2.02.07. The fixed compass
VII. THE FIXED COMPASS.
"He shall not be afraid of evil tidings: his heart is fixed, trusting in the Lord.”— Psalms 112:7. THIS psalm is a fine full-length portrait of a godly man. Is it drawn from life? Did the painter, or any of his contemporaries, sit for this likeness? “ Of whom speaketh the prophet this? of himself, or of some other man?”
Neither of himself, it must be confessed, nor of any other man, could the prophet speak all this. This is not the portrait of any mere man that ever lived; and yet it is a true portrait. Artists paint ideals on canvas, combining in one figure the finest features gathered from many specimens. The result is true to nature; and yet no living man ever answered to the likeness. The picture represents what man might be, rather than what he is.
Sketches of saints occasionally occur in the Scriptures wanting the blemishes which more or less mar the beauty of every actual life. These representations show what the redeemed may become when they are fully conformed to the image of Christ. They exhibit the new man when he has attained the perfect stature. It is right that the highest standard should be set before us; but the best has many things to forget and leave behind, and many steps to press forward, ere he gains the prize of this high calling. The pattern saint of this psalm is happy as well as holy.
It concerns us specially to inquire how his happiness is secured while he inhabits a frail body and lives in an evil world. Among other sorrows from which the shield of faith defends him is “ the fear of evil tidings.” Mark the word; for there is no promise, even to the most matured saint, that evil tidings shall not reach his ears.
He, like his neighbour, is exposed both to the wars and the rumours of wars that shake the most stable thrones.
Both the announcement of coming evil, and the evil that has been announced, come upon those that are God’s dear children, as upon other people. The sound of the midnight tempest boding evil, and the wreck that it boded, reach the good man as well as the wicked; and both are like iron entering into his soul. The peculiar privilege that belongs to victorious faith is exemption from the fear of evil tidings. Evil tidings, when they come, will pierce a good man’s heart; but in two things he has an advantage over those who know not God: first, he is not kept in terror before the time by the anticipation of possible calamity; and next, even when calamity overtakes him, he does not look upon it in blank despair. He knows that it is the chastening of a Father, and is sure that love is wielding the rod.
This, then, being the kind and degree of exemption which a godly man enjoys, we must now inquire into the means whereby he attains- it. How comes it that evil tidings have not the same terror for him that they have for other men? Expressly, the text declares, because “ his heart is fixed, trusting in the Lord.” This man has a solidity and an independence which others never know. His heart is fixed. It is something to have one’s mind made up and settled. No man can be happy as long as he does not know his own mind — does not know what he would be at. “ A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.” On the contrary, “ if thine eye be single, thy wholq body shall be full of light.” To have an object in view, and to go straight at it, constitutes in a great measure the difference between a useful and a wasted life. But while there is very little of either happiness or usefulness in a life as long as it shifts about from one object to another — one thing to-day, and another to-morrow — it does not follow that all will go well when you have chosen your object, and pursue it steadily. As much depends on the object that the heart is fixed upon as on the fixing of the heart. Even after you get your heart fixed, you may be as far from happiness and safety as before. Your heart is fixed; but what is it fixed on? On houses and lands; on emoluments and honour; on youth, and health, and pleasure; on wife and children? Alas! it is easy to fix on any of these; it does not require any vigorous act of the will, or any heavy labour of the hands, to fasten yourself to objects like these. Your heart-strings warp themselves around and through and through these objects spontaneously, when they lie within reach, as ivy clasps, and even interpenetrates, an old wall, without any nailing up. A beautiful object is that same ivy when it has clasped the wall with a thousand tendrils, and covered the wall even to its copestone with woven tasselled green — beautiful as the matted foliage quivering in the wind and glittering in the sunshine. But have you seen the ivy after the old wall has fallen? Then it is a sight that might make the observer weep. Prostrate, broken, torn, soiled, withering — ah, how is its glory gone! And, alas \ it cannot be restored. Those tendrils that have grown so closely in, and have been torn so rudely out, cannot now ply into another support, though another and solider support were at hand. The towering and stately but feeble branches cannot now be attached to another prop. Nothing for them now but to be cut down and cast into the burning. Possibly, in another season, the old bare root may send out young shoots again; but it is only by such a death and resurrection that the parasite which held so closely, and was rejected so rudely, can possibly be attached to another and a better stay. In the fallen, broken, draggled ivy, lying along on the earth, and crushed by crumbling stones, you see the image of a human being whose heart has been fixed on a perishing portion, when that portion has fallen or fled. Woe, woe to those who have grown with, and grown for, and grown into, some tottering wall! When the wall crumbles, what of the life that leant on it? Woe is me! How many heart-strings we see rent in the various calamities of life; and how many heart-strings are preparing for themselves a dread rending, by going for the soul’s support into something that is rotten at the root, and will yield to the strain of the next storm!
Look at David’s ideal man: not what this man and that man is, but what any man through divine grace may ba See the source of his peace and safety: “ His heart is fixed, trusting in the Lord.”
We obtain here an interesting glimpse of the true relation in which the children stand to our Father in heaven.
It is a matter of the heart, more than even of the intellect.
True religion is not a matter into which a man is driven against his will; it is a matter that he seeks with desire, as the hart panteth for the water-brooks. It is not a demonstration that God is a righteous judge, and therefore the guilty must tremble before him; it is a tasting that the Lord is gracious, and a consequent clinging to his bosom, as a frightened infant clasps its mother’s breast. The heart goes to God; the desires of the new nature flow out in that direction: “ Nearer to thee, my God; nearer to thee.” And then, when you come nigh in the covenant, God is not a terror, but a trust. The profane and unbelieving are often far out of their reckoning when they try to understand a believer’s faith.
They suppose that a devout man submits to some dark cold restraint, in order to secure some future expected benefit. Their conception is as near as may be the opposite of the truth. They who get nigh through the blood of the covenant give way to their hearts’ longings when they walk with God. If you could by any means convince them that there is no God, the light of this life would be extinguished, as well as the hope of another. Indeed, nothing but a trust in God will keep a human heart near him. We cannot resist the laws of nature in things spiritual any more than in things material. It is a law of nature that the human spirit keeps at a distance from that which it dislikes and dreads. There is no way of keeping our spirit near to God, except by learning to trust him. And conversely, when you trust him, you do not need external compression to keep you near. It is well that the heart should be fixed on the unchangeable and eternal One; for no other anchor for the soul is sure and steadfast. In proportion as the heart of a believer is fixed on high it becomes looser to all beneath. As it gets firmer hold of things unseen and eternal, it relaxes its grasp of things seen and temporal. A soul cannot be made fast on both sides. “ Ye cannot serve two masters.” Serving one master, you may have many important and tender relations with fellow-servants. Faith in God does not rend theties that bind man to man. The expectation of a rest that remaineth does not interfere with needful labour on our present field. You may — you must take many other things into your hands; but only one should be permitted to glue your heart indissolubly to itself. The magnet of the ship’s compass is in this aspect very like a godly man in the course of his earthly pilgrimage. The magnet on the sea and the believing soul in this life are firmly fixed on one side, and hang loose on every other.
Both alike are fastened mysteriously to the distant and unseen, but are slack and easily moved in all their material settings. Precisely because they are attached beneath, they are free to keep by their hold on high; and precisely because of their hold on high, they do not turn round with every movement of their material supports. The magnet is by far the slackest, loosest thing in the ship. It is the only slack, loose thing there. It is not tied to the spars or nailed to the deck; it is not even laid down and left to the force of its own gravity. An elaborate machinery has been constructed for the purpose of reducing the friction, both vertical and horizontal, to a minimum, and so leaving it nearly as free to move as if it were imponderous. I need not describe the contrivance in detail: suffice it to say, that it is so softly poised on a needle-point in the middle, that if it chooses to fix itself by its own nature — as it were by the tendency of its heart — to a known but unseen point in heaven, it is at liberty to do so, and not obliged to turn with every turning of the ship that bears it. The ship rolls from side to side; the ship pitches, now her bow and now her stern raised high above the water; the ship changes her tack, now going east, and now west, and anon driving before the wind. All things in the ship move with her except the magnet of the compass. It alone keeps ever one attitude, whatever changes of attitude take place in the ship; or if it turn partially and momentarily, with the sudden heavings of the labouring vessel, it is only for a moment — it rights itself again. Steady and still otherwise, it is when driven for a little out of its normal attitude that the magnet moves — moves, trembling and uneasy, until it regains its own place, and there it rests., It is thus that a heart is loose to the world if it is fixed on Christ. It may have needed many rendings to slacken the heart’s hold of things seen and temporal. There are sometimes more of these, and sometimes less. There are diversities of operation. Some are more gently set loose, and some are severed only by the wrenching of God’s own hand, leaving a right arm cut off, or a right eye plucked out, behind. But whether he comes in an earthquake or in a still small voice, it is the doing of the Lord, when the bonds are loosed that bound a soul to the dust, and the soul, delivered, swings round free to follow the Lord. But still, however lightly and loosely poised upon its bearings the needle might be, it would turn with all the ship’s turnings, and never hold its head to the pole, unless it were magnetized. The needle of the compass is a bit of steel; but a bit of steel, though rightly framed and nicely balanced, could not serve the purposes of a compass. They take the bit of steel and hang it on a thread at a particular angle to the horizon, and give it a certain stroke with a hammer. Then and thereby it is magnetized. Its nature seems new. There are life and purpose in the iron now, and its life is manifested by a sure fixed pointing to the pole. The freeness of its poising did not make it point to the pole: it is a mysterious change of its own nature that gives it this tendency, and the freeness of its balance in the gearing permits it to obey that tendency without obstruction. In like manner, the setting free of the heart from all idolatrous cleaving to things seen, though necessary, is not enough. Without it you cannot succeed, but even with it you may fail. Alas! we have seen a man by the strokes of God set adrift from all his moorings on the earth, and yet not fastened by faith to the anchor of the soul within the veil. When all the evil spirits are cast out of a man, it does not follow as a matter of course that he shall take Christ to fill up the empty room: he may leave it empty, until the evil spirits return and regain possession. Weary of the world is not all at once ready for heaven. Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom with his understanding, or cleave to the King with his heart. As the fashioned and poised steel did not turn to the pole before it was magnetized, so the unrenewed heart is not fixed in a trust on God, although all its earthly portion has been taken away. A mysterious touch is needed to bring the heart into unison with Christ, so that it shall ever afterwards point to this pole, — the ministry of the Spirit in regeneration. “ Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”
Even after the heart has got its bias, and is by the law of a new nature fixed on Christ, the pointing is not perfect or constant. Many things hinder. The most common cause of the magnet’s aberration — an aberration that often causes shipwreck — is an unsuspected m&ss of attractive matter lying underneath the deck, which draws the magnet from its pole. Alas! even after the heart has been truly turned to the Lord, how often is it drawn aside by certain heaps of stuff that secretly attract it. “ Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation” — “Set your affection on things above, not on things that are on the earth “ —
“ Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world.”
There is a comfort which belongs to the children of the kingdom, and yet cannot easily be stated without a risk of soothing the worldly into a deeper sleep. The tumult of griefs and repentings — of regretted backslidings, and eager, agitating returns to the Lord — the fightings without and the fears within — that to a greater or less extent chequer a disciple’s life, do not by any means throw doubt upon his interest in the Saviour. These are symptoms of a true faith. While the ship is at sea, the magnet shakes and moves more than any other part of the ship; and that precisely because its heart is fixed on the distant and the unseen. When, by a sudden turn or lurch in the storm, it is driven partially aside, it does not rest there; it immediately begins to struggle back again into its right position.
Other objects, when they are turned away with the turning of the ship, continue in that attitude. But the magnet cannot remain averted; therefore, while the ship is at sea, it is constantly quivering. The paradox becomes at once true and easily understood, — because it is fixed it is never at rest.
Souls that have their trust in the Lord are in this way restless. They are always tremblingly struggling back into their right position before the Lord. This is proof of life, — that they rest not in an averted attitude. “ Turn us again, O God, and cause thy face to shine; and we shall be saved.” But perhaps the greatest difficulty and danger to the pilgrim on this part of his course lie in the relations, close and tender, that he must and should maintain to objects lower than the Lord — objects on earth which cannot continue by reason of death. Must one who would have his heart fixed, trusting in the Lord, keep more distant and more cold than others in the relations of kindred and friendship? No, verily. The heart that is fixed on the Lord may twine round loved ones on earth as closely as the heart that has no hold on heaven. This is possible, but I do not say this is easy. Dangers and temptations lie thick here. Where does the fowler lay his snare? Precisely on the path that his victim most frequently treads.
Among our most binding duties and our purest enjoyments lie some of our greatest dangers.
There is a way of safety, if we have grace to choose and follow it. We must not cling to anything mortal, as the ivy clings to the old wall. There is a possibility of holding fast and yet holding loosely. It is thus that a workman grasps his tool. He holds it fast for an efficient stroke, but he can easily lay it down the next moment When a human heart is rightly balanced, the unrestrained exercise of all pure natural affections does not hinder, but rather helps, the faith that fastens on the Supreme. See how the analogous relations have been arranged in the motions of the spheres. The moon does not need to abjure its relations to the earth in order to maintain a supreme allegiance to the central sun. All the planetary bodies revolve round the sun; but that paramount law does not interfere with the circulation of the satellite also, and at the same time, round the earth — the globe that lies nearest to it. Our moon is as obedient to the sun as any globe in the solar system. Its course around its great centre is as true as the orbit of any planet, and far more beautiful. Whereas the chief planets circulate in a prosaic line, the moon in its movements describes a spiral track, which adds grace and beauty to the landscape of space, as climbing, flowering shrubs relieve the monotony of a forest. The first and great commandment is, “ Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart;” and the second, which is like unto it, and consistent with it, is, “ Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” If we obtain grace rightly to divide the affections of our hearts as well as the word of God, we shall find that the subordinate relations of time, instead of choking, shelter and cherish the precious seed of a better life.
When, through grace, the heart is fixed, trusting in the Lord, the full, free exercise and enjoyment of all pure human relations will be safer for ourselves and more attractive as an example to others than if, in order to make sure of our hold on heaven, we should abandon the duties of time and crush the affections of nature.