Yea, in the night, my soul, my daughter, Cry, — clinging Heaven by the hems ;
And lo ! Christ walking on the water Not of Gennesareth, but Thames.
1. "Know ye not that ye are the temple of God?" This is / the house our Kedeemer seeks, the wonderful inn of the soul. Let us go and look inside that inn, for it has many rooms, housing many varied interests, and we may exclude the Lord from them all. Let us walk through a few of the rooms. /
(1) There is first of all the room of the mind, the busy ^ realm of the understanding. Try to imagine the multitude of thoughts that throng that room in a single day. From waking moment to the return of sleep they crowd its busy floors. There they are, thoughts innumerable, hurrying, jostling, coming, going ! And yet in all the restless, tumultuous assembly, with the floor never empty, the Lord may have no place. " God is not in all his thoughts." There is no room in the inn.
^ One forenoon a stranger entered a publishing establish- ment in a Eussian city — I think in Moscow. He was dressed in very plain, homely garb. He quietly drew a manuscript out of his pocket, and requested that it be published. But the publisher, taking in his homely appearance with a quick glance of his shrewd, practised eye, answered him very curtly, refusing his request He said, " It's no use looking at your sketch. I really cannot be bothered. We have hundreds of such things in hand, and have really not time to deal with yours, even though you were in a position to guarantee the cost — which I very much doubt."
The stranger rolled up his manuscript, saying he must have been labouring under some misapprehension, as he had been told that the public liked to read what he wrote.
" The public like to read what you write ? " repeated the publisher, eyeing the rugged figure before him. " Who are you ? What is your name ? " The stranger quietly said, " My name is Leo Tolstoi," as he buttoned his coat over the rejected manu- script. Instantly the astonished publisher was on the other side of the counter, with most humble apology, begging the privilege
^ Bishop W. E. Collins, Hours of Insight, 117.
4
i6 NO ROOM
of publishing the manuscript. But the famous, eccentric genius quietly withdrew, with the coveted paper in his inner pocket.
There standeth One in your midst whom ye acknowledge not. And He does not tell us who He is, in the manner of the offended Kussian Count. He tells us plainly that He is here, looking keenly, listening alertly, noting all. The Christ of the manger is in our midst. Even though not acknowledged perhaps, yet He is not unknown ; He is not unrecognized. No one ever yet refused Christ admittance in ignorance of what he was doing, not really knowing whom he was crowding out. He may have failed to realize the seriousness of what he was doing, and the wonder of Him who was knocking; quite likely. But he knew that he was refusing entrance to Him who should be admitted. There is always a quiet, inner messenger making that unmistakably clear.^
(2) And here is another room, the room of personal affection and desire. It is the room where love lives and sings. And it is the room where love droops and sickens and dies. It is the room where impulse is born and where it grows or faints. It is the room where secret longing moves shyly about, and only occasion- ally shows itself at the window. It is the busy chamber of the emotions. And the Lord yearns to enter this carefully guarded room to make His home in the realm of waking and brooding affection. Is there any room for Him ?
^ That wondrous Christ is standing to-day at some heart- door pleading for entrance. Is it yours ? You attend the church service, and give a tacit acknowledgment to the claims of Christi- anity, and prefer life in a land that owes its prosperity and safety to this pleading One. Yet He is standing outside of the door of your heart. Is he ? He is, if He has not been let inside. The talented Holman Hunt, in his famous picture of Christ knocking at the door, reminds us that that door opens only from within. If you have not opened it, it is shut ; and He without, knocking ! strange ! ^
Strangely the wondrous story doth begin
Of that which came to pass on Christmas Day — "The new-born babe within a manger lay \ Because there was no room inside the inn." ^ No room for Him who came to conquer sin And bid distress and mourning flee away ! So in the stable He was fain to stay Whilst revelry and riot reigned within. 1 S. D. Gordon, The Crowded Inn, 25. ^ Ibid., 27.
ST. LUKE II. 7 17
And still the same old tale is told again:
The world is full of greed and gain and glee, And has no room for God because of them. Lord, though my heart be filled with joy and pain, Grant that it ne'er may find no room for Thee, Like that benighted inn at Bethlehem ! 1