“Whatsoever things are lovely, and pure, and of good report,” try and
gain them; but remember that all these things put together, without
faith, do not please God. Virtues, without faith , are whitewashed
sins. Unbelief nullifies everything. It is the fly in the ointment; it
is the poison in the pot. Without faith–with all the virtues of purity,
with all the benevolence of philanthropy, with all the kindness of
disinterested sympathy, with all the talents of genius, with all the
bravery of patriotism, and with all the decision of principle–you have
no title to divine acceptance, for “without faith it is impossible to
please God.”
Faith fosters every virtue; unbelief withers every virtue in the bud.
Thousands of prayers have been stopped by unbelief; many songs of
praise, that would have swelled the chorus of the skies, have been
stifled by unbelieving murmurs; many a noble enterprise conceived in the
heart has been blighted ere it could come forth by unbelief. Faith is
the Samsonian lock of the Christian: cut it off, and he can do nothing.
Peter, while he had faith, walked on the waves of the sea. But presently
there came a billow behind him, and he said, “That will sweep me away;”
and then another before, and he cried out, “That will overwhelm me;” and
he thought, “How could I be so presumptuous as to walk on the top of
these waves?” And as soon as he doubted, he began to sink. Faith was
Peter’s life-buoy–it kept him up; but unbelief sent him down. The
Christian’s life may be said to be always “walking on the water,” and
every wave would swallow him up; but faith enables him to stand. The
moment you cease to believe, that moment distress and failure follow. O,
wherefore dost thou doubt, then?
Christ “Altogether Lovely.”
In calling the Lord Jesus “altogether lovely,” the Church asserts that
she sees nothing in Him which she does not admire. The world may rail at
His cross and call it shameful; to her it is the very centre and soul of
glory. A proud and scornful nation might reject their King because of
His manger-cradle and peasant-garb, but to her eye the Prince is
glorious in this poor apparel. He is never without beauty to her; never
is His visage marred, or his glory stained. She presses His pierced feet
to her bosom, and looks upon their wounds as jewels. Fools stand by His
cross and find full many a theme for jest and scorn: she discovers
nothing but solemn reason for reverent adoration and unbounded love.
Viewing Him in every office, position, and relationship, she cannot
discover a flaw; in fact, the thought of imperfection is banished far
away. She knows too well His perfect Godhead and His spotless manhood,
to offer a moment’s shelter to the thought of a blemish in His
immaculate person; she abominates every teaching that debases Him; she
spurns the most gorgeous drapery that would obscure His beauteous
features; yea, so jealous is she of His honor, that she will hear no
spirit which doth not witness to His praise. A hint against His
undefiled conception or His unsullied purity would stir her soul to holy
wrath, and speedy would be her execration, and relentless her execution
of the heresy. Nothing has ever aroused the ire of the Church so fully
as a word against her Head. To all true believers this is high treason,
and an offence which cannot be treated lightly. Jesus is without a
single blot or blemish, “altogether lovely.”
Yet this negative praise, this bold denial of fault, is far from
representing the fulness of the loving admiration of the Church. Jesus
is positively lovely in her eyes. Not barely comely, nor merely fair,
His beauties are attracting beauties, and His glories are such as charm
the heart. Love looks forth from those “dove’s eyes, washed with milk,
and fitly set;” it flows from those “lips like lilies dropping
sweet-smelling myrrh,” and it sparkles on those hands which are “full of
gold rings, set with chrysolite.”
But although this utterance of the Church is the very climax of the
language of praise, and was doubtless intended as the acme of all
description, yet it is not possible that this one sentence, even when
expanded by the most careful meditation, should be able to express more
than a mere particle of the admiration felt. Like a son of Anak, the
sentence towers above all others; but its stature fails to reach the
towering height of Heaven-born love. It is but a faint symbol of
unutterable affection; a choice pearl washed on shore from the deep sea
of love.