SOME THINGS WHICH GOD HATH JOINED.
"What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder." MATT. 19:6.
The primary reference of these familiar words is to the institution of marriage, every breach of which Jesus here condemns as a violation of the divine order. asunder what God has joined is, in this case, to loosen the basis on which society rests, and to involve not only the family, but the state itself, in confusion and ultimate ruin. But the primary is not necessarily the only application of the words. They remind us that it is an act of folly and presumption on our part to separate whatsoever the will and wisdom of God have joined together. For such connections are not arbitrary—dependent, that is, upon the divine will alone—but rest upon some inward and essential necessity inherent in the things themselves. And to disturb them is not merely to rearrange what may exist equally well in other relations; it is to destroy both what are thus disjoined, and what results from their combination or union. For instance, it holds universally true that privilege involves responsibility. These two God has joined together. But man has been continually trying to cut the connection. And many of our gravest social and political troubles have sprung from the fact that privilege has been grasped and enjoyed without the slightest acknowledgment of the obligation it entails. Again, it is no less true that God has associated labor and gain by a tie as old as the history of our race. But here again the connection has often been practically ignored, though never without loss. When labor is deprived of its legitimate fruits, a sense of injustice ensues which is sure to revenge itself at last. And when gain is acquired without proportionate labor, it breeds a feverish thirst for speculation, or inordinate idleness and luxury, which are equally ruinous in their effects.
But it is in relation to spiritual things this truth receives its most instructive and far-reaching illustrations. And it may be profitable to indicate some of the directions in which there is the strongest disposition to set it aside.
I. Two things which God hath joined together are religion and morality. That Scripture unites them is beyond dispute. Whatever may be said of the religion or of the morality of the Old Testament, considered in themselves, there is no denying that they always go together. In the Decalogue they form part of one homogeneous law, and they appear in the same intimate and inseparable relation in all subsequent legislation. Speaking generally, it is this which distinguishes the religion of Israel from heathenism, where both were not only degraded, but viewed as entirely distinct. And the New Testament is marked by precisely the same characteristic. Morality is simply a part of religion, or religion applied to conduct. As the will of God has fixed our present relationships, it is the same will which regulates and governs them in every particular. But against the union of these two there has always been a reaction, which has worked with varying degrees of intensity, and sometimes has threatened the existence of both. It has attempted not only to force them apart, but to array them in opposition to each other, as though morality at least could maintain a healthier and more vigorous life if it were relieved of the embarrassing alliance. And yet, just as religion divorced from morality ceases to be religion altogether, and degenerates into a blind fanaticism or superstition, so morality divorced from religion is deprived of its highest and most powerful sanction, and inevitably loses its completeness. It drops something which it would otherwise retain, and ceases to cover the extent of ground which it formerly occupied. Moreover, it changes its voice, for it can no longer use the categorical imperative with the same lofty confidence, but ultimately appeals to prudential or traditional considerations. And the experiment now being made to separate Christian morality from Christianity itself, and base it upon natural religion, though it may seem to be dictated by a regard for ethical interests, is no less dangerous. For it sets it upon a totally inadequate foundation. As has often been pointed out, Christian ethics enjoins certain virtues, such as chastity, which natural religion ignores. And the necessary result of the union of these two will be that morality will gradually be adapted to the basis on which it rests. It will cease, that is, to be Christian altogether, for a change in this one particular will work so large and subtle a revolution as to alter entirely its original character. To the two questions which every man is driven to ask—What is the source of moral obligation, or why can it be said of certain things that I ought to do them? and, What are the things which have a right to insist on being done?—to these Christianity alone provides a satisfactory answer. And the answer is, that certain things must be done because the Author of our nature has enjoined them, and what has thus been enjoined has been defined by the precepts and example of Christ, the perfect Man, who alone is competent to decide what is essential to the perfect development of our humanity.
II. Two other things which God has joined together are sin and retribution, or sin and its consequences. The fact of sin is too obvious to be denied, by whatever name we may choose to call it. And in a general way this is true also of retribution. But retribution does not always follow at once, and its delay excites the hope that by some device it may be averted. "Because sentence against a wicked work is not executed speedily, the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil." Sometimes also, when it does follow, it follows by instalments; and as these seldom all arrive in this life, it is assumed the outstanding balance will never arrive at all, —as if there were a law of prescription in the spiritual world, by which a man's liabilities terminated at death, or righteousness were so baffled and thrown off the scent by this change in our condition, it gave up the pursuit in despair.
There are several tendencies at work which increase the temptation to disjoin these two, and for some of them, so called scientific teaching is responsible.
There is, for instance, the disposition to look upon character as the creation of circumstances, or, to use the more technical expression, as the result of our environment. If by this it is meant that we are not responsible for what we are, or for what we do, the statement is palpably false. There is no civilized community which would admit such an argument in extenuation of crime. And it is disproved by the fact that personal freedom continually asserts itself with such force and determination as directly to contradict its environment. A child who has grown up under the most favorable conditions sets them boldly at defiance, and turns out a rogue; while another child who has been surrounded by a vicious and contaminated atmosphere may, in spite of every disadvantage, attain to moral purity and uprightness. But it is a pleasant gospel that tells men they are more sinned against than sinning; that their faults are due to their circumstances, not to themselves. And it is no wonder that under its influence the conviction of sin should virtually disappear. Again, it is asserted that thought is the result of physical conditions, and that moral distinctions are either due to an enlightened self-interest, or are the consequences of education. If this be granted, the sense of responsibility is almost necessarily weakened, if not practically destroyed. It is thrown on what may lie so far beyond a man's control as to release him from being answerable for the fruits of his actions, or it resolves the difference between right and wrong into something purely artificial.
But the most powerful solvent of the connection which we are now considering is found in false conceptions of God. Popular theology adopts the definition that God is love, its conception of love being framed in accordance with its own particular taste. But what is love? There is the love of money, of fame, and of eating and drinking. There is also the love which consists in personal attachment, and which either springs out of our natural relations, or ends in the relation of marriage. But no one can suppose that love in any of these senses is the love that is to be identified with God. It can only be love in the highest and best conception of the term; and the highest and best kind of love is love of the highest and best. And what is the best thing which takes precedence of every other, but goodness? So that when we say, "God is love," we mean that He loves goodness with such a supreme and infinite passion, there is no sacrifice He would hesitate to make in order to secure its ascendency. He would not even spare His only Son, but freely gave Him up for us all, to redeem us from the dominion of sin, and train us to perfect purity and strength. And, accordingly, St. John's assertion that love does not exist in a man until he is born again is a direct confirmation of this. For the love that originally governs our nature is the love of this world, or of ourselves, and not the love of goodness. And when this begins to be our ruling passion, when we seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, it indicates a change so complete it cannot be more adequately described than as a new birth.
The love, then, which God is said to be, is not that amiable benevolence or good will that so often, in our case, leads us to make light of moral distinctions, and which we imagine may induce Him to ignore our offences. On the contrary, it is a love that must ever maintain the connection between sin and its consequences, just because it can never cease to love righteousness and to hate iniquity. And when we read that "the wages of sin is death," let us remember that the very love of God itself is concerned in keeping this sequence inviolate. The universal burden of suffering that weighs upon the world, and the cry of perpetual anguish that rises from its heart, are enough to sober, if not to sadden, every joy. But it becomes almost intolerable when we venture to conceive of all this misery multiplied, and prolonged beyond the limits of thought. Yet, after all, suffering is not the great or ultimate problem. The ultimate problem is sin. And when we think merely of the suffering, does it not show we are more concerned with the bitter consequences of our transgression, than with the transgression itself? Is there not in us something of the spirit expressed in the cry, "My punishment is greater than I can bear," and that forgot in the prospect of the penalty the guilt of the offence? If it be true that there is such a thing as eternal sin, and the words of Christ seem to teach us there is[1]—a state, that is, in which a man is so wedded to, and one with his sin, that it has impressed itself indelibly upon him—is it so difficult to understand that there must also be eternal punishment? Would not the wonder be if this were not the case? If the love of God maintains the connection now, is the love of God to be different hereafter? And how can it be different without being either less or more?
III. Again, these two, faith and salvation, are indissolubly joined together of God. The connection here is often supposed to be unnecessary, but in reality there is none which is more deeply grounded in the nature of the things themselves. To say that salvation is by faith means simply that we cannot effect it for ourselves, and must receive it from someone else. But supposing this to be true, why, it may be said, might we not be saved without trusting the person who undertakes to save us? Might he not save us whether we trusted him or not? The answer is that salvation does not consist simply in a change of position or relations, but in a change of heart; and this cannot be accomplished without our consent. You cannot change the drunkard against his will, by compelling him to shift his residence, or by binding him down under extorted pledges. So long as his disposition and desire remain the same, it is evident he himself remains as he was. You can win him to sobriety only when you succeed in gaining his will to your side. In that and in nothing else lies his deliverance. So, Christ cannot save us unless we allow Him to do so. He has power to forgive sin, even the greatest. He can loosen our bonds, and purify our affections. But if we keep Him at such a distance that He can find no point of contact with us, it is plain He cannot work effectually either upon us or in us. Now, to afford Him this point of contact, to suffer Him to bring His redeeming love and grace to bear upon us, is faith. It brings us into connection with Him who alone can save us, by releasing us from the feeling of fear and insecurity which guilt creates, and winning us to the unreserved love of Himself, which is the love of perfect purity and truth. If salvation consisted in anything else than this, it might be dependent on the attainment of a certain amount of knowledge, the experience of an overpowering emotion, or the conscientious observance of a prescribed ceremonial. But it is obvious that, whatever results these may produce, they need not necessarily produce a change of character. A man may remain essentially the same, governed by the same ruling principles or considerations, though he know all mysteries, be deeply stirred by the truths which he hears, and make his whole life a series of formally devout and sacramental acts. Salvation consists in change of character, and even God cannot change our character without our consent.
It may be added still further, that if salvation implies faith, faith no less necessarily implies holiness. Holiness, indeed, is only salvation regarded from a different standpoint. It is salvation positively expressed or defined. It indicates the kind of character in which it consists. And this is determined by the character of Christ from whom it proceeds. For what is it that distinguishes Him morally from all other men but the fact that no one could convict Him of sin? "In Him was no sin." "And He is holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners." But Christ cannot be responsible for characters essentially unlike Himself. The good tree cannot bring forth corrupt fruit. And to be dependent on Him, to allow Him to rule over us, is to come and remain under the sway and supremacy of those forces which conform us to His likeness.
The necessary connection of these two, faith and holiness, may perhaps be seen more clearly if we consider what follows when we attempt to resolve it. Apart from holiness faith becomes a mere assent to some doctrinal proposition. For if it does not carry us to Christ, it fails to reach the source of life, and of the energy that transforms and purifies character. It is, therefore, doomed to sterility and barren It is what the apostle calls dead. On the other hand, if holiness be divorced from faith, it also degenerates into self-righteousness, or dead works, that is, into works done in our own strength, the outcome of a nature that draws only upon its original resources, and has not received either impulse or inspiration from Christ.
IV. As salvation and holiness are necessarily associated with faith, so also there is an equally close and inseparable connection between holiness and heaven. Heaven in the popular imagination is conceived mainly as a place, an enlarged and glorified garden of Eden, or as a golden city, such as St. John saw in vision, dazzling and brilliant beyond compare. But this is to mistake poetry for prose, and to treat the language of symbolism as literal description. And there is no doubt that this had obscured much of the teaching of Scripture, and frequently given a wrong direction to religious thought. It has impressed the mind so deeply through a large section of our hymnology and devotional literature, that the plain unfigurative language of Scripture has been thrown into the background by its more vivid and picturesque renderings. In other words, the truth has been interpreted by its symbolical representation, instead of the symbolism being interpreted by the truth symbolized. Now, you will notice that, in the Gospels, the kingdom of heaven is never regarded as a kingdom in a certain place, but always as a kingdom of a certain kind. It is the peculiar possession of the poor in spirit. It demands as a condition of entrance a righteousness that exceeds the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees. It does not come with observation. It is within us. Of the many things it is compared with, it is never compared with a place. And St. Paul's definition identifies it wholly with certain spiritual characteristics. It is "righteousness, joy, and peace in the the Holy Ghost." The state of the blessed dead is not locally described, except where the language is plainly figurative. It consists in being "with Christ," or "with the Lord."
Now, as salvation is holiness, and holiness is dependent on our fellowship with Christ, heaven is just this fellowship carried to perfection. And is not this true to the deepest experience of our human nature? To our highest happiness fellowship with others is absolutely essential. A place may be incomparably beautiful, tranquil, and stored with every kind of delight — a happy valley of Avilion,
"Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly;"[2]
but if there be nothing more, a craving will survive which it cannot satisfy, a sense of weariness and unrest that will become intolerable. Just as in Eden, otherwise complete, there was wanting the helpmeet, the congenial companion ship of a kindred spirit, to make it altogether an abode of bliss, so heaven would not be heaven did it not provide a fellowship for us, capable of satisfying every want of our nature, and of raising it all to its utmost limit of attainment. And this is provided in our being with Christ, perfect fellowship with whom involves perfect holiness, the absence of anything in us that might disturb or impair it, the presence of everything essential to the possession of His likeness.
Therefore, brethren, the gate of heaven is Christ. "I am the Door." And to come to Him is to enter into the heavenly kingdom, to take the first step in that upward ascent which culminates in being with Him for evermore. Let us place side by side two verses which occur at the beginning of St. John's Gospel, and look how the second supplements the first. "To as many as received Him, to them gave He power, or right, to become children of God." And then, "Except a man be born again" —that is, become a child of God—"he cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven." Conversely, everyone who receives Christ, and becomes a child of God, does enter into that heavenly kingdom. He is in it now, as it is already in him. It is about him, overcircling his life, penetrating him with its power, assimilating him more and more to its eternal purity. For the beauty of Christianity is that in Christ it brings down heaven to earth, and recruits our exhausted and enfeebled energies from a perennial fountain of strength. And have we not need of a faith like this, that shows us heaven always open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man? Surely sin has made a noisome and a bitter dwelling-place of this world of ours. Nay, more, it has made a hell in every heart, by kindling there the sparks of envy, hatred, and malice. And these have spread from point to point, and run into and reinforced each other till a slow fire of passion wastes and consumes the strength of humanity. And what is there that can cope with the heat of this unsatisfied desire and quench it? Nothing but the power of Christ, who quells the fiercest storms, and brings all the elements of evil under Him. Here is the secret of the transformation, here is the measure of the wonder it works: the secret of the transformation—"If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature;" the measure of the wonder—"Old things are passed away behold, all things are become new."
[1] Cf. Mark 3:23 (R.V. ).
[2] Morte d'Arthur, Tennyson
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