The Palm

The righteous shall flourish like the palm-tree.

Deak Readee, — You have named the name of Jesus. You have been led to avow yourself the Saviour’s disciple. And, if sincere and intelligent in your profession, j;du are very different from the multitude, and from what you yourself once were. To you Christ is now a real person. You are persuaded that He is the Son of God and the Saviour of sinners. You believe that 1800 years ago he poured out Ilis precious blood on a cross at Jerusalem, as an atonement lor sin, and by His obedience to death brought in everlasting righteousness. You are assured that He is now at the Father’s right hand, a Prince and a Saviour, bestowing repentance and the remission of sins. Your own hope is in Christ. You know not another name to which you can trust your eternal interests, but Christ Jesus you can and do rely on. And since you ascertained Christ’s ability and willingness to save, there has been a change in your aifections and hopes, your principles and habits. Your temperament may be cold; nevertheless, by you Christ is loved and adored. Your faith may be feeble and your prospects confused; still you have learned to recognise a Friend in Immanuel and a home in Heaven. Your motives may be mixed and unstable; still your obedience is new, and you often find a holy impulse, a filial instinct, the joy of salvation or the love of Christ constraining you. Your character may be very defective; but still you can perceive that it is altered — for now you love to pray and read the Bible. You arc happy among the excellent of the earth. The meditation of God is sweet, the day of God is welcome, and the house of God is dear. If a Christian at all, your case will be another fulfilment of the universal rule, “If any man be in Christ he is a new creature.”

But along with the hope of sincerity you may have a painful sense of deficiency. You

96 EMBLEMS FKOM EDilX.

feel that you are neither so happy nor so holy as a Christian might be. You would like to reach a character more explicit, a faith more firm, and an experience more vivid than are sought by ambiguous and commonplace professors. You perceive that it is a high mark which the Gospel sets before you, and that the consistent Christian is not only a new but a noble creature. But if such completeness and consistency of character be the objects of your desire, you should make them the subject of earnest thought and prayerful effort. With the Bible for a directory and the Holy Spirit for a teacher, there is nothing august and nothing amiable in vital Christianity which you may not long and hope to see developed in yourself. The Father is glorified when disciples are fruitful. The Church is strong when its members are mutual supports and incitements. And the Gospel spreads when living epistles commend it.

We have selected as mottoes two Scriptural emblems, the Palm and the Cedar, — the one representing personal religion in its gracefulness, the other piety in its grandeur; the one, the beauty of true holiness, the other, its mnjosty: and both together the blessedness of its possessor and the benefits which he confers on others. Having ah-eady made a few remarks on the one, we now proceed to the other.

There is something instructive in the very place where the Palm-tree grows. It is not in the sheltered dcptlis of the forest, nor with its roots struck deep in the fertile loam. It grows in the desert. All round the ridgj sand is burning, and often its pillar of verdure springs direct from the scorching dust. And it is in the desert that trees of righteousness grow. This earth is a land of emptiness. Its mould is not the soil from which you would expect aught spiritual or holy to spring. And wh.en in a world like this — a world so sensual and depraved and so embittered against the living God, — when in such u world you alight on a man of blameless life and devout disposition and heavenly aspirations, it is the same surprise as encountering the bright and laden Palm on the dusty edge of the desert. You may feel that your own is not the favourable place for cultivating personal piety. Your abode is not a cottage

K imbedded in the calm of rural Sabbaths, where the over-arching firmament or the leafy solitude invites you, Eden-wise, to communion with God. Your lot is not cast under the protective shadow of a domestic sanctuary, or amid the innocent safeguards and virtuous inspiration of a hallowed and godly home. You live in a city where the dust of business is drifting all the week, and the din of occupation disturbs the day of rest. You are planted in a lonely lodging, or a praj’crless household. And if your soul is to tlirivc at all, it must learn to “flourish” among strangers and scoiFers. You must be a man of principle in the midst of profligacy, and a man of faith while surrounded with infidelity. “Thou, God, seest me!” must be inscribed in the dingy counting-room, and must move before you in letters of endearing light through the glare of the gas-lit mart. You must carry Bible rules into scenes of trickery and tumult, and must not suffer cunning men to beguile you of your simplicity, or knavish men to rob you of your equanimity. You nnist learn to be holy and harmless though in daily contact with duplicity, and must strive to lead Enoch’s life: for, were Enoch living now, he would walk with God in the streets of London.

Though the Palm starts bolt up from the burning sand, the sand is not its sustenance. The dust may have swept hot and stifling round its stem; — but clear that dust away. The sand grows humid as you dig, and, by the time you reach the white fibres of the tap, the veins of water flow. And, as, by and by, you gaze on the fringy rootlets floating in the well, you discern the secret of its joyous growth. No matter that the sky is brass and the desert dust, when crystal life is throbbing perennial and plentiful below. Doubtless this is a dry and thirsty land; but it is the land where ever and anon the eye is gladdened by some goodly Palm. In strange and unexpected places you meet with fresh and lofty Christians. You wonder how they thrive. They do not grow as the lily; for the lily is found in green pastures, and they do not belong to a lifcsome communion. Nor do they spring as the willow; for it springs by the water-courses, and they have not the benefit of the purest ordinances and the most refreshful ministrations. They are trees of the desert, like Enoch among the giant sinners of an early world; like Joseph among the wizards and beast-worshippers of Egypt; like Daniel in voluptuous Babylon; like David Brainerd among Indian savages; like Henry Martyn in stony-hearted Persia. Their life is hid. So pure amidst depravity, so loyal to God amidst idolatry, so devout and fervent amidst atheism and blasphemy, their heavenly-mindedness is a miracle. But beneath the dusty surface of this godless world, there is a well of water springing up to everlasting life. There is no spot so barren, and no soil so burning, no place nor period so adverse, but faith can find the Holy Spirit there. It needs only faith’s penetrating root descending beneath the things which do appear,* to fetch up spiritual refreshment and invigoration where others pine and die. From a secret source the believer in Jesus draws his life. The morning portion of the word, the morning prayer, the morning meditation; these are the “stolen waters” which keep him green all day; and even in the desert there * Heb.xi. 1.

is a dew which, descending on his branches overnight, brings him forth fragrant and vcgete to the morrow. You, my friend, who lead a life of secularity or drudgery, — you who are often sighing, “Lord, what a wretched land is this;” remember that it is the land of the Bible, the land of prayer, the land of the promises, and, above all, the land of the Comforter’s presence and power. To say nothing of periodic rains and weekly showers, the affluent irrigation of sanctified Sabbaths and communion feasts, — a daily text and daily prayer, with the whole heart in them, would make you flourish like the Palm. You would realise something of the life of God in your own soul, and your shining, healthful aspect would draw forth the exclamation, “0 Lord of hosts, blessed is the man whose strength is in thee.”

The Palm is a tree of remarkable beauty. Apart from all its associations there is something in its slim uprightness, its verdant canopy, and the silvery flashes of its waving plumes, which glads the eye that gazes. And so is there in a person truly gracious. If your character be completely Christian; if k2 there be in it so much of grace that the gracious has all grown natural; if your affections be brought obedient to Christ Jesus; if your maxims of conduct be scriptural, and your motives in acting Christian, there will be instruction and joy in beholding you. Your growth will be erect and aspiring. The ivy creeps and the bramble trails, but the Palm, in its perpendicular uprightness, dwells on high, and seeks the things above. And the fairest Christians are those whose pure and lofty affections lift them sublimely above all that is low and debasing, and whose heavenpointing demeanour betokens an upgoing heart. Whosoever is anxious to become a consistent and conspicuous Christian, must keep aloof from the mean enjoyments and paltry expedients, the tattling curiosity and malignant constructions, of a world incredulous of the highest goodness, because incapable of exerting it; and, aware that no permanent motive to well-doing can be found here below, he must seek it in that Saviour whose smile it elicits, and in that Heaven where it all will be found again. Some trees are crooked, but the Palm is straight, and,

THE rALM. 103

standing forth in its unbending altitude, spreads all its foliage to the sun. And, if yours be a flourishing Christianity, there will be no crooks nor zigzags in it. A conscience void of offence will give a gay security to your goings out and comings in. Never meeting the neighbour whom you have injured, nor the man who has aught ignominious to allege against you; haunted by no sense of hollowness, and no forebodings for the future; harbouring no bitter feelings, and hiding no sinister designs, you will readily come to the light, and never fear that it will make your deeds too manifest. And just as your frank, explicit character will declare you a child of day, your evenly icnse and the sweetness of your disposition will justify you as one of Wisdom’s children. There are trees which have knots of weakness in their substance, and gnarled projections on their surface. But the Palm is not only erect and tall; its stem is fair and even. From the root to the topmost tuft, it springs round, elegant, and equal, with neither galls nor disfiguring bunches. There are crotchetty Christians; but they are not palms.

There are professors so peculiar that you can never count on them; what they are to-day is no presumption for what they shall be to-morrow. They may have many good points and noble qualities; but their fellowship is marred, and their usefulness frustrated, by whims which no sagacity can predict, and caprices to which not even “the patience of the saints” can conform. Christian reader, cultivate a meek and quiet spirit; that magnanimity which is calm and considerate, and which tries to look at this day’s grievances in to-morrow’s light; that elastic and happy temper which, being the growth of grace, shall be independent of the weather, — that serenity which, whether in fog, or sickness, or hunger, or in sunshine, and health, and bodily comfort, “is not easily provoked;” that “charity which suifereth long and is kind, which hopeth all things, cndureth all things.” And if this grace be in you, — if your spirit be so ruled that men find 3’ou the same yesterday and to-day, — your heart fixed amidst vexations, and amidst all its trials your temper tranquil, they will jDcrceive that the religion from above is full of good fruits, and will admire its peaceful fruits in you.

Nor must we forget that foliage which is one chief glory of the palm. Each several frond in its graceful arching, and its long and taper leaflets, with the gloss of unfading verdure, is such a natural symbol of hope and joy and exultation, that the palm-branch has stood for ages the emblem of victory. It was twisted into the verdant booths at the Feast of Tabernacles; it was borne aloft by the multitude when they escorted Messiah to his coronation in Jerusalem. “And lo! before the throne in heaven, and before the Lamb, a great multitude, clothed with white robes, and palms in their hands.” * And every believer should flourish like the palm. Not only should “his leaf never fade,” f it should not even sully. Some leaves are so viscid and clammy, that the dust settles and adheres. And some professors, who perhaps are genuine, are so powdered over with a constant secularity that their leaf is always dingy. They are wayfaring trees; and if the shower of some special ordinance or solemnising dispen- * Rev. vii. 9. f Psalm i. 3.

106 EMnLEMS FKOM EDF.X.

satlon should wash their foliage into a momentary freshness, the cares of this life soon deface it again. But in the heart of the desert the palm contrives to cast the dust quick as it alights, and keeps its slender leaflets pure. And so. Christian brethren, be it your endeavour to maintain not only a blameless, but a beauteous character, the full circulation and the fresh attire of a flourishing Christianity. You must go into the world to-morrow. You must do many dull and irksome things, or many things apparently remote from religion. But if you have found out the secret of spiritual-mindedness, you will come home fit for the prayer-meeting, or for the Christian friend, or the family worship. In the midst of all the secularities which have been floating around, you will keep your garments clean. The palm has no holiday clothing. Its branch is equally green whether an emperor or an outlaw pass under it. Summer and winter it is always the same. And so a beauteous Christianity is that which loses none of its loveliness to the eye that oftenest views it. If you be respectable in public, — if you bo serious and fervent in the sanctuary, — if your conversation be rational or religious in society; — but if you be common-place at home, — if you be cross and censorious, frivolous and silly, worldly and wearisome at your own fireside, — if you be one of those trees which need brushing before they are fit to be seen, such dusty affinities prove that your nature is not that of the palm. If full of sap your leaf will be evergreen; and those who know you best will love you most, and be the best persuaded of your simplicity and godly sincerity. And to crown the whole; if yours be a palmy growth, yours will be a religion of happiness and praise. A fair sight it is when the breeze flits by, and every ray of the feathery coronet twinkles to the morning sun, — the desert’s anthem, — the palm-tree’s orison. Nature gave the hint to man, and to God’s glory waved her verdant plumes before the victor learned to wave them to his own. And so, dear friend, if yours be the right religion, it will be imbued with blessedness and clothed with praise. You “will be fat and flourishing,” “to show that the Lord is upright.” Through the greatness of his work your heart will be made right glad. His greatest work redemption, will often swell in upon your spirit with new surprise, and the Christ that is yours, and the Comforter that is yours, and the heaven which is soon to be yours, will bear baelv jour waking glory into astonished silence and heart-murmured adoration; and lesser gifts, less, but most precious, will be a sweet relief to the overmastering emotion; and, by giving outlet to the gratitude, you will sanctify the gift and seal it in sacredness and sweet memorial on your own soul. Habitual faith will give perennial cheerfulness. If “fat” you will be “flourishing.” The peace of God within will force off the withered twigs of care and foreboding and worldly-mindedness, and give you the daily freshness of one careful for nothing. “I am now,” writes one, ‘* near the end of my warfare. I never had such a variety of affairs to manage as a man in so much business as yourself, but I had a large young family very dear to me, and not enough for their maintenance from year to year; and, in case of my death, they were to be destitute. I was, however, wonderfully free and cheerful in my heart. I think I should not have been more so, if I had been without a child. My preservative was wholly this: ‘He that hath the Son hath life.’ A full and powerful conviction of this truth was attended with constant prayer for them and myself, that we might have this one thing needful, which by this means grew in price and value. Was Christ enough for peace, comfort,

and joy to the first Christians; and is He not now the same? Will He not be enough for me and my children? “And to like purport writes another:” Yesterday I was very much taken up in house affairs. Various things occurred which would at some times have been a burden, but everything seemed blest. These words were all day the language of my heart:

“‘With thee conversing I forget
All time, and toil, and care;
Labour is rest, and toil is sweet,
If thou, my God, be there.’”

Few trees can equal the Palm in absolute usefulness. Its shadow refreshes the weary traveller. Its sweet and abundant fruit restores his strength. And when his soul faileth him for thirst, its welcome telegraph

110 E:.i!).M::.rs from eden.

announces, Here is water. The light-house of the wilderness, nature’s simple hostelry, its beacon has darted life into many a glassy eye, and has forwarded to the home, which he hardly hoped to see again, many a sinking wanderer; — so that glad associations and grateful offices have gone ftir to enhance its beauty. And in the tender mercy of God there are distributed through the Church of Christ, and consequently through the world, many persons who, in beneficence, flourish like the palm. To do good and communicate they never forget. They cannot avoid it. It is now spontaneous with them, for God gave them the disposition when He gave them their new nature. Like a cool shadow in a scorching day, their counsel revives the perplexed, and their sympathy cheers the sad. Like the clustering dates ungrudgingly showered on the passenger, their generosity and hospitality are a boon to all who need them. And like the palm-tree pointing to the hidden well, their sure direction guides the weary seeker to the Fountain where he drinks and lives for ever. Such a one was Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, in whose large heart and ten-Tin: i’A!.:lr. Ill

der wisdom, afflicted consciences and wounded spirits found the balm which healed them, “a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost.” And such were Gains, and Aquila, and Lydia, and Dorcas, whose willing roof and untiring bounty made churches their debtors, and who found in the prayers of the poor their payment. And such was Philip the Evangehst, who put the timely question to the Ethiopian, and businc;::-like and brother-like sat down in the chariot beside him, and pointed out so plain that way to heaven which the earnest stranger was so fiin to find. And such in later times have been many of the Church Universal’s worthies: Bernard Gilpin, whose open hand and inviting door softened towards the Gospel the rude heart of Northumberland; John Thornton, of whom it was remarked, “Were there but a thousand loving Christians of great opulence like-minded with him, the nation would be convinced of the good operation of the Gospel;” William Wilberforce, who, in addition to countless acts of considerate philanthropy, sought out and sent to college young m.en of principle and promise, and saw his liberality rewarded when they became judges of the land, and distinguished ministers of the Gospel; Howell Harris, who filled his Trevecca mansion with scores of disabled and destitute Christians, and, amidst the tears of a hundred adopted children, passed away to that beloved Saviour whom hungry he fed, and a stranger he had taken in; * Mrs. Fletcher, of Madeley, who devoted her long widowhood to prayer and active kindness, and re-peopled her desolate home with orphans and the pious poor; John Newton, whose dusky Coleman-street chamber shone with a heavenly radiance in many a memory, for there, amid his affectionate explanations, the cross stood out to their tearful view, and for the first time they learned to find in a Saviour’s side the double refuge from sin and from sorrow. And such in your place and your measure may each of you who are Christians at all, aspire to become. “Herein is the Father glorified that ye bear much fruit.” Kind looks, kind words, kind deeds, advice thoughtfully and honestly given, trouble cheerfully taken, visits to the sick and the mourning, when your heart goes with you and * Matt. XXV. 35, 40.

you are in a mcod for priijcr, gifts of vour siibstancc, larg« enough to make you interested in tlic cause to which you contribute, and intercessions as earnest as these gifts are cordial: such are true fruits of righteousness; such are the genuine produce of a thriving Pahn.

And not to enlarge too much, we merely notice the circumstance that this interesting tree is productive to the last, and brings forth its best fruit in old age. The best dates are said to be gathered when it has reached a hundred years. So is it with eminent Christians: the older the better; the older the more beautiful; nay, the older the more useful; and, different from worldlings, the older the happier. The best Christians are these who improve to the end, who grow in grace and in the knowledge of Jesus Christ to the very close of life. They loved Him at first, but now they love Him more. At first they were selfish, and only sought to escape from wrath; now they are jealous of the Saviour’s honour, and long to be saved from sin. At first they only thought of the Priest; now they perceive the Priest upon a throne, and love not only the Saviour’s cross, but the Saviour’s yoke and the Saviour’s laws. Cfne Jesus is their King. And they grow in knowledge of themselves. The truth to which they once assented becomes a deep-wrought experience. “In me, that is, in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing.” And the discovery of this depravity, the knowledge how debased and worthless their nature has become, instead of making them morose and bitter towards their fellow-sharers in the fall, makes them lenient and considerate. They know themselves too well to expect perfection in their friends, and find brethren to whom they can stick close in the face of obvious failings; and even when they hear of awful wickedness, indignation is chastened by compassion and humility. It is something of the old Reformer’s feeling when he saw the malefactor led to prison: — “There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.” And they grow in wisdom. Long experience, and still more “the secret of the Lord,” dispassionate observation and heavenly-mindedness, have given them sagacity; and sometimes in homely adages, sometimes in direct and sober counsel, they deal forth that mellow wisdom.

And they grow in spirituality. We have seen those aged pilgrims to whom earthly things at last grew insipid; they had no curiosity for the news of the day, and little taste for fresh and entertaining books. They stuck to God’s testimonies, and you never went in to see them but the ample Bible lay open on the table or the counterpane; and they could tell the portion which had been that morning’s food, or the meditation of the previous night. The Word of God dwelt in them so richly that you could see they were becoming fit to dwell with God; for when a mind has become thoroughly scriptural, it wants but another step to make it celestial. And the last harvest came, and the last gleanings of their precious words, and when next we went that way their place kndw them no longer. They were flourishing in the courts of God’s house on high, and we should sit under their shadow and be regaled by their goodness no more. But when we recollected how fair their Christian profession was, how beneficent and serviceable they had ever been, and remembered that their last days were their brightest, and their last fruits their fairest, we said over to ourselves, “The righteous shall flourish like the Palm-tree. Those that be planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing; to show that the Lord is upright; He is my rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him.”

Dear Christian Reader, when your own ear cannot hear it, may this be your eulogy; when your own C3’e cannot read it, may this be your epitaph. In the meanwhile, for the sake of that Saviour who is dishonoured by proud and selfish and unlovely disciples, do you strive and pray for consistency. And for your own soul’s sake, which is dulled by defective views and depressed by each besetting sin, do you seek a serene and lofty faith, do you covet earnestly a blameless conversation. Let your triumphs over self and high-hearted zeal for the Saviour, let the largeness of your spirit and your heavenly elevation, let the exuberance of your goodness and the multitude of its special acts, let the fulness of your aflections and the freshness of your feelings, and the abundance of your beneficence, make the

Christian manifest and unmistakeable. Let your happy piety be the fiir-eyed signal announcing an Oftsis in the Desert, and pray that your Church or congregation may become to weary pilgrims another Elim, where when they came they found “twelve wells of water, and threescore and ten Palm-trees.’*