The doctrine of the trespass-offering has been considered in our “Notes on Leviticus,” chapter v; and to that we must refer our reader, as we do not mean to occupy his time or our own in going into any points which have been already considered. We shall merely notice here the very important questions of confession and restitution. Not only is it true that both God and man are gainers by the Great Trespass-Offering presented on the cross at Calvary, but we also learn, from the foregoing quotation, that God looked for confession and restitution, when any trespass had been committed. The sincerity of the former would be evidenced by the latter. It was not sufficient for a Jew who had trespassed against his brother to go and say, I am sorry. He had to restore the thing wherein he had trespassed, and add a fifth thereto. Now, although we are not under the law, yet may we gather much instruction from its institutions; although we are not under the schoolmaster, we may learn some good lessons from him. If, then, we have trespassed against any one, it is not enough that we confess our sin to God and to our brother, we must make restitution; we are called upon to give practical proof of the fact that we have judged ourselves on account of that thing in which we have trespassed.
We question if this is felt as it ought to be. We fear there is a light, flippant, easy-going style in reference to sin and failure, which must be very grievous indeed to the Spirit of God. We rest content with the mere lip-confession, without the deep, heartfelt sense of the evil of sin in God’s sight. The thing itself is not judged in its moral roots, and, as a consequence of this trifling with sin, the heart becomes hard, and the conscience loses its tenderness. _This is very serious._ We know of few things more precious than a tender conscience. We do not mean a _scrupulous_ conscience, which is governed by its own crotchets; or a _morbid_ conscience, which is governed by its own fears. Both these are most troublesome guests for any one to entertain. But we mean a _tender_ conscience, which is governed, in all things, by the Word of God, and which refers, at all times, to His authority. This sound description of conscience we consider an inestimable treasure. It regulates every thing, takes cognizance of the very smallest matter connected with our daily walk and habits—our mode of dress, our houses, our furniture, our table, our entire deportment, spirit, and style, our mode of conducting our business, or if it be our lot to serve others, the mode in which we discharge the service, whatever it be. In short, every thing falls under the healthful moral influence of a tender conscience. “Herein,” says the blessed apostle, “do I exercise myself, to have _always_ a conscience void of offense toward God and men.” (Acts xxiv. 16.)
This is what we may well covet. There is something morally beautiful and attractive in this exercise of the greatest and most gifted servant of Christ. He, with all his splendid gifts, with all his marvelous powers, with all his profound insight into the ways and counsels of God, with all he had to speak of and glory in, with all the wonderful revelations made to him in the third heavens; in a word, he, the most honored of apostles and privileged of saints, gave holy diligence to keep always a conscience void of offense both toward God and man; and if, in an unguarded moment, he uttered a hasty word, as he did to Ananias the high-priest, he was ready, the very next moment, to confess and make restitution, so that the hasty utterance, “God shall smite thee, thou whited wall,” was withdrawn, and God’s Word given instead—“Thou shalt not speak evil of the ruler of thy people.”
Now, we do not believe that Paul could have retired to rest that night with a conscience void of offense if he had not withdrawn his words. There must be confession when we do or say what is wrong; and if there be not the confession, our communion will assuredly be interrupted. Communion, with unconfessed sin upon the conscience, is a moral impossibility. We may talk of it, but it is all the merest delusion. We must keep a clean conscience if we would walk with God. There is nothing more to be dreaded than moral insensibility, a slovenly conscience, an obtuse moral sense that can allow all sorts of things to pass unjudged—that can commit sin, pass on, and coolly say, “What evil have I done?”