Affliction in Christian preaching highlights the refining and shaping work God accomplishes through trials and suffering, producing spiritual growth and deeper faith (Romans 5:3-5). Illustrations often use images of fire refining metal, storms shaking trees, or broken vessels to portray how affliction purifies believers and reveals their true character (James 1:2-4).
Affliction cleanses believers from pride, envy, and other spiritual pests through God's sustaining grace.
Henry Ward Beecher wrote: "In the sultry insect-breeding days of summer, how insects abound! Every tree is a harbor for stinging pests. Wherever you sit they swarm around and annoy you and destroy your peace and comfort. By and by there come those vast floods of clouds that bring tornadoes and are thunder-voiced; up through the valleys and over the hills and mountains sweep drenching and cleansing rains. When the storm has ceased, the clouds are gone, and you sit under the dripping tree, not a fly, not a gnat, not a pestilent insect is to be seen. The winds and rains have driven them all away. Has it never been so with those ten thousand little pests of pride, vanity, envying, jealousy, and unlawful desire. For days they have teased and fretted you and kept you in conflict with conscience, affection, and all the higher motivations, until God sent you some great searching sorrow, some overwhelming trouble? In those hours He graciously sustained you and lifted you up towards Himself, so that, although you suffered unutterable affliction, you felt that it had cleansed you from jealousies, pride, envies, vanity, the whole swarm of venomous and stinging insects that beset you." The Fruit of Affliction
A man completely dejected by life's afflictions was walking one day in the botanical gardens of Oxford when his attention was arrested by a fine pomegranate tree with a stem which was cut almost through. On asking the gardener the reason, he received an answer which explained the wounds of his troubled spirit. "Sir," said he, "this tree used to shoot so strongly that it bore nothing but leaves. I was therefore obliged to cut it in this manner, and when it was almost cut through then it began to bear plenty of fruit."
God is shaping us through trials, not finished with us until His refining work is complete.
A happily married woman with two children lost both of them. They were buried in the same grave, and she went into a deep emotional collapse. For some years she became as weak and helpless as a little child. She had to be fed by members of her family who ministered to her. One day as her aunt, who was a joyful Christian, took her turn at feeding her, this woman who was unusually despondent that morning said, "Oh, Auntie, you say that God loves us. You say it, and you keep on saying it. I used to think that way, too, but if He loves us, why did He make me as I am?" The aunt, after kissing her gently, said with the wisdom of years, "He hasn't made you yet, child. He's making you now!"
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
Sorrow and suffering develop depth and strength that enable greater achievements and faith.
Those who heard Jenny Lind, the sweet singer of Stockholm, have written of the wonderful quality of her voice and the charm of the songs she sang. Yet few realize that she owed as much to the school of suffering and sorrow as to the academy where her powers were developed. Her childhood was full of sadness. The woman with whom she lived locked her in her room each day when she went to work; the only means the child found of spending the long hours was to sit by the window and sing to herself. One day a music teacher in the city passing by heard the voice of the unseen singer and detected its possibilities. He called a friend to his side, and together they listened to the wonderful voice within. They got in touch with the child's guardian and made arrangements for the almost friendless girl to be given her chance. There were many difficulties to be overcome, but step by step she mounted the ladder of fame. She astounded London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and New York. Some say there never was such a voice, trilling like the thrush, pure as the note of the lark. But those who knew her best realized how the sorrows of her childhood gave a richness and depth to her song that otherwise would have been unattainable. She herself once wrote:
In vain I seek for rest
In all created good:
It leaves me still unblest,
And makes me cry for God.
And safe at rest I cannot be
Until my heart finds rest in Thee.
Like grass cut by the mower, believers must accept God's affliction as part of His sovereign care.
The lawns which we wish to keep in the best condition we mow very frequently. But out in the fields there is no such repeated cutting. The tall unkept grass of the field may be proud that it has never experienced the power of the mower blades, but the cut grass is more beautiful and more serviceable. Do we as human beings before God have any more voice in the matter than the grass in our lawns? There is nothing that the grass can do to hinder the frequent cutting by the owner. Aren't we as impotent in the hands of God as the grass is under the mower? Affliction is a fact in life. Let us accept it and endeavor to find out, not so much why God permits it, as how God wants us to use it. The Well of Love
In Northern Greece we have a beautiful summer camp at the foot of Mount Olympus. It is right on the shores of the blue Aegean Sea whose water is very salty. But stand where the water has just receded and dig a few inches, and the hole will fill up with the most refreshing, sweet water you have ever tasted. It has come from the mountains and hidden out of sight to be discovered only by digging. When the sea rolls in and pours its bitter flood over the little hole, though it covers it with a shroud of brackish waters, the stream of sweet water still flows. Such should be the stream of love in our hearts. When the flood of unkindness and wrong pours over us, we may be treated cruelly by the world. But whatever injustice we may have to endure from others, the well of love within us should never retain a trace of bitterness but remain pure and sweet.
Suffering refines believers like iron forged by fire, shaping Christlikeness through trials.
The Cathedral of Nuremburg contains some rare and exquisite workings in iron. But was the iron just pinched into shape? How many strokes did it receive? How many blows did it undergo on the anvil? How was it beaten here and there? How was it bent forward, and backward, and forward, and backward again? How was it distorted and contorted? How was it hammered and hammered till by and by it was covered with little speckles as multitudinous as those in frost-pictures, and far more permanent? Those speckles were wrought out by incessant workings in the fire and on the anvil under the hammer. Think also of the many pieces of iron that failed this trial. Their inner flaws could not endure, and they were cast aside. Similarly, suffering makes a man or spoils him. Our Christlikeness is measured by our willingness to suffer with Christ and for Christ. Since the Body of Christ is the Church, we must be willing to suffer for the other members of His Body. In this suffering there is an inbuilt joy. The Hidden Opening
There is a place along the Hudson River where, as you sail, you seem to be entirely hemmed in by hills. The boat drives on toward a rocky wall, and it seems as if it must either stop or be dashed to pieces. Just as you come within the shadow of the mountain, an opening is suddenly discovered, and the boat passes out into one of the grandest bays on the river. So it is with temptation. You are not to seek it, not to enter into it; God promises no way out in such a case. But if it meets you on your heavenward journey, you are to go straight on, though you see no way out. The way will reveal itself in due time if you only keep on your way, being the way of duty-the way of the Lord. As in the river, the beautiful bay lies just around the menacing rock. So it will often be found that your sweetest and best experience in life lies just beyond your most threatening temptation.
Broken hearts affect all classes, and compassion is needed to comfort those suffering.
There is no class of people exempt from broken hearts. The rich and the poor suffer alike. There was a time when I used to visit the poor that I thought all the broken hearts were to be found among them, but within the last few years I have found there are as many broken hearts among the learned as the unlearned, the cultured as the uncultured, the rich as the poor. If you could but go up one of our avenues and down another and reach the hearts of the people; and get them to tell their whole story, you would be astonished at the wonderful history of every family. I remember a few years ago I had been out of the city for some weeks. When I returned I started out to make some calls. The first place I went to I found a mother; her eyes were red with weeping. I tried to find out what was troubling her, and she reluctantly opened her heart and told me all. She said: "Last night my only boy came home about midnight, drunk. I didn't know that he was addicted to drunkenness, but this morning I found out that he had been drinking for weeks, and," she continued, "I would rather have seen him laid in the grave than have have had him brought home in the condition I saw him in last night." I tried to comfort her as best I could when she told me her sad story. When I went away from that house I didn't want to go into any other house where there was family trouble. The very next house I went to, however, where some of the children who attended my Sunday school resided, I found that death had been there and laid his hand on one of them. The mother spoke to me of her afflictions, and brought to me the playthings and the little shoes of the child, and the tears trickled down that mother's cheeks as she related to me her sorrow. I got out as soon as possible, and hoped I would see no more family trouble that day.
The next visit I made was to a home where I found a wife with a bitter story. Her husband had been neglecting her for a long time; "and now," she said, "he has left me, and I don't know where he has gone. Winter is coming on, and I don't know what is going to become of my family." I tried to comfort her, and prayed with her, and endeavored to get her to lay all her sorrows on Christ. The next home I entered I found a woman crushed and broken-hearted. She told me her boy had forsaken her, and she had no idea where he had gone. That afternoon I made five calls, and in every home I found a broken heart. Everyone had a sad tale to tell, and if you visited every house in Chicago you would find the truth in the saying that "there is a skeleton in every house." I suppose while I am talking you are thinking of the great sorrow in your own bosom. I do not know anything about you, but if I were to come around to everyone of you, and you were to tell me the truth I would hear a tale of sorrow. The very last man I spoke to last night was a young mercantile man who told me his load of sorrow had been so great that many times during the last few weeks he had gone down to the lake and had been tempted to plunge in and end his existence. His burden seemed too much for him. Think of the broken hearts in Chicago tonight! They could be numbered by hundreds--yea, thousands. All over this city are broken hearts.
If all the sorrow represented in this great city were written in a book, this building couldn't hold that book, and you couldn't read it in a long lifetime. This earth is not a stranger to tears, neither is the present the only time when they could be found in abundance. From Adam's days to ours tears have been shed, and a wail has been going up to heaven from the broken-hearted. And I say it again, it is a mystery to me how all those broken hearts can keep away from Him who has come to heal them.
Without Christ, grief can destroy life; with Him, burdens can be borne safely.
I was thinking to-day of the difference between those who knew Christ when trouble comes upon them and those who knew Him not. I know several members of families who are just stumbling into their graves over trouble. I know two widows in Chicago who are weeping and mourning over the death of their husbands, and their grief is just taking them to their graves. Instead of bringing their burdens to Christ, they mourn day and night, and the result will be that in a few weeks or years at most their sorrow will take them to their graves when they ought to take it all to the Great Physician. Three years ago a father took his wife and family on board that ill-fated French steamer. They were going to Europe, and when out on the ocean another vessel ran into her and she went down. That mother when I was preaching in Chicago used to bring her two children to the meetings every night. It was one of the most beautiful sights I ever looked on, to see how those little children used to sit and listen, and to see the tears trickling down their cheeks when the Saviour was preached. It seemed as if nobody else in that meeting drank in the truth as eagerly as those little ones.
One night when an invitation had been extended to all to go into the inquiry room, one of these little children said: "Mamma, why can't I go in too?" The mother allowed them to come into the room, and some friend spoke to them, and to all appearances they seemed to understand the plan of salvation as well as their elders. When that memorable night came that mother went down and came up without her two children. Upon reading the news I said: "It will kill her," and I quitted my post in Edinburgh--the only time I left my post on the other side--and went down to Liverpool to try and comfort her. But when I got there I found that the Son of God had been there before me, and instead of me comforting her, she comforted me. She told me she could not think of those children as being in the sea; it seemed as if Christ had permitted her to take those children on that vessel only that they might be wafted to Him, and had saved her life only that she might come back and work a little longer for Him. When she got up the other day at a mothers' meeting in Farwell Hall, and told her story, I thought I would tell the mothers of it the first chance I got.
So if any of you have had some great affliction, if any of you have lost a loving father, mother, brother, husband, or wife, come to Christ, because God has sent Him to heal the broken-hearted.
Misplaced love can lead to rebellion against God in times of loss and grief.
I remember a number of years ago I went out of Chicago to try to preach. I went down to a little town where was being held a Sunday-school convention. I was a perfect stranger in the place, and when I arrived a man stepped up to me and asked me if my name was Moody. I told him it was, and he invited me to his house. When I got there he said he had to go to the convention, and asked me to excuse his wife, as she, not having a servant, had to attend to her household duties. He put me into the parlor, and told me to amuse myself as best I could till he came back. I sat there, but the room was dark and I could not read, and I got tired. So I thought I would try and get the children and play with them. I listened for some sound of childhood in the house, but could not hear a single evidence of the presence of little ones. When my friend came back I said: "Haven't you any children?" "Yes," he replied, "'I have one, but she's in Heaven, and I am glad she is there, Moody." "Are you glad that your child's dead?" I inquired.
He went on to tell me how he had worshiped that child; how his whole life had been bound up in her to the neglect of his Saviour. One day he had come home and found her dying. Upon her death he accused God of being unjust. He saw some of his neighbors with their children around them. Why hadn't He taken some of them away? He was rebellious. After he came home from her funeral he said: "All at once I thought I heard her little voice calling me, but the truth came to my heart that she was gone. Then I thought I heard her feet upon the stairs; but I knew she was lying in the grave. The thought of her loss almost made me mad. I threw myself on my bed and wept bitterly. I fell asleep, and while I slept I had a dream, but it almost seemed to me like a vision.
"I thought I was going over a barren field, and I came to a river so dark and chill-looking that, I was going to turn away, when all at once I saw on the opposite bank the most beautiful sight I ever looked at. I thought death and sorrow could never enter into that lovely region. Then I began to see beings all so happy looking, and among them I saw my little child. She waved her little angel hand to me and cried, 'Father, Father, come this way.' I thought, her voice sounded much sweeter than it did on earth. In my dream I thought I went to the water and tried to cross it, but found it deep and the current so rapid that I thought if I entered it would carry me away from her forever. I tried to find a boatman to take me over, but couldn't, and I walked up and down the river trying to find a crossing, and still she cried: 'Come this way.' All at once I heard a voice come rolling down, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by Me.' The voice awoke me from my sleep,' and I knew it was my Saviour calling me, and pointing the way for me to reach my darling child.
"I am now superintendent of a Sunday-school; I have made many converts; my wife has been converted, and we will, through Jesus as the way, see one day our child."
Trials reveal and develop hidden spiritual graces like faith and patience.
"Spices are most fragrant when burnt and bruised, so have saving graces their chiefest fragrancy in hard times. The pillar that conducted the Israelites appeared as a cloud by day, but as fire by night. The excellency of faith is beclouded till it be put upon a thorough trial." Herein lies one of the benefits of affliction, it fetches out latent sweetness and light. Certain herbs yield no smell till they are trodden on, and certain characters do not reveal their excellence till they are tried. The developing power of tribulation is very great: faith, patience, resignation, endurance, and steadfastness are by far the best seen when put to the test by adversity, pain, and temptation. God has created nothing in vain in the new creation any more than in the old, hence one of the sweet necessities of trial is to bring forth and use those precious graces which else had been unemployed. God is not glorified by unused graces, for these lie hidden and bring Him no honour; may we not, therefore, rejoice in tribulation, because it fetches out our secret powers, and enables us to give glory to the Lord whom we love? Yes, blessed be the pestle which bruises us, and the mortar in which we lie to be beaten into fragrance. Blessed be the burning coals which liberate our sweet odours and raise them up to heaven like pillars of smoke. Can we not say this?
Then it is time we could, and perhaps our present affliction has been sent for that very end,—that we may learn the way of complete consecration, and be made perfect through suffering.
Trials reveal the true condition and genuineness of our faith and character.
"By knocking upon the vessel we see whether it be full or empty, cracked or sound; so by the knocks of providence given us—in affliction we are discovered." The figure may be varied by remembering the manner in which wheels are tapped with a hammer on the railway, that their soundness may be tested. Not only does affliction thus try our characters, but prosperity does the same. Approbation is a testing blow to many a man; for he who could have borne opposition gallantly too often yields at the touch of praise, and is found to be empty, vain, and devoid of stability. When we are afflicted it is wise to watch the result upon ourselves. Can our faith bear trial, or is it a mere counterfeit? Do we love a taking as well as a giving God? Do we cleave to Christ when under a cloud, or is our religion only a fair-weather amusement? Heart-searching may thus be greatly helped, and we shall run less danger of self-deception. It will be an awful thing to be mere empty barrels, and never know it till death deals a blow with his rod of iron, and we answer to it with hollow sounds of despair.
Trials reveal and remove false virtues, refining genuine spiritual growth.
"When the tree is soundly shaken, rotten apples fall to the ground; so in great trials the guttle of spirit will fail." This, then, is the purpose of affliction: first, to test me, that I may see how far my supposed graces are real and vital. Those which are not sound will soon be lost; only the living and growing graces will remain. Can I bear the test? How have I borne it? Secondly, trials relieve me, for it is a hurtful thing to the tree and to its living fruit to be cumbered with rottenness, in which may breed noxious worms, which when they multiply may come to be devourers of the tree's life. We are enriched when we lose fictitious virtues. Stripping of filthy rags is an advance towards cleanliness, and what are counterfeit graces but mere rags, worthy to be torn off and cast into the fire? In the end such a result of affliction also beautifies me; for as rotten apples disfigure the tree, so would the mere pretence of virtue mar my character in the sight of God and good men. It is always better to be openly without an attainment than to bear the form of it without in reality possessing it. A sham is a shame: an unreal virtue is an undoubted vice. Lord, I thank thee for shaking me, since I now perceive that all this good and much more is designed by the process, and is, I trust, in some measure accomplished thereby. Oh that thy Holy Spirit may bless my adversities to this end, and then they will not be adverse to me, but the very reverse!
Drawing near to God lightens the burden of affliction.
One in affliction, when asked how he bore it so well, replied, "It lightens the stroke to draw near to him who handles the rod."
Loss can bring spiritual insight and greater contentment than before.
In a journal of a tour through Scotland by the Rev. C. Simeon of Cambridge, we have the following passage: — "Went to see Lady Ross's grounds. Here also I saw blind men weaving. May I never forget the following fact: One of the blind men, on being interrogated with respect to his knowledge of spiritual things, answered, 'I never saw till I was blind; nor did I ever know contentment when I had my eyesight, as I do now that I have lost it. I can truly affirm, though few know how to credit me, that I would on no account change any present situation and circumstances with any that I ever enjoyed before I was blind.' He had enjoyed eyesight till twenty-five, and had been blind now about three years. My soul." Mr. Simeon adds, "was much affected and comforted with his declaration. Surely, there is a reality in religion!"
Suffering is a pathway to glory and hope for the believer.
"Why should I murmur?" said Henry Martyn, in his last sickness: "weakness, peril, and pain are but the ministering angels whose office it is to conduct me to glory." The holiest weep, but their tears, as rain-drops in the springtime, are shot through with sunbeams: "they sorrow not as those without hope."
— S. Coley
Affliction serves to purify and strengthen the believer's spiritual life.
Sanctified afflictions are spiritual promotions. — Dodd. God may cast thee down, but he will not cast thee off. — Case. Adversity, like winter weather, is of use to kill those vermin which the summer of prosperity is apt to produce and nourish. — Arrowsmith. A great deal of rust requires a rough file. — Moses Browne. The wise Lord loves to feed us with hunger, and make us fat with wants and desertions. — Rutherford. Christ is the best physician; he never takes down the wrong bottle. Berridge.
Affliction makes Christians spiritually strong and leads them to depend on God.
The air from the sea of affliction is extremely beneficial to invalid Christians. Continued prosperity, like a warm atmosphere, has a tendency to unbind the sinews and soften the bones; but the cold winds of trouble make us sturdy, hardy, and well-braced in every part. Unbroken success often leads to an undervaluing of mercies, and forgetfulness of the giver; but the withdrawal of the sunshine leads us to look for the sun. Spurgeon.
Christ's trials purify believers, while the devil's trials worsen their corruption.
We may observe in this the difference between Christ and the Tempter. Christ hath his fan in his hand, and he fanneth us: the Devil hath a sieve in his hand, and he sifteth us. Now, a fan casteth out the worst, and keepeth in the best; a sieve keepeth in the worst, and casteth out the best. So Christ and his trials purgeth chaff and corruption out of us, and nourisheth his graces in us. Contrariwise, the Devil, what evil soever is in us, he confirmeth it: what faith or good thing soever, he weakeneth it.
Long suffering can perfect believers and protect them from worldly dangers.
AFFLICTION, Legend of "The Apostle Peter had a daughter born in lawful wedlock, who accompanied him in his journey from the East. Being at Rome with him, she fell sick of a grievous infirmity which deprived her of the use of her limbs. And it happened, that, as the disciples were at meat with him in his house, one said to him, 'Master, how is it that thou, who healest the infirmities of others, dost not heal thy daughter Petronilla?' And St. Peter answered, 'It is good for her to remain sick;' but, that they might see the power that was in the word of God, he commanded her to get up and serve them, at table, which she did; and having done so, she lay down again helpless as before; but many years afterwards, being perfected by her long suffering, and praying fervently, she was healed. Petronilla was wonderfully fair; and Valerius Flaccus, a young and noble Roman, who was a heathen, became enamoured of her beauty, and sought her for his wife; and he being very powerful, she feared to refuse him. She therefore desired him to return in three days, and promised that he should then carry her home. But she prayed earnestly to be delivered from this peril; and when Flaccus returned in three days, with great pomp, to celebrate the marriage, he found her dead. The company of nobles who attended him carried her to the grave, in which they laid her, crowned with roses; and Flaccus mourned greatly."
God uses affliction to shape believers like a diamond through refining hardship.
AFFLICTION, Ministry of An invalid of twenty years, whose sufferings were extreme, was one night thinking of the reason of this long-continued infliction. Suddenly the room filled with light, and a beautiful form bent over her, saying, "Daughter of sorrow, art thou impatient?"—"No; but I am full of pain and disease, and I see no end; nor can I see why I must suffer thus. I know that I am a sinner; but I hoped that Christ's sufferings, and not mine, would save me. Oh! why does God deal thus with me?"—"Come with me, daughter, and I will show thee."—"But I cannot walk."—"True, true! There, gently, gently!" He tenderly took her up in his arms, and carried her over land and water, till he set her down in a far-off city, and in the midst of a large workshop. The room was full of windows, and the workmen seemed to be near the light, and each with his own tools; and all seemed to be so intent upon their work, that they neither noticed the new-comers, nor spoke to one another. They seemed to have small, brown pebbles, which they were grinding and shaping and polishing. Her guide pointed her to one who seemed to be most earnestly at work. He had a half-polished pebble, which was now seen to be a diamond, in a pair of strong iron pincers. He seemed to grasp the little thing as if he would crush it, and to hold it on to the rough stone without mercy. The stone whirled, and the dust flew, and the jewel grew smaller and lighter. Ever and anon he would stop, hold it up to the light, and examine it carefully. "Workman," said the sufferer, "will you please to tell me why you bear on, and grind the jewel so hard?"—"I want to grind off every flaw and crack in it."—"But don't you waste it?"—"Yes; but what is left is worth so much the more. The fact is, this diamond, if it will bear the wheel long enough, is to occupy a very important place in the crown we are making up for our king. We take much more pains with such. We have to grind and polish them a great while; but, when they are done, they are very beautiful. The king was here yesterday, and was much pleased with our work, but wanted this jewel, in particular, should be ground and polished a great deal. So you see how hard I hold it down on this stone. And, see! there is not a crack nor a flaw in it! What a beauty it will be!"
Gently the guide lifted up the poor sufferer, and again laid her down on her own bed of pain. "Daughter of sorrow, dost thou understand the vision?"—"Oh, yes! but may I ask you one question?"—"Certainly."—"Were you sent to me to show me all this?"—"Assuredly."—"Oh! may I take to myself the consolation that I am a diamond, and am now in the hands of the strong man, who is polishing it for the crown of the Great King?"
"Daughter of sorrow, thou mayest have that consolation; and every pang of suffering shall be like a flash of lightning in a dark night, revealing eternity to thee; and hereafter thou shalt 'run without weariness, and walk without faintness,' and sing with those who have 'come out of great tribulation.'"
— Dr. Todd
Adversity refines and strengthens believers, making them spiritually broader and stronger.
AFFLICTION, Profit of The bee is observed to suck honey from the thyme, a most hard and dry herb; so the good and faithful-minded man sucketh knowledge and obedience from the bitter potion of adversity and the cross, and turneth all to the best. The scouring and rubbing which fret others make him shine the brighter: the weight which crusheth others makes him, like the palm-tree, grow the better; the hammer which knocks others all in pieces makes him the broader and the larger. In incude et maleo dilatantur, they are made broader on the anvil, and with the hammer; although it be with the hammer, yet, dilatantur, they are made to grow the wider. Spencer.
God purifies believers through intense trials until they reflect His image clearly.
A few ladies met at each other's houses to study the Scriptures. When they came to the third chapter of Malachi, the conversation turned on the method of purifying silver. One lady undertook to inquire of a silversmith how he conducted the process. "Do you sit during the operation?"—"Yes," was the reply, "for I must keep my eye steadily on the furnace, lest the silver become injured by the intense heat."
As the lady was about to retire, the silver-mith said that he knew the process was perfect when he saw his own face in the metal.
The molten silver continues in a state of agitation till all impurity is thrown off, and then it becomes quite still.
A believer finds joy and trust in God even amid painful affliction.
A colporteur in a Southern city thus sketches an interview with a humble Christian: "Here is Uncle Jack C—, an old, white-headed black man. 'Uncle Jack, how are you?'—'I is very painful in my knee; but, thank my heavenly Master, I'm cause to be thankful. My good Master jus' gib me 'nuf to make me humble.'—'And do you enjoy religion as much now, Uncle Jack, as when you could go to church and class-meeting?'—'Yes; I joys him more. Den I trust to de people, to de meetin', to de sarment; an' when I hear de hym sing, and de pray, I feels glad. But all dis ain't like de good Lord in de heart. God's love here'—striking his breast—makes all de hard heart go 'way, and make Jack sit down and wonder what de good Master gwine to do wid dis ole nigger.'—'Then you love God, if he does afflict you?'—'Oh, yes! God—Him do all dis for me good. God wise. Jack don't know. At night hear a noise. Me no know what him is; but when me get light, and me hear noise, den me see, me know, me got sense den. Here, in dis painful life, all dark; me no know: but dare, wid God, all is light—see all, know all. Glory, hallelujah!'"
God uses dismal afflictions as a foundation for His providential work.
God often lays the sum of his amazing providences in very dismal afflictions; as the linner first puts on the dusky colors, on which he intends to draw the portraiture of some illustrious beauty.
— Charnock
Afflictions shape believers into Christlike beauty and character.
I feel that repeated afflictions come, not as lightning on the seathed tree, blasting it yet more and more, but as the strokes of the sculptor on the marble block, forming it into the image of beauty and loveliness. Let but the Divine Presence be felt, and no lot is hard. Let me but see his hand, and no event is unwelcome. Power of Illustration.
God prunes and disciplines believers through affliction to make them fruitful.
Every vessel of mercy must be scoured in order to brightness. And however trees in the wilderness may grow without cultivation, trees in the garden must be pruned to be made fruitful; and cornfields must be broken up, when barren heaths are left untouched.
— Arrowsmith
Jesus sympathizes with believers, having borne grief and temptation like them.
They tell us, that, in some trackless lands, when one friend passes through the pathless forests, he breaks a twig ever and anon as he goes, that those who come after may see the traces of his having been there, and may know that they are not out of the road. Oh! when we are journeying through the murky night, and the dark woods of affliction and sorrow, it is something to find here and there a spray broken, or a leafy stem bent down with the tread of His foot and the brush of his hand as he passed; and to remember that the path he trod he has hallowed, and that there are lingering fragrances and hidden strengths in the remembrance, "in all points tempted as we are," bearing grief for us, bearing grief with us, bearing grief like us.
— J. Maclaren
God’s interruptions in life’s beauty protect us from unseen dangers.
Two painters were employed to fresco the walls of a magnificent cathedral. Both stood on a rude scaffolding constructed for the purpose, some distance from the floor. One, so intent upon his work, forgetting where he was, stepped back slowly, surveying critically the work of his pencil, until he had neared the edge of the plank on which he stood. At this moment his companion, just perceiving his danger, seized a wet brush, flung it against the wall, spattering the picture with unsightly blotches of coloring. The painter flew forward, and turned upon his friend with fierce upbraidings, till made aware of the danger he had escaped; then, with tears of gratitude, he blessed the hand that saved him. Just so, sometimes we get so absorbed with the pictures of the world, unconscious of our peril, when God in mercy dashes out the beautiful images, and draws us, at the time we are complaining of his dealings, into his outstretched arms of love.
An ill-natured old man is the most unhappy, unable to enjoy or give pleasure.
There cannot live a more unhappy creature than an ill-natured old man, who is neither capable of receiving pleasures, nor sensible of doing them to others.
— Sir W. Temple
Like a willow bends in storms, some recover from calamity better than stronger characters.
The willow, which bends to the tempest, often escapes better than the oak, which resists it; and so in great calamities it sometimes happens that light and frivolous spirits recover their elasticity and presence of mind sooner than those of a loftier character. Sir W. Scott.
Constant virtue withstands great calamity like a laurel-tree unconsumed by fire.
Like as lightnings do smite whatsoever they find in the earth except the laurel-tree, as Pliny affirmeth, even so great calamity is able to take away and to overthrow whatsoever is in man, or that he hath, save only constant virtue; for constant virtue is a goodly laurel-tree, ever flourishing and green, and will not be consumed, burned up, nor destroyed with any fire that breaketh out of the clouds, be it never so fierce, nor with any violence of torments and troubles whatsoever. Cawdray.
Great minds and purity emerge from times of calamity and trial.
CALAMITY, Times of general calamity and confusion have ever been productive of the greatest minds. The purest ore is produced from the hottest furnace, and the brightest thunderbolt is elicited from the darkest storm. C. Colton.
A farmer's affliction transferred to a parson, causing bitterness instead of forgiveness.
A farmer, near Liverpool, Eng., who had been long afflicted with the ague, made his will, in which was the following item, "I give and bequeath these plaguy ague-fits to Mr. —, the parson of the parish." The fits left him, and the next day seized upon the poor parson, and handled him severely. The parson, on being told that his neighbor J— had bequeathed them to him in his will, was so much exasperated that he would not speak to the poor man for some years after.
God uses life's miseries to turn our love from the world to heaven.
As a mother that weans her child layeth wormwood, or some other bitter thing, on her breast, to make the child loathe the milk, so God makes us often feel the miseries and crosses of this life, that our love and liking might be turned from this world, and fixed in heaven. Cawdray.
We can bear others' misfortunes better than our own and should forget our troubles.
We have all of us sufficient fortitude to bear the misfortunes of others. — La Rochefoucauld. — It is much better to endeavor to forget one's misfortunes than to rehearse them.
A flood that destroyed a man's mills revealed a gold vein, showing God's greater plan.
An unfortunate New-York merchant gathered the remnant of his property, and went to California to begin again. There he purchased land, and built mills upon it. He dug a canal to convey the water from a river to his water-wheels. Just as all was completed, and he saw success within his grasp, a terrific freshet swept away his mills and his hopes at once. He was a Christian, and felt that, somehow, it was for the best. After the flood, he went to look at the sad wreck. The water had ploughed the canal down to the rock, and uncovered a rich vein of gold. What all thought to be a great calamity became his salvation.
Various proverbs teach that misfortune often brings unexpected good or lessons.
If my father had made me a hatter, men would have been born without heads. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Our worst misfortunes are those that never befall us. — English. — Misfortunes come by forties. — Welsh. — If I were to trade in winding-sheets, no one would die. — Arabic. — Whither goest thou, Misfortune? To where there is more. Whither goest thou, Sorrow? Whither I am wont. — Spanish. — Misfortune is good for something. — French.
Struggling and murmuring against God in affliction only ensnares us more.
As the fluttering of the snared bird holdeth her faster than before, so our struggling and murmuring against God in our afflictions availeth us nothing. Caudray.
Extreme poverty can consume all thought, making spiritual concerns secondary to physical needs.
Alone in the garret of a dilapidated house, within a wretched room, stretched on a pallet of straw, covered only by some scanty filthy rags, with no fire in the empty chimney, and the winter wind blowing in cold and fitful gusts through the broken, battered window, an old woman lay, feeble, wasted, gray. She had passed the eleventh hour: the hand was creeping on to the twelfth. It was important to turn to the best account the few remaining sands of life; so I spoke to her of her soul, and told her of a Saviour, urging her to prepare for that other world on whose awful border her spirit was hovering. She looked; she stared; and, raising herself on her elbow, with chattering teeth and ravenous look exclaimed, "I am cold and hungry!" Promising help, I at the same time warned her that there was something worse than cold or hunger; whereupon, stretching out a naked and skinny arm, with an answer, which, if it did not satisfy the reason, touched the feelings, she said, "If you were as cold and as hungry as I am, you could think of nothing else." Dr. Guthrie.
Experiencing adversity helps one truly value prosperity and blessings.
A king was sitting in a vessel with a Persian slave. The boy began to cry, and would not be pacified.
The king's diversion was interrupted. A philosopher, who was in the ship, said, "If you will command me, I will silence him." The king replied, "It will be an act of great kindness." The philosopher ordered them to throw the lad into the sea; and, after several plunges, they laid hold of the hair of his head, and dragged him into the ship. When he got out of the water, he sat down quietly in a corner of the vessel. The king was pleased, and asked how this was brought about. The philosopher replied, "At first, he had never exporienced the danger of being drowned; neither knew he the safety of a ship." In like manner, he knoweth the value of prosperity who hath encountered adversity. O thou! who hast satisfied thine hunger, to thee a barley-leaf is beneath notice; that seems loveliness to me which in thy sight appears deformity. To the nymphs of paradise, purgatory would be hell; but ask the inhabitants of hell whether purgatory is not paradise. Knight.
Sickness can bring spiritual rest, healing, and renewed strength for the soul.
Thou art called on earth an evil: ah! how often art thou a good, a healing balsam, under whose benign influence the soul rests after its hard struggles and its wild storms are still! More than once hast thou prevented suicide, and preserved from madness. The terrible, the bitter words which destroy the heart are by degrees obliterated during the feverish dreams of illness: the terrors which lately seemed so near us are drawn away into the distance; we forget—God be thanked!—we forget; and when, at last, we arise with exhausted strength from the sickbed, our souls often awake as out of a long night into a new morning. So many things, during the illness of the body, conspire to soften the feelings,—the still room, the mild twilight through the window-curtains, the low voices, and then, more than all, the kind words of those who surround us,—their attention, their solicitude, perhaps a tear in their eyes,—all this does us good, does us essential good. Fredrika Bremer.
People often repent during sickness but return to sin after recovery.
In King Edward's days, as long as the heat of the plague lasted, there was crying out, "Peceavi, mercy; good Lord, mercy, mercy!" Then lords and ladies, and people of the best sort, cried out to the ministers, "For God's sake tell us what we shall do to avoid the wrath of God. Take these bags; pay so much to such a one whom I deceived; so much to restore unto another, whom, in bargaining I overreached; give so much to the poor, so much to pious uses, &c." But, after the sickness was over, they were just the same men as they were before. Bp. Reynolds.
Trials and sickness teach deeper spiritual truths beyond what books can convey.
We learn more true divinity by our trials than by our books. The great reformer said, "Prayer is the best book in my library." He might have added affliction as the next. Sickness is the best doctor of divinity in all the world; and trial is the finest exposition of Scripture. This is so inestimable a mark of the love of our blessed Lord, that we might almost desire trouble for the sake of it. Spurgeon.
Sickness often prompts sincere promises of change that many later break like hardened metal.
Some make many fair promises of obedience; but it is on the rack and in the furnace, or as children under the rod: "Oh! if I might but recover this sickness, or be eased of this affliction, I would then be a new man, and redeem my misspent time." And yet many of these, like Pharaoh, when they have any respite, find out ways to shift and delude their own promises, and, like melted metal taken out of the furnace, return again unto their own hardness. Bp. Reynolds.
Proverbs illustrate how affliction and age reveal character and consequences of past sins.
A creaking gato hangs long on its hinges. — English. — The flawed pots are the most lasting. — French. — The sins of our youth we atone for in our old age. — Latin. — Old young, old long. — English.
Sickness humbles us and reminds us of mortality and our duty to God.
Sickness, the mother of modesty, puts us in mind of our mortality, and, while we drive on heedlessly in the full career of worldly pomp and jollity, kindly pulls us by the ear, and brings us to a proper sense of our duty. Burton.
The valley of tears is darkened by sin and God's hidden presence, causing deep anguish.
The vale of tears is very low, and descends far beneath the ordinary level; some parts of it, indeed, are tunnelled through rocks of anguish. A frequent cause of its darkness is, that, on either side of the valley, there are high mountains called the mountains of sin. These rise so high, that they obscure the light of the sun. Behind these Andes of guilt, God hides his face, and we are troubled. Then how densely dark the pathway becomes! Indeed, this is the very worst thing that can be mentioned of this valley; for, if it were not so dark, pilgrims would not so much dread passing through it.
— Spurgeon
Solitary reflection can lead to deep remorse and conviction of sin.
A convict, on being removed from one prison to another, was asked how he liked his new house. "Not at all," was the reply. "Are you not clothed and fed as well here?"—"Yes, better."—"Is your labor harder?"—"No, not so hard."—"Are you not treated with kindness?"—"Yes."—"Then why not like it?"—"Because I am allowed to speak to no one. I go to the table, and sit and think. I go about my work all day to think; and at night the iron door shuts me in my solitary cell to think, think, think; and I cannot endure it!"
Many small troubles can be more overwhelming than a single great trial.
Small miseries, like small debts, hit us in so many places, and meet us at so many turns and corners, that what they want in weight they make up in number, and render it less hazardous to stand the fire of one cannon-ball than a volley composed of such a shower of bullets. Cotton.
Everyone experiences trouble and sorrow at some point in life.
Every man has his turn of trouble and sorrow, whereby (some more, some less) all men are in their times miserable. I never yet could meet with the man that complained not of somewhat.
— Bp. Hall
Adversity reveals true virtue more than prosperity does.
Virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue. Lord Bacon.
