Pilgrims

IN the host of Israel there were many thousands of boys and girls, who, like their parents, were on a journey; they had no home, they were seeking a better country—they were pilgrims. There are many young people, who, except in one thing, are like other youths and maidens of the same age, they are merry and play, they also have the same kind of burdens to bear which others have, but they are unlike the rest in this respect—they are pilgrims, for they have their hearts set upon the happy home which the Lord, who died for them, is preparing for all who love God.
Young people like reading books of travel, and are aware that when on a journey, things are not to be had in the same way as when at home. He is a bad traveler who cannot bear a few troubles and hardships on the journey; and a most unpleasant companion in travel is he who complains and frets when he cannot have this or that, or when everything is not quite pleasant. A good traveler thinks of the end of the journey, and not of all the troubles by the way. Now we read of the murmurings of the children of Israel when they were pilgrims, and we read that God was not well pleased with them because they grumbled, and no doubt little children in Israel learned to murmur because they heard their parents doing so.
Come, my dear young friends, who are pilgrims on the way to the better country, that is the heavenly—tell me, are you happy and bright children, or are you murmurers? It is such a sweet witness to the love of our God when we can go on our way and through our trials joyful in His love and bright in His presence.
The children of Israel had triumphed in God’s great salvation when Jehovah led them through the Red Sea and destroyed their enemies. He had made them free, and they dreaded Pharaoh and bondage no more. But, in order to be happy pilgrims, they needed to learn not only the song of salvation, but how to go on, day by day, contented with the will of their God, for otherwise they would become in bondage to them selves. We know some dear boys and girls who are pilgrims; and we remember well how, a year or two ago, they sang the song of salvation for the first time; but since that day—young as they are—they have learned, in trial and in difficulty, to say to their Father in heaven, “Thy will be done.” Some have said this from the very bottom of their hearts, even upon their deathbeds. (For this patience and peace God be praised). They have been called to leave all they loved so dearly on earth, and have said, by their Father’s grace, sweetly and simply to Him in heaven, and in the hearing of their friends on earth, “Thy will be done.” Others are learning this lesson still, and though at times it is very hard to say it, yet God our Father does give grace to every child of His who earnestly seeks to love His will, truly to tell Him “Thy will be done.”
It is by submission to our Father’s will that we learn to love His ways with us, and thus it is that we become happy pilgrims. For such as love God their Father’s will can sing in the hour of suffering as well as in the hour of consolation; but their songs are very different from those which first filled our hearts when we knew that God was our salvation, and, assured of what He had saved us from, we then rejoiced in His work for us.
Immediately after the song of Israel’s triumph in God, the Scriptures show us that the people “went three days in the wilderness, and found no water.” (Ex. 15:22). And when they came to a place of water it was bitter, so they called the place Marah, that is, Bitterness! This is what we mean by finding trouble on our way to heaven. No sooner were you really on your way to a better country, than you learned that in this world there was no water—nothing to refresh you. All things became quite changed to you. Even the things you so fondly loved before you became a pilgrim gave you no refreshment for your soul. And then God allowed you to come to a place of water. All seemed to promise joy; but instead of finding this to be the case, the very things you expected to make you happy proved to be Marah—Bitterness.
A boy or girl is truly converted, and comes home from school, for example, to find that what was looked forward to with such joy has not a little of Marah in it. Do not be disappointed dear young friend, it is for your good. “Yes,” you say, “but what am I to do?”
What did the Lord bid Moses do when Israel tasted the bitter waters? Did He say, go somewhere else? As we should say, “Try to get out of your trouble: run away from it.” Ah! many do this, and only get into far greater trouble, only run into far worse difficulty. No, this is not God’s way. You have to go on gently and kindly, pleasing others, not yourselves.
Moses “cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet.” This means that when we accept what God sends us, even the bitter waters, and bring Christ into our troubles, that even our troubles become sweet to us.
“In Thy presence all afflictions
We can easily endure.”
We have now some young pilgrims in our mind who are just at Marah cheer up, dear travelers to heaven. Look you, Jesus is near, very near to you. The eternal God spews you the tree, He shows you Jesus. Do not try to run from your troubles, but since God has shown you, tell the Lord Jesus all, bring Him, as it were, into these things which are bitter to you. Your brothers and sisters ridicule you, your old friends are against you, but Jesus is with you, and His dear presence make the waters sweet.
It was at Marah that the Lord proved His people (v. 25), and it is there He is proving you. And when, Jesus being with us, we can say to our God and Father, “Thy will be done,” we are happy pilgrims.
Yet think not that you are to stay at Marah all your lifetime, for such is not God’s way You are on a journey, and soon you will find that your present trials are past trials. So it was with Israel, they left Marah, and came to Elim, and there were twelve wells of sweet water, and seventy spreading palm trees, and under their shelter they rested, and by the waters they encamped. They did not encamp at Marah, nor were they long there, for God is tender and full of pity; they learned how the Lord heals, and when the waters of Elim were reached, God’s cloudy pillar rested, and at His bidding Israel encamped—i.e., made a stay.
Happy are the people who rejoice in God their Father’s will, and who are content in His great love.
H. F. W.
LET all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: and be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you. Be ye therefore followers of God, as dear children; and walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given Himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling savor. (Eph. 4:31, 32; 5:1-2 ;)
William Farel.
(Continued from 15. 160).
DO you remember Tavannes, where the idols had been broken? Since that time there had been a preacher of the gospel living there, called De Glautinis. This good man now came for a while to help Farel in a new expedition.
There was a town on the Lake of Neuchâtel, where the gospel had not yet been preached. This town was Grundson. Close to the town stood a large and ancient convent of gray friars. It was to this convent that Farel and his friend directed their steps. They were shown into the parlor, where the superior, Guy Regis, asked them what they wanted. “We are come,” said Farel, “to ask leave to preach in the church of the convent.” In a moment it dawned upon the superior that this was Farel. “Heretic!” he exclaimed. “Son of a Jew!” shouted another monk. And the two friends were quickly turned out of the convent gates.
The news spread like wildfire through the town that Farel was come. When he went to the second convent of Benedictines, the monks were prepared to receive him. Farel said as before, that he desired leave to preach in the church. Immediately the whole convent was in an uproar. The monks ran into the cloisters, where the two friends were waiting. One had armed himself with a pistol, another with a knife. The monk with the pistol flew upon Farel, and pointing the pistol at his head with one hand, he endeavored with the other to drag him along to the convent prison. De Glautinis rushed forward to rescue his friend, but was immediately attacked vigorously by the monk with the knife.
By this time the shouts of the angry monks had risen to such a pitch, that some friends of Farel, who were waiting outside the gate, forced their way in to see what was happening. They dragged the two preachers away, and the monks having shut and barred their gates, remained, as if besieged, for a whole fortnight. They feared another visit from Farel.
The preachers now agreed to separate for a time. De Glautinis remained at Grundson, and Farel went to preach in the country round. De Glautinis had for a while a fine opportunity. As the monks were so closely shut up within their locked gates, De Glautinis preached in the streets to large crowds. The monks, headed by Guy Regis, took courage one day to rush out in a body and surround the preacher. But they dared do no more than call him names in loud and threatening voices, and assure him he should never preach in the churches. They then disappeared again behind their convent walls.
Meanwhile some Bernese lords, who were at Neuchatel, heard how the preachers had beer received at Grundson. They speedily made their appearance, sent for Farel, and ordered the convent churches to be immediately thrown open for the preaching. This was according to the wish of many of the people of Grundson. Crowd! filled the churches to listen to the gospel.
The Catholics now formed themselves into a strong party. The peaceful little town was divided The Catholics stuck fir-cones in their caps, to distinguish themselves from the gospellers, and paraded the streets to defy the lords of Berne The magistrates took part with the Catholics, and after the preaching had continued for some days they seized the preachers, at the request of the monks, and put them in prison. They were however, soon released, and the monks then sought help from the neighboring towns. A friar was sent from Lausanne to preach on St. John’s day, (June 24). Farel and his friend went to hear the sermon. After a while Farel stood up (as was the custom in those days) and spoke it answer to the monk. The bailiff of Grundson displeased at this interruption, struck Farel a blow. This was the signal for a general battle. The magistrates, the monks, and many of the people fell upon the preachers, beat and kicked them, and “grievously maltreated them,” as we are told.
A gospeller started off at once to tell a Bernese officer, who was then at a place called Colombier nine miles off. The officer quickly arrived, and having called together the magistrates, he ordered that Farel and the friar should preach by turns and that the people should quietly listen to both sides. The preaching was to begin next day.
Meanwhile a report had spread through the little town, that Farel meant to go secretly into the church, and pull down the great crucifix.
This was a story got up by some of the monks to excite the Catholics. Two monks, named Tissot and Gondoz, who really believed it, thought it would be a work pleasing to God that they should murder Farel. They armed themselves with axes which they hid under their frocks, and posted themselves in front of the great crucifix. They waited in vain for a long while. The time was almost come when the preaching was to begin. Farel had not appeared.
At last two men entered the church. The monks advanced. The men were strangers, but the monks thought by the look of them, that they were heretics. “Stand back,” said one of the monks, and the other darting forward, rudely pushed the foremost man. This was the Bernese officer De Watteville, who had come, attended by his servant, to hear the preaching. “Gently,” he said to the monk, “you should not lose your temper.” But the servant, less meek than his master, flew at the monk, and caught him round the body.
He felt the ax under the monk’s frock. He seized it instantly, and was prepared to strike the monk a violent blow. His master however, checked him. The monks fled in terror.
De Watteville now resolved in his turn, to guard the church for the gospellers. He posted his servant within the door, and told him to keep watch, whilst he pursued the monks. The servant paced up and down, with the axe on his shoulder, and his eye fixed on the door.
After a few minutes, about thirty women suddenly entered the church, and made their way towards the gallery. Each of them held up her serge apron, and looked fiercely around. Their plan was to hide in the gallery close to the pulpit. Some had filled their aprons with mold from their gardens, others with cinders from their stoves. They had determined that as soon as Farel began to preach, they would fling the ashes into his eyes, and the mold into his mouth.
The servant surveyed this party, and then having made up his mind that they were intent on mischief, he ran upon them, brandishing his axe. The women, who had expected to be welcomed by the friendly monks, shrieked, let go their aprons, and fled to their homes, leaving the church strewn with mold and ashes.
The lord De Watteville had meanwhile caught the two monks, Tissot and Gondoz, and they were forthwith locked in a dungeon, there to spend the next fortnight.
The preaching now began without further disturbance, and Farel and the friar were heard in turns. But it grieved Farel that the two monks could not be there. He therefore went to their dungeon, there to speak to them of the love and grace of Christ. Great was the wonder of these two poor men, when they found the heresy they had so greatly feared was the blessed story of the cross of Christ. They heard from Farel’s lips of the love of Jesus, and they found rest to their souls. They came out of their dungeons at the end of the fortnight, to go forth and tell what great things the Lord had done for them. They became afterward faithful preachers of the faith they had once blasphemed.
On one of these days, Farel was told that two strangers wished to speak to him. They were brought in—foreign-looking, sunburnt men, but speaking French easily. Their wonderful history was soon told.
Long, long ago, they said, when the Roman emperor, Constantine, had done his best to mix up the church of God with the heathen world, their fathers had set themselves apart, desiring not to be amongst those who were serving two masters. They had fled away to live in lonely mountain valleys in the high alps of Piedmont. “And there,” said the two strangers, “have we, their children, lived ever since. We have never owned the pope, but we have had the Bible only for our teacher, and we have, therefore, worshipped no saints, nor images, nor wafers; and have been called heretics and infidels.”
These people were the Waldenses, of whom I told you at the beginning of this story.
You may remember how, just at the time of William Farel’s birth, the pope had sent an army against them, and had left dead upon the mountains 4000 of these witnesses for God, amongst them 400 little children, who were hunted and murdered amongst the snowy peaks, whilst little William was sleeping peacefully in his cradle at les Tarelles. About go years before that, numbers had perished, being attacked by bands of soldiers from Savoy, just at Christmas time—and then, also, no less than 80 little children were found in one place, frozen in the snow in the arms of their dead mothers.
At last the news had come somehow over the mountains, that in Germany, and France, and Switzerland, there were preachers raised up, who believed in the Bible only, and preached the same old gospel for which the Waldenses had suffered and died. Then one of the mountain pastors determined to go and see if this were true. His name was Martin Gonin. He set off, and traveled about till he found some of these preachers, and came back to tell the glad tidings, and to scatter about in the mountain villages the good books which he had brought back with him. After reading these books, and hearing Martin’s stories, two other Waldensian pastors, or “barbes,” as they were called, were sent by their brethren to learn more of the gospellers in Switzerland, and to claim fellowship with them as having the like precious faith with themselves.
These two barbes were called George Morel, and Peter Masson. They went first to Basle, and asked for the house of our old friend, Hausschein. The good man was delighted and surprised when these simple men from the mountain valleys told him their story, and when they showed him the papers they carried in their bosoms, on which they had written an account of their faith. Would you like to know what they had written? I will tell you a part of it.
“Christ,” they said, “is our Life, our Truth, our Peace, our Righteousness, our Shepherd, our Advocate, our Victim, our High Priest, who died for the salvation of believers.” They had written too their belief that the religion of the pope was “a mixture of Jewish, Pagan, and Christian rites.” Hausschein looked at these men with wonder and joy. “I thank God,” he said, “that He has called you to so great light.”
Hausschein’s friends at Basle gathered at his house to see the men from the mountains, who had never lost the Bible, and never forgotten the gospel. But when they questioned the barbes further, they were not altogether satisfied with their answers. The barbes confessed that from fear, and a desire for peace, they allowed the Romish priests to baptize their children, and that they sometimes went with the papists to mass. This conduct, which would be generally approved as wide-minded and charitable, was by no means right in the eyes of the faithful Hausschein. He said, “Has not Christ fully satisfied the justice of God? Is there any need to offer other sacrifices after that of Calvary? By saying amen to the priest’s mass, you deny the grace of Jesus Christ.” The good man further discovered that the barbes thought every man had some natural goodness in him, which made him do good works. Hausschein told them that no good work ever came from any other power than that of the Holy Ghost. The barbes, who were humble modest men, were not offended at being contradicted by those whom they had expected to find far behind themselves in knowledge. They owned their ignorance, and were thankful to be taught.
Hausschein did not do as some would have done—turn his back upon them because of their errors. “We must enlighten these dear brothers,” he said to his friends, “but above all things we must love them.”
The barbes at last left Basle to return to their mountains. But I am sorry to tell you that on the way, their holy conversation drew upon them the notice of some of the papists at Dijon in France. They were both seized and put in the prison of Dijon. George Morel managed to escape, but Peter Masson was condemned and put to death.