98 Sermon Illustrations on Christian Love

Many years ago in Germany, so the story goes, there lived a shoemaker who had a habit of speaking harshly of all his neighbors who didn't think quite as he did about religion. The pastor of the parish in which he lived heard of this and felt he must give him a lesson. So he went to the shoemaker one morning and said, "Will you please take my measurements for a pair of boots?" "With pleasure, sir," answered the shoemaker. "Please take off your boot." The clergyman did so, and the shoemaker measured his foot from toe to heel and over the instep, and wrote it all down in his notebook. As he was writing up his measurements, the pastor said, "My son also needs a pair of boots." "I'll be glad to make them, too. When can I take his measurements?" "Oh, that's not necessary," said the pastor. "The lad is only twelve, but you can make my boots and his from the same last." The shoemaker looked at him with a puzzled smile and said, "That would never do. They would never fit such a young boy." "I tell you," insisted the pastor, "to make my son's on the same last." "No, sir, I can't do it," protested the shoemaker. He began to wonder if the pastor was losing his wits. "Well, then, shoemaker," said the clergyman, "you accept the fact that every pair of boots must be made on their own last, if they are to fit. Yet you think that God wants to form all Christians exactly according to your own last, of the same measure and growth in spiritual matters as yourself. That won't do either, you know." The shoemaker got the point and said, "Thank you for your sermon. I'll try to remember it and judge my neighbors less harshly in the future." The Spiritual Skeleton An old fable tells of a man cursed with the power of seeing other human beings, not in the beauty of flesh and blood, but as skeletons gaunt and grisly. Some saints seem to have taken upon themselves this curse. Do you feel that you are the only one who is right with the Lord-that everybody else is a spiritual skeleton because he is not of the same denominational stripe or has not the same scruples of conscience as you? Take him or her into your circle of believers as Paul did, as long as they are calling upon the name of the Lord Jesus Christ.

That great blind preacher, George Matheson, adequately grasped the idea of Paul when he wrote: "Christian love is the only kind of love in which there is no rivalry, no jealousy. There is jealousy among the lovers of art; there is jealousy among the lovers of song; there is jealousy among the lovers of beauty. The glory of natural love is its monopoly, its power to say, 'It is mine.' But the glory of Christian love is its refusal of monopoly. The spiritual artist-the man who paints Christ in his soul-wants no solitary niche in the temple of fame. He would not like to hear anyone say, 'He is the first of his profession; there is not one that can hold a candle to him.' He would be very sad to be thus distinguished in his profession of Christ, marked out as a solitary figure. The gladdest moment to him will always be the moment when the cry is heard, 'Thy brother is coming up the ladder also; thy brother will share the inheritance with thee.' "

A young man spent an entire evening telling a girl how much he loved her. He said that he could not live without her; that he would go to the ends of the earth for her; yes, go through fire for her, or die for her. However, on leaving, he said, "I'll see you tomorrow night if it doesn't rain." How often we say we love God yet deny it by our actions. Christ will give His crown of life only to those who love Him in deed and in truth. Be Merciful J. H. Evans said, "I believe that God often permits me to be chastened by my sin, because I do not make use of my mercies." We often lose our mercies by loving them too well, as the ball of snow is melted by the heat of the hand that holds it, or a rose is spoiled by pressing it too tightly. Theophilus Gale very well said, "Whatsoever I thankfully receive, as a token of God's love to me, I part with contentedly as a token of my love to Him."

Jerome, the Church historian, relates of the Apostle John that when he became old he used to go among the churches and assemblies everywhere repeating the words, "Little children, love one another." His disciples, wearied by the constant repetition, asked him why he always said this. "Because," he replied, "it is the Lord's commandment; and if it only be fulfilled, it is enough."

“Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.” Philippians 2:4

I have never been able to forget a story I heard evangelist Paul Rader relate on one occasion. I may not now be able to recall all the details, but so nearly as I remember, it was as follows: Mr. Rader mentioned having known three ministers, all of whom came from a particular part of the South and were all characterized by a spirit of intense self-abnegation and kindly interest in the needs of others. To one of these Mr. Rader said, “I have known two other men from your part of the country and you have all commended yourselves to me by your unselfishness. How come that you are all so much alike?”

Modestly the preacher answered, “If we have any such marks as you speak of, we owe our unselfishness to a circuit-rider. When we were just boys he used to come to our section every two weeks.”

He then went on to describe him as a lean, cadaverous-looking man of the Abraham Lincoln type who, on the first Sunday he preached in the country schoolhouse, gave a sermon in the morning and another in the afternoon.

Between the services the ladies of the congregation served a picnic lunch in the open air. Great platters of fried chicken, ham, and other meats were laid out on gleaming white tablecloths; these were surrounded by stacks of biscuits, corn pone, hard-boiled eggs, cakes and other delicacies. When all was ready, the assembled group sat down on the greensward to enjoy the repast.

A number of lively boys were always at the front, hoping to get nearest to the platter of chicken. But on this particular occasion, so great was the crowd, the boys were told to wait until their elders were all served. Angrily they went off back of a nearby shed and indulged in the pastime of shooting dice, in revenge for the unkind way they felt they had been treated. They appointed one lad as a watcher, to keep tab on the way the viands were disappearing.

Ruefully, he told of piles of chicken disappearing: still, more came in from nearby wagons. Suddenly, in great excitement he exclaimed, “Say, look at that preacher! The old squirrel! He’s eaten all he could and now when he thinks no one sees him, he’s filling those big pockets in the tail of his long coat.” All looked angrily and saw it was indeed true.

Just then one of the women exclaimed, “Why, look at the preacher’s plate. You all are neglecting him. Hand over the fried chicken.” And she heaped his plate up with appetizing pieces; he nibbled a few minutes — then surreptitiously took two bandana handkerchiefs out of each breast pocket and, filling them with select pieces, stored them away.

Rising with the rest, the preacher backed off, as the boys thought, to hide his “loot” in his baggage. But after moving away from the crowd he turned, and hurried down to the back of the barn where the angry boys were waiting for the second call to lunch. “Boys,” he exclaimed, “I was afraid they were forgetting you, so I saved a lot of the white meat and the drumsticks for you.” Out came the four clean handkerchiefs and he passed the tender morsels around. The boys were captured. Amazed, they eagerly accepted the proffered dainties.

“This was characteristic of that preacher,” said Mr. Rader’s friend. “We felt we had found a real friend — a man who loved other people better than he loved himself. He could do anything with us. He led us all to Christ during the years of his ministry among us, sent several out as foreign missionaries, and we three into the ministry at home. It was the unselfish spirit he manifested that gripped our hearts and won our confidence; so that his sermons reached our consciences and brought us to know his Saviour as ours.”

One day when I was in Brooklyn, I saw a young man going along the street without any arms. A friend who was with me, pointed him out, and told me his story. When the war broke out he felt it to be his duty to enlist and go to the front. He was engaged to be married, and while in the army letters passed frequently between him and his intended wife. After the battle of the Wilderness the young lady looked anxiously for the accustomed letter. For a little while no letter was received. At last one came in a strange hand. She opened it with trembling fingers, and read these words: "We have fought a terrible battle. I have been wounded so awfully that I shall never be able to support you. A friend writes this for me. I love you more tenderly than ever, but I release you from your promise. I will not ask you to join your life with the maimed life of mine:" That letter was never answered. The next train that left, the young lady was on it. She went to the hospital. She found out the number of his cot, and she went down the aisle, between the long rows of the wounded men. At last she saw the number, and, hurrying to his side, she threw her arms around his neck and said: "I'll not desert you. I'll take care of you." He did not resist her love. They were married, and there is no happier couple than this one. We are dependent on one another. Christ says, "I'll take care of you. I'll take you to this bosom of mine." That young man could have spurned her love; he could, but he didn't. Surely you can be saved if you will accept the Saviour's love. If God loves us, my friends, He loves us unto the end. "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

"When Bernard chanced to espy a poor man meanly apparelled, he would say to himself, 'Truly, Bernard, this man hath more patience beneath his cross than thou hast;' but if he saw a rich man delicately clothed, then he would say, 'It may be that this man, under his delicate clothing, hath a better soul than thou hast under thy religious habit.' This showed an excellent charity! Oh, that we could learn it! It is easy to think evil of all men, for there is sure to be some fault about each one which the least discerning may readily discover; but it is far more worthy of a Christian, and shows much more nobility of soul, to spy out the good in each fellow-believer. This needs a larger mind as well as a better heart, and hence it should be a point of honour to practise ourselves in it till we obtain an aptitude for it. Any simpleton might be set to sniff out offensive odours; but it would require a scientific man to bring to us all the fragrant essences and rare perfumes which lie hid in field and garden. Oh, to learn the science of Christian charity! It is an art far more to be esteemed than the most lucrative of human labours. This choice art of love is the true alchemy. Charity towards others, abundantly practised, would be the death of envy and the life of fellowship, the overthrow of self and the enthronement of grace. Charity, be thou my classics, my poetry, my science, my music, for thou art more to be desired than all these. Thou art a God-like thing, and I would be filled with thee.

"Men will not be frightened from self-love; it must be another more powerful love which must draw them from it; as one nail driveth out another." This is true philosophy. Love to God can alone expel the love of sin. Many forget this, and set to work extracting the old love: a very tedious task; impossible, indeed, with such poor tools as we possess. They torture the body and torment the mind, but the old nail of self-love is rusted in, and will not stir. They might sooner break up the fabric of their manhood than tear out its old deep-seated affections; the self-nail has been driven well home, and clinched besides, and what can we do? It is wonderful to see how love to Christ fetches out the love of self from its lodging. At the first it shakes and loosens it; by-and-by it drives it a little from its place, and at last it drives it out altogether. Self is at first somewhat denied, then it is chastened and kept under, and finally it is crucified with Christ so completely that the man finds pleasure in warring against it, and glories in the submission of the flesh to suffering and loss. O blessed hand of Jesus, drive in the nail of divine love! Smite hard, Lord. Force out the rusted iron of my selfishness. Let not a fragment of it remain. Love alone can vanquish love. Thyself alone can conquer self in me. No secondary force will suffice. My God, thou must display thy Godhead's power of love, or my vile heart will never part with self.

"Love is a grace that will make us industrious for the good of others, and therefore we read of the 'labour of love' (1 Thess. i. 3.) jus gluten animarum, the glue of souls, the cement and solder of the church; the jointing that runneth throughout all the living and squared stones (Col. iii. 14.) By this souls are mingled, and all mutual offices are cheerfully performed." Oh for more of this sacred cement. The walls of many churches gape with huge cracks for lack of it. Building with untempered mortar is an ancient fault, but nowadays some build with no mortar at all. Professors seem to be piled together like a load of bricks, without life, love, or living truth to unite them; and the promise is forgotten, "I will lay thy stones with fair colours." Will not our reader, if he be a believer, endeavour to furnish his portion of the sacred cement of love, which is the perfect bond? This will be far more useful than complaining of the lack of unity, for this complaint often creates the evil which it deplores. Critics pick out from between the stones the mortar, of which there is little enough already; but loving hearts fill up the cracks, and do their best to keep the structure whole. "Blessed are the peace-makers." How am I acting? Am I a bond in the building, or do I, like the foolish woman in the Proverbs, pluck down the house with my hands? O Lord of peace, make me more and more a lover of peace.

LAY-FIGURES. You would all judge it to be an affront to the majesty of God if a man should send his clothes stuffed with straw, or a puppet dressed up instead of himself, into the assemblies of God's people, and think that this would do instead of his personal presence. Yet our clothes stuffed with straw would be less offensive to God than our bodies—without our souls. The absence of the spirit is the absence of the more noble part. Think of this ye whose hearts are with your flocks and herds, and shops, and ships, when you are in your churches and chapels. Will ye longer insult the Lord who will have only those to worship him who worship him in spirit and in truth? A mind stuffed with vanity and unbelief must be worse than clothes stuffed with straw. Reader, have you never set up this abomination before the very eyes of the Eternal?

At a Sabbath-school anniversary in London, two little girls presented themselves to receive the prize, one of whom had recited one verse more than the other, both having learned several thousand verses of Scripture. The gentleman who presided inquired, "And could you not have learned one verse more, and thus have kept up with Martha?"—"Yes, sir," the blushing child replied, "but I loved Martha, and kept back on purpose."—"And was there any one of all the verses you have learned," again inquired the president, "that taught you this lesson?"—"There was, sir," she answered, blushing still more deeply: "In honor preferring one another."

"Mr. Whitefield," said one of his ardent admirers, who was bitterly opposed to Wesley, "do you think we shall see John Wesley in heaven?" He replied, "You ask me whether we—that is, you and I—shall see Mr. Wesley in heaven. Certainly not."—"I thought you would say so. Thank you, sir."—"But stop, my friend: hear all I have to say about it. John Wesley will be so near the throne, and you and I so far off, that we cannot expect to see him."

Those of us who have read classic history may remember an incident in the history of the Macedonian emperor. A painter was commanded to sketch the monarch. In one of his great battles, he had been struck with the sword upon the forehead, and a very large scar had been left on the right temple. The painter, who was a master-hand in his art, sketched him leaning on his elbow, with his finger covering the scar on his forehead; and so the likeness of the king was taken, but without the scar. Let us put the finger of charity upon the scar of the Christian as we look at him, whatever it may be, — the finger of a tender and forbearing charity, and see, in spite of it and under it, the image of Christ notwithstanding.

— Dr. Cumming

It is related of King and St. Oswald, that he was once sitting at dinner, on Easter Day, and before him was a silver dish full of dainty meats; and they were just ready to bless the bread, when his almoner came in on a sudden, and told him there were some poor hungry people seated at his door, begging for food; and he immediately ordered the dish of meat to be carried out to them, and the dish itself to be cut in pieces, and divided amongst them. Mrs. Jameson.

For my own part, if my pocket was full of stones, I have no right to throw one at the greatest backslider upon earth. I have either done as bad or worse than he, or I certainly should if the Lord had left me a little to myself; for I am made of just the same materials: if there be any difference, it is wholly of grace. John Newton.

John Howard the philanthropist, having settled his accounts at the close of a particular year, found a balance in his favor, and proposed to his wife to make use of it in a journey to London. "What a pretty cottage for a poor family it would build!" was her answer. This hint met with cordial approbation; and the money was laid out accordingly.

William Wirt's letter to his daughter contains the following passage: "I want to tell you a secret. The way to make yourself pleasing to others is to show them attention. The whole world is like the miller at Mansfield, 'who cared for nobody, — no, not he, — because nobody cared for him.' And the whole world would serve you so if you gave them the same cause. Let every one, therefore, see that you do care for them, by showing them what Sterne so happily called the small courtesies, in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease, and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks and little acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment, at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, and standing."

At the time of the loss of "The Niagara" on the Mississippi, a negro-boy tied a rope around his body, and attached a stick of wood to the other end. He then threw himself into the river, and called to two ladies to take hold of the piece of wood. After much persuasion, they did so; when the boy struck boldly for the shore, which he and his charge reached in safety after great exertion. The ladies were strangers to him; and, to save them, he left his trunk containing three hundred dollars.

The fathers of Gardner Spring and Stephen H. Tyng were riding, and conversing together about the change of Adoniram Judson, then but recently sent out as a missionary by the American Board, from Congregationalism to the Baptist Church. Mr. Tyng said, "So your chickens have turned out ducks." Mr. Spring replied, "Yes; and I should be willing to set on hens' eggs all my days, if I could hatch such ducks."

It is one of the severest tests of friendship to tell your friend of his faults. If you are angry with a man, or hate him, it is not hard to go to him and stab him with words: but so to love a man that you cannot bear to see the stain of sin upon him, and to speak painful truth through loving words, — that is friendship. But few have such friends. Our enemies usually teach us what we are, at the point of the sword. Beecher.

Gen. Lee was in the cars going to Richmond, and had a seat at the extreme end. The other seats were filled with officers and soldiers. An old woman, of humble appearance, entered at one of the stations, and finding no seat, and none having been offered her, approached the general. He immediately arose, and gave her his seat. Immediately there was a general rising, and proffering of seats to "Mass. Robert:" but he calmly said, "No, gentlemen: if there was no seat for the infirm old woman, there can be none for me." The effect was remarkable. One after another got out of the car, as if the seats were too hot to sit on; and the general and the old lady soon had the car before them where to choose. Dr. Bond.

Wishing to seal a letter, Gotthold called for a lighted candle. The maid obeyed his orders; but, proceeding too hastily, the flame, which had not yet gathered sufficient strength, went out. "Here," said Gotthold, "we have that which may well remind us of the gentleness and moderation to be observed in our comportment towards weak and erring brethren. Had this candle, when first lighted, been carried slowly, and shaded by the hand from the air, it would not have been extinguished, but would soon have burned with vigor. In like manner, many a weak brother might be set right, if we only came to his help in the right way and with kindly advice."

Verily, good works constitute a refreshing stream in this world, wherever they are found flowing. It is a pity that they are too often like Oriental torrents, "waters that fail" in the time of greatest need. When we meet the stream actually flowing, and refreshing the land, we trace it upward in order to discover the fountain whence it springs. Threading our way upward, guided by the river, we have found at length the placid lake from which the river runs. Behind all genuine good works, and above them, love will, sooner or later, certainly be found. It is never good works alone: uniformly, in fact, and necessarily in the nature of things, we find the two constituents existing as a complex whole, — "love and good works," the fountain and the flowing stream. Arnot.

The kindness of some is too much like an echo: it returns exactly the counterpart of what it receives, and neither more nor less. Bowes.

A poor drunkard had an only daughter, whom he abused shamefully; but she clung to him with undying affection. One day, when he awoke from a slumber after a debauch, and found her preparing breakfast for him and singing a childish song, he turned to her, and, with a tone almost tender, said, "Millie, what makes you stay with me?" — "Because you are my father, and I love you." — "You love me!" repeated the wretched man; "you love me!" He looked at his bloated limbs, his soiled and ragged clothes. "Love me!" he still murmured. "Millie, what makes you love me? I am a poor drunkard: everybody else despises me; why don't you?" — "Dear father," said the girl with swimming eyes, "my mother taught me to love you; and every night she comes from heaven, and stands by my little bed, and says, 'Millie, don't leave your father: he will get away from that rum-flend some of these days! and then how happy you will be!'"

He asks, not that our love should equal his, but resemble his; not that it should be of the same strength, but of the same kind. A pearl of dew will not hold the sun; but it may hold a spark of its light. A child by the sea, trying to catch the waves as they dash in clouds of crystal spray upon the sand, cannot hold the ocean in a tiny shell; but he can hold a drop of the ocean-water. C. Stanford.