Street Meeting Thirty Sixth

The Lord's Day is the most laborious and strenuous day of all the week for me. How differently did I once spend it! When we were yet in religion, our concern after the accustomed duties were ended was where the family should spend the remainder of the day, what cinema we should attend, or at which fine restaurant we should eat. Thus I thought to render somewhat unto God, and reserve the rest unto ourselves.

I saw no great contradiction in it then. Having done those things which I accounted Christian, I persuaded myself that I had done God service, and the remaining hours might therefore be disposed of according to our own pleasure. I grievously decided what portion of the day God should receive, and was altogether insensible both to the command and to the duty of the day. Religion had received its portion, and self-indulgence might have what remained. How little did I understand that I was still my own master, even whilst imagining myself to be serving God.

This late evening, having at length secured all the chores remaining from the day before, I laid myself down with my whole body spent. This was the greatest bodily pain I had suffered at the close of any day for some while. My gout had returned with greater ferocity, and the whole of my right leg was much strained; while the left, forced to bear more of my weight, had itself become exceedingly weary. Limping, I scarcely reached the mattress before I collapsed upon it, somewhat feverish, both my legs cramped and throbbing with pain. I can say without exaggeration that I could hardly move. Yet there was one small pleasure in all this: I was ready to fall asleep. Sleep, which so often seemeth to flee from me when most desired, now appeared near at hand; and I was thankful even for this.

As I lay there, I found myself whispering again and again my utmost gratitude unto the Lord for permitting this aging body to be spent, I praised Him. I praised Him for the love of Christ; for the love which bindeth the brethren together; for the love of those who patiently teach the children; and for the love of the children whom He hath begun to gather amongst us. And lastly, I thanked Him for prayer—for permitting such poor creatures as we to ask anything of Him, and then for stooping to answer. 

The pain was real, and the weariness great; yet I could not wish that the strength had been kept merely for myself. Still, beneath the thanksgiving there arose another feeling which I could not easily put away. I felt how inadequate I was for the service of Christ. Even when I had spent what strength I possessed, it seemed so little to nothing. This poor body had given what it could and now lay scarcely unable to move; yet my heart could only confess that the offering was small compared with the worthiness of Him for whom it was spent. I was spent, but I had not spent enough.

And then I remembered the passion of my Lord, and how minute appeared all that I had suffered or done for Him that day. What was my little weariness beside His? What were these few aching hours beside that love which carried Him willingly unto the cross?

Yet I would not dwell upon my own wretchedness. My thoughts were drawn rather unto His great and unfathomable love, both toward saints and sinners. Indeed, I sometimes imagine that His patience is more tried by His saints than by the heathen. The heathen know Him not; but we know Him, have tasted of His kindness, received His promises, and been borne through innumerable infirmities by His hand, and yet how often do we grieve Him still! How dull our hearts, how slow our obedience, how ready our complaints. And nevertheless He carrieth His people in His bosom ever so tenderly.

Here my thoughts seemed unable to proceed much farther. I could not imagine how He doth it. To know all that is in us, to suffer so much from us, and yet to love and carry us still—this exceeded my understanding. I could only lie there, staring heavenward, and wonder at Him, as I did so countless times.

Four things this day came unto me as answers to prayer.

Firstly, it concerned the message for the fellowship service I had prepared upon our Lord's washing of the disciples' feet. This morning, when I looked upon what I had written, there seemed scarcely anything there worth keeping—a single page of poor notes; and yet with this I was presently to stand before the saints of the Lord. My flesh began immediately to pity itself and to doubt. And in one respect it had good cause. What is there to hope for in mine own unlearned understanding? I had but a few loaves in my hand, and a company before me that must be fed.

But when I brought the little I had unto the Lord upon my knees, He was pleased again to deal with me exceeding abundantly. What appeared so scant in preparation did not remain so when He gave liberty to speak. Thought followed thought, and those poor notes which had seemed insufficient became more than I knew how to find in them beforehand. This hath reminded me again where the abundance lieth. It is not in the loaf, nor in the hand that carrieth it. The Lord blesseth and giveth; I merely distribute. And therefore I need not possess much before I come unto Him. I need only bring Him what I have.

Secondly, the morning had been fair and sunny, but toward the afternoon the heavens grew gloomy and dark, and the forecast threatened rain. Yet my eyes were upon the Governor of the whole earth. I again brought the matter on my knees, and asked the Lord, if it pleased Him, to grant us a clear evening for the work; and with it to show this poor servant some token of His pleasure, that He would be with His message unto the people.

While we were upon the road, I looked up and beheld one of the most beautiful skies I can remember seeing. Thick clouds of a deep blue covered almost the whole heaven; yet beneath them, along the horizon, there remained a space through which the setting sun blazed forth in brilliant gold. The heavens were neither altogether dark with the rain nor altogether bright with the sun. The deep blue above and that burning gold beneath stood together in such wonderful contrast that I knew not how sufficiently to describe it. I found my heart strangely affected by the sight.

How is it that these common elements of the creation—cloud, light, distance, and color—being received through an eye which God Himself hath made, should be comprehended by the soul as beauty, and presently move that soul toward its Maker? This is beyond me. I only knew that I was looking upon something His hands had made, and that the sight of it caused me to praise Him. The heavens had not yet cleared as I had asked. But even before I knew what weather He would give us, He had already caused me to look upward. I asked for Father to affect the heavens, and He instead affected me.

Thirdly, when we arrived at the park, there were already many people about, as is commonly the case. To begin so late is inconvenient unto us; yet I have begun to observe that this later hour seemeth to be when many of the fishes come. The afternoon may be quieter, but toward evening the place is wonderfully filled with much people.

I sat therefore and waited upon the Lord, desiring to know where in His Word I should go, and pleading for His hand to be upon the message. Meanwhile there was my own voice continually urging, "Begin now; it groweth dark." My mind also began offering passages of its own choosing, as though it must presently settle the matter for me. But I dared not impose myself upon the King. If the message was His, it became me to wait upon Him for it. To trust mine own wisdom here would be to ruin the very thing I desired Him to bless. So I remained quiet.

After some while my thoughts were drawn unto the love of the Lord for sinners, and presently unto that great discourse upon love in the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians. Here my mind seemed at length to rest. Though I know not how, I was to speak of that great covenant love of God—love not as the world understands it, nor as some fleeting affection in the creature, but as it hath its fullness and perfection in God Himself. The lateness had been urging me to hurry; but I was thankful that I had waited. I would rather lose a little daylight, and maybe go home instead, than go before the King and assume His message.

Fourthly, the store across the street behind me had turned their speakers toward our direction, and the music which they played to draw customers was exceedingly loud. It overpowered my voice, so that I was obliged to lift it still more if the people before me were to hear. While speaking, I secretly pleaded with the Lord that He would be pleased to cause the music to cease. I knew not how long my voice could contend with it without shortly breaking down; and there remained much which I desired yet to say unto the people.

The Lord graciously heard me.

Without any prompting from us, the music suddenly ceased. I remember noticing the quiet while I was yet speaking, and my heart immediately acknowledged the hand of God. What had required me continually to strain my voice was simply taken away. Thus I was enabled to continue carrying the message for more than an hour. I attribute this unto my God, who heard the poor request of His servant whilst he was yet speaking. No man crossed the street to complain, neither did we ask the store to lower their music. I had asked the Lord; and the Lord was pleased to answer. It was a small prayer, uttered inwardly in the midst of preaching. But it reached Him, as it always hath.

Much yet remaineth to be told. The Father kindly brought again the children whom we had met and prayed for the week before, lacking only one; and this also I received as an answer to prayer. The brethren spent themselves amongst them, teaching these little ones something of the covenantal counsel of God.

I have no photographs whereby to preserve an account of this part of the day's labor. None were taken. But God hath a record, and this is enough. May He be pleased to own these small beginnings, and establish amongst the children of this park a work which is not ours but His. We may gather them, speak to them, pray for them, and return again another week; but we cannot put one grain of spiritual life into any child. That work belongeth unto the Spirit of God.

Oh, may He begin it amongst them.