Parables Illustrative of Scripture Doctrine

THE PILGRIMS AND THEIR PITCHERS.

It was long ago, and somewhere in the eastern clime. The king came into the garden and called the children round him. He led them up to a sunny knoll and a leafy arbor on its summit. And when they had all sat down, he said, “You see far down the river, and hanging as on the side of the hill, yon palace? It is a palace — though here it looks so little and far away. But when you reach it you will find it a larger and sweeter home than this; and when you come you will find that I have got there before you. And when you arrive at the gate, that they may know that you belong to me, and may let you in, here is what each of you must take with him.” And he gave to each of the children a most beautiful porcelain jar — a little pitcher so exquisitely fashioned that you were almost afraid to touch it, so pure that you could see the daylight through it, and with delicate figures raised on its sides. “Take this, and carry it carefully. Walk steadily, and the journey will soon be over.” But they had not gone far before they forgot. One was running carelessly and looking over his shoulder, when his foot stumbled, and as he fell full length on the stony path the pitcher was shivered in a thousand pieces; and one way and another, long, long before they reached the palace, they had broken all the pitchers. When this happened I may mention what some of them did. Some grew sulky, and knowing that it was of no use to go forward without the token, they began to shatter the fragments still smaller, and dashed the broken sherds among the

Stones, and stamped them with their feet: and then they said, “Why trouble ourselves about this palace? It is far away, and here is a pleasant spot. We will just stay here and play.” And so they began to play. Another could not play, but sat wringing his hands, and weeping bitterly. Another grew pale at first, but recovered his composure a little on observing that his pitcher was not broken so bad as some others. There were three or four large pieces, and these he put together as well as he could. It was a broken pitcher that could hold no water, but by a litde care he could keep it together; and so he gathered courage, and began to walk along more cautiously. Just then, a voice accosted the weeping boy, and looking up, he saw a very lovely form, with a sweet and pleasant countenance — such a countenance as is accustomed to be happy, though some thing for the present has made it sad. And in his hand he held just such a pitcher as the little boy had broken, only the workmanship was more exquisite, and the colors were as bright as he rainbow round the stranger’s head. “You may have it,” he said, “it is better than the one you have lost, and though it is not the same, they will know it at the gate.” The little mourner could scarcely believe that it was really meant for him; but the kind looks of the stranger encouraged him. He held out his hand for the stranger’s vase, and gave a sob of joyful surprise when he found it his own. He began his journey again, and you would have liked to see how tenderly he carried his treasure, and how carefully he picked his steps, and how sometimes, when he gave another look at it, the tear would fill his eye, and he lifted up his happy thankful face to heaven. The stranger made the same offer to the playing boys, but by this time they were so bent on their new amusements, that they did not care for it. Some saucy children said, he might leave his present there if he liked, and they would take it when they were ready. He passed away, and spoke to the boy who was carrying the broken pitcher. At first he would have denied that it was broken, but the traveller’s clear glance had already seen it all; and so he told him, “You had better cast it away, and have this one in its stead.” The boy would have been very glad to have this new one, but to throw away the relics of his own was what he could never think of. They were his chief dependence every time he thought of the journey’s end; so he thanked the stranger, and clasped his fragments firmer. The boy with the gift-pitcher, and this other, reached the precincts of the palace about the same time. They stood for a little and looked on. They noticed some of the bright-robed inhabitants going out and in, and every time they passed the gate, they presented such a token as they themselves had once got from the king, but had broken so long ago. The boy who had accepted the kind stranger’s present now went forward, and held it up; and whether it was the light glancing on it from the pearly gate, I can- not tell, but at that instant its owner thought that it had never looked so fair. He who kept the gate seemed to think the same, for he gave a friendly smile, as much as to say, “I know who gave you that;” and immediately the door was lifted up and let the little pilgrim in. The boy with the broken pitcher now began to wish that his choice had been the same; but there was no help for it now. He adjusted the fragments as skilfully as he could, and trying to look courageous, carried them in both his hands. But he who kept the gate was not to be deceived. He shook his head, and there was that sorrow in his look, which leaves no hope. The bearer of the broken pitcher still held fast his useless sherds; but he soon found that it was vain to linger. The door continued shut.

THE MOUNTAIN IN THE PLAIN.

There was once a mountain in the midst of an extensive plain. The plain was a wild common, on which lived many people, some of them very hard-wrought, some of them very wicked, and most of them very wretched. They busied themselves rooting out the furze, the thistles, and briers that grew plenty on the plain. But it was amazing how fast these weeds grew up again, and what scanty crops repaid their toil. And besides all this, hardly a day went by but some one was torn by wild beasts which infested the neighboring forest, or plundered and beaten, and possibly murdered by robbers who haunted there. Yet they took htde notice of the mountain, Its sides were rugged. None of the people in the plain had ever been on the top of it. But a few of the more noticing had made some observations on it. They remarked that a perpetual sunshine settled on its summit, and they inferred that it must be a very genial time, for by the help of their prospectglasses they could make out golden fields and gardens bright with blossoms, and over the mountain’s edge folded thick bunches of verdure heavy with purple fruits. Still nobody had been on the top, and few paid much attention to the mountain in the plain. One day as a man was musing on the common near its foot, and was grudging to think what a perilous toilsome life he was leading, he heard a solemn whisper in his ear. It was such a startling whisper that it raised him to his feet. It said, “Tarry not in the plain.” And he felt an instant force upon him. He began to move before he had time to deliberate. He cast an eye at the mountain, and he saw high up and far away some of its inhabitants walking in its light, he said to himself, “Happy people! Would that I were with you.” And he wandered round and round the hill, but found nowhere that he could go easily up. At last he came to a sort of gulley or ravine that promised to take him to the top. He went winding

Up some way without much difficulty, till suddenly he came out upon a ledge which overhung a dark lake far below. But still the rocky pass promised to conduct him higher, and determined not to look down if he could help it, he began again to clamber upward, till at last he found himself in a niche of rock behind which he could not go. He looked up and saw cliff hanging over cliff, and not even a thread of pathway by which to scramble higher. He looked down, and the moment he did so the sweat began to ooze from his finger points, and his heart to flutter with faintness and fear, for he was clinging by a jutting crag, and he had scarcely courage to draw a single breath, lest it should loosen his slippery hold and send him and the rotten rock a-spinning to the lake below. Just then the same voice which had startled him on the plain whispered softly in his ear, “Cast thyself down hence.” The proposal was a strange one, but the voice was so friendly and encouraging, that he almost hesitated whether he would not comply, when it spoke agam in a sweet whisper as before, but this time such a secret might went with it, that the man could not refuse, though he almost wondered at himself. “Cast thyself down.” And he let go his hold, when, instead of bolting down to the abyss, a powerful arm caught hold of him; he felt himself securely borne, and, wafted upward on viewless wings, was landed safe on the mountain’s crown, and as soon as the amazement of deliverance had somewhat subsided, he flung himself on a fragrant bank where some fruits newly shaken from the tree were lying. He was full of blessedness, and wept a while. That evening one of the people of the plain passing near the mountain, thought he heard the voice of an old neighbor singing far up on the summit. But it was a new song, not known thereaway, and except one verse, the man could remember none of it: —

“He took me from a fearful pit,
And from the miry clay,
And on a rock he set my feet,
Establishing my way.”

THE king’s banquet.

A CERTAIN king prepared a sumptuous banquet in honor of his son. The first invitations were issued to the nobles of the land, and sundry families, who had long been favorites with the prince. But the banqueting-hour arrived, and did not bring them. A sulky fit had seized them; — and, as if by combination, they all remained away. But the king was resolved that his munificence should not be lost, nor the honor intended for his son defeated. And, as all the people round about were alike his subjects, he said to his servants, “The feast is ready, but none of the guests are come. Go out into the highways and hedges, and bring in all you can find.” The servants went, and great surprise there was when they told their errand. One poor laborer was returning from his work, and, after toiling all day, had got no wages from the man who hired him, and was trudging wearily home to his empty cupboard, when the king’s messenger accosted him, and told that a feast was prepared for him. After the first gaze of incredulity, seeing by his uniform that he was the king’s servant, and really in earnest, the poor laborer turned his steps toward the palace. The next was a cripple, who sat by the wayside begging. He had gathered little that day, when the messenger told him he would find a feast at the palace, and the king desired to see him. He had heard that something remarkable was going on at the court, and that the king was giving an entertainment in honor of some special event in his son’s history; and though he scarcely expected anything moie than a ration of bread and wine at the gate, as he knew that the king was of a very sumptuous and gracious disposition, he did not hesitate, but raised himself on his crutches, got up, and hobbled away. Then the messenger came to a shady lane, down which a retired old gentleman lived on a small spot of ground of his own. The messenger had far more trouble with him. It was not

SO much that he questioned the message, or that he did not like the invitation, but that he was annoyed at its abruptness, and at his own want of preparedness. He asked if there were to be no more invitations issued next week, or if there were no possibility of postponing the visit till the following evening; for, considering his station in society, he would like to appear in his best, and could have been glad of a little leisure to get all things in order. “However,” said the messenger, “you know the custom of our court: the king provides the robes of state; all things are ready — come away;” and as he posted on, the old householder thought that, rather than run any risk, he had better go at once; though some noticed that as he passed along he occasionally eyed his threadbare garment with a look that seemed to say, he could have put on better, had longer time been allowed him. Then at the palace it was interesting to see how the different parties acted. According to the custom of that country, and more especially after the magnificent manner of that king, each guest was furnished on his arrival with a gorgeous robe. They were all alike — exceeding rich and costly; and the moment he came up, one was handed to each new-comer, and he put it on and passed in to the dazzling banquet-hall. Some awkward persons, who did not know the usage of the place, and who had carried with them the mean notions which they learned among the highways and hedges, scrupled to receive these shining robes, and asked what price they must pay for them. And one individual was observed to come in with rather better attire than the most, and, when offered a robe of the king’s providing, he politely declined it, and stepped forward into the state-apartments. He was no sooner there than he rued his vanity: for his faded tinsel contrasted fearfully with the clothing of wrought gold in which the other guests were arrayed. However, instead of going back to get it changed, he awaited the issue. All things were now ready: the folding-doors opened, and from chambers all radiant with purest light, and redolent of sweetest odors, amid a joyful train, the king stepped in to see the guests. A frown for a moment darkened his majestic brow as he espied the presumptuous guest; but the intruder that instant vanished, and, with a benignity which awakened in every soul such a joy as it had never felt before — with a look which conferred nobility wherever it alighted, and a smile that awakened immortality in every bosom — he bade them welcome to the ivory palace, and told them to forget their father’s house and their poor original, for he meant to make them princes every one; and, as there were many mansions in the house, they should there abide for ever.

You will observe that a welcome from the King depends entirely on having on what the gospel parable calls “a weddingrobe.” This robe, according to the custom of old and eastern times, is provided by the lord of the house, and, as a matter of course, is put on every guest as he enters — of course, only if he be willing — but none who is willing need want it, for it is gratuitously given to all. That robe is righteousness — not man’s, but Jehovah’s — the righteousness of God’s providing; that righteousness which is imbodied in Christ Jesus, as it was wrought out by him; that righteousness which made Paul so careless about worldly calamities, and so disdainful of his own performances. (Phil. iii. 8, 9.) And, dear brethren, be persuaded: put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ. Say that you henceforth take your stand, not on what you yourself ever hope to be, but on what the Lord Jesus already is. Do not deny your own vileness, but, as you would ever be saved, do not deny his worthiness. Ye poor and blind! step in to the feast; ye halt and maimed! creep in. When at heaven’s gate they ask in whose right you come, make mention of Jesus’s righteousness, and the everlasting doors will open to receive you. The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth: speak it out. Confess the Lord Jesus; believe that God hath raised him from the dead, and, by raising him from the dead, has accepted him in the stead of sinners. Lay the stress of your salvation on that Redeemer whom God hath raised again, and whose righteousness God hath accepted already, and thou shalt be saved. Believe in Jesus, and in Jesus you are righteous. Avow your faith in him by the life and language of discipleship, and you serve yourself heir to his promise: “Him that confesseth me before men, will I confess before my Father and his holy angels.” — “Submit to the righteousness of God.” Submit to enter heaven in another’s name and in another’s right. Submit to be saved without doing any great thing for yourself, but by the great things which Jesus has done for you. The Lord has not bid you do some great thing, not even sent you to wash in Jordan seven times. Submit to wash in a better stream — once and for ever in the fountain opened — and see if your flesh do not come again like that of a little child; see if, believing in Jesus, you be not born again, and brought into the kingdom of heaven. Submit to put on the wedding-garment. The Holy Spirit offers you the robe of Christ’s righteousness. Submit to put it on, and condescend, as you pass in to the marriage-feast, to say —

“Jesus! thy blood and righteousness My beauty are and glorious dress.”

THE PLANT OF RENOWN.

There was a small colony planted on a creek of a vast continent. Their soil was very fertile, but its limits were somewhat narrow. However, its size and resources were sufficient for the inhabitants. We said that its limits were narrow. On the landward side it was enclosed by an amphitheatre of rocky mountains, so precipitous, that nothing, save the white clouds and the dwindling eagle, could pass over them; on the other side, it looked out on the bulging expanse of the immeasurable main. At the time we speak of, a pestilence had broken out, which made fearful havoc all through the population. It was a dreadful disease, before whose touch the sturdiest manhood crumbled down, and the brightest beauty withered away. It was not long till two appalling discoveries were made. First, it was found that no one had escaped it: for, though some exhibited its virulence more fearfully than others, the litde child in the cradle and the shepherd in the distant plain were smitten, as well as the grown people in the village streets; and next, the doctors declared that it was beyond their skill — they could do nothing for it. Just at the time the plague was raging worst, a stranger appeared and told them there was a cure. He said that there was a plant which healed this disorder, and he described it. He mentioned that it was a lowly plant, not conspicuous nor very arresUng to the eye; that it had a red blossom and sweet-scented leaves, and a bruised-looking stem, and that it was evergreen. He told a number of other particulars regarding it; and, as he could not tarry longer at that time, he left a paper in which, he said, they would find a full description of it, and directions how to find it. The tidings diffused considerable activity through the sickly colony. A plant of such efficacy deserved the most diligent search. Almost all agreed that it must be far away; but a discussion arose whether it lay beyond the cliffs or across the sea. Most thought the latter: and some set to work and built a ship, and, when they had launched her, they christened her “Ecclesia,^^ and hoisted a red-cross flag, and sent round word that the fine ship Ecclesia was about to set sail in search of the famous plant, and all who wished to escape the plague were invited to take passage in this good ship. A few others, however, thought that the ship was going the wrong way, and that they would have better success by trying to get over the cliffs. This was an arduous enterprise; for the precipices were beethng steep and extremely high. A few attempts were made to cHmb by ravines and gulleys, which, however, ended in walls of glassy smoothness; and, after many weariful efforts, the climbers either grew dizzy and fell back, or allowed themselves to slide down again to the crumbHng debris at the bottom. But others, more inventive,” busied themselves constructing artificial wings and aerial engines of various kinds, imitatio Christi, asceticism, penitential prayers, and such like; and some of them answered exceedingly well for a little, and rose so high, that their neighbors really thought they would reach the top; but, after getting a certain height, whether it was owing to the weakness of the materials, or a powerful current which they always met at a certain elevation, and which by a sort of down-draught blew them back from the brow of the mountain, they uniformly found themselves again on the spot from which they first ascended. A long time had now passed on, and multitudes had died of the plague, without any clearer views of the specific plant; when a poor sufferer who had already gone on a fruitless expedition in the ship, and from the severity of his anguish was eager in trying every scheme, lay tossing on his bed. He got hold of a large paper-roll which

lay on a shelf beside him. It was very dirty, and the ink was faded; but, to while away the time, he began to unfold it, and found from the beginning that it was the Book of the Balm of Gilead.* He at once suspected that it was the book which the stranger had left so long ago, and wondered how they had suffered it to fall aside; and he had not read far till it told him that if he would only read on, it would put him on the way of finding the Plant of Renown. It gave a full description — many particulars of which he had never heard before — and as he advanced in his feverish earnestness, unrolling it fold by fold, and reading rapidly as he went along, hoping that it would tell him the very spot where he

* Title of New Testament, and Matt. i. 1.

should look for it, he found the plant itself! There it lay in the heart of the long-neglected volume; and Luther’s eye ghstened as he read, “Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth.” — But where is Christ to be found? Must I ascend the height, or descend into the deep? Must T climb these cliffs, or cross that sea? Oh! no. Christ is here — nigh me — God’s present gift to me conveyed in the volume of this book. I see him. I accept him. I believe.” From that moment Christ was Luther’s righteousness; and in the flash of sudden joy with which he discovered the Lord his righteousness, though it did not so strike him at the moment, Luther’s eternal life began.

The apologue has prematurely betrayed itself; but no matter: it is so historically true, that it could not be hid. The cure for a plague-stricken, dying world, was long concealed in the Bible, till, led by the Spirit of God, Luther found it there. You have only to go where Luther went, and you will find it again. But so inveterate is the disposition to travel far, or do some great thing for the sake of some surpassing good, that few are content with a salvation which has already come to their house. Leaving their bible behind them, they go to sea in the ship of a so-called apostolic church, or they make to themselves the wings of a mystic piety, and, by dint oi personal effort, try to bring Christ down from above. But all their labor is futile. That only “Christ” who is the “end of the law” and the “sinner’s righteousness,” is in the Bible already, and as such, is God’s free gift to me — a gift unspeakable in its intrinsic value — unspeakable in the everlasting results which its acceptance involves — Godlike in the freeness with which it is offered, and Godlike in the nearness with which it is brought; but missed by many because so nigh, and rejected by others because so free.