The Love of Christ to His Church

Chapter 2 THE LOVE OF CHRIST TO HIS CHURCH ― ITS FERVOR AND SELF-SACRIFICE ― ITS NEARER PURPOSE AND ITS ULTIMATE RESULT.

'Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; that he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word; that he might present it to himself a glorious church not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing.' -- Ephesians 5:25-27 Our last discourse was an attempt to illustrate God's love to the world ― this is intended to describe Christ's love to His church. The emotion now to be reviewed is, therefore, the inner love of the Redeemer towards His own. In the former case, the love of God was seen to be broad, full, and indiscriminate, shining on the world like its sun, or enveloping the world like its atmosphere; in the present case, the Saviour's love will be found to be deep, ardent, and saving, but regarded as exercised toward those who have been or are to be justified by the blood and sanctified by the Spirit of its glorious possessor. For, as the solar beam often falls upon a hard and barren rock, and often nurses weeds and noxious herbage; and as the atmosphere sucks from the morass into its bosom the elements of pestilence and death: so the love of God frequently hardens where it is meant to bless; the reckless spirit presumes upon it, and becomes still more defiant in its tone and more resolute in its unbelief. But the Saviour's love to His own, works out its destined purpose; it has chosen and formed the church, and will glorify itself in it. For is not that church the great company of the redeemed ― confined to no age or country, no class or character ― the whole host of all who are, or are to be ransomed and glorified? lo wonder that Jesus loved this bright assemblage, the entire circle of which was present from eternity to His all-sweeping eye. When He regards this church, and thinks of its origin and safety. He calls it, as He alone is entitled to do, 'those whom thou hast given me;' but when we survey it, and think of its distinctive character, we name it, the band of believers, disciples or brethren in Christ. But this company, no matter how bright and joyous its destiny,had no more claim on the attachment of Christ than the world had on the love of God. The church was originally in the world and of it, though in God's grace it is taken out of it. Helpless and exposed it lay, till His fond and pitying eye looked and loved. It was no better than the world, and it was no superior worth that attracted Christ to it, no singular or exceptional loveliness that originated his affection. Scan the roll of its members, and you will find among them men who had been specimens of daring impiety and ferocious guilt, even the chief of sinners. For what says the apostle to the early churches: 'All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.' ' Sin has reigned to death.' 'When we were enemies, we were reconciled.' ' Ye were the servants of sin.' The Ephesian church had been ' dead in trespasses and sins;' ' aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, strangers from the covenants, having no hope, and without God in the world.' 'They fulfilled the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were children of wrath.' 'Ye were sometimes darkness.' These are but a sample of the clauses of that indictment which hangs over every member of the human family, and from which those who compose the church are in no sense or form by nature exempted. In this passage we have the great theme, the love of Christ ― the proof and result of that love in His death ― the nearer intention of that love and death in the sanctification of His Church, and their ulterior purpose in the final glorification of His Church.

1. The Love of Christ to His Church.

' Christ loved the church.' What else than love could have selected, pardoned, purified, and redeemed the church? What other feeling could have stooped to such guilt, and raised it to such glory? To what other attribute in the nature of God could the apostle have appealed? What other divine property could have formed such a conception, and carried it out at so awful a sacrifice; would have come into the lowest depths, touched what is so leprous and impure, beautified it, and carried it up in its bosom to unending felicity? An idea like that of our salvation, so rich, glorious, and free, beginning on earth, and ending in heaven, could only spring out of infinite love. And this love was no incidental emotion, excited for the first time by the view of human helplessness and guilt. Even when He lay in His Father's bosom, His thoughts were thoughts of love ― even then He rejoiced in the habitable parts of the earth.' As every one feels, we naturally associate ideas of height and splendor with heaven, the place of His past abode. The glory of God fills it. His throne is in it, and sheds all around it its royal radiance. It is the residence of the great Architect, fitted up for Himself with dazzling splendor. No taint of sin is there. The image of Jehovah enshrines itself in every heart. "Wherever He looks. He sees the happy reflection of Himself; and His heart is regaled, and His ear is ever filled with melody from the highest creatures. For angels dwell there, and they are the noblest specimens of divine workmanship ― of vast mind, prodigious power, and incredible swiftness; so like 'gods,' as to be called so in scripture. And yet the Son of God, looking beyond all this magnificence strewn through heaven, and all this homage presented to Himself, and gazing down through the blazing train of worlds that swept around His throne, could thus tell what were His emotions even in the depths of a bygone eternity, when He utters the wondrous avowal, 'My delights were with the sons of men.' Aye, and through the certainty of His own death was present to his mind, death involving such spiritual anguish and corporeal torture; and though those for whom He died were to nail Him to the tree, spurn His claims, and requite His kindness with unbelief and hostility, He flinched not, but loved and bled for guilty, and ungrateful humanity. Was it not, therefore, an eternal affection? and if it had no beginning, it can have no boundary, and it shall have no termination. Who shall gauge its fervour? What plummet shall sound the infinitude of the Divine bosom? As a divine love to a creature so far beneath Him, what matchless condescension there is in it! as the love of a holy God toward offending creatures, does not the contrast proclaim its gracious tenderness and strength?

' Christ loved the church.' But, in fact, to know the power and depth of the love of Christ, surpasses the limits of created intellect. It has a height, and we cannot climb it; a depth, and we cannot explore it; a breadth, and we cannot grasp it; a length, and we cannot compute it. Is it not infinite as its Author, and changeless and everlasting as the heart in which it has its home? Men may fancy what they cannot express, and feel what they are unable to describe; but on this momentous topic inability attaches to heart as well as tongue, to thought no less than language.! do we not see in the incarnate Lord a pure and fervent love assuming a nature of clay, feeding the hungry, taming the demoniac, sympathizing with the wretched, bleeding on the cross, and prostrate in the tomb! And we must not contemplate its mere warmth, but also its illustrious harmony with the sterner attributes of the Godhead. It is a love of the sinner, but it attempts no compromise with his sin. In its outflow toward us, it neither prostrates holiness nor bribes justice, but throws such a moral lustre over these attributes, as to reveal more truly their unchanged and original purity and brilliance.

' Christ loved the church.' But that love was no inert emotion. It did not lie in a waveless calm within Him. Nor was it a divine luxury on which He feasted, without leaving heaven and laying aside the robes of His majesty. 'No. He felt its keen impulses, descended from the throne, left the hallelujahs of angels, and threw the mantle of our manhood over His higher nature - became one of ourselves; and all from love to us. We have no means of enabling us to calculate the depths of His condescension, when in love to us He became man, and in order to suffer for us. Were a creature, even the highest and loveliest of heaven, to leave its station and descend to our world, the degrees of this humiliation might be counted and measured. For though he exchanged heaven for earth, and the free and buoyant energies of a spiritual nature for the tardy motions and limited capabilities of an animal frame, and unlimited range of travel from orb to orb for a stationary residence on this the meanest of planets; even then, with all this extraordinary contrast, the various steps of such a descent might he meted in depth and computed in number. But between the loftiest intelligence and Him who sits upon the throne as the Son of God, there is the immeasurable interval of infinitude, and none 'can by searching find' it out. The distance from the highest point in creation to the lowest, may be investigated and reduced to a scale, but, at an unapproachable height above all creation, sat He who loved the church, and came down to save it.

Christ loved the church,' and He walked in that church in the radiance of love. Thoughts of love nestled in His heart; words of love lingered on His lips; deeds of love flew from His arm; and His steps left behind them the impress of love. It threw its soft halo over His cradle at Bethlehem, and it fringed with its mellow splendours the gloom of the cloud under which He expired on Calvary. It gave edge to His reproofs, and pathos to His invitations. It was the magnet that guided Him in all his wanderings. It bound Him to the cross and held Him there, and not the iron nails that pierced His hands and His feet. It thrilled in His bosom, and glistened in His eye. Yes; ' Christ . . . Love,' said the dying philosopher, 'Jesus Christ ― love ― the same thing.' It prompted Him to impart miraculous aid on every opportunity. His meekness was but one of its features. It clothed itself in forgiveness towards His enemies, and its last pulsation was in a prayer for His murderers. It was the spiritual atmosphere in which lie lived, moved, and had His being. There was love to His mother, love to His kinsfolk, love to His country, love to His disciples, love to His enemies, love to the church, and love to the wide, wide world. And all this love had His own for its central object, round whom it ever hovered with sleepless tenderness and assiduity.

' Christ loved the church;' but those exhibitions of love during His life are eclipsed by the displays of it in His death. It shines out with novel charms amidst the shades of dissolution, for it shrunk not from the shame and woe of the cross. There is a form of friendship in the world which scarcely deserves the name. It fawns upon and fondles the prosperous, but flees and spurns the victims of adversity. At its highest warmth it but evaporates in words, the fulsome incense of flattery being its only product. But the Saviour's love to His church was no mere profession, no verbal attachment. From heaven it came down to earth, and from divine immortality to human pains and dissolution. Abasement did not repress its impulses, hostility did not freeze its ardor, and the most terrible prospect which an omniscient fancy could depict neither abated its zeal nor subdued its courage. For the Saviour loved the church; and to give her the best of all proofs of the depth and sincerity of that love, He gave Himself for the church. The strength and the sacrifices of love are indeed proverbial. Dangers incredible are treated with disdain, and enterprises which the sobriety of reason would be apt to pronounce impracticable are achieved with easy celerity. But man shrinks from death. He may suffer many things, subject himself to many privations, and conquer appalling difficulties; but he starts at the idea of death. " Scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. But God commendeth his love towards us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." The ' righteous man' is one who is of sterling integrity, whose word is his bond, whose sovereign rule in all things is equity, who pays to the last farthing what he owes, and exacts to the last farthing what is due to himself. He is more revered than loved ― men stand in awe of him; and scarcely will one die for him. The 'good man' is righteous, but he is more ― he is not only just, but kind; not only equitable, but obliging; full of generosity and good deeds; and he is so admired and loved that, in the bond of friendship, ' per adventure some one would even dare to die' for him. But we had neither the one character nor the other. Righteousness and goodness were alike wanting in us; we were 'sinners,' 'enemies,' 'without strength,' deformed by impurity, when the Divine love not only displayed, but ' commended' itself in the death of Christ for us. In His love, Christ gave Himself for, or in room of the church. The language is sacrificial, and denotes that the death of Christ was a voluntary and a proper propitiation.

2. The Sacrifice, as the Expression and Result of Love. In the stead of the church He died, to deliver her from death, the sentence which so righteously lay upon her. The death of the Son of God is a true and mighty sacrifice. That death might be viewed in a variety of aspects; for while it was an instance of exalted bravery, and a confirmation of His sincere attachment to men, it was also an example to all His followers, inspiring them with that patience which they must evince during their lives, and with that calmness and fortitude which must not forsake them even in the hour of trial and dissolution. But it was more than a tragedy or a martyrdom. To suppose the Saviour to be the victim of human persecution is true, but to suppose Him nothing more, is but to give an ordinary termination to His extraordinary existence. In what, if he only sealed his testimony with His blood, does He differ from apostles and prophets, who loved not their lives even unto the death? In what respects, on this hypothesis, is the death of the Son of Mary, who was crucified, of more honour and value than that of the son of Elizabeth, who was beheaded? How many since Christ's time have bled and been burned for the church ― how many of the prophets of Israel were put to death by their apostate nation; yet which of all these is ever said to have given himself to God, or to have died in our stead, or to have been the propitiation for our sin? But the death of Jesus was an oblation: 'He loved us, and gave himself for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling savour.' The central idea of a sacrifice is vicarious suffering. Piacular victims have been frequent in all ages, as guilt is a load upon the conscience which no efforts can shake off, and the heathen, under this impulse, stained the altar with human blood. In no other way could sacrifices ease the conscience of the worshipers, than by being supposed to bear the penalty due to their guilt. The victim was accounted guilty, and punished as such. It was offered in the room, and made expiation for the sin, of the offender. ' So Christ was once offered to bear the sin of many.' And it is this quality which gives its solitary eminence to His death, and not the wicked means by which it was effected, nor yet the patient magnanimity with which it was endured. A violated law had uttered its curse, the sentence had gone forth and must be executed, and the moral administration of the universe was deeply involved in the result; and therefore the Saviour died that sin might be punished, and that the government issuing forgiveness might be confirmed in the very act of it, and that a more brilliant and impressive demonstration of the holiness of God should be afforded in the pardon of sin than if man had never fallen, or having fallen, should himself be visited with the full infliction of the penalty. In consequence of this self-exposure for us, his severest anguish was that of his soul. O! it was not shame, persecution, or crucifixion, for these terrible elements could have been easily borne; it was not the rage and malice of Satan ― these also could have been trampled on; but it was the endurance in Himself of the punishment due to that sin which He had taken upon Him, that drank up His spirit, prompted the moan in Gethsemane, and the mysterious complaint on Calvary. The ' silver cord' was loosed, and the ' golden bowl' was broken by the ruthless violence of His persecutors; but ' the travail of His soul' was induced by vicarious pangs. It is the uniform testimony of Scripture that He ' suffered once for sins' ― that He who knew no sin became sin for us' ― that 'we are justified by his blood' ― that ' the chastisement of our peace was upon Him' ― that ' He offered himself without spot to God' ― and that ' His blood cleanseth from all sin.' And in that world where theology is perfect, redemption is ascribed not to the birth of Christ with its mysteries, nor to the miracles of Christ with their splendor, nor to the life of Christ with its holy beauty, but only to His death: ' Thou art worthy to take the book, and to loose the seals thereof; for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood.' Thus did the Incarnation of love enter alone into that ominous cloud which, charged with terrible thunder, hung over our guilty race, and He gathered in upon Himself its dark and destructive elements; and the cloud, now bereft of them, assumes a hue of glory, and weeps itself away in soft and fertilizing showers. Who can estimate the depth and fervour of a love which gave itself to such agonies, laid itself on the altar a perfect oblation, suffered that we should not suffer, and died that we might live? For in His love He gave Himself. It was no inferior gift He selected, for no inferior gift could be the adequate expression of His love. It found no donation worthy of itself but Himself. It would be content with nothing else, and nothing less. The Divine Lover gave Himself. The fires of Lebanon to consume the ' cattle upon a thousand hills;' the lightnings of Jehovah to reduce the universe to ashes, ― these could not suffice to redeem a world. A Being originally above the law, and placed voluntarily by Himself beneath it, only He can so obey it as to satisfy it, and so suffer its penalty as to liberate from it the original transgressor. His obedience and suffering are not for Himself, since the law has no claim upon Him, and the merit of his voluntary sacrifice is made over to those who could neither obey nor suffer for themselves. Not that God does or can suffer; but the humanity of Jesus was one in person with divinity, and the union was not dissolved by the agony upon the cross. "What an amazing gift! Himself ― the Son of God ― in earnest and loving self-sacrifice. Surely the voice of the Redeemer's love speaks in thrilling accents from the cross. That patient and holy victim suffered as never being suffered ― that pure and susceptible heart was wrung as never heart was wrung; and all to convince you of His love, and confer upon you its choice and saving blessings.

Ah never, never canst thou know,
What, then, for thee the Saviour bore,
The pangs of that mysterious woe,
That wrung His frame at every pore
The weight that press'd upon His brow,
The fever of His bosom's core.

Yes, man for man perchance may brave
The horrors of the yawning grave;
And friend for friend, or child for sire,
Undaunted and unmoved expire,
From love, or piety, or pride.
But who can die as Jesus died?'

Himself, too, was both priest and victim ― He gave Himself. Unlike the Jewish pontiff. He did not stretch some other victim on the altar, nor was He laid there Himself by the hand of any officiating minister. In sovereign generosity and heroism He offered Himself. And it was a solitary act. It needs no repetition. Its atoning merit can never be exhausted. ' It is appointed unto men once to die,' says the apostle; that is, our nature can only die once ― and therefore Christ's real humanity is proof of the oneness of His death. That one death has infinite merit. Repeated oblations, under the law, were confessions of inefficacy. The atonement of the day had only an expiatory value of twelve months, and the scene was re-enacted every year ― there was an annual propitiation and sprinkling of blood. But Jesus 'suffered once for sin.' The high priest remained but a few mysterious moments in front of the mercy-seat and the Divine presence ere he re-passed the vail, and on that same day of the next year he re-entered with the blood of another victim; but Jesus has passed into heaven itself, and still is there pleading the value of His blood, only once shed, and the merit of His sacrifice, only once presented.

How voluntary was the gift ― He gave Himself! It was not extorted. The sufferer was no victim of circumstances. After he began to teach, there did not slowly dawn upon Him the painful necessity of suffering; but He came into the world for this very purpose ― to bleed and die. ' Sacrifice and offering thou didst not desire; mine ears hast thou opened: burnt-offering and sin-offering hast thou not required. Then said I, Lo, I come: in the volume of the book it is written of me, I delight to do thy will, my God: yea, thy law is within my heart.' The animal was tied by cords to the horns of the altar ere its life was taken; Abraham bound Isaac his son, ere he laid him on the wood, and stretched out his arm with the knife to slay him; but all our , Lord's intellectual and moral energies were free and unfettered, for when He gave Himself for us He felt no curb, but that of self-imposed obligation, and was urged by no stimulus, but that of unquenchable zeal and fondness. Compulsory suffering would have been highest injustice, and would have damaged the entire worth of the oblation.

Himself the offering ― how pure! 0, then, if you view Him as the priest, are not purity and perfection His characteristics; as He appears before the altar, His heart confesses no sin ere He makes atonement for the people ― no prayer for personal absolution escapes His lips; His supplications arising from the depth of His sympathies, assume the form of intercessions; and though He plead with the yearning interest of a brother, yet has He no sinful likeness to that family of which He made Himself a member, and no participation in that guilt whose removal He implores. Standing as the ' daysman' between heaven and earth. His higher nature has received no contagion from its humbler partner. He was on earth, like His own 'word of prophecy,' a Light shining in a dark place;' the Man of men ― a spotless representative and advocate. And if you look upon Him as the sacrifice, what imperfection can be attached to the Lamb of God, bearing, aye, bearing away the sin of the world. That oblation, no matter what idea you form of the altar on which it was presented, was pure as the fire from God by which it was consumed; nor even were its ashes suffered ' to see corruption.' Surely the love which prompted such a noble gift is a love 'that passeth knowledge.' What imagination can grasp it ― what penetration can fathom it! There was nothing in the church to excite it, but everything to repel it: ' While we were yet without strength, Christ died for us.' Yet He loved, and that love embodied itself in the noblest of gifts ― the gift of Himself ― generous and self-bestowed; and not only so, but it was crowned in a death which was calmly encountered and triumphantly endured. Ye members of His church, as you look to His cross, will you not be always re-assured of His love: when you see Him groaning, bleeding and dying in agony and shame, under the deepest of shadows, and beneath the most mysterious and terrible of visitations, will you not feel that His love is without parallel in its unextinguishable fervour, and majestic results? It writes its name on every blessing, and its voice is the music of every invitation. Will it not glow in your bosoms, and thrill in your praises?

Now to Him that loved us, gave us
Every pledge that love could give ―
Freely shed His blood to save us,
Gave His life, that we might live,
Be the kingdom
And dominion,
And the glory, evermore!' 3. The Nearer Purpose of His Love and Death.

Let us now consider the proximate purpose of the Saviour's love and death ― the sanctification of His Church: 'That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word.' This is a design worthy of such a love, and fitting such a death: to purify and ennoble its objects ― to wash them from the stain of guilt, and clothe them in the ' beauties of holiness.' The pardon of sin is not referred to, as it is but as a means to an end. The imputation of righteousness precedes, and prepares for the infusion of holiness. The remission of guilt does not bestow purity, nor reconfer original innocence. Therefore in this salvation man is not only justified, but he is also sanctified; not only does he receive a full and irrevocable pardon of all his sins, but he becomes a new creature. Not alone to free him from hell, but to prepare him also for heaven, to elevate him to those holy joys he had lost and forfeited by the fall, was the great end and purpose of the Saviour's mission and death. That death not only affects our state, but also tells upon our character. He died to sanctify the church. This sanctification, though it be the design of the atonement, has indeed its immediate source in the influences of the Divine Spirit. He regenerates the heart; and the radical change is one from death to life. Not only does He originate the change, but He sustains it; for He ' abides' within us. What He commences, He still fosters and perfects. The life which He imparts He nurses and cherishes till it come to maturity. The forgiveness of guilt is an act without us, or a sentence of release, which, on being pronounced, takes immediate and complete effect. But sanctification is a work within us, which is progressive in its nature, and which, owing to our waywardness, is often retarded. O! there is many a sigh and many a struggle when the heart is carried away by inferior motives ― the law in the members warring against the law of the mind, and threatening to bring it into captivity. From the mysterious moment of regeneration, when the spirit is born again, or the more palpable moment when this hidden gift reveals its power in conversion, on till the instant of death, the work of sanctification advances, often very unequally, and amidst tears and prayers, conflicts and triumphs. The pardon of iniquity is a blessing that comes directly and without intervention from the cross; but the purification of our nature, though it have the Spirit for its agent, is yet carried out by various instrumentalities. Thus it is said in our text, 'He loved the church, and gave himself for it,' in order that, having cleansed it, He might sanctify it ' with the washing of water by the word.' The terms are expressive. The allusion is to a bridal ceremony, and, perhaps to the usual ante-nuptial lustrations. As the church is the bride, there may be a reference to the water of baptism, but to that only as the symbol and pledge of spiritual influence. And the phrase, ' by the word,' we take to be a reference to the scriptures ― 'the word,' 'the word of God.' The meaning, then, seems to be, that in consequence of the love and of the atoning death of Christ, men are now sanctified by the Spirit, acting generally by means of the word. And that word does possess a sanctifying power. ' Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? By taking heed thereto according to thy word.' ' Sanctify them through thy truth, thy word is truth.' How often does the word stir up the conscience, and appall it with solemn and deep conviction, pressing it to seek safety in the cross. ' It pierces even to the dividing asunder of joints and marrow;' throws the soul into such an agitation, as if the ' pains of hell' had taken hold on it, that it may be led to the refuge of the gospel. With what prominence and charms it holds up Christ as the one Saviour, amidst the terror of its thunders, and the earnest agony of its invitations. But to the believer it is also the standard of duty, the rule of manners. It shows him his defects, and urges him to progress. It warns him and encourages him. It preserves him from self-delusion, for it holds up the spirituality of the law, and the immaculate purity of Christ's example. So that, amidst his lamentations of weakness, he looks to the word of God for courage; and the more he drinks into the spirit of the Bible, and the more he feels its laws engraven on his heart, the more does he grow in sanctity, and realise his lofty destiny ― 'to glorify God, and enjoy him for ever.' If the attainment of holiness be likened to a life, the word is the food; if to a race, it is a ' light to the feet;' if to a battle, it is the ' sword of the Spirit,' by which our antagonists are cloven down and dispersed.

Still the Bible is but a dead letter without the Spirit. It is His special function to give it edge and penetration. Not that He imparts any new truths, as such an idea would be a libel on the perfection of the previous revelation. But He enlightens the mind, and He so softens the heart, as to render it susceptible of impression from the word. Ah! how many read the scriptures, and, closing the sacred volume, retain not one idea in their intellect, not one fact on their memory, not one impression on their heart. The Spirit who gave the Bible has not been implored, and the study of His Book has not been imbued with His healthful influence. But when He impresses its truths on mind and conscience, and lodges its statements in the deep recesses of the soul, then does it evince its power, impelling the sluggish, warning the wayward, controlling the vehement, directing the unwary, deterring the presumptuous, cheering the downcast, and animating the feeble. In short, when the Spirit comes with the word, then the experience of the Psalmist is realized: ' The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple: the statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart: the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes: the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold; sweeter also than honey, and the honey-comb. Moreover, by them is thy servant warned: and in keeping of them there is great reward.' And now, does not the love of Christ commend itself, in forming such a motive, and securing such a result? It was no idle attachment, no sentimental outburst, but a mighty and all-conquering affection, which did not expire in mere lamentation over man's fallen condition, for it has stooped and raised him to the likeness and enjoyment of itself.

Thus, though the Spirit be the agent, and the word the means of sanctification, the process is here ascribed to Christ. It is in consequence of what He has done that the Spirit has been given. The Holy Ghost descended only when Jesus was glorified. Moreover, the entire work of the Spirit has a close and a perpetual connection with Christ. ' He shall take of mine,' says the Redeemer, ' and show it unto you.' The entire material of the Spirit's operation is Christ's. When He enlightens, it is with the truth of Christ; when He sanctifies, it is with the blood of Christ; when He comforts, it is with the promises of Christ; and when He seals, it is with the image of Christ. Nay more, the atonement has another and vital connection with our sanctification. For not only has this spiritual influence been secured, but the most powerful of motives is also supplied by it. That love which so mightily works upon us, springs from faith in the atonement; for he who receives the atonement, cannot but love the Atoner ― he who so profits by the death, gives himself to Him who died. That law which man had broken terrified him by its penalty, and as he hated it, and would not obey it, it served to reveal and exacerbate the corruption within him; but its penalty being borne, and itself being satisfied in the death of Christ, it no longer creates alarm; for, viewed now as the mind and will of Christ, it commands the affection and loyalty of the believing heart. The example of Jesus also derives its peculiar power of assimilation, not simply from its own purity and loveliness, hut especially from the fact, that it is the example of Him who loved the church, and gave Himself for it, and therefore every member of that church is instinctively led to observe, admire, and imitate. Thus Christ has loved the church, and given Himself for it; and thus He sanctifies it ' with the washing of water by the word.' 4. The Ultimate End and Result. With what delight and satisfaction will we not now contemplate the ulterior purpose of these preliminary arrangements ― ' That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing.' How noble such a destiny ― perfect restoration and felicity. The nuptial figure is still continued, and the allusion is to the presentation of the bride to her husband. That presentation does not take place till he can look upon her with complacency. But spiritual perfection is pledged; the love of Christ would not be contented without it, and His death, in union with the eternal purpose, has effectually compassed it. For as that love was no meteor that flashed athwart the sky, and gave sunken humanity a momentary hope by its sudden gleam, but was as the vernal sun, whose splendor not only fills the heavens, but gives life and growth to what had been torpid amidst the frosts and snows of winter, so that death was not a peradventure or an experiment ― its results were foreseen and secured in the counsels of eternity. Wherever there is this incipient sanctification, there is also the guarantee of this final completion: 'He who hath begun the good work, will perform it until the day of Christ.' Moreover all that is holy in nature is heavenly in tendency ― and the elements of this progressive sanctification have an instinctive longing to climb upwards to that Divine bosom which is their origin and home. Grace is glory begun, and glory is grace consummated ― the one is the bud, the other the fruit ― the one is childhood, the other the maturity of age. But there is a necessary development; and the sanctified church becomes in due time ' a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing.' What is partial now, is then complete; the shades that hover around us are dispelled, besetting infirmities have vanished, indwelling sin is extirpated, chilling influences are removed, and, ' the perfect day' comes at length, whose light is liable to no revolution, and which shall never suffer any eclipse.

If it have no spot or wrinkle, will it not be a glorious church? Now it has dark freckles, but yet it is 'all-glorious,' in spite of its many imperfections. The Spirit and word are still sanctifying it; and when its bright countenance is without stain, then has the appointed epoch revolved. It is of the church, as an organic whole, that the apostle speaks; and the presentation is deferred till the last and happy period, when the church shall be as perfect in numbers as it is in character. Though many have been gathered into the heavens, yet, not till all who are to compose the church are finally redeemed and translated, has the 'set time' come. And then when myriads of myriads are collected, and the blessed company is complete, no matter when they lived, or how they were converted― what was their previous condition, or the stage of spiritual progress they had reached ere they left the world ― the Saviour, standing on His elevated throne, and surveying at one glance every secret thought and emotion, shall behold nothing to offend Him;- the church will then appear in His vision, whose 'eyes are as a flame of fire,' 'without spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing.' And thus, having loved her in her impurity, so as to give Himself for her, how deep and ardent must now be His attachment, when he sees, in her perfection, the full success of His redeeming efforts and sacrifice. The union is at length consummated amidst the pealing hallelujahs of grateful triumph ― a union never to be interrupted by one passing suspicion, but ever to become more joyous, and more fertile in the fruits of unbroken and mutual satisfaction and glory. Who but a God could have devised such a destiny; who but a God could have wrought it out? To think of uniting Himself to creatures, and such creatures ― O, the very idea bewrays its origin. The love which, to prepare them for such a union, sustained the agonies of Calvary, could have no origin but in Him who is Love. Let the church, as it contemplates this high and happy destiny, enter into its spirit, and seek in the meantime to realise it.

Members of the church of Christ, reflect on your past position, on its helplessness and guilt. How low and loathsome was your state ― Paradise expelled you, and heaven could not admit you. And yet, when you were so unlike Him, He loved you ― and how He loved you! At what an expense have you been delivered: ' not with corruptible things.' God says concerning His ancient church, ' I gave Egypt for thee; Ethiopia and Seba for thy ransom;' but to His present church His moving appeal is, ' Ye are redeemed with the precious blood of Christ, as of a Lamb without blemish and without spot.' If He has loved you, and died for you, to sanctify and perfect you, and for ever unite you to Himself, will you not feel that you are His? Will not the cords of His love bind you to Him as His own? Are you not His; for He has bought you ― paid a price beyond all calculation for you? Are not you His, for his authority governs you, and His law directs you? Nay more, are you not His; for has not His Spirit, as His representative and in His name, taken possession of you? Are you not therefore really His? Will you not live and act under this hallowed consciousness, and rise above every form of temptation and sin? Let not present evil discourage you; for each of you can say, I have His love. So long as you enjoy that love, why should anything distress you? Will it not soothe and compensate you? If you have His love, you have everything. O, then, ever cherish this secret treasure, and feel within you, I possess His love. And now tell me, can you imagine a nobler purpose for His love than this ― to sanctify you, to bring you back to lost holiness and forfeited felicity? Will you not enter at once and thoroughly into the spirit of it, or will you dare to frustrate the design of His death by continuance in sin? With His glory as your aim, and His law as your guide ― His love as your motive, and His Spirit as your power, O will it not be your intense desire to ' hate every false way,' and ' so to walk even as He walked!'

What an inducement, too, to commemorate His death as the result of His love, and to pray for more of its purifying and elevating power! Let the love of Christ thus constrain' you. Nourish the thought of it, cherish the nearer purpose of it, and long for its ultimate result. That love which has suffered so much for you, will not be content till it have you near itself, and its summons will soon say to you, ' Come up hither,' ― Where keep the saints, with harp and song,
An endless Sabbath morning;
And in that sea, commixed with fire,
Oft drop their eyelids, raised too long,
To the full Godhead burning.'

Then, with all saints, so close to Him, and never more to be away from Him, His glory will fill and ravish your vision, for His love will have realized its end in your perfected and happy natures. 'Worthy is the Lamb that died;' yea, worthy of eternal tribute and praise. Such is the ceaseless ministry of the exalted church, and such is the response of all its members now on their way to glory. Hallelujah! Amen.