Son, Remember

There is just one thing that this man that we have read of to-night in this chapter took away with him, and that was his memory. I think it teaches us that memory is immortal; that we are going to take memory with us into another world. We often hear that passage of scripture quoted about the books being open. I think that the u books “we read of are the books of memory. I do not know how a man is to give an account unless it is from memory. We read that every man shall give an account, and if he is going to give an account, if his account has not been blotted out by the blood of Christ — if he has to give an account of his record, how is he going to do it unless he does it from memory? Lord Bacon says that there is no thought that ever passed into our minds that really is forgotten. We may think we have forgotten it; it may have passed, as we say, from memory, but the time is coming when it will come back again. I believe that memory is “the worm that dieth not” that we read of in the scripture.

We hear people talk about certain men having wonderful memories. I was reading to-night of a man that had a wonderful memory. It is said of Cyrus, the Persian general, that he had such a memory that he could call by name all the private soldiers in his army. I have read of a literary man that could repeat everything that he had ever written. Some of us complain about our short memories, but I think memory will be long enoueh when God says, “Son. remember!” When conscience is thoroughly aroused and we are thoroughly awake, then we cannot help but remember. Memory will do its work. Memory is God’s officer, and when God touches the secret spring and says, “Son, daughter, remember,” tramp, tramp, tramp will go the whole life before us. Men may plunge into the world, and into amusements; men may drink and drown their consciences, and drown memory; but the time is coming when we cannot forget; the time is coming when memory will do its work, and we cannot for a moment forget the past. We talk about the recording angel that is keeping men’s records. I think every man is keeping his own record; we are writing up our own biography. God makes every man and every woman keep his own records. And each one of us to-day has been writing his own record. Day after day that record is being written. Some men are very anxious that their biography should be written, but every man is writing his own biography. He don’t need any one else to write it. The time is coming when God will just change his countenance and send him away and tell him to go and read his own record; read his own life. I don’t believe that God is going to condemn us; I think we will condemn ourselves. We will not need any one to condemn us; our own record will condemn us.

That man that we read of that was at the wedding feast was speechless. Men talk now very fluently and flippantly about their sins and their life record, but the time is coming when God shall say, “Son, daughter, remember!” and they will be speechless. There will be no apology for the past; no amount of tears and prayers can wipe out the past. Man may forgive himself and have a good opinion of himself, and say that his record is all right, but that don’t help the record after all. It is there. It is written, as it were, with a pen of iron.

I have been twice at the point of death. I was once drowning. I had gone down for the second time, and was just going down for the third time, and was probably within a few minutes of eternity. Although I have never been able to explain it, and I can’t understand it to-day, in the twinkling of an eye, in a second of time, every thing that I had done, every thing that I had said, every thing that I had thought from the cradle up came flashing into my mind; my whole life came before me. How all my life could be crowded into a second of time I don’t understand. It is gone and I can’t recall it again at the present time. I have not any doubt that when the time comes, and God says, “Son, remember,” it will all come back again.

There was a man a few years ago in one of our insane asylums, walking up and down in the mad house and his cry was If I only had,” “If I only had.” That was his cry from morning to night in all his wakeful hours. His story was this: He was employed by a railroad company to take care of a swing-bridge, and he got a dispatch from the Superintendent that an extra train was going to pass over the road and not to turn the bridge until the train had passed. One alter another came and tried to have him open that swing-bridge, and he refused to do it. At last a friend came and over-persauded him, and he opened the bridge. He had no more than got it open before he heard the train coming. There was not time enough to close it, and he saw that train leap with all its living freight into that abyss of death. His reason reeled and tottered upon its throne, and the man went mad. His cry was, u If I only had! If I only had!” I cannot but believe to-night that there is many a man in the other world whose cry is “If I only had! If I only hadl” Memory is at work. They have taken their memories with them. This is clearly taught in this passage that we have here.

I have been very much interested in reading the papers during the past forty-eight hours. There is one man away across the sea that my heart aches for. He is a stranger to me. When I took up the papers and read about that man’s confession across the sea — how he confessed that he killed a man in Cleveland in 1872, my mind went over those six years and I said: “How much has that man suffered during the past six years.” Memory had done its work. He covered up the sin. He thought it was concealed. He thought it would never come to light. Six years and upward have rolled away, and the thing has not been brought to light; but at last his own conscience, if the report is true, has turned witness against him.

You very often take up the papers and you read, “Murder will out.” What does that mean? Memory has become aroused. There is a man sitting on this platform to-night that was telling me this afternoon of a case right here in Cleveland of a man he went to visit in the jail. He was there awaiting his trial. He was accused of murder; but hardly any one believed that he was guilty. But in that cell he confessed to this minister that is on this platform that he had done the deed; and when this minister went out and told his friends, they said it was impossible; he could not have done it. He went back, and the man told him he did the deed and explained how he did it; and the reason that he made that confession was; he said he wanted to get away from himself. That is it. He wanted to get away from himself. That means that he wanted to get away from that past record. It was black; it was dark; it was vile. How it is that men dare to sin, and laugh at sin, and mock at sin, with eternity opening up before them, is one of the greatest mysteries of the day. They talk *b#ut

the mystery of godliness, but that men will trifle with sin, and mock and laugh at sin, is a greater mystery.

It was not long ago that I read in the paper of a deacon who was on his way to church to worship; and a young man came out of a drinking saloon, mounted his horse and rode up to the deacon, and said to him, “Can you tell me how far it is to hell?” in a sneeriug, scoffing way. The deacon felt it so keenly he did not answer. The man rode on, turned the corner and went out of sight. But when the deacon came to turn that corner he found that the young man had only gone a few rods around the corner. The horse had thrown him and he had gone into eternity.

O, how men mock at hell! How men mock at God! It is a mystery to me. “Son,” God says “Remember,” O, that memory may do its work to-night — that our consciences may be thoroughly aroused!

I want to ask this congregation one question. Do you believe that Cain has forgotten that sin that occurred outside of Eden? Do you believe that Cain has forgotten that cry of Abel? Do you believe that all these six thousand years Cain has forgotten how Abel looked when he plead with him not to take his life? Do you believe that Cain has forgotten that cry that came from that brother that loved him to spare his life? Do you believe that Cain has forgotten how the first murdered man looked? Do you believe he has forgotten how that human blood looked? These six thousand years have rolled away, and I believe that Cain has not forgotten it He has taken memory into the other world with him.

Do you believe those antediluvians have forgotten now Noah plead with them, and when he preached righteousness now they mocked and scoffed and ridiculed?

298 S^Nf REMEMBER.

Do you believe Judas has forgotten all these long years how Christ looked at him when he said, “Judas, betrayest thou the Master with a kiss?” I believe that is what makes hell terrible to Judas. He can remember the words of the Lord Jesus. He can remember how Christ looked at him. He can remember the kindness and love he had received from that loving Savior.

You go down here to yonder piison and ask those men in the cells of that prison what makes that prison so terrible to them, and they will not tell you it is the narrow walls; they will not tell you it is those iron grates; they will not tell you that it is because that they are deprived of their liberty; they will not tell you that it is the prison garb and prison food. That is not what makes prison life so terrible. It is memory. It is memory! I preached seven month to the prisoners in the Maryland penitentiary, and I talked with a great many of them. A number of them told me that what made life so terrible there Jwas memory. Their minds went back to their early childhood; they remembered their loving parents; they remembered their home, and they remembered what they might have been — how their hopes and prospects in life were all blasted. That is what makes prison life so terrible to these men. And what makes life so bitter to many in this assembly? It is the record that is behind them. They try to drown it. They try to forget it. But, my friends the time is coming when God will say, “Son, remember.” And you can’t get away from that record. You can’t get away from memory. It will live. You may be very forgetful now. I may be talking to some libertine in this house to-night that has ruined some fair young lady, like the one we read of in Cincinnati. He may go on unpunished. He laughs at the law. The lawcan’t touch him. But bear in mind there is a God sits there in heaven- — - a God of equity, a God of justice; $m& ¥y ai&$ by he will say to that young man, “Remember how you blasted the life of one that was fair and beautiful, how you led her from the path of virtue and purity;” and God will bring him into judgment, “Son, remember.” You may go on in your pleasure; you may go on in your amusements, laughing and scoffing at God and the bible; but there is a God in the heavens and his eye is going to and fro through the earth, and he marks the man of iniquity. Don’t think for a moment these things can be covered up, and that they will not overtake you. “Be sure your sin will find you out.”

I was reading not more than a month ago of a man in your neighboring state of Pennsylvania. In 1866 there were two men that had a falling out at a dance, and soon after one of them was missing. Search was made, and he could not be found. A number of years after the one that survived him went mad, and he went up into a mining district where there was a shaft down in the earth, and as he would look at that shaft he would cry, “There! There! There he goes! See him!” And they took him to the mad house and locked him up, and he died. A little while ago they found the skeleton of a man down in that pit, and it is supposed that he pushed him in. Memory began to do ks work and it drove the man mad. Don’t think that you can go on sinning day after day, that it is a light matter that God is not going to bring you into judgment It is a terrible thing. Sin is an awful thing. The longer I live the more I am convinced that we do not preach against sin enough. May God help us, as ministers of the Gospel, to preach against sin that is marring so many lives, that is blasting so many bright prospects, that is taking the fairest young men that we have to-day into ciime, that k going to make their lives dark and bitter?

and that is going to make them curse the day that they were born. They laugh at us now when we warn them. They mock and they ridicule. But young man, I tell you to-night as a friend, if you take warning you will thank us for warning you, and if you take not warning to-night, but go on in your sin, you will regret this night. You will regret it. The time is not far distant. In some unguarded moment, perhaps in some drunken spree, you may commit an act that will blast your life for time and eternity. You may not intend to do it, but when Satan has possesion of a man how he leads them on from step to step until he has ruined him! And I want to say to you men and you women who are out of Christ that it is very easy for you to come here into this tabernacle to-night and sit here and ridicule and make light of every thing that you hear. You may listen to the sermon, but in a few minutes after this sermon is preached and you get up and go out you can laugh at and ridicule every, thing you have heard. To me one of the most painful things that I have to endure is after a solemn meeeting, when it seems as if God Almighty is in our midt, as if God was just at work, to go out and to hear the levity and the jokes, and to hear people laughing away the impression. O, may God impress us to-night for eternity! May the work be deep and thorough, so that we cannot get the arrow out of our hearts! I want to say to you that have friends that love you, friends that pray for you, and friends that care for your eternal welfare — treat them kindly. You will not have them with you in the other world. There will be no Savior in that world you are going to. There will be no praying mother that will plead for you and plead with you, and pray for you. There will no praying mothers there. There will be no godly, praying, sainted wives in that world you are hastening to. You may make light of them here. You may mock at their pray ers and ridicule all their offers of mercy, but bear in mind there will be no godly, praying wife in that world you are going to; no Savior coming to offer you ealvation; knocking at the door of your heart for admittance. He does not pass that way. You may come here and hear that beautiful hymn. “Jesus of Nazai eth Passeth By.” But He does not pass that way. You may hear this beautiful hymn, “Waiting and Watching,” and you may know that now you have an oppoitunity to join that heavenly throng, but the time is coming when that gulf will be fixed, and there will be no such thing as your meeting those loved ones that have gone into that world of light and love and joy. Yes, it is a solemn thing to come into a place like this, and to have Christ offered to you, and the claims of the Gospel pressed upon you, and you are urged to accept salvation and you reject it.

I remember a few years ago in one of our meetings in Chicago the Spirit of God was at work. There were some inquiring the way of life, and there was a man in the a&sembly I had been anxious for for a great many months, and when I asked all those who wrould like to become Christians to rise, this man rose. My heart leaped in me for joy, and when the meeting was over I went to him, took him by the hand and said to him, “well, now you are coming out for Christ, ain’t you?” “Well,” said he, “Mr. Moody, I want to be a Christian, but there is one thing that stands in my way.” “What it that?” “Well,” says he, “I have not the moral courage” — and I believe in my soul to-night that is the thing that is keeping men from coming to Christ more than any other one thing. They lack the moral courage to come out from their scoffing, sneering friends. “Well,” I said, “if heaven is what it is represented to bet it is jirely worth your coming out and confessing Christ, and being laughed at for a little while down here.” He dropped his head and said, “I know it, I believe it, but” — naming a certain friend of his — “if he had been here to-night I should not have risen, I looked around to see if he was here, and when I found he was not I rose for prayers. I am afraid if I meet him, and he finds out I have risen, he will laugh at me, and I will not have the courage to stand up for what is right; and I know I can not be a Christian unless I deny myself, and take up my cross and come out” I said, “you are quite right.” The poor man was trembling from head to foot. I thought surely he would come out on the Lord’s side. Like Agrippa, he was almost persuaded. I thought surely that night he would settle the question, perhaps in his own home, and the next night I would find him rejoicing in the Savior. But he came back the next night, and I found he was in the same state of mind. The Spirit was still striving with him. He was almost persuaded, but not altogether. The next night he came again, and I found him in the same state of mind. And the only thing that man gave as an excuse for not becoming a Christian, was that he had not the moral courage.

John Bunyan describes one coming up to the gate of heaven — and there was a side way down to the gate of the pit, and many of them took that side way. It seems this man came to the gate of heaven and one step more would have taken him across the line. But this man-fearing spirit kept him from taking that step. Almost, yet not altogether. Well, weeks rolled away and the impression seemed to pass away. You know that is me thing they bring against these special meetings. They say it hardens some people, That is quite right. The gospel proves a savor of life unto life, or a savor of ath. Every time you hear the gospel of Jesus Christ preached, and Christ is offered to you, and you reject him, the hardening process is going on. Every time you turn your back upon this offer, your heart is becoming hard. Many a man in this congregation would have been impressed ten years ago by a sermon which makes no impression on him now. The hardening process has been going on. They have become not only neglectors of salvation, but they dispise it They not only refuse it but they despise the God of salvation. Well, the hardening process went on with this man. He used to come to church every Sunday morning, but now he dropped off and did not come at all. He would be at work Sunday, and if I met him coming down the street he would slip off down some other way, ashamed to meet me, afraid I would talk with him. At last he was taken sick and sent for me. I went to see him and he said to me, “Is there any hope for a man to be saved at the eleventh hour?” I told him there was hope for any man who really wanted to become a Christian. I preached Christ to him — explained to him the way of life — told him how he could be saved. I went down to see him day after day. Contrary to all expectations the man began to recover. When he got up from that sick bed, I went down one day and found him convalescent, sitting in front of his house. I took my seat beside him and said, “Well, now you will be well enough to come up to church in a few days, and when you are well enough you are coming out to confess Christ and take your stand for Christ.” u Well,” says he, “I have made up my mind to become a Christian, but I am not going to become one just now. Next spring I am going over Lake Michigan and I am going to buy me a farm and settle down, and then I am going to become a Christian; but there is no use of my talking of becoming a Christian here in Chicago, I can’t do it. I have so many bad associates I can’t live a Christian life in Chicago.” “Well,5’ I said, “my friend, if God hasn’t got grace enough to keep you in Chicago, He hasn’t got enough to keep you in Michigan. What you want is not a change of associates, but a new heart, and the grace of God to keep you. He is able to keep you.” I plead with him not to postpone this great question any longer. I tried to arouse him up. At last he got a little worried and a little cross at me, and says, “Mr. Moody, you can just attend to your own business, and I will attend to mine. I don’t want you to trouble yourself any more about my soul. I will attend to that.” I said “you can’t afford to put this thing off.” “Well,” he says, “if I am lost it will not be your fault. You have done every thing you can. I don’t want you to trouble yourself any more.” When I hear people say in these meetings, “I don’t want you to trouble me,” it sends a pang into my heart — when we try to do you good and bring you a blessing, to have you to turn your back and say, “I don’t want Christ. I have no desire for Him.”

This man said, “I will take the risk.” I was telling him he could not afford to take the risk, he said, “I will take it.” I would like to ask if there is a man in this house to-night that will take the risk of his soul’s salvation for twenty-four hours. Dare you say, “I will take it?” It was a number of months he was going to take it. When he got over to Michigan on his farm and got settled down, he was going to become a Christian. I tried to arouse him; he got angry and I left him. If ever I left a man with a sad heart it was when I left that man. I remember the day of the week. It was Friday. It was about noon that I left him. Just a week from that day I got a message from his wife. She wanted to have me come in great haste. I went to the Louse and

I met her at the door weeping, I said, “What is the trouble?” “My husband has been taken down with the same disease. We have just had a council of physicians and they have all given him up to die.”

I said, “does he want to see me,” knowing how angry he was only the week before, She said, M No. I asked him if I should not send for you, and he said no, he did not want to see you.” “Well, why did you send? “44 Well, I can’t bear to see him die in this terrible state of mind.” “What is his state of mnd?” “He says his damnation is sealed, and that he will be in hell in a little while.” I went into the room where he was, and the moment he heard the door open he looked and saw who it was, and he turned his face to the wall. I went to the bed and spoke to him, and he did not answer. I said, “Won’t you speak to me?” I went around to the foot of the bed where I could look at him, and said again, “Won’t you speak to me?” He turned and looked at me — and what a look it was! He said, “You need not talk to me any more, sir. My damnation is sealed. There is no hope for me.” I tried to tell him there was, but he ridiculed the idea that there was any hope for him. Memory had begun to do its work. His whole life came up before him, and he said, “I have done nothing but sin against God all my life; and a week ago when you were here and I thought I was going to get well, I turned away from God. He came knocking at the door of my heart. I told Him, if He would spare my life, I would let Him in. And He took me at my word. But the moment I got up I turned my back upon Him. There is no hope for me. You need not talk to me. You need not pray for me. You cannot save me, sir. There is no hope for me, I have got to die in my sins. There is no chance for my soul,” I tried to tell him there was, H@ pointed his finger at the stove and said, “My heart is as hard as the iron in that stove. There is no hope for me.” I went to get down on my knees, and when he saw me kneel he said, “Mr, Moody, you need not pray for me. You can pray for my wife and children. They need your prayers and sympathies. You need not spend your time praying for me. There is no hope for me.” I tried to pray for him, but it seemed as if my prayers did not go higher than my head. I got up and took his hand, and it seemed as if I was bidding farewell to a friend that I never would see again in time or eternity. The cold, clammy sweat of night was gathering on that hand. I bade him a final fare well. I left his house about noon. He lingered until the sun went down behind those western prairies, and his wife told me that from the time I left him until he died, all she heard was, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved.” You could hear his cries all over the house. Just as the sun was going down, he was sinking away into the arms of death, and his wife noticed his lips quivering. He was trying to say something. She bent over and all she could hear was that awful lamentation of the prophet, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved,” and he passed away. He lived a Christless life; he died a Christless death; we wrapped him in a Christless shroud and laid him in a Christless coffin. How dark! How sad! The sin of procrastination!

O, my friends, this night be wise. Ask God this night and this hour to forgive you. Make up your minds that you will this night settle this question for time and eternity*