Death Is A Private Affair
Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground
and die, it abideth alone: but if it die,
it bringeth forth much fruit.
He that loveth his life shall lose it...
He gives by halves who hesitates to give.
...Broome, Letter to Lord Cornwallis
Then there is an old fable about a beggar who sat every day by the roadside with his bowl and begged the passers-by to give him some rice. One day, as the story goes, he was sitting there when a prince came along. The prince ordered his carriage to stop, and he leaned out and what he said gave the beggar the surprise of his life. He asked the poor chap to give him what was in the bowl. Now apparently it had been a bad day for the beggar, and he had collected only half of a bowl of rice. Having a strong sense of self-preservation, he naturally demurred. To give this prince, who already had everything, his half-bowl of rice seemed the height of folly. But after a long and searching look from the prince, the beggar was disarmed and in a state of complete abandonment he held up his bowl. Whereupon the prince calmly took everything in it and drove on...
We'll get to the rest of the story after a bit, for if you have read it you know there is more and if you have not you know this is no way for a fable to end. No beggar ever got left dangling without a denouement in any fable worth its salt. And this beggar was no exception — but at this point it does seem as if he went overboard on the business of giving and his prospects look grim.
To be asked to share is easy, for we take that as a matter of course as a part of living. To be asked to give up something is not too difficult, for most of us are pretty generous. To be asked to
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give up much is a bit more difficult, however, for not many of us are noble. When it comes to giving up everything, a chosen few would rise to the occasion. But to be asked to give up everything, when "everything" means not only all that we have but all we do and plan to do and all that we are — staggers the imagination. Even when it is God who is doing the asking, it gives us quite a jolt. Wasn't conversion enough?
At first we cannot believe that He asked that. And then we find that He did. "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me" (Matt. 16:24).
Then we tell ourselves He couldn't really have meant it. And then we find that He did. "Whosoever... forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple" (Luke 14:33).
And now we find ourselves in the position of the poor beggar, who probably looked behind him, hoping the prince was speaking to somebody else and not making this outrageous demand of him. We tell ourselves Christ must have meant it just for the disciples and spiritual giants. We'll concede that He said it and even that He meant it — as long as He didn't mean us. But He did. "What? know ye not that — ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's" (I Cor. 6:19, 20).
So there is the whole offensive truth. For these
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are and always have been hard words, and many who heard them from Christ Himself turned away. It is still offensive to many of us today. But whether or not we accept it, it is still there, none the less, in black and white — written into the covenant Christ made with those who belong to Him. It is like the "small print" portion of a contract. We might stumble over it, find it a bother, or choose to ignore it — but we cannot do away with it. We are bound by the whole contract and all its terms, and if it is true that we have a right to its benefits it is equally true that we are committed to its demands.
And Christ unequivocally demands all of us.
If we have accepted the contract thus far, it is at this point that we begin to dicker. And it is at this point that our powers of specious reasoning reach such lofty heights that if it were not a time-wasting, strength-sapping tragedy, it would be ludicrous. There is no end to the pets and privileges we want to hang onto, and no end to the ingenious ways we can devise to make the culprits look legitimate. Bunyan knew this and exposed it with deadly accuracy in the dialogue between Prince Emmanuel and Diabolus' emissary, in The Holy War. Emmanuel had besieged the town of Mansoul, and Diabolus knew his defeat was imminent. But he was determined to salvage as much as he could, and sent out to Emmanuel's camp a chap who was thoroughly schooled in the
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art of dickering. This gentleman got right to the point. "In order that all may know how great a lord my master is," he said, drawing off his gloves, "he is willing to let you have half of Mansoul — either half you say."
"Mansoul is mine," said Emmanuel. "I will not give up half."
"Very well." The emissary gave in quickly. "Have it your way. Then he is willing to let you have all of Mansoul — with this proviso. That he be allowed to keep just one little part — any part you say."
"I will not give up one little part. I bought Mansoul with my blood. The answer is no."
"You are a hard man, sire," the emissary sighed. "Suppose — suppose my master Diabolus leaves Mansoul all to you — provided some of his relatives stay there and maintain their businesses. They won't bother anyone. Surely you cannot object to that."
"I do object to that."
"Ah," sighed the emissary with gentle patience. "You are being difficult. Very well then. My master and his relatives will move out. Provided he will be allowed to come back and visit on occasion."
"No. Mansoul is mine, twice mine. Mine by gift from my Father and mine by purchase. I cannot allow it."
"Just visit? A few days at a time? He wouldn't stay long."
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"No."
"May he send them gifts then — just an occasional token of his esteem and friendship? For old times' sake?"
"No."
"Letters perhaps?"
"No."
"Notes?"
"No."
The emissary drew on his gloves reluctantly and sighed again. "Well just suppose," he said innocently, "that someone in Mansoul had business that had to be done — shall we say in a certain way? And nobody but my master could help him? Could he meet him outside the city walls just long enough to transact the —"
"They shall have no business that my Father cannot handle. By prayer and supplication with thanksgiving they will let their requests be made known to Him."
The emissary walked slowly to the door and sighed again. "Very well," he said. "I shall tell my master your answers — eh — answer."
He had tried every loophole, every possibility. But there was only one answer. Prince Emmanuel unequivocally demanded all of Mansoul. Christ unequivocally demands all of us.
With the terms of the contract explained and the dickering dispensed with, there is only one thing left to do. It amounts to unconditional sur-
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render. And unconditional surrender means death to the power of the capitulating army.
"Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death..." (Rom. 6:4).
"Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die..." (John 12:24).
"Now if we be dead with Christ..." (Rom. 6:8).
"Reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin..." (Rom. 6:11).
"For ye are dead..." (Col. 3:3).
This was not an admonition for the prophets and apostles alone. It was for the great parade of Christians marching, "terrible as an army with banners," down through the ages.
It is for the spiritual giants.
George Muller said in a letter published in The Christian (British): "For the first four years after I became a believer in the Lord Jesus, it was for a good part in great weakness; but then it came with me to an entire and full surrender of heart. I gave myself fully to the Lord. Honors, pleasure, money, my physical powers, my mental powers, all were laid down at the feet of Jesus." He summed it up in one pithy sentence: "One day George Muller died."
Frances Ridley Havergal wrote: "I had hoped that a kind of table-land had been reached in my journey, where I might walk a while in the light, without the weary succession of rock and hollow, crag and morass, stumbling and striving; but I
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seem borne back into all the old difficulties of the way. I think that the great root of all my trouble and alienation is that I do not now make an unconditional surrender of myself to God; and until this is done I shall know no peace. I am sure of it." Well, Frances did just that. And it had a very practical effect on her life. She vouched for it years later when she said: "I've seen the light. And what you see you can never unsee. There must be full surrender before there can be full blessedness. God admits you by the one into the other." Frances is the writer of the hymn — "Take My Life..."
David Brainerd said in his journal in 1743: "I felt exceedingly dead to the world and all its enjoyments; I was ready to give up life, and all its comforts, as soon as called to it; and yet then had as much comfort of life as almost ever I had. Life itself appeared but an empty bubble; the riches, honors, and enjoyments of it extremely tasteless. I longed to be entirely crucified to all things here below. My soul was sweetly resigned to God's disposal of me; and I saw there had nothing happened to me but what was best for me... it was my meat and drink to be holy, to live to the Lord, and to die to the Lord."
Dwight L. Moody responded to the challenge, "The world has yet to see what God can do through one man completely yielded to Him," by crying out: "Let me be that man!"
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And it is for ordinary people.
Many years ago I knew a very ordinary girl who decided not to sleep or eat until she had settled the matter. That night she wrote out a statement declaring her own death, not unlike a death certificate, and listed all the things she thought she ought to die to. The more obvious things came first. She died to her pride, her ambition, her rights and desires, and all the rest of it. Then, of course, her faults. She was generous to a fault, trusting to a fault, too honest, too meek, and perhaps a wee bit quick to get righteously indignant when tried beyond the bounds of reason. Then came other faults which she preferred to call weaknesses. By 2 A.M. some of the real faults came to light, and by 3 A.M. the faults and attitudes and desires that were shocking to write down. Then came her assets, and that was more difficult than ever for it is when we die to our so-called "good points" that we really squirm. From 4 to 5 A.M. she walked the floor, asking God to show her more and more things to add to the list until at last it was as complete as she could get it, and then she gave Him carte blanche with regard to any omissions she may have made. Now all this was done with a great deal of soul searching, for the girl was desperately in earnest and did not want to sign it until, and indeed unless, she meant it. At last at 6 A.M. she did sign it, and it was a silent and solemn — and secret — moment.
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A bit dramatic? Perhaps. But this girl couldn't do anything without making a production out of it, and she did the thing in a way that was most meaningful to her. You die your way. She died hers.
There is no format, any more than there is a prescribed way to react to conversion. One person may walk down the aisle and accept Christ as the divine Son of God and as his Saviour with tears and demonstration. Another may make the same commitment quietly in the pew, in his car, or in the middle of an alfalfa field. But both have "believed on the Son of God" and stepped from condemnation into eternal life. Each has made this very personal transaction in his own way.
And so it is with complete capitulation to Christ. It is described as both full surrender and death to self, and the meanings are interchangeable. Some of us make the transaction at the time we are converted. Some of us stumble upon it later by one means or another. Some of us miss it entirely. And some of us choose to ignore it. Actually it is as much an ultimatum to the Christian as the terms of conversion are to the sinner. And it is not for the spiritual giants alone. It should be the norm.
And so we completely surrender ourselves and thereby die to our own plans, our own life, our own ambitions. What a dismal thought!
"What?" screamed old Mr. Unbelief to the gentry of Mansoul, in The Holy War, "Would you take the
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staff out of your own hands and give it to One with unlimited power? Do you realize you will no longer be your own?" He was so horrified at this prospect that he frothed at the mouth. That was when old Diabolus stepped in and suggested that some dickering might be in order. Surely such complete capitulation would be sheer insanity! A few provisos would light it up a bit.
But both Unbelief and Diabolus were carefully refraining from telling the gentry of Mansoul the whole story. They were withholding valuable information that would "comfort and benefit the opponent." It was their strategy to disclose only the first part and leave the picture a grim one. Indeed, if we stopped here, it would be a dreary business. But let's get back for a moment to the poor beggar in our fable and see how he made out.
He looked at the prince's carriage as it went on down the road, and his feelings were a queer mixture of elation, abandonment and wonder, for he had just done something beyond all reason. And then he sighed and then he sobered and got back to the business at hand. He began to cry out to passers-by and beg for rice and hold up his empty bowl — but wait a minute. It wasn't empty. He looked in it, incredulous. For every grain of rice the prince had taken, he had left a ruby...
And that is what changes the picture.
For if it is true that "Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death...," the rest
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of the verse is equally true: "that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life." If it is true that "Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone...," it is also true that "if it die it bringeth forth much fruit." If it is true that "Now if we be dead with Christ...," it is also true that "we believe that we shall also live with him." If it is true that you should "Reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin...," the rest is true: "but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord. And if this is true: "For ye are dead...," then so is this: "and your life is hid with Christ in God." Christ came that we "might have life, and... have it more abundantly."
George Muller established the famous orphanages at Bristol. His life is a legend. Frances Ridley Havergal's name is a household word. Countless thousands have been blessed by her hymns and devotional works. David Brainerd's work among the American Indians has made him immortal. He had a hard life, it is true, but here's what he thought about it: "I enjoyed such a heaven, as far exceeded the most sublime conceptions of an unregenerate soul; and even unspeakably beyond what I myself could conceive at another time." Dwight Moody's life was happier beyond anything he could have conceived. And the girl who signed her death certificate was capitulated into an un-
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dreamed-of ministry. Not one of them would have swapped what God gave them in return, for all the gold in the world.
Each one surrendered in his own way, according to his understanding of the matter, up to the light he had, and consistent with his own personality. Just as the capitulation is an individual matter — so are the rewards. God deals with us personally, as individuals, and he doesn't give any two of us exactly the same thing. Everybody's "bowl of rubies" means something different. In The Holy War, when the inhabitants of Mansoul went to Prince Emmanuel's love feasts at the palace, he discoursed with them on many subjects and before they left, gave each of them "secret gifts" and no two were the same. The kind of life He gives one will not be the kind of life He chooses to give another. It is not that He gives you the life you want, but that if you have "put on the mind of Christ," you want the life He gives you. And to take liberty with an old axiom: "One man's bowl of rubies is another man's poison." The life He chooses for one person might be unthinkable to another.
The life He chose for the woman in the following story was unthinkable to her family and to her friends. It even seemed so to her, at first. But He kept speaking to her about it, and when she had at last given up herself and surrendered to Him without reservation — she found it was the life she
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wanted. And from that moment, she could dream of doing nothing else.
Her name was Mathilde Wrede.
Her "bowl of rubies" was the presence of Christ, and having tasted this, she could settle for nothing less. The best things life had to offer could not stand up against it. And here is her story.
* * * * *
HE WHO LOSES HIS LIFE . . .
"He who finds his life shall lose it, and he who loses his life for my sake shall find it."
This is a story of a girl who lost her life — just threw it away — and she had a fabulous life to throw away, too. She was the daughter of the provincial governor of Vasa, Finland. The best things life could offer were hers — wealth — good family — education.... And the best things life could promise were hers to come — a good marriage — a brilliant social life — children.... But this made-to-order life took an unexpected twist and got mixed up with, of all people, prisoners. It was a most
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unlikely twist for a girl like Mathilde, and here is how it happened.
Mathilde was used to prisoners. She grew up in the midst of them — they were always on the grounds of her father's huge estate making repairs, tending the beautiful gardens. They were always watched by guards — they seldom spoke — they looked despondent or sulky or mean — or desperate. Being a little girl, she didn't think of them as people even — until one day when she was with her father on some business at the prison. She got tired of waiting and listening to grown-up talk, and wandered off, unnoticed. She opened doors and peeked in rooms — it was all great fun until she opened one door — and stood there, horrified. The smith was welding red hot irons on the ankles of some prisoners — they screamed in rage and pain as the guards held them down....
Mathilde closed the door quickly — and hurried back to the offices where her father was. A matron was frantically looking for her.
"Mathilde! Where have you been?"
"I — just down the corridor."
"Your father will be furious if he finds I have let you wander. He is about ready to leave. My child — you look so white — what is the matter?"
"Nothing. I — I want to go home."
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Mathilde was quiet on the way home, and all through dinner. And that night when her nurse put her to bed —
"And now we must tuck you in. Your French tutor comes first thing in the morning. You must have a good night's sleep so you will be fresh and bright. And then your music and then your dancing."
"Ingrid —"
"Yes, dear."
"This furniture — in my bedroom — and my sitting room. It was made by prisoners, wasn't it?"
"But of course. Your father had it made especially for you for your birthday. It is exquisite. Any little girl would be proud to own such —"
"Made by prisoners. I — I don't like it anymore. I used to think it was pretty, but now I don't like it."
"My child, you're crying. What is wrong?"
"Ingrid — " Mathilde's voice sank to a whisper. "They were burning the iron bands right on their skin. Right on their skin. I saw them. I peeked in the room and saw them. They screamed and screamed — " She burst into weeping. "I closed the door and ran and ran and ran but I could still hear them screaming."
And after that, prisoners were people —
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desperate, hopeless people. Mathilde's heart began to be conditioned for her life's work.
The years that followed were filled with music and languages and culture befitting a governor's daughter, and adding up to a life that would be of considerable account, as this world judges lives.
And then her sense of values got picked up by God and turned upside down, and nothing was ever quite the same again.
She went to a revival meeting. It was as simple as that. And she heard the golden words: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."
Mathilde Wrede — beautiful, talented and wealthy, who needed nothing from anyone — knelt before a holy God and confessed her need of Christ as her Saviour. She had never heard the verses:
"That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.
"For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation."
But she did not need to. It was in her heart, and she could not keep it to herself.
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She told her father first —
"Father — father!"
"Yes, Mathilde?"
"I'm saved."
"Do you feel all right?"
"Oh, I'm quite all right. Do you know the Lord Jesus died for you?"
"Yes, I expect He died for the whole world. I've never thought too much about it."
"I never did either until last night — 'gave his only begotten Son' suddenly came alive for me; 'that whosoever believeth on him' suddenly meant something. I realized that I never really believed until I was overwhelmed by it, brought to my knees by it. Then I believed and something happened to me."
"Mathilde, you're weeping." His voice was soft.
"I know. I want to do something. Tell someone. Tell everybody."
"My child. You act like one in love."
"I am in love. It is a love greater than one human being can have for another. I — I want to tell everyone."
And she did. It was too wonderful to keep to herself.
And then one day she struck up a conversation with a prisoner who worked on the grounds —
"Hello."
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"Good afternoon, Miss."
"Do you mind if I talk to you while you repair that door?"
"No, Miss. I don't mind."
"How long have you been a prisoner?"
"Fourteen years, it's been."
"Oh. I was a prisoner all my life, until a few weeks ago. Then I was pardoned."
"Do you feel all right, Miss?"
"Oh, quite. What were you condemned for?"
He stared at her for a minute. "For theft, Miss."
"I was condemned for unbelief. But someone paid the penalty for me. I had a pardon waiting for me and didn't even know it until a few weeks ago."
He straightened up slowly and looked at her in amazement. She laughed softly. "I wanted to make you curious."
The guard started toward them.
"It's all right," Mathilde said, "I want to talk to this gentleman. He's not bothering me." She turned back to the prisoner and spoke softly again, as if they were in conspiracy. "You are condemned to much more than prison. You are condemned to eternal separation from the God who made you. And the charge is worse than theft — the charge is unbelief. He who believeth, his sins are forgiven him and he hath eternal life. It says that in the Bible.
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There is pardon and forgiveness waiting for you if you will only take it."
He stared at her, incredulous. Both at what she was saying and that she, the governor's daughter, was saying it.
"There is another kind of hope and freedom," she went on quickly. "Born into the glorious freedom of being the sons of God." And then, "You weep, my friend."
"Yes, Miss. You should" — But then he stopped. She was the governor's daughter.
"I should what?"
"You should — I wish you could come out and tell us prisoners about it." He turned back to his task, embarrassed by his boldness. But Mathilde looked at him in new excitement.
"Why — why — I shall!" she cried. "I think I can get permission. Yes — I think I shall!"
And incredibly she did get permission. There were visits to the prison frequently after that — whenever they could be squeezed into her busy social life.
At first they were something to do — new and a bit frightening. And then they were a part of her, both draining and nourishing her. And then God brought her to the place where she would hold her life, as if it were a tangible thing, in her two hands and decide whether or not to throw it away....
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When it started, it didn't seem important. Not that important. She was in her sitting room with Ingrid.
"Ingrid, you will ruin your eyes in this light. Here. That's better. Oh — my lovely white gown."
"I am making an alteration. It is for tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night? Oh no."
"Have you forgotten you promised to accompany your father and some friends to the concert?"
"Ohhhh. I promised to go to the prison."
Ingrid sighed. "But this is more important, my dear. You cannot be running to the prison all the time. You are young. You owe something to yourself."
"Ohhh. And father will be hurt." she considered that. "All right — I'll go with father. I'll postpone my prison visit until later in the week."
It seemed simple enough. There were other times to visit the prisoners. Her father did need her. And she was young. She went to bed and to sleep.
But she slept fitfully. Uneasiness plagued her, and a vague feeling of guilt — and cries of prisoners, felt rather than heard, and then —
She sat up suddenly.
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There was a prisoner in her room — chains hanging from his hands and feet. He walked toward her — and stood looking at her with sorrowful eyes."What are you doing here?" she whispered. She did not know whether she was awake or asleep. But he spoke!
"Thousands of poor chained prisoners sigh for life, freedom — peace. Speak to them the Word of Him who can make them free, so long as you have time."
"Who — who are you?" she whispered. But he was already gone. It seemed so real, so real. But of course it was a dream. She stared into the darkness of her room beyond the moonlight. As long as I have time, she thought. And she knew it was no dream.
"Thou shalt go to all that I shall send thee, and whatsoever I command thee thou shalt speak." She could see no one in the room now, but she heard it clearly. As long as I have time, she thought.
"Get thee to them of the captivity and speak to them." She heard it again.
"Oh, God, God" — she spoke aloud this time. "I am not strong. I am so young —"
"He who loses his life for my sake shall find it."
It was quiet, so quiet.
"Then I give thee my life." She heard her
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own voice say it clearly, in the dark. Then she came suddenly alive, more alive than she'd ever been in her life before. "My life is thine." This time she cried it exultantly. And all the fear was gone and all the weakness and there was nothing left but love, too great to bear, too great to bear....
And so she threw her life away. For forty years, Mlle. Wrede, the Baroness Wrede, ministered to men and women behind prison bars. She ministered, and there streamed through her a strength and a depth and a hot sympathy for those prisoners, and a heart on fire for the Lord Jesus Christ.
She wasn't a "lady" slumming; she lived on the same fare as the prisoners and they knew it. Her ministry blazed down through the terrors that the Russian revolution had spilled over into Finland. She dealt with the worst of men and women, pointing them the way to the Saviour — she became a very part of their sufferings.
Many years later at Wiborg, where groups of prisoners were being dispatched to the Siberian mines for life — a slight figure made its way down a dark prison corridor and was let into a cell. It was Mlle. Wrede.
"Ah, my friend," she said, "You sent for me."
"Yes, Mlle. Wrede. I have something for you. I have been carving it for many weeks."
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"A brooch! Carved from ivory. It is exquisite, beautiful! But, my friend, where on earth did you get hold of ivory?"
"It is not ivory. I carved it from an old soup bone. It has been in the sunshine for a long time to dry out the particles of grease."
She examined it, incredulous. "You made this lovely jewel — from an old soup bone! Impossible!"
"But you have said that God can deliver a man as bad as I have been. The sun of His love can consume all my sins, as the power of sunshine has cleansed this bone."
"God bless you, my friend. You are —"
But the cries outside in the courtyard told them there was another batch of prisoners leaving for Siberia.
"I must go," she said quickly. "I shall see you again, my friend. And, oh, thank you!" She touched his hand and was gone.
As she crossed the courtyard, an arm stretched out through every grated window to her. And someone called out from the line of prisoners. "Farewell, thou dearest daughter of our Fatherland, thou true friend of the prisoners —" She stood, her arms outstretched, her face lifted: "Farewell, my dear friends. Look up! I shall see you again — when He comes!" And she said softly to herself: "Lord Jesus, come quickly!"
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She stood in the courtyard until they were out of sight, and then went back into the prison — the woman who, by all worldly standards, had thrown her life away.
Her last words, though, before she died a few years later didn't sound at all like the words of a woman who had lost all.
She said, "Tonight I cross the frontier. Can anyone be as happy as I!"
He who loses his life for my sake shall find it.
* * * * *
Now a story like this is discouraging indeed. If a frail little woman like Mathilde could dash off, lead a life of derring-do, and surmount seemingly insurmountable odds, what on earth are the rest of us doing? It is a problem that bears some discussion, for this is another point where we go amiss. After understanding the contract and accepting its terms thus far, it is a tragic thing to stumble here and spoil it all.
First, we have such a penchant for being influenced that even after being convinced in our souls that we are where God wants us to be, one whiff of another's life is enough to make us sniff and prick up our ears — and wonder if we'd got the thing quite straight after all. A missionary's
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fiery testimony that he was never really surrendered until he became a missionary leaves us a bit unsettled, for the implication is that if he is surrendered, then we, sitting there comfortable in the pews, cannot be. If we are, we wonder guiltily, how dare we be so comfortable.
Some of the most misleading exponents of surrender are those who would lead us to believe that the only way to "die" and be successful about it is to go into full-time Christian service. God does not say that. It is true that Moses dropped his sheepherding business and devoted the rest of his life to leading the Israelites from Egypt to Canaan. Noah dropped what he was doing and made building the ark and preaching righteousness his obsession.
But Christ let Zacchaeus go right back into business — only this time as an honest man.
He did not urge men into full-time service but sent them back into the world to live ordinary lives. And the touchstone of their surrender was that they were, whatever they were doing, completely His. To be completely His is to be in full-time service in any kind of life — "instant in season, out of season" — being "ready always to give... a reason of the hope that is in you."
Then there are other ways in which we can stumble at this point. For we also have a penchant for doubting that plagues us to the end, and a few unexpected turns in our course can catapult
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us into a limbo of uncertainty and make us wonder if we didn't perhaps make a mistake after all. Bunyan himself confessed that in the depth of his soul, the monsters Doubt and Unbelief periodically stirred and clamored for attention. Perhaps that is why old Mr. Unbelief was one of the arch-villains in The Holy War. After Mansoul's first great victory, old Diabolus' coup was his use of Unbelief and his army of doubters, and when they had at last been crushed by Captain Faith's army, he still managed to smuggle more of them in through his espionage campaign. And even John the Baptist, when he was in prison, sent messengers to Jesus asking Him if He were really the Christ after all, or should they look for another!
And alas, we are also such incurable busybodies that even if we are settled and sure of it, we have a penchant for openly or secretly wondering what God is doing about the other fellow and if that fellow is really in his right place. And is he is allowing himself something we have given up, how can he really be surrendered anyhow? We check him against our own list of "dos and don'ts," paste him up on a sort of spiritual graph, and sigh if it doesn't measure up. If he is measuring up we still cannot resist analyzing and wondering about his life or his ministry or his problems; our curiosity is insatiable. God's admonition concerning this particular "talent" of ours is that we bury it. Even Peter, after he had declared his love and
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received his commission and even been told in what manner he was to die, could not resist pointing to John and asking, "And what's he going to do?" God must feel strongly on the subject for it was one of the few times that Christ was really blunt. His tone of voice may not have been, but the words certainly were. He silenced Peter with one question. "If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? follow thou me." It was a question to end questions. Peter decided to keep quiet, doubtless being sorry he'd had the crass effrontery to ask. God is the same today, and would deal with us in the same manner. He admonishes us not to diagnose the other fellow's spiritual life, and says, "You follow me."
And so we follow Him. We give him all of ourselves, and unconditional surrender always means death to the power of the capitulating army. What we give depends upon what we are. What He may allow another, He may not allow us; what He takes from us, He may not have to take from another. From time to time our course may change; if we are wholly His it is not a mistake but another steppingstone in the complete plan. And from time to time He gives us someone to lean on and look up to — and when we are ready for it the crutch is gently removed, and if we cling, forcibly removed. And we stand alone again until we can say with the psalmist: "Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I
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desire." What the other fellow is doing or plans to do is not our business, for "we're us" and "he's him," and the unfathomable depths of us and of him are known only to God. We have the inclination to analyze and prescribe. He has both the power and prerogative.
