16 Sermon Illustrations on Temptation And Sin

Thomas à Kempis has said, "First there comes to the mind a bare thought of evil, then a strong imagination thereof, afterward delight and evil motion, and then consent." His advice was, "Withstand the beginnings." If you apply a magnet to the end of a needle that moves freely on its pivot, the needle affected by a strong attraction approaches as if it loved it. Reverse the order, applying the magnet to the other pole, and the needle shrinks away trembling as if it hated it. One man rushes into the arms of vice; another recoils from it in horror. According as the nature it addresses is holy or unholy, temptation attracts or repels, is loved or hated. Our Lord Jesus said, "Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak" (Matthew 26:41).

We often say, "Flee from sin as from the face of a serpent." Perhaps very few of you know how a man feels, when, for the first time, he finds himself, as I remember finding myself, within a few inches of a serpent, — when he sees the cobra di capella rearing its head ready to strike, and knows that one stroke of those fangs is death, certain death. That moment he experiences a varied passion, impossible to describe. Fear, hatred, loathing, the desire to escape, the desire to kill, all rush into one moment, making his entire being thrill. Now, take two men: one is in the face of that serpent; the other is in the presence of the old serpent called Satan, the Devil: one is in danger of the sting; the other is in danger of committing sin. Which of the two has most reason to flee? O thou! that art tempted to sin this day against God, flee from sin as from the face of a serpent: a far deadlier serpent is that old serpent the Devil than the other.

— W. Arthur

"The Chronicles of Froissart" relate the issue of a siege, which took place in the days of chivalry, and somewhere, I think, in France. Though gallantly defended, the outworks of the citadel had been carried. The breach was practicable: to-morrow was fixed for the assault. That none, alarmed at the desperate state of their fortunes, might escape under the cloud of night, the besiegers guarded every sally-port, and, indeed, the whole sweep of wall. They had the garrison in a net, and only waited for the morrow to secure or to slaughter them. The night wore heavily on: no sortie was attempted; no sound came from the beleaguered citadel; its brave but ill-starred defenders seemed to wait their doom in silence. The morning came: with its dawn, the stormers rushed at the breach; sword in hand, they poured in to find the nest empty, cold. The bird was flown, the prey escaped. But how? That was a mystery: it seemed a miracle, till an opening was discovered, that led by a flight of steps down into the bowels of the rock. They descended, and explored their way with cautious steps and lighted torches, until this subterranean passage led them out a long way off from the citadel, among quiet, green fields, and the light of day. It was plain, that, by this passage, the doors of which stood open, their prey had escaped under cover of night. A clever device, a wise precaution. It was a refuge of the besieged, provided against such a crisis. And when affairs seem desperate, and the worst has come to the worst, how should it encourage God's people to remember that he has promised them as safe a retreat! Dr. Guthrie.

Bishop Janes visited a sick reprobate, who cried at his approach, "Art thou come to torment me before my time?" He could not move the hardened man. A second visit met with the same reception. The bishop learned that he had once been appointed a class-leader by Mr. Wesley; but, in an hour of sore temptation, he fell. He died in despair, crying, "I am lost, lost, lost!"

A sentinel posted on the walls, when he discerns a hostile party advancing, does not attempt to make head against them himself, but informs his commanding officer of the enemy's approach, and leaves him to take the proper measures against the foe. So the Christian does not attempt to fight temptation in his own strength: his watchfulness lies in observing its approach, and in telling God of it by prayer. W. Mason.

The cockatrice, or basilisk, the king of serpents, is said to have sprung from the egg of a cock hatched under toads or serpents. On his head was a crest or crown: his body was covered with scales like a coat of mail, and supported by short limbs. One species burned up whatever they approached; another caused immediate death by their look. This fearful snake had his mortal foe in the shape of the little weasel, who never shrank from the encounter, and never failed to vanquish him.

The parents of Henry H— had placed him in the university of G—, and they hoped, fondly hoped that he would be their stay in their declining years. Oh! how that fond father watched over him while he was pursuing his collegiate studies. And when he received his honors at the university—when he received his honors at the hands of his instructors, together with their blessing—when his Alma Mater gloried in having his name enrolled upon her records—then the fond parents received him with open arms, and rejoiced that their son had returned, and had fulfilled all their expectations. In an evil hour he consented to make one of a social party, to celebrate some anniversary. The wine flowed freely and plenteously, and for some time he withstood the jests and banterings of his companions, and refused the proffered glass. At length, by the persuasions of one of his dearest friends, he took the first glass, and finding that his spirits became more buoyant, he took another and another, until Alcohol usurped the throne from which Reason had fled abashed—and the proud scholar fell drunk upon the floor. He, who had so often before bid defiance to the tempter, and had battled manfully against all its arts, had been seduced by his kind friends, and in one short night the toil of years had been swept away! Henry never recovered from that fall. No kind persuasions of his doting parents—no influence that was exerted by his dearest relatives, could save him. Headlong he rushed into the dark abyss of intemperance, and in a few weeks filled a drunkard's grave!

Rev. Caleb Benson, a minister of my acquaintance, was invited by a lady in Plymouth, Mass., to visit her daughter who was lying at the point of death. As he entered the room and commenced with her, he inquired why she wished to see him. She said, she had only consented to see him for the sake of gratifying her friends, that it would do her no good to be visited by him or any other minister. He asked why. She said, the time had been when her mind was powerfully wrought upon by God's Spirit, and occupied with serious thoughts about her eternal welfare. She was convinced then, that she was a guilty, condemned sinner, that she needed pardoning mercy. Her convictions, instead of being of a transient character, had distressed her for months. At length she was invited to be present at a ball, or party of pleasure. She was respectfully and urgently solicited by her young and unconverted acquaintances to attend. But conscience strongly remonstrated—she felt convinced that if she went to that scene of vain amusement, it would be jeopardizing the interests of her soul. Still Satan urged her to accede to their requests. While she was preparing to go, however, and while she was on her way to the place where the gay circle met, she felt that she was doing wickedly, and that if she joined them, perhaps God would leave her to herself, and her soul be lost for ever. She came near the house—she hesitated—doubting whether to go in or not. But at last she yielded to the suggestions of Satan and tremblingly crossed the threshold. But no sooner had she entered and begun to participate in the evening's amusements, than her convictions all left her. Since that time she said, she had had no compunctions of conscience whatever;—powerful preaching, personal appeals, judgments and mercies, and even the firm belief that she must soon die, had not affected her hard heart, or awakened the least anxiety of mind. Her case she said was hopeless. The minister told her that Christ had saved a Manasseh, a Mary Magdalen, the thief upon the cross, the persecuting Saul, and that he was able to save her. Yes, she said, she knew all that; she knew he was able to save all that came unto him for mercy, but she had no desire to come—that the Spirit had taken its flight and left her to hardness of heart, and blindness of mind. Mr. Benson proposed prayer; but she told him his prayers would do her no good. She consented, however, to gratify her friends, that he should pray; "but in prayer," says Mr. Benson, "I had no unction, no liberty. Heaven seemed closed against all my petitions in her behalf." It was a heart-rending case. "You will hear in a short time, Mr. Benson," said she, "that I am gone, but remember that my soul is lost." He visited her afterwards, but gained no satisfaction; the wretched girl died as she had lived, without hope and without God.