Exasperating Comforters

“Miserable comforters are ye all.” — Job xvi., 2.

THE man of Uz Lad a great many trials; the loss of Lis family, the loss of his property, the loss of Lis health; but the most exasperating thing that came upon him was the tantalizing talk of those who ought to have sympathized with him. And looking around upon .them, and weighing what they had said, he utters the words of my text.

Why did God let sin come into the world? It is a question I often Lear discussed, but never satisfactorily answered. God made tLe world fair and beautiful at tLe start. If our first parents Lad not sinned in Eden, tLey migLt Lave gone out of tLat garden, and found fifty paradises all around tLe eartL — Europe, Asia, Africa, North and SoutL America — so many flower-gardens or orcLards of fruit, redolent and luscious. I suppose tLat wLen God poured out tLe GiLon and tLe Iliddekel, Le poured out, at tLe same time, tLe Hudson and tLe SusqueLanna; tLowLole eartL was very fair and beautiful to look upon. WLy did it not stay so? God Lad tLe power to keep back sin and woe. WLy did Le not keep tLem back? WLy not every cloud roseate, and every step a joy, and every sound music, and all tLe ages a long jubilee of sinless men and sinless women? God can make a rose as easily as Le can make a tLorn. AVLy, tLen, tLe predominance of tLorns? He can make good, fair, ripe fruit as well as gnarled and sour fruit. Why so mucL, then, that is gnarled and sour? He can make men robust in health. Why, then, are there so many invalids? Why not have for our whole race perpetual leisure, instead of this tug and toil and tussle for a livelihood? I will tell you why God let sin come into the world — when I get on the other side of the River of Death. That is the place where such questions will be answered and such mysteries solved. He who this side that river attempts to answer the question, only illustrates his own ignorance and incompetency-. All I know is one great fact, and that is, that a herd of woes have come in upon us, trampling down every thing flxir and beautiful. A sword at the gate of Eden, and a sword at every gate. More people under the ground than on it. The grave-yards in vast majority. The six thousand winters have made more scars than the six thousand summers can cover up. Trouble has taken the tender heart of this world in its two rough hands, and pinched it until the nations wail with the ngony If all the mounds of graveyards that have been lifted were put side by side, you might step on them and on nothing else, going all around the world, and around again, and around again. These are the facts. And now I have to say that, in a world like this, the grandest occupation is that of giving condolence. This holy science of imparting comfort to the troubled we ought all of us to study. There are many of you who could look around upon some of your very best friends who wish you well and are very intelligent, and yet be able truthfully to say to them in your days of trouble, “Miserable comforters are ye all.”

I remark, in the first place, that very voluble peoile are incomjietent for the ivoric of giving comfort. Bildad and Eliphaz

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bad the gift of language, and with their words almost bothered Job’s life out. Alas for these voluble people that go among the houses of the afflicted and talk, and talk, and talk, and talk! They rehearse their own sorrows, and then they tell the poor sufferers that they feel badly now, but they will feel worse after a while. Silence! Do you expect, with a thin court-plaster of words, to heal a wound deep as the soul? Step very gently around about a broken heart. Talk very softly around those whom God has bereft. Then go your way. Deep sympathy has not much to say. A firm grasp of the hand, a compassionate look, just one word that means as much as a whole dictionary, and you have given, perhaps, all the comfort that a soul needs. A man has a terrible wound in his arm. The surgeon comes and binds it up. “Now,” he says, “carry that arm in a sling, and be very careful of it. Let no one touch it.” But the neighbors have heard of the accident, and they come in, and they say, “Let us see it.” And the bandage is pulled off, and this one and that one must feel it, and see how much it is swollen; and there is irritation, and inflammation, and exasperation, where there ought to be healing and cooling. The surgeon comes in, and says, “What does all this mean? You have no business to touch those bandages. That wound will never heal unless 3-ou let it alone.” So there are souls broken down in sorrow. What they most want is rest, or very careful and gentle treatment; but the neighbors have heard of the bereavement or of the loss, and they come in to sympathize, and they say, “Show us now the wound. What were his last words? Rehearse now the whole scene. How did you feel when you found 3’ou were an orphan?” Tearing off the bandages here, and pulling them off there, leaving a ghastly wound that the balm of God’s grace had already begun to heal. Oh, let no loquacious people, with everrattling tongues, go into the homes of the distressed!

Again I remark, that all those persons are incompetent to give any kind of comfort who act merely as loorldly ildlosophers. They come in and say, “Why, this is what you ought to have expected. The laws of nature must have their way;” and then they get eloquent over something they have seen in post-mortem examinations. Now, away with all human philosophy at such a time! What difference does it make to that father and mother what disease their son died of? He is dead, and it makes no difference whether the trouble was in the epigastric or hypogastric region. If the philosopher be of the stoical school he will come and say, “You ought to control your feelings. You must not cry so. You must cultivate a cooler temperament. You must have self-reliance, self-government, self-control;” an iceberg reproving a hyacinth for having a drop of dew in its eye. A violinist has his instrument, and he sweeps his fingers across the strings, now evoking strains of joy, and now strains of sadness. He can not play all the tunes on one string. The human soul is an instrument of a thousand strings, and all sorts of emotions Tvere made to play on it. Now an anthem, now a dirge. It is no evidence of weakness when one is overcome of sorrow. Edmund Burke was found in the pasture -field with his arms around a horse’s neck, caressing him, and some one said, “Why’, the great man has lost his mind!” No; that horse belonged to his son who had recently died, and his great heart broke over the grief. It is no sign of weakness that men are overcome of their sorrows. Thank God for the relief of tears. Have you never been in trou-IGi EXASrERATING COMFORTERS.

ble when you could not weep, and you would have given any thing for a good cry? David did well when he mourned for Absalom, Abraham did well when he bemoaned Sarah, Christ did well when he wept for Lazarus; and the last man that I want to see come anywhere near me when I have any kind of trouble is a worldly philosopher.

Again I remark, that those persons are incompetent for the work of comfort-bearing who have nothinQ hut cant to offer. There are those who have the idea that you must groan over the distressed and afflicted. There are times in grief when one cheerful face dawning upon a man’s soul is worth a thousand dollars to him. Do not whine over the afflicted. Take the promises of the Gospel, and utter them in a manly tone. Do not be afraid to smile if you feel like it. Do not drive any more hearses through that poor soul. Do not tell him the trouble was foreordained; it will not be any comfort to know it was a million years coming. If you want to find splints for a broken bone, do not take cast-iron. Do not tell them it is God’s justice that weighs out grief. They want now to hear of God’s tender mercy. In other words, do not give them aqua fortis when they need valerian.

Again I remark, that those persons are poor comforters icho Jiave never had any trouble themselves. A larkspur can not lecture on the nature of a snow-flake — it never saw a snow-flake; and those people who have always lived in the summer of prosperity can not talk to those who arc frozen in disaster. God keeps aged people in the world, I think, for this very work of sympathy. They have been through all these trials. They know all that which irritates and all that which soothes. If there are men and women here who have old people in the house, or near at hand so that they can easily reach them, I congratulate them. Some of us have had trials in life, and although we have had many friends around about us, we have wished that fother and mother were still alive that we might go and tell them. Perhaps they could not say much, but it would have been such a comfort to have them around. These aged ones who have been all through the trials of life know how to give condolence. Cherish them; let them lean on your arm — these aged people. If, when you speak to them, they can not hear just what you say the first time, and you have to say it a second time, when you say it the second time, do not say it sharply. If you do, you will be sorry for it on the day when you take the last look and brush back the silvery locks from the wrinkled brow just before they screw the lid on. Blessed be God for the old people! They may not have much strength to go around, but they are God’s appointed ministers of comfort to a broken heart.

People who have not had trial themselves can not give comfort to others. They may talk very beautifully, and they may give you a great deal of poetic sentiment; but while poetry is perfume that smells sweet, it makes a very poor salve. If you have a grave in your pathway, and somebody comes and covers it all over with flowers, it is a grave yet. Those who have not had grief themselves know not the mystery of a broken heart. They know not the meaning of childlessness, and the having no one to put to bed at night, or the standing in a room where every book and picture and door is fall of memories — the door -mat where she sat, the cup out of which she drank — the place where she stood at the door and clapped her hands — the odd figures that she scribbled — the blocks sbe built into a house. Ah no, you must have trouble yourself before you can comfort trouble in others. But come all yo. who have been bereft and ye who have been comforted in your sorrows, and stand around these af&icted souls, and say to them, “I had that very sorrow myself. God comforted me, and he will comfort you;” and that will go right to the spot. In other words, to comfort others, we must have faith in God, practical experience, and good, sound common sense.

But there are three or four considerations that I will bring this morning to those who are sorrowful and distressed, and that we can always bring to them, knowing that they will effect a cure. And the first consideration is, that God sends our troubles in love. I often hear people in thoir troubles say, “Why, I wonder what God has against me!” They seem to think God has some grudge against them because trouble and misfortune have come. Oh no. Do you not remember that passage of Scripture, “Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth?’’ A child comes in with a very bad splinter in its hand, and you try to extract it. It is a very painful operation. The child draws back from 3-ou, but you persist. You are going to take that splinter out, so you take the child with a gentle but firm grasp; for although there may be pain in it, the splinter must come out. And it is love that dictates it, and makes you persist. My friends, I really think that nearly all our sorrows in this world are only the hand of our Father extracting some thorn. If all these sorrows were sent by enemies, I would say, arm yourselves against them; and, as in tropical climes, when a tiger comes down from the mountains and carries off a child from the village, the neighbors band together and go into the forest and hunt the monster, so I would haye you, if I thought these misfortunes were sent by an enemy, go o’ut and battle against them. But no; they come from a Father so kind, so loving, so gentle, that the prophet, speaking of his tenderness and mercy, drops the idea of a Huher, and says, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.”

Again I remark, there is comfort in the thought that God, by all this process, is <joing to make you useful. Do you know that those who accomplish the most for God and heaven have all been under the harrow? Show me a man that has done any thing for Christ in this day, in a public or private place, who has had no trouble and whose path has been smooth. Ah no. Go this afternoon at three o’clock into that beautiful parlor in the city of Philadelphia, and see some twenty outcast children there, and ask the history of that home, and why it is that that Christian woman every Sabbath afternoon gathers in these outcasts and talks with them, and prays with them, and tells them of Jesus, and is getting them, by the grace of God, prepared for heaven. You want to know the history of that fomily? I could go back and tell it. She was not always an earnest Christian woman — once a daughter of fashion; but the first day of my pastorate in Philadelphia I confronted her in awful grief In the next room her only child lay. He had been drowned at Long Branch, and they had just brought him in. Oh, how impotent all human comfort seemed to be there and then! But God comforted and lifted her out of that darkness, and through all that tribulation he blessed her, and by a baptism of tears she was set apart to look after the outcast and the destitute

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and the abaudoned. What useless beings we are until sanctified trouble molds us!

I once went through an axe -factory, and I saw tlieni take the bars of iron and thrust them into the terrible furnaces. Then besweated workmen with long tongs stirred the blaze. Then they brought out a bar of iron and jDUt it into a crushing-machine, and then they put it between jaws that bit it in twain. Then they put it on an anvil, and there were great hammers swung by machinery — each one a half- ton in weight — that went thump! thump! thump! If that iron could have spoken, it would have said, “Why all this beating? Why must I be pounded any more than any other iron?”’ The workmen would have said, “We want to make axes out of you, keen, sharp axes — axes with which to hew down the forest, and build the ship, and erect houses, and carry on a thousand enterprises of civilization. That’s the reason we pound you.” Now, God puts a soul into the furnace of trial, and then it is brought out and run through the crushing-machine, and then it comes down on the anvil, and upon it blow after blow, blow after blow, and the soul cries out, “O Lord, what does all this mean?” God says, “I want to make something very useful out of you. You shall be something to hew with and something to build with. It is a practical process through which I am putting j’ou.” Yes, my Christian friends, we want more tools in the Church of God. Not more wedges to split with: we have enough of these. Not more bores with which to drill; we have too many bores. What we really want is keen, sharp, well-tempered axes, and if there be any other way of making them than in the hot furnace, and on the hard anvil, and under the heavy hammer, I do not know what it is.

Remember that if God brings any kind of chastisement upon you, it is only to make you useful. Do not sit down discourasred, and saw, “I have no more reason for livinsr. I wish I were dead.” Oh, there never was so much reason for your living as now! By this ordeal you have been consecrated a priest of the Most High God. Go out and do your whole work for the Master.

Again, there is comfort in the thought that all our troubles are a revelation. Have you ever thought of it in that connection? The man who has never been through chastisement is ignorant about a thousand things in his soul he ought to know. For instance, here is a man who prides himself on his cheerfulness of character. He has no patience with any body who is depressed in spirits. Oh, it is easy for him to be cheerful, with his fine house, his filled wardrobe, and well-strung instruments of music, and tapestried parlor, and plenty of money in the bank waiting for some permanent investment. It is easy for him to be cheerful. But suppose his fortune goes to pieces, and his house goes down under the sheriff’’s hammer, and the banks will not have any thing to do with his paper. Suppose those people who were once elegantly entertained at his table get so short-sighted that they can not recognize him upon the street. How then? Is it so easy to be cheerful? It is easy to be cheerful in the home, after the day’s work is done, and the gas is turned on, and the house is full of romping little ones. But suppose the piano is shut because the fingers that played on it will no more touch the keys, and the childish voice that asked so many questions will ask no more. Then is it so easy? When a man wakes up and finds that his resources are all gone, he begins to rebel, and he says, “God is hard; God is outrageous. He Lad no business to do this to me.” My friends, those of us who have been through trouble know what a sinful and rebellious heart we have, and how much God has to put up with, and how much we need pardon. It is only in the light of a flaming furnace that we can learn our own weakness and our own lack of moral resource.

There is also a great deal of comfort in the fact that there iv’dl he a family reconstruction in a letter jjloce. From Scotland, or England, or Ireland, a child emigrates to this countr3% It is very hard parting, but he comes, after a while writing home as to what a good land it is. Another brother comes, a sister comes, and another, and after a while the mother comes, and after a while the father comes, and now they are all here, and they have a time of great congratulation and a very pleasant reunion. Well, it is just so with our families: they are emigrating to a better land. Now, one goes out. Oh, how hard it is to part with him! Another goes. Oh, how hard it is to part with her! And another, and another, and we ourselves will after a while go over, and then we will be together. Oh. what a reunion! Do 3’ou believe that? “Yes,” you say You do not! You do not believe it as you believe other things. If you did, and with the same emphasis, why, it would take nine-tenths of your trouble off your heart. The fact is, heaven to many of us is a great fog. It is awa3’’ off somewhere, filled with an uncertain and indefinite population. That is the kind of heaven that many of us dream about; but it is the most tremendous fact in all the universe — this heaven of the Gospel. Our departed friends are not afloat. The residence in which you live is not so real as the residence in which they stay. You are afloat, you who do not know in the morning what will happen before night. They are housed and safe forever. Do not, therefore, pity your departed friends who have died in Christ. They do not need any of your pity. You might as well send a letter of condolence to Queen Victoria on her obscurity, or to the Rothschilds on their poverty, as to pity those who have won the palm. Do not say of those who are departed, “Poor child!” “Poor father!” “Poor mother!” They are not poor. You are poor — you whose homes have been shattered, not they. You do not dwell much with your families in this world. All day long you are off to business. Will it not be pleasant when 3’ou can be together all the while? If you have had four children and one is gone, and any body asks how many children you have, do not be so infidel as to say three. Say four — one in heaven. Do not think that the grave is unfriendly. You go into your room, and dress for some grand entertainment, and you come forth beautifully appareled; and the grave is only the place where we go to dress for the glorious resurrection, and we will come out radiant, radiant, mortality having become immortality. Ob, how much condolence there is in this thought! I expect to see my kindred in heaven; I expect to see them as certainly as I expect to go home to-day. Ay, I shall more certainly see them. Eight or ten will come up from the grave-yard back of Somerville; and one will come up from the mountains back of Amoy, China; and another will come up from the sea off Cape Hatteras; and thirty will come up from Greenwood; and I shall know them better than I ever knew them here. And your friends — they may be across the sea, but the trumpet that sounds here will sound there. You will come up on just the same day. Some morning you have overslept yourself, and you open your eyes, and see that the sun is high in the heavens, and you say, “I have overslept, and I must be up and off.” So you will open your eyes on the morning of the resurrection, in the full blaze of God’s light, and you will say, “I must be up and away.”’ Oh yes, you will come up, and there will be a reunion, a reconstruction of your family. I like what Halburton, I think it was — good old Mr. Halburton — said in his last moments, “I thank God that I ever lived, and that I have a father in heaven, and a mother in heaven, and brothers in heaven, and sisters in heaven, and I am now going up to see them.”

I remark once more: our troubles in this world are ‘preimrative for glory. What a transition it was for Paul — from the slippery deck of a foundering ship to the calm presence of Jesus! What a transition it was for Latimer — from the stake to a throne! What a transition it was for Robert Hall — from insanity to glory! What a transition it was for Richard Baxter — from the dropsy to the “saint’s everlasting rest!” And what a transition it will be for you — from a world of sorrow to a world of joy! John Holland, when he was dying, said, “What means this brightness in the room? Have you lighted the candles?” “No,” they replied, “we have not lighted any candles,” Then said he, “Welcome, heaven!” the light already beaming upon his pillow. O ye who are persecuted in this world! 3’our enemies will get off the track after a while, and all will speak well of you among the thrones. Ho! ye who are sick now, no medicines to take there. One breath of the eternal hills will thrill you with immortal vigor. And 3’e who are lonesome now, there will be a thousand spirits to welcome you into their companionship. 0 yc bereft souls!

there will be no grave-digger’s spade that will cleave the side of that hill, and there will be no dirge wailing from that, temple. The river of God, deep as the joy of heaven, will roll on between banks odorous with balm, and over depths bright with jewels, and under skies roseate with gladness, argosies of light going down the stream to the stroke of glittering oar and the song of angels! Not one sigh in the wind; not one tear mingling with the waters.

“There shall I bathe my weary soul
In seas of heavenly rest,
And not a wave of trouble roll
Across my peaceful breast.”