Dead Flies
“Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour: so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour.” — ECCLES. X. 1.
THE people of Palestine dealt largely in aromatic oils, and it was a chief business of their apothecaries to prepare them. A little thing was enough to spoil them. Although the vase were alabaster, and although the most exquisite perfumes were dissolved in the limpid olive, a dead fly could change the whole into a pestilent odour.
And so, says the Royal Moralist, a character may be carefully confected. You may attend to all the rules of wisdom and self-government which I have now laid down; but if you retain a single infirmity it will ruin the whole. Like the decomposing influence of that dead fly, it will injure all the rest and destroy the reputation which you otherwise merit.
The principle is especially applicable to a Christian profession; and the best use wre can make of it is to exemplify it in some of those flaws and failings which destroy the attraction and impressiveness of men truly devout and God-fearing. Our instances must be taken almost at random; for, like their Egyptian prototypes, these flies are too many to be counted.
Rudeness. — Some good men are blunt in their feelings, and rough in their manners; and they apologise for their coarseness by calling it honesty, downrightness, plainness of speech. They quote in self-defence the sharp words, and shaggy mien of Elijah and John the Baptist, and, as affectation, they sneer at the soft address and mild manners of gentler men. Now, it is very true that there is a certain strength of character, an impetuousness of feeling, and a sturdy vehemence of principle, to which it is more difficult to prescribe the rules of Christian courtesy, than to more meek and pliant natures. It is very possible that Latimer in his bjuntness, and Knox in his erect and iron severity, and Luther in the magnificent explosions of his far-resounding indignation, may have been nobler natures, and fuller of the grace of God than the supple courtiers whose sensibilities they so rudely shattered. But it does not follow that men who have not got their warfare to wage are entitled to use their weapons. Nor does it even follow that their warfare would have been less successful had they wielded no such weapons. The question, however, is not between two rival graces, — between integrity on the one side, and affability on the other; but the question is, Are these two graces compatible? Can they co-exist? Is it possible for a man to be explicit, and open, and honest, and, withal, courteous and considerate of the feelings of others? Is it possible to add to fervor and fidelity, suavity, and urbanity, and brotherly kindness? The question has already been answered, for the actual union of these things has already been exhibited. Without referring to Nathan’s interview with David, where truth and tenderness triumph together, or Paul’s remonstrances to his brethren, in which a melting heart is the vehicle of each needful reproof, we need only revert to the great example itself. In the epistles to the Asiatic Churches, each begins with commendation, wherever there was any thing that could be commended. With the magnanimity which remembers past services in the midst of present injury, and which would rather notice good than complain of evil, each message, so far as there was material for it, is ushered in by a word of eulogy, and weight is added to the subsequent admonition by this preface of kindness.* And it was the same while the Lord Jesus was on earth. His tender tone was the keen edge of his reproofs, and his unquestionable love infused solemnity into every warning. There never was one more faithful than the Son of God, but there never was one more considerate. And just as rudeness is not essential to honesty, so neither is roughness essential to strength of character. The Christian should have a strong character; he should be a man of remarkable decision; he should start back from temptation as from a bursting * Fuller on the Apocalypse, p. 1(5.
bomb. And lie should be a man of inflexible pur pose. When once he knows his Lord’s will, he should go through with it, aye, through fire and water with it. But this he may do without renouncing the meekness and gentleness which were in Christ. He may have zeal without pugnacity, determination without obstinacy. He should distinguish between the ferocity of the animal and the courage of the Christian. And whether he makes the distinction or not, the world will make it. The world looks for the serene benevolence of conscious strength in a follower of the Lamb of God; and, however rude its own conduct, it expects that the Christian himself will be courteous.
Irritability. — One of the most obvious and impressive features in the Saviour’s character was his meekness. In a patience which ingenious or sudden provocation could not upset; in a magnanimity which insult could not ruffle; in a gentleness from which no folly could extract an unadvised word, men saw what they could scarcely understand, but that which made them marvel. Though disciples were strangely dull, He never lost temper with them; though Judas was very dishonest, He did not bring any railing accusation against him; though Philip had been so long time with Him, and had not understood Him, He did not dismiss him from his company. When Peter denied Him, it was not a frown that withered him, but a glance of affection that melted him. And so with his enemies; it was not by lightning from heaven, but by love from his pierced heart, that He subdued them. But many Christians lack this beauty of their Master’s holiness; they are afflicted with evil tempers, they cannot rule their spirits, or rather they do not try. Some indulge occasional fits of anger; and others are haunted by habitual, daily, life-long fretfulness. The one sort is generally calm and pellucid as an Alpine lake, but on some special provocation, is tossed up into a magnificent tempest; the other is like the Bosphorus, in a continual stir, and even when not a breath is moving, by the contrariety of its internal currents vexing itself into a ceaseless whirl and eddy. The one is Hecla — for long intervals silent as a granite peak, and suffering the snow-flakes to fall on its cold crater, till you forget that it is a burning mountain; and then on some sudden and unlooked-for disturbance, hurling the hollow truce into the clouds, and pouring forth in one noisy night the stifled mischief of many a year. The other is Stromboli, a perpetual volcano, seldom indulging in any disastrous eruption; but muttering and quaking, steaming and hissing night and day, in a way which makes strangers nervous; and ever and anon spinning through the air a red hot rock, or a spirt of molten metal, to remind the heedless natives of their angry neighbour. But either form, the paroxysmal fury, and the perennial fretfulness, is inconsistent with the wisdom from above, which is peaceable, gentle, easy to be entreated. Worldly men can perceive the inconsistency, but instead of ascribing it to its proper causes, they are more likely to attribute it to the insincerity of Christians, or the insufficiency of the Gospel; and even the more willing sort of worldlings, those who have some pre disposition in favour of the truth, are very apt to be shocked and driven off by the unhallowed ebullitions of religious men. Suppose such an individual, with his attention newly awakened to the great salvation — with his mind impressed by some Scriptural delineation of regenerate character; his ear, it may be, still charmed with a glowing description of the Gospel’s magic power, making wolfish men so lamb like, and teaching the weaned child to play on the cockatrice den: suppose such a man in the way of business, or kindness, or spiritual inquiry, to approach a stranger of Christian renown, and accosting him in full persuasion of his Christian character, prepared for a cordial welcome, a patient hearing at the least, — but alas! coming in at some unpropitious moment, he is greeted with a shout of impatience, or annihilated by a flash from his lowering countenance, — why, it is like putting your hand into the nest of the turtle-dove, and drawing it out with a long slimy serpent, dangling in warty folds, and holding on by its fiery fangs. There is horror in the disappointment, as well as anguish in the bite; and the frightful association cannot easily be forgotten.
Akin to these infirmities of temper, are some other inconsistencies as inconvenient to their Christian brethren as they are likely to stumble a scoffing world. Some professors are so whimsical and impracticable, that it needs continual stratagem to enlist them in any labour of usefulness, and after they are once fairly engaged in it, nothing but perpetual watchfulness and the most tender management can keep them in it. In all your dealings with them, like a man walking over a galvanic pavement, you tread uneasily, wondering when the next shock is to come off, and every moment expecting some paradox to spring under your feet. In the Christian societies of which they are members, they constitute non-conformable materials of which it is difficult to dispose. They are irregular solids for which it is not easy to find a place in rearing the temple. They are the polyhedrons of the church, each punctilio of their own forming a several face, and making it a hard problem to fix them where they will not mar the structure. Apostolical magnanimity they deem subserviency or sinful connivance; and simultaneous movements or Christian co-operation they deem lawful only when all conform to them. Like those individuals whose bodies are non-conductors, and who can stop an electric circuit after it has travelled through a mile of other men, sectarian professors are so positively charged with their own peculiarities, that the influence which has been transmitted through consenting myriads, stops short as soon as it reaches them.
Selfishness. — The world expects self-denial in the Christian; and with reason, for of all men he can best afford it, and by his profession he is committed to it. You are on a journey, and because you have been distributing tracts or reading the Bible, or have made some pious observations, your fellow-travellers set you down for a Christian. By and by one of your companions makes a civil remark, but not being in a mood for talking, you turn him off with a short answer. A delicate passenger would like your side of the carriage, but you wish to see the country or prefer the cooler side; so you make no movement, but allow your neighbour to change places with the invalid. And at last an accident occurs which will detain you an hour beyond the usual time; so you lose all patience, and fret, and scold, and talk of hiring post-chaises, — while some good-humoured or philosophic wayfarer sits quiet in the corner, or gets out, and looks leisurely on till the misfortune is mended, and then resumes his journey, having lost nothing but his time, whilst you have lost both your time and your temper. In such a case it would be better that you had left the tracts and the Bible at home, for your inconsistency is likely to do more evil, than your direct efforts are likely to do good. As a worldly man you would have been entitled to indulge your own indolence, your own convenience, or your own impatience as much as you pleased; but if you really are a disciple of Christ, you owed it to Him to “deny yourself.”
The subject is uninviting, and time would fail did we speak of the parsimony, the indolence, the egotism, the want of intelligence, the want of taste, by which many excellent characters are marred, and by which the glory of the Gospel is often compromised. We would not be accusers of the brethren. We only suggest a subject for self-examination, and we indicate an object to which the Church’s energy might be advantageously directed. We fear that we have failed to cultivate sufficiently the things honest, lovely, and of good report, and that we have sometimes allowed ourselves to be excelled by worldly men in those beauties of character which, although subordinate, are not insignificant. Attention to the wants of others, care for their welfare, and consideration for their feelings, are Scriptural graces for which all Christians ought to be conspicuous. Christianity allows us to forget our own wants, but it does not permit us to forget the necessities of our brethren. It requires us to be careless of our own ease, but it forbids us to overlook the comfort and convenience of other people. Of this the Lord Jesus was Himself the pattern. He was sometimes a-hungered, but in that case He wrought no miracle. But when the multitude had long fasted, He created bread to supply them, rather than send them away fainting. And though his great errand was to save his people from their sins, none ever saved so many from their sorrows. And in this disciples should resemble Him. Although they know that the soul is better worth than the body, and the interests of eternity more precious than those of time, they also
N know that it is after these things that the Gentiles seek; and, therefore, if they would win the Gentiles, they must attend to their personal wants, and temporal comforts. Nay, more, as a system of universal amelioration, Christianity demands our efforts for the outward weal of our worldly neighbours, and our delicate attention to the minutest comfort of our Christian brethren. It was on this principle that, seeking the salvation of his peasantparishioners, Oberlin felt that he was not going out of his way as an evangelist, when he opened a school for children, wild as their own rock-goats; when he taught the older people many humble but useful arts hitherto unknown in the Ban-de-la-Roche; when he set them to the planting of trees, and clearing of roads; when he established an agricultural society, and published a calendar, divested of the astrological falsehoods with which their almanacs were wont to abound. Oberlin’s Christianity would have prompted these humane and beneficent actions, even though no ulterior good had accrued from them; but first in the love of these villagers, and then in their conversion to God, he had his abundant reward. And it was on the same principle that the apostolic Williams, brim-full of sense and kindness, came down like a cornucopia on his South Sea Islanders, and startling them with the prodigies of civilization, and enriching them with its inventions, at once conveyed an idea of the bountiful spirit of the Gospel, and conciliated their affection to its messenger. And it was on the same principle that the benignant Wilberforce, — himself the best “practical view of Christianity,” — was so studious of the feelings, and so accommodating to the wishes of his worldly friends, — so abounded in those considerate attentions to the humblest acquaintance, which only a delicate mind could imagine, and a dextrous skill could execute, — and would subject himself to all sorts of inconvenience in order to “carry a ray of gladness from the social circle into the sick man’s cottage,” or to temper with his own diffusive gladness the bitter cup of some humble disciple. No disciple can resemble his Lord, who does not maintain this benignant bearing to all around him. Grace was infused into the lips of Jesus. None in the guise of humanity was ever conscious of such power within; none ever gave outlet to inherent power in milder coruscations. His gentleness made him great; and so engaging was his aspect, so compassionate his mien, that frail mortality could lay its head securely on his bosom, though a Shekinah slept within. Believers should in this resemble Jesus. They should be mild and accessible, and, like the Sun of Righteousness, they should carry such healing in their wings, as to make their very presence the harbinger of joy. It was said of Charles of Bala, that it was a good sermon to look at him. And so much of the Master’s mind should reside in each disciple as to N 2 make that true of him which the old elegy says of one of England’s finest worthies: —
“A sweet attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by looks,
Continual comfort in a face
The lineament of Gospel-books;
For sure that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are written in the eye.”
February 16, 1851.