Conscience in Christian preaching is the inner moral sense that guides believers to discern right from wrong, often portrayed as a sensitive witness or inward registrar of sin (Romans 2:15). Illustrations depict it as a delicate but vital faculty—like a tender eye or a faithful dog—that must be tested and kept sensitive to God’s truth to avoid spiritual peril and self-deception (1 Timothy 1:5).
Freedom of conscience carries responsibility and must be balanced to avoid chaos.
It is essential that we should exercise conscience, but let us not forget that in this matter, as in all others, privilege is linked with responsibility. Of course, we may attribute unworthy motives to authoritarian churches that proclaim the right to dictate to the individual what is right and what is wrong. We may say, as many have said, that they adopt this standpoint for their own ends to acquire power and control. But that is not a satisfactory explanation, and it is an unworthy charge. Their action is generally based on the danger of individual judgment and the peril of the individual conscience, because this privilege that we all claim does have it perils. It is so perilous, indeed, that while we pay lip service to its sanctity and sacredness, we are compelled to curtail its freedom. There is no community that can or dare base its life upon the freedom of each individual's conscience. It would result in chaos. Jesus Christ allows us a certain freedom. Freedom is the basis of joy, but if it oversteps the bounds of moral responsibility it is too perilous.
A trained conscience that never protests is like a silent pet dog, indicating spiritual darkness.
Speaking of conscience, E. L. Allen said, "Honestly, what use do we make of our God-given reason? I know what use I make of it. I use it chiefly to provide reasons for what I want to do without admitting it is for pursuing some personal ambition. A man may have his conscience so well disciplined and trained that, instead of blazing a trail before him, it is like a pet dog which just trots obediently at his heels and never so much as barks! 'If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!' "
If conscience doubts something, it is better to avoid it to maintain purity.
“He that doubts, if he eat, is condemned.” Romans 14:23, JND
Sandy was a thrifty Scot who objected to needless laundry expense, so when he wore a dress shirt to a banquet, he put it away carefully for future use. On one occasion when dressing for such an event, he took a used shirt out of the drawer and examined it with care, hoping to be able to wear it that evening. Not being quite sure of its strict cleanliness, he took it to a window, where he was looking it over under a better light than the room afforded. His wife, Jean, noticed him shaking his head as though fearful that it would not pass careful scrutiny.
“Remember, Sandy,” she called to him, “if it’s doubtful, it’s dirty.”
That settled it. The shirt went into the discard and another — a fresh one — took its place. Jean’s words may well speak to every believer concerning things about which conscience raises any question whatsoever.
A distiller questions if selling whisky can be honest when done for God's glory.
In Europe in a place where there was a good deal of whisky distilled, one of the men in the business was a church member, and got a little anxious in his conscience about his business. He came and asked me if I thought that a man could not be an honest distiller. I said, You should do whatever you do for the glory of God. If you can get down and pray about a barrel of whisky, and say, for instance, when you sell it, "O Lord God, let this whisky be blessed to the world," it is probably honest.
A dulled conscience fails to warn, leading to spiritual danger and destruction.
"Things to which we are used do not work upon us; we are not much moved with them. Custom maketh men sleep quietly by the falls of great waters, where much noise is; and some parts of the body grow callous, brawny, dry, and dead, as the labourer's hand and the traveller's heel, by much use. So doth the conscience gradually lose its force. At first, like a cataract, its great roar astounds the soul, and effectually prevents its slumbers of carnal security; but by-and-by its noise is scarcely heard, and men are even lulled to sleep by its sound. Now, this is to be dreaded exceedingly, for it is the forerunner of doom. No more warnings are heard, because sentence has gone forth, and the man's destruction is sealed. Even on a smaller scale, it is a serious thing to have
conscience lose its tenderness. Christian men, by association with the world, and by a want of thorough consideration, may come to do with impunity things which would shock them if their consciences were in a healthy state. It is dangerous for a steam-engine when the tell-tale does not act; and no one knows what mischief may come through the failure of the soul's indicator. We wish to know what is evil that we may avoid it; and it is a serious calamity when the warning faculty has become dulled and silent through continuance in sin. Better far to live in perpetual anxiety to be right, than to remain at ease while doing wrong. Lord, make my conscience tender as the apple of my eye. Awaken it, and keep it awake.
Repeated sin hardens conscience, but repentance can restore sensitivity to sin.
* The least dust, if it get into the eye, will pain it; so will conscience at first smite us for lesser failings and excesses, but afterwards when you make bold with it, it is like the stomach of the ostrich, which digesteth iron; or like a part or member of the body which is seared with a hot iron, it hath no feeling, (1 Tim. iv. 2); or, like freezing water, which at first will not bear a pin, but afterwards it freezeth, and freezeth, till it bear a cart-load. Some men lose their tender sense of sin by frequency of sinning. If our offending against right did us no worse turn than this it would be bad enough, for to lose sensitiveness of conscience is to lose the excellence of our being. What is the eye worth when it can no longer feel pain, or the hand when its touch is gone, or the head when sensation has departed? As well take away from the goldsmith all his tests as from man his conscience. What is the use of a watchman who is in a dead sleep? How far any one of us may be proceeding in this direction it will be prudent for us to know at once, that by repentance we may arrest the process, and by faith may put ourselves into the hands of the Lord Jesus, that he may give back to us the heart of flesh. Let us entreat the Holy Spirit to continue his softening operations even to the end.
* Sin has been hammering my heart Unto a hardness void of love: Let suppling grace to cross its art Drop from above.
Guilty conscience causes imaginary accusations and inner torment.
When Professor Webster was awaiting his trial for murder, he is said to have complained of his fellow-prisoners for insulting him through the walls of his cell, and screaming to him, "You are a bloody man." On examination, the charge was found wholly groundless. The accusing voices were imaginary, — merely the echoes of a guilty conscience.
A hardened criminal is shocked and overwhelmed when his guilt is exposed.
Richard Crown-inshield was a murderer. As long as he thought the evidence of his crime was concealed, he was cheerful and confident, even in prison. He was a very desperate, hardened, strong-minded, remorseless villain. He was the leader of a knot of infidels, who jeered at all sacred things, and taught young men in habits of abandoned wickedness. There were accessories to his crime, not one of whom, as he thought, was suspected; and he knew, that, so long as that was the case, not a link of condemning evidence could be obtained against him. At length a letter, intercepted in the post-office, led to the arrest of one of his accomplices. That arrested man was carried into the jail at midnight; but so profound was the sleep of that hardened murderer, that all the clanging of the bolts and bars of the prison, at that unusual hour, did not wake him. The next morning, the sheriff came into his cell, and entered into familiar conversation with him. He was standing calmly at the foot of his truckle-bed. "Well," said the sheriff, "did you hear the noise last night?" — "Noise? no. What noise? I slept well." — "Why, did you not know that they had arrested Frank Knapp, and brought him here last night at midnight?" The strong, guilty man put his hand to the wall to steady himself, but unable to conceal his feelings, or to recover from the shock, fell back senseless on the bed. The recoil, the scorpion sting, had reached him at last; his sin had found him out; the sword had pierced through the rocky casement around the conscience of the desperate criminal, and was grinding in his soul. What passed that night none can tell, nor how long the man endured the terrible conflict with conscience and despair; but, when the sheriff entered his cell next morning, he was hanging dead, self-murdered. Such is the power of sudden overwhelming evidence, bringing the sense as well as the proof of guilt into the soul. Men would flee from it, if they could, at the last day. If there were still a third world into which souls could plunge out of the eternal world by a second self-murder, they would do it. Dr. Cheever.
Ignoring conscience’s warnings leads to downfall and misfortune.
There is a story of a certain prince who had a wonderful ring, which pricked his finger whenever he was doing any thing wrong. It was given him to help him always to keep upright and good; and he was told, that, so long as he wore it, he would prosper. At first, he set great store by this ring; but in time he began to be vexed at being so often checked by its pricking, and so often stopped from doing what he wished. One day, he had set his heart upon something that he was yet well aware was wrong; and he was about to do it in spite of the warning of the ring; but it pricked him so sharply, that he drew it off his finger in a passion, and threw it away; and from that moment he fell into bad ways and misfortunes, and came at last to a very sad end.
A guilty conscience fears judgment, hell, and the accusing devil at death.
An ill conscience, when it should be most comforting, then it is most terrible. At the hour of death, we should have most comfort, if we had any wisdom. When earthly comforts shall be taken from us, and at the day of judgment, then an ill conscience, look where it will, it hath a matter of terror. If it look up, there is the Judge armed with vengeance; if it look beneath, there is hell ready to swallow it; if it look on the one side, there is the Devil accusing and helping conscience; if it look round about, there is heaven and earth, and all on fire; and within there is hell. Where shall the sinner and ungodly appear? Silsbes.
Peace comes from a clear conscience before God’s judgment, not human praise.
One replied to unjust accusations thus, "I will rest henceforward in peace, in the house of my own conscience; and, if I do any good deeds, it is no matter who knows them; if bad, knowing them myself, it is no matter from whom I hide them; they will be recorded before that Judge from whose presence I cannot flee. If all the world applaud me, and he accuse me, their praise is in vain."
Divine truth awakens the captive human spirit to new knowledge and repentance.
King Richard I. of England, on his way to the Holy Land, was taken captive, and thrown into an unknown dungeon. He had a favorite minstrel named Blondel, who knew only that his master was imprisoned somewhere in a castle dungeon among the mountain-forests. From one to another of these he travelled, playing some well-known airs before the dungeon-bars, till at last his music without was answered by the voice of his king within. This discovery led to Richard's return from exile, and restoration to his throne. "Thus the spirit of man sits like a captive king in a dungeon, until the voice of divine music wakes echoes hitherto unknown along his prison-house, and stirs him with new knowledge, new consciousness."
True repentance requires genuine sacrifice, not mere outward show.
When Lully, the celebrated composer, was once dangerously ill, his friends sent for a confessor; who finding his situation critical, and his mind much agitated and alarmed, told him there was only one way by which he could obtain absolution, and that was by burning all that he had composed of the last opera on which he was employed. Lully pointed to a drawer, in which lay a draught of Achilles and Polyxena. It was taken out and burnt; and the confessor went away satisfied. Lully grew better, and was thought to be out of danger. A nobleman, who was his patron, calling to see him, was informed of the sacrifice which he had made. "And so," said he, "you have burnt your opera; and you are really such a blockhead as to believe in the absurdities of a monk?"—"Stop, my friend, stop," said Lully, whispering in his ear, "I knew very well what I was about,—I have another copy." Unhappily, this pleasantry was followed by a relapse; and the prospect of inevitable death threw Lully into such pangs of remorse, that he submitted to do penance for his transgression; and died, singing to an air of his own composing, "Il faut mourir, pecheur! il faut mourir!" Percy.
An evil conscience is restless and can only be calmed by Christ's atoning blood.
An evil conscience is like the raging sea, which can only be calmed by the sign of the cross of Christ. It is a gnawing worm in the bones, for the removal of which, nothing less is required than the blood of the Son of God.
— Krummacher
Some consciences are weak or selective, vulnerable in certain areas but blind in others.
Some consciences are like the Achilles of Greek fable, who was only vulnerable in one spot, and that the heel; or like spiders' webs, which catch harmless flies, and are broken through by hornets and bats.
Repeated small sins dull the conscience more than occasional great sins do.
Take a shield, and cast a spear upon it, and it will leave in it one great dent; prick it all over with a million little needle-shafts, and they will take the polish from it far more than the piercing of the spear: so it is not so much the great sins which take the freshness from our consciences, as the numberless petty faults which we are all the while committing. Beecher.
Guilt reveals itself through the conscience, even when one tries to hide it.
It is told of a Barbadoes physician and slaveholder, that, having been robbed to a serious extent in his sugar-works, he discovered the thief by the following ingenious artifice. Having called his slaves together, he addressed them thus: "My friends, the great serpent appeared to me during the night, and told me that the person who stole my money should at this instant, this very instant, have a parrot's feather at the point of his nose." On this announcement, the dishonest slave, anxious to find out if his guilt had declared itself, put his finger to his nose. "Man," cried the master instantly "tis thou who hast robbed me: the great serpent has just told me so."
The conscience is like a compass that continually shows deviation from the true moral course.
Corridi has ingeniously contrived an apparatus by which a ship's course is accurately registered during the entire voyage. In place of the symbol on the card of the vessel's compass, indicating north, a hole is punctured, and a small lens inserted. Through this the light passes, and acts upon a roll of sensitized paper, made to move with a regulated speed by clockwork. The paper continually changes its position with the ship; but the lens is ever maintained in the magnetic meridian: hence the deviation of the vessel therefrom is recorded.
Conscience acts as God's internal monitor warning us against sin.
How beautifully was its office set forth in the ring, which, according to an Eastern tale, a great magician presented to his prince! The gift was of inestimable value, not for the diamonds and rubies and pearls that gemmed it, but for a rare and mystic property in the metal. It sat easily enough in ordinary circumstances; but so soon as its wearer formed a bad thought or wish, designed or concocted a bad action, the ring became a monitor. Suddenly contracting, it pressed painfully on the finger, warning him of sin. The ring of that fable is just that conscience which is the voice of God within us, which is his law written on the fleshly tablets of the heart. Dr. Guthrie.
Many use conscience outwardly but suppress its inward convicting power.
Many men carry their conscience like a drawn sword, cutting this way and that in the world, but sheathe it, and keep it very soft and quiet, when it is turned within; thinking that a sword should not be allowed to cut its own seaband. Beecher.
A guilty conscience compels a man to do what is right despite circumstances.
A follower of Pythagoras once bought a pair of shoes from a cobbler, for which he promised to pay him on a future day. On that day, he took the money; but, finding the cobbler had died in the interim, returned, secretly rejoicing that he could retain the money, and get a pair of shoes for nothing. "His conscience, however," says Seneca, "would allow him no rest, till, taking up the money, he went back to the cobbler's shop, and, casting in the money, said, 'Go thy way; for, though he is dead to all the world besides, yet he is alive to me.'"
Conscience reviews our life and prepares us for God's judgment.
When it comes night, and the streets are empty, and the lights are out, and the business and the driving and gayety are over, and the pall of sleep is drawn over the senses, and the reason and the will are no longer on the watch, then Conscience comes out solemnly, and walks about in the silent chambers of the soul, and makes her survey and her comments; and sometimes sits down and sternly reads the records of a life that the waking man would never look into, and the catalogue of crimes that are gathering for the judgment. And as Conscience reads and reads aloud, and soliloquizes, you may hear the still small deep echo of her voice reverberated through the soul's most secret unveiled recesses. Imagination walks unobligingly behind her; and now, they two have pass through the open gate of the Scriptures into the future and eternal world, for either all things in man's being naturally and irresistibly tend; and then, as Conscience is still dwelling upon sin, Imagination draws the judgment, and the soul is presented at the bar of God, and the eye of the Judge is on it, and a hand of fire writes as on the walls of the universe, "Thou art weighed in the balance, and found wanting." Then whatever mind thoughts or passions, words or deeds, the Conscience enumerates and dwells upon, the Imagination with prophetic truth fills eternity with corresponding shapes of evil.
— Dr. Cheever
A guilty conscience continually accuses a person of wrongdoing.
Bessus, Grecian, gave as a reason for pulling down the birds' nests about his house, that the birds never ceased to accuse him of the murder of his father.
Even hardened sinners feel the painful stings of a guilty conscience.
The Earl of Breadalbane planned the massacre of Glencoe, and carried it into execution in the most cruel and dastardly manner. Macaulay speaking of the effects produced upon the minds of the guilty perpetrators of this atrocious deed, says that "Breadalbane, hardened as he was, felt the stings of conscience or the dread of retribution. He did his best to assume an air of inconcern." He made his appearance in the most fashionable coffee-house at Edinburgh, and talked loudly and self-complacently about the important services in which he had been engaged among the mountains. Some of his soldiers, however, who observed him closely, whispered that all this bravery was put on. He was not the man that he had been before that night. The form of his countenance was changed. In all places, at all hours, whether he waked or slept, Glencoe was forever before him."
A guilty conscience causes irrational fears and dread of punishment.
The blind man in the gospel, newly recovering his sight, imagined trees to be men; and the soldiers of Burgundy, as Comines reports, expecting a battle, supposed thistles to be lances. Thus the wicked man fears where no fear is; the guilty conscience conceives every thistle to be a tree, every tree a man, every man a devil, afraid of every man that it sees, nay, many times of those that it sees not. Not much unlike to one that was very deep in debt, and had many creditors, who as he walked London streets in the evening, a tenterhook having caught his cloak, conceived some sergeant had arrested him. Thus the ill-conscienced man counts every creature he meets with a bailiff sent from God to punish him. Spencer.
Inner conscience debates right and wrong, leading to peace when choosing to do right.
An Indian, being among his white neighbors, asked for a little tobacco to smoke; and one of them having some loose in his pocket, gave him a handful. The day following, the Indian came back, inquiring for the donor, saying he had found a quarter of a dollar among the tobacco. Being told, that, as it was given him, he might as well keep it, he answered, pointing to his breast, "I got a good man and a bad man here; and the good man say, 'It is not mine; I must return it to the owner.' The bad man say, 'Why! he gave it to you, and it is your own now.' The good man say, 'That's not right: the tobacco is yours, not the money.' The bad man say, 'Never mind, you got it: go buy some dram.' The good man say, 'No, no: you must not do so.' So I don't know what to do, and I think to go to sleep; but the good man and the bad keep talking all night, and trouble me: and, now I bring the money back, I feel good."
Our flesh, the world, and conscience act as friends with differing loyalty in life's trials.
FRIENDS, Parable of It is a witty parable which one of the fathers hath, of a man that had three friends; two whereof he loved entirely, the third but indifferently. This man, being called in question for his life, sought help of his friends. The first would bear him company some part of his way, the second would lend him some money for his journey; and that was all they would or could do for him: but the third, whom he least respected, and from whom he expected least, would go all the way, and abide all the while with him; yea, he would appear with him, and plead for him. This man is every one of us; and our three friends are the flesh, the world, and our own conscience. Spencer.
The natural man's conscience often sleeps until guilt and remorse awaken it.
Conscience often slumbers in the natural man, and he thinks himself secure. The criminal at the bar is never judged by his own conscience, but by the full record of his case. This unconsciousness of guilt is but the calm before the storm of remorse that shall wreck the deluded soul.
Peace of conscience does not guarantee true religion; it must align with God's word.
When a man performs that which his judgment calls upon him to do, he finds great serenity of mind, and is like the upper region, wherein turbulent meteors make no confusion; so that you must never judge of the truth of any way in religion by the comfort and peace of conscience you find therein; for all Turks, Jews, papists, and heretics have much quietness of conscience in discharging that traditional religion they are brought up in, and would be much troubled in conscience to deny or apostatize from their way, until their consciences be rectified out of God's word. Burgess.
A perverted will can mislead conscience, causing people to follow a false moral course.
A number of mariners on a certain occasion, following infallibly the direction of the compass, finally found themselves in an enemy's port, where they were seized, and made slaves. The cause of this was, the captain, in order to betray the ship, had concealed a large loadstone at a little distance on one side of the needle. So men are misguided by a perverted will acting upon the conscience. They follow what course the conscience directs, and are led into moral bondage. The conscience is deceived by the will. Dr. McCosh.
Guilty conscience causes fear and misunderstanding even years after sin.
Two travellers put up for the night at a tavern. Early in the morning they absconded without reckoning with their host, also stealing from him a bag of beans. A few years after they passed that road in company again. Again they asked for lodgings at the same inn.
The identical landlord was yet at his post. In the evening the landlord was busy in one corner of the bar-room, talking in a suppressed voice with one of his neighbors, about a swarm of bees.
His two dishonest guests were seated in another part of the room, and indistinctly hearing the talk about bees, one says to the other, "Did not he say beans?"
"I think he did," was the reply; and quickly they were missing.
Mrs. Ramsay’s appeal to robbers’ conscience protected the Lord’s money from theft.
The Rev. Mr. Ramsay, a Methodist clergyman, was wholly dependent for his living on the quarterly collection made by his people, which was barely sufficient, by the greatest economy, to support his family. On the night that one of these collections was taken up, he was obliged to preach six miles distant from his home, and the night was too stormy to allow of his return. During the night, two robbers broke into his house, called up Mrs. Ramsay and her sister, (there were no men living in the house,) and demanded to know where the money was. Mrs. R., in her night dress, lit the candle, and leading the way to the bureau that contained the precious deposit, procured the key, opened the drawer, and pointing out the money as it lay in a handkerchief, said, "This is all we have to live on. It is the Lord's money. Yet, if you will take it, there it is." With this remark, she left them, and retired to bed. The next morning, the money, to a cent, was found undisturbed. Conscience here was appealed to, and with happy results.
A boy’s conscience led him to reject smuggled goods, valuing honesty over convenience.
A boy about nine years of age, who attended a Sabbath school at Sunderland, requested his mother not to allow his brother to bring home any thing that was smuggled when he went to sea. "Why do you wish that my child?" said the mother. He
Asylum. In returning from the apartments, I saw a man standing—fixed—immovable—like a pillar. I asked who that was. It was the son of Dr. Rush, who killed a man in a duel. There he stood like a pillar. Sometimes he would wake up to recollection; he would pace off the distance, and give the word 'Fire!' Then cry out, 'He is dead!'—he is dead!' This was the power of conscience. It had unsettled reason."
A man’s conscience tormented him so deeply he died without physical disease.
"In my early ministry," says Dr. Beecher, "I was called to attend a neighbor at East Hampton, Long Island. He was skeptical and intemperate. 'Pray for me,' he exclaimed, 'pray for me!'—pray for me!' 'You must pray for yourself,' I replied. 'Pray—I cannot pray! I am going straight to perdition!' He lived three days almost without food, and then died—so far as we know—without any disease." It was the power of conscience.
Lord Erskine followed his conscience faithfully, trusting God with the consequences.
Lord Erskine, when at the bar, was always remarkable for the fearlessness with which he contended against the bench. In a contest he had with Lord Kenyon, he explained the rule and conduct at the bar in the following terms: "It was," said he, "the first command and counsel of my youth, always to do what my conscience told me to be my duty, and leave the consequences to God. I have hitherto followed it, and have no reason to complain that any obedience to it has been even a temporal sacrifice; I have found it, on the contrary, the road to prosperity and wealth, and I shall point it out as such to my children."
A boy quit his job selling liquor, obeying conscience despite family hardship.
A young lad lived in Boston in 1843, whose mother was a widow, and supported herself by her work and the wages of her son, who was tending the grocery of one who sold ardent spirits. The little fellow had joined the cold water army; and his business of attending the tap-room, and drawing liquors for every loathsome drunkard became in consequence extremely irksome to him. He thought it was not right; he went home one night with a sorrowful heart, and told his mother he thought he was doing wrong, and believed he must quit the grocery. His mother told him that she could not pay her rent and support the little children, without the two dollars a week which he earned; and that he could get no other place. So he went back; but when Saturday night came, he told the grocer he must leave him. "Why?" "I can't feel it right to draw the liquor." "Well," said the grocer, "you and your mother will starve; but you may go." He went home with a heavy heart, and told his mother; and she felt wretchedly enough. But a temperance grocer heard of the case; and on account of the boy's leaving the rum grocer under such circumstances, he became deeply interested in his behalf. He admired the strength of his moral feelings, and accordingly took him into his own employment the next week.
A publisher’s conscience and prayer led him to give up sinful business practices.
T—B—, a publisher was brought under deep conviction for sin. His conscience reproved him severely, for he was a printer and vender of songs, and similar hurtful trash, in a very large way. On this business he principally depended for the support of himself and his family.
His employment in circulating such injurious publications caused him much trouble, and he consulted some Christian friends, who all advised him to relinquish such a business.
On this subject he afterwards wrote to some friends as follows:—"The great adversary of souls seemed to have much power over me. I thought, if I give up the song business, I might as well give up all, for I shall be sure to be ruined. These were my feelings for three or four months. At length, my sister came to visit me, to whom I made known my distress, and she recommended me to pray. Though I had heard much from the pulpit respecting prayer, it had never taken so much effect as at this time. However, Satan had not done with me; for I may suppose, and have often thought since, he did not like to lose so great a friend as I had been to him, in circulating my trash all over the country; but the Lord, who is sufficient for all things, soon trod him under foot. Having given up a portion of my time, three and sometimes four times a day, to prayer, I shortly after heard a funeral sermon preached from this text, 'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?' These words came to my heart with such force, that I determined from that moment never to print any more of my songs. The next morning I went to my work-room, and ordered all the forms of type to be distributed, as I intended never to print any more songs, but to trust to Providence for better means to provide for my family. My mind then seemed relieved from all trouble for a few days: but the constant applications I had from the country for my songs, and the money I was obliged to return, gave me great uneasiness. But the Lord was pleased to give me courage and perseverance to bear up amidst all those trials, and still to look to him for comfort and support, so that in a short time all those angry feelings wore off; and now, if my heart does not deceive me, I feel at peace with that God I so long lived in rebellion against."
Christian chiefs chose to give away found property, refusing to steal it.
Since the introduction of Christianity into the island of Taheiti, many interesting proofs have been given by the natives, of conscientious principles. Formerly, thieving was considered no crime; but such has been the effect of Christian instruction, that now the very reverse is exemplified. Mr. Ellis mentions the following circumstance, which happened shortly before his arrival there:—
Two Christian chiefs, Tati and Ahu-riro, were walking together by the water side, when they came to a place where a fisherman had been employed in making or sharpening hooks, and had left a large file, (a valuable article in Taheiti,) lying on the ground. The chiefs picked it up; and, as they were proceeding, one said to the other, "This is not ours. Is not our taking it a species of theft?" "Perhaps it is," replied the other; "yet, as the owner is not here, I do not know who has a greater right to it than ourselves." "It is not ours," said the former, "and we had better give it away." After further conversation they agreed to give it to the first person they met, which they did, telling him they had found it, and requested that if he heard who had lost such a thing, he would restore it.
Illustrates the inner conflict of conscience leading to doing what is right despite temptation.
An Indian, visiting his white neighbors, asked for a little tobacco to smoke, and one of them having some loose in his pocket, gave him a handful. The day following, the Indian came back, inquiring for the donor, saying, he had found a quarter of a dollar among the tobacco. Being told, that as it was given him, he might as well keep it, he answered, pointing to his breast, "I got a good man and a bad man here; and the good man say, it is not mine, I must return it to the owner; the bad man say, why he gave it you, and it is your own now; the good man say, that not right, the tobacco is yours, not the money; the bad man say, never mind, you got it, go buy some dram; the good man say, no, no, you must not do so; so I don't know what to do; and I think to go to sleep; but the good man and the bad kept talking all night, and trouble me; and now I bring the money back, I feel good."
Shows steadfastness in integrity and refusal to sin even under pressure at work.
A very respectable linen merchant in Coleraine offered Dr.
Clarke, when a youth, a situation in his warehouse, which was accepted by him, with the consent of his parents. Mr.
B— knew well that his clerk and overseer was a religious man, but he was not sensible of the extent of principle which actuated him. Some differences arose at times about the way of conducting the business, which were settled pretty amicably. But the time of the great Dublin market approached, and Mr. B— was busy preparing for it.
The master and man were together in the folding-room, when one of the pieces was found short of the required number of yards. "Come," says Mr. B—, "it is but a trifle. We shall soon stretch it, and make out the yard. Come,
Adam, take one end, and pull against me." Adam had neither ears nor heart for the proposal, and absolutely refused to do what he thought a dishonest thing.
A long argument and expostulation followed, in which the usages of the trade were strongly and variously enforced; but all in vain. Adam kept to his purpose, resolving to suffer rather than sin. Mr. B— was therefore obliged to call for one of his men less scrupulous, and Adam retired quietly to his desk. These things may be counted little in the life of such a man, but not so in the sight of God. Soon after Mr. B—, in the kindest manner, informed his "young friend," as he seemed always proud to call him, that it was very clear he was not fit for worldly business, and wished him to look out for some employment more congenial to his own mind; adding, that he might depend on his friendship in any line of life into which he should enter.
Demonstrates repentance and restitution prompted by a troubled conscience after wrongdoing.
The following account of a Quaker at Falmouth, England, is taken from McDonald's Life of the Rev. J. Benson. It was related by Mr. Woolcraft:
This man, unknown to his family and friends, had joined with some others in fitting out a privateer to act against the French, who had allied themselves to the American States while in arms against Great Britain. The privateer was successful, and when peace was concluded, there was a considerable dividend for the proprietors. The Quaker received his share among the rest; but his conscience reproached him for what he had done. He considered himself guilty of robbery. About this time he was brought by affliction to the gates of death, which greatly increased his distress. He frequently exclaimed, "Oh, that ill-gotten money!" Neither his wife nor friends knew what he meant. At length he resolved, that should the Lord raise him up, he would make restitution to the injured parties, if they could be found. The Lord did raise him up, and he sent his son to Paris with the sum, directing him to advertise in the Paris Gazette, that any person who had suffered by such a privateer, upon coming and proving his losses, would be refunded in proportion to his share in
# 100. CONSECR
Emphasizes that living by conscience includes readiness to die for the truth.
That was a pertinent and emphatical reply which a Fellow of Emanuel College, in Cambridge, made to a friend of his of the same college. The latter, at the Restoration, had been representing the great difficulties (as they seemed to him) of conformity in point of conscience, concluding, however, with these words, “But we must live.” To which the other answered only with the like number of words, “But we must
(also) die.” A better answer could not possibly be given.
Warns against compromising conscience even slightly, as it causes spiritual damage.
When Mr. Nathaniel Heywood, a nonconformist minister, was quitting his living, a poor man came to him, and said, “Ah! Mr. Heywood, we would gladly have you preach still in the church.” “Yes,” said he, “and I would as gladly preach as you can desire it, if I could do it with a safe conscience.” “Oh! sir,” replied the other, “many a man now-a-days makes a great gash in his conscience; cannot you make a little nick in yours?”
Challenges the excuse of self-preservation over standing boldly for truth.
An
American minister, who was earnestly exhorted to take a decided stand on the subject of slavery, excused himself by saying, “You know ministers must live!” “No,” said his friend, “I was not aware of that; I thought they might die for the truth’s sake!”
# ATION TO GOD.
sell goods, and schoolmasters to teach your children. You order your clerk to pay your schoolmaster out of the store such an amount, for his services in teaching. Now suppose your clerk should give out that he had to pay this schoolmaster his salary, and should speak of the sacrifices that he was making to do it, what would you say to this?” “Why,” said the merchant, “I should say it was ridiculous.” “Well,”
says the minister, “God employs you to sell goods as his clerk, and your minister he employs to teach his children, and requires you to pay his salary out of the income of the store. Now do you call this your sacrifice, and say that you are making a great sacrifice, to pay this minister's salary? No, you are just as much bound to sell for God, as he is to preach for God. You have no more right to sell goods for the purpose of laying up money, than he has to preach the Gospel for the same purpose. You are bound to be just as pious, and to aim as singly at the glory of God, in selling goods, as he is in preaching the gospel. And thus you are as absolutely to give up your whole time for the service of God, as he does. You and your family may live fully out of the avails of this store, and so may the minister and his family, just as lawfully. If you sell goods from these motives, selling goods is just as much serving God as preaching. And a man who sells goods upon these principles, and acts in conformity to them, is just as pious, just as much in the service of God, as he is who preaches the Gospel. Every man is bound to serve God in his calling, the minister by teaching, the merchant by selling goods, the farmer by tilling his fields, and the lawyer and physician by plying the duties of their profession."
Dishonest actions destroy character and can bring severe physical and spiritual consequences.
Robert Andrews, foreman to a respectable nurseryman at some distance from Philadelphia, who had lived with his employers ten years, and had a good character, one Saturday night, after applying for his wages, claimed pay for a young man up to that day, whom he had discharged some days before. His master said, looking him steadily in the face, "Robert, do you want to cheat me, by asking wages for a man that you discharged yourself eight days ago?" He had no sooner said this, than the miserable conscience-stricken man's blood forsook his face, as if he had been stabbed to the heart. When his master saw him so much affected, he told him that he might still labor as he had done, but that after such a manifestly dishonest attempt, his character, and the confidence in it, were gone for ever. On Monday, Robert made his appearance, but was utterly an altered man. The agitation of his mind had reduced his body to the feebleness of an infant's. He took his spade and tried to use it, but in vain; and it was with difficulty that he reached home. He went to bed immediately; medical aid was procured, but to no purpose, and the poor fellow sunk under the sense of his degradation, and expired on Wednesday forenoon! His neighbors who attended him, say, that a short time before he died, he declared, that the agony consequent on the loss of his character as an honest man, which he had for so many years maintained, was the sole cause of his death.
