By J.R. Miller
It is said of sheep, that they follow their own shepherd because they know his voice. It is also said that they will not follow a stranger, because they do not know the voice of strangers. This ought to be as true of the flock of Christ, as of sheep. They should be able to discern between the voice of the Master--and the voice of any stranger. They should never respond to any call--but their own Shepherd's.
Evermore other voices are calling. The solicitations are not always, nor usually, to gross sins. With many people such temptations would have no power. The voices of the stranger are seductive. They are imitative of the voice of Christ himself. Instead of inviting the Christian to gross immoralities, to flagrant and outspoken opposition to Christ, or to any form of manifest disloyalty to him--they solicit his interest in something that seems altogether right. It is an attractive and winning voice, that the Christian hears. Surely, it is the Shepherd's! Yet if the heart be altogether true to Christ, it knows that it is not the Master's voice. The knowledge is instinctive--perhaps no reason can be given for the feeling, and yet the conviction is indubitable: "That is not my Shepherd's voice!"
It may not be easy to give such marks of the Shepherd's voice, as to enable the Christian to know infallibly whether the solicitations that come to him are indeed from Christ. But there are certain characteristics which always distinguish his calls.
There is a legend that once there came to the house of a godly man, one who knocked and asked for admittance. His bearing was lordly and majestic. "Who are you?" asked the saint. "I am Jesus," was the answer. There was something in the voice and manner of the visitor, however, which made the man suspect that he was not the Holy One he claimed to be. "Where is the print of the nails?" he asked. Instantly the stranger turned and fled away. It was Satan--not Christ! Nothing is Christ or of Christ--which does not bear this mark.
Said another saint: "There are many hands offered to help you; how shall you know the right one? Because in the center of the palm, there is the scar of a wound received long ago." Everyone who comes, however gracious his coming may be, however friendly and winning his voice, however like Christ he may appear, must be subjected to this test: If there is no print of the nail in the hand offered to you--it is not a hand you should receive--it is a stranger who is claiming the Shepherd's place!
A religion without the cross--is not Christ's religion. He did not come merely to blaze the way for us through the tangled forest, to mark out the path for our feet, or to give us an example of true living. Nor did he come merely to be a teacher, to reveal to the world the character and the will of God. He came to be a Savior. Woven into the very fibre of the gospel, dyed into the texture of its threads--is the thought of sacrifice, of atonement for sin. Leave out the atonement, and what remains of the gospel?
There is no satisfactory solution of the mystery of the life of Christ but that which recognizes him as the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. He took our nature that he might do his redemption work, cleanse our lives, purge away the guilt and foulness of our sins, and restore us to our lost place.
Everywhere we see the print of the nails. He bore the marks of his wounds after he arose, and showed them to the disciples to prove that he was indeed the Christ. When in the book or Revelation, the veil is withdrawn from the heavenly glory, we have a glimpse of him in the midst of the brightness--a Lamb as it had been slain. A gospel without the print of the nails--is not the gospel of Christ; and the voice that proclaims such a gospel, is the voice of a stranger.
The same is true of the life to which we are called as Christians. If there is no cross in it--it lacks the essential marks of genuineness. One of the most remarkable incidents in the gospel narrative, is the story of one of Peter's mistakes, when he so violently protested against his Master's going to a cross. "This shall never be unto you!" said the loving apostle. But the answer showed that Peter was acting the part of Satan, in seeking to withhold his Master from the way of the cross. This was God's appointed way for his Son, and the voice which was even tremulous with love, was yet the voice of a stranger.
Jesus then added, that not for him alone--but for his followers as well, was the way of the cross the only true way of life. "For whosoever will save his life--shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for my sake--shall find it." To try to keep one's friends back from sacrifice in the service of Christ--is to be Satan to them, tempting them to take the easy way. The voice that invites to such self-indulgence, is the voice of a stranger. To seek for one's self, a life without self-denial, without costly ministry--is to turn away from that which is really the vital thing in all Christian life.
We, too, must have the print of the nails in our hands and feet--if we truly belong to Christ. This is the family mark, without which none are indeed Christ's own. It is not to be understood that literally in our hands and feet the very scars of nails must be seen. We do not need to be actually crucified, as Jesus was. There would be no virtue in such crucifixion for its own sake. We must have an inward conformity to Christ which leads us into the very experiences of Christ himself. It is in the life, not on the body--that the print of the nails must appear.
There is, in the midst of earthly ease, continual danger that we give way to the spirit of self-indulgence. Too many of our friends are ready to make Peter's mistake when we stand before duties which demand self-denial or sacrifice, saying to us, "This shall never be unto you!" They insist that we are not really called to such costly service, and they would dissuade us from it. But such voices are not the Good Shepherd's--they are for the time, the voices of strangers. We should know them by their earthly tone. That is not the way Christ speaks to us. He would never have us withhold ourselves from any service--because of its cost.
Indeed, we may set it down as a principle--that the print of the nails is on everything we are called to do for Christ. This does not mean that everything pleasant and agreeable is form the Evil One; nor that discomfort and suffering are always marks of Christ-likeness. In ministries which are full of gladness--there may be the spirit of Christ--humility and unselfishness. In services that are hard--there may not be even a trace of Christ-likeness. The essential thing in the cross, is love serving without question, without stint.
"The nails of the true cross, today," says one, "are precisely those acts and decisions of ours which transfix our selfishness. Whenever we deny ourselves willingly for the love of others who do not love us, whenever we spend pains and patience to understand those who have no sympathy with us, whenever we give up ease, profit, or reputation for the unthankful and the evil--we are beginning to receive these sacred marks of the Crucified."
A Christian woman tells of her experience in making a fuller consecration to Christ. "Did you ever have a person in your home," she asks, "who acted as a perpetual irritation on the feelings of your household? I had. One day when I had nearly lost my faith and was sinking in the black waters of despair, I called on Christ to help me or I would perish. And what do you think he asked me to do? To love this woman. This was the only ladder he offered me up out of the black depths.
Then I grew uglier than ever, and almost hated my Savior. The struggle continued until I could stand it no longer. In agony I rushed to my closet and besought Jesus to help me. It seemed then as though in a most tender, loving voice, he asked, 'Can't you love her for my sake?' I said, 'Yes, Lord, I will.' At once peace filled my heart. My feelings toward her changed entirely. I had yielded my will to Christ."
She had heard the Master's voice, and was following him. That to which he had called her was not easy--it had on it the print of the nails--but it was the way to blessing and joy.
The sum of all this teaching, is that the Christian life is one of love like Christ's, poured out in service like his, in self-forgetfulness, without stint. And whatever voice calls us away from such living and serving to self-indulgence, to personal ease, to the saving of our own life--is the voice of a stranger, not the Good Shepherd--and we should flee from it as from an alluring evil!
Sweet Will of God
"I worship you, sweet Will of God,
And all your ways adore;
And every day I live, I see
To love you more and more."
"I love to kiss each print where you
Have set your unseen feet.
I cannot fear you, blessed Will,
Your empire is so sweet."
"I have no cares, O blessed Will,
For all my cares are thine;
I live in triumph, Lord, for you
Have made your triumph mine."
F. W. Faber
"Not my will--but may Your will be done"
Not every Christian seems able to enter into Faber's adoration of the will of God. Many good people think always of this will--as something painful, something hard and bitter. When they say, in the petition of The Lord's Prayer, "May Your will be done," they put a shudder into the words as if a ploughshare were being driven through their very heart! They have learned to think that God's will means always--a sorrow, the death of a loved one, the loss of property, the enduring of some sore trial. The words suggest to them always a painful cross of some kind.
But this is a wrong interpretation of the prayer. No doubt there are times when there must be a struggle between our will and God's, and when it costs much for us to yield. But this is not the exclusive nor even the ordinary meaning of the petition. Primarily, it is a prayer, not for the suffering--but for the active doing of the will of God. This is plainly the meaning of the petition in the form of words which our Lord gave to his disciples. It is a prayer that the will of God may become the law of our life that we may learn to do it always. This embraces all obediences, all duties, the whole of our common life. It includes all the sweet, happy experiences we have in our homes and among our friends, all the gladness of love, all the pleasures of social relations. It is a prayer that in all the varied conditions and circumstances of life--we may do the things that will please God.
There is nothing in this that is painful or hard. There is a secret of very sweet joy--which is found always in the doing of God's will. It brings the approval of conscience--the bird that sings in the heart when one does right. Then it insures to us the commendation and the companionship of God. It was Jesus himself who said, "The Father has not left me alone; for I do always those things that please him." Great gladness is found in the doing of God's will. Instead of meaning something bitter and sorrowful--it means the doing of things that should be easy and pleasant.
The standard which is set for us in the prayer, as our Lord has given it to us, indicates in a very clear and remarkable manner that it is a joyous thing to which we are summoned. We are taught to pray that the divine will may be done on earth--as it is done in heaven. How is the will of God done in heaven? Surely it does not there mean sorrow, loss, pain, sacrifice. The inhabitants of heaven are never called to stand beside dying children or beside new made graves, to give up out of their hands the treasures of love they prize more than life.
There are no hard experiences to pass through; no sore struggles to endure in that happy land. There are no Gethsemanes in heaven, where amid strong crying and tears--the child of God must lie and agonize as he accepts the cup which the Father puts into his hand. There the will of God is always joyous--and the doing of it always brings delight. The angels fly swiftly on the errands on which they are sent, doing with equal alacrity the most stupendous thing and the smallest ministries.
So it ever is in heaven--the will of God is done always with joy. It consists in happy activities, in joyous services. It is this heavenly standard that is set for our earthly living. The will of God, as it is done there, is always sweet--it is always a joy to do it. Evidently, therefore, the thought in our Lord's mind, when he gave this prayer to his disciples, was not primarily the suffering and enduring of the will of God--but the joyful obedience of common life.
True, this is not always easy. Our hearts do not incline us naturally to God's will and ways. We are prone to wander from the divine commandments. It is not until we have a new heart--that we begin to desire to do the will of God.
A boy was greatly perplexed about the thought that heaven was so far away, and he wondered how anyone in this world could ever get there. His wise mother said to him, "Heaven must come down to you--heaven must first come into your heart." This explains the whole mystery of the doing of God's will on earth as it is done in heaven. The heavenly life must come down first to us, into our heart; or else we never can enter heaven. When we have heaven in us--we begin to grow into God's likeness, striving to do God's will. Even then, however, it does not instantly become easy for us. It takes all of life to train and discipline our will, into happy and joyous obedience.
Still and always, however, this is the lesson set for us--the doing of God's will on earth, as it is done in heaven, as we ourselves shall do it in heaven when we reach that happy home. If your heart is full of love for Christ--the doing of the will of God will always be sweet, even though it is against nature and at the cost of much self-denial. It has been said very truly: "The outside world takes all its color, value, and grace--from the kind of world one carries about in one's self." Heaven in us--will make the hardest tasks a delight.
No doubt even angels have errands and tasks given to them, which in themselves would be hard--but which become easy, a delight, because they are accepted as parts of the will of God for them. This is the great secret of joy in service. Anything that is God's will for us--it should be gladness for us to do. If we love God deeply, everything that he wants us to do it is a joy for us to do. If we do not love God--then even the commonest, simplest duties which his will requires, are hard and dreary tasks for us.
While primarily it is the active doing of God's will, to which we are called, we are sometimes led into the way of suffering and sacrifice. It was so in Christ's own experience. He did always the Father's will--but at last that will laid on him the burden of the Cross. Jesus said that if we would be his followers--we must take up our cross and bear it after him. Sometime in every life, the will of God means a cross. We are called to give up earth's dearest treasures, or to step aside from pursuits into which all our life's ambitions have gone, or to accept suffering and pan as our lot, instead of joy, health, and activity.
How can we make God's will sweet in these cases? There is only one answer--we must love God so much, that we shall always find joy in any service which he may require of us. The way to take the bitterness out of any hard experience, is to acquiesce in it, to cease struggling and resisting, and to bring our will into quiet conformity with God's. Whenever we fail thus to submit--we make a cross for ourselves, and earth's brightness turns to gray.
But when we sink our will in God's, sure of his better wisdom and safer guidance, and of his perfect love--even the most painful things have in them secrets of joy, as the will of God grows sweet to us.
