9 Sermon Illustrations on Conviction in Belief

Horace Bushnell, the great preacher, when he was a young man, was troubled with religious doubts. He was an instructor in Yale College when a gracious revival prevailed in that institution. Fearing lest he should stand in the way of younger men who might follow his example, he became troubled in mind exceedingly. He walked the floor of his room in deep study. At last he reached this conclusion: “There is one thing of which I have no doubt: there is a difference between right and wrong. Am I willing to throw myself on the side of right as far as I can see the right?” That ethical principle dissolved his doubts. (Text.)

There are instances of distressing fears on this subject, fears which, as the event shows, were unfounded. The following case is one; and one of the many which might be cited to show the truth of this. Mr. L. — had enjoyed the privilege of sitting under an able and successful ministry. His heart had been touched; and, during a remarkable period, in which he saw many of his friends embracing the hope of salvation, his own convictions increased. Not long after his feelings of impatience became sensitive. His attention was subsequently turned from its own proper object to one more nearly connected with our natural selfishness. He ceased to be an inquirer and became an objector. It is hard to stop here. Opposition succeeded a habit of objecting. An apparent bitterness of prejudice and malevolence of expression, were observable whenever he opened his lips on the subject of religion. Still the past day of conviction was a memorable time to him. Five years afterwards he was again roused to a sense of his danger. And with the alarm came the frightful recollection of his former conduct. Language which he had uttered—and which appeared nearly allied to blasphemy—returned fresh to his memory. He accused himself of having committed the unpardonable sin. All efforts to persuade him to the contrary were unavailing. The impression was daily deepening. His mind lost its elasticity; and a moody temperament succeeded. His friends were alarmed. A suspicion was started among them, that his conclusions might be just. This he marked, and labored to confirm it. He seemed to take a negative satisfaction in stating the desperation of his case; and in watching the fallen countenance of sympathy.

Many months had transpired, during which he was the subject of religious gossip with some, of a kind of superstitious dread with others, and of fervent prayer with a few of the remainder;—when the case was stated to a judicious minister, whom Divine Providence had called into the neighborhood. He waited on Mr. L., who, far from being averse to any conversation relative to his own state, seemed rather to court it. He was fluent in all his details of time and circumstance; and always ended his narrative with a declaration that he had ceased for ever to pray. After a preparatory interchange of remarks, he was asked, "You believe yourself guilty of the unpardonable sin?"

"I am sure of it."

"In what did the crime consist?"

"I opposed the work of God."

"So did Saul."

"I denied Jesus Christ." "So did a disciple afterwards honored by his master."

"I don't tell the power of Jesus Christ after strong evidence in his favor."

"So did Thomas."

"What? are you attempting to prove by such examples that I am a Christian?"

"Not at all: I am only inquiring into the nature of your guilt; and thus far I see no reason for despair."

"I have hated God," rejoined the self-condemned, "and openly avowed my enmity in sight of his Divine operations."

"Thus far your case is lamentable indeed; but not hopeless still. Our hearts are naturally at enmity with God. And I do not see why the open avowal of this, drawn out by the sight of the Law into visible form, must necessarily and always constitute the guilt of which you accuse yourself."

"I feel that I am cut off from salvation."

"It is difficult to reason against your feelings."

"But are they no proof on the present subject?"

"Let me inquire whether you desire the pardon of your sins?"

407. SL.

A sponge is, in one period of its history, a soft thing; but sponges become flints by a peculiar process. There are in sponges particles of flint or silex; these are ever attracting particles to themselves, until, in process of time, the whole mass is silicious matter and the once soft sponge has become perfectly hard.

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The religious ferment of the age made a tremendous impression on Bunyan’s sensitive imagination. He went to church occasionally, only to find himself wrapt in terrors and in torments by some fiery itinerant preacher; and he would rush violently away from church to forget his fears by joining in Sunday sports on the village green. As night came on the sports were forgotten, but the terrors returned, multiplied like the evil spirits of the parable. Visions of hell and the demons swarmed in his brain. He would groan aloud in his remorse, and even years afterward he bemoans the sins of his early life. When we look for them fearfully, expecting some shocking crimes and misdemeanors, we find that they consisted of playing ball on Sunday and swearing. The latter sin, sad to say, was begun by listening to his father cursing some obstinate kettle which refused to be tinkered, and it was perfected in the Parliamentary army. One day his terrible swearing scared a woman, “a very loose and ungodly wretch,” as he tells us, who reprimanded him for his profanity. The reproach of the poor woman went straight home, like the voice of a prophet. All his profanity left him; he hung down his head with shame. “I wished with all my heart,” he says, “that I might be a little child again, that my father might learn me to speak without this wicked way of swearing.” With characteristic vehemence Bunyan hurls himself upon a promise of Scripture, and instantly the reformation begins to work in his soul. He casts out the habit, root and branch, and finds to his astonishment that he can speak more freely and vigorously than before. Nothing is more characteristic of the man than this sudden seizing upon the text, which he had doubtless heard many times before, and being suddenly raised up or cast down by its influence.--WILLIAM J. LONG, “English Literature.”