Rests by the River

HAT a singularly subtle thought! Only

an inspired book could have conceived it. The prophet says that the memory of our badness only comes after we have become good. “A new heart will I give you; then shall ye remember your own evil ways.” One would have expected the opposite statement. We should have looked for such words as these: “You must expect for a little to be troubled with old memories. You must not be surprised, when you are in the first stage of reformation, to experience the remorse of conscience for bad deeds in the past. When your new nature is complete, when the weaning process is over, when you become accustomed to the corn of the land, you will forget all about your struggles and failures; you will remember your shortcomings no more.” The prophet says it is only then you will remember them. He says the valleys of your life will not become visible until you have scaled the height and stood upon the mountain’s brow. And truly he is right; experience cries “Amen!” The memory of sin is the latest gift of my Father. His earliest gifts are incentives to move forward; they rather discourage a retrospective view. God says to the beginner, “Forget the things which are behind; press toward the mark of the prize!” But when the mark of the prize is won, when the top of the hill is gained, then for the first time He says, “Look back!” Then, for the first time, memory wakes, and our yesterday appears; and the valley of the past looks lowly and the shadows of the past seem deep. We beat upon our breast and say, “O wretched man that I am!”

Lord, in my hour of remorseful memory, let me remember this! Let me remember that the pain of my bad deed is only felt by the new heart. Often I cry with the hymnist, “Where is the blessedness I knew when first IT saw the Lord?” Teach me that it is quite natural there should be more blessedness at first! Help me to enter into the comfort of the thought that the burden of yesterday is reserved for the pure soul! Reveal to my troubled spirit that my sense of distance from Thee grows with my nearness! I never seem to follow Thee so far off as when I am within the grounds of Thy house with many mansions. Let me measure my nearness by my pain! When the debts of yesterday oppress me, when the shadows of my past appal me, when the deeds of my dead days rise up for judgment in my soul, tell me that the vision means, not war, but peace! Tell me that the haze upon my morning is summer heat, not winter’s gloom! Tell me it is the resurrection body that makes me sensitive to pain! Tell me I feel to-day what I felt not yesterday because to-day I have received a new heart — received more power to feel! I can bear the burden of the past if to bear it means nearness to

Thee.

HE disciples went to hold a religious meeting outside the town; they came to

the river side. Why? Because it was a place of solitude? No; because it was a place of prayer in former days. I do not think solitude is favourable to worship; I do not think the river side so apt to kindle enthusiasm as the crowded assembly. But, whether in town or country, I think the spot of past associations has the advantage over every other spot. When we come to middle life, the life of the great city, there are times when our main attraction to religion is simply the power of past association. Many a man whose intellectual faith is shattered is bound to Christ by the memories of childhood — by seeing the place “where prayer was wont to be made.” It is a great argument for the early association of religion with joy. If the religion of our childhood has been happy — if the Sabbath school has been pleasant, if the teachers have been loved — it will be very hard to tear up these roots in manhood. When the clouds gather round your mature reason you will go back to the place “where prayer was wont to be made” — to the joyous group now separated and silent that met round the family altar, to the village choir of happy voices, to the Christmas-tree laden with gifts for the Child-Jesus. When the woodman is about to cut down an old tree, you remember that in youth it sheltered you, and you bid him forbear. So with the creed of the Cross. A thousand voices cry, “Cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground!” But a still small voice answers, “Prayer was wont to be made here in the leng long ago; for the sake of memory let us keep the foliage green!” —

My brother, plant early the tree by the river of living waters! Let the religion of your children be from the first linked with gladness! If you put their tree by the river side in youth, they will sit by the river side in manhood also. The tree may be battered and bent — struck by the lightning, ravaged by the storm; but to them it will be ever green — green with the light of memory. Let your children have a place of which in the days to come they shall say, “Prayer was wont to be made here!” Plant early their tree, and let it be a Christmas-tree — a joyous tree! Plant it where the waters spring; plant it where the woodnotes ring; plant it where the breezes sing! Lay it among the flowers; shrine it among the bowers; tend it in the golden hours! Let no cypress come near it; let no willow touch it; Jet no thorn impede its opening way! Thorns will come in the afternoon; but keep them from the morning! Gild in the sunshine life’s opening door; encircle with music life’s dawning day! There will be clouds by and by, there will be discords by and by; but, when the clouds and discords meet your children on the river side, they will remember the old tree where prayer was wont to be made.

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