(A Letter to an Anxious Soul by one now with the Lord — No. 2.)
MY DEAR FRIEND, — Your letter was very welcome, and I desire from my heart to bless God for any gleams of comfort which He has imparted to your burdened and troubled spirit. I think I know well what you mean both by “the hardness of heart” of which you complain, and the sensations of which you say, “Sometimes I have felt as though my heart would break; and only those who have gone through it can know how miserable it is to feel that there is a fountain open where you may freely partake, but that something is keeping you back.”
Do not think me unkind when I advise you to remember that there is no merit in these unhappy feelings; nay more, that their continuance arises from unbelief; and that, therefore, they are not only bitter and painful feelings, but really sinful in their nature. What God desires is, that we should believe He speaks the truth to us when He declares that we have been the objects of His love; that His love to us has been such that He spared not His own Son; and that such is His delight in what Jesus has done and suffered, that through His blood — the blood of Jesus — He now makes us welcome to free forgiveness, to eternal life, to the joy of calling Him “Father,” and of casting ourselves into His arms of eternal mercy and love.
Your feelings are like those of a child who has grieved his father, and who knows that he has given his father good cause for being grieved. All that the father wishes is, that the child should own his fault, and be at once recoiled and forgiven, and there he waits ready to receive and caress the child. But the child’s heart is not yet brought down to this. He weeps and sobs, and becomes more and more excited and distracted; but still he lingers on the other side of the room, or somewhere at a distance from his father. Can it please the father’s heart to witness the sobs and struggles of his child? And how do they at last come to a close? By the child casting himself into his father’s arms, and sobbing out on his father’s bosom, “Father, I have done wrong, and been very much to blame indeed.” What a calm follows upon this! It is not that the reconciled and forgiven child is less sorry for having grieved his father than he was when sobbing and struggling away from his father’s bosom. No; he is now more deeply sorry than before; but the struggle — the anguish — is past, and he only wonders that he could so long have kept away from his father’s arms.
My dear friend, God is that Father. He reveals Himself as such in Jesus. He tells you in His Word that as soon as the prodigal’s face and steps were turned homewards, “when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.” And was the father in the parable kinder or more gracious than “the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ”? You know that the parable was spoken by Jesus Himself, on purpose to show us what His father is, and with what a welcome He receives each returning sinner. Doubt, then, not a moment longer. Believe God’s own account of Himself.
“Take the blessing from above,
And wonder at His boundless love.”
I wish I could relate to you, as it was once told to me, an account of a lady in Scotland, and of the way in which her doubts and anguish were removed. It was during a revival, in which several known to this lady had been brought to Christ. Among the rest, a particular friend of hers had been converted. Feeling some measure of concern herself, she went to a servant of Christ who was laboring in the place, and told him she was unhappy. He replied that he was glad to hear it. Astonished at this, and somewhat offended also, she told the minister what efforts she had made to obtain salvation; how she had read and prayed, but still seemed as far from peace as ever. He told her that it was not by anything she could do, but by what Christ had long since done and finished on the cross, that she was to be saved. All seemed dark and mysterious to her, and she left, resolving, however, to call on her friend who had recently been converted. She did so, and asked her what she had done to obtain the peace of which she spoke. “Done! I have done nothing! It is by what Christ has done that I have found peace with God.” The lady replied that this was what the minister had just been telling her, but that she could not understand it. She went home with her distress greatly increased; and shutting herself up in her room, she fell on her knees, resolving that she would never rise till her soul found rest and peace.
How long her agony continued I could not say; but nature became quite exhausted, and she sunk to slumber. While thus asleep, she dreamed that she was falling over a frightful precipice, but caught hold of a single twig, which overhung the abyss beneath. By this she hung, crying aloud for help, when a voice from below, which she knew to be the voice of Jesus, bade her let go the twig, and He would receive and save her. “Lord, save me!” she cried; but the voice again answered, “Let go the twig.” She felt as though she dare not leave hold, but continued crying, “Lord, save me!” At last, the One below, whose voice she heard, but whom she did not see, said, in the most tender, solemn tones, “I cannot save you, unless you let go the twig.” Self-desperate, she let it go, fell into the arms of Jesus, and the joy of finding herself there awoke her. The lesson taught her by her dream was not lost upon her. She perceived that Jesus was worthy of all her trust, and that not only did she need no twig of self-dependence, but that it was holding to the twig that kept her away from Christ. She let all go, and found Jesus all-sufficient.
Hoping to hear from you soon, that you also have relinquished every other hope, and fallen into the arms of Him whose arms were extended on the cross for you, I remain, yours prayerfully,