The Life That Now Is

“Somewhere the wind is blowing,

I thought as I toiled along
In the burning heat of the noontide,

And the fancy made me strong.
Yes, somewhere the wind is blowing,

Though here where I gasp and sigh,
Not a breath of air is stirring.

Not a cloud in the burning sky.

Somewhere the thing we long for

Exists on earth’s wide bound;
Somewhere the sun is shining

When winter nips the ground.
Somewhere the flowers are springing,

Somewhere the corn is brown,
And ready unto the harvest

To feed the hungry town.”

There is an impression among certain people that the advantages of Christian faith are only or chiefly for the other world. They will admit that religion is a good thing for dying — that it takes one safely through the

valley of shadows, and into the Father’s house in heaven. But they say that for the present life it yields no profit, that, indeed, it hinders one’s pleasure, and stands in the way of one’s success and prosperity.

But these are incorrect impressions. We do not have to wait till we reach heaven to get the benefits of faith in Christ. Religion has “the promise of the life that now is,” as well as of “that which is to come.” God bcr stows rich spiritual blessings and comforts upon us in this present life. While fountains of eternal blessedness burst out on the mountains of God in glory, rills and rivers of grace flow also through our poor, parched, sorrowsmitten earthly portion, fertilizing and enriching it. Religion has uncounted benefits for the life of earth.

There are those who think that the Christian’s life is cheerless and gloomy, empty of happiness and joy. But is it so 1 Let us think of some of the good things that religion brings. It brings the revelation of the love of God. Is it a gloomy thought to a man that God loves him, loves him with an everlasting love, with a love infinitely deepdr and more tender than a mother’s love, with a love that never changes, and whose warm currents no unfaithfulness, no wandering, no imperfection, can chill or turn back? Religion brings redemption. Is it a gloomy thing to a weary prisoner to go out of his dark dungeon, and find himself in the open fields, in the sweet sunshine, enjoying all the blessings of liberty? Does it make a man sad, does it darken his life, to be led out of Satan’s gloomy prison-house into the glorious liberty of the children of God? Religion brings full salvation. Is it a gloomy thought to know that you are saved from eternal death, and have everlasting life.**

Religion brings peace. In the midst of a great battle, while a thousand cannon shook the hills, and the whole heaven quivered with the reverberations, there was a moment’s pause. Not a gun was heard, far or near. During that pause a sparrow sang sweetly out from among the branches of an old tree that stood in the midst of the plain of battle.

When the cannon thundered again the sparrow was silent. It sang only in the brief pauses of the awful strife. So it is with the peace of this world. Now and then we hear a single voice singing sweetly out of a man’s life, in the brief pauses of struggle, care, and discontent. But soon the strife begins again, and the bird-note of peace is hushed. No worldly man has unbroken peace. Only a single silver strain is heard now and then. There is only a brief moment of calm here and there, in the midst of a life of anxiety, unrest, and discord.

But religion brings deep peace, the peace of the Lord Jesus, a peace which is not broken by any storm, which sings in the bosom; not merely a single voice in the pauses of earth’s battle, but a whole choir of voices, unceasing through all the din and strife.

Here is a little cottage by the sea. The night is dark and stormy. The waves break and thunder on the shore. The clouds pour out their rains in angry torrents. The tempest beats and roars about the cottage. But all the evening there is joy within. The lamp burns with bright beam. The cheerful fire glows upon the hearth. A happy circle gathers about the table. Joyful songs ring out into the gloom. The dark night of storm flings no shadow inside. The angry tempest breaks not the gladness of that sweet home.

Picture this of the peace religion brings. The world is full of storms, but the Christian’s heart is a chamber of cheer and joy through all. Songs ring out in the blackest night of trial. Job had this peace, and it was not broken by all his adversities. St. Paul had it; and he went singing through the world in all his tribulations, persecutions, and trials. Here is an aged Christian woman who has it. She is poor. She is a great sufferer. Every joint in her body is drawn out of its place. For thirteen years she has endured the most excruciating pains, without an hour’s relief. But no little child on its mother’s bosom has a deeper, sweeter joy than she. She knows that she is God’s child, that he is caring for her, and that he is fitting her in her sufferings for eternal glory. She knows that all she has to endure the Lord sends in tender love. The cross of Jesus sweetens all the bitterness of her life. Does such blessed peace make one gloomy y Does it make life cheerless and sad “i

Religion reveals a loving Providence running through the Christian’s life, weaving out of all its tangled threads a web of beauty. It shows a Father’s hand in each event, taking the poison out of trouble, drawing the serpenttooth out of every evil thing, bringing good out of all experiences, sheltering, guiding, and blessing his children. Is the thought of such a loving, overruling Providence a saddening or gloomy one t

There are sorrows in the Christian’s life. Religion does not save us from suffering. But while sorrows, like hot, desert winds, desolate the life of the worldly man, they fertilize, enrich, and bless the portion of the child of God; for with his “south land,” God has given him springs of comfort whose streams flow through every valley of tribulation. Are the consolations of religion calculated to make men sad, or life cheerless and gloomy?

There is no other such joyous life in this world as that of the believer. Springs of heavenly blessing burst out all over his field. It has not a single desert spot. It matters not how small it may be; the Christian’s little cottage and garden are better than the worldly man’s thousand acres. The poor widow’s one garret-room is better than the gorgeous palace of him whose splendors are not blessed by the smile of God.

We cannot even name all the blessings which religion sends into our life through its “nether springs.” It changes a desert into a garden. It pours sunshine into our heart. It enriches our poverty. It makes our hard crust soft and sweet as angels’ bread. It surrounds us with beautiful things. It fills our life with tokens of divine love. It sings to us in our weary hours. It cheers us when we are disheartened. It takes the anxiety, fear, and unrest out of our days. For it makes us children of God. What matters it that this experience here is sometimes bitter, that burdens are heavy, that work is hard; that you get no rest from toil; that night and day your poor, tired fingers must ply the needle, or be busy in household duties; that there come no pauses in your weary task-work? What matters it that your heart’s song is hushed every now and then by the cry of grief, or choked by tears? What matters it that you are poor, that your clothes are threadbare, that sometimes you have only a piece of crust and a cup of water? The Lord knows what things you need. Or what matters it that your earthly portion is so small and so poor, while you are but a pilgrim here, while heaven is your home, while you know that you are an heir of God, and that you have a glorious possession laid up in reserve?

There was a godly man who built himself a house. It was a pleasant home, with many comforts. There was joy in it. But he said that the best thing about this home was that, sitting at his own fireside, he could see his father’s house away on a distant hill-top. “• Nq matter the weather/* said he, “whether winter or summer, spring or autumn; no matter the sky, whether cloudless or stormy, — when I sit by my east window, my father’s roof and chimney-tops, and the door into my father’s house, are always visible to my sight. Then, when night comes, no matter the darkness, for far away over the fields and valleys gleams the light in my father’s windows.” Happy is he who builds his earthly dwelling where from its doors he can ever see afar off his heavenly Father’s house with its many mansions; and where, even in the darkest nights, its lights shine down upon him with their kindly cheer. He will then never be lonely nor afraid. He will never lose hope. He will breathe heaven’s sweetness, and catch the accents of heaven’s songs, and his eye will be charmed with glimpses of heaven’s beauties. Let no one say that religion makes life gloomy. However dreary the Christian’s earthly lot may be, hidden springs burst up all over it. There is no sorrow which has not in it a hidden well of comfort. There is no want up through whose dry crust blessed supply will not burst, if we but dig for it. In the West, on the broad prairies, the traveller sees ofttimes the tall derrick looming up like a ghastly skeleton in the distance. It tells a story of disappointment and vain search. Here men dug and drilled for water. They spent a fortune on this spot, hoping to strike a living spring. They went down a thousand feet or more, and found nothing. But there is no such vain search in the believer’s field for wells of blessing. The worldly man may dig down ten thousand feet in his portion. He may find gold and silver. He may find diamonds. But he will not find water. Ghastly derricks stand all over the broad fields of many an unbelieving one, showing where he has sought for joy, for peace, for satisfaction, for comfort, — yet all in vain. But the child of God may strike his pick in anywhere, and fresh water will flow out. Every spot of his portion is blessed and full of blessing. Every circumstance is a well-curb, fencing in its flowing spring. He has only to drop the bucket of faith anywhere to draw up heavenly gladness, comfort, and good. The deep furrows that sorrow ploughs in his life are only channels through which the pure waters flow to irrigate his field and enrich his heart. The heavy strokes of trial which he feels so often, and which give him so much pain, are but the smitings of the rod of God, to bring out water from the rock. These nether springs burst out all over the believer’s field.

Indeed, the believer in Christ is living even now and here on the borders of heaven. The veil of sense hides the glory, but the glory is there. We are children of God, and are living in our Father’s world. The love that surrounds us now and cares for us is the same love that makes heaven. We are really as safe here, if we trust God and do his will, as we will be when we get home. We are in the beginnings of everlasting life, though yet in the flesh. It is not always easy to live the Christian life in this world; but the sufferings of this present time are preparing us for the glory of the coming days. By and by this life of toil will be over, and then we shall enter into the full blessedness.

*’A little while and then the summer day,

When I go home. ‘Tis lonesome winter now, but ‘twill be May

When I go home. Beyond the gloom of moor and fen I see The welcome warm of those who wait for me.

Work ceases not in sunshine or in shower,

Till I go home; But in the stillness of the twilight hour

I dream of home. And when the night-wind moans across the wold, I feel nor dread of dark nor chill of cold.

All will be well and all be happiness

When I go home; The wanderings all o’er and loneliness,

When I go home. There will be light at eventide for me, The light that never was on land or sea.’*