By James Stalker
"With me it is a very small thing that I should be judged of you or of man's judgement; Yea, I judge not mine own self; for I know nothing against myself; Yet am I not justified; but He that judgeth me is the Lord." 1 Cor. 4:3-4 (Revised Version)
(Note.- The apostle says that there are four judgments which he is exposed to: first, that of his friends- "judged of you;" secondly, that of the world- "or of man's judgment;" thirdly. his own judgment- "I judge not mine own self;" and, fourthly, God's judgment- "He that judgeth me is the Lord." And he tells us what estimate he puts on these several judg ments. For the first two he cares little- "With me it is a very small thing that I should be judged of you or of man's judgment." He means to say that he falls back on his own judgment. Yet no, this is not his meaning- "Yea, I judge not mine own self; for I know nothing against myself; yet am I not hereby justified." The decisive verdict is a higher one- "He that judgeth me is the Lord.")
It might be said that in every man there are four men:
First, there is the man the world sees.
The world looks at each of us and sees a certain image of us. It observes single actions of ours and watches our courses of action, and gradually makes up its mind about our character and conduct as a whole. It takes in a general impression of what we are, and gives it expression in a brief judgment on us. Is it not singular to reflect, that in the town in which we live or the neighbourhood where we are known there is in circulation a general popular opinion about everyone of us? It is usually condensed into very terse terms, such as, He is a good man, or, He is a bad man; He is an excellent, able, generous fellow, or, He is a small, narrow-minded creature; He is good-hearted, but there is nothing in him, or, He is very clever, but he knows it. Few of us are perhaps aware of the exact phrase in which the mental photograph which the public has taken of us is passed from hand to hand; and, for our peace of mind, it may in some cases be just as well. But there is no doubt that it exists; and this is the first man in each of us-the man the world sees.
Secondly, there is the man seen by the person who knows him best.
This may be quite a different man from the man the world sees; for every man has two sides-one to face the world with, and one to show to the friend of his heart.
I once had a friend. The popular opinion about him was that he was very quiet and rather dull, without ideas, or experience, or character of his own. Such was the man the world saw. But the man I saw was quite a different being a man of the most genial humour, who could break into conversation the most lively and discursive or the most serious and profound, with a mind richly stored with unusual knowledge, a fertile imagination, and a moral nature which had passed through all the great experiences of the human soul and all the peculiar experiences of our new time.
This is not a singular case. There is no one that is another's nearest and dearest who does not sometimes say, The man I know is very different from the man the world knows; people think they know him; but there are heights and depths of which they have no suspicion. Some men, owing to a shy and self-suppressing temperament, are scarcely known to the public at all. They cannot permit themselves to show any feeling, and all their movements in the eyes of others are invincibly awkward. People therefore think them cold and unfeeling. Yet this may be a complete mistake. The most intense and passionate nature may be ice-like or iron-like outside.
There is an old myth of the Greek religion which illustrates this. Luna, the goddess of the moon, is said to have loved a mortal man. As she sailed across the sky at night in her silver beauty, she looked down at him as at other mortals, and he looked up at her as other mortals did. But, when midnight was past and the world was asleep, he still watched and looked up at her alone; and then she turned to him that side of her refulgent orb which is always turned away from the world, and disclosed such dazzling splendours as mortal eye had never seen before.
Thus does friend do to friend. Friend can say to friend,
There's the world's side of you;
Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you.
There, too, I stand sometimes with them and praise you.
But the best is when I glide from out them,
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight,
Come out on the other side-the novel,
Silent, silver lights and darks undreamt of,
Where I hush and bless myself with silence.
But is this second man better than the first? Let us hope, generally so. Surely most men appear bigger, better, more generous and tender to the one person who knows them best than to the outside world. Surely most of us have someone who would passionately say, He is a truer man, and his life is a truer life, than the public is aware. Yet it is not always so. Oh the wretched man who is more thought of in public than he is at home: whose friend knows that the brilliant qualities for which he has a reputation in public are mere tinsel and trickery; whose wife and family know that the sanctity for which he gets credit is mere hypocrisy! I fear many a house has such a skeleton in the cupboard. He who is a model of courtesy in public may be a tyrant at home; or those who know him best may be acquainted with concealed habits of his life and dark passages of his history which would ruin him if they came to the public car.
Thirdly, there is the man seen by himself.
This is a very different man from either the first or second. The man I know myself to be is by no means the same as that seen by the world, or even that seen by my closest friend.
For one thing, each man knows his own history far better than it can be known by anyone else. The public see a few of a man's deeds and hear a few of his words; and a bosom friend is acquainted with a few more. But the whole current of his actions from the beginning, the stream of his words, the whole torrent of his thoughts and feelings, no eye can see but his own.
Again, who knows the motives of a man's actions except himself? Have you never been ashamed to receive praise for a deed, supposed to be generous or pious, which you yourself knew to have sprung from a selfish root? And, on the other hand, who has not had his conduct ascribed sometimes to dark or petty motives, which, he is conscious) have never had a place in his heart?
The truth is, there is amazingly little of our inmost life which comes out in even the closest intercourse. The poet can never put on paper the most exquisite of the melodies which have sung themselves within him, and he looks in despair on the few tame and tuneless lines which are all he can recover of the fiery and winged conceptions of his imagination. The orator in his most successful hour only feebly bodies forth the thoughts which have almost burst the walls of his soul in secret, and which he has desired to shout to all the winds of heaven. The most heavenly madonnas of Raphael and the most lurid scenes of Rubens were only faint copies of the pictures of the artists' daydreams. Who that has ever learned to think at all has not sometimes been visited with swift glimpses and momentary intuitions of truth which he would attempt in vain to communicate to others? The very brightest things of the fancy and the profoundest things of the intellect, the last intensity of love and the most exquisite sensitiveness of pity, the most momentous decisions of the will and the darkest things of conscience belong entirely to an inner and secret world of self-knowledge, with which no stranger, or even friend, intermeddleth.
But is this third man a better or a worse than the first and second? Well, I think, he is both.
In some respects we all, perhaps, know ourselves to be better than we are supposed to be. As I have said, there arc bright visitations in the mind which you could not communicate to another if you tried. Then, there are some of the best things which you dare not speak of; humility, for example, spoken of is humility no more. What religious man can fully describe the tragic moments when his soul lies prostrate and penitent before God, or the golden moments when he is closest to the Saviour? Such things are soiled by fingering. Besides, in all highly toned minds there is a modesty about explanations; and even in the frankest friendship there is many a word, many an act, which we know is misinterpreted to our disadvantage, but which we cannot explain.
But even the worst have perhaps, more good in them than would be believed. There are wholesome bits in the most abandoned soul; there are sparks smouldering in the heap of ashes. Sometimes the outcast is visited with memories of innocence; sometimes his demoralised will attempts to rise; sometimes he weeps a few tears, hastily brushed away, for the lost past; sometimes he does a kind act which he would be ashamed to show.
Yes, all men know themselves to be, in some respects, better than they are supposed to be. But do we not also know ourselves to be worse? What do you say-not with the tongue with which you would speak to another, but with that voice with which the soul speaks to itself? Have you never said to yourself, If people only knew me as I know. myself, they would scorn me; if my friend knew me as I really am, he would be my friend no more? Away back in your life, are there not hours about which you neither could, would nor should speak? Is there ever a day but there pass through your mind thoughts of pettiness and vanity, movements of covetousness, envy and pride, perhaps dark doubts and blasphemies? Have you no secret habits and sinful inclinations and desires which dare not see the light?
We are both better and worse than others think. But on the whole, when the two sides are weighed against each other, to which does the balance incline? Am I taking a gloomy view of human nature if I say, that everyone of us is miserably self-condemned?
Fourthly, there is the man whom God sees.
This man is very different from the third. God knows us far better than we know ourselves. I said a little ago, that everyone remembers the whole of his own history from the beginning. But this is hardly correct. We forget much. It is only under God's eye that the whole of our past life, inward and outward, in all its unbroken concatenation, lies naked and open. He forgets nothing.
But, besides, He knows the state of our hearts to the bottom, and this no man knows about himself. God not only knows all the good and evil we have done, but all we are capable of doing. Some of those now hearing me will) before this time next year, do things which, if whispered to them now, would call forth the angry retort, Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing? On the other hand, there are those who will, within a year, perform acts of heroic faith and love which they would not now believe, though a man should show them unto them. We never know what is in us, or what manner of men we are, till the trial comes. The circumstances of our lot, the restraints of home and the habits of the society in which we move, produce virtues in us which are utterly destitute of root. Many a one, of the fairest fame and promise in his native place, has no suspicion how shallow his character is, till he finds himself in new circumstances, with restraint removed and temptation strong, when his goodness decays like Jonah's gourd and there is a rush of vicious growths from the soil of the heart.
Still another thing which makes the man God sees different from the man we see is that we are prejudiced in our own favour, but He is quite impartial. I have been taking it for granted that each of the men in us that I have described is truer to the reality than the preceding one. And, on the whole, this is correct. Yet not always: the public may sometimes judge a man more truly than his friends, because the latter are too partial. And who can have any doubt that his friends see defects in his character to which he is himself completely blind? Our self-conceit will sometimes even make us proud of qualities for which we arc the pity and laughing-stock of all who know us. Thus is our own judgment of ourselves distorted by prejudice; but God judges us impartially. I have no doubt that He sees a great deal of good in us which we have never seen in ourselves. Sometimes, when a man is humbled in the dust and bitterly condemning himself as vile and worthless, God looks upon that hour of penitence as the flower and glory of his life.
Yes, in some respects, God sees in each of us a better man than human eyes may ever have seen; but does He not also see far worse? What say you? Sometimes I have stood on the brink and looked down into the dark abyss of my own nature, till I reeled back dizzy and horrified. Yet I know that I have never once seen to the bottom. But He sees everything, and He sees it always. " Brethren, if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart and knoweth all things."
I have been trying to lead you a little down into the depths of self-knowledge; but, if you come a little farther into our text, it will take us still deeper into the mystery. Each of us comes under these four judgments; but now, what do we think of them? Which of them are we most concerned about?
There are three ways of regarding them, which I may call the Shallow Way, the Manly Way, and the Apostolic Way.
1. The Shallow Way.
A shallow man is deeply anxious about how he looks in the eyes of other men, but little concerned about how he looks in his own eyes or in God's.
I do not say that we ought to be indifferent about what our friends or the public think of us. Nobody but a fool would say that; for there are few things more precious than a good name and the esteem of friends; and the world has prompt and painful means of bringing anyone to his senses who affects to neglect its judgment.
But I do say, that he is a shallow man who is more anxious about what he seems to others than about what he knows himself to be. There are writers who, if their books are popular, do not care though they know them to be the fruit of superficial knowledge and insufficient labour. There are workmen who are satisfied if their handiwork can pass for what it pretends to be, though they know themselves that it is only a pretence. And there are plenty of spiritual workmen of the same sort. Do we never pass lightly over our secret sins because we think we are certain that they will never come to the knowledge of others? When a great sin becomes known to the public and ruins a man's reputation and prospects, is it, as a rule, for the sin he grieves or for the consequences?
2. The Manly Way.
The manly way is to treat lightly the judgments passed on us by others, but to be anxiously and honourably sensitive about the judgments which we are compelled to pass on ourselves.
This, I say, will produce a manly character and a noble life. It is not difficult to meet the demands of the world. Its code of morality is mainly negative; all it requires of us is to be respectable. But he who keeps a strict watch upon his own spirit and judges his outer and inner life conscientiously and intelligently must make heavy demands upon himself.
He who does so will not need to care very much what others think of him. True worth will shine out sooner or later. He may give offence sometimes and be occasionally misunderstood; but he has only to wait a little and stand his ground. He is not like the miserable slave of conventionality, who has constantly to be resorting to mean expedients to hide his defects and make his tinsel look like gold. The workman who cannot bear to let his work out of his hands as long as his own eye can detect a flaw in it will not have to wait long to see it appreciated by others.
There are few feelings more satisfying than amidst public depreciation and obloquy to fall back on one's own sense of pure motives and right conduct. This, however, is a comparatively easy thing to do; it is a far rarer manliness to acknowledge the faults which one's own eye can detect, even when others are applauding, and to pass through all the drama of moral feeling which the conscientious review of our conduct ought to excite) whether others know anything about it or not. This is an experience unknown to the shallow man; it is the manly way.
Yet I will show you a more excellent way-
3. The Apostolic Way.
This is the way of St. Paul: " With me it is a very small thing that I should be judged of you or of man's judgment; yea, I judged not mine own self; for I know nothing against myself; yet am I not hereby justified; but He that judgeth me is the Lord." I have heard of a young musical composer who was bringing out his first great composition. As the successive members of the mighty theme were evolved, the house rang with uncontrollable applause; and, as he stood above the orchestra, hearing his ideas interpreted by perfect executants and feeling the force of his genius pass into the souls of his fellowmen, irrepressible emotion began to swell in his breast. Yet all the time he kept his eye fixed on one spot in the audience, where sat a master of his art much greater than himself; and his heart trembled more at the slightest movement of the master's features than at all the thunders of the crowd.
This is the way to live. After man's judgment and our own judgment, there is another far more august-the judgment of God. It is only the recollection of this which will keep the manliest mind from becoming proud and pharisaical. As, at night, I pass the day's work under review, I can see much to blame; but, when I pass it on to God's hands, I know that His eye will detect a thousand faults where mine has noticed one. And, when I think of having to meet all my past life again, and hear His judgment on it from the great white throne, I know that I have nothing to depend on but His infinite mercy and the precious blood of His Son Jesus Christ, which cleanseth us from all sin.
I said before, that I was trying to lead you into the mystery of self-knowledge; and we have since penetrated into it a little farther. But let us try, before closing, to get to the very centre. These are practical truths, and they are little worth unless they lead to action. Let me show you in a couple of instances how they can be used to solve the deep questions of the soul.
There is surely no more solemn question which a man can ask himself than this, Am I as yet a Christian in deed and in truth? Now, about this there will be four opinions -the opinion of the world, the opinion of friends, your own opinion, and the judgment of God. There is, first, the opinion of the world. We know what this is likely to be. We know how wide and how vague its opinion is about what makes a Christian, The name is a mere title of courtesy, which everyone may claim. Then, secondly, there is the opinion of your friends. What is their opinion? It may be a mere echo of the opinion of the world; or it may be at the other extreme: they may refuse you the name, unless you are able to pronounce the shibboleth of some narrow coterie. Thirdly, what is your own opinion? Fourthly, what, as far as you can make it out from His Word, is the judgment of God?
And now, which of these opinions are you going by? Are you satisfied if you simply come up to the world's estimate and can pass muster in its rough judgment? We are hard ridden by conventionalism in most departments of life; but surely a man is lost altogether if he allows conventionalism to come into this holy of holies of his personality. Oh shallow, shallow the man who, on this question of destiny, is satisfied with any judgment except that which he has anxiously and deliberately arrived at in the presence of God!
The other question which I would suggest to you to try by the method of our text is not less important. Suppose any man feels that the secret answer given in his soul to the first question must be in the negative, then this other question arises, Ought I to become a Christian in deed and in truth? And on this also there are four judgments. The first is that of the world; and what is it? We all know. The world laughs at the suggestion: You a Christian, at your age! it is absurd! enjoy yourself; you can begin to think of religion when you are too old to think of anything else. Then, secondly, there is the opinion of your friends. What is it? An echo perhaps of the world's. Perhaps you even know that you would have to endure bitter persecution, if in a real or earnest sense you became a Christian. Or perhaps it is the other way: perhaps you well know that this is the daily wish and prayer of all the hearts which truly love you. Then, thirdly, there is your own judgment. What is it? What are all the sane, great and sacred voices within you saying on the point? And, fourthly, you know what is God's judgment.
Now, which of these judgments are you to go by? Is the voice of the world to prevail, or will you rise up in the strength of a man and say, In God's name I walk henceforth only in the way in which all the sacred things I know, within and without, are constraining me to go; from this hour I am Christ's, wholly Christ's, and Christ's forever?
