God forgave Moses and Aaron for their sins, but both suffered the penalty. Neither one was permitted to enter the promised land. Jacob became a "prince of God" at the ford of Jabbok, but to the end of his days he carried in his body the mark of the struggle. Paul's thorn in the flesh was not removed, even after most earnest and repeated prayer. It lost its sting, however, and became a means of grace.
Perhaps that is one reason why God does not remove these penalties of sin. He may intend them to be used as tokens of His chastening. "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth." And if the temporal consequences were completely removed we would be liable to fall back again into sin. The penalty is a continual reminder of our weakness, and of the need of caution and dependence upon God.
One night in Chicago at the close of a meeting in the Y. M. C. A. rooms, a young man sprang to his feet and said: "Mr. Moody, would you let me speak a few words?"
I said, "Certainly."
Then for about five minutes he pleaded with those men to break from sin. He said:
"If you have anyone who takes any interest in your spiritual welfare, treat them kindly, for they are the best friends you have. I was an only child, and my mother and father took great interest in me. Every morning at the family altar father used to pray for me, and every night he would commend me to God. I was wild and reckless and didn't like the restraint of home. When my father died my mother took up the family worship. Many a time she came to me and said, Oh, my boy, if you would stay to family worship I should be the happiest mother on earth; but when I pray, you don't even stay in the house. Sometimes I would go in at midnight from a night of dissipation and hear my mother praying for me. Sometimes in the small hours of morning I heard her voice pleading for me. At last I felt that I must either become a Christian or leave home, and one day I gathered a few things together and stole away from home without letting my mother know.
"Some time after I heard indirectly that my mother was ill. Ah, I thought, it is my conduct that is making her ill! My first impulse was to go home and cheer her last days; but the thought came that if I did I should have to become a Christian. My proud heart revolted and I said: 'No, I will not become a Christian.'"
Months rolled by, and at last he heard again that his mother was worse. Then he thought:
"If my mother should not live I would never forgive myself."
That thought took him home. He reached the old village about dark, and started on foot for the home, which was about a mile and a half distant. On the way he passed the graveyard, and thought he would go to his father's grave to see if there was a newly-made grave beside it. As he drew near the spot, his heart began to beat faster, and when he came near enough, the light of the moon shone on a newly -made grave. With a great deal of emotion he said:
"Young men, for the first time in my life this question came over me--who is going to pray for my lost soul now? Father is gone, and mother is gone, and they are the only two who ever cared for me. If I could have called my mother back that night and heard her breathe my name in prayer, I would have given the world if it had been mine to give. I spent all that night by her grave, and God for Christ's sake heard my mother's prayers, and I became a child ot God. But I never forgave myself for the way I treated my mother, and never will."
Where is my wandering boy to-night-- The boy of my tenderest care, The boy that was once my joy and light. The child of my love and prayer?
Once he was pure as morning dew, As he knelt at his mother's knee; No face was so bright, no heart more true, And none was so sweet as he.
O, could I see you now, my boy, As fair as in olden time, When prattle and smile made home a joy, And life was a merry chime.
Go for my wandering boy to-night, Go, search for him where you will; But bring him to me with all his blight, And tell him I love him still.
My dear friends, God may forgive you, but the consequences of your sin are going to be bitter even if you are forgiven.
A few years ago I was preaching in Chicago on that text, "Arise, go up to Bethel and dwell there." After the meeting a man asked to see me alone. I went into a private room. The perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. I said:
"What is it?"
He replied: "I am a fugitive from justice. I am in exile, in disguise. The government of my state has offered a reward for me. I have been hidden here for months. They tell me there is no hell, but it seems as though I have been in hell for months."
He had been a business man, and having, as he thought, plenty of money, he forged some bonds, thinking that he could give his check any time and call them in, but he got beyond his depth and fell.