SUFFERINGS AND GLORY
‘I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.’
‘I reckon,’ spoken by one who knew what sufferings meant.
I. The sufferings of this life.
(a) The sufferings of the early Christians of St. Paul’s time.
(b) The sufferings of ordinary Christians in peaceful times—(1) in mind, (2) in body, (3) in estate.
II. The glory which issues from sufferings.
(a) The sufferings must be rightly endured as coming from God for the purpose of discipline, and then—
(b) They work out glory—(1) the glory of humility, (2) the glory of patience, (3) the glory of holiness, (4) the glory of all these perfected in heaven.
Illustration
‘How blissful an employment will it be hereafter, in the mansions of the kingdom, to place the past sufferings and the present glory side by side, when at every stage of the comparison we are constrained to break out into astonishment and delight, “Who would have imagined such an issue? How little now do my trials appear! Who would not have passed through fifty times as much of sorrow to reach this blessed land? Ah, that illness; that disappointment; that loss: I see now wherefore it was sent: all was mercy. How could I ever be so impatient and disquieted! How little I knew its fruit! Hallelujah! for the sorrows, as for the joys of my pilgrimage, again I say, Hallelujah.” ’
(SECOND OUTLINE)
PREPARATION FOR GLORY
We are all passing, as many of us as are Christians, through the processes which are essential to the formation of the development of our final condition. You may call it, if you like, the school-time, which is preparatory to maturity; or, with some of us, still more strictly, it is the furnace, melting the material, making it capable of receiving the impression of its influence. And, if once we admit that thought, then immediately we hold a chain of reasoning, which justifies, nay, which reproves, nay, which rejoices in every sorrow; and which establishes a proportion between the degree of ‘the sufferings,’ and the degree of ‘the glory’ (for there are ‘degrees of glory’) which will more than reconcile every sufferer to the weight of his afflictions, however great.
I. The thought of the consummation, to which it is all preparatory, ought to be sufficient to swallow up all the pain of this present world.
(a) What, if the body ‘groans, being burdened’ with its infirmities, rent with its pangs, prostrate with its weaknesses—what, when it is all ‘but for a moment’—what, when it is leading on to that painlessness, when this body shall be capable of serving continually, with the most exquisite sense of delight? What are years spent upon a sick bed, when we think of an eternity of rapturous ministrations?
(b) Or, what is the anguish of this little life, which is being made shorter, by its own sufferings, to the rest which shall be for ever and ever, when we shall rest upon the bosom of God?
(c) And does not it become a very little matter to be very poor, for a few brief fast-flowing years, to him that can say, ‘Lo, I inherit all things’?
(d) Or, what if you be separated, for a season, from those who have made the very joy of life to you—do not you know that they are taken away for this very purpose, that, being made subjects of faith for a while, you may presently hold them again by a surer tenure, in an unclouded union? And may you not well look across the little valley of the separation, to that sweet fellowship of the soul, which is waiting for you, now, upon the mountain of light?
(e) And all the unkindnesses of this harsh world—its little sympathy, its hard judgments—will you not appreciate more the name, the sweet fellowship of the Church, breathing only love?
II. The problem solved.—St. Paul seems to say, ‘I have added up both sides, and I have struck the difference. I have counted the sufferings and the glory, and I have balanced them together, and I find them so wide asunder in their measure, one with another, that they are not even commensurate. I have gone through the problem in all its process, and “I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.” ’
Illustration
‘St. Francis de Sales was sent for to a labouring man, who greatly desired to receive his bishop’s blessing before his death. Francis found the sick man almost dying, but quite clear in mind. He was delighted to see his bishop, and said, “I thank God for the happiness of receiving your blessing before I die.” He then asked, “Sir, do you think I am dying?” Francis thought that some natural fear had come over the sick man, and he answered tenderly, that he had seen men quite as ill recover, but that the best thing was to put one’s whole trust in God, for life or death. “Oh, but, sir, do you think I am dying?” “My friend,” answered the bishop, “a doctor would be better able to tell you that than I am, but I am able to say that I think you well prepared to die, and possibly at a future time you might be less prepared to go hence. Your best course is to leave God to work out His will, which is sure to be the best and happiest thing for you.” “Oh, sir,” the man exclaimed, “I do not ask you this because I am afraid to die, but because of all things I am afraid of getting well.” Francis asked the sick man why he feared to live, a fear which is so contrary to nature. “Sir,” he answered, “this life is so worthless, I cannot think why men cling to it, and if I did not know that God wills us to abide here till He calls us, I should not be here now.” Such indifference to life surprised the bishop, who inquired if the old man had any hidden sorrow. “Far from it,” was the reply; “I am seventy, and so far I have had the blessing of perfect health, and I have never felt the sting of poverty; my home is happy, and if I have any regret in leaving this world, it is the parting with my wife and children.” “Whence then, brother, your longing to die?” Francis asked. “Sir,” the peasant answered, “every sermon I have ever heard has taught me so much concerning the joys of Paradise, that this world has gradually grown to look like a mere prison.” ’