True Religion

“Pure religion and undefiled before
God and the Father is this. To visit
the fatherless and widows in their
affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world” — ST
JAMES i. 27.

“^HE sky which, whether studded with stars or hung in gold and purple, or one azure field over which the sun wheels his glowing course, presents always a glorious, occasionally a very extraordinary appearance. Not one but two suns are there; and in the Arctic regions, as if to compensate the long periods when their skies are left to perpetual night, there are sometimes three — blazing away in brilliant rivalry, and shedding increase of light on sparkling icebergs and the dreary wastes of snow. Yet, though there were not three but three hundred suns, only one of them could be a true sun. The others, which are produced by a peculiar state of the atmosphere, being, though bright, yet mere images, are analogous, to borrow a familiar illustration, to the multiplied candles that shine on the silvered facets of a reflector. As with these suns, so is it with the various religious systems of the world. They are many; numbered not by units, but hundreds. Almost every new country that voyagers have discovered has, with new trees and new flowers and new animals, presented a new form of faith. The world has no building big enough to hold all the gods that men do worship. Yet, though greater in number, and much greater in essential differences, than the races of mankind — for, differing in colour and contour as the negro and the white man do, they meet in Adam, God having made of one blood all the families of the earth — among these many religions there is but one true; the rest are false — false as the mock suns of an Arctic sky. For as God is one, truth is one; and though the true may be separated from the false by a line as sharp as the edge of a razor, still they stand as irreconcilable as if they were parted by the whole distance of the poles. There are “lords many, and gods many,” yet but one true God; even so there are many faiths and forms of religion, and yet but one “pure and undefiled before God.”

It has been said there are many ways of going out of the world, and but one of coming into it; and it may be said there are many roads to hell, and but one to heaven. No doubt, in St John’s vision, where the final state and place of the blessed was represented as a glorious city, with streets of pure gold, and walls built of precious gems, all shining in light, that fell neither from sun nor moon, but streamed out in dazzling effulgence from the throne of God, he saw not one gate, but twelve. These gates, each a pearl, and opening on streets of gold, had a meaning. Standing open, and never shut by day or night, they betoken the security enjoyed by the blessed inhabitants; and also how open heaven has been made to every sinner who seeks it through the blood of Christ. Approach it in the right way, and whatever may have been your character, and is your age, country, or condition, you are free to enter unchallenged — without let or hindrance. No armed sentinels, as at earthly palaces, guard the gates that invite alike the feet of prince and beggar — Whosoever believeth in the Lord Jesus Christ shall not perish, but have everlasting life. But by these twelve gates St John never meant that there are as many different ways of getting into heaven. This portion of sacred Scripture is a figure. It is to be understood within limits; and is no more to be pushed too far than many of our Lord’s parables. There is but one way to the kingdom of God — to a state of grace in this world, and a state of glory in the next. I, says Jesus, am the way, the truth, the life; not one of many ways, but the one way. Come unto ;;2^, he also says, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and / will give you rest; and in perfect harmony with these declarations is that of an apostle, “There is no name given under heaven whereby man can be saved but the name of Jesus.” There is but one true religion “pure and undefiled before God.”

We have this religion in our Bible. There it flows unadulterated and undefiled, fresh and pure as it came from the upper spring. Let us draw it at this well — not taking our faith from man or minister, but directly from the word of God; lest it should be like water that acquires a poisonous quality from the leaden pipes it flows through. Yet though we have the true religion here, how many mistake what religion is; its real character; and in what its true life consists! They fancy themselves to be religious; and that all is right when all is wrong with them. There is a sense in which he that doubteth is damned; but are not many damned just because they never doubt? They go on, satisfied with themselves; not doubting but that they are on the right course, when every step they take leads them further and further astray. Sincere they may be, but it is not enough to be sincere. Sincerity and zeal, as well as ease of mind, and peace of conscience, may but more surely seal their fatal, utter ruin. For it stands to reason that the faster and further a man goes, if he take the wrong direction at starting, he goes but the further wrong: the more sail she carries, the more steam she puts on, the greater the impetus with which she takes the reef, the ship is sooner and more surely wrecked. What need, therefore, since there is but one safe course to heaven, that we should often take soundings! Why was that noble steamer which was wrecked some time ago on the coast of England lost? not simply because she was caught in the sea mist, nor because she was often thrown out of her course by porting her helm to avoid collisions, but from false security — for want of soundings! They had no doubt they were right, till the dreadful cry of breakers and a sudden crash too late revealed their danger. And if we would not make shipwreck of the faith, nor run the risk of never discovering our mistake till we find ourselves at the door of hell, or stand at the bar of judgment, to hear with black amazement the unexpected sentence, “Depart from me, for I have never known you, ye workers of iniquity,” we will try our religion — put it to the test — see whether it is true religion, that which, to use the words of St James, is “pure and undefiled before God and the Father.”

What, then, is the character of this religion? There are two ways of describing a thing — first, showing what it is not; and second, what it is.

Now, to follow, meanwhile, the first of these methods, I purpose showing that

True religion does not lie in talking about it.

In our Church and country the pulpit has all the speaking. In Jewish synagogues, as appears from our Lord’s history, it was not so. Any person in the assembly who had got anything good to say, might say it. It appears from the Epistles that this custom was engrafted on the Christian Church, and flourished in its early days; and some who abused this privilege, and, being talkative and conceited, were, perhaps, ever thrusting themselves on the public notice, may have been in his eye, when St James, laying down a rule valuable at all ages, and at all times, said, Be swift to hear, and slow to speak. Though the customs of the Church have changed with time, and speaking in public is now commonly confined to the pulpit, there is still danger — and especially in these times of religious excitement — of fancying, because we can and do talk about religion, that we are religious.

There are individual as well as national peculiarities; and, in this country, the common error certainly is not to talk too much, but too little, about religion; or, at least, too little religiously. In Scotland, at least, we are taciturn; and carry our proverbial canniness to a fault. How little do those of us who are undoubtedly on the way to heaven resemble a body of emigrants on shipboard — on their way across the ocean to America! Listen to that group of men, women, and children that have seen their native hills sink below the wave, and, now leaning over the bows, are looking a-head! Compared with theirs, how little does our conversation turn on the land in prospect; its employments; its enjoyments; the friends that wait our coming? Throwing off false shame, let us be more faithful to the souls of men, and to a world that lieth in wickedness; and much more free in converse with each other about the Prince and the things of the heavenly kingdom — after the manner of the men of old, of whom it is said, They that feared the Lord spake often one to another.

Still, it should not be forgotten, lest any deceive themselves, that to talk about religion, ministers and sermons, missions and missionaries, religious schemes and books, revivalists and revivals, is not religion. Some have been the most fluent talkers about these things who felt them least. Shallow rivers are commonly noisy rivers; and the drum is loud because it is hollow. Fluency and feeling don’t always go together. On the contrary, some men are most sparing of speech when their feelings are most deeply engaged. I have been told that there is an awful silence in the ranks before the first gun is fired, and little talking heard during the dreadful progress of the battle, or sound, save the roar of cannon, the cries of wounded, the shouts of attack, the bursts of musketry, and bugles sounding the charge. And I have also heard men say, that when the ship is labouring for her life, and every moment may decide her fate, and whether she shall clear reef or headland hangs in anxious suspense, there is no talking, nothing heard amid the roaring of the storm but the voice of officers, as they shout forth their orders — to cut away the mast — let go the sails — or put the helm hard a-port. Deep passions, like deep waters, often run silent; and men in earnest are more given to act than to talk. True, Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh; still, the fuller the heart is, the less fluent sometimes is the speech. There are things too deep for utterance. Strong gratitude, deep love, are not fluent; nor is intense anxiety. The sight of her child wrapped in flames, or tottering on the edge of a precipice, has paralysed its mother; rooted to the ground — she has gazed in speechless horror, unable to raise a shriek, or move a foot to save it.

Besides, owing, perhaps, to constitutional peculiarities, the religion of some has its most perfect emblem in Christ’s own words, Ye are the light of the world. It is a thing seen, not heard; it shines, but it makes no sound; not often found on their lips, but always in their lives. Who, that ever heard, has forgotten a story told by Dr Chalmers when he pleaded for the right of Christian congregations to reject a minister against whom they felt, but could not state, objections? A woman sought admission to the Lord’s table. At her examination she broke down; unable to give her pastor any satisfactory answers, she was dumb, or her replies were such as made her appear stupid and ignorant. He did not feel that he could admit her to the table of the Lord; and told her so. Cut to the heart she rose; she reached the door; but, ere she left, with the tear shining in her eye, and in tones that went to the good man’s heart, she said, referring to our Lord, “Sir, though I cannot speak for Him, I could die for Him!” Blessed speech! and blessed woman! the gate of heaven was opening to her advancing steps!

Such love to Jesus Christ is the soul of true religion. And without their becoming loud talkers, or making a parade of piety, it will lead those that feel its power to “exhort one another daily;” to try to bring sinners to the Saviour; and — as many who have overcome a false modesty are now doing — to seize all opportunities of dealing faithfully with, other men about their souls. Why should not we tell others the way to heaven if we ourselves have found it? Why should not we warn a man who, unconscious of his danger, is approaching the brink of ruin? Why should not we snatch the poisoned chalice from a brother’s lips? Why should not we reach a hand down to the drowning, and pluck him from the jaws of death, and seat him beside us on the rock where there is room for both? If people are loud in the praises of the physician who has cured them of some deadly malady — recommending others to trust and seek his skill, why should not Christ’s people crown Him with equal honours, commend Him to a dying world, and proclaim what He has done for them? Let them say with David, Come, all ye that fear the Lord, and I will tell what He hath done for my soul; and tread in the steps of the Samaritan who threw away her pitcher, and, running to the city, brought them all out — crying, Come see a man who hath told me all things that I have ever done.

It is a bad thing ostentatiously to parade religion; but it is a base thing for a Christian man to be ashamed of it; not to stand by his colours; by his silence, if not his speech, to deny his Master; to sneak away, like a coward, out of the fight. Stand up for Christ everywhere; speak for Him; suffer the scorn of the world for Him; and, among the ungodliest crew, quit you like men, saying,

“I ‘m not ashamed to own my Lord,
Or to defend His cause,

Maintain the glory of His cross,
And honour all His laws.

“Jesus, my Lord! I know His name,

His name is all my boast;
Nor will He put my soul to shame,
Nor let my hope be lost.”

Religion does not lie in cherishing bitter feelings towards those who differ from us.

“Be slow to wrath,” says St James, “for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. If any man among you seem to be religious and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain.” From a small town that lay in the bosom of gently swelling hills, rose, some with spires and some without them, three or four churches, belonging to the chief denominations of our country — the sign at once of our religious liberties and religious earnestness. On a sweet summer evening a traveller looked along the valley on this peaceful scene, when a shower of rain was falling. Suddenly the sun broke out, and flung a bright bow on the cloud, that, like that of mercy, discharged its showers on all. The rainbow encircled within its arms suburb and city, lofty church and humble meeting-house.

And was it not a true and happy fancy that saw in this heavenly bow an emblem of that covenant which, irrespective of minor differences, embraces all believers within the same arms of mercy?

How different from this genial spirit that of gloomy bigotry! Scowling on chanty, it would probably pronounce that thought about the rainbow to have more poetry than piety in it. I would not be uncharitable even to uncharitableness; but it is very unlovely. It holds the truth; but it is in unrighteousness. It contends for the truth; but it is with unholy passions — often persuading itself that it is religious when it is but rancorous. Some appear to think that to be narrow-minded is to be heavenly-minded. A great mistake! The black, bitter sloe of the hedges appears in the garden with the fair hues and sweet juices of the plum; and it is certainly no proof that a man’s temper is sanctified that it is sour. Christians never should forget the meaning hidden in the very form which the Holy Spirit assumed when He dropped from the skies on our Saviour’s head. The rapacious eagle, grasping thunderbolts in his talons, and sacred to

Jove among the heathens, or rushing down from the rock on his quarry, has been the favourite ensign of bloody conquerors, and ambitious kings; now, not it, but that gentle bird which, they say, has no gall, and is sacred to love, and whose snowy plumage was never dyed with a victim’s blood, descends yonder by the quiet banks of Jordan on the head of Jesus. I do not say that religious men have never cherished an exclusive and narrow spirit. I admit that some excellent iren have done so.

Still, it is not religion to speak bitterly of those who differ from us; it is not religion to minister at the altar with “strange fire;” it is not religion to serve the cause of a loving God with unlovely passions; it is not religion to defend Christ’s crown with other weapons than His own sword; it is not religion to be serious on light, and great on little things; it is not religion to exalt points to the place of principles; it is not religion to contend as earnestly for forms of worship as for the faith of the gospel; it is anything but religion to dip our pens in gall, to give the tongue unbridled licence, and so to speak of others as to recall these words of Scripture — Their teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword. There is no religion in the narrow, sectarian, exclusive prejudices which say, Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?

In this imperfect state, it is perhaps as impossible for two parties, as it is for flint and steel, to come into collision without eliciting some sparks of fire. It were foolish to expect that there should be nothing said or done in a time of religious controversy, which good men will see no reason afterwards to regret and to recall; for that were to expect lesser men to be greater than apostles — holier than St Paul and Barnabas, between whom, as we are told, there rose a “sharp contention.” Nor even after the controversies have ceased, need we wonder that their unhappy influences do not always, and all at once, cease with them. That were such a miracle as was only seen in Galilee, when at Christ’s voice the winds and waves went down at once, and together. It is with human passion as with the sea, when violently agitated, stirred by some storm to its briny depths; it continues, hours after the wind has ceased, to swell, and heave, and roll its foaming breakers on the beach. We are not to wonder that wounds received in controversy, like those received in battle, take some time to heal. It is reasonable to expect that; though, as it were a bad sign of a man’s constitution, if his wounds, however deep, turned into running sores, there is something wrong, unhallowed, and unchristian in our spirit, if grace does not soften the asperities, and time close the wounds of controversy.

There is a time of peace, says Solomon, as well as a time of war; and when fields, white for the harvest, call Christians to sheath their swords and put in their sickles, he must be a stranger to the spirit of the gospel whose cry is, My voice is still for war. War? “They are for war, I am for peace,” said David. And they who have inbibed most of the spirit of their Master, even when contending for the faith, will engage in quarrels with reluctance, and end them with pleasure. The Christian graces, like spice-bearing trees, grow best under serene and sunny skies. Nor should Christian men ever enter keenly into any controversy that is not vital, unless it involve matters of paramount importance. The theology of our life should be the theology of the death-bed, amid whose solemn, deepening shadows small points and matters of form dwindle out of sight; or rather are lost in the blaze of coming glory. The loftiest piety ever attaches the lowest importance to party badges and ecclesiastical distinctions; and the holier the Christian grows, he will more and more resemble the holly tree, which, as it rises, and gets away from the ground, and shoots its top up to heaven, loses the thorny prickles from its leaves. Be assured that tenderness of

heart, and gentleness of spirit, mark the highest

•

form of Christianity; and that the true fire of the Spirit, the celestial flame — like that which fell at Pentecost, blazes, but never burns. Let the same mind be in you, therefore, that was in Jesus Christ; otherwise, whatever be our creed, we are none of His.

Religion does not lie in knowledge, or the observance of religious forms.

A man who rose on the wings of genius from obscurity to the highest fame, was, on an occasion of a visit to Edinburgh, walking with one who plumed himself on his wealth, and rank, and ancient family. As they strolled along the street, Burns — for of him I speak — encountered a country acquaintance, attired in rustic dress; he seized him by the hand; and leaving his companion offended and astonished, he linked his arm in the rustic’s. With a manner that bespoke esteem and admiration of his humble friend, the poet made his way through the brilliant crowd that worshipped his genius, and ruined his morals. On returning, he was met with expressions of surprise that he could so demean himself, and stoop to walk the streets among his fashionable admirers with one in such a vulgar garb. “Fool,” said Burns, his dark eye flashing, and his soul rising above the base pleasures and pursuits he had sunk to in high society, and returning to its own native region of noble sentiments; “Fool,” he said, “it was not the dress, the peasant’s bonnet and the hodden gray, I spoke to, but to the man within; the man who beneath that bonnet has a head, and under that hodden gray a heart better than yours, or a thousand such as yours.” Nobly said! A true distinction — too often forgotten, between the man and his externals! Nor is this distinction anywhere more true, important, vital, than in the Church of God. Be it gorgeous like that of Rome in her stately temples, or simple like that of our fathers, with the blue heavens for a canopy, a lone glen for their church, the gray stones of the moor for communion tables, and, for music to the wild strain of their psalms, the dash of a waterfall or the roar of breakers — the ritual of a church is but her dress. And what more than his dress is a man’s profession of piety, his religious forms and observances — those peculiar to the Sabbath, or common to every day? They may be worn by the dead as well as the living. While St Paul exhorts us to “hold fast the form of sound words,” he speaks of some as “lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God;” as “having the form of godliness, but denying the power thereof;” and there may be much of that in these days when, in contrast to the profane swearing, and deep drinking, and loose morals, and open neglect of worship both in the family and in the church, of the last century, religion is rather fashionable than otherwise. She now walks, to use John Bunyan’s figure, in golden slippers on the sunny side of the street.

Let us beware! Form, dress, and paint are not life. In the studio of the artist, and, in the shape of man or woman, there stands a figure, the first sudden sight of which strikes most with surprise, and makes some start with fear. Is it dead or alive? Supplied with joints that admit of motion, attired in the common garb of men or women, seated in a chair, or standing in easy attitude on the floor, it might pass for life, but for that still and changeless posture, those speechless lips, and fixed staring eyes. It is a man of wood. Cold paint, not warm blood, gives the colour to its cheek; no busy brain thinks within that skull; no kind heart loves, or fervid passions burn within that breast. The lay figure that the artist. dresses up to help him to represent the folds, the lights and shadows of the drapery, it is but death attired in the clothes of life; and, like a hypocrite or formalist in the sight of God, is offensive rather than otherwise. And, as the dress there, however rich and costly, true and skilfully arranged, does not make a living man, no more do the observance of religion, attendance at church, going to the communion, closet prayer, family worship, the daily reading of God’s Word, make a religious man — a living Christian.

Be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves, says St James; and, to take that example, though some may think they. are religious because they read the Scriptures daily, religion does not consist in reading God’s Word, nor in going to church to hear it preached, Sabbath by Sabbath. I say nothing against hearing; God forbid. We are not to neglect the assembling of ourselves together. It is well to hear; to pitch our tent where manna falls; to sit by the pool where an angel stirs the waters, and descends to heal; to go up to the mountain of the Lord, that, surmounted by the cross, and trodden by the feet of saints, has conducted many to the skies; and on which, like mountain ranges that attract the clouds, and are watered by many showers that never fall in the valleys, the blessing most frequently and fully descends — God loveth the gates of Sion more than all the tabernacles of Jacob. But will hearing a discourse on fire warm a man? on meat, feed him? on medicine, cure him? If not, no more will it save us to know all about the Saviour. It will no more take a man to heaven than it will take him to France, or Rome, or Jerusalem, that he knows the way. We must go, as well as know — travel, as well as be able to trace out the route. We get Christ presented to our acceptance every day; but what of that? What will that avail us, unless we accept of Him? Have we done that? It is not an offered but an accepted Saviour — nor is it the word heard, but the word done — diligently, habitually, prayerfully done, that will bring us to the kingdom of heaven.

Otherwise, hearing, according to St James, is like merely looking into a glass, which never yet arranged woman’s hair, or washed man’s dirty face. We see the faces of others, not our own — not our own otherwise than by reflection. The wild beauty of the forest bends over some placid pool to feed her vanity, and admire charms that unadorned are adorned the most; and before an artificial mirror her refined and polished sisters, with ornaments borrowed from birds, and beasts, and worms, the mines of earth and depths of ocean, may stand bedecked, and armed for conquests over fools. To such a looking-glass, but cast for another purpose, the apostle St James compares God’s Word. It is given of God that we may see ourselves spotted and stained with sin; and seeing that, may go to wash away the foul pollution in the blood of Christ. And the mere hearers of the word, before whom I would hold up this heavenly glass to show the dark stains that lie not on their faces, but on their souls, what are they? They are like one that having seen his foul face reflected in a faithful mirror, goes away, not to wash it, but to forget all about it. Their religion lies all in hearing — not at all in doing. It is therefore vain.

To know the way to heaven, sometimes to cast a longing eye in that direction, and by fit and start to make a feeble effort heavenwards, can end in nothing. Man must get the Spirit of God. Thus only can we be freed of the shackles that bind the soul to earth, the flesh, and sin. I have seen a captive eagle, caged far from its distant home, as he sat mournful-like on his perch, turn his eye sometimes heavenwards; there he would sit in silence, like one wrapt in thought, gazing through the bars of his cage up into the blue sky; and, after a while, as if noble but sleeping instincts had suddenly awoke, he would start and spread out his broad sails, and leap upward, revealing an iron chain that, usually covered by his plumage, drew him back again to his place. But though this bird of heaven knew the way to soar aloft, and sometimes, under the influence of old instincts, decayed but not altogether dead, felt the thirst for freedom, freedom was not for him, till a power greater than his own proclaimed liberty to the captive, and shattered the shackle that bound him to his perch. Nor is there freedom for us till the Holy Spirit set us free, and, by the lightning force of truth, breaks the chains that bind us to sin, — till, with the way laid open by the blood of His covenant, Jesus says to the Spirit, — Loose him, and let him go; let him fly; let him spurn the earth, and, on the wings of faith and prayer, soar away upward to the gates of glory. For that end, come Lord Jesus, come quickly!

Belonging to a church, or sect, said Baron Bunsen on his deathbed, is nothing. The direction which the mind of that great and good man took on some theological subjects is much to be regretted — very much to be deplored. We have no sympathy with it. Yet, in those solemn hours when the shadow of death falls on the bed, and the depths of the soul rise to the surface, few have borne themselves more Christianly than Bunsen, or in their dying utterances, with .failing, faltering breath, brought out more clearly, more beautifully, more attractively, the spirit of pure, undefiled, living, loving, true religion. I have spoken of it; he speaks it. Let us, for an example of the religion that lies not dead in forms, but lives in faith and love, turn our steps to the chamber where Bunsen is dying, amid the glories of a brilliant sunset — emblem of his own — the tears of his family, and the regrets of the world: “My best experience,” he said, “is that of having known Jesus Christ. I leave this world without hating any one. No, no hatred: hatred is an accursed thing. Oh! how good it is to look upon life from this elevation. One then perceives what an obscure existence we have led upon earth. Upward! upward! It becomes not darker; but always brighter, brighter. I am now in the kingdom. O my God, how beautiful are thy tabernacles! Let us part in Jesus Christ. God is life, love, — love that wills; will that loves. I see Christ, and I see God through Christ. I am dying, and I wish to die; I offer my blessing, the blessing of an old man, to all who desire it; I die in peace with all the world. Those who live in Christ, in loving Him, those are His. Those who do not live by His life do not belong to Him, by whatever name they may call themselves, and whatever confession of faith they may sign. Belonging to a church or sect is nothing. I see clearly that we are all sinners; we have only Christ in God; all else is nothing. Christ is the Son of God, and we are His children only when the spirit of love which was in Christ is in us.”

This is a voice from the grave; or rather from those heavens to which, notwithstanding their mistakes and errors, true believers in Christ go to join their Lord. How grand these last utterances of a long, honoured, brilliant, and useful life! One among the greatest of his age in learning, and science, and humanity, and statesmanship, Bunsen left the world with this sentence ringing in its ears, — To love God in Christ is all: to belong to a church or sect is nothing — all else is nothing.