superstructure was built on sand; and
hence the continual disappointment, and that last discouraging
overthrow. No wonder that my life was a failure, and my labours
ineffectual, inasmuch as my efforts were not put forth in faith. My work
was not done as a thank-offering, but rather as a meritorious effort to
obtain favour from God.

Repentance towards God, however earnest and sincere, without faith
towards our Lord Jesus Christ, is not complete or satisfying. There may
be a change of mind and will, producing a change of actions, which are
done in order to pacify conscience, and to obtain God's favour in
return; but this is not enough. It is like preparing the Found without
sowing seed, and then being disappointed that there is no harvest. A
garden is not complete or successful unless the Found has been properly
prepared, nor unless flourishing plants are growing in it.

Repentance with Faith, the two together, constitute the fullness of
God's religion. We have to believe, not in the fact that we have given
ourselves--we know this in our own consciousness--but in the fact that
God, who is more willing to take than we to give, has accepted us. We
rejoice and work, not as persons who have surrendered ourselves to God,
but out of loving gratitude, as those who have been changed by Him to
this end.

I will go on now to tell how I was brought at this critical period of my
life to real faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ. This was done in a way
I knew not, and moreover, in a way I little expected. I had promised a
visit to Mr. Aitken, of Pendeen, to advise him about his church, which
was then building; and now, in order to divert my thoughts, I made up my
mind to go to him at once. Soon after my arrival, as we were seated
comfortably by the fire, he asked me (as he very commonly did) how the
parish prospered. He said, "I often take shame to myself when I think of
all your work. But, my brother, are you satisfied?"

I said, "No, I am not satisfied."*

"Why not?"

"Because I am making a rope of sand, which looks very well till I pull,
and then, when I expect it to hold, it gives way."

"What do you mean?"

"Why," I replied, "these Cornish people are ingrained schismatics."

I then told him of my gardener's conversion, and my great
disappointment.

"Well," he said, "if I were taken ill, I certainly would not send for
you. I am sure you could not do me any good, for you are not converted
yourself."

"Not converted!" I exclaimed. "How can you tell?"

He said, quietly, "I am sure of it, or you would not have come here to
complain of your gardener. If you had been converted, you would have
remained at home to rejoice with him. It is very clear you are not
converted!"

____________________________

* See Tract, "Are You Satisfied?" by Rev. W. Haslam.
___________________________

I was vexed with him for saying that, and attempted to dispute the
point; but he was calm and confident; while I, on the other hand, was
uneasy, and trying to justify myself.

In the course of our conversation, he said, "You do not seem to know the
difference between the natural conscience and the work of the Spirit."
Here he had me, for I only knew of one thing, and he referred to two.
However, we battled on till nearly two o'clock in the morning, and then
he showed me to my bed-room. Pointing to the bed, he said (in a voice
full of meaning), "Ah! a very holy man of God died there a short time
since." This did not add to my comfort or induce sleep, for I was
already much disturbed by the conversation we had had, and did not enjoy
the idea of going to bed and sleeping where one had so lately died--even
though he was a holy man. Resolving to sit up, I looked round the room,
and seeing some books on the table, took up one, which happened to be
Hare's "Mission of the Comforter." Almost the first page I glanced at
told the difference between the natural conscience and the work of the
Spirit. This I read and re-read till I understood its meaning.

The next morning as soon as breakfast was finished, I resumed the
conversation of the previous night with the additional light I had
gained on the subject. We had not talked long before Mr. Aitken said,
"Ah, my brother, you have changed your ground since last night!"

I at once confessed that I had been reading Hare's book, which he did
not know was in my room, nor even in the house. He was curious to see
it.

He then challenged me on another point, and said, "Have you peace with
God?" I answered, without hesitation, "Yes,"---for, for eight years or
more I had regarded God as my Friend. Mr. A. went on to ask me, "How did
you get peace?" "Oh," I said, "I have it continually. I get it at the
Daily Service, I get it through prayer and reading, and especially at
the Holy Communion. I have made it a rule to carry my sins there every
Sunday, and have often come away from that holy sacrament feeling as
happy and free as a bird." My friend looked surprised, but did not
dispute this part of my experience. He contented himself by asking me
quietly, "And how long does your peace last?" This question made me
think. I said, "I suppose, not a week, for I have to do the same thing
every Sunday." He replied, "I thought so." Opening the Bible, he found
the fourth chapter of St. John, and read, "'Whosoever drinketh of this
water shall thirst again.' The woman of Samaria drew water for herself
at Jacob's well, and quenched her thirst; but she had to come again and
again to the same well. She had no idea of getting water, except by
drawing, any more than you have of getting peace excepting through the
means you use. The Lord said to her, 'If thou knewest the gift of God,
and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have
asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water,' which would be
'a well of water springing up into everlasting life'" (John 4:10-14). My
friend pointed out the difference between getting water by drawing from
a well, and having a living well within you springing up.

I said, "I never heard of such a thing."

"I suppose not," he answered.

"Have you this living water?" I continued.

"Yes, thank God, I have had it for the last thirty years."

"How did you get it?"

"Look here," he said, pointing to the tenth verse: "You wouldest have
asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water." "Shall we ask
Him?" I said.

He answered, "With all my heart;" and immediately pushing back his
chair, knelt down at his round table, and I knelt on the opposite side.
What he prayed for I do not know. I was completely overcome, and melted
to tears. I sat down on the ground, sobbing, while he shouted aloud,
praising God.

As soon as I could get up, I made for the door, and taking my hat, coat,
and umbrella, said that "I was really afraid to stay any longer." With
this I took my departure, leaving my carpet-bag behind. It was seven
miles to Penzance, but in my excitement I walked and ran all the way,
and arrived there before the coach, which was to have called for me, but
brought my carpet-bag instead. In the meantime, while I was waiting for
it, I saw a pamphlet, by Mr. Aitken, in a shop window, which I bought,
and got into the train to return to Baldhu. My mind was in such a
distracted state, that I sought relief in reading. I had not long been
doing so, when I came to a paragraph in italics: "Then shall He say unto
them, Depart from Me; I never knew you." The question arrested me, "What
if He says that to you? Ah, that is not likely. But, what if He does? It
cannot be. I have given up the world; I love God; I visit the sick; I
have daily service and weekly communion. But, what if He does?--what if
He does? I could not bear the thought; it seemed to overwhelm me."

As I read the pamphlet, I saw that the words were spoken to persons who
were taken by surprise. So should I be. They were able to say, "We have
eaten and drunk in Thy presence, and Thou has taught in our streets: in
Thy name we have cast out devils, and done many wonderful works." Yet,
with all this, He replied, "Depart from Me, I never knew you." I did not
see how I could escape, if such men as these were to be rejected.

Conviction was laying hold upon me, and the circle was becoming
narrower. The thought pressed heavily upon me, "What a dreadful thing,
if I am wrong!" Added to this, I trembled to think of those I had
misled. "Can it be true? Is it so?" I remembered some I had watched over
most zealously, lest the Dissenters should come and pray with them. I
had sent them out of the world resting upon a false hope, administering
the sacrament to them for want of knowing any other way of bringing them
into God's favour. I used to grieve over any parishioner who died
without the last sacrament, and often wondered how it would fare with
Dissenters!

My mind was in a revolution. I do not remember how I got home. I felt as
if I were out on the dark, boundless ocean, without light, or oar, or
rudder. I endured the greatest agony of mind for the souls I had misled,
though I had done it ignorantly. "They are gone, and lost forever!" I
justly deserved to go also. My distress seemed greater than I could
bear. A tremendous storm of wind, rain and thunder, which was raining at
the time, was quite in sympathy with my feelings. I could not rest.
Looking at the graves of some of my faithful Churchmen, I wondered, "Is
it really true that they are now cursing me for having misled them?"

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