In her earlier years, she was a teacher, a playwright, and a writer.
She then quit all and took up her time with Sunday School and ministering to the poor.
At the age of 22 she became engaged to a man for about six years but he resisted marrying her. She then gained £200 in annuity which enabled her to quit her job as a teacher. She then became active in the London Society. It was not until 1785-87, that she became converted, though there is no precise day of her conversion. This is when she began fellowship with John Newton and William Wilburforce, and others in the Evangelical Society.
In retirement, she wrote best-selling works of Evangelical piety, she was a keen patron of the British and Foreign Bible Society and continued active in the anti-slavery movement. She also founded the Religious Tracts Society.
"These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth." Hebrews 11:13
"Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul." 1 Peter 2:11
I thought I was once upon a time traveling through a certain land which was very full of people; but what was rather odd, not one of all this multitude was at home--they were all bound to a far distant country. Though it was permitted by the Lord of the land that these pilgrims might associate together for their present mutual comfort and convenience, and each was not only allowed, but commanded to do the others all the services he could upon their journey, yet it was decreed, that every individual traveler must enter the far country singly.
There was a great gulf at the end of the journey, which every one must pass along and at his own risk, and the friendship of the whole united world could be of no use in passing that gulf. The exact time when each was to pass was not known to any; this the Lord always kept a close secret out of kindness; yet still they were as sure that the time must come, and that at no very great distance, as if they had been informed of the very moment. Now, as they knew they were always liable to be called away at an moment's notice, one would have thought they would have been chiefly employed in packing up, and preparing, and getting everything in order. But this was so far from being the case, that it was almost the only thing they did not think about.
Now I only appeal to you, my readers, if any of you are setting out upon a little common journey, if it is only to London or York, is not all your leisure time employed in settling your business at home and packing up every little necessity for your expedition? And does not the fear of neglecting anything you ought to remember, or may have occasion for, haunt your mind, and sometimes even intrude upon you unseasonably? And when you are actually on your journey, especially if you have never been to that place before, or are likely to remain there, don't you begin to think a little about the pleasures and the employments of the place, and to wish to know a little what sort of a city London or York is?
Don't you wonder what is going on there, and whether you are properly qualified for the business or the company you expect to be engaged in? Do you never look at the map? And don't you try to pick up from your fellow-passengers in the stage-coach any little information you can get? And though you may be obliged, out of civility, to converse with them on common subjects, yet do not your secret thoughts still run upon London or York, its business, or its pleasures? And, above all, if you are likely to set out early, are you not afraid of oversleeping, and does not that fear keep you upon the watch, so that you are commonly up and ready before the porter comes to summon you? Reader, if this be your case, how surprised will you be to hear, that the travelers to the far country have not half your prudence, though bound on a journey of infinitely more importance, to a land where nothing can be sent after them, and in which, when they are once settled, all errors are not recoverable.
I observed that these pilgrims, instead of being upon the watch, lest they should be ordered off unprepared--instead of laying up any provision, or even making memorandums of what they would be likely to need, spend most of their time in crowds, either in the way of business or diversions. At first, when I saw them so much engaged in conversing with each other, I thought it a good sign, and listened attentively to their talk, not doubting but the chief turn of it would be about the climate, or treasures, or society they would probably meet with in the far country. I supposed they might be also discussing about the best and safest road to it, and that each was availing himself of the knowledge of his neighbor, on a subject of equal importance to all. I listened to every party, but in scarcely any did I hear one word about the land to which they were going, though it was their home, the place where their whole interest, expectation, and inheritance lay; to which also great part of their friends had gone before, and where they were sure all the rest would follow.
Instead of this, their whole talk was about the business, or the pleasures, or the fashions of the strange country which they now were merely passing through, and in which they had not one foot of land which they were sure of calling their own for the next quarter of an hour. What little estate they had was transitory and not real, and that was a mortgaged life-hold dwelling of clay, not properly their own, but only lent to them on a short, uncertain lease, of which seventy years was considered as the longest period, and very few indeed lived in it to the end of the term; for this was always at the will of the Lord, part of whose choice it was, that He could take away the lease at pleasure, knock down the stoutest inhabitant at a single blow, and turn out the poor, shivering, helpless tenant naked, to that far country for which he had made no provision.
Sometimes, in order to quicken the pilgrim in his preparation, the Lord would break down the dwelling by slow degrees--sometimes he would let it tumble by its own natural decay; for as it was only built to last a certain term, it would sometimes grow so uncomfortable by increasing wear, even before the ordinary lease was out, that the lodging was hardly worth keeping, though the tenant could seldom be persuaded to think so, but fondly clung to it to the last. First the thatch on the top of the dwelling (the hair) changed color, then it fell off, and left the roof bare; then "the grinders (the teeth) ceased because they were few;" then the windows (the eyes) became so darkened that the owner could scarcely see through them; then one prop fell away, then another, then the supports became bent, and the whole fabric trembled and tottered, with every other symptom of a falling house.
On some occasions, the Lord ordered His messengers (illnesses), of which he had a great variety, to batter, injure, deface, and almost abolish the frail building, even while it seemed new and strong; this was what the Landlord called giving warning; but many a tenant would not take warning, and was so fond of staying where he was, even under all these inconveniences, that at last he was cast out by ejection, not being prevailed on to leave his dwelling in a proper manner, though one would have thought the fear of being turned out would have whetted his diligence in preparing for "a better and a more enduring inheritance."
For though the people were only temporary tenants in these crazy dwellings, yet, through the goodness of the same Lord, they were assured that He never turned them out of these habitations before He had on His part provided for them a better one, so that there was not such another Landlord in the world; and though their present dwelling was but frail, being only slightly equipped to serve the occasion, yet they might hold their future possession by a most certain position, the Word of the Lord Himself, which was entered in a covenant, or title-deed, consisting of many pages; and because a great many good things were given away in this deed, a Book was made of which every soul might get a copy.
This indeed had not always been the case, because, until a few ages back, there had been a sort of monopoly in the case, and "the wise and prudent," that is, the deceitful and fraudful, had hidden these things from the "babes and sucklings," that is, from the low and ignorant, and many frauds had been practiced, and the poor had been cheated of their right; so that not being allowed to read and judge for themselves, they had been sadly deceived. But all these tricks had been put an end to, more than two hundred years ago. When I passed through the country, and the lowest man who could read might then have a copy, so that he might see himself what he had to trust to; and even those who could not read might hear it read once or twice every week at least, without pay, by learned men, whose business it was to teach this Book to the people.
But it surprised me to see how few comparatively made use of these vast advantages. Of those who had a copy, many laid it carelessly by, expressed a general belief in the truth of the title-deed, a general satisfaction that they would come in for a share of the inheritance, a general good opinion of the Lord whose Word it was, and a general disposition to take His promise upon trust; always, however, intending, at a "convenient season," to inquire further into the matter; but this convenient season seldom came, and this neglect of theirs was translated by their Lord into the forfeiture of the inheritance.
At the end of this country lay the vast gulf mentioned before; it was shadowed over by a broad and thick cloud, which prevented the pilgrims from seeing in a distinct manner what was going on behind it, yet such beams of brightness now and then darted through the cloud as enabled those who used a telescope (faith) provided for that purpose, to see "the substance of things hoped for;" but it was not every one who could make use of this telescope; no eye indeed was naturally disposed to it; but an earnest desire of getting a glimpse of the invisible realities, gave such a strength and steadiness to the eye which used the telescope, as enabled it to see many things which could not be seen by the natural sight. Above the cloud was this inscription: "The things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." Of these last things many glorious descriptions had been given; but as those splendors were at a distance, and as the pilgrims in general did not care to use the telescope, these distant glories made little impression.
The glorious inheritance which lay beyond the cloud, was called "the things above;" while a multitude of insignificant objects, which appeared contemptibly small when looked at through the telescope, were called "the things below." Now, as we know it is nearness which gives size and bulk to any object, it was not surprising that these ill-judging pilgrims were more struck with thesetrinkets and trifles, which by lying close at hand were visible and tempting to the naked eye, and which made up the sum of "the things below," than with the far-off glories of "the things above;" but this was chiefly owing to their not making use of the telescope, through which, if you examined thoroughly "the things below," they seemed to shrink almost down to nothing, which was indeed their real size; while "the things above" appeared the more beautiful and vast, the more the telescope was used.
But the surprising part of the story was this, not that the pilgrims were captivated at first sight with "the things below," for that was natural enough; but that, when they had tried them all over and over, and found themselves deceived and disappointed in almost every one of them, it did not at all lessen their fondness, and they grasped at them again with the same eagerness as before. There were some cheerful fruits which looked alluring, but on being opened, instead of wholesome fruit, they were found to contain rottenness, and those which seemed the fullest often proved on opening, to be quite hollow and empty. Those which were most tempting to the eye were often found to be wormwood to the taste, or poison to the stomach; and many flowers that seemed most bright and gay, had a worm gnawing at the root.
Among the chief attractions of "the things below," were certain little lumps of yellow clay, on which almost every eye and every heart was fixed. When I saw the variety of uses to which this clay could be converted, and the respect which was shown to those who could scrape together the greatest number of yellow lumps, I did not much wonder at the general desire to pick up some of them. But when I beheld the anxiety, the wakefulness, the competitions, the tricks, the frauds, the scuffling, the pushing, the turmoiling, the kicking, the shoving, the cheating, the scheming, the envy, the malignity, which were excited by a desire to possess this article; when I saw the general scramble among those who had little to get much, and of those who had much to get more, then I could not help applying to these people a proverb in use among us, that "gold may be bought too dear."
Though I saw that there were various sorts of trinkets which engaged the hearts of different travelers, such as a measure of red or blue ribbon, for which some were content to forfeit their future inheritance, committing the sin of Esau without his temptation of hunger; yet the yellow clay I found was the grand object for which most hands were scrambling and most souls were risked. One thing was extraordinary, that the nearer these people were to being turned out of their dwelling, the fonder they grew of these pieces of clay; so that I naturally concluded they meant to take the clay with them to the far country, to assist them in their establishment in it; but I soon learned this clay was not useful there, the Lord having declared to these pilgrims, that as they had "brought nothing into this world, they could carry nothing out."
I inquired of the different people who were raising the various heaps of clay, some of a larger, some of a smaller size, why they discovered such unceasing anxiety, and for whom. Some, whose piles were immense, told me they were heaping up for their children; this I thought very right, until on casting my eyes round, I observed many of the children of those very people had large heaps of their own. Others told me it was for their grandchildren; but on inquiry I found these were not yet born, and in many cases there was little chance that they ever would be. The truth, on a close examination, proved to be, that the true genuine heapers really heaped for themselves--that it was in fact neither for friend nor child, but to gratify an inordinate appetite of their own. Nor was I much surprised after this to see these yellow hoards at length began to "corrode, and their rust became a witness" against the hoarders, and would "eat their flesh as it were fire." (Your gold and silver have become worthless. The very wealth you were counting on will eat away your flesh in hell. This treasure you have accumulated will stand as evidence against you on the day of judgment. James 5:3)
Many, however, who had set out with a high heap of their father's raising, before they had got one-third of their journey, had scarcely a single piece left. As I was wondering what had caused these enormous piles to vanish in so short a time, I beheld scattered up and down the country all sorts of odd inventions, for some or other of which the vain possessors of the great heaps of clay had traded and bartered them away in fewer hours than their ancestors had spent years in getting them together. O, what a strange unaccountable hodgepodge it was; and what was ridiculous enough, I observed that the greatest quantity of the clay was always exchanged for things that were of no use that I could discover, owing, I suppose, to my ignorance of the manners of that country.
In one place I saw large heaps yellow clay spent in order to set two idle, pampered horses to running; but the worst part of the joke was, the horses did not run to fetch or carry anything, but merely to let the gazers see which could run fastest. Now this gift of swiftness employed to no one useful purpose, was only one out of many instances I observed of talent employed to no end.
In another place I saw whole piles of the yellow clay spent to maintain long ranges of buildings full of dogs. These provisions could have supplied some thousands of pilgrims who were sadly in need, and whose ragged dwellings were exhausted for lack of a little help to repair them.
Others were spent in playing with white stiff bits of paper painted over with red and black spots, in which I thought there must be some trickery, because the very touch of these painted pasteboards made the heaps fly from one to another, and back again to the same, in a way that natural causes could not account for. There was another proof that there must be some magic in this business, which was, that if a pasteboard with red spots fell into a hand which wanted a black one, the person changed color, his eyes flashed fire, and he discovered other symptoms of madness, which showed there was some witchcraft in the case. These clean little pasteboards, as harmless as they looked, had the wonderful power of pulling down the highest piles in less time than all the other causes put together.
I observed that many small piles of yellow clay were given in exchange for an enchanted liquor, which when the purchaser had drank to a little excess, he lost all power of managing the rest of his heap, without losing the love of it.
Now I found it was the opinion of sober pilgrims, that either hoarding the clay, or trading it for any such purposes as the above, was thought exactly the same offense in the eyes of the Lord; and it was expected that when they would come under His more immediate jurisdiction in "the far country," the penalty fixed to hoarding and squandering would be nearly the same.
While I examined the countenances of the owners of the heaps, I observed that those who I well knew never intended to make any use at all of their heap, were far more terrified at the thought of losing it, or of being torn from it, than those who were employing it in the most useful manner. Those who best knew what to do with it, set their hearts least upon it, and were always most willing to leave it. But such riddles were common in this odd country. It was indeed a very land of paradox.
Now I wondered why these pilgrims, who were naturally made erect, with an eye formed to look up to "the things above," yet had their eyes almost constantly bent in the other direction, riveted to the earth, and fastened "on things below," just like those animals who walk on all fours. I was told they had not always been subject to this weakness of sight, and proneness to focus on earth--that they had originally been upright and beautiful, having been created after the image of the Lord, and that He had placed them in a superior habitation, which He had given them years ago; but that their first ancestors fell from it through pride and disobedience--that upon this, the inheritance was taken away, they lost their original strength, brightness and beauty, became as dead, and were driven into this strange country; where, however, the Lord showed them mercy and restored life through His Son; and His likeness; for they had become disfigured, and had grown so unlike Him, that you would hardly believe they were His own children, though, in some, the resemblances had become again visible.
The Lord, however, was so merciful, that instead of giving them up to the dreadful consequence of their own folly, as He might have done without any impeachment of His justice, He gave them immediate comfort, and promised those who in due time His own Son should come down and restore them to the future inheritance which He should purchase for them. And now it was, that in order to keep up their spirits, after they had lost their estate through the folly of their ancestors, that He began to give them a part of their former title-deed. He continued to send them portions of it from time to time by different faithful servants, whom, however, these ungrateful people generally abused, and some of whom they murdered.
But for all this the Lord was so very forgiving, that He at length sent these rebellious ones a proclamation of full and free pardon by His Son, who, though they abused Him in a more cruel manner than they had done any of His servants, yet after having "finished the work His Father had given Him to do," went back into "the far country," to prepare a place for all those who believe in Him; and there He still lives, pleading for those he still loves and forgives, and will restore to the purchased inheritance on the terms of their being heartily sorry for what they have done, thoroughly desirous of pardon, and convinced that He is able and willing to "save to the uttermost all those who come unto God by Him."
I saw, indeed, that many old offenders appeared to be sorry for what they had done; that is, they did not like to be punished for it. They were willing enough to be delivered from the penalty of their sin, but they did not heartily wish to be delivered from the power of it. Many declared, in the most public manner, once every week, that they were very sorry they had done amiss--that they had "erred and strayed like lost sheep;" but it was not enough to declare their sorrow ever so often, if they gave no other sign of their penitence. For there was so little truth in them, that the Lord required other proofs of their sincerity besides their own word, for they often lied with their lips and deceived with their tongue. But those who professed to be penitents were neither allowed to raise heaps of yellow clay, or to keep great piles lying by them useless; nor must they barter them for any of those idle vanities which suddenly reduced the heaps; for I found that among the grand articles of future reckoning, the use they had made of the heaps would be a principal one.
I was sorry to observe many of the fairer part of these pilgrims spend too much of their yellow heaps in adorning and beautifying their dwellings of clay, in painting, whitewashing, and enameling them. All these tricks, however, did not preserve them from decay, and when they grew old, they even looked worse for all this cost and varnish. Some, however, acted a more sensible part, and spent no more upon their decaying dwellings than just to keep them whole and clean, and in good repair, which is what every tenant ought to do; and I observed that those who were most moderate in their care of their own dwellings, were most attentive to repair and warm the ragged dwellings of others.
But none did this with much zeal or acceptance but those who had acquired a habit of overlooking "the things below," and who also, by the constant use of the telescope, had gotten their natural weak and dim sight so strengthened as to be able to discern pretty distinctly the nature of "the things above." The habit of fixing their eyes on these glories made all the shining trifles which compose the mass of "things below," at last appear in their own smallness. For it was in this case particularly true, that things are only big or little by comparison; and there was no other way of making "the things below" appear as small as they really were, but by comparing them, by means of the telescope, with "the things above."
But I observed that the false judgment of the pilgrims ever kept pace with their wrong practices; for those who kept their eyes fastened on "the things below," were reckoned wise in their generation, while the few who looked forward to the future glories, were accounted by the heapers, to be either fools or mad.
Most of these pilgrims went on in adorning their dwellings, adding to their heaps, grasping "the things below" as if they would never let them go, shutting their eyes instead of using their telescope, and neglecting their title-deed as if it was the parchment of another man's estate, and not of their own, until, one after another, each felt his dwelling tumbling about his ears.
Oh, then what a busy, bustling, anxious terrifying, distracting moment was that! What a deal of business was to be done, and what a strange time was this to do it in! Now to see the confusion and dismay, occasioned by having left everything to the last minute. First someone was sent for to make over the yellow heaps to another, which the heaper now found would be of no use to himself in crossing the gulf--a transfer which ought to have been made while the dwelling was sound.
Then there was a consultation between two or three masons (physicians) at once, perhaps to try to patch up the walls, and strengthen the props, and stop the decay of the tumbling dwelling; but not until the masons were forced to declare it was past repairing--a truth they were rather too willing to keep back--did the tenant seriously think it was time to pack up, prepare, and be gone.
Then what sending for the 'wise men' who professed to explain the title-deed; and Oh, what remorse that they had neglected to examine it until their senses were too confused for so weighty a business! What reproaches, or what exhortations to others to look better after their own affairs than they had done! Even to the wisest of the inhabitants, the falling of their dwelling was a solemn thing--solemn, but nor surprising; they had long been packing up and preparing; they praised their Lord's goodness that they had been allowed to stay so long; many acknowledged the mercy of their frequent warnings, and confessed that those very dilapidations which had made the house uncomfortable had been a blessing, as it had set them on diligent preparation for their future inheritance, had made them more earnest in examining their title to it, and had set them on such a frequent application to the telescope, that "the things above" had seemed every day to approach nearer and nearer, and "the things below" to recede and vanish in proportion. These desired not to be "unclothed, but to be clothed with their heavenly dwelling;" for they knew if the earthly tent they lived in was destroyed, they had a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.
"These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth." Hebrews 11:13
"Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul." 1 Peter 2:11
Adoration is the noblest employment of created beings; confession, the natural language of guilty creatures; gratitude, the spontaneous expression of pardoned sinners. Prayer is desire; it is not mere conception of the mind, nor a mere effort of the intellect, nor an act of the memory; but an elevation of the soul towards its Maker; a pressing sense of our own ignorance and infirmity; a consciousness of the perfection of God, of his readiness to hear, of his power to help, of his willingness to save. It is not an emotion produced in the senses, nor an effect wrought by the imagination; but a determination of the will, an effusion of the heart.
Prayer is the guide to self-knowledge, by prompting us to look after our sins in order to pray against them; a motive to vigilance, by teaching us to guard against those sins which, through self-examination, we have been enabled to detect.
Prayer is an act both of the understanding and of the heart. The understanding must apply itself to the knowledge of the Divine perfections, or the heart will not be led to the adoration of them. It would not be a reasonable service, if the mind was excluded. It must be rational worship, or the human worshiper would not bring to the service the distinguishing faculty of his nature, which is reason. It must be spiritual worship, or it would lack the distinctive quality to make it acceptable to him who is a Spirit, and who has declared that he will be worshiped “in spirit and in truth.”
Prayer is right in itself as the most powerful means of resisting sin and advancing in holiness. It is above all right, as everything is, in which has the authority of Scripture, the command of God, and the example of Christ.
There is a perfect consistency in all the ordinations of God; a perfect congruity in the whole scheme of his dispensations. If man were not a corrupt creature, such prayer as the Gospel enjoins would not have been necessary. Had not prayer been an important means for curing those corruptions, a God of perfect wisdom would not have ordered it. He would not have prohibited every thing which tends to inflame and promote them, had they not existed; nor would he have commanded every thing that has a tendency to diminish and remove them, had not their existence been fatal. Prayer, therefore, is an indispensable part of his economy, and of our obedience.
It is a hackneyed objection to the use of prayer, that it is offending the omniscience of God to suppose he requires information of our needs. But no objection can be more futile. We do not pray to inform God of our needs, but to express our sense of the needs which he already knows. As he has not so much made his promises to our necessities as to our requests, it is reasonable that our requests should be made before we can hope that our necessities will be relieved. God does not promise to those who “lack”, that they shall have, but to those who “ask;” nor to those who need, that they shall “find,” but to those who “seek.” So far, therefore, from his previous knowledge of our needs being a ground of objection to prayer, it is in fact the true ground for our application. Were he not knowledge itself, our information would be of as little use as our application would be were he not goodness itself.
We cannot attain to a just notion of prayer while we remain ignorant of our own nature, of the nature of God as revealed in Scripture, of our relation to him, and dependence on him. If, therefore, we do not live in the daily study of the Holy Scriptures, we shall lack the highest motives to this duty and the best helps for performing it; if we do, the cogency of these motives, and the inestimable value of these helps, will render argument unnecessary, and exhortations superfluous.
One cause, therefore, of the dullness of many Christians in prayer, is their slight acquaintance with the sacred volume. They hear it periodically, they read it occasionally, they are contented to know it historically, to consider it superficially; but they do not endeavor to get their minds imbued with its spirit. If they store their memory with its facts, they do not impress their hearts with its truths. They do not regard it as the nutriment on which their spiritual life and growth depend. They do not pray over it; they do not consider all its doctrines as of practical application; they do not cultivate that spiritual discernment which alone can enable them judiciously to appropriate its promises and its denunciations to their own actual case. They do not apply it as an unerring line to ascertain their own rectitude or obligations.
In our retirements we too often fritter away our precious moments – moments rescued from the world – in trivial, sometimes, it is to be feared, in corrupt thoughts. But if we must give the reins to our imagination, let us send this excursive faculty to range among great and noble objects. Let it stretch forward, under the sanction of faith and the anticipation of prophecy, to the accomplishment of those glorious promises and tremendous threatenings which will soon he realized in the eternal world. These are topics which, under the safe and sober guidance of Scripture, will fix its largest speculations and sustain its loftiest flights. The same Scripture, while it expands and elevates the mind, will keep it subject to the dominion of truth; while, at the same time, it will teach it that its boldest excursions must fall infinitely short of the astonishing realities of a future state.
Though we cannot pray with a too deep sense of sin, we may make our sins too exclusively the object of our prayers. While we keep, with a self-abasing eye, our own corruptions in view, let us look with equal intentness on that mercy which cleanses from all sin. Let our prayers be all humiliation, but let them not be all complaint. When men indulge no other thought but that they are rebels, the hopelessness of pardon hardens them into disloyalty. Let them look to the mercy of the King, as well as to the rebellion of the subject. If we contemplate his grace as displayed in the Gospel, then, though our humility will increase, our despair will vanish. Gratitude in this, as in human instances, will create affection. “We love him, because he first loved us.”
Let us, therefore, always keep our unworthiness in view as a reason why we stand in need of the mercy of God in Christ; but never plead it as a reason why we should not draw near to him to implore that mercy. The best men are unworthy for their own sakes; the worst, on repentance, will be accepted for his sake and through his merits.
In prayer, then, the perfections of God, and especially his mercies in our redemption, should occupy our thoughts as much as our sins; our obligations to him as much as our departures from him. We should keep up in our hearts a constant sense of our own weakness, not with a design to discourage the mind and depress the spirits, but with a view to drive us out of ourselves in search of the Divine assistance. We should contemplate our infirmity in order to draw us to look for his strength, and to seek that power from God which we vainly look for in ourselves: we do not tell a sick friend of his danger in order to grieve or terrify him, but to induce him to apply to his physician, and to have recourse to his remedy.
Among the charges which have been brought against serious piety, one is, that it teaches men to despair. The charge is just in one sense as to the fact, but false in the sense intended. It teaches us to despair, indeed, of ourselves, while it inculcates that faith in a Redeemer which is the true antidote to despair. Faith quickens the doubting spirit, while it humbles the presumptuous. The lowly Christian takes comfort in the blessed promise that God will never forsake those who are his. The presumptuous man is equally right in the doctrine, but wrong in applying it. He takes that comfort to himself which was meant for another class of characters. The mal-appropriation of Scripture promises and threatenings is the cause of much error and delusion.
Some have fallen into error by advocating an unnatural and impracticable disinterestedness, asserting that God is to be loved exclusively for himself, with an absolute renunciation of any view of advantage to ourselves; but that prayer cannot be mercenary, which involves God’s glory with our own happiness, and makes his will the law of our requests. Though we are to desire the glory of God supremely; though this ought to be our grand actuating principle, yet he has graciously permitted, commanded, invited us to attach our own happiness to this primary object.
The Bible exhibits not only a beautiful, but an inseparable combination of both, which delivers us from the danger of unnaturally renouncing our own happiness for the promotion of God’s glory on the one hand; and, on the other, from seeking any happiness independent of him, and underived from him. In enjoining us to love him supremely, he has connected an unspeakable blessing with a paramount duty, the highest privilege with the most positive command.
What a triumph for the humble Christian, to be assured that “the high and lofty One who inhabits eternity,” condescends at the same time to dwell in the heart of the contrite– in his heart! to know that God is the God of his life; to know that he is even invited to take the Lord for his God. To close with God’s offers, to accept his invitations, to receive God as our portion, must surely be more pleasing to our heavenly Father than separating our happiness from his glory. To disconnect our interests from his goodness, is at once to detract from his perfections, and to obscure the brightness of our own hopes. The declarations of the inspired writers are confirmed by the authority of the heavenly hosts. They proclaim that the glory of God and the happiness of his creatures, so far from interfering, are connected with each other. We know but of one anthem composed and sung by angels, and this most harmoniously combines “the glory of God in the highest with peace on earth and good will to men.”
“The beauty of Scripture,” says the great Saxon reformer, “consists in pronouns.” This God is our God – God, even our own God shall bless us. How delightful the appropriation! to glorify him as being in himself consummate excellence, and to love him from the feeling that this excellence is directed to our felicity! Here modesty would be ingratitude – disinterestedness, rebellion. It would be severing ourselves from Him in whom we live, and move, and are; it would be dissolving the connection which he has condescended to establish between himself and his creatures.
It has been justly observed, that the Scripture-saints make this union the chief ground of their grateful exultation: “My strength,” “my rock,” “my fortress,” “my deliverer!” Again, “let the God of my salvation be exalted!” Now, take away the pronoun, and substitute the article the, how comparatively cold is the impression! The consummation of the joy arises from the peculiarity, the intimacy, the endearment of the relation.
Nor to the liberal Christian is the grateful joy diminished, when he blesses his God as “the God of all those who trust in him.” All general blessings, will he say, all providential mercies, are mine individually, are mine as completely as if no other shared in the enjoyment; life, light, the earth and heavens, the sun and stars, whatever sustains the body and recreates the spirits! My obligation is as great as if the mercy had been made purely for me! as great! no, it is greater – it is augmented by a sense of the millions who participate in the blessing. The same enlargement of personal obligation holds good, no, rises higher in the mercies of redemption. The Lord is my Savior as completely as if he had redeemed only me. That he has redeemed a great multitude, which no man can number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, is diffusion without abatement; it is general participation without individual diminution. Each has all.
In adoring the providence of God, we are apt to be struck with what is new and out of course, while we too much overlook long, habitual, and uninterrupted mercies. But common mercies, if less striking, are more valuable, both because we have them always, and for the reason above assigned, because others share them. The ordinary blessings of life are overlooked for the very reason for which they ought to be most prized because they are most uniformly bestowed. They are most essential to our support; and when once they are withdrawn, we begin to find that they are also most essential to our comfort. Nothing raises the price of a blessing like its removal, whereas it was its continuance which should have taught us its value. We require novelties to awaken our gratitude, not considering that it is the duration of mercies which enhances their value. We want fresh excitements. We consider mercies long enjoyed as things of course, as things to which we have a sort of presumptive claim; as if God had no right to withdraw what he has once bestowed, as if he were obliged to continue what he has once been pleased to confer.
But that the sun has shone unremittingly from the day that God created it, is not a less stupendous exertion of power than that the hand which fixed in the heavens, and marked out its progress through them, once said by his servant, “Sun, stand you still upon Gibeon.” That it has gone on in his strength, driving its uninterrupted career, and “rejoicing as a giant to run his course,” for six thousand years, is a more astonishing exhibition of omnipotence than that he should have been once suspended by the hand which set it in motion. That the ordinances of heaven, that the established laws of nature should have been for one day interrupted to serve a particular occasion, is a less real wonder, and certainly a less substantial blessing, than that in such a multitude of ages they should have pursued their appointed course, for the comfort of the whole system; Forever singing, as they shine, The hand that made us is divine.
As the affections of the Christian ought to be set on things above, so it is for those who his prayers will be chiefly addressed. God, in promising to “give to those who delight in him the desire of their heart,” could never mean temporal things; for these they might desire improperly as to the object, and inordinately as to the degree. The promise relates principally to spiritual blessings. He not only gives us these mercies, but the very desire to obtain them is also his gift. Here our prayer requires no qualifying, no conditioning, no limitation. We cannot err in our choice, for God himself is the object of it; we cannot exceed in the degree, unless it were possible to love him too well, or to please him too much.
We should pray for worldly comforts, and for a blessing on our earthly plans, though lawful in themselves, conditionally, and with a reservation; because, after having been earnest in our requests for them, it may happen that when we come to the petition, “your will be done,” we may in these very words be praying that our previous petitions may not be granted. In this brief request consists the vital principle, the essential spirit of prayer. God shows his munificence in encouraging us to ask most earnestly for the greatest things, by promising that the smaller “shall be added unto us.” We therefore acknowledge his liberality most when we request the highest favors. He manifests his infinite superiority to earthly fathers by chiefly delighting to confer those spiritual gifts which they less solicitously desire for their children than those worldly advantages on which God sets so little value.
Nothing short of a sincere devotedness to God can enable us to maintain an equality of mind under unequal circumstances. We murmur that we have not the things we ask amiss, not knowing that they are withheld by the same mercy by which the things that are good for us are granted. Things good in themselves may not be good for us. A resigned spirit is the proper disposition to prepare us for receiving mercies, or for having them denied. Resignation of soul, like the allegiance of a good subject, is always in readiness, though not in action; whereas an impatient mind is a spirit of disaffection, always prepared to revolt when the will of the sovereign is in opposition to that of the subject. This seditious principle is the infallible characteristic of an unrenewed mind.
A sincere love of God will make us thankful when our prayers are granted, and patient and cheerful when they are denied. He who feels his heart rise against any Divine dispensation, ought not to rest until by serious meditation and earnest prayer it be molded into submission. A habit of acquiescence in the will of God will so operate on the faculties of his mind, that even his judgment will embrace the conviction that what he once so ardently desired would not have been that good thing which his blindness had conspired with his wishes to make him believe it to be. He will recollect the many instances in which, if his importunity had prevailed, the thing which ignorance requested, and wisdom denied, would have insured his misery. Every fresh disappointment will teach him to distrust himself and to confide in God. Experience will instruct him that there may be a better way of hearing our requests than that of granting them. Happy for us, that He to whom they are addressed knows which is best, and acts upon that knowledge: “Still lift for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest; Secure whatever he gives, he gives the best.”
We should endeavor to render our private devotions effectual remedies for our own particular sins. Prayer against sin in general is too indefinite to reach the individual case. We must bring it home to our own heart, else we may be confessing another man’s sins and overlooking our own. If we have any predominant fault, we should pray more especially against that fault. If we pray for any virtue of which we particularly stand in need, we should dwell on our own deficiencies in that virtue, until our souls become deeply affected with our need of it. Our prayers should be circumstantial, not, as was before observed, for the information of Infinite Wisdom, but for the stirring up of our own dull affections. And as the recapitulation of our needs tends to keep up a sense of our dependence, the enlarging on our special mercies will tend to keep alive a sense of gratitude; while indiscriminate petitions, confessions, and thanksgivings leave the mind to wander in indefinite devotion and unaffecting generalities without personality and without appropriation. It must be obvious that we except those grand universal points in which all have an equal interest, and which must always form the essence of public prayer.
On the blessing attending importunity in prayer the Gospel is abundantly explicit. God perhaps delays to give, that we may persevere in asking. He may require importunity for our own sakes, that the frequency and urgency of the petition may bring our hearts into that frame to which he will be favorable.
As we ought to live in a spirit of obedience to his commands, so we should live in a frame of waiting for his blessing on our prayers, and in a spirit of gratitude when we have obtained it. This is that “preparation of the heart” which would always keep us in a posture for duty. If we desert the duty because an immediate blessing does not visibly attend it, it shows that we do not serve God out of conscience, but selfishness; that we grudge expending on him that service which brings us in no immediate interest. Though he grant not our petition, let us never be tempted to withdraw our application.
Our reluctant devotions may remind us of the remark of a certain great political wit, who apologized for his late attendance in parliament by his being detained while a party of soldiers were dragging a volunteer to his duty. How many excuses do we find for not being in time! How many apologies for brevity! How many evasions for neglect! How unwilling, too often, are we to come into the Divine presence; how reluctant to remain in it! Those hours which are least valuable for business, which are least seasonable for pleasure, we commonly give to religion. Our energies, which were exerted in the society we have just left, are sunk as we approach the Divine presence. Our hearts, which were all alacrity in some frivolous conversation, become cold and inanimate, as if it were the natural property of devotion to freeze the affections. Our animal spirits, which so readily performed their functions before, now slacken their vigor and lose their vivacity. The sluggish body sympathizes with the unwilling mind, and each promotes the deadness of the other: both are slow in listening to the call of duty; both are soon weary in performing it. How do our fancies rove back to the pleasures we have been enjoying! How apt are the diversified images of those pleasures to mix themselves with our better thoughts, to pull down our higher aspirations! As prayer requires all the energies of the compound being of man, so we too often feel as if there were a conspiracy of body, soul, and spirit to disincline and disqualify us for it.
When the heart is once sincerely turned to religion, we need not, every time we pray, examine into every truth, and seek for conviction over and over again; but may assume that those doctrines are true, the truth of which we have already proved. From a general and fixed impression of these principles will result a taste, a disposedness, a love, so intimate, that the convictions of the understanding will become the affections of the heart. To be deeply impressed with a few fundamental truths, to digest them thoroughly, to meditate on them seriously, to pray over them fervently, to get them deeply rooted in the heart, will be more productive of faith and holiness, than to labor after variety, ingenuity, or elegance. The indulgence of imagination will rather distract than edify. Searching after ingenious thoughts will rather divert the attention from God to ourselves, than promote fixedness of thought, singleness of intention, and devotedness of spirit. Whatever is subtle and refined is in danger of being unscriptural. If we do not guard the mind, it will learn to wander in quest of novelties. It will learn to set more value on original thoughts than devout affections. It is the business of prayer to cast down imaginations which gratify the natural activity of the mind, while they leave the heart unhumbled.
We should confine ourselves to the present business of the present moment; we should keep the mind in a state of perpetual dependence. “Now is the accepted time.” “Today we must hear his voice.” “Give us this day our daily bread.” The manna will not keep until tomorrow: tomorrow will have its own needs, and must have its own petitions. Tomorrow we must seek afresh the bread of heaven.
We should, however, avoid coming to our devotions with unfurnished minds. We should be always laying in materials for prayer, by a diligent course of serious reading, by treasuring up in our minds the most important truths. If we rush into the Divine presence with a vacant, or ignorant and unprepared mind, with a heart full of the world; as we shall feel no disposition or qualification for the work we are about to engage in, so we cannot expect that our petitions will be heard or granted. There must be some congruity between the heart and the object, some affinity between the state of our minds and the business in which they are employed, if we would expect success in the work.
We are often deceived both as to the principle and the effect of our prayers. When from some external cause the heart is glad, the spirits light, the thoughts ready, the tongue voluble, a kind of spontaneous eloquence is the result; with this we are pleased, and this ready flow we are willing to impose on ourselves for piety.
On the other hand, when the mind is dejected, the animal spirits low, the thoughts confused, when apposite words do not readily present themselves, we are apt to accuse our hearts of lack of fervor, to lament our weakness, and to mourn that because we have had no pleasure in praying, our prayers have, therefore, not ascended to the throne of mercy. In both cases we perhaps judge ourselves unfairly. These unready accents, these faltering praises, these ill-expressed petitions, may find more acceptance than the florid talk with which we were so well satisfied: the latter consisted, it may be, of shining thoughts floating on the fancy, eloquent words dwelling only on the lips; the former was the sighing of a contrite heart, abased by the feeling of its own unworthiness and awed by the perfections of a holy and heart-searching God. The heart is dissatisfied with its own dull and tasteless repetitions, which, with all their imperfections, Infinite Goodness may perhaps hear with favor. We may not only be elated with the fluency, but even with the fervency of our prayers. Vanity may grow out of the very act of renouncing it; and we may begin to feel proud at having humbled ourselves so eloquently.
There is, however, a strain and spirit of prayer equally distinct from that facility and copiousness for which we certainly are never the better in the sight of God, and from that constraint and dryness for which we may be never the worse. There is a simple, solid, pious strain of prayer in which the supplicant is so filled and occupied with a sense of his own dependence, and of the importance of the things for which he asks, and so persuaded of the power and grace of God, through Christ, to give him those things, that while he is engaged in it he does not merely imagine, but feels assured that God is near to him as a reconciled father, so that every burden and doubt are taken off from his mind. “He knows,” as John expresses it, “that he has the petitions he desired of God,” and feels the truth of that promise, “While they are yet speaking I will hear.” This is the perfection of prayer.