SERMON I. THE PROGRESS OF VICE: THE FIRST STAGE.

IT is a maxim confirmed by the experi⯑ence of ages, That few become abandoned to vice all at once. If they who have be⯑come moſt profligate, had foreſeen, at their firſt ſetting out, the full extent of that de⯑pravity and guilt under which they now ſit down without concern or remorſe, they would have ſickened at the proſpect, and ſhrunk back with horror and deteſtation. Sin is of an inſinuating, deceitful, encroaching nature. It is with reaſon that the Scriptures ſo often repreſent it as a departing from God. The firſt ſtep carries us but a little from the right road; every ſtep removes us a little farther from it; at length the diſtance becomes immenſe, and [2] we know not how to return. They proceed from evil to evil, is not a deſcription only of one nation peculiarly degenerate: it is appli⯑cable to every vicious perſon. Evil men always wax worſe and worſe ^*. Whoever engages in any ſinful courſe, will find it difficult not to go forward; and ſtill more difficult the farther he has gone. A man of an ingenuous mind cannot think of committing the ſmalleſt ſin without reluctance; by forcing himſelf to commit it, he learns to repeat it with leſs re⯑luctance; ſoon after he takes pleaſure in it; in conſequence of this he commits it often; by being often committed, it becomes habitual, and depraves the whole temper of his ſoul.

IN order to put you on your guard againſt the deceitful inſinuations and ſucceſſive en⯑croachments of vice, I propoſe to trace out the ordinary ſteps of the ſinner's progreſs from evil to evil. However numerous they are, they may be naturally reduced to three general ſtages.

THE firſt, comprehends thoſe ſteps of men⯑tal indulgence by which irregular inclinations and vicious paſſions are inwardly cheriſhed, till they break forth into overt acts of ſin:

[3]THE ſecond, thoſe ſteps by which, in conſe⯑quence of wilful ſin, vicious habits are con⯑tracted, ſtrengthened, and multiplied:

THE third, the confirmation of the cor⯑rupted heart in profligate wickedneſs and en⯑mity againſt religion.

THE Pſalmiſt points at a very ſimilar diſ⯑tribution. Bleſſed is the man that walketh not in the counſel of the ungodly, nor ſtandeth in the way of ſinners, nor ſitteth in the ſeat of the ſcorn⯑ful ^*. Three gradations of vice are diſtinctly marked. At firſt a man walks in it, indulges himſelf only in tranſient acts: next he ſtands in it, his wickedneſs is habitual: at laſt he be⯑comes ſo inflexible and obdurate, that he ſits down ſatisfied in his degeneracy. At firſt, he is occaſionally ſeduced by liſtening to the coun⯑ſel of the vicious, by corrupting communica⯑tion, or by ſome ſtrong temptation: then he ſpontaneouſly takes the ſame way with them, and cuſtomarily conforms to their evil prac⯑tices: and at length he is not only confirmed in his own wickedneſs, but becomes one of the ſcornful, ridicules virtue and religion, and la⯑bours to corrupt thoſe who have not yet abandoned them. The body of ſin has its [4] periods of growth, analogous to thoſe of man's natural life. In its infancy, it is kept alive and cheriſhed by favourable circum⯑ſtances; its ſtrength is inconſiderable; it may eaſily be reſtrained or deſtroyed. In its youth it becomes robuſt and ungovernable; it can ſupport itſelf; it is impetuous, un⯑controulable, and violent in all its exertions. When it has reached maturity, its conſtitution is fixt, its operations determined, its force irreſiſtible, and it arrogates authority to tutor men in wickedneſs.—Each of the three ſtages into which we have diſtinguiſhed the pro⯑greſs of vice, will furniſh ample matter for a ſeparate diſcourſe.

THE firſt of them ſhall be our preſent ſub⯑ject. It includes that train of mental indul⯑gences, by which irregular inclinations and vi⯑cious paſſions are inwardly cheriſhed, till they break forth into overt acts of wilful tranſ⯑greſſion. When luſt hath conceived, it bringeth forth ſin ^*. If the deſire of a forbidden object, or the deſire of obtaining any object by unlaw⯑ful means, be not checked as ſoon as it be⯑gins to riſe, it becomes the embryo of vice, and grows and ripens into open wickedneſs.

[5]TOO often, it muſt be acknowledged, its growth is extremely quick; it is conceived, formed, and born almoſt in the ſame hour. Many have never been taught to attend to the difference between right and wrong: they are regardleſs of it, and care little how they act. Their paſſions have been ſeldom curbed; and have become ſo violent by the time they are capable of vice, that they hurry them into one ſin after another, juſt as they find an op⯑portunity of committing it. But ſuch as have received a virtuous and pious education, are generally for ſome time modeſt and harmleſs, ſhocked with the baſeneſs of vice, and afraid to venture on it. Their faults are chiefly thoſe of ignorance, or infirmity, or inadvertence. Theſe ſeldom throw off the impreſſions of their education all at once; often they efface them by ſlow and painful touches.

YOUNG perſons are gradually introduced into the world. Temptations meet them, and obtrude themſelves upon them. The good things of this world, naturally, and in them⯑ſelves innocently deſireable, appear in ſituations in which they cannot reach them but by un⯑lawful means: evils to which they are neceſ⯑ſarily averſe, are ſo placed that they cannot avoid them without ſin. In the ſimplicity of his heart, the youth paſſeth through the ſtreet, [6] near the corner where vice hath her abode; un⯑knowing, unſuſpicious, he goeth the way to her houſe ^*. The ſorcereſs caſts herſelf in his way: ſhe puts on her moſt dazzling attire; ſhe co⯑vers her face with ſmiles; ſhe confidently promiſes him eaſe, pleaſure, riches, or enjoy⯑ment; ſhe importunately urges him to taſte her delights, and to ſhare her treaſures. More fortunate, we ſhall ſuppoſe, than the young man void of underſtanding, whom Solomon diſ⯑cerned among the youths ^†, he reſiſts her attacks. It is much if he does. But, to give you the more alarming view of the multiplied dangers of corruption to which the beſt guarded in⯑nocence is obnoxious, we ſhall ſuppoſe that, after the temptation, he continues as averſe to vice as before: let him be even more careful to ſhun the like occaſions of hazard to his virtue.

BUT, in this ſtate of probation, the greateſt care cannot prevent our falling into tempta⯑tion, almoſt every day. He again finds him⯑ſelf in circumſtances which invite him, perhaps more urgently, to the ſame or to ſome other vice. He retreats not with ſufficient ſpeed: he guards not his heart with ſufficient diligence. Elated with hs former victory, he is confident [7] of his own reſolution. He apprehends no great difficulty in repelling this temptation likewiſe; he has little dread of falling before it; he becomes ſecure and negligent. His ſe⯑curity, it is highly probable, will quickly be⯑tray him into ſin. With the beſt intention of firm attachment to his Lord, with full confi⯑dence that he never would be offended becauſe of him, that though he ſhould die with him, he would not deny him ^*, Peter followed Jeſus into the judgment-hall: but there he was unexpectedly aſſaulted by a temptation to deny him, and he was inſtantly overpowered by it ^†. Un⯑dervaluing an enemy, has often occaſioned a defeat. If you become inſenſible of the power of temptation, you are loſt. It is only by keeping at as great a diſtance from it as poſ⯑ſible, and by reckoning every temptation for⯑midable to human weakneſs, that you can be ſafe.

BUT ſuppoſe your ſenſe of duty ſo ſtrong, as to reſtrain you, though negligent, from full compliance, from overt acts of ſin; yet when⯑ever the natural object of a paſſion preſents itſelf in a ſituation in which it cannot be lawfully purſued, it has a plain tendency to excite the deſire of obtaining it by unlawful [8] means; and it has the ſtronger tendency, the oftener it preſents itſelf. The very firſt mo⯑tion of deſire, which it neceſſarily produces, is a ſeed, not yet fully ſhaped and organized, but fit to expand itſelf quickly into ſin. The deſire▪ however faint, will ſoon gain ſtrength, if it be not immediately and reſolutely cruſhed. The leaſt voluntary indulgence, though but in thought, will nouriſh it. But when the object of an unlawful paſſion is often in our view, and in our power, it is very difficult to abſtain from all indulgence ſo much as in thought. It is natural for a man to think of the temptation to which he was expoſed, and the ſin to which it urged him: and though at firſt he think of it with averſion, there is dan⯑ger that he will come in time to regard it with more favourable ſentiments. Before he is aware, imagination paints the object of vici⯑ous paſſion in attractive colours. Embelliſhed by its pencil, ſenſual pleaſures ſmile, riches glitter, honours glow. He deliberately fixes his eye upon them; he begins to contemplate them with complacence and delight. To revel in voluptuouſneſs, ſeems to be enjoyment; to abound in wealth, appears to be magnifi⯑cence; to bring harm on his enemies, he thinks, would be a triumph. He gives a wel⯑come entertainment to the evil motions of his heart.—Happy is who then takes the alarm, [9] and flecs while yet he has it in his power to flee! This is ſomething more than the firſt motion and neceſſary propenſion of the heart. Theſe imaginations are evil, and they give form and animation to the embryo of vice. If they be indulged, they will render the paſ⯑ſions irregular and turbulent. You will find an inclination riſing to gratify them, though it be unlawful. You will regret that it is un⯑lawful. You have a painfulneſs, an eagerneſs, an impatience of deſire, which you never knew before. You pant for the pleaſure or the profit which would attend the ſin; you wiſh to commit it for the ſake of them. Al⯑ready thine heart hath declined to the ways of ſin, deviſing wicked imaginations; you want but a fit occaſion of going aſtray in her paths ^*. Already your will has conſented to the perpe⯑tration of iniquity: and by that conſent your ſoul is polluted, and guilt contracted. Sin is conceived, it is perfected within; it only waits opportunity to be brought forth into act. Often men have ſo far indulged their paſ⯑ſions, ſo entirely conſented in their hearts to ſin, that their not committing it is in no mea⯑ſure owing to their virtue, but ſolely to the kindneſs of Providence in with-holding oppor⯑tunity. If they abſtain from it, when they [10] have a favourable opportunity, it muſt be by a ſtruggle between pampered paſſion and the ſenſe of duty, harder, more determined, and more laborious, than the weakneſs of human virtue can generally ſuſtain. By inwardly indulging vicious paſſions for a while, vice be⯑comes familiar to our thoughts; the horror of it wears off; all the principles of reſtraint are enfeebled. They have raiſed a tumult in the ſoul, amidſt which the ſtill voice of conſcience cannot be heard; they have kindled a flame which all the ſuggeſtions of reaſon cannot extinguiſh; a violent eruption can ſcarcely be prevented. It is by timeouſly refuſing all occaſions of in⯑dulging them, by obſtinately denying them their food, by withdrawing every incentive to them from the very firſt, that you can, through divine aſſiſtance, hinder their grow⯑ing into ſuch force, and hurrying you on irreſiſtibly to fulfil their dictates.

SUPPOSE, however, your ſenſe of virtue ſo ſtrong, as ſtill to reſtrain you from the full commiſſion of the ſin. Paſſion will pretend, that it will be ſatisfied with ſome degree of indulgence, ſhort of complete gratification. It is become too powerful not to be perſua⯑ſive. Forgetful that, between diſordered paſ⯑ſion, and virtue, no accommodation can take place, you are diſpoſed to make ſome conceſ⯑ſion [11] to your paſſions, but with a firm reſolu⯑tion not to go the length of an overt act of ſin. You will not allow the love of money to carry you to diſhoneſty, but you will yield to it ſo far as to avail yourſelves of a little ad⯑dreſs. You will not ſuffer malice or reſent⯑ment to tranſport you into injury, but you will ſoothe them by treating your enemy as hardly as juſtice can permit. You will not be ſubſervient to the vices of the man whoſe fa⯑vour you court, but you will not be ſo nice as not to flatter him in them. You will not ſink yourſelf into drunkenneſs, but you will give way to a continuation of exhilarating draughts. You will abſtain from deeds of uncleanneſs, but you will not deny yourſelf the pleaſure which ariſes from words or actions of ſlight laſciviouſneſs. You will never enter within the territories of vice, but you will indulge yourſelf in approaching to them. You will not tranſgreſs the limits of innocence, but you will venture as far as is conſiſtent with the preſer⯑vation of your innocence. By ſuch a conceſ⯑ſion, you flatter yourſelf, the importunity of your paſſions will be diverted; the uneaſineſs which they give you, removed; and your in⯑clination to the ſins which they demand, weak⯑ened. Deluſive is the expectation! Vice has gained the victory, if ſhe once perſuades men to make any approach to her. There is no [12] ſecurity but in keeping at the greateſt diſtance from her. Enter not into her path, go not in her way; avoid it, paſs not by it; turn from it, and paſs away ^*. Avoid all appearance of evil ^†.—Is it certain that the very indulgence which you propoſe to give yourſelves, is perfectly lawful? It is not always eaſy to fix the pre⯑ciſe boundary between virtue and vice. They run inſenſibly into one another, like day and night. You cannot diſcern the very point at which the one ends, and the other begins. By reſolving to proceed to the extremeſt line of innocence, a thouſand to one but you ſlide into real vice. The law of God is ſpiritual ^§, and his word is very pure ^‖. What men call juſti⯑fiable liberties, he often abhors as groſs ſins.—But ſuppoſe the indulgence not abſolutely un⯑lawful. Yet to venture on it, is only to give new force to your temptations, and to encreaſe the danger of your ſituation. It is as if the governour of a fortreſs, inſtead of maintaining his poſt, ſhould lead out a ſmall garriſon to encounter a great army in the open field. It is the ſtrength which paſſion has already ac⯑quired by your indulging evil imaginations, that enables it to produce an inclination to make any approach to ſin; and that approach will bring it ſuch an acceſſion of ſtrength as [13] to produce a much more violent propenſity to the completion of the crime. Every ſtrong paſſion, every inflamed appetite, engroſſes the ſoul, and unfits it for the reflection and exer⯑tion by which it might be reſtrained; and every advance in the gratification of it, pro⯑portionably augments its influence, and ener⯑vates all the powers of reſiſtance. Indulgence in whatever has the remoteſt tendency to vice, never fails to invigorate the vicious paſſion. Thus humoured, thus gratified, it domineers; it craves with irreſiſtible importunity; it com⯑bats the ſenſe of duty; it diſdains controul; it ſubverts every reſolution of retaining our in⯑tegrity; it occaſions inſupportable uneaſineſs in forbearing the ſin by which its demands would be fulfilled. A ſtrong fortification may withſtand a great force; but if a very ſmall de⯑tachment gain an entrance, they can introduce the whole with eaſe. Stand remote from vice, and you may be ſafe: but go within its reach, and you will be drawn forward as by the ſuc⯑tion of a whirlpool. He who has allowed himſelf in rigorous exaction, will become leſs ſcrupulous of extortion. He whoſe reſentment has already refuſed good offices, which he per⯑ſuaded himſelf were not indiſpenſibly due, is the nearer to venturing on ill offices, which are indiſputably wrong. The oftener a man has repeated his draughts, the more deſirous [14] he is to continue them, and the leſs aware of the danger of his being intoxicated. David eſpied Bathſheba by accident; he indulged his riſing paſſion but ſo far as to gaze upon her: it was inflamed; it gave him no reſt, till it plunged him into adultery. A narrow foun⯑tain ſends forth a copious ſtream; an incon⯑ſiderable ſeed grows up into a ſtately cedar; any vicious paſſion, a little indulged, will burſt into heinous ſin. If ever you find your⯑ſelves diſpoſed to compound with paſſion, re⯑collect yourſelves, and retreat without delay; you are on the point of ſacrificing your inno⯑cence. Can a man take fire in his boſom, and his clothes not be burnt? Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burnt ^*? Had Joſeph allowed himſelf in any liberties with the wife of Poti⯑phar, he muſt have fallen: it was by the moſt guarded, determined avoidance of every ap⯑proach to guilt, that he eſcaped; when ſhe enticed him to incontinence, he refuſed with the moſt peremptory firmneſs; when the temptation was repeated, he would hold no parley with it, but run to a diſtance; when ſhe ſpake to him day by day, he hearkened not to her to be with her; and when ſhe caught him by his garment, he fled and got him out ^†.

BUT if it can be ſuppoſed, that even after your negligent or preſumptuous approaches to [15] evil, your heart ſtill recoils from it, and your conſcience cannot be reconciled to the unre⯑ſerved perpetration of it; yet vice may cun⯑ningly abate your reluctance, and elude the oppoſition of conſcience, by ſuggeſting that you will indulge yourſelves but this one time. You will not make a practice of it; you will only try the experiment. There cannot be very great harm in a ſingle act; and you are determined not to repeat it. You hope that you ſhall not again be placed in ſo difficult a ſituation: but if you ſhould, you are reſolved to reſiſt. Your paſſion, you are confident, will be ſatisfied with this one gratification; at leaſt it will be ſo far blunted as to demand another with leſs importunity; it will want the aid of novelty; and you will find it eaſier to withſtand it. Infatuated man! Can it be eaſier to forſake a vicious courſe once begun, than to avoid beginning it? Can you beſt ſecure a retreat from ſin, by yielding it the victory? In every moment of tempta⯑tion you ſtand on the brink of a precipice; if you begin to ſtumble, your danger is immi⯑nent; but if you throw yourſelf over, it were dotage to think that you can ſtop your fall. How much hurt you may ſuſtain, how much your ſpirit may be marred, your principles ſpoiled, and your temper corrupted, by deli⯑berately [16] conſenting to one act of heinous ſin, it is difficult to ſay. The beginning of ſin is as when one letteth out water ^*: once allowed to overflow, it becomes an impetuous torrent, ſweeping away whatever would oppoſe it.

IF all the indulgence which you have given to your vicious paſſions has not ſo far cor⯑rupted your hearts as to efface your abhor⯑rence of a great tranſgreſſion, it cannot fail to have at leaſt impaired your ſenſe of obliga⯑tion, and your inclination to comply with the calls of duty. If it cannot yet precipitate you into the commiſſion of a groſs act of ſin, it will be able to lead you into the omiſſion of ſome of thoſe duties which you have hi⯑therto been careful to perform. Unfitted by the agitation of your paſſions, for reliſhing the pleaſures of devotion; leſs intent upon its exerciſes; you begin to trifle away the ſab⯑bath-day, you intermit your regular attendance on the ordinances of religious worſhip, you break off your wonted aſſiduity in prayer to God, you read not the Scriptures ſo fre⯑quently, or with ſo much attention and re⯑verence as formerly. It is very often, by neglecting the external and poſitive duties of religion, that they who have been well educated, [17] and they who have made a fair appearance for a while, begin to give themſelves up to open vice. The neglect paſſes eaſily upon them: it is not the violation of a moral law; and ſome latitude, and many limitations, muſt be admitted in the obſervance of ceremonial pre⯑cepts. But experience teſtifies that, when they who once were regular have become remiſs in outward worſhip, they rarely fail to paſs with rapidity into direct immorality: and reaſon declares that it ſcarcely can be otherwiſe. To learn to think lightly of duties which they uſed to venerate as ſacred, naturally unhinges all their principles, and ſubverts the authority of conſcience. Theſe duties are the great in⯑ſtruments of preſerving our regard to moral duties, of enlivening the ſentiments, and ſup⯑porting the principles, which inſtigate to the practice of them: when therefore they are ne⯑glected; when our own paſſions, and the tempt⯑ations of the world conſpire in impelling us to vice, and we refuſe to employ the only coun⯑terbalance to their impulſe, how can we but fall headlong into vice? Many whoſe aban⯑doned manners and atrocious crimes brought them at laſt to an ignominious death, have begun their confeſſion with breach of the ſab⯑bath and neglect of devotion; and have ac⯑knowledged a very quick tranſition from this omiſſion, to the perpetration of the baſeſt ſins.

[18]WERE it poſſible that your heart, tainted with the exorbitance of paſſion, and defence⯑leſs by neglect of the means of reſtraint, as it has become, ſhould ſtill ſhrink from heinous immorality; the power of ill example and vi⯑cious company may ſoon conquer your repug⯑nance, and complete your overthrow. The wicked practices and the corrupt faſhions of the world are open to every eye; the moſt in⯑nocent muſt ſee them, the moſt circumſpect cannot help taking notice of them; if you would altogether avoid even the converſation and ſociety of ſinners, then muſt ye needs go out of the world ^*. Every indulgence of irregular paſſions gives a propenſity to fix the mind upon them, to feel their force, to allow them authority, to avail yourſelves of their ſanction. The diſcourſe and the manners of the vicious attract you by their congruity to the depraved motions of your own hearts; their freedom and laxneſs is gratifying and encouraging to the workings of your imagination and your paſ⯑ſions; they have many agreeable qualities, or eſtimable and uſeful talents; you become fond of them, and pleaſed with their company. The vices from which you have hitherto with difficulty reſtrained yourſelves, you obſerve commonly practiſed by them: you abate the [19] rigour of your reſtraint; and your paſſions become ſtronger. Your inbred diſpoſition to imitate, co-operates with the ſtrength of paſ⯑ſion, in propelling you to ſin. You care not to be ſingular, it is unpleaſant; and you can⯑not think it neceſſary. You ſee your elders, your ſuperiors, and thoſe who are reckoned wiſer than yourſelf, allowing themſelves in vice; and you begin to believe that it is ſome⯑thing manly. It becomes familiar by being often ſeen; it looks not ſo hateful as before: you firſt endure it, and then embrace it. As yet you have been timid, afraid of contracting guilt; your fear has been rouſed by every temptation, and has kept you from yielding to it: but it is allayed by obſervation of mul⯑titudes acting wrong without ſcruple or ap⯑prehenſion; it is deſpiſed as a littleneſs of mind, and meanneſs of ſpirit; you are em⯑boldened to follow their example. Modeſty is the attendant of innocence, and cannot be totally extinguiſhed even by ſome deviation from innocence: it has hitherto been your guard; you have been preſerved from ſin by your full conviction that it is ſhameful and reproachful: you would have been confounded by a detection in it: but when you have be⯑come the admirer or the companion of men who practiſe it with impudence, avow it with effrontery, glory in their enormities, affect to [20] appear worſe than they are, and ridicule every ſcruple in fulfilling the deſires of their hearts; your modeſty muſt be ſoon effaced, and your virtue bereaved of every ſupport. To be in⯑timate with the vicious, is dangerous to the moſt confirmed virtue; to him who has ſuf⯑fered his paſſions to grow irregular and exceſ⯑ſive, it is unavoidable corruption. Go not in with vain perſons, ſit not with evil-doers ^*: fly from them, if you can; and if you cannot fly, be doubly on your guard; keep your heart as with a bridle, while the wicked is before you ^†.

SHOULD happy ſituations preſerve you from the influence of ill company and example, or ſhould your conſcience remain ſo active, your abhorrence of ſin ſo ſtrong, that all that in⯑fluence cannot forcibly bear it down; yet the continued and increaſing indulgence of your paſſions may craftily undermine it, and be⯑guile you into ſin. They will diſpoſe you to ſeek excuſes for the full gratification of them: they will prepare your own hearts to ſuggeſt pretences for giving them licence: they will at leaſt prediſpoſe you for laying hold of looſe maxims and corruptive principles, when you find them in licentious books, or hear them in the converſation of the wicked. The violence [21] and importunity of your paſſions has created a prejudice, a prepoſſeſſion, in favour of ſuch opinions; and prepoſſeſſion makes you eaſily aſſent to them: when you wiſh that they were true, you will, without much difficulty, perſuade yourſelves that they are true. When Ahab's ambition had made him intent on the conqueſt of Ramoth-gilead, he eagerly hearkened to the falſe prophets who en⯑couraged his deſign againſt it; but could ſcarcely be brought to conſult Micaiah, whom he had never found obſequious to his vices, and gave him no credit, when he diſapproved his enterpriſe ^*. When any paſſion has been indulged to a certain degree, it begets a pro⯑penſity to embrace the flattering repreſenta⯑tions of depraved imagination concerning its object and exertion, and to diſregard the re⯑monſtrances of conſcience, and the pure prin⯑ciples of religion, which condemn its demands.—God will not, it poſſibly inſinuates, be diſ⯑pleaſed with you for yielding to it: it can do him no hurt: you mean only a little gratifica⯑tion or advantage to yourſelves, not at all to offend him: you cannot think that he will grudge you a little pleaſure or a little profit, when your deſire of it has become ſo vehe⯑ment that you cannot be happy without it: [22] can he have forbidden your gratifying the paſſions which himſelf has implanted in you? did he implant them only to torment you? But have your luſts already rendered your minds ſo undiſcerning, as once to heſitate, whether theſe be the deciſions of reaſon, or the ſophiſms of depravity? The naked import of all this is, that nothing can diſpleaſe God which pleaſes you. Hurt him, you cannot; but does it follow, that you cannot hurt your⯑ſelves? Have you forgotten, that God gave you reaſon and conſcience on purpoſe to go⯑vern all your appetites and paſſions; that he requires you to reſtrain them within the limits of his law; that you directly intend, and pre⯑ſumptuouſly reſolve to offend and diſhonour him, whenever you think of allowing them any gratification beyond theſe limits; that when they come to demand it, they have far outgrown what God made them, and ſhot up into enormity; that the diſtraction and tor⯑ment which they now occaſion, is the fruit of your own miſmanagement, and neither the in⯑tention nor the neceſſary conſequence of God's having implanted them?—But though he may be diſpleaſed, his mercy is great, and he will forgive you. This too is the ſophiſtry of ſin. It ſets forward its advantages, but exte⯑nuates or veils its dangers. Where then has God declared, that the wilful ſinner is entitled [23] to his mercy? Where has he promiſed par⯑don, except on the condition of repentance and reformation? Where has he intimated favour to the perſon who, by flattering himſelf with forgiveneſs in what he knows to be wrong, adds preſumptuouſneſs to his diſobedience? Under this impious deluſion, you may go on in ſin with tranquillity; but it is to certain de⯑ſtruction.—But though it is unlawful in it⯑ſelf, your ſituation is ſo peculiar as to juſtify it: your temptations are ſo ſtrong that it is impoſſible to reſiſt them. And ſo, as you for⯑merly indulged negligence, in confidence that you could nevertheleſs eaſily avoid ſin, you now think yourſelves authorized to commit it, becauſe your greateſt efforts muſt be ineffec⯑tual for avoiding it. So contradictory are the ſuggeſtions of the corrupted heart! Fools and blind! not to remember that the tempta⯑tions of this ſtate of probation are appointed, not to juſtify crimes, but to exerciſe, and try, and improve the virtues of men.—The ſlighteſt attention to licentious or immoral ſentiments and opinions, muſt be fatal. If your princi⯑ples be compatible with vice, it will prevail by its own power; if they poſitively favour it, they add much to its power, and ſecure its vic⯑tory. With this the riot of the debauchee, the diſhoneſty of the villain, the perverſion of the promiſing youth, the defection of the perſon [24] who ſeemed for a while to be eſtabliſhed in virtue, very often has commenced: they held in the reins of inclination till their minds were firſt abuſed by looſe principles. Let the counſel of the wicked be far from you ^*: reject with ab⯑horrence every opinion which pleads for the liberty of doing wrong. If you give any ear to it, the very next ſtep will probably be, to act upon it, to break out into vicious prac⯑tice: certainly it will render you more remiſs in curbing your vicious paſſions; and from the remiſſion they will acquire new ſtrength, and tumble you down before the next temptation. Immoral principles will baniſh the reluctance of your hearts againſt ſin; they explode it as the mere murmur of a narrow mind. They controvert the admonitions of conſcience, and diſpute its decrees. They give authority to crimes.

BUT if good principles have been ſo care⯑fully planted, and taken ſo deep root in your ſouls, as to prevent your admitting a juſtifica⯑tion of acknowledged vice, your indulged paſ⯑ſions will put you on finding ſome diſguiſe, under which it may elude your deteſtation, paſs itſelf upon your conſcience, and betray you into the practice of it. Such diſguiſes are [25] manifold; and ſelf-deceit is active and artful in ſelecting them. Often it borrows them from ſuperſtition: a form of religion is de⯑viſed, compoſed wholly of faith and worſhip; the value of moral duties is depreciated, and their obligation ſlackened; the immoralities to which you are prone, of courſe become ve⯑nial in your eyes; they will be amply compen⯑ſated by the ſoundneſs of your principles, the aſſiduity and fervour of your devotion, and the burning of your zeal; and being ſo eaſily atoned for, you can have little ſcruple to com⯑mit them. In this manner a young Phariſee was reconciled to the diſhoneſty and violence common in his ſect; and in this manner many Chriſtians have allowed themſelves in heinous crimes, while they imagined themſelves very religious. In other caſes, men give a falſe co⯑louring to the particular vice to which their propenſity is ſtrong. They think there may be ſome means of rendering it conſiſtent with their duty; they refine upon it; they contrive to make ſome alteration in its circumſtances; they mould it into another ſhape; and thus hope to evade its guilt, and yet attain its very end. Balaam could not be brought to diſobey the letter of the divine command, but he anxi⯑ouſly ſought leave to diſobey it; and when he could not obtain leave, he refuſed to pro⯑nounce a verbal execration againſt Iſrael; but [26] he eaſily reconciled his conſcience to what was worſe, to ſeduce them into ſuch wickedneſs as could not but ſubject them to the real exe⯑cration of the Almighty ^*. David's conſcience forbad him to cut off Uriah by a publick ſen⯑tence or an explicit order for aſſaſſination; but it winked at his making himſelf the bearer of a command to betray him to certain death, and ſuffered itſelf to be blinded by the pitiful pre⯑tence, the ſword devoureth one as well as another ^†. By the artifice of its colouring, by ſhading ſome of its features, and heightening others, by ſetting itſelf in ſome fallacious point of view, vice ſometimes aſſumes the look even of virtue. Deluſive imagination ſhews preſump⯑tion for lively faith; ill-humour for ſeriouſ⯑neſs; levity for cheerfulneſs; avarice for fru⯑gality; extravagance for generoſity; cunning for prudence; cenſoriouſneſs for plain-dealing; cruelty for godly zeal. If you detect not the impoſture, you will perpetrate the moſt atro⯑cious ſins without condemning yourſelves, you will even approve yourſelves in the perpetration of them. If you wiſh not to be loſt, never behold any vice but in its own deformity; never ſuffer it to put on a ſpecious maſk, or to ſet itſelf in an attractive attitude. God will view all your ſins, not in the diſguiſe [27] which your imagination gives them, but in their naked form; he will eſtimate them, not by the names which you allow them to uſurp, but according to their real nature; he will try all your actions, not by the pretences with which you palliate them to yourſelves, but by the principles and motives from which, in you, they actually proceed.

THUS have I endeavoured to lay open the train of inward indulgences, by which irregu⯑lar inclinations are gradually brought forward into overt acts of wilful ſin. Temptations to ſin everywhere abound; they caſt themſelves in your way; they frequently recur: you but remit the ſtrictneſs of your circumſpection for a moment; in that unhappy moment they aſſault you; and if they cannot ſurpriſe you into ſinful practice, they will at leaſt make ſome impreſſion on your mind: you think of ſin with leſs abhorrence; imagination paints its form in pleaſing colours; you fix your eye upon the picture, and are taken with it; your paſſions are inflamed, they prompt you to the ſin by which they would be gratified, they make it painful to forbear it: if they cannot all at once precipitate you into the ſin, they will perſuade you to comply with them ſo far as to make ſome approach to it; and though that approach ſhould happen not to be itſelf [28] abſolutely unlawful, it will at leaſt inflame them more violently, and render it torture to abſtain from the full gratification of them: they will next urge you to gratify them, if it were but once, and will probably prevail with you: if they ſhould ſtill find difficulty in prevail⯑ing with you to commit an heinous act of ſin; the neglect of devotion and religious duties, to which your indulgence of them and the de⯑pravation of heart conſequent upon it, muſt diſpoſe you; or the influence of ill company and example, to which theſe muſt lay you open; or ſome of thoſe looſe maxims and im⯑moral ſentiments to which theſe muſt render you prone to liſten; or ſome of thoſe falſe co⯑lourings by which ſelf-deceit artfully varniſhes over the hatefulneſs of ſin, cannot fail quickly to remove the difficulty, and to betray you into the practice of wickedneſs.

BY ſuch ſteps as theſe, the well-educated youth is perverted from his innocence, and led to commence a career of vice. Alas, how many come to the full and open practice of vice by a much ſhorter road! By theſe ſame ſteps, good men deviate into the particular acts of ſin, ſometimes of heinous ſin, which, in this imperfect ſtate, too often degrade their character and pollute their conduct. While you are engaged in this inward ſtruggle againſt [92] your irregular paſſions, it is in ſuſpence, whe⯑ther you ſhall remain virtuous, or degenerate into vice. If you now prefer the latter, either you muſt continue its ſlaves, or you muſt recover yourſelves, and that too but incom⯑pletely, from its dominion, by bitter and pain⯑ful repentance. One act of groſs ſin com⯑mitted, you will experience a wretched change in the ſtate of your mind: your innocence is loſt; your conſcience is wounded; your peace is gone. The aſpect of the ſin is totally re⯑verſed; its charms are fled, its horrors force themſelves into your view; you abhor it, and you abhor yourſelf for having committed it. You are afraid of God, afraid of yourſelf, af⯑raid of every thing. You are aſhamed to look up; you feel that you have diſgraced yourſelf. You go about diſconſolate, and bear a hell within you. To be again what you was but one hour ago, you would purchaſe at any price; but no price can purchaſe it. A moment may forfeit your innocence; but then it is irrecoverable for ever: the heartieſt re⯑pentance cannot efface the humiliating ſenſe of your having fallen, or deliver you from the ſharp ſtings of occaſional remorſe. Dreadful are often the reflexions of a ſoul not wholly depraved, on its firſt act of groſs and open ſin! Yet to ſuffer them in all their ſtrength, is the greateſt happineſs that can befal the ſin⯑ner [30] It is the only thing that can prevent his plunging deeper into wickedneſs, and in⯑curring either more excruciating reflexions in this world, or inſufferable miſery in the next.

To render your abſtinence from a courſe of wickedneſs, either eaſy or certain, you muſt cruſh ſin while it is forming in the heart; and the earlier you cruſh it, the eaſier will be your taſk, and the more infallible your ſucceſs. Keep thy heart with all diligence ^*. Guard every avenue by which ſin may find an entrance into it; mark every temptation the moment it oc⯑curs, and inſtantly avoid it. Attend to the inmoſt motions of your hearts; obſerve the thoughts which attempt to riſe within you; if they be evil, exclude them, or baniſh them without delay; ſuffer them not to dwell on any unlawful or ſeducing object; accuſtom them to fix only on what is good or improv⯑ing. Keep a jealous eye over all the workings of imagination; turn it away from whatever can encourage vicious paſſions; force it to ſuch views as are fit to check their growth. Watch over all your inclinations, paſſions, and affec⯑tions; confine them to their proper objects; let them never ſwell into exceſs. Allow not the moſt hidden purpoſe or deſign of ſin to find [31] a moment's entertainment in your ſouls; for⯑tify them by ſuch reſolutions as are virtuous. By this courſe alone, the innocent can pre⯑ſerve their innocence; and by this courſe alone, more laboriouſly purſued, it is that they who have gone ſome lengths in vice, can retrieve themſelves.

CONTENT not yourſelves with endeavouring to reſtrain your paſſions from breaking out into vicious practice, while you indulge them inwardly. It is far from ſufficient, to regu⯑late your external conduct. This was the corrupt doctrine of the Jewiſh teachers. But ye have not ſo learned Chriſt ^*; to this wicked doctrine he ſet himſelf in the moſt zealous oppoſition. Were it poſſible to confine vicious paſſions within the heart, yet there they are open to the eye of God, and odious in his ſight, and there they polute your ſouls, and deſtroy your quiet. If thou in thy heart con⯑ſenteſt to thoughts or deſigns of ſin, thou art truly guilty, though no trace of them were viſible in thy behaviour. The luſts of the heart are like ulcers, which, without a ſpeedy extirpation, will feſter and become incurable, though they lie ſo deep, and are ſo well con⯑cealed by decency of conduct, as not to be [32] ſeen by men. But it is impoſſible long to re⯑gulate the conduct, except we firſt govern the heart. Out of it are the iſſues of life ^*. No labour will dry up the ſtreams, if we cannot drain the fountain-head. If evil paſſions be not mortified in the heart, they will ſoon be⯑come ungovernable, compel us to vicious prac⯑tice, and involve us in an inextricable labyrinth of wickedneſs.

SERMON II. THE PROGRESS OF VICE: THE SE⯑COND STAGE.

IF the general of an army were informed, that the enemy intended to attack him, his firſt care would naturally be, to get intelli⯑gence of his motions, of his preſent ſitua⯑tion, of the part on which he expected to make an impreſſion, of the ſtratagems which he would employ for facilitating the execution of his deſign; and the more perfectly he learned theſe particulars, the better he would be prepared to repel him. Our condition in this world is ſimilar; and our conduct ought to be the ſame. We are every moment in danger of being aſſaulted and vanquiſhed by ſin. Its power is great, its deceitfulneſs is greater. It gains upon us by gradual, often [34] by imperceptible ſteps; and for every ſtep, it makes the moſt artful preparations. To be acquainted with theſe, is to be in ſome meaſure qualified for defeating it. I have therefore propoſed to trace out the progreſs of vice, to explain the manner in which men, having given the ſmalleſt indulgence to ſinful thoughts and inclinations, proceed from evil to evil. In the foregoing diſcourſe, I have deſcribed the FIRST of the three ſtages into which that pro⯑greſs may be diſtinguiſhed, by laying open the train of mental indulgences by which irregular inclinations and vicious paſſions are inwardly cheriſhed, till they break forth into overt acts of ſin. In this diſcourſe, I ſhall endeavour to delineate the SECOND ſtage, which comprehends the ſteps whereby, in conſequence of wilful ſin, vicious habits are contracted, ſtrengthened, and multiplied.

No ſooner has a perſon, unaccuſtomed to vice, committed an act of wilful ſin, than he is diſſatisfied with himſelf, and purpoſes and promiſes not to repeat it. The fear of its being known, or the ſhame of detection, the re⯑proaches or the admonitions of virtuous friends, heighten his emotions, aggravate his remorſe, and enforce his purpoſes. He is ſuſ⯑picious of his own frailty, attentive to his conduct, and ſolicitous to reſtrain the paſſion [35] which had led him aſtray. He hopes that conſcience has re-aſſumed its ſway, and that he is recovered to virtue. But after a while, paſſion begins to raiſe its voice, and to exert its ſtrength. It has once been gratified, and by that gratification, both its importunity and its power have been increaſed. Tempta⯑tions preſs upon him, and plead for the indul⯑gence of his paſſions. Alternately he is diſ⯑poſed to proceed in vice, and to return to virtue: his mind fluctuates irreſolute between the two; it is diſtracted by contrary motions; it is worn out with painful agitation; it again yields to the violence of paſſion. Very ſeldom does a man acquieſce in a ſolitary act of ſin: having committed one crime, many cauſes concur in producing a repetition of it. By once violating innocence, you break down the ſtrongeſt barrier againſt vice. By having been once indulged, your vicious inclinations be⯑come more refractory and unconquerable. At the ſame time, all thoſe principles of your na⯑ture, which ought to combat them, are reduced to act with leſs confidence and vigour. The reluctance which riſes ſtrong againſt a tranſ⯑greſſion that you have never ventured to com⯑mit, cannot riſe in equal ſtrength againſt one on which you have already ventured. You have already caſt off allegiance to conſcience, and determined that abſolute ſubjection to its [36] commands is not indiſpenſible. You have al⯑ready diſclaimed its authority, and withſtood its power. Having once diſobeyed its dic⯑tates, how ſhould you hold them ſacred now? Having once forced it to bow its head under the uſurpation of lawleſs luſts, how can it be able to throw off the yoke, when their uſur⯑pation is in ſome degree eſtabliſhed? The rea⯑ſons which you could have urged againſt the firſt tranſgreſſion, you can never urge with equal force againſt any ſubſequent tranſgreſ⯑ſion: they have been already deſpiſed and con⯑tradicted. If from the former treſpaſs you have found no immediate inconvenience ariſe, if you have even derived profit or pleaſure from it, this will encourage you to the repe⯑tition of it, and will be accepted as a confuta⯑tion of all the arguments for abſtinence. Every ill example, every ſeducing maxim, every inſi⯑nuation of ſelf-deceit, will operate more ſuc⯑ceſsfully than before. To ſin a ſecond time, you need not put a force upon yourſelves; you are prone to it, you feel little uneaſineſs in the thought of it. You ſeek no other reaſon for doing wrong, but that you have already done it. When temptation has found forward allies in your paſſions, has bribed your principles to admit its claim in ſilence, and has warped your reaſon to chicane in ſupport of it, you cannot be able to withſtand.

[37]THE repetition of the ſin, it may be, oc⯑caſions a return of regret, ſelf-condemnation, ſhame, and virtuous purpoſes. But they are feebler and more ineffectual than before. A ſhort interval of time, or the recurrence of temptation, totally effaces them. Your vicious inclinations were ſtrengthened by being in⯑dulged: by the reſtraint which you have ſince endeavoured to lay upon them, they are only irritated; they riſe ungovernable, and ruſh impetuous into vice, like a lion on his prey. Your hopeful purpoſes ſhrink and faint before them. The flame which had been ſmothered for a while, breaks forth with greater fury. You caſt away your virtue, as if you had never formed a deſign of retaining it. One hour you are propenſe to vice, and the next hour uneaſy in the recollection of it. When you are expoſed to no temptation, you ſeem to be reformed; but whenever a temptation aſ⯑ſaults you, you relapſe. Every time it defeats you with greater eaſe; your efforts to reſiſt it, are weaker; your inclination to comply with it, more eager; your conſciouſneſs of having complied, leſs painful. Your vicious actions become every day more frequent; the leaſt temptation is too ſtrong for you. Your vici⯑ous inclinations are more conſtantly heard and gratified; they drive you on ſo furiouſly, that [38] you are again and again plunged into guilt, you ſcarcely know how.

BY frequent practice, habits of vice muſt needs be formed. Great is the power of cuſ⯑tom over the ſoul of man. When we attempt an action which we have never attempted for⯑merly, we find it difficult; but by performing it often, we learn to perform it eaſily. We likewiſe become prone to it; the paſſion which tends to that action, keeps poſſeſſion of the heart, and operates almoſt without intermiſ⯑ſion. It conſtantly ſuggeſts images and ſenti⯑ments fit to increaſe its ſtrength, and aſſiſt its operation. We are in pain when we cannot exert it; to act upon it, is a pleaſure. For things moſt diſagreeable in themſelves, cuſtom creates a reliſh. By practice, therefore, the heart muſt become not only pliable, but bent to ſin; and acquire firſt a facility, and next a pleaſure in committing it. A very few acts will give a beginning to vicious habit; and as ſoon as it has begun to be formed, it will ren⯑der our vicious actions very frequent. Every action is recommended by the ſame tempta⯑tion as the firſt; and to its influence, the power of cuſtom is ſuperadded. For exertion againſt their combined force, you cannot in⯑culcate any motive which you have not already baffled. If thou haſt run with the footmen, and [39] they have wearied thee, how then canſt thou contend with horſes ^*? The crime which you once hazarded with heſitation and re⯑ſerve, you will now perpetrate boldly, and embrace with complacency. Your conduct is no longer ſtained by ſome tranſient miſ⯑deeds; it is contaminated in its general tenour. Formerly you only fell before a ſtrong temptation; but now the ſlendereſt temptation is irreſiſtible; you will not even wait for a temptation from without, there is a per⯑manent temptation within your own breaſts. You will not now run into one ſin, and then regret it; but you will haſten through a train of vicious conduct, and then awake to a courſe of ſorrow, remorſe, and ſelf-reproach. The period of the former will become conti⯑nually more extended and more flagitious; and that of the latter, ſhorter and leſs agonizing.

THE ſame conſtruction of the human ſoul, which fits us for contracting habits, renders it unavoidable, that every habit which we have contracted ſhould continually increaſe in ſtrength▪ It forces us to act upon it; and by being acted upon, it is confirmed. A vicious habit needs only to be planted: as naturally as a tree flouriſhes in its proper ſoil, it will [40] quickly advance to a prodigious ſize. From each of the many indulgences to which it daily compels you, it will draw abundant nouriſh⯑ment. Actuated by habit, you will commit ſin with growing pleaſure; you will become expert in committing it, and more and more intent upon it. When a twig is bent at firſt, it will by its own elaſticity recover its recti⯑tude as ſoon as the force is removed; but by continuing to bend it long, you may fix it in a curvature which can ſcarcely be corrected. Vicious habit will by degrees become ſo ſtub⯑born as to baffle all ordinary efforts to extir⯑pate it. It deſtroys ſelf-government; it puts the paſſions in poſſeſſion of all the ſtrong holds of the heart; you will find it difficult either to diſlodge them, or to check their eruptions. The pain that attends your endeavours to for⯑bear gratifying inclinations which have become habitual, adds much to the ſeeming value of the gratification: and the ſenſe of that pain, together with the perverſe tendency of your own heart, will render your purſuit of it keener, than in proportion to your moſt extra⯑vagant idea of its value. You no longer need the view of profit or of pleaſure to entice you to a ſinful action: you have acquired a fixt at⯑tachment to it, you run into it of courſe, without reflecting on any preciſe motive, or propoſing any determinate conſequences. Even [41] the experience of ill conſequences proceeding from it, is inſufficient to prevent your ſoon re⯑turning to the commiſſion of it. The drunkard whom Solomon deſcribes, who had drowned ſenſe and reaſon, on awaking to the exerciſe of them, found himſelf bruiſed and wounded, he knew not how, and complained bitterly, they have ſtricken me, and I was not ſick, they have beaten me, and I felt it not: neverthe⯑leſs he immediately ſaid, I will ſeek it yet again ^*. The whoremonger, the thief, the robber, the oppreſſor, the miſer, the malicious, the ſinner of every denomination, meets with many ſevere checks and chaſtiſements in the proſecution of his vice, by which he notwith⯑ſtanding cannot be reclaimed. Habit neceſſa⯑rily engenders thoughtleſlneſs: actions to which we are habituated, we do often every day, without either being conſcious of it at the time, or recollecting it afterwards. Vicious habit extinguiſhes reflection. The voice of conſcience is heard ſeldomer and more faintly. Its languid oppoſition is ſo far from repreſſing the irregularity of paſſion, or vanquiſhing the propenſity of habit, that it increaſes their ſtrength. To overcome it, they collect and exert their utmoſt force; and having quickly overcome it, they will go on with the ſame [42] accumulated force, driving you headlong into ſin. By the long and cuſtomary practice of any vice, it will become predominant within you: it is dear to you as your right hand, or your right eye ^*: you regard it as an intimate part of the conſtitution of your ſoul. Your heart is ſet upon indulging it; you think it impoſſible to live without it. What once you ſhunned as a dangerous temptation, you now court as a deſirable opportunity. You are careful to embrace it; and by often finding, and often embracing it, your conduct is ren⯑dered habitually vicious, at leaſt in one parti⯑cular.

BUT your degeneracy will not be long con⯑fined to one particular. While from a ſingle act, that vice to which your favourite paſſion or your peculiar ſituation has firſt betrayed you, is ripening into habit, many other vices will take root, and thrive beneath its ſhelter. Numberleſs are the ways in which one ſin grows out of another.—The commiſſion of any ſin weakens, the habit of any ſin deſtroys, our defence againſt every ſin, and lays us open to it. It inures us to make light of obligation, and prepares us to diſobey its dictates without diſtinction. It breaks the balance, and un⯑hinges [43] the order of our powers: they can no longer operate on one another as mutual checks. It diſſolves the ſoul in anarchy, amidſt which, like violence in a country void of government, every irregular paſſion rages unheeded and uncontrouled, and from which it finds occaſions of fulfilling all its pleaſure. Whatever be the ſin, a temptation to which attacks the heart in this ſtate of diſtraction, it muſt prevail. There is too much uproar and confuſion within, to admit a ſtrict examina⯑tion, or a vigorous reſiſtance. Every vice pro⯑duces likewiſe peculiar effects favourable to the practice of other vices. Some enervate the ſoul, and render it effeminate; ſome contract or debaſe the heart; and ſome make it callous and unfeeling.—By thus debauching the heart from virtue, the practice of the ſmalleſt ſins will make way for your committing the greateſt. Men commonly begin with ſome leſſer acts of vice: there are atrocious crimes, at the thought of which they would yet ſhud⯑der. But if a ſmall ſin once gain admittance, becauſe it is but ſmall, another will likewiſe gain admittance, becauſe it is but a little greater; and the ſame fooliſh deceit will lead you forward, ſtep by ſtep, to the moſt enor⯑mous tranſgreſſions. When conſcience is defiled, theſe will not appear more horrid to it, than the ſlendereſt offence did, when it was fair and [44] uncorrupted. When you have brought your⯑ſelves to commit any ſin, you will ſoon com⯑mit another more aggravated, with leſs unea⯑ſineſs. If you ſuffer any of the malevolent paſſions to vent themſelves in expreſſions of contempt and ſlight, they will quickly be poured out in bitter reproach and invective, and next proceed to violent contentions, fierce quarrels, and groſs injuries. If you accuſtom yourſelves to the uſe of fooliſh terms of aſſe⯑veration or exclamation in your diſcourſe, it will gradually reconcile you to ſwearing vainly by the name of God; after a while the ſlighteſt provocation or impatience will burſt forth into oaths and imprecations; then neither provoca⯑tion nor impatience will be neceſſary; raſhly, for the mereſt trifles, without conſideration of the truth or the falſehood, the moment or the conſequences of the matter, you will heap oaths and curſes on one another; and by thoughtleſsly multiplying oaths in your ordi⯑nary converſation, you will at length come to deſpiſe them, and venture without much ſcruple on premeditated perjury, when you have a ſtrong temptation to it. Peter at firſt ſimply denied that he had been with Jeſus; next he denied it with an oath; the third time he denied with curſing and ſwearing, that he knew the man ^*. To ſuffer yourſelves to be be⯑trayed [45] into any ſin, by an imagination that it is ſmall, is to conſent that you ſhall gradually, but unavoidably, be drawn on to the moſt heinous ſins.

IT is not only by its tendency to introduce a general depravation of heart, that one ſin leads men forward to other ſins; it likewiſe begets many ſtrong temptations to them. The natural progeny of every vice is numerous. With whatever vice you begin, you will find many others inſeparably connected with it. To inſtance in the ſenſual vices, to which young perſons are commonly moſt expoſed; whoredom and wine take away the heart ^*: intemperance of every kind intoxicates and ſtupifies, like a ſtrong opiate; it infatuates the ſoul; it diſ⯑poſes to, and, when it has become habitual, it implies the neglect of all the duties which we owe to ourſelves, our families, and our friends. Lewdneſs deſtroys all regard to decency and re⯑putation, wears away the ſenſe of ſhame, and produces impudence and effrontery in doing and in avowing the moſt flagitious actions. When Joſeph rejected the ſolicitation of his miſtreſs to commit adultery, his chaſtity up⯑braided her immodeſty; his continued refuſal at once inflamed and diſappointed her luſt; [46] ſhe could ſcarce be but exaſperated and incenſed againſt him; and revenge and fury of courſe dictated the complication of falſehood and cruelty, which ſhe found means to execute againſt him. Drunkenneſs makes a man inca⯑pable of the attention and recollection which is neceſſary for his doing right in any caſe, and expoſes him an eaſy prey to every crime. If thou art addicted to it, thine eye ſhall behold ſtrange women, and thine heart ſhall utter perverſe things ^*; thy tongue ſhall be abuſive, thine hand ſhall be in quarrels, perhaps in bloodſhed; yea thou ſhalt be as he that lieth down in the midſt of the ſea, or as he that lieth on the top of a maſt ^†, ready every moment to plunge into an abyſs of wickedneſs.—It would be too tedious to attempt enumerating all the ways in which one ſin lays men under temptation to other ſins: ſome of them, it will be proper to men⯑tion.

ONE ſin will generally demand new ſins, in order to conceal it. Evil is aſhamed of itſelf; it cannot bear to be looked upon. To a no⯑vice in vice, detection appears inſupportable: and often it would have conſequences which the greateſt proficient in vice trembles at the thought of incurring. What he has done, muſt [47] be concealed by any means. Diſſimulation, lying, murder, it may be, is the only means of concealment. It muſt be perpetrated: infamy, puniſhment, ruin, cannot be otherwiſe avoided. When you have already given up yourſelves to one vice, it cannot be expected that you ſhould meet theſe, rather than commit ano⯑ther. When David knew that Bathſheba had conceived, he neceſſarily became anxious to prevent a diſcovery of his adultery: it could not be prevented without his conſenting to ſome additional baſeneſs; and his anxiety led him into a ſeries of the blackeſt deſigns. He firſt attempted to impoſe a ſpurious offs⯑pring on one of the braveſt and moſt faithful of his captains; but the attempt was defeated by Uriah's ſcrupulous attachment to a nice point of honour. The king made another ef⯑fort to accompliſh the impoſition; he wheedled him into drunkenneſs, that wine might inflame his paſſion; but the ſame delicacy of honour preſerved him from the ſnare. The horrors of a diſcovery, and the juſt reſentment of an abuſed ſervant, ſtare David in the face; they drive him on to the moſt violent and atrocious methods of averting them; there are no others, and they muſt be adopted: Uriah is perfidi⯑ouſly ſacrificed to the ſword; his courage, his fidelity, and his zeal are employed for his de⯑ſtruction; many brave men are devoted along [48] with him; and Joab is made a guilty accom⯑plice in the butchery^*. Complicated and enormous is the villany; but the concealment of a former ſin demands it.

ONE ſinful action, much more a continued courſe of ſin, will ſometimes involve men in ſuch a labyrinth, that they cannot extricate themſelves without new ſin. To whatever hand they turn, they ſeem to be under a neceſ⯑ſity of doing wrong. If they go forward, they plunge themſelves deeper into guilt; and if they return, it muſt be by committing a greater ſin than what they have already com⯑mitted. No choice is left them, but between one crime and another▪ They are like mari⯑ners in a ſtorm; to purſue their courſe, is to be ſwallowed up by the ocean; to ſteer for a haven, is to be wrecked upon the rocks. Saul had denounced with an oath, the death of him who ſhould violate his raſh adjuration to taſte no food; Jonathan had unknowingly taſted a little honey, and incurred the puniſh⯑ment; and his father could avoid the injuſtice and cruelty of inflicting it, only by breaking his oath^†. Herod, in an hour of diſſipation, ſwore to give the daughter of Herodias what⯑ever ſhe ſhould aſk; when ſhe aſked the head [49] of John, what could he fix upon? If he re⯑fuſed, he forfeited his promiſe in the preſence of his officers and lords, and the chief eſtates of Galilee. He thought this ſo diſhonourable and baſe, that he choſe rather, in perform⯑ance of his oath, to put to death a righteous man, a prophet, nay one greater than a pro⯑phet ^*. Engaged in vice, you muſt either plunge into all the crimes naturally conſequent upon it, or infringe gratitude, friendſhip, ho⯑nour, fidelity, in retreating. Perhaps the real fault lies only in your having reduced your⯑ſelves to ſo perplexing an alternative; and to embrace the only means of retreat, has but the appearance of faultineſs. But you will probably think otherwiſe: vice commonly pro⯑duces a perverſion of ſentiment, and inſinuates falſe maxims of honour, by means of which, what an unhappy peculiarity of ſituation has rendered right and neceſſary, ſhocks more than what is abſolutely wrong. You will go on, but find no end till you ſink into perdi⯑tion.

ONE indulged vice will always require many others for its ſupport and execution. Avarice will not long be ſatisfied with the gratification which penurious ſavings, or toil⯑ſome [50] drudgery, can bring: for feeding itſelf, it will ſoon come to intercept the gift of cha⯑rity, the retribution of gratitude, the oblation of benevolence, and it will next exact the practice of every diſhoneſt art of making gain. Luſt cannot effectuate its purpoſes without often employing deceit, falſehood, ſeduction, and inflicting injury the deepeſt and the moſt irreparable. The expenſive vices cannot be continued without ſubmitting to ſupply their demands by covetouſneſs, injuſtice, fraud, or rapine. Every one among you who has, for the ſhorteſt time, addicted himſelf to any vi⯑cious courſe, knows, by certain experience, that in purſuing it, he has been forced to commit many other vices. For theſe ſubſidiary vices, you perhaps have no inclination; they are even perfectly abhorrent from your nature; but you muſt either conſent to them, or abſtain from your darling ſin. Contrary propenſions may for a while ſtruggle within you, and diſ⯑tract your ſoul; you may ſhudder at the thought of what you muſt do: you may ſtart back, and again ſtart back, and wiſh and purpoſe to leave the deed undone. But the darling ſin requires it; and it has got firm poſſeſſion of your heart: reaſon, conſcience, nature itſelf, reſiſt in vain; that ſin will at length prevail, and drive you into whatever [51] crimes ſhall become neceſſary for accompliſh⯑ing its ends.

BY repeated acts, the ſeveral vices into which your favourite ſin betrays you, will likewiſe become habitual. What you at firſt only endured for the ſake of ſomething elſe, you will in time acquire a proneneſs to, per⯑petrate for its own ſake, and take delight in perpetrating. Your vice will not only grow inveterate, but alſo ſpread like a gangrene. It will at once ſtrike its roots deeper, and extend its branches wider. What was in the begin⯑ning like a handful of ſmall ſeeds, grows at laſt into a foreſt of lofty cedars. Your ſouls are overrun with vicious habits, continually increaſing in ſtrength and number, and fixing you in all manner of unrighteouſneſs.

WHILE vice is thus riſing to maturity, by the ſtrength of thoſe principles of growth which it contains within itſelf, it will likewiſe ſeek nouriſhment from every thing external that can ſupply it.—It will lay itſelf open to all the influence of ill example. The cor⯑rupted heart has a fixt bias to the ſociety and the imitation of the vicious. Whatever be its preſent temper, whether paſſion or conſcience predominates for the time, it pants for the company of the wicked with equal eagerneſs. [52] When your vicious paſſions rage, they will drive you into it, that you may find the op⯑portunity of indulging them, and encourage⯑ment to give them full ſcope. When conſci⯑ence reſumes its place, and cuts you with its rebukes, you will flee from the torment of your own reflections, to the haunts of evil⯑doers, that the levity of the thoughtleſs may divert your remorſe, or that the audacity of hardier ſinners may embolden you to diſregard it. From every advance which you make in vice, ill example will acquire additional power to puſh you forward. The greater your own depravity is, the more eaſily you will be re⯑conciled to vice by the cuſtom of ſeeing it practiſed. You will ſcarcely need to be inſti⯑gated by the propenſity to imitation: you are under the dominion of thoſe very paſſions, from which it directly proceeds. By aſſociat⯑ing together, ſinners keep one another in countenance in proſecuting their evil courſes, and are mutually incited to the proſecution of them by the ſentiments, excuſes, and recom⯑mendations, which they in their turns ſuggeſt. By yielding to the example, and entering into the ſociety, of the vicious, you will become more hardened in the vice to which you are already addicted; and you will be ſeduced into many others, to which you have natu⯑rally no diſpoſition. In the character of every [53] wicked man, along with the vices which are properly of his own growth, there are ſome which have been planted and reared ſolely by the influence of company and example. To this cauſe, the ſin of cuſtomary ſwearing, common as it is, muſt be totally referred: there is no natural temptation to it, in the conſtitu⯑tion or temperament of any human creature. Even a natural diſinclination to a particular vice, will ſoon be conquered by the force of ill example: if your choſen intimates be de⯑voted to it, you will learn to copy it from them. The man whom nature had endued with the quickeſt ſenſe of honour, has often been enticed into the meaneſt practices. The man whom nature had fortified by an abſolute averſion to intoxicating liquors, has often be⯑come a drunkard, ſometimes the moſt aban⯑doned to debauchery. The modeſteſt youth has ſometimes degenerated into the moſt ſhameleſs libertine. To frequent the aſſemblies of the wicked, is to take up your abode in a houſe filled with the contagion of every mortal diſ⯑eaſe. O my ſoul, come not thou into their ſecret ^*. Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity ^†.

IN whatever degree your vice becomes ha⯑bitual, it will have a tendency, proportionably, [54] to alienate you from all the means of curbing it. It will incapacitate you for the devout ob⯑ſervance of religious ordinances; it will lead you on to the neglect of them; and from your coldneſs or neglect, it will draw freſh vigour. It will weaken your faith of the great prin⯑ciples of religion, which condemn it, deaden your ſenſe of them, draw off your attention from them, and deprive you of their aid in reſiſting it. Conſcience will remonſtrate leſs frequently and leſs warmly the farther you proceed; and when it does remonſtrate, you will, with greater and greater anxiety and ſucceſs, ſet yourſelves to ſilence it. You can⯑not think of forſaking your ſins; and there⯑fore you will ſtudy to make yourſelves eaſy in them. Every ſtep you take, you will the more eagerly graſp at thoſe falſe opinions and licentious ſentiments which ſeem to juſtify or extenuate your ſins; and they will become the more effectual for encouraging you to take another ſtep. You will the more ſolicit⯑ouſly avail yourſelves of all the evaſions and ſubterfuges of ſelf-deceit; and in every ſtage of your progreſs, it will furniſh ſome artful diſtinction, ſome deluſive maxim, ſome plau⯑ſible diſguiſe, adapted to your ſituation, and calculated for producing ſecurity in it.

As long as your practice is confined to one favourite vice, which has not yet ſeduced you [55] into the frequent commiſſion of others, you will ſoothe yourſelves into the fearleſs indul⯑gence of it, by a fond perſuaſion that it alone is not ſufficient to denominate you vicious men. You are faulty in this one thing; but in it the Lord will ſurely pardon his ſervants ^*; you nevertheleſs have many virtues; theſe may make amends for one fault; and by means of theſe you may hope for the rewards of hea⯑ven. It is but a neceſſary imperfection inſe⯑parable from fallen man. No human cha⯑racter was ever uniformly excellent; the pureſt has had ſome ſtains, and the brighteſt ſome dark ſhades. Every one of the holy men whom the Scripture moſt commends, failed in ſome particular; and ſome of them were guilty of very heinous ſins. You therefore may well be allowed in your peculiar frailty. But between the acts of ſin into which good men have ſometimes been ſurprized, and the practice of ſin in which you live; between the temporary defections for which they mourned, and the cuſtomary tranſgreſſions which you juſtify to yourſelves; between the iniquities from which they ſpeedily recovered themſelves by repentance, and thoſe in which you deliberately reſolve to perſiſt; there is the wideſt difference. If you live in the habit of [56] any one ſin, you are as truly, though not in ſo high a degree, wilful and preſumptuous ſin⯑ners, as they who abandon themſelves to more. God is ſo far from granting you allowance in your beloved vice, that againſt it he requires you to employ your moſt ſpecial care.

WHEN any vicious paſſion, by being con⯑firmed into habit, has become ſo powerful that it conquers you on every the ſlighteſt temptation, you will begin to flatter yourſelves that therefore it is only a ſin of infirmity, for which God will never call you to a rigorous account. Though you fall ſo often before it, you approve it not, you ſubmit not quietly to its dominion, you form frequent purpoſes againſt it: but ſtill it prevails over the ſenſe of your minds, and overthrows your ſtrongeſt purpoſes; and this convinces you that it ariſes unavoidably from the frailty of your nature, and will find an eaſy pardon. To facilitate the deception, you will labour to perſuade yourſelves, that it is but a ſmall treſpaſs; and no vice is ſo enormous, but exorbitant paſ⯑ſion may impoſe it on a corrupted conſcience, as a ſmall treſpaſs. You compare your own ſins with the moſt flagitious practices of other men; and becauſe you perceive them to be leſs, you conclude them to be venal. You do not ſcoff at religion, though you neglect all its du⯑ties: [57] you oppreſs not your dependents to ab⯑ſolute ruin, though you haraſs them with ſeverity: you are not murderers, though you be injurious: you live not in adultery, though you indulge yourſelves in whoredom: you are not ſunk into the ſottiſhneſs of ſolitary drunkenneſs, though you never ſcruple to join in the riots of your company. If all the par⯑tiality of ſelf-deceit cannot repreſent your ſin as ſmall in itſelf, you will extenuate it into a ſin of infirmity, by referring it to the peculi⯑arity of your temper or your ſituation: it is ſo deeply rooted in your conſtitution, it grows ſo neceſſarily out of your circumſtances or oc⯑cupation, it is ſo inſeparably connected with your intereſt and views, that to you it is inevi⯑table, and you muſt be pardonable in yield⯑ing to it. But you deceive yourſelves. That only can be a ſin of infirmity, which proceeds from excuſeable ignorance, or ſudden ſurpriſe. What is contrary to an expreſs command of God, what you know to be at all a ſin at the time of committing it, what needs refinement for reconciling it to the native ſentiments of your hearts, muſt merit a very different name. It is a known, deliberate, wilful diſobedience of your Maker. By groſs abuſe of yourſelves, you have firſt contracted ſtrong habits of vice; and now, when their ſtrength is irreſiſtible, you fooliſhly imagine that they are therefore but [58] pitiable frailties. The imagination is ſo deſpe⯑rately abſurd, as neceſſarily to imply, that the more inveterate your vices are become, the more they are intitled to indulgence and for⯑giveneſs. If you can infatuate yourſelves into the belief of it, you may obtain tranquil⯑lity in your cuſtomary ſins: but you will, at the ſame time, harden yourſelves in them, and prevent your ever thinking of that repentance, without which they muſt iſſue in your eternal ruin.

SOMETIMES, again, the habitual ſinner quiets his conſcience by deviſing ſuperſtitious equivalents for the virtue which he ſuffers himſelf to violate. He cannot abandon his vices, but he will make amends for them: he will punctiliouſly obſerve all the rituals of re⯑ligion, he will believe all its doctrines, he will be moſt violently zealous againſt thoſe whom he conceives to be erroneous. The ambitious, the covetous, the unjuſt, the voluptuous, will make any atonement, any compenſation, which does not preclude him from the indulgence of his beloved vice; and by perſuading himſelf that it will avail, he is lulled into a fatal ſe⯑curity. Hence the characters in which the ſhifts of avarice, the tricks of diſhoneſty, the revellings of debauchery, or the arts of ambi⯑tion, are unnaturally conjoined with a high [59] profeſſion of religion, and a preſumptuous conceit of extraordinary ſanctity.

FINALLY, when habitual ſinners can find no means of concealing from themſelves the turpitude of thoſe vices to which they are ad⯑dicted, they notwithſtanding reconcile their minds to the perpetration of them, by ſome imperfect motions of preſent repentance, or half-reſolutions of future reformation. You condemn yourſelves in what you do; you re⯑gret every act of ſin as ſoon almoſt as it is done; you lament that you are not better, and wiſh earneſtly that you were: and you hope that this is repentance, and ſhows your heart to be right, however faulty your con⯑duct be. If there be any defect in this, you will ſupply it hereafter; you cannot think of encountering the difficulties of a complete re⯑formation, at preſent; but at a more conve⯑nient ſeaſon, when you have enjoyed your ſins a little longer, you are determined that you will accompliſh it. Strange! to pervert thoſe checks and rebukes of conſcience, which pro⯑claim your guilt, into an evidence that you are guiltleſs! to dream that your ſinning againſt conviction, is repentance! to conclude that God will not condemn you, becauſe you cannot help condemning yourſelves! Your reſolutions are as full of abſurdity as your [66] ſentiments: at the very time you are doing an action, you reſolve to diſapprove and condemn it afterwards; you reſolve that hereafter, when it ſhall be impoſſible to undo it, you will heartily wiſh that undone, which you will not leave undone, now when it is abſo⯑lutely in your power to abſtain from doing it. A reſolution to repent hereafter, is inconſiſtent with every degree of honeſty of heart—and it never will be executed; every impediment to preſent reformation, every difficulty in effect⯑ing it, every reaſon for delay, will continue and daily gather ſtrength. You may repeat, and again repeat your reſolution to reform; but you will never ſet about actual reforma⯑tion. While you regret that you are ſinning, and yet go on; while you reſolve to amend, and amend not immediately; you are the ſlaves of ſin, and likely to die in bondage to it. To-day, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts ^*.

WHEN we thus diſplay the long train of wickedneſs which ſprings naturally and una⯑voidably from the leaſt vicious indulgence, you perhaps conſider it as in a great meaſure the work of imagination. You think you can eaſily go a ſhort way in vice, when your plea⯑ſure [61] or your intereſt requires it, without any danger of becoming abandoned to it. You have already ventured on ſome acts of ſin, but you are certain that you can forbear them when you pleaſe: you have yielded to your favourite vice, and you have found no neceſ⯑ſary connexion between it and other vices. But can you ſay, that you have found no con⯑nexion? Perhaps you have not yet run into them. But have you not been ſometimes tempted to them? Has never your cuſtomary ſin hinted that you might make trial of them? Yes, but you abhor them. Rather than be guilty of them, you will renounce the moſt beloved vice. This may be your preſent opi⯑nion: after cuſtom has effaced a man's deteſ⯑tation of familiar ſins, he may continue to re⯑gard a higher degree, or another ſpecies of guilt with horror. But by a little longer prac⯑tice, this likewiſe will be effaced, and that very guilt incurred without ſcruple. Recollect Hazael, and be alarmed for yourſelves. You cannot feel ſtronger indignation againſt any crime, than he expreſſed when the Prophet foretold his future enormities. Is thy ſervant a dog, that he ſhould do this great thing ^*? His ambition was yet young, but it quickly roſe to ſtrength, and drove him into all the barba⯑rities [62] which he had ſo confidently diſclaimed. The effects of wickedneſs are always carried far beyond the ſinner's firſt deſign. Nothing could prevail upon you to leap from the top of a high tower; but by an eaſy ſcale of ſteps you will without fear deſcend to the very ſame depth. From the firſt wilful tranſgreſſion to confirmation in wickedneſs, the deſcent is ſo eaſy that every tranſition is ſcarcely percep⯑tible. One act of ſin, in many ways induces the repetition of it; repetition neceſſarily forms a habit of it: the habit impels to frequent prac⯑tice, and by practice becomes inveterate. The practice, the habit of one ſin leads on to other ſins; prepares the ſoul for greater crimes; be⯑gets temptations to them; demands them for concealing it; involves you in them as its inevitable conſequences; or impoſes them upon you as neceſſary for its ſupport and exe⯑cution; and quickly rears them alſo into eſta⯑bliſhed habits. Habitual vice lays you open to all the power of ill example, to all the influence of looſe principles, to all the artifices of ſelf⯑deceit; and by means of theſe, you will be⯑come irreclaimable, and yet fearleſs in all your vicious courſes. Smooth, and often rapid, is the progreſs; but fatal is the iſſue.

How carefully then ought they, who have yet retained their innocence, ſtill to hold it [63] faſt? You cannot gueſs beforehand, of what depravity, trouble, and miſery, you lay the foundation, when you make the firſt ſtep into a bad courſe. Fully retrieved it can never be. However early you retract it, it muſt be with pungent ſorrow, with painful ſtruggling, and with a conſciouſneſs of guilt never to be totally obliterated. But it is not probable that you will retract it early: a downward motion is not eaſily repreſſed. If you commit one ſin, you can hardly avoid committing many more: if you commit many ſins, you muſt contract ſtrong vicious habits; and if theſe be once contracted, they will render you the irredeem⯑able ſlaves of vice. It is with a trembling heart that the virtuous friend, or the attentive parent ſees the inexperienced youth engaging in the commerce of the world; a few of his firſt ſteps may very probably determine his charac⯑ter through life, and his ſtate through eter⯑nity.

How, then, ſhall we addreſs thoſe who have already proceeded far in vicious courſes? Your condition is imminently dangerous. You are going ſtraight forward in the road to deſtruc⯑tion; and the farther you have gone, the more violently you are compelled to go farther. Stop ſhort, while yet there is a poſ⯑ſibility. However little a way you have pro⯑ceeded, [64] you will find abundant difficulty in returning; another ſtep will make a great ad⯑dition to it. You cannot paſs at once from the path of vice into that of virtue; they touch only at their entrance; in their progreſs they ſeparate to an unmeaſurable diſtance: to croſs into the path of virtue, will require more laborious and tedious exertions than you have made in wandering from it; it is like toiling up a ſteep aſcent, where the ſand is continually ſlipping from beneath your feet, and fruſtrates more than half your effort. By every hour's continuance in evil courſes, the power of ſin is ſtrengthened, the vigour of the ſoul im⯑paired, and the principles of reformation weakened. How ſeldom is the practiſed ſinner perfectly recovered to virtue? Be not therefore without fear, to add ſin unto ſin any more: make no tarrying to turn unto the Lord; and put not off from day to day: for ſuddenly ſhall the wrath of the Lord come forth, and in thy ſecurity thou ſhalt be deſtroyed, and periſh in the day of vengeance ^*. By immediate reformation you will prevent it: if you defer it for a day, it may be for ever beyond your power.

SERMON III. THE PROGRESS OF VICE: THE THIRD STAGE.

IT is a common prejudice againſt religion, that it is for ſome time difficult and painful, at leaſt to ſuch as have been for⯑merly engaged in vicious courſes, who muſt undergo a ſevere diſcipline of mortification and ſelf-denial, before they can find any plea⯑ſure in it. Againſt religion it is but a pre⯑judice; for its joys are more than ſufficient to compenſate all the pains which we can endure in acquiring a reliſh for them. But againſt vice, it is an unanſwerable argument, that its beginnings occaſion racking pains, which it has no ſolid joys to counterbalance. To every well-diſpoſed mind, a heinous ſin is at firſt the object of dread and horror. Before a man can think without reluctance of com⯑mitting [66] it, before he can ſet about it with⯑out trepidation of heart and confuſion of face, before he can reflect on it without pun⯑gent remorſe and ſelf-condemnation, he muſt not only ſuffer many an uneaſy ſtruggle with⯑in, between the irregular paſſions which urge him to it, and conſcience which forbids it; but he muſt likewiſe, by many outward actions of baſeneſs, intermingled with ſeaſons of diſſatiſ⯑faction and dread, wear out all the principles of modeſty and ingenuity, which were the glory of his nature. By perſeverance in wicked⯑neſs, he may at length become eaſy in it: but his eaſe is only ſtupeſaction in guilt, and ſecurity on the brink of deſtruction. It is founded in the corruption of his heart; it is always in proportion to the inveteracy of that corruption; it is the deſperate period of a mortal diſt [...]mper, in which a man is cruſhed beneath its power, thinks not of a remedy, or becomes fond of his diſeaſe. Inſtead of a re⯑commendation of vice, it is one of the ſtrongeſt arguments againſt it; and when we conſider how inſenſibly, and almoſt unavoidably, the man who is once engaged in vice, is drawn forward to this ſtate of mind, the argument becomes truly alarming. I have propoſed to enforce it, by tracing out the ſinner's progreſs from evil to evil. In purſuing this deſign, I have, firſt, pointed out thoſe ſteps of mental [67] indulgence by which irregular inclinations and vicious paſſions are inwardly cheriſhed, till they break forth into overt acts of ſin: and, ſecondly, thoſe ſteps by which, in conſe⯑quence of wilful ſin, vicious habits are con⯑tracted, ſtrengthened, and multiplied: and I ſhall now, in the third place, endeavour to deſcribe the confirmation of the corrupted heart in profligate wickedneſs and enmity againſt religion.

IN pointing out the ſinner's progreſs to habitual vice, we have obſerved that his aver⯑ſion to it, his reluctance to practiſe it, and his pain in the conſciouſncſs of it, continually grow weaker. At length they are almoſt to⯑tally effaced; he becomes inſenſible to its baſe⯑neſs and its wretchedneſs. Inſenſibility in ſin is the neceſſary conſequence of being enured to it; and it forms a principal part of its maturity. Cuſtom, which ſtrengthens our active propenſities, never fails to weaken paſ⯑ſive impreſſions: the frequent ſight of diſtreſs blunts the emotions of pity; the being often expoſed to danger impairs the ſenſation of fear; the being long forced to bear inſults and indignities, deadens the pungency of that mortification with which they are felt at firſt. The cuſtom of committing ſin wears off the the uneaſineſs, the ſhame, and the dread, [68] which the thought of it once produced. Con⯑ſcience, which formerly eyed it with horror, remonſtrated againſt it, and faithfully repre⯑ſented its baſeneſs and its miſery, becomes ſo blind that it cannot ſee the evil of ſin, ſo heedleſs that it will not reprove it, or ſo de⯑bauched that it excuſes and defends it. Its ſtrongeſt checks and its ſharpeſt rebukes have been deſpiſed or eluded, and now it ceaſes from them; it is become ſeared with a hot iron ^*; it is reprobate and undiſcerning. But were the conſcience of the habitual ſinner ſtill capable of continuing its rebukes, and ſounding them ever ſo loudly in his ears, he could not hear them; he has ſo often heard and diſregarded them, that they can make no impreſſion. He is like a perſon who, having always lived near to a noiſy cataract, has loſt the very perception of its roaring. Sin is of a benumbing, ſtupifying nature; in its earlieſt ſtages, the ſinner ſlumbers; in its laſt ſtage, the ſpirit of deep ſleep is fallen upon him ^†, a le⯑thargy oppreſſes all his powers. He is paſt feeling ^‡. His mind is as a member of the body that is mortified; it has no ſenſe of the moſt flagitious crimes. In the nervous lan⯑guage of Scripture, he is even dead in treſpaſſes [69] and ſins ^*. Nay he has made his heart an heart of ſtone ^†, as an adamant ſtone, leſt he ſhould hear the law ^‡.

IN this ſtate of obduracy, the ſinner can reflect upon the moſt heinous particulars of his abandoned conduct without ſorrow or re⯑gret. Long cuſtom of ſinning has taken away the conſciouſneſs of his guilt. Remorſe, which never fails to wound the tender heart of a novice in vice, cannot touch the callous ſoul of the proficient. The yoke of ſin no longer galls his neck: he has hardened it; he has made it an iron ſinew ^§. Habituated to the ſlavery of ſin, he forgets his chains. In a condition which by all the declarations of the goſpel excludes him from the happineſs of heaven, and which in its own nature renders him incapable of happineſs, he ſits down ſe⯑cure and unconcerned, without a deſire of re⯑formation, without one thought of altering his courſe.

WHEN the ſinner can make himſelf eaſy under the load of guilt which he has already contracted, he will likewiſe go on without reluctance to contract new guilt. The ſame depravity which ſmothers remorſe for former [70] crimes, precludes repugnance to freſh tranſ⯑greſſions. Whenever conſcience ceaſes from its rebukes, it of courſe gives over its remon⯑ſtrances. As often as an opportunity occurs, the hardened ſinner runs into vice without thought, without almoſt knowing that he is doing wrong. He has freed himſelf from every reſtraint. By his being ſo long addicted to what is baſe, his conſcience is ſilenced, his deteſtation and dread of ſin, his ſenſe of its vile and ſhameful nature, and his apprehen⯑ſions of its miſerable conſequences, are in a great meaſure loſt. He thinks neither of the goodneſs of God, nor of his wrath. He re⯑gards not the obligations of virtue, nor any of the motives of the goſpel. The modeſty, which he poſſeſſed in his early wanderings from duty, has forſaken him; he has no reſpect to his own character, or to the opinion of others; he abandons himſelf to ſin in broad day-light, without a maſk, without a bluſh. It muſt be a very atrocious deed from which he will ſtart back. He is like thoſe who are reported to have rendered poiſon ſo familiar to them, by the cuſtom of ſwallowing it, that they could digeſt a great quantity of it without any ſenſation of pain. By a courſe of rebel⯑lion againſt conſcience, he has not only broken its power, but learned to deſpiſe its autho⯑rity.

[71]BY being long habituated to vice, a man becomes not only inſenſible, but likewiſe in⯑flexible and irreclaimable. Theſe two charac⯑ters are ſo cloſely connected, that the Scripture includes both under the ſame term, hardneſs of heart. Both are clearly diſcernible in the deſcriptions which it gives of the obduracy with which the Prophets and the Meſſiah ſo often charge the degenerate Jews. Of the in⯑ſenſibility which we have juſt now deſcribed, obſtinate adherence to vice is the neceſſary conſequence. In every nature there is origi⯑nally a principle of ſelf-reſtoration; when it is a little put out of order, it labours to re⯑cover itſelf. Storms and tempeſts are the agitations of the elements endeavouring to diſcharge the noxious vapours which have in⯑fected them; and they are ſucceeded by a wholeſome calm. Agues and fevers in the human body, are the ſtruggles of its remain⯑ing vigour to expel ſome malignant humours which threaten its diſſolution; and when they ceaſe without producing this effect, a broken conſtitution or ſpeedy death enſues. Vice is the diſorder, the diſeaſe, the miſery of moral agents: as long as the mind retains any ſoundneſs, it makes efforts to throw it off: regret, remorſe, ſelf-condemnation, conſidera⯑tion of the reaſons for virtue, reſolutions of amendment, are no other than its motions to⯑wards [72] repentance, its endeavours after reform⯑ation. When by perſeverance in wicked⯑neſs they are ſuppreſſed, the very principle of ſelf-reſtitution is loſt, the diſtemper is incu⯑rable. When a man is unaffected with all the ſins which he has committed, how can he think of forſaking them? When he has no ſenſe of the evil of ſin, how can he be brought to abhor and avoid it? His ſleep will be a perpetual ſleep. To arouſe him, would be to give feeling to a mortified limb, or motion to a dead carcaſe. He is blind to all moral con⯑ſiderations: he is impenetrable by exhortation, by reproof, by the mercies, by the judgments of God, by all incentives to amendment. There is nothing remaining in his ſoul on which they can take hold. In ſpite of all poſſible motives to virtue, he has obſtinately purſued his wicked courſes; they could not re⯑ſtrain him when they operated with their full force; how then can they reclaim him now, when, by being often baſſled, they have loſt their force; and when, by the inveteracy of habit, he is ſteeled againſt them? In a Chriſtian, hard⯑neſs of heart has been contracted in contempt of all the means of recovery which the goſpel can ſupply: they might reform a heathen; but for correcting his depravity, a new revelation, of greater efficacy than the goſpel, would ſeem to be neceſſary. None ſuch will be given; [73] and therefore the apoſtle affirms that it is im⯑poſſible, he cannot mean leſs than that it is ſo difficult as ſcarcely to be expected, for thoſe who are once enlightened, if they ſhall fall away, ſo far as to become obdurate ſinners, to renew them again unto repentance ^*. Were they even indulged with a new revelation, it is not pro⯑bable that they would repent. After the Jews had, in contempt of Moſes and the Prophets, become obdurate in wickedneſs, the goſpel was granted to them; but they trampled it likewiſe under foot, remained impenitent, and made a dreadful addition to their guilt.

THE inflexibility of the hardened ſinner is ſecured, not only by his inſenſibility, but by the ſtrength of his vicious habits. How dif⯑ficult it is to break off any habit even the moſt inſignificant, the experience of every day proclaims. A confirmed habit few have re⯑ſolution to attempt eradicating. The labour, the care, the conſtancy of vigilance which it requires, is almoſt incredible. After the pains of years, it is diſcovered that ſome fibre has remained, which ſhoots anew, and demands a repetition of the toil. How then can deep-rooted habits of vice be extirpated? Could the hardened ſinner feel the whole [74] force of all the arguments for undertaking the extirpation of them, they ſcarcely could pre⯑vail. His habits are become too ſtubborn to bend before them; they are too much indu⯑rated to yield to the edge of reaſon. By length of time, the habits of the mind, as well as the members of the body, become ſtiff and rigid. The man who has through life accuſtomed himſelf to ſin, is chained faſt by his luſts; and in chains, what can he do for his own releaſe? He has not the power to reform, though he had the inclination. He has gone ſo far, that he is frightened at the length and ruggedneſs of the way by which he muſt return; he doubts whether it be poſſible; deſpondence ſuſpends all his powers, and de⯑prives him of all heart to purpoſe it. The Scripture therefore deſcribes hardened ſinners as not only abominable and diſobedient, but alſo unto every good work reprobate ^*; ſo far alienated from the life of God, as to have given themſelves over unto laſciviouſneſs, to work all uncleanneſs with greedineſs ^†; in the ſnare of the Devil, taken captive by him at his will ^‡. The ſtain of ſin may ſink ſo deep as to tincture the ſoul throughout. The habit of wickedneſs becomes a ſecond na⯑ture; the whole propenſion of the heart is as much to ſin, as the tendency of a ſtone to [75] fall, or of ſparks to fly upwards; to correct it, is almoſt as difficult as to alter the original powers of the mind. By wallowing in ſenſuality, men may be degraded into beaſts: by reſigning themſelves to malevolence, they may be tranſ⯑formed into fiends. The incorrigible obſtinacy of habitual ſinners, and the deſperate danger of their condition is emphatically expreſſed by the Prophet; Can the Ethiopian change his ſkin, or the leopard his ſpots? then may ye alſo do good, that are accuſtomed to do evil ^*. But if you will obſerve with what compoſure and perſever⯑ance you ſee the miſer continuing his penu⯑rious ſhifts, the rapacious multiplying his rapines, the unjuſt executing his villanies, the drunkard repeating his debauches, the profligate of every denomination purſuing his own courſe to the very laſt, you can ſcarcely imagine even that deſcription to be exaggerated.

Is it then impoſſible that they who have become hardened in vicious courſes, ſhould be reclaimed from them? With men, I am afraid, we muſt determine this is impoſſible, but with God all things are poſſible ^†. It can be effected only by an extraordinary meaſure of divine grace: but they have no reaſon to ex⯑pect ſo much as the ordinary influences of [76] grace. They are totally eſtranged from the means which he has appointed for conveying it: how can they find acceſs to it? They have continually reſiſted the ſpirit of God, and in defiance of all his motions proceeded to ſo ex⯑treme depravity; he will be provoked to ceaſe from his ſuggeſtions, and to withdraw his aids. They have ſo long refuſed to hearken to the voice of God, that he will give them up unto their own hearts luſts, to walk in their own counſels ^*. He will employ no farther methods for their reformation. Why ſhould ye be ſtriken any more? Ye will revolt more and more ^†. He that heareth, let him hear; and he that forbeareth let him forbear ^‡ : he that is un⯑juſt, let him be unjuſt ſtill; and he that is filthy, let him be filthy ſtill ^§. When Divine juſtice thus pronounceth concerning the habitual ſinner, his condition is irretrievable. With⯑out Divine grace, he cannot be awakened even to think of repenting; without a great degree of its aſſiſtance he cannot accompliſh his repentance; but he has totally forfeited its aids. That which is crooked in him cannot be made ſtraight ^‖. His perverſity will increaſe every day; and after his hardneſs and impeni⯑tent [77] heart, he treaſureth up unto himſelf wrath againſt the day of wrath ^*.

BY long cuſtom of ſinning, men become not only blind to the evil of ſin, and con⯑firmed in the practice of it, but likewiſe fond of it. They not only commit it, but approve it, and glory in it. Even their mind and conſcience is defiled ^†: their moral ſenti⯑ments are totally reverſed: they call evil good, and good evil, and put darkneſs for light, and light for darkneſs ^‡. They have ſo transfigured their vices, and ſo vitiated their judgment, as to reckon them commendable. They have ſo audaciouſly trampled upon obligation, that they applaud themſelves in deſpiſing it. They forget that ever they heard the voice of con⯑ſcience, and therefore perſuade themſelves that its dictates are impoſtures, and that virtue and vice are empty names. Fools make a mock at ſin ^§, and turn duty unto ridicule. The drunkard boaſts of his beaſtly debauches, and laughs at temperance, as an inſipid, dull pre⯑ciſion. The diſſolute libertine triumphs in the multitude of his impurities, and ſneers at modeſty as ſpiritleſs auſterity. The prac⯑tiſed villain pours contempt on the reſtraints [78] of juſtice, and values himſelf on the bold⯑neſs with which he has broken through them, the ſkill with which he has eluded them, the addreſs with which he has ſcreened himſelf from the vengeance of the laws, and the opulence which he poſſeſſes in conſe⯑quence of his crimes. The irreligious jeers at the fervours of devotion as mere enthu⯑ſiaſm, at the regular performance of its duties as ceremonious formality, weak ſuperſtition, or ſtudied hypocriſy; and exults in his own im⯑piety as refinement of ſpirit, and ſuperiority of mind. The ſinner of every claſs, when he has purſued his evil courſes to a great length, ſets himſelf down in the ſeat of the ſcornful ^*, and makes right and wrong the ſubjects of his ſlight, his mirth, or his ſatire.

IN the earlier periods of their degeneracy▪ men ſometimes venture to treat particular acts of virtue or vice with deriſion, or even to jeſt with the ſanctity and the importance of moral obligation. In that caſe, it is the ef⯑fuſion of unthinking levity; it is the ill-judged affectation of with and pleaſantry; it is the heedleſs mimickry of the profane ſcoffer; it is an aſſumed diſguiſe of inward pangs from conſciouſneſs of guilt; or it is a fond attempt [79] to obtain tranquillity in vices which they have not reſolution to forſake. It is belied by the real ſentiments of their hearts, and intermixt with checks of conſcience and miſgivings of ſoul. From whatever cauſe it proceeds, it is fooliſh and highly culpable; and it is of the moſt pernicious conſequence. It gradually ſaps the authority of conſcience, leſſens the power of its decrees, wears off the reverence due to virtue, and prepares the way for re⯑garding ſin as a light and trivial failing. But in the veteran ſinner, it proceeds from cauſes which lie deeper, and it implies the blackeſt corruption. His temper is a contradiction to virtue; and therefore he hates it, and ſupports his hatred by repreſenting it as contemptible. Vice has interwoven itſelf with all the exer⯑tions of his ſoul; and therefore he ſtudiouſly juſtifies and commends it. His ſcoffing is not the unmeaning jeſt of giddineſs, but the de⯑ſigning ſneer of malignity. It is the effect of that falſe peace which, by ſmothering his ſenſe of right and wrong, he has obtained in adding ſin to ſin. It is indulged with eagerneſs and complacence; the ſcorners delight in their ſcorn⯑ing ^*. Such perverſion of heart precludes al⯑moſt the poſſibility of repentance. It em⯑poiſons all the ſprings from which repentance [80] can proceed: it throws ridicule on all the ſen⯑timents which can inſtigate to reformation. When a man has long addicted himſelf to any courſe, this alone is often ſufficient to make him aſhamed to alter it: but when he has moreover ſet himſelf, on every occaſion, to maintain and applaud it, to expoſe and vi⯑lify the contrary courſe, and to deride thoſe who purſue it, how can he have the courage to reſolve upon amendment? His jeſts would be all retorted on himſelf: he muſt encounter not the ſcoffs of others only, but his own. He hates to be reformed.

SCOFFING at the practice of religion, is ſometimes united with belief of its principles. They who would think with horror of deny⯑ing the exiſtence of God, glory in living with⯑out God in the world ^*. They who would ſhud⯑der at diſbelieving a future ſtate, laugh at that conduct which alone can qualify them for happineſs in it. They who retain conſider⯑able reverence for the truths of the goſpel of Chriſt, treat with contempt a converſation becom⯑ing the goſpel ^†. The inconſiſtence, the abſur⯑dity of their character is aſtoniſhing: they de⯑ride what their avowed principles demand as indeſpenſible; they boaſt of what their own principles demonſtrate to be their diſgrace and [81] miſery. It ſhews to what a deplorable pitch vice can infatuate the ſoul: it beſets it into ſuch ſtupidity, that it cannot diſcern the moſt palpable repugnances.

BUT very often the deriſion of the ſcorner extends itſelf to the principles of religion. The moſt ſacred, venerable and important truths, the being of God, the external ſtate of retribution, the divinity of the goſpel, its excellence, its ſublime doctrines, its precious promiſes, its awful threatenings, are made the choſen objects of his ſcurrilous wit and diſſolute mirth. If any of theſe have been miſunderſtood through the weakneſs of be⯑lievers, the undeſigned miſrepreſentation is greedily laid hold of, unfairly ſubſtituted in place of the reality, exaggerated to the ut⯑moſt that it may the better receive the falſe colouring of ridicule. In every ſtep of his progreſs from evil to evil, the ſinner is gra⯑dually trained to this extremity of corrup⯑tion; and by obduracy in wickedneſs, he is completely prepared for it. The ſportiveneſs of childhood and the vivacity of youth, un⯑corrected by reverence for religious truth, is ſometimes found to overflow in an indecent jeſt on ſome principle which ought to be regarded as ſacred, and never mentioned but with ſeriouſneſs. Its being heard without [82] marks of diſguſt, received with ſatisfaction, or echoed back with the voice of mirth, is an encouragement to the repetition of it. By ſuch communication men become indiſ⯑poſed to ſedateneſs, and fond of frivolous and jocular diſcourſe. The novice in vice, panting for liberty to gratify his indulged paſſions, or to palliate from himſelf, and juſtify to others, the deviations into which they have betrayed him, catches at the licen⯑tious poſitions or the ludicrous images which he has learned from the proficient in wic⯑kedneſs, inculcates them on his recoiling heart, and produces them with ſeeming com⯑placence, but often with real compunction and miſtruſt. When, after having plunged himſelf into vice, his conſcience upbraids him, and holds up to his view the great truths which condemn his conduct, and pro⯑claim his danger, he labours to evade their force, by whatever can diſguiſe their certain⯑ty, or debaſe their importance. Intent on ſilencing conſcience, he neceſſarily directs his efforts againſt the truths from which it draws its ſharpeſt weapons: and if he be ſucceſsful in ſilencing it, there can be nothing to check him in throwing off the belief of theſe truths. When he has become determined and contu⯑macious in his vices, he muſt be impatient of every reſtraint. The tenets of religion are all [83] doctrines according to godlineſs ^*, contradictory to every vice. The abandoned to vice would gladly diſbelieve them: to confute them by arguments, is above his power; to deſtroy his reverence for them, by profane ſcoffing▪ is an eaſier taſk, and will almoſt as effectually ſe⯑cure his peace, or perhaps facilitate his infide⯑lity. Inveterate habits of wickedneſs cannot fail to ſet men in oppoſition to religion which is incompatible with them. This is the very account which our Saviour gives of the con⯑tempt and malice with which the Jews treated his inſtructions: They loved darkneſs rather than light: Why? Becauſe their deeds were evil; for every one that doth evil hateth the light, leſt his deeds ſhould be reproved ^†. Two of the Apoſtles aſcribe to the ſame cauſe, the impious mocking which, they foretel, was to take place in after-ages: There ſhall come in the laſt days ſcoffers, walking after their own ungodly luſts, ſenſual, having not the ſpirit ^‡.

IF the perſon who extends his invective or his ridicule to the principles of religion, avoids the inconſiſtency chargeable on him who laughs only at the practice of it, he is guilty of an equal, though diſſimilar, abſurdi⯑ty, [84] and he ſhews deeper depravity of mind. To miſrepreſent the tenets of religion, is not wit, but folly. To be incapable of ſhining, except by means of irreligion, betrays a want of parts. To contemn the moſt venerable things, and to be merry with the moſt ſerious, ſhows a ſhameful perverſion of taſte and ſenti⯑ment. To affect expoſing by banter, what you cannot confute by argument, and what you have never examined with diligence, implies a heart loſt to every thing that is ingenuous in human nature. If the prin⯑ciples of religion be true, their importance muſt be confeſſed: nothing ſhort of a demon⯑ſtration of their falſity can juſtify your treat⯑ing them either with ſpite or with levity: but the utmoſt effrontery of infidelity dare not boaſt of ſuch a demonſtration.

WHEN men have contracted enmity againſt the truths of religion, and accuſtomed them⯑ſelves to treat them with contempt and deri⯑ſion, how can they be reclaimed from wic⯑kedneſs? God works repentance in ſinners by his grace: but he works it in a manner ſuitable to their reaſonable nature. He does not convert them by force, as the ſhips are turned about with a helm, whitherſoever the go⯑vernor liſteth, or as we put bits in the horſes [85] mouths, that they may obey us ^*. He operates upon them by principles of reaſon, he per⯑ſuades them by means of truths which infer the obligations of virtue. But all theſe they regard as fables, fit only to be laughed at. Enured to deſpiſe the only means of amend⯑ment, incapable of feeling their force, they muſt be fixt in their impenitence. A ſcorner heareth not rebuke ^†, nor can be touched with exhortation. Will God in ſome extraordinary way, for all ordinary ways are rendered in⯑effectual, awaken him to ſerious reflexion? God himſelf has been the object of his blaſ⯑phemy. Will the compaſſion of the Son of God exert itſelf to ſoften the obduracy and correct the perverſity of his ſoul? The Son of God he reviles as an impoſtor. Will the Holy Spirit, by an irreſiſtible impulſe of his grace, renew his corrupted heart? It has been his conſtant practice to do deſpite unto the ſpirit of grace ^‡. His condition is determined, his ruin is almoſt inevitable.

IF the degree of wickedneſs hitherto de⯑ſcribed be ſuſceptible of any aggravation, it is when the ſinner makes it his buſineſs to ſe⯑duce others into vicious courſes: and it never fails to lead him forward to this ſummit of [86] guilt. To aſſimilate others to ourſelves, is a deſire natural to the ſoul. When men are determined to perſiſt in their vices, and have laid aſide every thought of reforming them⯑ſelves, they will become intent on perverting others into the ſame evil courſes, and forming them to the like character. Many vices can be practiſed only in ſociety: the man who is addicted to them, muſt ſearch for fit aſſo⯑ciates; and if he meets not with ſuch as of choice run with him to the ſame exceſs of riot ^*, he muſt, for enjoying his own vices, draw them on to it. Many vices cannot yield their full meaſure of advantage to him who delights in them, except they be likewiſe practiſed by others: the ruling paſſion of the miſer receives a direct gratification from the parſimony of all who depend upon him, as well as from his own penuriouſneſs, and will therefore inſti⯑gate him to model them according to his own maxims: diſhoneſty of every ſpecies requires accomplices or inſtruments for executing its ſchemes, and muſt faſhion them to its pur⯑poſes, by debauching them from all the prin⯑ciples of juſtice. Every vice is kept in coun⯑tenance by numbers; and no vice is ſo completely ſatisfied with itſelf, even in the moſt degenerate nature, as not to graſp eagerly [87] at this appearance of patronage, and labour to procure it. A vitiated palate takes pleaſure in the vileſt favours, a diſordered mind is gratified by the moſt improper objects; and a heart depraved into the love of vice, cannot but feel an unnatural ſatisfaction in its pre⯑valence. To ſee others yielding to his in⯑fluence, or copying after his example, though it be in wickedneſs, gives the profligate an opi⯑nion of his own authority and importance, that flatters the illegitimate and inverted pride for which his profligacy has prepared him. So great is the corruption into which human na⯑ture may fall by continuance in vice, that ſome find a poſitive and ultimate delight in ſeducing the thoughtleſs, corrupting the inno⯑cent, and encouraging the timid ſinner to go greater lengths. They will perſuade or delude them into the moſt atrocious crimes. They will ſcruple no method by which it can be accompliſhed. They content not themſelves with ſpreading vice by the moſt flagrant ex⯑ample: they recommend it; they ſet it off to the beſt advantage; they employ all their art to produce enchanting pictures of it; they point out the way to it; they lead the reluc⯑tant by the hand into its darkeſt retreats; they ſedulouſly mock at whatever might prove a reſtraint from it. Like the Jews who were hardened againſt the true religion, [88] they ſpeak evil of that way before the multitude ^*. Their enmity againſt religion is too rancorous to be confined within their own breaſts; it is not purely to gratify themſelves that they pour it out; they proclaim it with a ſixt deſign, and an anxious deſire to communicate it to others. They direct all their ſcoffs to the propagation of iniquity. Shocking as this degree of wickedneſs is, there have been many inſtances of it in every age. Solomon de⯑ſcribes it in ſeveral paſſages of his writings. Evil men ſpeak froward things, who leave the paths of uprightneſs, to walk in the ways of dark⯑neſs, who rejoice to do evil, and delight in the fro⯑wardneſs of the wicked ^†. They ſay, let us lay wait for blood, let us lurk privily for the innocent, let us ſwallow them up alive, as the grave, and whole, as thoſe that go down into the pit ^‡. They ſleep not except they have done miſchief, and their ſleep is taken away unleſs they cauſe ſome to fall ^§. It is the temper of the fiend tranſplanted into the human breaſt: it is to perform the vileſt of the devil. Go, and find amuſement in the horrors of the wretch who is haſtening to the torture: it were leſs inhuman than to ſport with what muſt incur the wrath of God, or to take pleaſure in betraying men to the [89] perpetration of it. The proſtituted pander to wickedneſs, muſt be nearly paſt redemption. A conſcience ſo thoroughly debauched cannot be reſtored to a vigorous ſenſe of guilt: a heart ſo completely obdurate cannot feel its ſting. The guilt is ſo dreadfully accumulated, that a lively ſenſe of it, inſtead of impelling him to repentance, would moſt probably overwhelm him with deſpair, in thinking of the multitude of his ſins, and the numbers whom he has contributed to contaminate and ruin. He ventures not to hope for mercy; he cannot bring himſelf to pray for it; his ſoul cannot frame a wiſh from which it has been ſo long and ſo far alienated. By the hardneſs of his heart, he knows that God withholds his grace. If he feels that in all this God is juſt, it aggra⯑vates his torture: the long ſuffering of God abuſed and exhauſted, the purchaſe of Chriſt rejected and forfeited, oppreſs him with unſuf⯑ferable anguiſh. If he acquit not God from the charge of dealing hardly with him, he ſets his mouth againſt the heavens ^*, he vents his rage in blaſphemies, he curſes God, and dies.

I HAVE now traced out the natural progreſs of vice from its ſlendereſt beginnings to its [90] baneful iſſue. In the preceding diſcourſes, I delineated the train of inward indulgences and deceits by which paſſion is rendered irregular, and put forth into acts of ſin; and the man⯑ner in which, from acts of ſin, habits of de⯑pravity ſpring up, and grow, and multiply: and in the preſent, I have deſcribed that hard⯑neſs of heart, and that contempt and hatred of religion, which neceſſarily reſult from con⯑firmed and multiplied habits of wickedneſs, and complete the corruption of the ſinner. It is a ſhocking, a confounding object. It cannot be beheld without horror. If any of you ſhud⯑der at it, be careful to turn your terror to your own advantage. It inculcates the moſt im⯑portant leſſons in the moſt alarming manner, eſpecially when it is conſidered in connexion with the ſeveral gradations which, from the firſt deviation into vice, almoſt imperceptibly lead forward to it.

THE whole of this ſubject ſerves as an aw⯑ful warning to thoſe who are ſo happy as not to be yet engaged in any vicious courſe. I can⯑not conclude it, without again beſeeching the young and the innocent to guard againſt the firſt deviation from virtue, however ſmall it may appear, and however ſtrong you may think the inducements to it. Give no credit to its infant ſmiles; admit not a wiſh for the plea⯑ſure [91] or the profit which it promiſes: they are a lie; its end is bitter as wormwood, ſharp as a two-edged ſword ^*. In vain you think of ſin⯑ning in moderation, of ſetting bounds to your tranſgreſſions, of going only a certain length, but no farther: you might as well attempt to reſtrain the raging of the ocean. Vice creeps on by little ſteps, but with an uninterrupted progreſſion. By the ſmalleſt failure in care and recollection, you will ſlide from what is lawful, into what is ſuſpicious; from that into what is plainly ſinful; from leſſer into greater tranſgreſſions; from acts into cuſto⯑mary practice; from ſtrong inclinations into deliberate habits; from one habit into ano⯑ther; from leſs to more inveteracy; from the practice of wickedneſs to the love of it. The connexion between the ſlighteſt vicious indul⯑gence, and the blackeſt guilt, though formed by many links, is indiſſoluble. To what vi⯑gilance againſt the ſmalleſt treſpaſs would an adequate ſenſe of this determine us? Labour to acquire and to preſerve the livelieſt ſenſe of it. Avoid every object which can excite the fainteſt inclination to a forbidden courſe; fly from every ſituation which can aſſiſt its ope⯑ration. Give no wilful indulgence ſo much as to a ſinful thought, or an evil imagination; [92] conſent not, even in your hearts, to the de⯑mands of any irregular paſſion. To reſtrain the extravagance of thought, and to check the firſt riſing of unlawful paſſion, is the eaſieſt, as well as the ſureſt, means of preventing hard⯑neſs of heart and future miſery. It will require intenſe and conſtant care: but if this be ne⯑glected, to repent, to keep you in the ſtate of penitence, to preſerve you from relapſes into ſin, will require much more painful vigilance. The ſtrongeſt inclination to ſin, which you can feel at preſent, bears no proportion to the violence of deſire to perſiſt and to go on in ſin, which will torment you, if you once enter into its ways. If you ſuffer yourſelves to contract a vicious habit, for conquering it, you muſt lay yourſelves under harder reſtraints than would now be neceſſary, and deny yourſelves many things which now you might ſafely uſe; and you will be leſs diſpoſed and leſs able to apply the remedy. Take heed, therefore, brethren, that ye begin not to depart from the living God ^*.

BUT, alas! how many of us have already begun to depart from him? How many of us have already departed far from him? Return without delay. In whatever part of your ſin⯑ful [93] progreſs you may be, the preſent is the fit⯑teſt ſeaſon that ever you will find for reforma⯑tion. If you return not, you muſt go on; if you grow not better, you muſt grow worſe; there is no poſſiblity of your being ſtationary. Next to eſcaping ſin, is quickly to forſake it. To forſake it the moſt quickly, is far more dif⯑ficult than to have avoided it, but will become every day more difficult and more precarious. The diſeaſes of the ſoul, as well as of the body, are eaſieſt to be cured at firſt; by continuance they become more obſtinate; and by long con⯑tinuance a ſlight ailment may grow to ſuch a head as to baffle the moſt powerful medicine. While the ſinner only ſlumbers, a ſlight touch will rouſe him: if he falls aſleep, it will require a ſtrong pull to awaken him: but if he ſinks into a lethargy, what force is ſufficient to re⯑move it? and if he is dead in ſin, what but a miracle can raiſe him to ſpiritual life? I will ſay to every one of you, ſet about your reformation immediately, and God will enable you to ac⯑compliſh it. But I muſt likewiſe ſay, if you delay it for one hour, it may very ſoon be im⯑poſſible. If this moment you diſregard the checks of conſcience, refuſe the calls of the goſpel, and reſiſt the motions of the ſpirit; think not that you will yield to them hereafter. Every time they are felt and diſregarded, their influence will be weakened. If this day they produce a purpoſe to repent in a little, to-morrow they [94] will produce a fainter deſign to repent at a more diſtant time; and very ſoon they will produce no intention ever to repent. To day, if ye will hear his voice, if ye would ever liſ⯑ten to it, to-day harden not your hearts ^*. If you continue to harden them, the time will come when, if you ſhould happen to be alarm⯑ed to a ſenſe of your guilt, your ſouls will be overwhelmed with ſuch deſponding thoughts as theſe: my condition is deſperate; the labour of extirpating habits ſo deeply rooted would be inſurmountable; I have not the reſolution to attempt it; God has doubtleſs long ago with⯑drawn his grace, elſe I could not have ſinned ſo heinouſly; he has given me up to judicial hardneſs; it were preſumption for ſo provok⯑ing an offender to hope for his forgiveneſs of the paſt, or his aſſiſtance for the future; there remaineth nothing for me, but the fearful look⯑ing for of judgment ^†. Then your reformation will be barely poſſible; it would be almoſt mi⯑raculous▪ but what reaſon has the daring ſin⯑ner to expect a miracle? Seek ye the Lord while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near ^‡.

WHETHER you have avoided vicious courſes, or whether you have forſaken them, be careful [95] conſtantly to maintain a deep abhorrence of every vice. Reckon nothing trivial that is in any degree ſinful. When we conſider how fatal the end of ſin is, and yet how inconſiderable its beginning, and how imperceptible its advances, we have reaſon to tremble. From an unavoid⯑able propenſion, it proceeds firſt to ſinful delight, then to actual tranſgreſſion; and from acts to habits, till the whole ſoul be cor⯑rupted and exaſperated againſt all truth and goodneſs. To guard ourſelves againſt the ſubtlety of its inſinuations, and the force of its attacks, we muſt keep its malignity and its miſery continually in our view. Be at pains to preſerve your conſcience tender and delicately ſenſible. Whenever it warns or re⯑proves you, hearken to it. Attempt not to drown its voice by the noiſe of mirth, or to ſuppreſs it by the multiplicity of worldly cares. Improve its admonitions by obedience, and ſeek not to get rid of its rebukes, except by re⯑pentance.

IN ſo difficult a work as it plainly is, to avoid the encroachments of ſin, let us not truſt wholly to our own management. To the moſt attentive circumſpection and the moſt ſtrenuous endeavours, let us add depend⯑ance on the aſſiſtance of God's grace. In a road ſo full of danger, and ſo beſet with ſnares, [96] ſurely it is not in man that walketh, to direct his ſteps ^*; it cannot be ſafe to travel alone, without a guide and without a helper. To preſerve us from the path of deſtruction, and to uphold us in the way of life, we muſt ear⯑neſtly implore the aid of the Almighty, hum⯑bly truſt in it, and ſecure its continuance by improving it.

I SHALL conclude with calling your atten⯑tion to the apoſtle's injunction, Exhort one ano⯑ther daily, leſt any of you be hardened through the deceitfulneſs of ſin ^†. Chriſtianity conſiders mankind as intimately related; and enjoins all its followers to be concerned, not for themſelves only, but each alſo for another, eſpecially in what regards their eternal in⯑tereſts. While the hardened ſinner and the ſcoffer is aſſiduous in perverting the innocent, can he be a friend to virtue who will do no⯑thing to confirm them? Every man has ſome opportunities of checking the growth of vice in others: and it is his duty to employ theſe opportunities; and by hints and ſuggeſtions, by warnings or admonitions, by reproofs, by every method conſiſtent with prudence and propriety, to diſcourage vicious practices. It is a duty which elders owe eſpecially to the [97] younger, the parent to his children, the ſupe⯑rior to his dependents. Were it conſcientiouſly diſcharged, it muſt have great effect. Its being a duty, implies that it is likewiſe the duty of each to comply with the exhortation of ano⯑ther, in evading the cunning, and reſiſting the power of ſin. It is the moſt important ſer⯑vice: let us all avail ourſelves of it. He that refuſeth inſtruction, deſpiſeth his own ſoul; but he that heareth reproof, getteth underſtanding, and abideth among the wiſe ^*.

SERMON IV. THE DESIRE OF LONG LIFE UN⯑REASONABLE AND PERNICIOUS.

THE deſire of life is common to all animals; and it is the ſtrongeſt prin⯑ciple in every nature. In other animals, it is wholly inſtinctive: in man, the inſtinct is ſtrengthened by ſentiment, and ſupported by reflexion. In the day of high health and proſperity, when our pleaſures are many, and our ſorrows few, when we indulge ſanguine hopes, and liſten not to the ſuggeſtions of fear, life ſeems to have charms ſufficient to juſtify a warm attachment to it. A perſon cut off in theſe circumſtances is always the object of our tendereſt regret. When the ſupport of a family, or the eſtabliſhment of friends, depends on a perſon's life, he feels himſelf inſtigated by benevolence to earneſt [100] wiſhes for its long continuance. The ſenſe of guilt, cloathing eternity with terrors, raiſes the love of life to the utmoſt pitch of anxiety. The ſelf-condemned graſp eagerly at another day, as a reſpite from perdition, and would gladly prolong this earthly life for ever.

THE love of life continues ſtrong, even when it is oppoſed by ſentiment, and diſap⯑proved by reflexion. There may be moments in the life of moſt men, in which they ima⯑gine that it is extinguiſhed: but they are very few; and in theſe few, men only imagine that they have got rid of it. Under the firſt ſhock or the violent preſſure of a great cala⯑mity, they cry out that life is not worth the living. But at that very inſtant, if they were put to the trial, they would be found unwill⯑ing to reſign it; and no ſooner is the weight of their affliction abated, than they ſhew as ſtrong a paſſion for life as before. They ſup⯑poſe themſelves indifferent about life, when they are weary of its diſtreſſes. The deſire of life is far from being extinct, even in him who can taſte no ſatisfaction in his preſent condition, and who regards all that is paſt as vanity. Of the moſt diſcontented, of the moſt diſconſolate heart, the firſt wiſh always is for a life of greater enjoyment, and free from the wants and diſappointments which [101] have hitherto been felt. O ſpare me, that I may recover ſtrength before I go hence and be no more ^* : make us glad according to the days wherein thou haſt afflicted us, and the years in which we have ſeen evil ^†; are the prayers to which nature prompts men, even when they are moſt broken by the violence of diſtreſs, or moſt exhauſted by its continuance. Averſe as we are to pain, we ſcruple not to redeem life at the expence of very grievous pain. When a man has drawn life to the very dregs, when old age has deprived him of every comfort, loaded him with numberleſs infirmities, and left him no poſſibility of better days, ſtill he is willing to live a little longer. If in any caſe the love of this earthly life be wholly loſt, yet the deſire of exiſtence remains, and would make the thought of annihilation horrible. To ſeem to be reconciled to non⯑exiſtence, is only a phrenzy, in which the prin⯑ciples of nature are confounded by diſeaſe, ſuppreſſed by the violence of paſſion, ſmothered by depravity of heart, or perverted by falſe opinions.

RELIGION itſelf can ſeldom conquer the deſire of prolonging life. The man into whom it has infuſed the moſt enchanting [102] ideas and the livelieſt hope of the celeſtial joys, generally thinks of his diſſolution, not⯑withſtanding, with ſome reluctance. He finds himſelf in a ſtrait betwixt two. To depart and to be with Chriſt, he knows, is far better ^*; he deſires it ardently: but he cannot bring him⯑ſelf to be fully ſatisfied that the deſire ſhould be inſtantly accompliſhed; a wiſh ſtarts up, to abide in the fleſh ^† for a little while, and when it is repreſſed, ſoon ſtarts up again. If in any, the power of religion has totally ſub⯑dued the love of life, and eradicated every de⯑gree of averſion to death, the principle is not deſtroyed; it has but changed its form; the deſire of living in this ſtate, is only ſupplanted by the deſire of living in a better ſtate.

IN my text, Job diſclaims every wiſh to lengthen out his days. It was amidſt the early aſſaults of deep, complicated, and ſeem⯑ingly irremediable diſtreſs. His fleſh was clothed with worms, and clods of duſt; his ſkin was broken and become loathſome ^‡: he was in miſery, and bitter in ſoul; and his roarings were poured out like the waters ^§. His friend, inſtead of ſoothing his ſorrows, had raiſed them into agonies, by cruel reproaches, pronounced as [103] well-weighed accuſations, and with a provok⯑ing confidence; lo this, we have ſearched it, ſo it is; hear it, and know thou it for thy good ^*. His expreſſion bears plain marks of the ſource from which it flowed; it is the language of fretfulneſs and impatience; it betrays an ex⯑ceſs of vehemence: I loath it, I would not live alway; let me alone, for my days are vanity. He acknowledges that he ſpake it in the anguiſh of his ſpirit, and complained in the bitterneſs of his ſoul ^†. This was his infirmity. Religion neither approves a peeviſh diſguſt at life, nor requires us to extirpate all deſire of it. A deſire which is founded in inſtinct, and ſtrengthened by almoſt all our paſſions, which clings faſt to us in every condition, and aſ⯑ſumes every form rather than quit its hold, neither can nor ought to be exterminated. It muſt be neceſſary; it muſt be ſubſervient to very important purpoſes. Nevertheleſs it may become exceſſive; and its exceſs may be hurt⯑ful. Reaſon, therefore, and religion, will concur in requiring us to govern it: and they preſent arguments ſufficient to determine us, and prin⯑ciples ſufficient to enable us, to reſtrain it with⯑in its proper limits. In order to repreſs the wiſh for living alway, in order to excite you to con⯑quer [104] an exceſſive fondneſs for long life, I ſhall prove,

FIRST, That long life is in many reſpects undeſireable; and,

SECONDLY, That the immoderate deſire of it is pernicious.

FIRST, That long life is in many reſpects undeſireable, may be evinced by arguments drawn—from the general nature of human life,—from the peculiar attendants of long life;—and from the ſuperior happineſs of the future life.

1. THE general nature of human life leads us to reflexions which may reaſonably check an eager paſſion for length of days. I would not live alway, for my days are vanity.—I wiſh not to exaggerate the evils of life: it cannot ſerve any good purpoſe. If the inconſiderate and gay paint its joys in too gaudy colours, the peeviſh and dejected ſucceed as much in their gloomy portraits of its ſorrows. Com⯑plaints of the vanity and inſipidity of this world, have an appearance of religion: but whenever they are carried beyond the truth, they are offences againſt religion, and they [105] injure it. It is pious to extol the future world; the preſent will not bear to be com⯑pared with it: but to depreciate the preſent as unworthy of the God who made it, cannot poſſibly be pious. It is pious to breathe ardent deſires of the glories of heaven: but there is no piety in ſullen contempt of thoſe benefits which the God of heaven ſhowers down upon the earth. Heavenly-mindedneſs is a noble temper; it refines and exalts the ſoul: but chagrin and diſſatisfaction with the world, is a pitiful diſpoſition which contracts and ſours the ſpirit, and produces many vices. To blacken human life, is to defame its Author; it obſtructs reſignation to his will; and is in⯑compatible with gratitude for his mercies. The deficiencies of this life are numerous and great enough to intimate that man is intended for a better life: but if this life were a ſeries of unmixt diſtreſſes, where would be the evi⯑dence of that divine goodneſs which alone can ſupport the hope of a better? The ine⯑qualities of the preſent ſtate are ſuch as re⯑quire a future retribution: but if it be abſo⯑lute confuſion, without a mark of wiſe or righteous government, it can afford no proof of that juſtice, from which only a retribution can proceed. When the Scripture aſſerts that life is vanity, it means not that it is altoge⯑ [...]her ſorrow, or void of all enjoyment: on the [106] contrary, both by its precepts, and by the examples of the Saints, it teaches us, that in every ſtate we may be content ^*, that in the worſt ſituation we may be patient ^†, that all the days of our appointed time we may wait, till our change come ^‡. When old age, with aſ⯑ſumed authority, preaches to youth, that life contains nothing at all worth ſeeking after, it only utters its own regret that life is over. Undiſtinguiſhing cenſures of the condition of man, always are either the murmurings of diſcontent, or the unfelt language of affec⯑tation. They have no ſanction from genuine experience. Each of you has had many griefs; but each of you has likewiſe had many joys. If a moment of deep diſtreſs ob⯑literates the ſenſe of former pleaſures, a mo⯑ment of gladneſs baniſhes the remembrance of paſt diſtreſs. If the memory of ſome great affliction recurs at intervals for years, and occaſions hours of ſighing, yet with theſe are mingled days of eaſe, and even of cheerful⯑neſs. Afflictions which, we think at their firſt onſet, muſt put a period to our earthly comfort, are ſo much mellowed by time, as to become very tolerable, and to admit the part⯑nerſhip of many pleaſures. Under the acute⯑neſs of bodily pain, the pangs of diſap⯑pointment, [107] the anguiſh of grief, the heart can find no peace: but in the life of every man, how ſmall a proportion have the mo⯑ments thus embittered, born to his happier days? It is not more certain that this world cannot ſatisfy all our deſires, than that it gra⯑tifies many of them. Let us not diſſemble the favours of our Maker; let us not unthank⯑fully vilify the enjoyments which he beſtows; let us not fretfully aggravate the evils which he has mingled in the cup of life. If the heart can really go along with the over⯑charged deſcriptions of unalleviated miſery, in which ill-humour indulges itſelf, they will corrupt it. If they can make any determinate impreſſion, it muſt be a bad impreſſion. In conſequence of it, that deſire which God hath made the ſtrongeſt in our nature, would ap⯑pear to be an abſolute abſurdity; it would ſeem to be at variance with our whole condi⯑tion. We muſt fall into ſtupid indifference, ſullen diſguſt, or dejecting tiredneſs of life. Theſe are diſpoſitions which religion repro⯑bates. It acknowledges only ſuch moderation in the love of life, as the juſt eſtimate of it can authorize.

WE may conſider life as it really is, we may even turn up its faireſt ſide, and yet find abundant reaſon both for checking the ardor [108] and for contracting the limits of our deſire of life.—This life cannot be a ſtate of perfect enjoyment. It is not adequate to the capacity of the ſoul; it neceſſarily leaves a ſenſe of deficience, which would require ſomething nobler to fill it up. We wiſh to vary our enjoyments: but the number of them is li⯑mited, and their frequent recurrence begets ſatiety. Moſt of them grow firſt inſipid, and then diſtaſteful. What gave us pleaſure by its preſence, we often deſpiſe upon reflexion. Our reliſh varies; what at one time attached us to life, a little after we count of no value. It is lawful to deſire life for the ſake of its enjoyments; but becauſe its enjoyments are, to our experience, imperfect, it muſt be unrea⯑ſonable to deſire it with anxiety, or to wiſh to protract it to its extremeſt length.—This life cannot be a ſtate even of pure enjoyment. Its ſunſhine is broken by many intervals of rain and tempeſt. Uneaſineſs of mind, pain of body, and diſtreſs in outward circum⯑ſtances, make weeping often ſuddenly to fol⯑low laughter. The heart ſometimes feels pleaſure and pain at once: it regrets one want, while it rejoices in the ſupply of ano⯑ther; it fears one evil, while it exults in hav⯑ing eſcaped another; it mourns for a dead friend in the very hour in which it indulges gaietywith the living. The moſt fortunate have [109] their diſagreeable moments: and multitudes are viſited with afflictions ſevere, frequent, and laſting. The ſoul pants for unmingled joy; but this world affords it not: and can it be reaſonable to exceed in fondneſs for a ſtate in which diſappointment is inevitable? Were you permitted to live your paſt life over again, each of you would wiſh for an exception of ſome particulars: and if you ſhould live twenty years longer, you would as little be content to tread again the ſame unvaried ſteps. Ima⯑gination paints flattering proſpects of the future, which inflame the deſire of living on: but if they were examined by the ſtandard of the paſt, they would loſe a great part of their power.—Nothing, on account of which you can be anxious to live, is certain. You wiſh to accompliſh a favourite deſign: but you may live, and yet not accompliſh it; and you may accompliſh it, and find little joy in it. You wiſh to make proviſion for your fa⯑mily: but are you certain that, by living, you ſhall make it? or are you certain that an ampler proviſion will be a real advantage to them? You wiſh, before you die, to ſee your children grown up, and flouriſhing, and re⯑paying all your cares: alas! the tendereſt cares of parents have ſometimes been repaid only with anguiſh: happy would they have thought it, that they had been dead before [110] they felt it. Every hope that can enamour you of life, is precarious: can it then juſtify very earneſt wiſhes to prolong your days? By the unalterable decree of Heaven life is ſhort; the utmoſt remainder, therefore, of your life cannot deſerve great ſolicitude: and when it has ſo large a mixture of vanity, need we re⯑pine at the decree? Would it really be deſire⯑able to have lived before the flood?

THE happieſt among mankind will not ſay, that this repreſentation of the vanity of human life is beyond the truth. Yet it is ſufficient to convince us, that an eager deſire of ſpin⯑ning out life, would be extravagant in compa⯑riſon of its value. This repreſentation will not ſuggeſt an attempt to extirpate the deſire of life: but it will enforce the neceſſity of mo⯑derating it. It will diſpoſe us, neither to be impatient for the hour of our departure, nor to repine becauſe we muſt ſoon depart. Con⯑tent to live as long as God pleaſes, we ſhall willingly obey his call to reſign our breath. Thankful for life while it continues, we ſhall feel the approaches of death without dejec⯑tion. The meaſure of our days we ſhall, without carefulneſs, refer to the will of God.

2. The peculiar attendants of long life may reaſonably check the anxious deſire of it. Of [111] the wiſh for length of days, which ſwells into fervour in the breaſt of the young and the pro⯑ſperous, it is always tacitly a part, to continue in health, at eaſe, full of ſpirits, poſſeſſed of a quick reliſh for enjoyment. This implication renders the wiſh chimerical. It is not ſuch an old age that is allotted to human creatures. Youth neceſſarily fades like the flower of the field: years give every thing a very dif⯑ferent aſpect. Old age is the dregs of a turbid cup. If you live long, you can expect only ſuch a life as falls to the ſhare of man. If that be not highly eligible, you cannot reaſon⯑ably be anxious for it.

EVEN this darkeſt period of life is ſome⯑times relieved by ſtreaks of ſhining light. Now and then you meet an aged perſon who retains conſiderable health and vigour, and a capa⯑city for many ſatisfactions. You ſee one whoſe weakneſs, if it has rendered his enjoy⯑ments languid, has likewiſe rendered his pains gentle. You find one whom a happy tempe⯑rature has preſerved fit for receiving and com⯑municating pleaſure in the cheerful inter⯑courſe of ſociety. You find one whom the wiſdom of religion has rendered ſingularly inſtructive, and the benignity of its ſpirit eminently engaging. You find one who, [112] looking back, is conſcious of a well-ſpent life; and looking forward, eſpies a crown of glory prepared for him; who, in the thought that his labours are nearly paſt, and his reward at hand, taſtes more ſolid and ſublime delight, than in all the pleaſures of youth; who even rejoices in his infirmities, as the indications of his having reached the gates of immortality. But it is only one from among many aged perſons, that falls under any of theſe deſcrip⯑tions. What may be juſtly called a good old age ^*, is generally good, only in compariſon with the old age of other men: compared with the earlier periods of life, its days are al⯑moſt always the evil days ^†.

I WILL not repreſent old age in its moſt frightful forms. I will not paint the condi⯑tion of that wretch who has waſted his life in empty joys, who cannot longer taſte even theſe, who feels that he ſhall be ſoon cut off and fly away ^‡, and who hath not a hope beyond the grave. I will not remind you of the monſter who continues to hold faſt the ſins of his youth; who is racked by deſires which indulgence has rendered importunate, but which decay has diſqualified him for gratify⯑ing; who, ſunk into decrepitude, glories in [113] the former abuſes of his ſtrength, and delights in recounting the ſins which long ago ſhould have covered him with ſhame, and produced bitter repentance. I will not deſcribe the man whoſe avarice grows, as the time in which he can enjoy his riches becomes leſs. I will not even enlarge on the peeviſhneſs, the fret⯑fulneſs, the ſuſpiciouſneſs, the cenſoriouſneſs, the ſeverity, which often come on with years; which chace away the young from the ſociety of the aged, and render the attentions of their very children an irkſome taſk. All theſe are the vices of old age: and if you be ſolicitous to live long, you ſhould be equally ſolicitous to be virtuous, were it only that, by vice, you latter days may not become in any of theſe ways contemptible and wretched.

BUT you muſt expect that your old age will be juſt like that of moſt other men, comfortleſs in many reſpects. Old age cannot but have fewer enjoyments and more pains than the prime of life. It has rendered the organs callous to the impreſſions of pleaſure; and by frequent repetitions theſe impreſſions have become faint. That exertion which was a high gratification in the maturity of life, will be an overpowering burden in its decline. The old have loſt their reliſh for their accuſ⯑tomed [114] pleaſures, and there are not other plea⯑ſures to ſupply their place. To every pleaſure of the young, the quickneſs of deſire, and the preſumption of hope, give a ſeaſoning which the old man cannot procure: he has come to the years when deſire ſhall fail, and he ſhall ſay, I have no pleaſure in them ^*. The cer⯑tainty of his dying ſoon, throws a gloom upon all his ſatisfactions. He has outlived the companions of his former days, and he is incapable of forming new connexions with equal cloſeneſs. He goes into the ſtreets, into the chief places of concourſe, and he finds none that remembers his father; he ſpeaks of the friends of his own youth, and even they are forgotten; he meets but a few who re⯑collect that they have heard their names when themſelves were very young. He is left him⯑ſelf alone, and there is not a ſecond ^†: the un⯑eaſy thought that he ſhall very ſoon be as much forgotten as if he had never been, is every moment forced upon him. Children's children are the crown of old men ^‡: ſometimes they rejoice in ſeeing themſelves renewed in a multitude of promiſing deſcendants. But it is not always ſo: ſometimes the wickedneſs or the misfortunes of a family bring down the grey hairs [115] of the parent with ſorrow to the grave ^*: and ſometimes his progeny live not to become his poſterity: after having followed all his chil⯑dren to the tomb, and ſpent many of his years in mourning for his friends, he leaves none to mourn for himſelf; a ſtranger cloſes his eyes, and aliens devour his ſubſtance. Threeſcore and ten, or fourſcore years, may leave vigour enough to protract exiſtence, but rarely enough to render it comfortable; their ſtrength is labour and ſorrow ^†. If a puny conſtitution happen to creep forward to age, it then ſinks into helpleſs debility: and the robuſt, who ſcarcely knew an ailment for ſixty years, de⯑rive no other conſequence from the remains of their vigour, but greater violence of pain. The diſappointments and ſufferings of the earlier periods are often relieved by the occu⯑pations of active and ſocial life, or alleviated by the expectation of better days: but the old man is capable of no employment which can divert the full ſenſe of his infirmities and diſ⯑treſſes; they cannot ceaſe, they muſt grow, death is their only poſſible termination. A fondneſs for life, retained in old age, is ac⯑knowledged to be a deſire which has ſurvived its object: it cannot then be reaſonable to wiſh eagerly for long life, which muſt bring on old [116] age. If we reach it, we ſhall find all the power of patience and pious reſignation ne⯑ceſſary for rendering it ſupportable. Its cir⯑cumſtances of peculiar vanity render it really deſireable to be taken away from the evil to come ^*.

3. BUT when to the imperfection of the preſent life, and the multiplied ſorrows of long life, we oppoſe that happineſs which is to be obtained after death, who can be ſo fooliſh as to form a wiſh for length of days? Though life contains ſo much vanity, and the prolongation of it ſo much increaſes vanity, that it cannot be worthy of great ſolicitude; yet, without any hope of another life, the horror of falling into nothing might make us deſirous of living on. But we know that we are made for another ſtate, in which God will beſtow unſpeakable happineſs on all who fear and ſerve him. Can it be but un⯑reaſonable to prefer continuing on earth, to an entrance into heaven?

ON earth we are of the kindred of the brutes: but in heaven we ſhall be equal unto the angels ^†, and like unto God. Many of the enjoyments of this world are trifling; [117] but all the enjoyments of heaven are ſub⯑lime. Every preſent enjoyment is incomplete, and leaves ſome ſenſe of want; but the pleaſures of heaven are fulneſs of joy ^*; they ſatisfy all the capacities of our natures. In this checquered ſtate, ſorrows are inter⯑mingled with all our joys: but in heaven, there ſhall be no more ſorrow, nor crying, nor pain ^†. All the pleaſures of mortality are vitiated by the certainty that they cannot laſt; a moment of the gayeſt feſtivity is often ſaddened, by imagination repreſenting diſtemper ready to lay it waſte, or death haſtening to extinguiſh it: but in heaven, the delights of every moment, unſpeakable in themſelves, ſhall be heightened by the aſ⯑ſurance that they will endure for ever, and in⯑creaſe for ever.

HOPE of the bleſſedneſs of heaven is the chief joy of the good man; but during this life it can be only hope; and is it reaſon⯑able to wiſh earneſtly that, by the prolonga⯑tion of this life, it may be retarded from ripen⯑ing into fruition? Is it not deſireable that our perfect happineſs begin as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible? Can it be wiſe to ſhew anxiety for poſtponing it? Does the exile ever wiſh that [118] it may be long before he be permitted to re⯑turn to his native land? Our native land is heaven; on earth, we are but pilgrims and ſo⯑journers. Does the fettered priſoner wiſh that he be not ſoon releaſed? In theſe earthly bo⯑dies we are priſoners; it is only when we have caſt them off that we ſhall be delivered from the bondage of corruption, into the glorious liberty of the children of God ^*. Does the heir of an ample fortune look forward with reluctance or terror to the day which ſhall put him in full poſſeſſion of it? And ſhall we, who are heirs of the heavenly inheritance, wiſh to defer as long as poſſible our entrance on it? The ſtrongeſt inſtinct would ſeem too weak to prevent our becoming impatient for the ac⯑compliſhment of ſo bleſſed a hope. But, alas! we are not careful to live in ſuch a manner as may render it certain that heaven will be our portion after death: and therefore we cling to life with all its miſeries, through dread of exchanging it for the incomparably greater miſeries of eternity. But if we are obnoxious to theſe, the longeſt life would be a reprieve too inſignificant to deſerve a wiſh. Our only ſecurity is in immediate reformation. At preſent, the thought that you may live to reform, gives you ſome eaſe in the ſenſe of [119] your being unprepared for eternity: but the hour will come when you can live no longer; how dreadful will it be to know that you are unprepared then? It is not the utmoſt pro⯑longation of life that can prevent it. If you delay your preparation now, you will ſtill delay it: the propenſity to procraſtination always grows with years. By immediate repentance, by ſtedfaſt holineſs, aſſure your hearts ^*, that you may be able to moderate your love of this life, by the hope of a better life. Then you will neither murmur at the vanity of life, nor doat upon it as if it were not vanity. Becauſe a due improvement of it qualifies you for heaven, you will, without fooliſhly overvaluing it, ſubmit cheerfully to whatever it contains. You will look forward to the day of death with patient expectation, yet alſo with longing deſire. Once confident, we ſhall be willing rather to be abſent from the body, and to be preſent with the Lord ^†.

THUS, the nature of the preſent life, the ordinary attendants of long life, and the happineſs of the future life, form together a ſtrong argument for moderating our deſire of length of days; for they concur in forcing us [120] to feel that, conſider it in what light we will, it is not worthy of vehement deſire.

SECONDLY, The deſire of long life, when ſuffered to become immoderate, is pernicious, as well as unreaſonable: it is a ſource of pain,—it leads us to delay our preparation for eter⯑nity,—and it renders our preparation more difficult.

1. THE deſire of life, allowed to become immoderate, is a ſource of pain and diſquiet. Every exorbitant deſire creates uneaſineſs and anxiety; but the exorbitant deſire of life, is of all the moſt tormenting. Life is a complex object, including all the particular goods on which other deſires are fixt: the deſire of it agitates the ſoul with violence proportioned to its moment. The diſappointment of other deſires is but the loſs of ſome one thing: the diſappointment of this deſire is the loſs of our all in the preſent world. The loſs of one enjoyment is alleviated by the hope or the poſſeſſion of others: but the apprehenſion of loſing life, admits no alleviation; it is the apprehenſion of being deprived of all ſublu⯑nary enjoyments at once. All earthly things are precarious; the deſires of them muſt be embittered by frequent fears: but of all things life is the moſt precarious; every day alarms [121] us with examples of its uncertainty; if we in⯑dulge exceſſive fondneſs for it, we muſt, through fear of death, be all our life-time ſubject to bon⯑dage ^*. Other deſires may be gratified: the deſire of life is ſingular in this, that it cannot poſſibly be gratified; its object is the future, it is, to live ſtill longer; if we ſhould live a hundred years, at laſt it muſt be fruſtrated. Why ſhould we indulge a deſire fitted, ſo much beyond all others, for involving us in unea⯑ſineſs, ſubjecting us to fears, and plunging us into inevitable diſappointment? If you have indulged it, yourſelves know what diſquiet it creates. A thought of the ſhortneſs and un⯑certainty of human life is haraſſing to you. The death of a contemporary plants a dag⯑ger in your heart. A ſituation of hazard confounds all the powers of your nature, and wrings you with anguiſh. The ſlighteſt ail⯑ment, your timidity magnifies into a threaten⯑ing diſtemper: you feel the remoteſt beginnings of ſickneſs with trepidation, leſt it ſhould prove mortal. Rid yourſelves of theſe unavailing torments. Conquer your fond ſolicitude for life. Then ſhall you fully reliſh it, while it is continued, without abatement from the dread of diſſolution. Then ſhall you bear the ſenſe of its brevity, without diſturbing your ſere⯑nity. [122] Knowing that you may die to-morrow, you ſhall nevertheleſs enjoy this day. Nei⯑ther wiſhing for long life, nor reckoning on it, you ſhall be exempt from the poſſibility of diſappointment. You ſhall rejoice in every day as a new gift from God: and if your days are multiplied, you ſhall have the pleaſure of living beyond your wiſh or expec⯑tation.

2. THE immoderate deſire of life, not only eats out our preſent comfort, but oc⯑caſions the delay of that preparation for eter⯑nity, on which our future happineſs depends. That we may prepare ourſelves for eternity, it is neceſſary that we think of it. But at⯑tachment to life, renders the thought of leav⯑ing life a torment, and diſpoſes us to baniſh it as often as it is ſuggeſted. We flee to diſ⯑ſipation or to buſineſs; we become continually more averſe to preparation for our great change. We eaſily believe what we ardently deſire; our fondneſs for long life begets the expectation of it. We promiſe ourſelves the greateſt length of days that man can reach. When we have approached to it, we ſeem to be perſuaded that we ſhall overleap the utmoſt limits of the time appointed to man upon earth ^*. [123] We flatter ourſelves that full ſpace remains for the neceſſary preparation: we therefore ſtill go on to neglect it for the preſent: death arreſts us before we have ſet about it, and conveys us into the manſions of woe. But by moderating our love of life, we ſhall be able to bear the thought of dying: many oc⯑caſions will ſuggeſt it, and we ſhall willingly embrace them. That thought, often preſent, will inſtigate us to make immediate prepara⯑tion. We ſhall live always, ſo as to be always fit to die.

3. THE immoderate love of life renders our preparation for death more difficult. Attachment to life, and attachment to the good things of life, mutually ſupport and ſtrengthen one another. Ambition, avarice, ſenſuality, inflame the love of life; for without our living, they cannot be gratified. They are in their turn inflamed by it. The more anxious we are for life, the higher value we muſt ſet upon thoſe things which ren⯑der it agreeable. But the mortification of fleſhly and worldly luſts is a great part of our preparation for death. How can that man be fit to leave this world for ever, who doats upon thoſe things which he muſt for ever leave along with it? Such luſts are not only vici⯑ous, but likewiſe the great ſources of all other [124] vices; they cheriſh the habit, they impel to the practice, they impede the relinquiſhment, of all that wickedneſs which renders us in every reſpect unprepared for the ſtate of re⯑tribution, incapable of the favour of God, unfit for the enjoyment of him, meet only for the day of vengeance. Like noxious weeds, they cumber the ſoul, choak the ſeeds of goodneſs, and prevent its growth: and they entangle us in purſuits inconſiſtent with that diligence in well-doing, which alone can form us to virtue, and qualify us for eternal happi⯑neſs. But if the man who fondly hugs the preſent life, be called to hazard it in holding faſt his integrity, how difficult muſt he find it to obey the call? Unable to reconcile himſelf to the thought of reſigning this life, he is in the extremeſt danger of forfeiting all the in⯑tereſts of the next, by a timid apoſtacy from virtue. It is madneſs, by foſtering an immo⯑derate deſire, ſo much to increaſe the difficulty of what is in itſelf difficult enough, the at⯑tainment of purity and holineſs ſufficient to accompliſh us for the everlaſting preſence of the all-perfect God. Where the love of life is moderate, the love of the world can ſcarcely become extravagant: in proportion as that is conquered, earthly affections will of courſe decline; our temptations will become fewer and leſs powerful; our reformation, our im⯑provement, [125] and our progreſs will be facilitated and accelerated.

THESE conſiderations I have ſuggeſted, in order to excite you to moderate the deſire of prolonging life. I have proved that long life is in many reſpects undeſireable. The vanity of life, the increaſe of vanity in its later pe⯑riods, and the excellence of that ſtate from which the protraction of it detains us, at once evince that exceſſive fondneſs for it is unrea⯑ſonable, and impreſs ſentiments fit for check⯑ing and correcting it. They are arguments for our ſetting ourſelves to ſubdue it, and they are the direct means by which it may be ſubdued.—I have likewiſe proved that the ex⯑ceſſive deſire of life produces the moſt perni⯑cious conſequences. Theſe both excite and direct our efforts to ſubdue it: they not only urge us to reſtrain it, but at the ſame time in⯑dicate the exceſſes from which it needs to be reſtrained. It is not to be extirpated; but it muſt be rendered conſiſtent with compoſure and ſerenity in a full view of the ſhortneſs and precariouſneſs of this mortal ſtate; con⯑ſiſtent with our willingly dwelling on the conſideration of our latter end, and our ap⯑plying ourſelves readily to make preparation for it; and conſiſtent with that diſengaged⯑neſs from the things of time, that purity from [126] worldly luſts, and that conſtancy in holy practice, which are requiſite for our being ca⯑pable of happineſs after death.—I plead not for a ſtupid indifference to life, a ſullen diſ⯑dain of it, or a peeviſh impatience for death; to theſe religion gives no countenance: I plead only for ſuch moderation in the love of it, as ſuits its real value, as fits the deſire of life for anſwering its end, as prevents the abuſe of this paſſion from defeating, or even reverſing, the benefits of which it was intended to be pro⯑ductive; and in ſtrongly inculcating this, rea⯑ſon and religion conſpire. But that we may be able to liſten to them, we muſt without delay fly for refuge to lay hold upon the hope ſet before us ^*; we muſt, by an effectual reforma⯑tion, and by unwearied diligence and conſtant improvement in all goodneſs, make our calling and election ſure ^†. Though an ardent paſ⯑ſion for the preſent life can never be but un⯑reaſonable and hurtful, yet it can never be⯑come reaſonable, and is ſcarcely poſſible, for the wicked man to avoid it. Deſtitute of all good hope beyond the grave, terrified with diſmal forebodings of wretchedneſs, he loves life far beyond his own opinion of its value, he clings to it even while he nau⯑ſeates it, he pants for it while he knows [127] not how to bear it. In this, as well as in every other reſpect, wickedneſs intangles men in palpable abſurdity, and enſnares them in acknowledged inconſiſtence. Speedily there⯑fore abandon wickedneſs; for till you have abandoned it, all your ſentiments and con⯑duct muſt be contradiction and perplexity; to think or to act rationally, properly, or wiſely, will not be in your power.

SERMON V. THE NATURE OF SOUND DOC⯑TRINE.

SOUND doctrine is an expreſſion ſo com⯑monly uſed by Chriſtians, that few are apt to ſuſpect any ambiguity in its mean⯑ing. Every one of thoſe ſects into which the Chriſtian world is unhappily divided, applies the expreſſion to ſignify the whole of its own ſyſtem of doctrine, but eſpecially thoſe ſpeculative and diſputable tenets which diſtinguiſh it from other ſects, and even thoſe technical terms which it has coined or adopted on purpoſe to define them with preciſion. All ſects, with equal confidence, appropriate the epithet to their own peculiar ſyſtems: yet the diſtinguiſhing tenets of different ſects [130] are contradictory▪ It is certain, therefore, that the epithet is miſapplied by ſome of them. Each affirms, that it is miſapplied by all except its own adherents: and as the theological ſyſtem of every ſect contains ſomething of human, and conſequently fallible, explication, impartiality can ſcarce avoid ſuſpecting that the epithet is, in ſome meaſure, miſapplied by all ſects. It will not therefore be ſuper⯑fluous, profeſſedly to aſcertain and illuſtrate its genuine import.

WITH this view, I ſhall, FIRST, examine its preciſe meaning in Scripture;

SECONDLY, Explain the ſeveral particulars which ſhall, from that examination, appear to be implied in it; and,

THIRDLY, Conclude with ſome reflexions naturally ſuggeſted by the ſubject.

SOUND doctrine, ſound or wholeſome words, ſound ſpeech, ſound in the faith, are all expreſ⯑ſions found in Scripture, and evidently in⯑tended to convey the ſame idea. The origi⯑nal words which expreſs the epithet in all theſe phraſes ^*, refer primarily to bodily health, [131] as oppoſed to diſeaſe: but they are, by claſ⯑ſical writers, uſed with great latitude, for ſig⯑nifying metaphorically whatever is right or approveable. They are all words of the ſame etymology. One of them ^* primarily ſignifies healthful, but is alſo uſed by Greek authors, to ſignify healing, wholeſome, or conducive to health. Another of them ^† ſignifies, moſt li⯑terally, healing, but is uſed likewiſe, in ſeveral places of the new Teſtament ^‡, to ſignify healthful. We may conclude, therefore, that they are deſigned to be ſynonymous when they are applied to doctrine, and to denote ſuch as is healthful, or ſuch as is healing, or ſuch as unites both theſe characters. What they preciſely denote, we ſhall be beſt able to determine, by comparing the paſſages in which they occur, and examining the ſcope and connexion of each. All theſe paſſages lie in Paul's epiſtles to Timothy and to Titus: and, from the ſlighteſt attention to them, it will, I think, be evident, that the Apoſtle calls doctrine ſound, in a ſenſe very remote from that in which the term is uſed by the diſcordant ſects of Chriſtians; that he con⯑ſtantly means it to expreſs both the ideas which it naturally ſignifies; that he intends the genuine doctrine of Chriſt, but with a par⯑ticular [132] reference, both to its being healthful, pure, and unſophiſticated, and to its being wholeſome or healing, as having a practical tendency. So far is he from deſigning it to denote the peculiarities of any human ſyſtem, that, on the contrary, he is at pains to intimate, that he deſigns it to expreſs the plainneſs and ſimplicity of the doctrine of the goſpel, as de⯑livered by Chriſt and his Apoſtles, in direct oppoſition to the precarious opinions, the ſub⯑tile explications and definitions, the ingenious ſpeculations and refinements of uninſpired men: and ſo far is he from applying the term to any curious or intricate theory, that he no leſs clearly and conſtantly intimates that, by calling doctrine ſound, he means to expreſs its being fit to cure the diſeaſes, and promote the health, of the ſoul; and that, in oppoſition not only to tenets directly immoral, but par⯑ticularly alſo to the inutility and pernicious tendency of all ſubtile queſtions and abſtract diſquiſitions. Theſe two ideas, by which the Apoſtle characterizes ſound doctrine, it will be neceſſary to trace out jointly; for, in every paſſage of his writings, they are jointly kept in view with the greateſt care.

OUR Apoſtle uſes the term ſound doc⯑trine, in 1 Tim. i. 10. He immediately ſub⯑joins a definition of it: it is what is according [133] to the glorious goſpel of the bleſſed God, which, ſays he, was committed to my truſt ^*; it is what is plainly and expreſsly revealed by God in the goſpel. In the context, the idea of ſound doc⯑trine is ſtill more preciſely defined, and fully illuſtrated, particularly by being contraſted with its oppoſites. To perceive this, we muſt look back to the beginning of the paragraph, ver. 3. The Apoſtle there reminds Timothy, that he had formerly deſired him to charge ſome that they teach no OTHER doctrine: OTHER, he can only mean, than the doctrine of the goſpel, which he had preached. And what was the other doctrine which they taught? The next words inform us, Neither give heed to fables, and endleſs genealogies ^†: the fabulous traditions which the Jews had invented, and which, they pretended, led to the right under⯑ſtanding of the Scriptures; and the fanciful notions concerning certain ſucceſſive deriva⯑tions of ſpiritual beings, commonly called Aeons, from the Supreme Being, or from one another, which the Apoſtle juſtly pronounces endleſs or interminable; becauſe, being founded ſolely in imagination, they might be, and ac⯑tually were, varied and multiplied according to every man's caprice. The Chriſtian con⯑verts from Judaiſm, retaining their fondneſs [134] for both theſe, endeavoured to intermix them with, or ſuperadd them to, the goſpel, under pretence of explaining ſome of its doctrines with the greater preciſion and fullneſs—Theſe ſpeculations, which were the human de⯑finitions and refinements, at that time hetero⯑geneouſly interwoven with the goſpel, he cenſures not only as being another doctrine, totally foreign to the goſpel; but alſo, very explicitly, on account of their having no mo⯑ral tendency, but neceſſarily drawing men off from practice; for he ſubjoins, which miniſter queſtions intricate, perplexing, unprofitable diſputes, rather than godly edifying. That it might appear how contradictory they are, in this reſpect, to the goſpel, he aſſerts that its end, its ſole purpoſe, its direct and ultimate ſcope, is love out of a pure heart, and of a good conſcience, and of faith unfeigned ^*: and ſo anxious is he to exclude the ſubtilizing upon its ſimple principles, that he repreſents every ſuch attempt as a deviation from its whole ſtructure and deſign; from which, ſays he, ſome, the teachers already cenſured, having ſwerved, have turned aſide unto vain jangling ^†. He proceeds to expoſe the ignorance and ſelf⯑conceit which led them into this deviation: and, as they vented their fantaſtical ſubtleties [135] as belonging to the law, and under pretence of teaching it perfectly, he takes occaſion to explain what was the real deſign of the law; not to ſerve as a foundation for ſuch ſpecula⯑tive viſions, but to condemn every kind of immorality: many kinds of it he enumerates; and it is incloſing the enumeration that he ſays, And if there be any other thing that is CONTRARY to ſound doctrine ^*. Thus directing us to refer the phraſe to the whole paragraph, and to ex⯑plain it by the whole tenour of his diſcourſe; as marking the doctrine of the goſpel as ſimple, and as practical, fully taught by Chriſt and his Apoſtles, and applied to the ſole purpoſe of promoting holineſs; uncombined with any refinements of human ingenuity, which always are another doctrine, and never fail to coun⯑teract its tendency to produce, not purity and charity, but indeterminable controverſies, and unhallowed, uncharitable contentions and diviſions.——The idea of Chriſtian doc⯑trine which he had here given, he is ſolicit⯑ous to keep in view throughout the epiſtle, and frequently recurs to it. In particular, when he predicts a great corruption of the Chriſtian church, and deſcribes it as a depar⯑ture from the faith ^†, he plainly intimates, that the departure conſiſted in a deviation from [136] that ſimplicity and moral tendency which be⯑long to the true faith; for, in exhorting Timo⯑thy to oppoſe it by good doctrine ^*, he gives him this direction, Refuſe profane and old wives fables, and exerciſe thyſelf unto godlineſs ^†.

BUT, chap. vi. 3. he ſpeaks again of whole⯑ſome or ſound words; for, in the original, the epithet is the ſame which he had formerly applied to doctrine. What theſe were, he immediately explains, Even the words of our Lord Jeſus Chriſt, the goſpel in the ſimplicity in which it was at firſt delivered; and the doc⯑trine which is according to godlineſs: thus ſtudi⯑ouſly unfolding and forcing into view both the ideas which we have affirmed to be implied in the epithet. If farther evidence of this be neceſſary, the whole context will abundantly ſupply it. He inſinuates, that ſome conſent not to the wholeſome words, but teach otherwiſe. Otherwiſe than what? Certainly one of two things. Either, firſt, otherwiſe than he had taught, and commanded Timothy to teach and exhort, immediately before; and then he muſt mean, that they teach otherwiſe than they ought, and not according to the wholeſome words of Chriſt, who are not careful to incul⯑cate the ſeveral moral duties of life; for he [137] had immediately before been wholly occupied in giving plain practical directions concerning the particular duties incumbent on Timothy himſelf, on widows, and on ſervants. Or, ſe⯑condly, otherwiſe than was required by the general deſcriptions which the Apoſtle had formerly given of Chriſtian doctrine: and that theſe had been anxiouſly contrived to mark eſpecially both its practical tendency and its ſimplicity in oppoſition to all human ſpecu⯑lations and opinions, is evident from the paſ⯑ſage which we have already explained, and might be confirmed by other paſſages. The apoſtle's idea of ſound words is farther aſcer⯑tained by the character which he gives of the man who deviates from them ^*: He is proud, knowing nothing, but doating, ailing, diſeaſed, about queſtions and ſtrifes of words. It is a falſe conceit of his own acuteneſs and inge⯑nuity which impels him to ſubtilize on the plain doctrines of the goſpel; and his doing ſo betrays his total ignorance of their genuine nature, and is truly a diſtempered appetite for enquiries, diſcuſſions, and definitions, which, profound or important as he imagines them, are in fact trifling or unintelligible logomachies, at the beſt controverſies not about truth itſelf, but about particular modes of expreſſing it, [136] [...] [137] [...] [138] none of them neceſſary, and perhaps all of them in ſome reſpect improper. He ſtigma⯑tizes theſe as not only thus foreign to the ſim⯑plicity of the goſpel, but alſo contradictory to its moral tendency; as ſpeculations whereof, inſtead of godlineſs, cometh envy, ſtrife, railings, evil ſurmiſings, perverſe diſputings of men of corrupt minds, and deſtitute of the truth. In this paſſage, therefore, as well as in the former, it is the original, ſimple doctrine of the go⯑ſpel, ſtudiouſly oppoſed to all abſtract, curious definitions and queſtions miſnamed theological, that the Apoſtle calls ſound or wholeſome, and he ſo calls it with a direct and particular view to mark its natural influence on all the virtues of a good life. It will not perhaps be a blameable minuteneſs to remark farther, that in this paſſage it is the WORDS of Chriſt, not his DOCTRINE as in the former paſſage, that the Apoſtle calls ſound; on purpoſe, it would ſeem, to intimate, that the words of Scripture are the moſt proper for expreſſing the doctrine of Scripture; that the ſubſtitution of other terms, as more explicit and preciſe, and fitter for diſtinguiſhing the truth from error, is really a deviation from the ſimplicity of the goſpel, and a certain means of introducing human refinements, and raiſing vain and ſubtile queſ⯑tions heterogeneous to its nature and deſign. At any rate, the Apoſtle's anxiety to condemn [139] theſe is plain and undeniable; for returning to this ſubject, he concludes the epiſtle with an earneſt exhortation to beware of them: O Timothy, keep that which is committed to thy truſt, avoiding profane and vain babblings, and oppoſi⯑tions of ſcience falſely ſo called; which ſome pro⯑feſſing, have erred concerning the faith ^*.

NOTWITHSTANDING all the pains which the Apoſtle had thus taken to deſcribe and re⯑commend ſound doctrine, the falſe teachers perſiſted in their attachment to fanciful and unprofitable fables and queſtions, and diſſemi⯑nated them in the Epheſian, and other Aſiatic churches, with ſo great ſucceſs, that he found it neceſſary to reſume the ſubject in his ſecond epiſtle to Timothy, and to give almoſt the whole epiſtle a reference to it. He commands Timothy ^†, to hold faſt, to adhere to the form, the model and exemplar of ſound words. It is the ſame phraſe which he had uſed in the paſſage laſt explained, and he uſes it in the very ſame ſenſe. That he means the ſimple doctrine of the goſpel as originally delivered, he is careful to intimate, by immediately ſub⯑joining this teſt and criterion, which thou haſt heard of me: not the words or the opinions of any uninſpired man, but the words and the [140] doctrine of the inſpired Apoſtle. He is very ſolicitous to inculcate this; for he ſoon after exhorts him, The things which thou haſt heard of me, the ſame commit thou to faithful men, who ſhall be able to teach others alſo ^*; he tells him, Thou haſt fully known MY DOCTRINE ^†; he enjoins him, Continue thou in the things which thou haſt learned, and haſt been aſſured of, know⯑ing OF WHOM thou haſt learned them ^‡; and he refers him to the Scripture given by inſpiration of God, as the only ſource from which the pure principles of religion can be derived, and declares it to be profitable for doctrine, and able to make wiſe unto ſalvation, through faith which is in Chriſt Jeſus ^§.—That it was his purpoſe, ſtudiouſly to diſtinguiſh this pure, ſimple doc⯑trine of the goſpel from, and to contraſt it with, the curious ſpeculations which affected ingenuity might build upon it, the abſtract definitions and diſtinctions by which men might attempt explaining it with preciſion, the nice and puzzling queſtions concerning it which they might agitate, and likewiſe all the unſcriptural, technical, and philoſophical terms which they might invent or adopt under co⯑lour of expreſſing the exact truth, and effec⯑tually excluding the contrary error, is clear [141] from the whole ſeries of his diſcourſe. When he deſires Timothy to put them in remembrance of the things which he had ſaid, he adds, charging them before the Lord, that they ſtrive not about words ^*, about contending modes of expreſſion. When he directs him rightly to divide the word of truth, he immediately ſub⯑joins, but ſhun, as abſolutely inconſiſtent with this, profane and vain, empty babblings ^†: he could not have uſed an expreſſion more ſigni⯑ficant at once of abhorrence and contempt. Intent on ſtigmatizing them, he again repro⯑bates them in terms of deteſtation, But fooliſh and unlearned queſtions avoid ^‡: unlearned in truth they always are, however much they may aſſume the guiſe of learning or of pene⯑tration.—It is no leſs evident that the Apoſtle, in this place calls words ſound, with an ex⯑preſs deſign to mark their wholeſome or prac⯑tical tendency: he even labours to force this into view, and to keep it in view. He declares that this is an eſſential part of his idea of the form of ſound words; he carefully includes it in his very deſcription of them; he ſays, they are the words which are in faith and LOVE which is in Chriſt Jeſus ^§. Whenever he mentions the re⯑finements and ſubtleties which he ſo anxiouſly [142] excludes from ſound doctrine, he never fails carefully to ſpecify their having no moral, or their having an immoral tendency. They are not only to no profit, but to great hurt, to the ſubverting of the hearers ^*. They are ſo far from producing love, that they gender ſtrifes ^†. They not only do not promote godlineſs; but, in proportion as they are indulged, they will increaſe unto more ungodlineſs, and will eat as doth a canker ^‡. In the progreſs of his diſcourſe, he again predicts that apoſtaſy which he had foretold in his firſt epiſtle, and deſcribed as a departure from the faith; and here he deſcribes it as a contradiction to the practical tendency of ſound doctrine; he marks it by the corrup⯑tion of morals conſequent on that apoſtaſy, and after enumerating ſeveral vices which were to abound in theſe perilous times ^§, he ſums up the character of them, in this, Hav⯑ing a form of godlineſs, but denying the power thereof ^‖. Farther, when he recommends the Scripture as the only untainted ſource of Chriſtian doctrine, he takes particular care to remark, that it is profitable for reproof, for cor⯑rection, for inſtruction in righteouſneſs, that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furniſhed unto all good works ^¶.

[143]IMMEDIATELY after this, he gives Timothy a very ſolemn charge to indefatigable diligence in preaching and applying the word ^*; in en⯑forcing which he employs the phraſe ſound doc⯑trine; For the time will come, when they will not endure ſound doctrine ^†, and he employs it in the very ſame ſenſe as formerly. He charac⯑terizes it by its ſimplicity, in oppoſition to all human refinements and determinations: it is the word ^‡: it is the truth, unmixt with any fables ^§, with any of the precarious of falſe opinions, the doubtful ſpeculations, the diſ⯑putable niceties, which, he foreſaw, would ariſe in the Chriſtian church, and uſurp the name of ſound doctrine. He characterizes it by its moral tendency: it is fit to be applied to re⯑prove and rebuke ſin, and exhort ‡ to holineſs, purpoſes to which practical doctrine alone is applicable. He characterizes it by both theſe qualities, in his deſcription of the perſons who will not endure it §: their averſion to it is ow⯑ing to their own luſts, to a vitiated taſte loath⯑ing the plain truths of the goſpel, peculiar prejudices producing delight in empty ſubtle⯑ties, or corrupt paſſions diſguſting them againſt the holy doctrine of the goſpel, and attaching them to frigid, abſtract notions which touch [144] not the heart, and to looſe opinions which give countenance or licence to their favourite vices. Prompted by ſuch luſts, they heap to themſelves teachers, ſuch as gratify their ill⯑directed curioſity or their prejudices, by dwell⯑ing on the diſtinctive ſubtleties of ſome hu⯑man ſyſtem; ſuch as by amuſing them with theſe, divert their attention from good prac⯑tices; ſuch as propagate principles con⯑ſiſtent with an immoral life; having itching ears; taking pleaſure in hearing only what tickles them, by falling in with their diſ⯑tempered notions or their corrupt inclina⯑tions.

IN writing to Titus, as well as to Timothy, the apoſtle ſeveral times applies the epithet ſound to doctrine, to ſpeech, or to faith; and he applies it invariably in the ſame ſenſe. Among the neceſſary qualifications, and the indiſpenſible duties of a Chriſtian biſhop, he ſpecifies this, Holding faſt the faithful word, as he hath been taught, that he may be able, by SOUND DOCTRINE, both to exhort and convince the gainſayers ^*. This ſound doctrine is the ſimple doctrine of revelation, as propoſed in revelation unadulterated with any thing of human invention: he expreſsly ſays ſo; it is [145] the faithful, the ſure, the indubitable word, as he hath been taught. It is doctrine of a prac⯑tical nature; for by it he might be able to exhort. That he was deſirous of expreſſing both theſe characteriſtics of it, and that par⯑ticularly in oppoſition to all unſcriptural and unprofitable ſpeculations, is evident from his deſcription ^* of the gainſayers whom Chriſtian teachers were to convince BY this ſound doc⯑trine; that is, by ſhewing that their refine⯑ments had no foundation in it, not by ſetting up other human explications in oppoſition to theirs. They were vain talkers, venting fri⯑volous notions under the ſpecious, boaſting ſhew of wiſdom and philoſophy, of depth or of preciſion; and by this means deceivers, teaching things which they ought not: Their opinions were immoral; they were unruly; they ſubverted whole houſes; they flattered the corrupt propenſities of the Cretans, who had been juſtly characterized always liars, evil beaſts, ſlow bellies. On account of both theſe depra⯑vities of their doctrine, the Apoſtle commands Titus to rebuke them ſharply, to expoſe the fu⯑tility and immorality of their notions, that, ſays he, they may be ſound in the faith ^†, that they may return to the ſimple and prac⯑tical [146] doctrine of the goſpel, which is the ſole object of faith. To keep in view, by what means they had departed from this, he adds, Not giving heed to Jewiſh fables; what theſe were, we have already ſeen; and commandments of men, definitions, determinations, and impo⯑ſitions of human invention, by which they turn from the truth ^*, or pervert it: and by perverting it, by deviating from its ſimplicity, they deviate likewiſe from that holineſs which is its end; they profeſs that they know God, often that they know him more perfectly, and underſtand his will more accurately, than others but in works they deny him, being abomi⯑nable, and diſobedient, and unto every good work reprobate ^†. It is in direct oppoſition to theſe falſe teachers, that the Apoſtle immediately ſubjoins in the text, But ſpeak thou the things which become ſound doctrine: and what he here principally meant by it, he profeſſedly and largely explains in the following verſes, That the aged men be ſober, and ſo 0n ^‡: it is the inculcating of the plain moral duties of life in every condition. When, among the duties of aged men he mentions, ſound in faith ^§, and among thoſe of Titus, ſound ſpeech ^‖, there can be no doubt that he uſes the expreſ⯑ſion [147] in his ordinary and invariable meaning; and in the latter caſe he explains it by gravity, weight, or importance, and by uncorruptneſs ^*, freedom from all taint of a foreign mixture; and he ſays, that it cannot be condemned; being the ſimple doctrine of the goſpel, not one human explication oppoſed to another, it can⯑not be retorted by the adverſary, ſo that he that is of the contrary part, muſt be aſhamed ^†, con⯑founded and ſilnced. There cannot be a clearer or a ſtronger proof, how eſſential a moral tendency is in the apoſtle's idea of ſound doctrine, or how great a part of ſound doctrine he reckons morality to be, than this his profeſſed explication of that idea. It is remarkable, that for nine verſes after his ex⯑hortation to teach ſound doctrine, he does not ſo much as mention even any of the genuine and ſimple articles of Chriſtian faith; and when at length he comes to mention ſome of them, it is not curiouſly to explain or define them, but ſolely to repreſent them as powerful principles of good practice. When he men⯑tions the grace of God, its having appeared to men, its bringing ſalvation, he conſiders it ſimply as teaching us, that denying ungodlineſs and worldly luſts, we ſhould live ſoberly, rightcouſly, and godly in this preſent world ^‡. When he men⯑tions [148] the bleſſed hope, and the appearing of Chriſt to judgment, it is only as the looking for theſe will ſtrongly encourage and urge us to thoſe great duties of life ^*. When he mentions Chriſt's giving himſelf to death for us, it is only to inculcate its practical end and influence, that he might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto himſelf a peculiar people zealous of good works ^†. In commanding, therefore, to ſpeak the things which become ſound doctrine, the Apoſtle moſt manifeſtly and explicitly means to command, to inculcate both holineſs in ge⯑neral, and all the particular duties of morality, and to be ſolicitous not to ſubtilize upon the doctrines of the goſpel, or to define them with exact preciſion, but, neglecting all human definitions of them, to urge them warmly as motives to the ſeveral virtues of the Chriſtian life. So anxious is he that Titus and all his ſucceſſors ſhould teach according to this model, that he adds this charge, Theſe things ſpeak, and exhort, and rebuke, with all autbo⯑rity ^‡. He is ſo full of the ſubject, that he re⯑turns to it, and after recommending ſome other moral duties ^§, and enforcing them by a ſimple view of the peculiar doctrines of the goſpel ^‖, enjoins Titus, to affirm conſtantly, that they [149] which have believed in God, ſhould be careful to maintain good works, but to avoid fooliſh queſtions, and genealogies, and contentions and ſtrivings about the law; for they are unprofitable and vain ^*. The man who addicts himſelf to theſe and propagates them, it is that he calls a heretic ^†, as by reſtricting and refining upon the ſimple truths of the goſpel, he gives occaſion to di⯑viſions and parties in the church.

THUS, by an impartial examination of all the texts in which it is mentioned, we have aſcertained the true ſcriptural ſenſe of ſound doctrine. The Apoſtle uſes the term ſo often, and whenever he uſes it, unfolds and guards its meaning ſo carefully, that he has enabled us to aſcertain it with the fulleſt and the moſt convincing evidence. The evidence is indeed ſo ſtrong, that when we attend to it, ſo large an inveſtigation may ſeem to be unneceſſary; but men are ſo enured to an oppoſite con⯑ception of the ſubject, that the largeſt inveſti⯑gation will, I am afraid, be inſufficient for ſtriking conviction into the rigid adherents to ſects and parties, and will be far from ren⯑dering it ſuperfluous; as we propoſed, in the SECOND place, to illuſtrate the ſeveral particulars which we have found to be implied in it.

[150]1. IN general, ſound doctrine is the pure genuine doctrine of the goſpel, the very doc⯑trine taught by Chriſt and his Apoſtles: en⯑tire, without the omiſſion of any part of it: unperverted, without being ſtrained or wreſt⯑ed: ſincere, unmixt with any thing elſe, either in the matter or in the manner of expreſſion: propoſed chiefly in the ſound words in which Chriſt and his Apoſtles delivered it. Cer⯑tainly it can require but little modeſty to own that theſe are the fitteſt: the words of Chriſt are the words of God, they were dictated by his divine nature; the ſpirit of God ſuperin⯑tended the Apoſtles and Prophets, ſo as to re⯑ſtrain them from uſing any words which were not ſignificant of the very truth; and, notwithſtanding conſiderable varieties in their ſtile, the language of them all has a certain common character and general complexion; in reſpect of which we may affirm, that there is one uniform tenour of ſcriptural phraſeo⯑logy. This general deſcription of ſound doc⯑trine will be, in the main, admitted by all ſects: for though their peculiar ſyſtems be, in ſome parts, diametrically oppoſite, each ſect reckons its own ſyſtem the pure doctrine of the goſpel: and though they all employ ſome technical terms not found in Scripture, each reckons its own ſet of theſe perfectly equiva⯑lent to the terms of Scripture, but more defi⯑nite, [151] fit for expreſſing their real ſenſe ſo deter⯑minately as to guard them againſt miſconcep⯑tion or miſinterpretation.

2. IT therefore deſerves our moſt ſerious attention, That ſound doctrine means the pure doctrine of the goſpel, particularly as diſtin⯑guiſhed from all human definitions, limitations, refinements, and ſuperadditions. We have all along ſeen how explicitly and how anxiouſly the Apoſtle ſets it in oppoſition to all theſe. His expreſſions are levelled directly againſt the corruptions of doctrine which prevailed at that time: but they are ſo choſen as to be likewiſe in ſtrict propriety applicable to all poſterior corruptions of it; he foreſaw theſe, and fore⯑told them, and has an eye to them, at leaſt in ſome of the paſſages which we have examined. Indeed all the curious or forced explications of Chriſtian doctrine, all the groundleſs or pre⯑carious deductions from it, all the ſubtile controverſies about it, which have infeſted the church, demonſtrate themſelves to be ſuch adulterations as he condemns; they are marked by the very features which he has delineated; they have produced the very effects which he has deſcribed.

THEY had already begun, and they quickly ſpread wider and wider. Forgetful [152] that the goſpel was not given to exerciſe in⯑genuity, or gratify curioſity; and deſirous of recommending it to unbelievers, particularly the philoſophers; partly too, it muſt be owned, ſwayed by their own preconceived no⯑tions, and expecting to diſplay the accuracy of their own apprehenſion, ſome Chriſtians began very early to conceive the articles of their faith, according to the theories of the Greek philoſophy, chiefly the Platonic; to define them with ſcientifical preciſion, and in the phraſeology of the ſchools; and to adopt ſimilitudes for illuſtrating them, and hypotheſes for accounting for them, not only arbitrary, but generally improper. They were accuſed of error. Their accuſers were not wiſe enough to ſatisfy themſelves with proving, that the Scripture did not imply or admit the ſenſe to which they determined it; but, infected with the ſpirit of the ſame philo⯑ſophy, run into oppoſite definitions, compari⯑ſons, hypotheſes, and terms of ſcience, often equally improper, and equally involving er⯑ror. Theſe were juſtly retorted upon them by their adverſaries. Controverſies were agi⯑tated concerning theſe contradictory defini⯑tions: multitudes ranged themſelves on each ſide; they broke out into contention, animo⯑ſities, unjuſt ſuſpicions, and inſinuations, mu⯑tual reproaches and invectives. Falſehood was [153] eagerly ſought for, and for the moſt part eaſily found, in the abſtract, ſubtile definitions of each party. In the progreſs of diſputation▪ new terms, new diſtinctions, new compariſons were invented on each ſide, for marking with preciſion the peculiarity of its own opinion; and new hypotheſes were contrived for recon⯑ciling it to Scripture or to itſelf, and for evad⯑ing the objections urged againſt it. Every ſuch attempt produced new queſtions; and every new queſtion became more frivolous, more notional, more abſtruſe than the former. In diſcuſſing it, new refinements of diſtinc⯑tion, and new intricacies of argumentation, were introduced. Every diſputant added ſome⯑thing according to his own manner of ap⯑prehenſion.

THE church was diſtracted, bewildered, and inflamed. Councils were aſſembled to determine the points in queſtion, and to ex⯑tinguiſh the heats which they had raiſed. But inſtead of holding faſt the form of ſound words, inſtead of recalling all parties to the ſimple doctrine of the goſpel, and rejecting the unſcriptural, precarious explications by which both ſides went beyond it; they entered into all the minutiae of the controverſy, they debated them with prejudice and paſſion, they indulged cavil and chicane, they broke forth [154] into clamour and outrage, into mutual accu⯑ſations and threatenings, and ſometimes they proceeded to tumult and violence. The ſtronger party overpowered the weaker by their ſuperior vehemence, by the terror of their menaces, by mere force, or by a plura⯑lity, it may be, a very ſmall plurality, of voices. They approved all the ſubtleties, re⯑finements, and inventions of one party; adopt⯑ed whatever hard words and technical terms they thought fitteſt for diſcriminating them from thoſe of the other party; and by a decree of uſurped, but formidable authority, they determined all theſe to be articles of faith, and their choſen terms of art to be the teſt of the truth. All who refuſed ſubmiſſion to their impoſitions, they condemned as adherents to the contrary party, and ſtigmatized as here⯑tics; and they reviled, anathematized, excom⯑municated, and, whenever they could get the civil power to enter into their reſentments, perſecuted, baniſhed, or put them to death. Other councils were aſſembled, and often gave oppoſite deciſions, eſtabliſhed the contrary tenets, and fenced them by contrary terms of art; but ſtill decided in the ſame ſpirit of party contention, and violence. None of their decrees ever ended a ſingle controverſy. On the contrary, they perpetuated the contro⯑verſies then ſubſiſting, increaſed the bitterneſs [155] of contention, and diffuſed it wider. They never failed likewiſe to produce new contro⯑verſies. The perſons who opp [...]d them, con⯑trived new terms, diſtinctions, and cavils, in contradiction to the ſubtleties imp [...]d in their decrees: they differed about th [...], and ſplit into leſſer parties. Thoſe who adhered to the decrees, diſagreed about their meaning, broke out into fierce contention, charged each other with error or with blaſphemy, and diſ⯑dained communion with one another. By the rage of controverſy, and the ſpirit of faction in all, the Chriſtian church was di⯑vided, and ſubdivided, and again and again ſubdivided into fects innumerable, hating and execrating one another; but diſtinguiſhed only by verbal differences, or by notions of none of which the Scripture affirms any thing, or of which the human faculties can form no clear conception, and of which any conception or thought at all is both unneceſ⯑ſary and unprofitable.

DIFFERENT ſyſtems of philoſophy were ſuc⯑ceſ [...]vely in vogue. With each of theſe in its turn, the doctrine of the goſpel was un⯑naturally incorporated. By this means it aſ⯑ſumed a variety of forms, but all of them ve [...]y unlike to its original ſimplicity. When the philoſophy of Ariſtotle obtained unri⯑valled [156] poſſeſſion of the ſchools (a philoſophy from the beginning ſubtile, diſputatious, and contentious, and rendered more ſo by the perverſion of the ſcholaſtics), the Chriſtian doc⯑trine, by being adapted to it, ranged according to its forced mode of diſtribution, conceived according to its rules of definition and diſtinc⯑tion expreſſed in its hard words, and reaſoned about in the artificial manner of its analytics, was totally diſtorted from its genuine form. A falſe ingenuity was laboriouſly employed in deviſing queſtions concerning every article of Chriſtian doctrine, in puſhing them to the utmoſt length of ſubtlety, and wrangling about them with all the nicety of affected preciſion. Queſtions ſprung from queſtions in an endleſs ſeries; all of them unneceſſary, moſt of them of no importance, many of them mere plays of words, many of them ridiculous, many of them interminable, and even unintelligible, nay ſome of them impious and blaſphemous. They were almoſt all dogmatically determined: the determina⯑tions of many of them were erected into articles of faith; and the technical words employed in the determinations, were the only allowed criterion of men's holding theſe articles. [157] BY ſuch oppoſitions and contentions of ſcience, falſely ſo called, continued and increaſing through many ages of intellectual darkneſs, the doctrine of the papal church became a huge body of tenets, unſcripturally conceived and expreſſed, and many of them, not only deſtitute of all foundation in the goſpel, but directly repugnant to it. The Reformers, raiſed up in a bleſſed hour for that very pur⯑poſe, unveiled this maſs of corruption, expoſed the perverſions of the goſpel which compoſed it, and the fables which it had ſuperadded to the goſpel. They pronounced the Scripture to be the only rule of faith, and diſclaimed all human definitions of its ſimple principles. Happy had it been if they had perſiſted ſted⯑dily in this. But their adverſaries demanded, what it was preciſely that they believed; they declared an appeal to Scripture inſufficient for fixing this, becauſe the authority of its words was pled by all ſides; they cried out that the doctrine of Proteſtants was altogether indefi⯑nite and uncertain; they miſrepreſented it groſsly; they called upon them to publiſh it in determinate language. Overcome by theſe im⯑portunities, clamours, and accuſations, and not perfectly cured of the ſubtilizing ſpirit from which they ſprung, Proteſtants were led un⯑warily, though at firſt reluctantly, to accept the challenge. The earlieſt explications of [158] their doctrine were tolerably ſimple; the ſcho⯑laſtic mode of arrangement, argument, and expreſſion, was in general rather avoided than affected: but the ſpirit of abſtraction gradu⯑ally acquired ſtrength and violence; the ex⯑plications of doctrine given by ſome diſpleaſed others; oppoſite explications were propoſed; queſtions about them were agitated; they were puſhed to greater and greater degrees of ſub⯑tlety; all the hardeſt words of the ſchools were borrowed for expreſſing the differences of opi⯑nion; and all the moſt frivolous or unintelli⯑gible diſtinctions of the ſchools were employed in debating them. Proteſtants were crumbled down into numberleſs ſects, diſtinguiſhed by peculiarities of belief upon points unneceſſary or impoſſible to be determined. Creeds were oppoſed to creeds; ſyſtems were multiplied againſt ſyſtems; ſome on all ſides, not ſo much ſyſtems of Chriſtian theology, as metaphyſical ſyſtems of verbal, ſpeculative, abſtruſe, unim⯑portant controverſies, for which a handle was taken from that theology. Each party was te⯑nacious of its own mode of conceiving, and even of expreſſing the truth; and by this means they have all continued divided and at variance.

SUCH is the general portrait of the departure of the Chriſtians from the SIMPLICITY of ſound doctrine: every part of it might eaſily be con⯑firmed [159] by numberleſs facts in the hiſtory of the church. Not content with thus departing from it, they have ſubſtituted the very deviation in its place, and given it its name. Every party appropriates the name of ſound doctrine to thoſe peculiar explications, ſpeculations, and definitions which characterize itſelf, and diſ⯑criminate it, and ſet it at the greateſt diſ⯑tance from all other parties: but theſe the Apoſtle expreſsly, and in terms of abhorrence, excludes from the idea of ſound doctrine, and urges Chriſtians to avoid as repugnant to it. What the ſeveral ſects have extolled as the ſoundeſt doctrine is, therefore, in the Apoſtle's ſenſe, moſt unſound. According to his ſenſe of it, the only ſenſe which merits the regard of Chriſtians, the bigot of every denomination, the tenacious partizan of any ſect, neceſſarily deviates in ſome degree, and generally deviates the fartheſt.

3. SOUND doctrine means practical doctrine. The Apoſtle ſtudiouſly and conſtantly connects this idea with the former; and they are in their nature intimately connected. All abſtract defi⯑nitions of doctrine, all abſtruſe queſtions about it, are in their very eſſence wholly ſpeculative; they are at beſt fit only for informing the un⯑derſtanding, too often only for perplexing it: their natural effects are thorny diſputes, con⯑tentions, [160] diviſions, not the active exertions of Chriſtian virtue and holineſs: Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thiſtles ^*? The utmoſt they can claim is, that they may be harmleſsly amuſing: they never can be profitable, If it were poſſible to determine them with the greateſt clearneſs and certainty, yet they could not influence practice. Abſtract ideas are too frigid to warm the heart; too weak to draw out good affections; too dim to be kept in view in the moment of action. They are al⯑ways in danger of becoming hurtful: the diſ⯑cuſſion of them excites paſſions deſtructive of mutual love; attachment to them diverts men's attention from applying faith to practice; it leads them to lay too little ſtreſs on practice, and too much upon opinion. Many queſtions have even iſſued in deciſions, on one ſide at leaſt, ſometimes on both ſides, directly favour⯑able to immorality. Some of the real doc⯑trines of the holy goſpel have been ſo groſsly miſrepreſented in ſome pretended explications of them, as to be twiſted into unholy principles of impurity and vice: and to the real doc⯑trines of the goſpel, ſpurious doctrines have been ſuperadded in ſome ſyſtems profeſſing to be Chriſtian, which by their neceſſary conſe⯑quences make void all moral obligation; and [161] this ſo plainly, that their partizans find it ne⯑ceſſary to diſclaim conſequences which they cannot refute, and to throw in cautions, ca⯑veats, and diſtinctions, for rendering them, not conducive to, but barely conſiſtent with, good practice, and which will always be forgotten or diſregarded in the hour of temptation. Yet, by the moſt aſtoniſhing and the profaneſt abuſe of words, tenets and explications, in their tendency immoral, are, by thoſe who hold them, pronounced the moſt eſſential to ſound doctrine, the moſt evangelical, the moſt ho⯑nourable to the grace of the goſpel: But ſo far are they from being ſound, that they are in the very worſt ſenſe CONTRARY to ſound doc⯑trine; ſo far from being wholeſome, that how⯑ever fairly they be gilded over, however ſpeci⯑ouſly they be diſguiſed, they are poiſon.

No opinion can be a Chriſtian doctrine, whoſe direct and primary tendency is not to holineſs. God gave a Revelation of the truth for this very purpoſe, by it to purify and im⯑prove the hearts, and to direct and influence the practice of men. Every part of it is im⯑mediately and powerfully conducive to this purpoſe: all the precepts of the goſpel, and all its principles conſpire in promoting it. The former preſcribe the pureſt and the ſublimeſt virtue: The latter are even more directly ſub⯑ſervient [162] to it, they excite to that virtue. They delineate thoſe qualities, characters, and rela⯑tions of perſons and objects, which are fit for producing right affections, and prompting to right practice towards them: but of thoſe which, though they were known, could con⯑tribute nothing to this effect, the Scripture takes no notice. For temper and action, it is not an apprehenſion of an object ſcientifically ac⯑curate that is neceſſary, but a conception lively, ſtriking, and intereſting: and ſuch a conception the Scripture is careful to give of all the objects belonging to religion. It ſets them only in thoſe points of view in which they can enforce piety and goodneſs; it is in⯑tent on ſetting them in every attitude in which they can moſt ſtrongly enforce theſe; and it conſtantly and earneſtly applies them to this end.

THIRDLY, We ſhall now conclude with ſome reflexions naturally ariſing from this ſubject.

1. IT appears that the Chriſtian church is more cloſely united, in one common faith, in reality than in appearance. In human ſyſtems, it is neceſſary to diſtinguiſh the principles of doctrine which they imply from the particular manner in which they explain them. In the latter they differ widely; and it, being derived [163] from fallible men, may very readily be impro⯑per or erroneous. In the former they very generally agree; and the former only is either of indubitable certainty or of real importance.

2. LET each of us, for himſelf, ſtudy to ad⯑here to, and be ſatisfied with the pure, ſimple, practical doctrine of Chriſt; deſpiſing and avoiding all unprofitable queſtions and ſpecu⯑lative niceties, as abſolutely foreign to it. It is by no means neceſſary for us to be wiſe above what is written: it is improper to attempt it. It is not needful to have any more preciſe, ab⯑ſtract, or ſcientifical conception of the doc⯑trines of religion, of the myſteries of the Chriſ⯑tian faith, than the Scripture gives. If we find that conception inadequate, we may be aſſured that it is not requiſite, perhaps not poſſible, to render it, in our preſent ſtate of weakneſs, more adequate. Whatever words of human inven⯑tion pretend to mark it with greater preciſion and force than the words of Scripture, there is always reaſon to ſuſpect, will either diſ⯑tort, or add ſomething to, the original doc⯑trine of Scripture.

3. LET us carefully attend to the great end of all Chriſtian doctrine, namely, holineſs of heart and life, our purification from vice, and our improvement in virtue. Let us conſtantly repre⯑ſent [164] it to ourſelves as expreſsly deſigned and calculated for this purpoſe. Every opinion of immoral tendency let us abhor as perfectly in⯑compatible with it, and deſtructive of its very end. Let us learn all the duties of life; let us urge on ourſelves all the truths of the goſpel as motives to them; let us conſider them in thoſe points of view, which can render them the ſtrongeſt motives. Let us not reſt in believing the doctrines of religion; let us ſtudy them with the ſole deſign of becoming better; let us be concerned to comply with them, and to act agreeably to them; let our converſation be as becometh the goſpel of Chriſt ^*

GOD grant that we may ſtand perfect and complete in all the will of God ^† : and this is the will of God, even our ſanctification ^‡.

SERMON VI. RESIGNATION TO THE WILL OF GOD.

OF the pious affections there are ſome, which, though always due to God, can be perfectly exerciſed only in the heavenly ſtate: we muſt be pure as God is pure, and ſee him face to face, before we can riſe to that perfect love which caſteth out fear, or to ful⯑neſs of rejoicing in the enjoyment of him as our portion. There are others to which our preſent ſtate gives the fulleſt ſcope and the propereſt exerciſe: ſuch is reſignation to the divine Providence, enabling a man ſincerely to think and ſay, amidſt the moſt diſaſtrous oc⯑currences of human life, It is the Lord: let him do what ſeemeth him good.

[166]THESE words were ſpoken by Eli, on an occaſion very likely to overcome human forti⯑tude. His ſons had been guilty of groſs miſ⯑conduct in executing the prieſtly office; he had not reſtrained them with ſufficient autho⯑rity: a man of God had, on this account, de⯑nounced the deſtruction of his family ^*: God had repeated and confirmed the denunciation in a viſion to Samuel; I will perform againſt Eli, all the things which I have ſpoken concern⯑ing his houſe ^†: Samuel had related to him, all that the Lord had ſaid: and at that inſtant the power of reſignation enabled the too in⯑dulgent father to ſay, It is the Lord: let him do what ſeemeth him good. In order to explain the temper which is here ſo ſtrikingly ex⯑preſſed, I ſhall,

FIRST, Point out the conception of God, from which reſignation takes its riſe in creatures formed and ſituate as we are in the preſent world: and,

SECONDLY, Illuſtrate the diſpoſitions and exertions by which it is completed.

FIRST, I ſhall point out the conception of God, from which reſignation to his will takes [167] its riſe. Every branch of a pious temper ſprings from a correſpondent conception of the divine character. Reſignation ſprings from a lively ſenſe of God as the ſovereign Governor of the world, good, wiſe, and powerful; who has placed us in a ſtate liable to diſappointment and ſorrow; and who, by a plan of Providence, too extenſive to to be fully comprehended by us, conducts us through this life to a higher ſtate of being.

GOD is the object of our reſignation, on account of his perfections; not as conſidered ſimply and abſolutely, but as exerciſed in the government of the world, and the diſpoſal of our lot. Were he a being, however ex⯑cellent, who lived in ſelfiſh, ſolitary bleſſed⯑neſs, at a diſtance from the earth, an inactive ſpectator of all that paſſes, unconcerned in what befals us, we might admire and adore his perfections, but we could exerciſe no re⯑ſignation, truſt, or confidence towards him. For engaging theſe regards, a perſon muſt have ſome direction and influence in our affairs. Such direction veſted in a fellow⯑creature, neceſſarily produces dependence on him: and if we know him to be well-diſ⯑poſed to us, this dependence will be exerted in willing ſubmiſſion and cheerful hope. God [168] is the ſupreme Ruler of the univerſe, the ori⯑ginal cauſe of all events, the moſt High, out of whoſe mouth proceedeth evil and good ^*. To ſecond cauſes, no event can be ultimately a⯑ſcribed; they derive their agency from God; they are but the inſtruments of his will. Nothing that is not either appointed or per⯑mitted by him, can happen to any one of us: a ſparrow ſhall not fall on the ground without our Father; but the very hairs of our head are all numbered ^†. The firm belief of this leads us na⯑turally in every event to take notice of God, and to reflect that it is the Lord who gave, and the Lord who hath taken away ^‡.

WHETHER he give, or whether he take away, his ſovereignty exacts our acquieſcence. All things are his: he has a right to diſpoſe of them as he pleaſes. He reigneth with unlimited authority and irreſiſtible power. To withſtand his will, to rebel againſt his appointments, is to uſurp his throne, and to preſcribe him laws. The attempt is daringly preſumptuous; and it is deſperately fooliſh. Wo unto him that ſtriveth with his Maker: let the potſherd ſtrive with the potſherds of the earth; but ſhall the clay ſay to him that faſhioneth it, What makeſt thou ^§? Whatſoever the Lord [169] pleaſeth, that doth he in heaven, and in earth, in the ſea, and all deep places ^*. He giveth not account of any of his matters ^†. Who hath hard⯑ened himſelf againſt him, and hath proſpered? Behold he taketh away: who can hinder him? who will ſay unto him, What doſt thou ^‡? Sen⯑ſible of his uncontroulable dominion, what can we wiſely do, but reconcile our minds to every ſituation in which he places us, ſaying, The will of the Lord be done ^§.

HIS will is always agreeable to his attri⯑butes; and theſe invite us to refer ourſelves and all our intereſts to him. He can appoint only what is fit to be appointed: what is beſt, always ſeemeth beſt to God. His charac⯑ter is goodneſs, wiſdom, and power united. Goodneſs is the principle of his whole admi⯑niſtration: he delights in communicating happineſs to his creatures. All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth ^‖. So far as we do not wilfully render ourſelves incapable of them, the intentions of his benevolence can⯑not be diſappointed: they are conducted by unerring wiſdom. They cannot be defeated: almighty power ſecures the execution of them. Theſe attributes, in perfect harmony, form a [170] character fit to encourage our reſignation, and allure our confidence. To a fellow-crea⯑ture, poſſeſſed of a very imperfect degree of this character, we often commit very im⯑portant affairs without ſcruple or ſuſpicion. To the Creator, who poſſeſſes it in perfection, our ſubmiſſion may be unreſerved and impli⯑cit. They that know thy name, will put their truſt in thee ^*. Knowing that ſuch a God preſides over the univerſe, can we doubt that his omnipotent arm will force the moſt diſſi⯑milar events to co-operate for the beſt and wiſeſt purpoſes? Under his government, what evil can his ſincere, though frail, crea⯑tures reaſonably dread? When he careth for you, can you heſitate to caſt all your care upon him ^†? Is he not, O my ſoul, thy refuge and ſtrength, a very preſent help in trouble ^‡ ? How excellent is thy loving-kindneſs, O God! therefore the children of men put their truſt under the ſhadow of thy wings ^§. Our experience of the paſt gives ſupport and energy to our con⯑viction of the divine character: gratitude for the multitude of mercies which Providence has beſtowed on each of us, naturally checks complaint on account of what is diſagreeable: and recollection of the many inſtances in [171] which the moſt threatening events have turned out ſignally to our advantage, enforces tran⯑quillity with reſpect to the preſent, and reli⯑ance with reſpect to the future.

SOME creatures are ſo entirely aſſimilated to God, ſo extenſively acquainted with the ways of his Providence, and ſo unalterably fixt in perfect happineſs, that their acqui⯑eſcence in the will of the Ruler of the univerſe, is not ſo properly reſignation, as gratitude and joy. To give ſcope for reſignation, ſome imperfection of nature, or ſome defect in ſtate, is requiſite; and both theſe conſpire to give it exerciſe in human creatures.—Our nature is ſo complicated, our ſenſes and deſires are ſo various, and often ſo incompatible, that we cannot, by any means, obtain all poſſible gratifications at once. To ſecure one, we muſt ſubmit to the want of another: to enjoy pleaſure, we muſt forego profit; to accumu⯑late riches, we muſt forfeit eaſe; to the attain⯑ment of temporal goods, we muſt often ſacri⯑fice the ſatisfactions of virtue and integrity; and not to loſe theſe, we muſt reſign many gratifications of ſenſe, appetite, and paſſion. By forming our nature in this manner, God proclaims that we are not made for unallay⯑ed happineſs; lays us under a neceſſity of bearing diſappointment, and giving up many [172] things which would be deſireable; requires us to be content with that meaſure of enjoy⯑ment, however incomplete, of which he has made us capable, and which he is pleaſed at any time to grant us; and prepares us for eagerly embracing the excellencies of his cha⯑racter and government, as giving ground for our referring ourſelves to him without re⯑pining.

OUR ſtate in this world affords full place for reſignation, and demands the exerciſe of it. We muſt be ſatisfied to want particular ad⯑vantages which even inferior animals poſſeſs: the ſtrength of the lion, the ſwiftneſs of the horſe, the flight of the eagle, belong not to the condition of our being, and are for ever without our reach. The advantages proper to our condition, are not at all times attain⯑able; and thoſe which we have attained, are not always permanent. We are not placed in a region of continual ſerenity; we dwell in the land of ſtorms and tempeſts. Our ſtate is mixt, complicated, and precarious. Becauſe our bodies are ſubjected to the laws of the material world, and connected with it by manifold relations, our ſouls are neceſſarily affected by its viciſſitudes. Pain and ſuffering are inſeparable from human life. Proſperity and adverſity unexpectedly ſucceed each other [173] by quick intervals. In the morning we know not what the day may bring forth ^*; and we have neither ſtrength nor wiſdom to mould its events according to our wiſhes. Our condi⯑tion depends not wholly on our own behavi⯑our; God, in token of his ſovereignty, and for the purpoſes of his government, has in a great meaſure reſerved to himſelf the diſpoſal of our enjoyment and ſuffering; and fre⯑quently diſpenſes them in a manner which appears to us unequal or promiſcuous, and of which we can give no account. We feel our⯑ſelves ignorant and impotent, unfit for our own direction, unable to accompliſh our deſires. While we have no dependence but on ourſelves, we are orphans expoſed in a ſtrange land, we are travellers ſolitary and benighted, in a waſte and dreary wilderneſs, left to wander in a thouſand undiſtinguiſhable by-paths, ſurrounded with dangers, uncertain but the next ſtep may lead us to deſtruction. We are ready to faint under the uneaſineſſes and apprehenſions which preſs upon us. We cannot but wiſh for the friendly guidance of ſuperior wiſdom and ſuperior power. We cannot but learn with pleaſure, that there is a God all-good, all-wiſe, and all-powerful, who governs the world, in whom we may [174] confide, into whoſe hands we may reſign all our intereſts with unreſerved truſt. We natu⯑rally repoſe ourſelves on him who carries on one fixt and well-contrived plan amidſt all the changes and commotions of things, who ſit⯑teth upon the flood ^*, who walketh upon the wings of the wind ^†, who dwelleth in the tempeſt, who from darkneſs produceth light, and from confuſion bringeth forth order. A firm be⯑lief and an habitual ſenſe of his wiſe and gra⯑cious, though incomprehenſible, adminiſtra⯑tion, is our only adequate ſupport.

BY the appointment of God, our preſent life is only a part of our exiſtence, an introduc⯑tion to a future life, ſubordinate to eternity. In conſequence of this appointment, nothing in our preſent ſtate is final; nothing to be regarded only on its own account: every thing has a reference to eternity, and thence derives its real importance. Proſperity and adverſity, pleaſure and pain, ſucceſs and diſappointment, are but different means of promoting the ſame end, but different methods of training us up for immortality. It is in this light that God always conſiders our preſent life, and the ſeveral events which fill it up. Steady in his plan, unmoved either by weak pity or by [175] weaker fury, he goes forward in the execution of it, through all the methods of ſeverity and gentleneſs, of chaſtiſement and reward, of re⯑ſtraint and encouragement, allotting us ſuch events as tend moſt, if we duly improve them, to promote our everlaſting welfare. In this light we likewiſe ought conſtantly to view our earthly ſtate. The view will ſtrengthen the principles of reſignation, and aſſiſt its ex⯑erciſe. We are but travellers through this world; whatever affects only our outward condition, whatever is merely temporal, muſt be of little moment; it is no more than the accommodation of an hour at an inn, which we are ſoon to leave: it is too inconſiderable to diſturb our equanimity, or check our ſub⯑miſſion to the will of God. Our proſpect is enlarged to eternity; we look down upon this world as from the height of heaven: and as the little hills, in the eye of him who ſtands on the top of a lofty mountain, ſink to a level with the plain; this earth ſeems but a point, and all thoſe earthly things which formerly looked big, and excited the moſt anxious wiſhes or the moſt pungent regret, dwindle into inſignificance. We are raiſed above ſome of thoſe clouds which obſcure the throne of God, and give an appearance of confuſion to the ways of his Providence: what was irregu⯑lar and inexplicable when referred only to [176] time, becomes beautiful and conſiſtent by being connected with eternity. When we con⯑ſider this life as but one period of our being, one ſtage of our progreſs to perfection, the moſt diſagreeable events are often diſcovered to be the moſt uſeful, as tending moſt di⯑rectly to the improvement of our hearts, and thus are rendered the objects of the moſt ra⯑tional ſubmiſſion and the moſt cheerful reſig⯑nation.

THE connexion of this life with eternity, opens likewiſe a new field for the exerciſe of our reſignation and pious confidence. Un⯑able to direct our own courſe amidſt preſent things, which are ſeen, we cannot but be more unable to direct it to the future world, where all is unſeen. We have need of the guid⯑ance of him who ruleth both worlds; and to his guidance, a ſenſe of our ſituation will make us ſolicitous to commit ourſelves. Na⯑ture feels the want; but the notices which nature gives of the future world, are too im⯑perfect to ſupport confidence in God for its felicity. It is the goſpel only that can ſupport it. It teaches us that God hath ſet on foot a ſtupendous diſpenſation of grace and love for bringing the children of men to immortal glory. That ſins repented of might not pro⯑duce diſtruſt, he has given his Son for our [177] redemption from all theſe ſins, and to be the Author of eternal ſalvation unto all them that obey him ^*. Informed of this diſpenſation, we can, with joyful confidence, reſign our eternal ſtate, in well-doing, to the diſpoſal of God our Savi⯑our. It was on purpoſe to render our faith and hope in him firm and aſſured, that he has redeemed us by the precious blood of Chriſt, and raiſed him up from the dead, and given him glory ^†. He that ſpared not his own Son, but de⯑livered him up for us all, how ſhall he not with him alſo freely give us all things ^‡?

SUCH are the ſentiments of God's charac⯑ter, of the nature of his Providence, and of his conduct and intentions with reſpect to ourſelves, from which reſignation to his will takes its riſe. Reſignation requires ſome knowledge of the ways of God, for ſupport⯑ing and encouraging it; but it likewiſe ſup⯑poſes ſome degree of ignorance and uncer⯑tainty, leaving room for implicit ſubmiſſion and dependence. What we know of God, of the general meaſures of his government, particu⯑larly over mankind, invite our acquieſcence in his diſpoſals: in many caſes too, he has given us expreſs promiſes, for the accompliſhment of which his fidelity is engaged, by which we may ſafely regulate our expectations, and [178] ſuſtain our hopes, reſting, ſo far as they ex⯑tend, in full aſſurance of the very things pro⯑miſed. Amidſt the abſolute uncertainty of the particular events which ſhall befal us, we know that all things work together for good, to them that love God ^*: and all our hopes for eternity he has directed by the moſt explicit promiſes, and by a clear determination of the conditions on which we may become par⯑takers in them. But we are totally ignorant of the particular ſteps of God's preſent provi⯑dence, of the nature of thoſe events which await us, and of what is good for man in this life ^†: and we are ignorant of many things in the nature of our future ſtate, and that diſ⯑penſation by which the everlaſting happineſs of the obedient is ſecured. The whole ſyſtem of Divine Providence is too large and too in⯑tricate, to be fully comprehended by our weak underſtandings; the greateſt part of it is covered with thick darkneſs, and impene⯑trable to mortal eyes: no man can find out the work which God worketh, from the beginning to the end ^‡. We can only have recourſe to that great Being who comprehends and orders all things, to whom all his works are known from the beginning of the world ^§; following impli⯑citly wherever he leads us, reſigning ourſelves to his diſpoſal, through all the unknown [179] paths by which we muſt travel forward to the more unknown regions of eternity.

TO explain the diſpoſitions and exertions by which a temper of reſignation is completed, was the SECOND thing propoſed.—It conſiſts not in a cold ſpeculative belief that the good and wiſe Providence of God orders all that concerns us, but in the conſent of the heart that it ſhould be ſo. It preſuppoſes love to God, which is indeed the common foundation of all the virtues of piety, and an eſſential ingredient in every devout affection; for we can never refer ourſelves to the diſpoſal of a perſon whom we reckon not deſerving of our love: but it includes ſomething additional to love; regarding the divine goodneſs, wiſdom, and omnipotence, as employed in the govern⯑ment of the world and the management of all our intereſts, it appropriates theſe perfec⯑tions to ourſelves, and begets a ſenſe of ſecu⯑rity in yielding ourſelves up to God's diſpoſal. It includes hope in God, which renders it not the forced ſufferance of ſlaves, but the willing ſubmiſſion of ſubjects. But the hope is mingled with fear; the ſove⯑reignty of God impreſſes us with awe; the extent of his plan of government involves us in uncertainty, what kind of events he may perceive to be beſt for us; we feel preſent ſor⯑rows, and have reaſon to believe, that the ge⯑neral [180] good and our own greateſt happineſs will require our bearing many things which are diſagreeable, and our enduring ſevere chaſtiſements for our iniquities. A ſenſe of this prevents our indulging the expectation of every thing that would be pleaſing to us, and in its place ſubſtitutes a general confidence, that what impairs our ſatisfaction, will not⯑withſtanding contribute to our happineſs.—Reſignation requires us to receive both good and evil from God: but it requires us not to receive them with the very ſame ſentiments. It ſuppoſes that we are ſenſible of pain, that we feel it with averſion, and look forward to it with apprehenſion: it conſiſts in our never⯑theleſs encountering and ſuſtaining it with quietneſs, and ſubmiſſion to Him who has or⯑dained it. It allows us to ſorrow, but not to fret: it allows us to fear, but not to deſpair: it allows us to deſire, but not with impatience. It leads us to yield to thoſe events which we cannot avoid, without any rebellious motions of heart. It is a pliableneſs of ſoul, by which our temper ſuits itſelf to all the viciſſitudes of our ſtate. It brings our will and our deſires to give place to the pleaſure of God, as ſoon as we diſcover what it is. It teaches us to check our inclinations whenever they are in⯑conſiſtent with his appointments; and to con⯑troul them ſteadily, till they concur with his [181] good and perfect will, and ſuffer us to reſt ſatisfied with all that he decrees, as the beſt for us.—That we may the more diſtinctly perceive the operation of a temper of reſigna⯑tion, let us conſider it as exerciſed with reſpect to the preſent,—the paſt,—and the future.

1. RESIGNATION muſt be exerciſed with reſpect to the preſent. Whatever our condi⯑tion at any time is, we muſt ſubmit to it con⯑tentedly, patiently, and with dutiful acquieſ⯑cence in the will of God. Reſignation ſuppoſes not that all things ſhould become indifferent to us: this would be to diveſt us of the ſenſes and affections which are eſſential to human nature. It requires us not to be inſenſible either of the defects or the diſtreſſes of our lot: it requires us only to bear them. It is not to be meaſured by the acuteneſs of our feelings: the tempers of men are neceſſarily very different. Some have a natural coldneſs or hardineſs of conſtitution, which admits but a ſlight impreſſion from circumſtances of un⯑eaſineſs: but if their compoſure proceed not from a religious ſenſe of the Divine Provi⯑dence, it is not reſignation; it is only a ſtupid unfeelingneſs of ſoul, or a ſullen ſtubbornneſs of diſpoſition. Others are of a ſoft and deli⯑cate make, eaſily and deeply affected with whatever befals them: but if they, notwith⯑ſtanding▪ [182] preſerve an unrepining reverence of Providence, the ſenſibility of their hearts is ſo far from being inconſiſtent with reſignation, that it much enhances it: they devoutly chuſe that God's good pleaſure be accompliſhed, though it gives them ſo great pain. The beſt of men have expreſſed their ſenſe of their diſ⯑treſſes very pathetically, even while they exer⯑ciſed the moſt blameleſs and exemplary reſig⯑nation. Job welcomed the loſs of all his ſubſtance and all his children with the cheer⯑fulleſt ſubmiſſion, becauſe it was the Lord who had taken them away: yet he rent his mantle, and ſhaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and ſaid, Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked ſhall I return thither ^*: but in all this, we are aſſured, Job ſinned not, nor charged God fooliſhly ^†. I was dumb, ſays David, I opened not my mouth, becauſe thou didſt it ^‡: this was the meekeſt reſignation; but it prevented not his having a pungent ſenſe of the reproach of the fooliſh, the ſtroke of God, and the blow of his hand by which he was con⯑ſumed ^§. Even he who is greater than man, and who was perfect in reſignation, ſaying, Nevertheleſs, not what I will, but what thou wilt, felt all the bitterneſs of his ſituation, and was [183] ſore amazed, and very heavy, and ſaid, My ſoul is exceeding ſorrowful unto death ^*. Reſignation operates, not by extinguiſhing the ſenſe of evil, but by reſtraining it within proper bounds.

ANY preſent diſſatisfaction or uncaſineſs is apt to engroſs all our thoughts, and to abſorb our whole attention. We often yield to the impreſſion of it, without any effort to relieve or to reſiſt it. We abandon ourſelves to grief, and ſink into dejection. The ſpirit of reſignation ſuggeſts ſuch ſentiments as can divert or alleviate the ſenſation of diſtreſs. It renders us recollected, and when that ſenſation cannot be ſuppreſſed, draws out the vigour of our ſouls on purpoſe to ſuſtain it.—Inſtead of endeavouring to reſtrain or mitigate the ſenſations of uneaſineſs, we too often wilfully inflame them. We ſuffer imagination to ſearch out all the circumſtances that can ag⯑gravate them, and we inceſſantly ruminate upon them. By the multitude of our thoughts, we are loaded with ſupernumerary evils, our ſouls are broken into peeviſhneſs, and irritated into diſcontent. Reſignation checks the wan⯑derings of imagination; it turns it to ſuch views as can divert our grief: we think how much worſe our ſituation might have been, and how much worſe the full puniſhment of [184] our ſins would render it; and we become pleaſed that it is ſo tolerable: we conſider the good ends to which it may be improved, and embrace it as the means of confirming us in thoſe virtues to which it gives ſcope and opportunity.—By our yielding to the impreſſions of pain or diſappointment, they are enabled to deſtroy our reliſh for all en⯑joyment. It is the buſineſs of reſignation to eſtabliſh ſuch compoſure and ſerenity of mind, as may leave us open to all the ſatisfactions which our condition can afford. Senſible of one evil, and groaning under it, we forget not our remaining comforts, we ſuffer not our⯑ſelves to undervalue them, we rejoice that they too are not withdrawn.

THE irreligious attend not to the hand of God in what befals them: or if they acknow⯑ledge it, it is only to cenſure the ordinations of his Providence, to complain of the ſeverity of his diſpenſations, to murmur and repine, to ſet their mouth againſt the heavens, and even, it may be, to blaſpheme the perfections of the divine nature. The pious man, on the con⯑trary, aſcribes all that befals him to the be⯑nevolent and wiſe appointment of God; and even when he cannot help lamenting his own condition, he ſuffers not himſelf to think hardly, or to complain of Providence. He [185] inculcates on himſelf, that what God wills muſt be better for him than what he wills himſelf, though at preſent he perceives not how: being ſent by that gracious God who doth not afflict willingly ^*, it muſt be ſent for his own and for the general good. We every day ſubmit, not only with patience, but of choice, to what is diſagreeable in itſelf, when we know it to be uſeful; we endure the bit⯑terneſs of medicine for the ſake of health, we cheerfully undergo fatigue for the ſake of gain. A full conviction of the wiſdom and benevolence of Providence, may juſtly be as effectual for compoſing our ſouls into reſigna⯑tion, as the proſpect of any determinate ad⯑vantage. Under the power of that convic⯑tion, we acquieſce in poverty or diſtreſs, as, in unknown ways, by its concomitants or its conſequences certainly ſubſervient to our pre⯑ſent or our future good. In adverſity, forget not how many mercies you have conſtantly derived from the bounty of God, retain a ſenſe of them, continue to be thankful for them: your gratitude for them will nouriſh reſignation for the contrary evils. Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and ſhall we not receive evil ^†? In afflicting you, he only recals what was always his own free gift: the [186] health which you now find broken, the riches which you have loſt, the beloved child or the dear friend for whoſe death you mourn, were only lent to you by the Lord of all things for a while; you owe him thanks for having lent them ſo long, and ſhould reſtore them with cheerfulneſs whenever he demands them: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; bleſſed be the name of the Lord ^*. He who giveth liberally and delighteth in bene⯑ficence, we are ſure, would not take away but for the beſt reaſons. His mercies and his chaſtiſements are links of the ſame chain of wiſe arrangements for our good. Why then art thou caſt down, O my ſoul? and why art thou diſquieted within me? Hope in God, for I ſhall yet praiſe him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God ^†.

AN unreſigned temper breaks in upon the affection which we owe to men, as well as upon the regard which we owe to God. It fixes our view on thoſe perſons who have contributed to our diſappointments or our calamities; and it kindles wrath, rancour, and revenge againſt them. It excites theſe paſ⯑ſions againſt ſuch as have been only the in⯑nocent occaſions of our loſſes or our ſuffer⯑ings. [187] It directs our attention to thoſe who are in more fortunate circumſtances than our⯑ſelves; and it tortures us with envy. It pro⯑duces a ſettled diſſatisfaction, which breaks out in ill humour, peeviſhneſs, and abuſe towards all who are connected with us. Reſignation, on the contrary, by eſtabliſhing continual ſe⯑renity of ſoul, prepares the heart for exerciſing benevolence in every ſituation. Under the heavieſt preſſure of diſtreſs, it leads us to treat our companions, our friends, our families, our dependants, with a placid ſweetneſs, and mild though perhaps melancholy complacence. It permits not a wiſh for bettering our own ſtate, by robbing any man of his proſperity. It diſtinguiſhes between the innocent occa⯑ſions, and the guilty cauſes of our troubles; and even towards the latter, it repreſſes the emotions of malevolence: repentance and for⯑giveneſs are all that it prays may overtake them. It conſiders all ſecond cauſes as only inſtruments employed by the Supreme Ruler; and by reſpect to him, it ſoftens all our ſen⯑timents of them. It enabled David to over⯑look the inveteracy of Shimei, and to ſay, Let him alone, and let him curſe, for the Lord hath hidden him▪ it may be that the Lord will look on mine affliction, and that the Lord will requite me good for his curſing this day ^*.

[188]THE continuance of adverſity is apt to de⯑preſs men's ſpirits, or to produce impatience. They weary themſelves with vain wiſhes that their condition were other than it is or can be; and in all their wiſhes they interpoſe not, if it be the will of the Lord. Struggling againſt his appointment, they attempt to ex⯑tricate themſelves by unlawful means; or fainting under his correction, they become in⯑capable of uſing any means for their deliver⯑ance, ſit down in ſullen indolence, and ſink into deſpondence. Reſignation condemns not the wiſh for deliverance from evil; but it prevents its ſwelling into anxiety, and it keeps it in ſubordinacy to God's good pleaſure. It converts all the wiſhes of the heart into de⯑vout ſupplications, and directs them to heaven in fervent prayers to God moſt high. It is ſo far from being inconſiſtent with innocent en⯑deavours to remove what occaſions us diſquiet, that it qualifies us for employing them to the beſt advantage. The inward ſerenity which it eſtabliſhes, enables us quickly to diſcern, what ſteps we have it in our power to take; and the tranquillity and firmneſs of mind which it produces, prepares us for purſuing them with prudence, vigour, and perſeverance. Compoſed and recollected in ourſelves, we can always perceive and execute what our ſituation requires. At the ſame time, reſignation [189] teaches us to reject with abhorrence every ſin⯑ful method of extricating ourſelves, however effectual it may ſeem to be. Fret not thyſelf in any wiſe to do evil ^*: as long as without doing evil you cannot better your condition, it is the will of God that it be not bettered; and it is your duty to reconcile yourſelves to it as it is, to truſt in the Lord, and do good, to reſt in the Lord, and wait patiently for him ^†. When all preſent circumſtances are the moſt unpromiſing, when immediate deliverance appears impoſſible, yet we deſpair not of deliverance; we know that God can never⯑theleſs ſend it by the moſt unlikely and un⯑expected means, and we indulge the confi⯑dence that he will ſend it if it be truly good for us, and ſend it at the fitteſt ſeaſon. But if he ſhould never ſend it, we repine not, we yield not to dejection; it will be as God pleaſes, and that is always the beſt, and muſt demand our contented ſubmiſſion. If every worldly enjoyment be taken from us, we ſtill repoſe ourſelves in the wiſdom and goodneſs of God's inſcrutable deſigns, ſaying with David, I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man that would know me: refuge failed me; no man cared for my ſoul: but thou, [190] O Lord, art my refuge, and my portion in the land of the living ^*.

2. OUR reſignation muſt extend its influence backward to the paſt. To diſcontent on ac⯑count of our preſent ſituation, the reſtleſſneſs of imagination often ſuperadds an uneaſy and repining recollection of events which hap⯑pened long ago. There is reaſon for our reproaching ourſelves with ſuch events, when they were owing to our own miſconduct; yet even in this caſe repentance for that miſcon⯑duct is ſufficient, and perpetual regret for the inconveniences which it once occa⯑ſioned, is wrong. Wherefore doth a living man complain, a man for the puniſhment of his ſins ^†? But when diſagreeable events aroſe not from our own fault, no natural principle can lead us to allow the remembrance of them to eat out our preſent ſatisfaction. It ſhould rather heighten the reliſh of ſucceeding eaſe and pro⯑ſperity. To be continually thinking, how much better our ſituation might have been at times than it actually was; to retain reſent⯑ment againſt the authors of our paſt misfor⯑tunes; to remain implacable againſt Provi⯑dence for permitting them; to cheriſh the fretful remembrance of them, and the re⯑mains [191] of that diſcontent which their preſence produced; to become, by theſe means, habitu⯑ally ſullen and diſſatisfied with a world in which we have not been always ſo proſperous as we wiſhed▪ is perverſely to enter into a conſpiracy againſt our own enjoyment.

THE preſſure of a preſent evil may plead ſome excuſe for frail man, if he murmur under it: but when the evil itſelf is paſt, to retain the ill temper which it produced, is inexcuſable. Deliverance from calamity is the ſubject, not of murmuring, but of thank⯑fulneſs. If it has left ſome conſequences which affect your preſent ſtate, yet we ought by degrees to reconcile ourſelves to them. The firſt aſſault of trouble may ſurprize us into peeviſhneſs; but when we have had lei⯑ſure to bethink ourſelves, and to ponder it deliberately, it is but reaſonable to expect we ſhould call up our reſolution, collect our courage, invigorate our ſouls to bear it, apply ourſelves to the peculiar duties for which it gives opportunity, and form ourſelves to that cheerful enjoyment of life, which becomes thoſe who live in a world regulated by infi⯑nite perfection. By the treach [...]ry and malice of his brethren, Joſeph had undergone all the hardſhips of long ſlavery and impriſon⯑ment: but they left neither reſentment nor [192] repining. When theſe brethren afterwards ſtood before him pierced with remorſe, and overwhelmed with terror, inſtead of ſo much as upbraiding them in the gentleſt terms, he with equal generoſity and piety turned up the faireſt ſide of their conduct and his paſt con⯑dition: Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourſelves that ye ſold me hither; for God did ſend me before you to preſerve life: God ſent me before you to preſerve you a poſterity in the earth: ſo now it was not you that ſent me hither, but God ^*.

3. RESIGNATION exerts itſelf in truſt and reliance upon God for the future part of our exiſtence. Formed reaſonable creatures, capa⯑ble of foreſeeing the conſequences of our own actions, and the effects likely to reſult from other cauſes, we cannot be wholly uncon⯑cerned about the future. We gueſs what it will be, and regard it either with hope or with fear. It is this wiſe and gracious conſtitution of our nature that fits us for regulating our conduct by the proſpect of what may be, for being affected with good or evil before they become preſent, and for uſing our endeavours to obtain the one and avoid the other. But many convert it into a ſource of diſquiet and [193] vexation: by the abuſe of it, ſolicitude and impatience, about future events, creates them far greater unhappineſs than the ſenſe of pre⯑ſent evils. They are ever prying into thoſe deſigns of Providence which are unſearchable to human ſagacity, and miſerable, becauſe they find themſelves unable to diſcover them. They wiſh for ſome good thing; and grieve themſelves becauſe they cannot obtain it: they hope to obtain another; but repine that it is not already obtained. They diſtreſs themſelves with terrors which will never be realized: the very poſſibility of trouble or diſappointment fills them with apprehenſions: if it become probable, they are overpowered with dread, and either wait its approach with deſpond⯑ence, or eſſay to prevent it by doing what is wrong: and if it become imminent, trouble and anguiſh make them afraid, and prevail againſt them as a king ready to the battle ^*. Strangers to reſignation, we muſt be reſtleſs in forming ſchemes for the future, fearful of their failing, and a prey to painful and una⯑vailing cares.

IT belongs to God to determine what events ſhall fill up our lives: our part is, to ſubmit to them whatever they be, to [194] prepare ourſelves for bearing them, and to exert ourſelves in improving them. Senſible of our own ignorance concerning what would be beſt for us, we ſhould refer all our concerns to the direction of Him who is infi⯑nitely wiſer than we, and more concerned for our true happineſs than ourſelves can be.—Unable to conjecture what may be before us, we ſhould rejoice that it is only what God wills, ſaying with David, I truſted in thee, O Lord; I ſaid, Thou art my God, my times are in thy hand ^*. In reſpect of all events without exception or reſerve, we ſhould exerciſe ſuch implicit confidence as Abraham ſhowed, when, at the call of God, he by faith left his native land, and went out, not knowing whither he went ^†. The language of our ſouls ought al⯑ways to be, Lead me, O God, whither thou wilt, I willingly follow thee: ſend what is truly good for me, though I ſhould be averſe from receiving it: withhold what would be hurtful, though I ſhould moſt ear⯑neſtly deſire it. It is not in the power of man to fruſtrate the ordinations of Provi⯑dence: the ſevereſt of them every mortal muſt endure, however bitterly he repine, and however violently he ſtruggle againſt them: by reconciling our ſouls to them, we only [195] prefer the decrees of unerring wiſdom to the ſuggeſtions of our own folly, and eſcape the agonies which frowardneſs ſuperadds to the intrinſic weight of our diſtreſſes.

I MEAN not that reſignation forbids our wiſhing for an eaſy and comfortable ſtate, in preference to a lot of ſorrow and calamity. The wiſh is natural and inevitable. But we ſhould indulge it only in ſubordination to God's good pleaſure. We ſhould not ſuffer it either to ſettle too peremptorily on a particu⯑lar object, which, for what we know, he may ſee meet to refuſe, or to ſwell into anxiety and carefulneſs. We ſhould check every propen⯑ſity to ſuppoſe any one of the uncertain enjoy⯑ments of this world eſſential to our happineſs. If God ordain what is moſt contrary to our wiſhes, it is our duty to keep ourſelves in rea⯑dineſs, to meet it without ſullenneſs, and with⯑out violent perturbation.

RESIGNATION muſt not be confounded with improvident thoughtleſſneſs about futurity. It permits the moſt attentive forecaſt; but it renders it calm and compoſed. It permits us to employ all our prudence and activity in executing every innocent deſign; but it teaches us, having employed them, to refer the event to Him who rules the world, avoiding painful [196] ſolicitude about ſucceſs or diſappointment. Uſing the fitteſt means in our power for ac⯑compliſhing our purpoſes, our dependence ſhould be on God for rendering them effec⯑tual, and our prayers for ſucceſs ſhould be with the reſervation of its being his will. I would ſeek unto God, and to God would I commit my cauſe ^*. If he fruſtrate my endea⯑vours, I will not peeviſhly complain of croſs accidents, but cheerfully acquieſce in it as the doing of him who permits only what is beſt and fitteſt. Aſſiduous in all the duties which ſuit the condition allotted to me by him, I will reſt ſatisfied that, whether my deſires be gratified or diſappointed, it ſhall be well with me; and aſſure myſelf that he will beſtow upon me, though not perhaps what I would chuſe, yet what it is proper for perfect good⯑neſs and wiſdom to beſtow. For the Lord will not caſt off for ever; but though he cauſe grief, yet will he have compaſſion according to the multi⯑tude of his mercies ^†.

RESIGNATION exerts itſelf in dependence upon God, for all the intereſts of the future, as well as of the preſent life. Looking for⯑ward to the God of his ſalvation; believing in the Son of God, and relying on his media⯑tion, [197] who is able to ſave to the uttermoſt all who come unto God by him ^*; yielding himſelf to the influence of the Holy Spirit to fulfil in him all the good pleaſure of God's goodneſs, and the work of faith with power ^†, and exerting himſelf ſtrenuouſly by his aſſiſtance in doing the will of his heavenly Father; the good man cheriſhes, through life, the bleſſed hope of immortal happineſs. Conſcious of his integrity, he is confident that, for the ſake of Chriſt, God will pardon all his imperfections. Careful to perform the terms of the goſpel, he expects, without tormenting doubts, the promiſed reward. He ſhrinks not, trembling, from the darkneſs and ſolitude of the grave; he truſts that God will be his companion and his guide amidſt its unexplored gloom: when his breath is going out, he commits the keeping of his ſoul to God in well-doing, as unto his faithful Creator ^‡: and tranſported into the world of ſpirits, he finds that his dependence was not in vain, that the iſſue ſur⯑paſſes his fondeſt expectations; reſignation is loſt in love, hope yields to fruition, truſt is converted into fulneſs of joy.

SUCH ſubmiſſion in reſpect of the preſent, ſuch unrepining recollection of the paſt, and [198] ſuch dependence for the future, are the g [...] ⯑nuine exertions of that temper of reſignation which is juſtly due to God, as the good, th [...] wiſe, and the almighty Governour of the univerſe, the ſole Diſpoſer of our lot. That eſſential principle in our conſtitution, which makes us eaſy in the want of what belongs not to our ſtate, but to other ranks of crea⯑tures, piety cheriſhes into dutiful reſignation to the ordination of our Maker, in things which may belong to the ſtate of men, but which he ſees fit to deny to us. The lot of every man is fixt within its own limits, and cannot be altered by our ſolicitude; it is folly not to comply with it: it is fixt within theſe limits by infinite perfection; we may embrace it cheerfully. It is good that a man ſhould both hope, and wait quietly for the ſalvation of the Lord ^*. Reſignation is a temper ſingularly requiſite and uſeful in the preſent ſtate.—Were it cultivated and exerciſed with ſuffi⯑cient care, it would render our wills coinci⯑dent in all things with the will of God, make all our deſires to terminate, and our ſouls to reſt, in his appointment, and enable us to proceed compoſedly through all the vi⯑ciſſitudes of this world, to the full enjoyment of Him in the next. It diſlodges many vices [199] from the heart: it excludes the ſtubbornneſs of ſelf-will, the effeminacy of voluptuouſneſs, the rapacity of covetouſneſs, the eagerneſs of falſe ambition, the violence of grief, the fierce⯑neſs of anger, the dejections of fear, the exorbitance of deſire, the grumblings of envy, and the clamorouſneſs of complaint. It im⯑plies many of the moſt important virtues of the Chriſtian life: exerciſed in ſubmiſſion to the defects and imperfections of our lot, it eſtabliſhes contentment; in bearing its diſ⯑treſſes, patience; and in encountering its dangers, fortitude. It is interwoven with pious truſt; and it ſhoots out into religious joy. To a ſuperficial eye, reſignation ſeems to be altogether paſſive: but it iſſues in the moſt active virtue. By moulding our whole ſouls into an entire conformity to our condi⯑tion, it enables us to occupy, with propriety, the ſphere aſſigned to us, to act cheerfully the part befitting it, and in the moſt unplea⯑ſant ſituations to apply with alacrity and vi⯑gour to whatever duties they demand. Draw⯑ing us off from ſolicitude about events, it directs our principal attention to the defeat of the temptations, and the improvement of the opportunities, reſulting from our condition; that by this conduct we may be warranted to indulge hope of the divine protection.

[200]WOULD you acquire, or carry to greater perfection, the ſpirit of reſignation, you muſt beſtow your firſt pains on the root from which it grows: you muſt form a juſt conception of the benignity and wiſdom of God's almighty providence, and by cloſe and frequent medita⯑tion fix that conception in your minds, and render it lively, familiar, and ever preſent to your thoughts. Reſignation cannot thrive in a ſoil choaked up by earthly paſſions: we muſt prepare our hearts for the reception of it, by ſelf-government and ſelf-denial: immoderate deſires are neceſſarily inſatiable; abundance cannot ſatisfy them, it only enlarges them; importunate deſires operate with a violence and turbulence inconſiſtent with the tranquillity of reſignation; both render us incapable of ſub⯑miſſion and deference to him who with-holds their gratification. Every temper is rendered habitual, by congruous exerciſe. Endeavour to exerciſe reſignation in bearing the ſeveral events of life; accuſtom yourſelves to exert it both in trivial and important matters; be not unguardedly ruffled by inconſiderable croſſes; ſuffer not the greateſt diſappointments to over⯑whelm your ſpirit with exceſſive or permanent vexation; when at one time you have failed in maintaining your compoſure, labour to maintain it more perfectly on the next occa⯑ſion. Exerciſe your reſignation likewiſe in de⯑votion: [201] retreat frequently from the world to your God: under a lively ſenſe of his intimate preſence with you, give ſcope to your ſenti⯑ments of dependence and confidence in addreſ⯑ſing him; explicitly commit your way unto the Lord ^*, and refer all your concerns to his diſ⯑poſal; implore his protection, and his aſſiſt⯑ance for reſting in the aſſurance of it. Truſt in him at all times, ye people, and pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us Pſal. lxii. 8.. Wait on the Lord; be of good courage: and he ſhall ſtrengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord ^‡.

SERMON VII. SUBJECTION TO THE AUTHORITY OF GOD.

THE will of God may be conſidered in two lights, as regarding either the events which befal us, or the conduct which is preſcribed to us. Viewed in the former light, it is the object of reſignation; viewed in the latter, of ſubjection and obedience. Reſignation ariſes from a ſenſe of God's right to diſpoſe of us, and of the wiſdom and good⯑neſs of all his diſpoſitions: ſubjection ariſes from a ſenſe of his right to command us, aid⯑ed by a conviction of the equity and benevo⯑lence of all his laws. The one is a willing ſubmiſſion to God's natural government of the world: the other a willing ſubmiſſion to [204] his moral government. United, they complete that loyalty of heart which we owe to the So⯑vereign of the univerſe. It is the latter that my text leads us to conſider. In this addreſs, Thou haſt commanded us to keep thy precepts dili⯑gently; or, as it is tranſlated by ſome, Thou haſt commanded thy precepts that they may be dili⯑gently kept; David acknowledges that God publiſhes his laws with an authority which demands our obedience, and expreſſes his own diſpoſition to yield obedience. A ſenſe of duty towards God, a ſubjection of heart to his ſtatutes, is indiſpenſibly incumbent on us as the ſubjects of his government, and is the immediate principle of compliance with the dictates of his will. For illuſtrating this im⯑portant part of piety, let us conſider,

FIRST, That authority by which all his laws exact our obedience; and,

SECONDLY, That ſubjection of heart which is due to the authority of theſe laws.

FIRST, Let us conſider the nature of God's authority over us, or of his right to preſcribe us laws which we are obliged to ob⯑ſerve.

[205]IN order to perceive it, we muſt attend to the conſtitution of our moral nature, we muſt reflect on the operation of our own con⯑ſcience. From it, our very idea of authority is primarily derived. Conſcience is our ſupreme power: it claims a right to govern all our paſſions and actions; and it forces us to feel that it has a right to govern them. By it we are a law unto ourſelves ^*. In its very exertion, we, without reaſoning or ſtudy, perceive the authority of its dictates, and our obligation to regulate all our motions according to them.—What it approves, we are immediately ſenſi⯑ble is right, and ought to be done; what it diſapproves is wrong, and ought not to be done. It does not merely propoſe our duty; it enjoins it: it does not merely diſcern good from evil; it commands, and it forbids.—When our heart tells us that we have violated its commands, we condemn ourſelves, we are ſtung with remorſe, conſcious of ill deſert, and apprehenſive of miſery: but when we reflect on our having fulfilled them, we become poſ⯑ſeſſed of ſelf-complacence, inward joy, the feeling of good deſert, and the hope of happi⯑neſs. Such is our original idea of authority: the very acting of conſcience involves a ſenſe of the authority of its own decrees, and, cor⯑reſpondent [206] to this, of our obligation to com⯑ply with them.

IT is conſcience, likewiſe, that makes us ca⯑pable of perceiving, and teaches us to acknow⯑ledge, authority in one perſon over another. It enables us to diſtinguiſh a lawful ſuperior from a tyrant or uſurper; it recognizes in the for⯑mer, a right to command us, which belongs not to the latter. One of our fellow-men may become our lawful ſuperior: and whenever he does, conſcience requires us to obey him, and enforces our obedience to him, by the very ſame ſentiments and exertions, as our ſubmiſ⯑ſion to its own decrees. The counſels of a friend are, to our feeling, eſſentially different from the orders of a ſuperior. A maſter, a father, a ruler, a ſovereign, have a juſt autho⯑rity, to which we muſt be ſubject for conſcience ſake ^*. But when we turn our thoughts to God, and conſider his perfections, and the re⯑lations in which he ſtands to us, conſcience ac⯑knowledges an higher authority and a more ſacred obligation. All the characters which can imply a right to command us, are united in him, and belong to him, in an infinitely higher ſenſe than to any other being.

[207]OUR parents are not the proper cauſes of our exiſtence: they are only the inſtruments by means of whom we receive it. Yet from this they derive an authority over us, which all men own to be juſt, and feel to be ſacred. Diſregard to it, is neceſſarily and univerſally accounted, not only baſe, but unnatural. God is the Firſt Cauſe, who made our parents the inſtruments of bringing us into life: he is the proper Author of our being and our whole nature. His authority is, therefore, greater and more abſolute: to oppoſe it, is baſer and more unnatural. Shall we not much rather be in ſubjection to the Father of our ſpirits, than to the fathers of our fleſh ^*? Thy hands have made me and faſhioned me: therefore ought I to learn and to keep all thy commandments ^†. Becauſe thou art my Creator, I am indiſpenſi⯑bly bound to remember ^‡ thee, and to devote myſelf to thy will. Thou who gaveſt me all my powers, haſt an unlimited right to direct the application of them: to employ them in any action which thou forbiddeſt, would be to employ them againſt him whoſe they wholly are.

A MASTER has a right to the labour and obedience of a ſervant, while he ſuſtains him; [208] and a prince to the allegiance of his ſubjects, while he protects them. The Lord is our Maſter in heaven ^*; the Lord is our Lawgiver; the Lord is our King ^†. He has a perfect right to our ſervice and allegiance: he ſup⯑ports our very being; he gives energy to all our powers. If he withdrew his preſerving hand for a ſingle moment, they would all be blaſted, and we muſt fall into nothing. To reſiſt his authority, to tranſgreſs his laws, is to affect independence upon him, on whom we are totally dependent: it is to oppoſe him with thoſe faculties which we retain, and can exerciſe, only by his permiſſion.

A FELLOW-CREATURE who has the juſteſt authority over us, may give commands which are of no obligation: they may be unlawful and wrong. But the authority of God is abſo⯑lute in all things; the obligation of his laws admits of no exception. His is perfect rectitude of nature; he can will nothing that is wrong: Wherefore his law is holy, and his commandment holy, juſt, and good ^‡. The law of the Lord is perfect; the teſtimony of the Lord is ſure; the ſtatutes of the Lord are right; the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether ^§. In acting con⯑trary [209] to ſuch laws, there muſt always be pol⯑lution and depravity: but while we obſerve them, we muſt continue pure and unblame⯑able; they do iniquity who walk in his ways ^*.

THE benevolence of God's nature gives ad⯑ditional authority to his laws. Men may iſſue their orders without regard to the intereſt of thoſe from whom they require obedience, or even with a view to hurt them. But perfect goodneſs can enact no laws in the moral world, but ſuch as are intended for the moſt extenſive happineſs of the rational creation. They are deſigned to point out and enforce that courſe by which moral agents may pro⯑mote the general good, and their own true in⯑tereſt. By violating the laws of God, we do what we can to bring miſery on ourſelves and others. By making them the invariable rule of our temper and our conduct, we contribute our part to the perfection and order of the univerſe, and we purſue our own felicity. The Lord hath commanded us to do all theſe ſtatutes for our good always ^†. They can have no other aim. They are the dictates of pure benevo⯑lence. More to be deſired are they than gold, yea than much fine gold: ſweeter alſo than honey, and the honey-comb ^‡.

[210]WITH the beſt intention poſſible, men may preſcribe us rules which ſhall prove of very pernicious conſequence. They are fallible, and may miſtake their tendency. But God's wiſdom is unerring: he knows all the ten⯑dencies of his laws. They muſt be fit for ſwering the purpoſe of benevolence. Obe⯑dience to them cannot but produce happineſs.—The certainty that they willnot miſlead us, adds confidence to our conviction that we ought to be guided by them. In them, the uncreated wiſdom uttereth her voice, and crieth, I will make known my words unto you: receive my inſtruction, and not ſilver, and knowledge rather than choice gold: my fruit is better than gold, yea than fine gold; and my revenue than choice ſilver: I lead in the way of righteouſneſs, in the midſt of the paths of righteouſneſs ^*.

RECTITUDE, benevolence, and wiſdom, united in a ſuperior degree, give a man an authority and influence among his fellows, to which they of their own accord pay a defe⯑rence, though he has not power to enforce it. This is the trueſt authority. Mere power, by creating dependence, may compel ſubmiſſion: but the ſubmiſſion is always reluctant and un⯑willing. On the contrary, that which we yield [211] to the directions of ſuperior worth and wiſ⯑dom, is ſpontaneous and hearty. Our heartieſt and our moſt cheerful ſubmiſſion is therefore due to God. All his precepts are the dictates of infinite perfection; the counſels of good⯑neſs and wiſdom in conjunction, for regulat⯑ing our whole conduct: can we imagine our⯑ſelves at liberty not to regard them? They are a tranſcript of his own excellence: and can they be but binding upon all thoſe creatures whom he has formed capable of becoming partakers of his excellence? Every precept of God has an inherent authority, implied in its excellence, its neceſſity, and its utility: an in⯑junction from the All-perfect carries along with it an immediate obligation upon us to obey it.

BUT ſtrong and commanding as this imme⯑diate and internal obligation is, our obedience is not left to reſt on it alone. Every perfect law contains a ſanction, as well as a precept. All the precepts of God's law are enforced by ſanctions. Puniſhment is denounced againſt the tranſgreſſors, and reward is promiſed to the obſervers of them. The ſtrength of the obligation thence reſulting is confeſſed by all: the force of ſanctions exacts obedience from thoſe who would pay little regard to the righteouſneſs of the precept. Human laws [212] generally owe their influence almoſt wholly to their ſanctions; their authority is ſlighted, when theſe are not ſtrictly and vigorouſly exe⯑cuted: and by impotence, or injuſtice in the execution, the beſt laws are rendered totaliy ineffectual. With the divine law it never can be ſo. The venerable authority of its precepts is awfully ſupported by its ſanctions. They are the moſt important and intereſting; and it is certain that they will be executed. They can neither be wreſted by injuſtice, nor de⯑feated through impotence.—The divine Law⯑giver is a God of truth, and without iniquity; juſt and right is he ^*. His perfect juſtice binds him to maintain the authority, and vindicate the honour of his laws. With incorruptible and undeviating righteouſneſs, he will inflict puniſhment on the diſobedient, and beſtow reward on the obedient. In his adminiſtra⯑tion there can be no partiality. When the proper time is come, when this ſtate of trial is ended, he will render to every man according to his deeds; and there will be no reſpect of perſons with God ^†.—Whatever ſentence his juſtice pronounces, his power will execute. Power is the great ſupport of the authority of laws, among thoſe who are diſaflected to them; it urges reſpect to them, by rendering it our in⯑tereſt [213] and our only ſafety. How tremendous is the authority of God's laws! how inviola⯑ble their obligation! It is defended by omni⯑potence. I am the almighty God: walk before me ^*. The one Lawgiver is able to ſave, and to deſtroy ^†—In the tranſgreſſion of his laws there can be no ſecurity. Juſtice armed with omnipotence, on purpoſe to enforce them, pre⯑cludes the ſlighteſt hope of impunity. Will ye, by diſobedience, provoke the Lord? Are ye ſtronger than he ^‡? or can ye by a gift pervert his judgment? Miſery ſhall be the protion of a wicked man from God ^§. Though hand join in hand, he ſhall not be unpuniſhed ^‖. Bleſſed are the undefiled in the way, who walk in the way of the Lord: bleſſed are they that keep his teſtimonies ^¶. In keeping of them there is great reward ^**.

So manifold are the foundations of God's authority over us. On every poſſible princi⯑ple, he has a right to govern us by his laws. His authority is ſupreme; to it all other muſt give way: it is ſovereign over all the actions of the moſt exalted creatures, and is by them acknowledged to be ſovereign; his angels a [...] his commandments, hearkening unto the voice of his word; and the [...]ſts of heaven are his mi⯑niſters, [214] that do his pleaſure ^*: how then can the children of men plead an exemption from obedience? His authority is abſolute, cir⯑cumſcribed by no limitation: to render any thing incumbent on us, it is only neceſſary that it be required by God; to convince us that it is incumbent and to make us guilty in neglecting it, it is ſufficient that we know it to be required by him. Whether it be ſuggeſted by nature, or intimated by revelation, whe⯑ther it be enjoined by the dictates of con⯑ſcience, or impoſed by a written precept, we are bound to it by the whole ſtrength of the divine authority.

REASON qualifies us for reflecting on the conſtitution of our nature, and teaches us that it is the workmanſhip of God; that he made conſcience a part of it, that he gave it the authority which we feel it has to govern us, and therefore that it is the will of our Maker that we ſhould be governed by it. It is he who hath, by its notices, ſhewed thee, O man, what is good, and aſſured thee that the Lord doth require it of thee ^†. Thy conſcience is, and cauſes thee perceive that it is, the de⯑puty of the moſt High. It bears his commiſ⯑ſion; and it ſpeaks in his name. It affirms [215] and it proves itſelf to be the guide of life, which he has appointed thee to follow. It impreſſes an inſtantaneous and irreſiſtible con⯑viction, that all its dictates are his laws written in thy heart ^*. It enacts them as his laws, and it proclaims their ſanctions. While it puniſhes the violation of them with imme⯑diate remorſe, it denounces farther puniſh⯑ment from the hand of God; it forces on thee a perception of demerit towards him, and guiltineſs in his ſight; and it f [...]lls thee with apprehenſion of the miſery threatened in that perception. While it approves the obſerv⯑ance of them, and rewards it with gladneſs of heart, it likewiſe promiſes a higher reward; it declares it worthy of God's approbation; and inſpires the hope of happineſs from his favour.

THE clearer and fuller publication of his ſtatutes, in his word, is attended with the ſame authority. All the holy men who by inſpiration promulgated his moral laws, in⯑culcated them upon the conſciences of men by, Thus ſaith the Lord; declared him the Al⯑mighty Vindicator of them, and fortified them by promiſes and threatenings from his mouth. Convinced that they ſpoke by commiſſion from [216] him, we are bound to receive all their words as the words of God. The perfect revelation of his will in the goſpel of Chriſt, is ſtamped with the higheſt authority of heaven, and en⯑titled to our moſt dutiful and reverent ſub⯑miſſion by many circumſtances of affecting peculiarity. It has the authority of God ex⯑plicitly interpoſed for it, when by a voice from heaven he teſtified, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleaſed, HEAR YE HIM ^*. It has likewiſe the authority of the only begotten Son of God: to magnify the law, and make it honourable ^†, he ſent a divine meſſenger to pro⯑mulgate it. He ſaid, They will reverence my Son ^‡. His dignity beſpeaks its infinite im⯑portance, and recommends it to our moſt careful and conſcientious obſervance. In pub⯑liſhing the will of God, Chriſt ſpoke, not only as the meſſenger, and as the Son of God, but alſo as the Saviour of mankind; who has recovered us to the ability of obeying it, and reſtored us to a capacity of obtaining, through him, the reward of obedience; who, by dying for us, has purchaſed our ſervice to God. By him God demands our obedience on a new title, ſuperadded to all the other rights of his ſovereign dominion. He demands it as God [217] our Saviour ^*. He requires us to ſerve him in holineſs and righteouſneſs, becauſe he has deli⯑vered us out of the hands of our enemies ^†. He requires us to glorify him in our body and in our ſpirit, becauſe he hath bought us with a price ^‡. By exacting the death of Chriſt for our re⯑demption, he has made an awful declaration of the ſacred obligation of his laws. In the goſpel, obedience to them is ſecured by the great ſanctions of eternal life and eternal death, clearly revealed, ſtrikingly deſcribed, and not only confirmed by the moſt expreſs promiſes and threatenings, but alſo ſealed by the blood of Chriſt.

WHAT now is implied in that ſubjection of heart, which the authority of God's laws de⯑mands from us? To explain this, was the SE⯑COND thing propoſed: and in explaining it, we will be beſt directed by attention to the ſame conſtitution of human nature, which has led us to a juſt conception of the divine authority.—Our nature conſiſts of two parts, conſcience, enjoining what God requires us to do, and ap⯑petites and paſſions, either oppoſing or comply⯑ing with what it enjoins For our being in ſubjection to the laws of our Creator, it is neceſſary both that conſcience enjoin with [218] force, and that appetite and paſſion obey with readineſs. A temper of ſubjection, therefore, implies two things,—that a ſenſe of duty to⯑wards God, or a regard to his will, be the rul⯑ing principle of our conduct,—and that all our other principles of action ſubmit to be regu⯑lated by it.

1. A REGARD to the will of God, muſt be our ruling principle of conduct. The very definition of authority, is a right to govern us; the very idea of a law, is a declaration of the will of a ſuperior, obligatory upon us. Con⯑ſcience, which is the original law of God to us, and the immediate percipient of the obli⯑gation of all his laws, differs eſſentially from our other active powers. It does not merely incline or impel us: it preſcribes authorita⯑tively, and pronounces it unlawful and wrong not to liſten to it. Each of the others is in⯑tended to influence us only on ſome occaſions, in ſuch of our actions as it is particularly adapted to: but conſcience is intended to in⯑fluence us at all times, it is alike adapted to all our actions. To govern them all is its right; and it is our leading principle, when⯑ever it has power to maintain this right.—God gave us his law, to be our rule in all caſes and at all times without exception.

[219]A GENUINE regard to its authority, will firſt of all render us ſolicitous to know, what it is that God requires of us. To have no concern ſo much as to know our duty, is in⯑conſiſtent with the fainteſt deſire to do it; it betrays the groſſeſt indifference about it; it is pouring the utmoſt contempt upon the autho⯑rity by which it is required. To liſten to him when he ſpeaks, is the very loweſt mark of deference that we can pay to a ſuperior; an equal would with reaſon be offended, if even from him we ſhould with-hold it. Supine or wilful ignorance of the will of God pro⯑claimed in his moral laws, marks many among mankind for children of diſobedience ^*. They beſtow no attention on their obligations. Like brute beaſts, they heedleſsly follow the pre⯑ſent inclination, without reflecting whether it be right or wrong. They are at no pains to conſult their conſcience how they ought to act: and when it ſpontaneouſly interpoſes and obtrudes its admonitions on them, inſtead of hearkening to it, that they may learn God's law from its mouth, they labour to ſilence it, that it may not teſtify againſt their ſins, nor interrupt the courſe of their tranſgreſſions. They are at no pains to ſtudy the precepts of God's word: if ever they caſt an eye upon [220] them, it is not that they may underſtand their real import, and apply them honeſtly to their direction in the ways of virtue, but that they may explain them away, and reconcile them to their ſins. In ſuch men, conſci [...]nce can have no power: it is ſo far from being the ſupreme principle, that it cannot be properly one principle of their conduct. Their own will, their inclination ever varying and toſſing them about at random, not at all the will of God, gives the colour to their whole beha⯑viour. To have no ſenſe of good and evil, is the conſummation of depravity; and the ſenſe of them can be only in proportion to our knowledge of them. In the knowledge of our duty, the foundation of a temper of obedience muſt be laid. Wherever knowledge fails, prac⯑tice muſt fail of courſe. A prevailing regard to the ſacredneſs of obligation, will not ſuffer us to be willingly ignorant of any particular of its demands.—That it may prove a principle of real virtue, we muſt likewiſe be careful to avoid every miſapprehenſion of our duty. The deluſive miſts of prejudice and paſſion often obſcure the light of the divine laws, ſet before us a falſe form of virtue, and pervert the ſen⯑timents of conſcience. An erroneous con⯑ſcience gives its ſanction to vice, and enforces the wrong as right. It may impoſe upon us as the will of God, w [...]at is moſt repugnant to [221] his will: it may lead us into heinous ſin, in the full perſuaſion that we do God ſervice ^*.—An uninformed conſcience can be no guide; and a miſinformed conſcience muſt be a falſe guide. Ignorance of our duty ſubverts the power of conſcience: miſtakes about it render that power dangerous; the more ſtrenuouſly it exerts its authority the more intent we are on fulfilling its dictates, it will the more certainly miſlead us, and the more irreſiſtibly drive us into ſin.—To diſpel our ignorance, and cor⯑rect our errors, God has given us the revela⯑tion of his will. Its divine authority binds us to ſtudy it with the greateſt diligence, and to ſtudy it with a ſingle and honeſt intention to learn what God really requires of us; to con⯑ſider his teſtimonies ^†, and meditate in his pre⯑cepts, that we may have reſpect unto his ways ^‡. Even the plain precepts of God's law may be miſunderſtood or miſapplied; they have ſome⯑times been wreſted to authorize the blackeſt crimes. It might have been prevented by at⯑tention to the native ſentiments of the human heart: to the corrupt propenſities of man, the pure law of God muſt be contradictory; but it will always approve itſelf to conſcience, and fall in with our beſt affections. If it be re⯑pugnant to theſe, it is doubtleſs miſinterpreted. [222] The ſuggeſtions of our moral nature, and the maxims of Scripture, mutually illuſtrate one another, and muſt be ſtudied in conjunc⯑tion. A conſcience enlightened by the full underſtanding of God's written law, will be an unerring guide.

THAT a regard to the will of God may be the governing principle in our hearts, we muſt not only clearly underſtand its dictates, but feelingly perceive their obligation. To be qualified for holding us in ſubjection to its au⯑thority, conſcience having aſcertained our duty juſtly, muſt impreſs a lively and ardent ſenſe of it. A callous conſcience is inſenſible; its perceptions are dull; its warnings againſt tranſgreſſion, and its reproofs for our having tranſgreſſed, are faint and feeble; it can be touched only with heinous guilt. The calls to action come ſuddenly upon us: if conſcience be aſleep, they are paſt before it can beſtir it⯑ſelf to offer its advice; we have violated our duty, before it was in condition to remind us of it. Exempt from ſeaſonable admonition, ſerious remonſtrance, and quick remorſe, men can have no effectual reſtraint from going on in diſobedience. But where conſcience reigns, it is conſtantly awake, ready to perceive our duty in the moment of action, and alert in ſuggeſting it. The ſenſes are exerciſed to diſcern [223] both good and evil ^*: and they reſt not in cold diſcernment. They have a delicacy of feeling, which perceives every ſin with keen diſguſt, and every virtue with eager complacence: goodneſs is embraced with warm affection; evil is rejected with hatred and abhorrence. The ſenſibility of conſcience renders its dic⯑tates ſtriking, fit to affect the heart, and to ac⯑tuate the conduct. Its deciſions are revered, becauſe they are pronounced with vivacity, and impreſſed with earneſtneſs. Keeping a watch⯑ful and piercing eye upon our conduct, it is quick and active in accuſing or elſe excuſing us ^†; it is ſoon aware of every deviation from our duty; the ſmalleſt ſin is recollected with re⯑gret; a heinous tranſgreſſion breaks the ſpirit into contrition; the ſlighteſt hint is ſufficient to rouſe the heart to remorſe for our having ſinned againſt the Lord. The authority of conſcience is confirmed, and a reſpect to all the divine commandments enforced, by the expe⯑rience that every act of diſobedience is followed by pungent ſorrow, and that only the ſtricteſt adherence to our duty can ſecure our peace of mind. The encomium given to Joſiah, is, that his heart was tender: the ſenſe of the encomium is obvious in his hiſtory: reflecting on the former iniquities of his kingdom, he [224] humbled himſelf, and wept before the Lord ^*; and he made a covenant before the Lord, to keep his commandments, and his teſtimonies, and his ſtatutes, with all his heart and all his ſoul ^†; and he de⯑clined neither to the right hand nor to the left ^‡. It is the very character which I have now de⯑ſcribed.

CONSCIENCE is both a power of perception, and a principle of action. Its influence as a principle, will always be in proportion to the clearneſs and the ſtrength of its perceptions. If it apprehends our duty darkly and uncer⯑tainly, it muſt impoſe it with heſitation; if it feels obligation faintly, it can inculcate it but feebly: but when it is accurately informed, it dictates with aſſurance; when its ſenſations are affecting, it commands with energy. It is its vigour, as a principle of action, that gives effect to its perceptions, that ſecures the application of them to the actual direction of our con⯑duct, and impreſſes us with a prevailing re⯑gard to the will of God. Entitled by the ori⯑ginal conſtitution of our nature, and the appointment of him who formed it, to rule within us, its right is notwithſtanding often violated, and its authority deſpiſed, becauſe it [225] has loſt its power. We ſee what is right, and yet do what is wrong. We hear its com⯑mands, and we counteract them. Its throne is uſurped by paſſion. We are in a temper of diſobedience to God. That his laws may govern us, conſcience muſt be reinſtated in its juſt ſupremacy. Its power muſt be commen⯑ſurate with its authority. It muſt be able to enforce whatever it pronounces to be right. All who are not perfectly abandoned pay ſome regard to conſcience: they allow it ſome in⯑fluence in its turn with their appetites and paſſions; they act from it in ſome inſtances; they do ſome things becauſe they are right, and forbear others becauſe they are wrong. But this is not enough. Like the Almighty, whoſe deputy it is, it ought to have abſolute and uncontrouled dominion. It ſhould make itſelf to be obeyed in every caſe, and in oppo⯑ſition to the claims of every appetite and paſ⯑ſion. Our concern ſhould be, not what is pleaſant, or what is profitable, but ſolely what is right and good. Once informed of what God really requires, we muſt hold it indiſpen⯑ſible. There remains no room for a moment's ſuſpence, whether we will comply with it or not. The language of duty is, All that the Lord hath ſaid, will we do, and be obedient ^*. A [226] darling paſſion craves indulgence, an inclina⯑tion riſes to the action by which it might be gratified: but conſcience intimates that God forbids it; our heart ſtandeth in awe of his word ^*, and we refrain our feet from every evil way, that we may keep his word ^†. The cor⯑ruption of our nature ſtruggles againſt the ex⯑ertion of a good affection; we are indiſpoſed to a good action; conſcience reminds us that God requires it; we eſteem all his precepts con⯑cerning all things to be right ^‡; and we rouſe ourſelves to fulfil them. Conſcience, in full poſ⯑ſeſſion of its natural dominion, forces on us an habitual attention to its directions; it preſerves them ſo intimately preſent to our view, and entwiſts them ſo entirely with all our thoughts, that they readily occur, and determine our choice in the hour of action. In every ſitua⯑tion, we take time to aſk ourſelves, What is the duty belonging to it, what the part which God wills us now to act? His teſtimonies are our counſellors ^‖. His word have we hid in our heart that we might not ſin againſt him ^§. By our bringing all our intentions before it, taking its judgment concerning all our motions, and uni⯑formly complying with its dictates, it is daily invigorated. Every tranſgreſſion weakens its power; every act of obedience confirms and [227] extends its influence. By the habit of ſubmit⯑ting implicitly to its deciſions, its ſway be⯑comes more and more ſovereign and irreſiſtible, till it bring into captivity every thought to the obe⯑dience of Chriſt ^*.

2. THAT our hearts may become ſubject to the law of God, it is neceſſary, not only that conſcience be invigorated, and enabled to en⯑force our duty powerfully, but likewiſe that all our other principles of action be formed to ſubmiſſion to it, and regulated in all their ex⯑ertions according to its dictates. Conſcience is not the whole of human nature: along with that ſupreme faculty, we have many appetites, paſſions, and affections, which attach us to a variety of objects, and impel us to a variety of actions. Whenever their objects are preſented, they neceſſarily riſe, and inſtinctively urge us to thoſe actions by which they may be ob⯑tained. If the only practicable means of ob⯑taining them, in any caſe, be diſallowed by conſcience, and condemned by the law of God, they will, in proportion to their ſtrength, in⯑ſtigate us to violate conſcience and deviate from our duty. The ſcripture, therefore, repreſents our nature as conſiſting of two oppoſite princi⯑ples, the fleſh and the ſpirit, contending for the [228] dominion of the heart. The fleſh luſteth againſt the ſpirit, and the ſpirit againſt the fleſh; and theſe are contrary the one to the other ^*. The law of God cannot but often lay a reſtraint upon our inclinations: and for this reaſon the ſcripture acknowledges it to be a yoke, and re⯑quires us to take it upon us ^†.

OUR natural paſſions, enured to no con⯑troul, ſtrengthened by continual indulgence, and ſuſtained by the corruption of our hearts, are too refractory to be governed by a ſenſe of duty. They riſe with aſſurance, and with an irreſiſtible force drive us on to gratify them. Conſcience pronounces it unlawful; but in vain: it attempts to reſtrain them; but it is oppoſed and defeated. Its power is broken, and its authority renounced. The heart is froward and perverſe; revolting and rebellious ^‡; the life is a courſe of diſobedience and tranſgreſſion againſt the laws of heaven. They that are after the fleſh, do mind the things of the fleſh ^‖. They fulfil the deſires of the fleſh ^§. They are diſobedient, and unto every good work reprobate ^**. They are the ſervants of ſin, not the ſervants of God; they yield their members as inſtruments of unrighteouſneſs unto ſin, not as in⯑ſtruments of righteouſneſs unto holineſs. While ſin reigns within them, it muſt have dominion [229] over them, and force them to obey it in the luſts thereof ^*. So then they that are in the fleſh cannot pleaſe God, becauſe the carnal mind is enmity againſt God, for it is not ſubject to the law of God, neither indeed can be ^†. The ſtrongeſt ſenſe of duty cannot determine us effectually, except our ſenſual appetites, our corrupt paſſions, and our worldly affections be likewiſe weakened. While theſe preſerve their ſtrength, they will main⯑tain a continual oppoſition to it; they will prevail alternately, and diſtract the ſoul. It is like a war carried on between parties of equal power; the ſucceſs of either can never be deciſive. A conſcience acting with vigour, and paſſions operating with undiminiſhed force, produce, by their inceſſant ſtruggles, that haraſſing ſtate of mind which the apoſtle deſcribes: that which I do, I allow not; for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I. To will, is preſent with me; but how to perform that which is good, I find not; for the good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do. I find a law, that when I would do good, evil is preſent with me: for I delight in the law of God after the inward man; but I ſee ano⯑ther law in my members, warring againſt the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law [...] which is in my members. O wretched [...], who ſhall deliver me from this body [230] of death ^‡! The power of conſcience, conjoined with ungovernable paſſions, can only fill us with unſufferable anguiſh in the ſenſe of our continual diſobedience. To render it produc⯑tive either of obedience or tranquillity, all thoſe paſſions and principles of action which oppoſe our obligations muſt be weakened and ſubdued. We muſt keep under our body, and bring it into ſubjection ^‖. We muſt through the ſpirit mortify the deeds of the body ^§. For ena⯑bling us to mortify them, the ſpirit of God is given; and all the ſtrength which he infuſes into our hearts, we muſt employ in checking and in conquering every propenſity to ſin. Our paſſions cannot be extirpated; nor can their impulſes be brought perfectly to coincide with the dictates of conſcience. In this earthly ſtate they always meet their objects; they are excited by the view of them; they aim at indulgence; and they retain ſome power. In the beſt ſome corruption remains; the ſeeds of diſobedience are not wholly deſtroyed; there ariſes now and then a wiſh for a forbidden gratification; they cannot always do the things that they would ^†; they fall at times into acts of ſin. But vicious paſſions are generally reſtrained; by being reſtrained they become weaker and weaker; they are enured to ſubmit to the li⯑mitations [231] of duty; and accuſtomed to ceaſe from importunity, whenever their demands are perceived to be forbidden. In proportion as they are brought to yield to the controul of obligation, we become willing and obedient ^*, and our hearts inclined to God's teſtimonies ^†.

ALL the affections of our ſouls are by no means equally contradictory to conſcience, or alike apt to ſeduce us from our duty. The benevolent affections rather fall in with con⯑ſcience, and inſtigate us to fulfil its dictates. They are the immediate principles of that con⯑duct towards other men, which conſcience ap⯑proves, and God requires: and the ſame affec⯑tions directed to God, and raiſed and refined by the infinity of his perfection, are the firſt rudiments of piety and devotion. When hu⯑man nature is diſtinguiſhed into the ſpirit and the fleſh, theſe affections are referred to the for⯑mer: the virtues into which they grow up by proper culture, make a great part of the fruits of the ſpirit enumerated by the apoſtle, love, peace, long-ſuffering, gentleneſs, goodneſs, meek⯑neſs: their oppoſites, hatred, variance, emula⯑tions, wrath, ſtrife, ſeditions, envyings, as well as the natural effects of the ſenſual and the ſelfiſh paſſions, are reckoned among the works of the fleſh ^‡, and can become no other. In our de⯑praved [232] ſtate, even our beſt affections need to be kept under the dominion of the ruling principle. If they were indulged without any reſerve, they would degenerate into vice; if their impulſe were implicitly followed in every caſe, it would lead us aſtray from what is right. They muſt be reſtrained from impro⯑per exertions, and regulated by the divine law. But ſtill they ſtand moſt in need of being che⯑riſhed and ſtrengthened. The prevalence of vicious paſſions cumbers the ſoul; like noxious weeds, they choak the ſeeds of good affec⯑tions, prevent their growth, and repreſs their exerciſe. When the heart is cleared from the former, the latter take root, and flouriſh, and bear their precious fruits. Nouriſhed by the dews of heaven, purified by the influences of grace, and preſerved from irregularity and diſ⯑tortion, they are the native principles of thoſe virtues which God commands us to cultivate, and of thoſe good actions which he enjoins us to be diligent in performing. Their vigour gives ſupport to conſcience; they are engaged on its ſide. They tend directly to the extinc⯑tion of many of the vices which it moſt ſe⯑verely condemns; they ſtand in diametrical oppoſition to every ſpecies of malevolence; they are incompatible with the filthineſs of the ſpirit ^*; they reſtrain us from fulfilling the evil [233] deſires of the mind ^*; they co-operate with the ſenſe of duty in ſubduing the power of corrup⯑tion. They are the miniſters which carry the commands of conſcience into execution; they are the members which we are called to yield, and which alone are fit to be yielded, as inſtru⯑ments of righteouſneſs unto God ^†. To the entire ſubjection of our hearts to God, the ſtrength of good affections is no leſs neceſſary, than the mortification of vicious paſſions. We muſt be alive unto God, as well as dead unto ſin ^‡. His law requires both abſtinence from evil, and diligence in well-doing: the controul of cor⯑rupt inclinations only render us capable of the former; it is the ſtrength and energy of good affections that can qualify us for the latter. If they were weak and languid, it would render us unfit for that active holineſs which is pleaſ⯑ing to God; a neceſſary impulſe to our duty would be wanting; we would be indiſpoſed to it, and often neglect it, notwithſtanding the ſtrongeſt perception of its obligation. Our obedience would be only the outward ſervice of the body; the heart would not be engaged in it. The fervour of good affections is the living ſpirit, which muſt animate it.

IT is when the heart is in this manner formed to obedience, by the mortification of [234] vicious paſſions and the improvement of good affections, that a ſenſe of duty, and a regard to God's law, will become in fact our ruling principle. It will actuate us in the practice of all the virtues; but it cannot be, in the very ſame ſenſe, the principle of them all. It is obviouſly deducible from what has been ſaid, that they are of two kinds. Some vir⯑tues are negative; they conſiſt in the reſtraint of ſuch paſſions as tend to vice, and iſſue in abſtinence from the gratification of them. Temperance, juſtice, and moderation of de⯑ſire, imply no poſitive diſpoſition impelling to them: they conſiſt wholly in repreſſing the impetuoſity, and avoiding the exceſſes, of ſenſual appetites and worldly paſſions. Con⯑ſcience diſapproves the indulgence of theſe, and condemns it as prohibited by God; from reſpect to its judgment, we ſet ourſelves to ſub⯑due them: that reſpect is the proper and only principle of our abſtinence: and this abſti⯑nence has no value, in a religious and moral view, but ſo far as it proceeds from that re⯑ſpect. Other virtues are poſitive in their nature; they conſiſt in the ſtrength and pre⯑valence of pious or kind affections; they iſſue in performance. Theſe affections, and all the genuine exertions of them, are good in them⯑ſelves; and, on account of their inherent good⯑neſs, are approved and enjoined by conſcience. [235] Theſe are the proper and immediate ſprings of the practice which is congruous to them; and give it value, though we ſhould not re⯑flect on its being our duty. If it were not the expreſſion of theſe affections, but proceeded ſolely from the ſenſe of duty, it would be obe⯑dience, but it could not be charity or devotion. Yet conſcience operates along with them; its approbation follows cloſe upon their earlieſt motions, it attends them in all progreſſive ex⯑ertions, it encourages and animates them, it invigorates them, by inculcating that the di⯑vine authority is interpoſed in their fa⯑vour.

THAT ſubjection of heart to the law of God, which we have now explained, is a very im⯑portant temper. It is indiſpenſibly due to God as our lawgiver, our ſovereign, and our king. Capable of perceiving the right of a ſuperior to command us, we cannot, on the leaſt reflection, but feel the right of the Su⯑preme to exact the obſervance of all his pre⯑cepts. It is moſt beneficial to ourſelves. It is the moſt immediate preſervative from ſin. It is the firmeſt ſupport, and the ſureſt guard of every virtue. If it prevail, univerſal holi⯑neſs muſt quickly enſue. It alike ſecures, but with the diſtinction belonging to their natures, the practice of the moral virtues, and the ob⯑ſervance [236] of the poſitive appointments of God's will; determining us to do the one, and not leave the other undone ^*, but to walk in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord, blame⯑leſs ^†.

CULTIVATE this temper with care ſuitable to its importance. Meditate often on the ſa⯑credneſs and ſupremacy of the divine authority. Form awful conceptions of it, and render them familiar to you, that you may learn to reverence the laws which are derived from it. Conſider all the reaſons on which theſe laws are founded; they will endear them to you. You have been in ſituations of perplexity, in which you were at a loſs how to act; the council of a wiſe and good man would have then been, of all things, the moſt deſirable: without the laws of God, every ſtep of your conduct would be perplexed and intricate, and every moment you muſt be uncertain what you ought to do; they are the directions of infinite perfection for the whole of your beha⯑viour; ſhall not his commandments then be our delights? They give us underſtanding, that we may live ^‡, accuſtom yourſelves to think and act according to them. Bring every motion which riſes in your hearts, and every action [237] which you intend, to the teſt of duty. In⯑vite your conſcience to pronounce impartially, whether it be right or wrong. If it declare that it is forbidden, if it be even doubtful whe⯑ther it is allowed or not, invariably forbear it. To venture upon any thing till every ſuſpicion of its innocence be removed, is to offend con⯑ſcience, and to ſin preſumptuouſly againſt God. What you are ſatisfied that he requires, let no temptation prevail upon you to neglect. Implore the divine aſſiſtance to conquer the diſobedience and corruption of your hearts, and to renew you in the ſpirit of your mind ^*; to take away the ſtony heart out of your fleſh, and give you an heart of fleſh, and put his ſpirit within you, and cauſe you to walk in his ſtatutes, and to keep his judgments, and do them ^†.

SERMON VIII. REGARD TO THE JUDGMENT OF GOD.

THE conſtitution of human nature per⯑mits us not to be indifferent to the ſen⯑timents of others concerning our character and conduct. A total diſregard to them would ſhew depravity of ſoul; a great unconcerned⯑neſs about them would betray the want of that delicate ſenſibility which is inſeparable from true worth. The judgment of the vir⯑tuous and diſcerning is, for its own ſake, an object of affection to every human heart: their good opinion we deſire with ardour, and reflect upon with joy; their ill opinion we re⯑gard with averſion; to have incurred it, over⯑whelms us with ſorrow and confution. But if we be particularly connected with them, eſpe⯑cially if we in any reſpect depend upon them, their good or their ill opinion, by being of [240] advantage or diſadvantage to us, becomes ſtill more intereſting.

RELIGION eradicates none of theſe determi⯑nations of nature. It grafts its exertions on them as their proper roots. From inadequate objects, it turns them to an object perfectly adequate. It teaches us that the Lord is our judge. It requires us to pay a ſupreme and conſtant regard to the judgment of that God, who alone can juſtly eſtimate our character, and whoſe eſtimation of it is of infinite import⯑ance to us. This regard is an eſſential part of the duty which we owe to God; and it is a powerful incitement to that courſe of life which is pleaſing to him, and productive of our own happineſs, both in this world and in the next.

IN the preſent diſcourſe, I propoſe to conſi⯑der it, firſt, in its principle; and ſecondly, in its operation.

FIRST, I ſhall point out the proper principle of a ſupreme regard to the judgment of God. It is in brief a lively conception of God,—as our omniſcient witneſs,—as neceſſarily ap⯑proving or diſapproving us,—and as our pro⯑per and righteous governor, who will reward thoſe whom he approves, and puniſh thoſe whom he diſapproves.

[241]1. GOD is continually preſent with us, in⯑timately acquainted with our real characters, the witneſs of all our thoughts, and words, and actions. By this he is qualified for being in an eminent ſenſe our Judge. It is but a ſmall part of our behaviour, of which any man can be an eye witneſs; and even that part he may know but imperfectly: he ſees our ac⯑tions, but he can often only gueſs at our mo⯑tives and our intentions. Of many of our ac⯑tions he is wholly ignorant; and therefore he can form no opinion about them. But there is not a particular of our heart or our life▪ of our temper or our converſation, exempt from the judgment of God; for he knows and ob⯑ſerves all things. The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good ^* His eyes behold, his eye-lids try the children of men ^†; doth not he ſee my ways, and count all my ſteps ^‖ ? For the ways of man are before the eyes of the Lord, and he pondereth all his goings ^§. When thou performeſt an act of beneficence with ſuch ſecrecy that thy left hand knoweth not what thy right hand doth ^¶; when, in the retirement of thy cloſet, the ſigh of penitence, or the aſpira⯑tion of devotion, riſes from an upright heart, it is not unobſerved by thy Father which ſeeth in ſe⯑cret ^**. Neither is the iniquity of men hid [242] from his eyes ^†; he ſets our iniquities before him, our ſecret ſins in the light of his countenance ^‡. O Lord, thou haſt ſearched me, and known me: thou underſtandeſt my thoughts afar off: and there is not a word in my tongue, but lo, O Lord, thou knoweſt it altogether. Thou haſt beſet me before and behind. Whither ſhall I go from thy Spirit? or whither ſhall I flee from thy preſence ^‖? When a perſon is preſent with us, his ſenti⯑ments concerning us become the object of our livelieſt attention; were he at a diſtance, we could perhaps think of them with more indif⯑ference. God is never far from every one of us ^§; he is more intimately preſent with us than any creature can be. It requires no ſtretch of imagination, to conceive him privy to our inmoſt thoughts, to every riſing paſſion, to the moſt hidden propenſities of our ſouls: it requires only that we really believe what is abſolutely certain. We may be, we ought to be, as ſtrikingly ſenſible of his preſence as of our own being; for in him we have our be⯑ing ^**. We may be as deeply convinced of his knowledge of all our motions, as of our own conſciouſneſs of them. His knowledge of them is more perfect than our own: we may forget them, but he cannot; we may impoſe a falſe repreſentation of them even upon ourſelves, [243] but not upon him. For the Lord ſearcheth all hearts, and underſtandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts ^*; and is a diſcerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart: neither is there any creature that is not manifeſt in his ſight; but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do ^†.

2. THE God who is perfectly acquainted with all our diſpoſitions and our actions, can⯑not behold any one of them with indifference: he obſerves them on purpoſe to eſtimate their real nature: he neceſſarily approves or diſap⯑proves them. It is this that renders his know⯑ledge of them important. We would conſider ourſelves as alone, in the preſence of a perſon who could not diſcern between right and wrong. It is our being endued with a moral nature, with a power which diſtinguiſhes good from evil, and regards them with contrary ſentiments, that renders one man at all capable of judging concerning the character and con⯑duct of another. It is that divine perfection, of which this ruling faculty of the human ſoul is the image and the offspring, that ren⯑ders the Lord our judge. He poſſeſſes abſolute rectitude of nature: he not only is pure from all moral evil, but he holds it in abomination; [244] he not only is perfect in all moral goodneſs, but he loveth goodneſs. An invariable love of virtue and hatred of vice is neceſſarily im⯑plied in his eſſential rectitude, and it is the firſt principle of his juſtice. Without this attri⯑bute, he could neither perceive nor approve his own excellence; and with it, he cannot but approve, favour, and be pleaſed with whatever is right, and diſapprove, condemn, and be offended with whatever is wrong, in the characters and behaviour of all his reaſon⯑able creatures. The Lord God is the holy One, of purer eyes than to behold evil, and cannot look on iniquity ^*. Thou art not a God that hath pleaſure in wickdeneſs; neither ſhall evil dwell with thee: the fooliſh ſhall not ſtand in thy ſight; thou hateſt all workers of iniquity: the Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man ^†. I am the Lord which exerciſe loving-kindneſs, judgment, and righteouſ⯑neſs in the earth; for in theſe things I delight, ſaith the Lord ^‡. For the righteous Lord loveth righteouſneſs, his countenance doth behold the up⯑right ^‖; he delighteth in his way ^§. There are ſeaſons in which every human heart feels and proclaims, that there is indelibly impreſſed upon it a ſenſe that this is the character of God. If it were not, vain and abſurd would be the complaints and the appeals which na⯑ture [245] irreſiſtibly prompts innocence blackened by calumny, and integrity overpowered by in⯑jury, to ſend up in groans to him who know⯑eth all things, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hoſts ^*. Prejudice and miſtake may pervert the judgment of men; their conſcience may be corrupted, and they may call evil good, and good evil ^†. Yet fallible as their judgment is, to pay it no regard would be unnatural: no little fortitude is often requiſite for preventing the ſenſible heart from paying it ſome regard, even when it knows it to be wrong. But we are ſure that the judgment of God is according to truth ^‡ : by him actions are weighed ^‖. His ho⯑lineſs is unerring as his underſtanding, and perfect as his nature: its deciſion can never fail to be ratified and enforced by the full con⯑viction of our own hearts; it demands un⯑limited reſpect. The depravity of men often deadens their moral ſentiments; both the ap⯑probation and the diſapprobation of the vicious is ſlight and languid, and it is accounted of little weight. The vigour of theſe ſenti⯑ments, and our deference to them, riſe in pro⯑portion to the worth of the perſon who ex⯑preſſes them. But there is none holy as the Lord ^§: compared with his immaculate light, all created excellence is as darkneſs: yea the heavens are [246] not clean in his ſight ^*; and his angels he char⯑geth with folly ^†. The ſtrength, the intenſeneſs of his approbation and diſapprobation, who is incapable of paſſion or emotion, we cannot properly conceive: to intimate that it is great, the ſacred writers ſpeak of it in terms bor⯑rowed from the moſt ardent paſſions and the keeneſt emotions, which the moral qualities of others produce in our ſouls; they repreſent him as loving, delighting, and taking plea⯑ſure in our goodneſs, and viewing our ſins with hatred, abhorrence, wrath, and indignation.

3. THIS omniſcient and holy God is our proper and righteous governour. This brings his approbation and diſapprobation directly home to us; it implies that they will be at⯑tended with the weightieſt conſequences; it calls forth ſelf-love to ſupport the ſenſe of ho⯑nour. The Lord is our judge, the Lord is our law-giver, the Lord is our king. The judgment of men often reaches only to favourable or un⯑favourable ſentiments of us; their eſteem is all that we can hope for, their blame all that we can incur. If they have authority over us, if their influence and power can promote or ob⯑ſtruct our intereſt, their opinion of our cha⯑racter aſſumes a new importance. The wrath [247] of a king is as the roaring of a lion; but his fa⯑vour is as dew upon the graſs ^*. Honour or diſ⯑honour in the eye of the all-perfect Being, are for their own ſake deeply affecting to every in⯑genuous mind: but to every ſoul of man that is not dead to thought, they muſt, on account of the infinite moment of their conſequences, appear to be of infinite importance. The Lord moſt high is terrible; he is a great king over all the earth: he reigneth over the nations, ſitting upon the throne of his holineſs ^†. God is the ſo⯑vereign and the moral governour of mankind; he will employ omnipotence for the ſupport of his government; his approbation will be fol⯑lowed by a great reward, his diſapprobation by dreadful puniſhment. He obſerves and eſti⯑mates our actions, not as a ſpectator, but as our ruler: when he ſearcheth the heart and tri⯑eth the reins, it is that he may judge the righte⯑ous and the wicked, even to give every man ac⯑cording to his ways, and according to the fruit of his doings ^‡.

GOD has formed us the proper ſubjects of moral laws. Both by the dictates of our na⯑ture, and by the precepts of his word, he has preſcribed us laws. His having preſcribed them neceſſarily implies that he will make a dif⯑ference [248] between the obedient and the diſobe⯑dient. The natural ſenſe of good deſert in virtue and of ill deſert in vice, which in every man ſhews itſelf in a variety of ſhapes, is an expreſs declaration from him who formed us, that he will make the difference. He forces us to interpret and receive it as a certain intima⯑tion of his deſigns; apprehenſion of puniſh⯑ment is inſeparable from the conſciouſneſs of guilt, but the reflection that we have done our duty inſpires the hope and expectation of re⯑ward. The ſtate in which God has placed us, is adapted to our moral nature; it gives ſcope for our voluntarily obeying or voluntarily tranſgreſſing his laws. His providence towards us in this ſtate, is a plan of government by theſe laws. By the unalterable conſtitution of things, what he requires tends to our peace and joy, what he forbids, to our diſquiet and pain: and by the diſpoſitions of his provi⯑dence, they often actually produce theſe con⯑trary effects. Our condition is generally the conſequence of our behaviour; and frequently it is eaſy or uneaſy, according as our behaviour has been moral or immoral. Some of the proſperous and the adverſe occurrences of life, conſcience, of its own accord, conſtrains every man to conſider as marks of God's favour to righteouſneſs, and his diſpleaſure againſt ſin. We are verily guilty; therefore is this diſtreſs [249] come upon us ^*, has at times been the unwel⯑come ſuggeſtion of nature to every ſinner. We feel that we are accountable to God; and we have experience that he ſometimes calls us to an account. That it is but ſometimes, that often in the preſent world there is one event to the righteous and to the wicked ^†, proceeds only from this, that in the preſent world the plan of God's righteous government is but in its be⯑ginning: it is no proof that it will not be com⯑pleted; it is a confirmation that it will. The beginning of a righteous government infers its progreſs and its accompliſhment: its imperfec⯑tion in the preſent ſtate, proclaims that there will be another ſtate in which it will be perfected; it requires it for vindicating the ways of God. A ſtate of retribution preſuppoſes an opportu⯑nity of trial; and the appointment of a ſeaſon for trial, is the pledge of an exact and equal retribution. None of the irregularities of the preſent world, neither ſucceſs in vice, nor un⯑ſucceſsfulneſs in virtue, can eraſe from the ſoul of man a conviction of the final juſtice of God's government: there are moments in which the moſt proſperous wickedneſs ſhudders with apprehenſions of him to whom vengeance belongeth ^‡; and oppreſſed innocence often looks up with confidence to God, as its re⯑fuge, [250] its avenger, and its recompence, ſaying in its trouble, Not for any injuſtice in mine hands; alſo now, behold, my witneſs is in heaven, and my record is on high ^*. Verily there is a re⯑ward for the righteous: verily he is a God that judgeth in the earth ^†.

THE ſcripture every where juſtifies the con⯑viction, and unfolds the deſigns, of a perfectly righteous government; aſſuring us that, in ſpite of all the preſent appearances of diſor⯑der, the Lord is righteous in all his ways, and holy in all his works ^‡. For God will bring every work into judgment, with every ſecret thing, whe⯑ther it be good, or whether it be evil ^‖. The diſ⯑penſation of our redemption by Jeſus Chriſt, which diſplays the marvellous grace and com⯑paſſion of God, diſplays, at the ſame time, in the moſt ſtriking manner, the inviolable ſanc⯑tity of his government of mankind. While it provides for the pardon of ſin, the blood of Chriſt ſhed for the expiation of ſin teſtifies how odious, how deſerving of puniſhment, it is in the ſight of God. While it ſecures mercy to the penitent, it ſeals the condemnation and the miſery of every impenitent ſinner. It ex⯑tends reward to the mixt and imperfect virtues of weak men; but it extends it only in favour [251] to the perfect righteouſneſs and ſinleſs obedi⯑ence of the Son of God. The ſame revelation which informs us of this diſpenſation of grace, teaches us with new light and evidence, that this world is the ſeaſon of our trial, and that at the end of it God's favour to righteouſneſs, and his wrath againſt all iniquity, will be pro⯑claimed in the face of the whole univerſe. It gives aſſurance unto all men, that he hath ap⯑pointed a day in which he will judge the world in righteouſneſs ^*; that the Son of man, unto whom the judgment is committed by the Father ^†, will come to execute it, encompaſſed with all the glories of heaven; that we muſt all appear before the judgment-ſeat of Chriſt, that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether good or bad ^‡; and that they who are in that day approved as righteous, ſhall be recompenſed with eternal life ^‖ and happineſs; but they who are found to be wicked, ſhall be puniſhed with everlaſting deſtruction from the preſence of the Lord ^§. If then either honour or happineſs, either diſ⯑grace or miſery, can make an impreſſion on us, the judgment of God may make the deepeſt and the moſt permanent impreſ⯑ſion.

[252]A CONCEPTION of God as, in this manner, our all-ſeeing witneſs, neceſſarily pleaſed or diſpleaſed with us, and our abſolute and righteous ſovereign, is the natural principle of a ſupreme regard to his judgment of our cha⯑racter and conduct. If it fail of producing this in creatures ſuſceptible of a ſenſe of character, concerned how they appear in the eyes of men, often involuntarily touched with the unjuſt cenſure or the undeſerved praiſe even of thoſe who poſſeſs not their high eſteem; the concep⯑tion cannot be lively, it cannot be embraced with faith, it cannot be entertained with ſince⯑rity.

SECONDLY, Let us now conſider, in what manner a regard to the judgment of God will operate and exert itſelf. It is not a mere im⯑preſſion on the underſtanding; it is likewiſe an active motion of the heart. It includes a deep ſenſe of the importance of his judgment, a ſupreme value for it, an earneſt and ſteady attention to it, an habitual ſolicitude how all our habits and our actions will appear in his ſight, and a conſtant care to render them ſuch as will bear his eye. God's judgment concern⯑ing every one of us, is either a judgment of approbation, or a judgment of diſapprobation. Each of theſe will produce different affections, according to the ſeveral aſpects under which [253] our opinion of ourſelves leads us to view it; and all of them the moſt important and com⯑manding. To be approved and beloved, or to be diſapproved and hated, by the ruler of the univerſe! Immenſe is the diſtance between theſe two ſtates! To hang in ſuſpence be⯑tween them, to be drawing the lot for the one or the other, is a ſituation fit for agitating the ſoul with the moſt vehement emotions, and for drawing out all its powers in the moſt vigor⯑ous exertions. It is the ſituation of every hu⯑man creature in this period of trial. Diſap⯑probation from God, is the extremity of diſ⯑grace and miſery; approbation from him, is the ſummit of honour and of happineſs: the former is the natural object of fear, ſorrow, and ſhame, exciting to circumſpect avoidance of it; the latter of ardent deſire, elevating hope, and rapturous joy, conſpiring to ani⯑mate us in the eager purſuit of it. Let us briefly unfold theſe oppoſite movements of the ſoul.

1. WHEN we conſider God as diſapproving all ſin, a pious regard to his judgment will exert itſelf in fear, ſorrow, or ſhame, ac⯑cording to the light in which we conceive our⯑ſelves to be viewed by him.

[254]ANY poſſible or probable evil is the object of our fear. The wrath of that God in whoſe hand is the ſoul of every man, is the greateſt of evils; and by wickedneſs it cannot fail to be provoked; in all, therefore, who are in danger of wickedneſs, it may juſtly awaken the moſt awful apprehenſions. The Almighty is excellent in power, and in judgment, and in plenty of juſtice; men do therefore fear him ^*. The fear of God, the dread of diſapprobation and puniſhment from him, is the moſt obvious expreſſion of reſpect to his judgment. It is the native reſult of the reflection, that we are in a ſtate of trial for eternity. The very idea of trial implies a poſſibility of failing; and where the iſſue is ſo important, a bare poſſibi⯑lity of failing would be a formidable danger. But our danger is far more formidable: we are weak; we are already lapſed apoſtates; our ſtate abounds with ſtrong temptations to ſin: it is encumbered with circumſtances which render it very difficult to avoid it. Nar⯑row is the way which leadeth unto life ^†; it runs along the edge of an unfathomable precipice; it is choaked up by briars and thorns. If you have any ſenſe of him who without reſpect of perſons judgeth according to every man's work, you cannot but paſs the time of your ſojourning here [255] in fear ^*. Every one of us has already gone through ſome part of his trial; and in that part of it, every one of us has already failed. The impotence of humanity admits not perfect purity; all have already ſinned ^†, in many things we offend all ^‡: we have forfeited the approba⯑tion of juſtice; we can have recourſe only to the indulgence of mercy. The beſt are con⯑ſcious of many infirmities, many defects, and many ſins. When a tender conſcience ſets theſe before their eyes, when they place theſe in the light of God's purity, they cannot think without awe, what may be the conſequences of them under his holy government: how ſhould man be juſt with God? If he will contend with him, he cannot anſwer him one of a thouſand ^‖: enter not into judgment with thy ſervant; for in thy ſight ſhall no man living be juſtified ^§. If their ſince⯑rity be ſo fully aſcertained as to caſt out the fear of final puniſhment, yet it excludes not the apprehenſion of rebuke and correction for their faults. Though they were alſo ſecure from this, they could not bear, without con⯑cern, the thought of deſerving to be blamed by God.—But when conſcience tells the heinous ſinner, that he has corrupted all his do⯑ings ^‡‡, that he has choſen thoſe ways which are hateful to God, and againſt which his [256] fierce anger is denounced, what, except inſenſi⯑bility, can prevent his being alarmed with the terrors of the living God? He looks up with conſternation to the offended purity and om⯑nipotence of his Judge; and with a trembling heart cries out, He hath kindled his wrath againſt me, and he counteth me unto him as one of his enemies ^*. What then ſhall I do when he riſeth up? And when he viſiteth, what ſhall I an⯑ſwer him ^† ? What muſt I do to be ſaved ^‡? Rouſed to an agonizing perception of his dan⯑ger, he deprecates the wrath to which he is obnoxious, with anxious importunity: O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger: Have mercy upon me, O Lord ^‖. Hide thy face from my ſins; and blot out all mine iniquities ^§. Such fear of God's diſpleaſure againſt ſin, is generally the firſt motion of the corrupted ſoul towards him: and if it be not violently ſuppreſſed or heed⯑leſsly diſſipated, it will work repentance; for by repentance alone the diſpleaſure of the holy God can be averted, and the forgiveneſs of ſin obtained.

FEAR always includes a mixture of ſorrow, which becomes more intenſe in proportion to the greatneſs of the evil, and the probability of our incurring it. It is a fearful thing to fall [257] into the hands of the living God ^*: in the appre⯑henſion of this, ſorrow muſt be the predominant ingredient. The miſerable conſequences of his diſpleaſure are not altogether future: though the wicked be reſerved to the day of deſtruction ^† for the full puniſhment of his ſins, the begin⯑nings of that puniſhment often tread cloſe on the commiſſion of them: thine own wickedneſs ſhall correct thee, and thy back ſlidings ſhall re⯑prove thee; and thou ſhalt know and ſee that it is an evil thing, and bitter, that thou haſt forſaken the Lord thy God ^‡: the nearneſs, the immi⯑nence of this danger, is fit for wringing the heart with grief. The diſpleaſure of God is not an evil to which the ſinner is only obnoxi⯑ous: he has already incurred it: God is angry with the wicked every day ^‖; his wrath is kin⯑dled, though it has not burnt forth; he hath bent his bow, and made it ready ^§, though his ar⯑rows have not yet proved the inſtruments of death ^¶. In the conſciouſneſs of this, the ſin⯑ner who has become ſenſible of the diſcrimi⯑nating eye of perfect ſanctity marking all his paths ^‖‖, mourneth for his ſins, and is troubled. His fear is aggravated into ſadneſs, and his ſadneſs is ruffled by all [...]he anxieties of fear. His ſpirit is broken, his heart is contrite ^‡‡. He [258] ſorrows to repentance ^†, to the reformation of his ways. His heartieſt repentance, his moſt effectual reformation, cannot prevent ſorrow from ſometimes overcaſting his ſoul: it is re⯑called by every failing, it is renewed by every treſpaſs: he is grieved that he cannot avoid every action and every thought which is diſap⯑proved by his God; the ſenſibility of his ſpirit makes every imperfection in his temper the ob⯑ject of deep regret.

ANY evil can produce fear and ſorrow, but the diſapprobation of God is likewiſe fit for producing ſhame and humiliation in every perſon who is conſcious that he has incurred it. Whatever we conſider as bringing a ſtain upon our characters, naturally excites theſe ſentiments. To be detected in what is baſe, confounds the feeling heart, though no farther inconvenience be apprehended. To be loſt to ſhame, is the laſt ſtage of degeneracy. To de⯑ſerve blame from God, is the deepeſt ignomi⯑ny; it muſt cover every man with confuſion who has any ſenſe of God. When the man who has multiplied his tranſgreſſions as the ſand, is awakened to a juſt view of what he has done, and of what he is; when he perceives with anguiſh, that he is odious to God, and all his ways abominable in his ſight; he lies down [259] in his ſhame ^*; he cannot lift up ſo much as his eyes unto heaven; he ſmites upon his breaſt, ſay⯑ing, God be merciful to me a ſinner ^†; O Lord, unto me belongeth confuſion of face, becauſe I have ſinned againſt thee ^‡. Not a wicked action of his life, not an evil thought of his heart, is un⯑known to the holy Judge of the world; they have all been indulged and perpetrated in his very preſence. They were marked by God, when himſelf was regardleſs of them; they were diſapproved by God, when himſelf was unconſcious of their baſeneſs; and they will at laſt be publiſhed to men and angels. He feels himſelf deſerving of everlaſting contempt ^‖. How ſhall he appear? How ſhall he be able to bear his ſhame? He is in his own eyes abaſed to the duſt. It is not the heinous ſin⯑ner alone who is obnoxious to ſhame in the ſenſe of God as his judge. Ingenuity of ſpirit is always in proportion to virtuous improve⯑ment; it enables reflection, on the ſmalleſt ſin, to overſpread the good man's face with ſecret bluſhes. Even his beſt ſervices ſink him low in his own eſteem, becauſe they are imperfect. Every new failing reiterates his inward abaſe⯑ment; every devout thought of its offenſive⯑neſs to perfect purity, revives the impreſſion of his ſhame.

[260]THE fear, the ſorrow, and the humiliation, which ariſe in ſinful man from an habitual ſenſe of God's holy government, are not confined to thoſe ſeaſons in which ſerious reflection on ourſelves excites remorſe. The violent emo⯑tions unavoidable in theſe ſeaſons, ſubſide gra⯑dually into permanent ſentiments. They dwell upon the ſpirits of the ſaints; they mix them⯑ſelves with all their thoughts and actions. They make them to proceed through life with unremitted caution; to take every ſtep with circumſpect attention; to exerciſe ſteady care in avoiding every tranſgreſſion and every omiſ⯑ſion diſpleaſing to God. The fear of the Lord is to hate and to depart from evil ^*. Happy is the man that feareth alway ^†. The exertions of the good man are not enervated by timidity; but they are guarded by wary concern that they they may be blameleſs. Unſullied by dejection, they are all tinged with ſeriouſneſs; remote from meanneſs, they all ſhew poverty of ſpirit. The ſenſe of his danger baniſhes arrogance from his heart; and the conſciouſneſs of his faults hides pride from his eyes. He walks humbly with God ^‡. Modeſty, diffidence, lowli⯑neſs, ſober-mindedneſs, are leading qualities in his temper, and render his conduct innocent and pure.

[261]2. A DEVOUT ſenſe that the Lord is our judge, turning our view to his approbation of virtue, will produce ardent deſire, elevating hope, or rapturous joy.

HIS approbation is the ſublimeſt honour; the rewards which attend it are the pureſt hap⯑pineſs. But what is ſinful man, that he ſhould dare to look for honour or reward from the God of heaven? If his piercing eye ſhould ſearch us with ſeverity, or mark all our ini⯑quities, the thought even of eſcaping his diſ⯑pleaſure would be blind preſumption. What is man that he ſhould be clean? And he which is born of a woman, that he ſhould be righteous ^*? But our God is merciful: he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are duſt ^†: he maketh gracious allowance for the weak⯑neſs of our nature. By the diſpenſation of Chriſt's perfect obedience unto death, he hath made proviſion for granting his acceptance and his favour to the defective virtues of the up⯑right. Though all the world be guilty before God, ſo that by the deeds of the law there ſhall no fleſh be juſtified in his ſight, yet through the re⯑demption that is in Jeſus Chriſt, God is the juſti⯑fier of him which believeth in Jeſus ^‡, with that true faith which purifieth the heart ^‖, and work⯑eth [262] by works, and by works is made perfect ⁸. Whoever is ſincere, is accounted worthy ^†; his tranſgreſſion is forgiven, his ſin is covered, the Lord imputeth not iniquity unto him ^‡; it is blot⯑ted out from his ſight ^‖. Whatever is good in him, however weak, however mixt with evil, is acceptable to God by Jeſus Chriſt 1 Pet. ii. 5., and will be found unto praiſe, and honour, and glory at his appearing ^¶. Eternal life is too great a felicity to be merited by the ſpotleſs innocence of any mortal man; it is the free gift of God through Jeſus Chriſt ^††; it is the overflowing of his love to righteouſneſs; it is an aſtoniſhing diſ⯑play of the exuberant riches of his grace. Yet even to it our way is opened by the mediation of his Son; it is ſecured to the obedient by the promiſe of God, who cannot lie.

AUTHORIZED by the indulgent diſpenſation of the goſpel to aſpire to praiſe of God ^¶¶, can we think of it with indifference? Can we hear without throbbing hearts, the Almighty condeſcending to proclaim to man, I will ſet him on high, becauſe he hath known my name, and I will honour him ^‡‡. If honour from man can engage a wiſh, honour from God may well draw forth all the ardour of the ſoul. Compared with this, the applauſes of the [263] whole world, and the favour of all its poten⯑tates, are worthleſs. Ye receive honour one of another, and ſeek not the honour that cometh from God only ^*, is the deſcription of a character of extreme abjectneſs, no leſs than of abominable wickedneſs. Honour from God ſolicits our moſt fervent deſires; it demands all the efforts of our ambition; it is an object worthy of am⯑bition. Of the ſoul that perceives its value, the earneſt cry will be, Lord lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us ^†. The deſire of it will give a direction to our whole conduct. It will impel us to walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleaſing, being fruitful in every good work ^‡; it will determine us to labour, that, whether pre⯑ſent or abſent, we may be accepted of him ^‖. It will give ſpirit and elevation to all our endea⯑vours to perform the good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God ^§; for it ſuſtains them by the proſpect of true glory, of renown in the complacence, love, favour, and applauſe of the all-perfect Ruler of the univerſe.

THE approbation of God reſts not in com⯑placence; his favour is inſeparably connected with reward. By walking ſo as to pleaſe God, we ſhall be in his grace entitled to his peculiar protection, to his unerring care for our real [264] intereſt in this world, and to all that happineſs in the next, which can proceed from the muni⯑ficence of him who delights in communicating bleſſedneſs. Deſire of his approbation implies the deſire of our own greateſt happineſs. It has ſometimes been repreſented as mean and mercenary to be influenced by this deſire. But the repreſentation is an abſurd affectation of refinement, alike inconſiſtent with the frame of human nature, and the doctrine of holy writ. Genuine ſelf-love is, next to conſcience, the higheſt principle of the heart: it was placed there on purpoſe to render us ſteady in the proſecution of our happineſs: it is inveſted with authority to controul all the paſſions which would attach us to immediate gratifica⯑tions and advantages deſtructive of our higheſt intereſt, which would miſlead us into the pur⯑ſuit of apparent good inconſiſtent with real fe⯑licity. If we miſtake the nature of human happineſs, that principle will carry us aſtray, it will diſappoint itſelf, and plunge us into mi⯑ſery. But when it is directed to thoſe ſatisfac⯑tions which God has annexed to virtue, and to thoſe unſpeakable joys which he will beſtow in approbation of it, it is a worthy principle of conduct, it is the powerful guardian of inte⯑grity, it is the certain guide to everlaſting pleaſures. Theſe joys are highly honourable, for they are earned by virtue: they are full of [265] glory ^*, for they are the marks of the favour of the King of kings. The deſire of them ſhews a ſoul whoſe views are enlarged to look beyond the ſphere of ſenſe, and whoſe powers have riſen ſuperior to all the allurements of the world. The ſcripture is far from blaming the deſire of them. On the contrary, it repre⯑ſents the beſt men as continually actuated by it; as looking for a city which hath foundations, whoſe builder is God ^†; as having reſpect unto the recompence of reward ^‡; as preſſing towards the mark, for the prize of the high calling of God in Chriſt Jeſus ^¶. And it expreſsly commands us to look at the things which are not ſeen, which are eternal ^‖, and to ſet our affection on things above ^§. To inflame the deſire, it paints the rewards of the righteous in the moſt glowing colours; to ſupport it by hope, it gives every aſſurance that they will be conferred on all who pleaſe God, and diligently ſeek him ^**. It propoſes, it inculcates them as motives to ac⯑tion; and if our deſire of them bear any pro⯑portion to their value, they will be powerful motives. Deſire leads us in every caſe to that conduct by which its objects may be obtained. Deſire of reward from God will determine us to perform the conditions on which he has promiſed it, and to acquire the habits which [266] can qualify us for enjoying it. It will deter⯑mine us to forſake every ſin; for impenitence in any ſin is the forfeiture of heaven. It will produce careful application to every duty; for the appointment of God is, If thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments ^*. It will inſti⯑gate us to perfect holineſs ^†; for we muſt be like God, to ſee him as he is ^‡. It will draw out our activity, and inſpirit our labour by firm confidence, that it is not in vain in the Lord ^‖.

REGARD to the judgment of God is not completed by deſire: when the conſciouſneſs of our own ſincerity warrants our indulging the pleaſant thought, that ourſelves are approved of him, the happy objects of his favour, the heirs of immortal glory, it breaks forth into triumphant hope and joy. This ſublimeſt hope, this pureſt of joys is not hid even from mortal man. Being juſtified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jeſus Chriſt, by whom alſo we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God ^§. Neither the remembrance of the ſins that are paſt ^¶, nor the ſenſe of many remain⯑ing ſtains and failings, can exclude the ſincere Chriſtian from this exalted privilege; for the remiſſion of theſe, the clemency of the new covenant has made full proviſion. The fainteſt [267] ſenſe of our acceptance with God, though ſhaded by diffidence and doubt, is a ground of ſerenity of ſoul. But when by the ſpirit bearing witneſs with our ſpirit, that we are the children of God, heirs of God, and joint heirs with Chriſt ^*, we can aſſure our hearts before him ^†, it is the peace of God, which paſſeth all underſtanding ^‡. The hope of the righteous is gladneſs ^‖. Joy is always one element in the compoſition of hope; and it predominates in proportion to our opinion of the greatneſs and the certainty of the good hoped for. Reli⯑gious hope is the firm expectation of our ſu⯑preme dignity and happineſs. It includes not only expectation of the future enjoyment of God, but experience alſo of his preſent favour. It eſtabliſhes in the ſoul a temper of the moſt unclouded cheerfulneſs; it elevates it at times into triumph and rapture. It fans an inextin⯑guiſhable flame of gratitude; and ſends it up⯑wards in high praiſes to God ^§, who hath made him accepted in the beloved ^¶. Thou haſt forgiven the iniquity of thy people, thou haſt covered all their ſin ^**. Thou haſt put gladneſs in my heart, more than in the time that their corn and their wine increaſed ^§§. The all-penetrating eye of God, ſo terrible to the ſinner, is become to the [268] man who feels himſelf approved in his ſight, the exhilarating, the encouraging eye of his friend and his father. He is no longer trou⯑bled at his preſence ^*: the ſenſe of it is his chiefeſt joy; it is his conſolation in every gloomy hour: He knoweth the way that I take; when he hath tried me, I ſhall come forth as gold ^†. Thou wilt bring forth my righteouſneſs as the light, and my judgment as the noon-day ^‡. His hope not only prompts to activity, but inſpires alacrity in ſerving God; it enlarges his heart to run the way of his commandments ^‖; it enables him to go on, not with diligence only, but with rejoicing; it renders the hardeſt labour eaſy, and the greateſt efforts pleaſing. It ſe⯑cures his unremitted perſeverance, that he may hold faſt the confidence and the rejoicing of hope firm unto the end ^§: having taſted how ſweet it is, the thought of forfeiting it by inconſtancy or defection, would be anguiſh to his ſoul. His hope and his joy brighten in proportion to his progreſs: they diſpel the ſhadows of the valley of death ^¶, they illuminate the land of darkneſs itſelf ^§§: they ſtrengthen his heart to cry out with exultation, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy ſtaff they com⯑fort me: henceforth there is laid up for me a [269] crown of righteouſneſs, which the Lord the righte⯑ous judge ſhall give me at that day ^*.

SUCH are the native exertions of a pious re⯑gard to the judgment of God. According to the different ſituations of our own hearts, it will produce fear of diſpleaſure and puniſh⯑ment from him, or ſorrow and ſhame in the reflection that we have deſerved it; deſire of approbation and reward, or hope and joy, in the thought that we are entitled to it. Theſe unite their energies in the checquered temper of the good man, and mitigate and qualify one another. Amidſt all the faults of our na⯑ture, all the imperfections of our temper, and all the deviations of our conduct, deſire and hope prevent our fears from degenerating into terror and deſpair, and our ſorrow and humi⯑liation from ſinking us into dejection and de⯑ſpondence: and amidſt our moſt ſatisfying re⯑flections, and our ſublimeſt proſpects, the ſenſe of our danger, and the conſciouſneſs of our innumerable failings, reſtrains our hope from becoming preſumptuous, and our joy from elating or throwing us off our guard. Derived from the ſame fountain, they again mix their ſtreams, and run forward in one even current. They form a temper in which [270] ſedateneſs and ardour, gravity, and cheerful⯑neſs, circumſpection and ſpirit, caution and confidence, are happily blended together. It is at once a barrier againſt heedleſsneſs and levity, and an incitement to activity and enter⯑priſe. It is alike remote from the horrors of ſuperſtition, and the ſwellings of enthuſiaſm.

ALL the parts of this temper have the very ſame tendency; they impel us with their com⯑plicated force, to avoid every vice, for every vice is diſpleaſing to God, and inconſiſtent with his favour; and to practiſe every virtue, for every virtue is pleaſing to him, and will be rewarded by him. If this temper be real, it will be powerful: if it exiſt, it will be a ruling and leading principle; its influence will be diſcernible in the whole tenour of our behaviour; every act of vice, every neglect of duty proclaims ſome defect in our recollection, that the Lord is our judge. A lively ſenſe of this will make us as ſolicitous for the inno⯑cence of our moſt ſecret actions, as for the blameleſſneſs of thoſe which are moſt open. To be exempt from the obſervation and the cenſure of men, is nothing: behold, I have ſeen it, ſaith the Lord ^*; and I will recompence it ^†: the darkneſs hideth not from him, but the night [271] ſhineth as the day ^*. It will render us as attentive to the purity of our thoughts, as to the decency of our behaviour: they are alike expoſed to the judgment of God. It will be the preſervative of ſincerity; it will ſecure the conformity of our inten⯑tions to our profeſſions, and of our princi⯑ples to our actions; it will force us to feel that hypocriſy is fooliſhneſs: by it ye may juſtify yourſelves before men, but God knoweth your hearts ^†; he ſeeth not as man ſeeth, he look⯑eth not on the outward appearance, but on the heart ^‡: and when the Lord ſhall come, he will bring to light the hidden things of darkneſs, and will make manifeſt the counſels of the hearts ^‖. Awed by this conviction, till I die I will not remove my integrity from me; my righteouſneſs I hold faſt, and will not let it go; my heart ſhall not reproach me ſo long as I live: for what is the hope of the hypocrite, though he hath gained, when God taketh away his ſoul ^§.

A PREVAILING regard to the judgment of God, is the moſt effectual antidote againſt in⯑fection from the erroneous opinions of men concerning good and evil. Deſirous as we naturally are of avoiding their cenſure, and obtaining their eſteem, both, whenever they [272] are miſplaced, will appear deſpicable to the man who is poſſeſſed of that regard. Corrupt faſhion, preſuming to authorize what God diſ⯑approves, or to explode what he approves, will be accounted but the ſilly caprice of fools. Attempts to palliate or juſtify any thing that is immoral, or to throw ridicule on any thing that belongs to virtue, will be neglected as no better than the ravings of inſanity. Wherever the misjudgings of erring mortals run counter to the eſtimation of the infallible arbiter of right and wrong, they will be ſlighted and de⯑rided. If every ſenſible man prefers the eſteem of a few able judges to the applauſes of an ignorant multitude, he muſt be as deſtitute of good ſenſe as of religion, who can heſitate in preferring honour from God, to the good opi⯑nion of the whole univerſe. With me it is a very ſmall thing that I ſhould be judged of man's judgment: but he that judgeth me is the Lord ^*. Every expectation, every apprehenſion, that can be entertained in conſequence of the good or the ill opinion of men, vaniſhes at the thought of what will reſult from our being ac⯑quitted or condemned by God. They can only kill the body; be not afraid of them: but fear him who, after he hath killed, hath power to caſt into hell ^†. Their ſmiles are often deceitful, al⯑ways [273] inſignificant: but in his favour is life ^¶, his loving-kindneſs is better than life ^*.

ALL the preſent pleaſures and advantages which ſin can offer, will be unable to ſeduce the man who preſerves a lively ſenſe of the heavenly Judge: for they bear no proportion either to the happineſs which accompanies his approbation, or to the miſery which ariſes from his wrath. For what is a man profited, if he ſhall gain the whole world, and loſe his own ſoul? or what ſhall a man give in exchange for his ſoul? For the Son of man ſhall come in the glory of his Father, with his angels; and then he ſhall reward every man according to his works ^†. All the loſſes, troubles, and perils to which virtue can expoſe him, will not have power enough to terrify him from the love and prac⯑tice of it: for the ſufferings of this preſent time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that ſhall be revealed in us ^‡. Convinced that no man knoweth either love or hatred, by all that is before them ^‖; looking beyond the inequalities of the ſtate of trial, fixing his eye on the per⯑fect diſplay of God's impartial righteouſneſs which is to take place in the eternal ſtate of recompence, he will in every ſituation do good, and wait patiently for the Lord ^§, not j [...]ing [274] himſelf in anywiſe to do evil ^*, nor ſuffering himſelf to ſay, I have cleanſed my heart in vain, and waſhed my hands in innocency ^†. Conſcious that he is obſerved by God, animated by the ſenſe of his acting his part before ſo auguſt a preſence, he will exert all the powers of his ſoul to act it well. In the exertion he will feel a noble expanſion of heart, and triumph in the hope of being approved and rewarded: and his hope ſhall not be diſappointed, its largeſt promiſes ſhall be ſurpaſſed by the great⯑neſs of his reward.

SERMON IX. THE CONFIDENCE OF THE RIGHTEOUS AT THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

THAT the belief of the future judgment may the more effectually influence our conduct, the ſcriptures repreſent it as a ſolemn proceſs, attended with many ſenſible circum⯑ſtances eaſily and ſtrongly apprehenſible. That it may give motion to all our ſprings of ac⯑tion, they place it in a great variety of lights. Sometimes they deſcribe it as a tremendous event, fit to alarm our fears, and to enforce anxious vigilance and circumſpection. At other times they ſet it forth as what good men have reaſon to love ^*, as the day of their re⯑demption ^†, the commencement of their eternal [276] life, the proſpect of which may comfort them amidſt their preſent ſorrows, diſpel all tempo⯑rary fears, and produce alacrity and cheerful⯑neſs in virtuous practice. It is in this light that my text has placed it. John, with an au⯑thority to which he was entitled both as an apoſtle and as an old man, and with a ten⯑derneſs of affection for which he was remark⯑able, addreſſing Chriſtians by the appellation of little children, and exhorting them to abide in Chriſt, to continue ſtedfaſt in the faith and practice of his religion, enforces the exhorta⯑tion by this argument, that when he ſhall ap⯑pear, we may have confidence, and not be aſhamed before him at his coming. It is a very perſua⯑ſive argument. The coming of the Son of God to judgment, is the terror of wicked men: they avoid the very thought of it as inſupportable; and in the hour of judgment, their ſhame and confuſion, their anguiſh and miſery, will ſurpaſs all that their terror had foreboded. Even good men cannot always look forward to it without painful concern. The poſſibility of their not being fully pre⯑pared for a trial, the conſequences of which are everlaſting, muſt at times excite ſome ap⯑prehenſions in thoſe who are conſcious of many imperfections. To be able to look for the coming of the day of God ^* with entire tran⯑quillity, [277] to be qualified for welcoming its ſo⯑lemnities with firmneſs and intrepidity, and for ſtanding before the Lord, the righteous Judge, with boldneſs and joyful confidence that he will acquit us, and put us in poſſeſ⯑ſion of all the joys of heaven: how invaluable is the privilege! By inviolable ſincerity and perſevering diligence in univerſal holineſs, it may be certainly attained.

IT is this alluring, this animating motive to Chriſtian virtue, that I now propoſe to incul⯑cate on you. I propoſe to evince, that the ſtedfaſt practice of it will give you aſſurance and joy at Chriſt's awful appearance to judge the world. In proſecution of this deſign, I would lead you to obſerve,

FIRST, That Chriſtian virtue naturally pro⯑duces theſe effects in this world; and

SECONDLY, That the intention and the cir⯑cumſtances of Chriſt's appearance will ſecure its then producing them in an higher de⯑gree.

FIRST, That Chriſtian virtue will inſpire confidence and joy at the coming of Chriſt to judgment, we may fairly conclude from its [278] naturally producing theſe effects in the preſent world.

THIS will not require a laboured proof: its evidence lies within yourſelves; for perceiving it, you need only attend to what paſſes in your own hearts when you reflect upon your conduct. You have experience that conſcience ſometimes approves, and ſometimes diſap⯑proves you; and you cannot but be ſenſible that both its approbation and its diſapproba⯑tion imply an anticipation, a preſentiment of the conſequences of your actions, as well as a judgment concerning their nature. Its diſap⯑probation includes not only regret and ſorrow for our having done amiſs, but apprehenſion alſo that we ſhall ſuffer for it. Its approba⯑tion includes not only pleaſure in the convic⯑tion that we have done right, but a ſenſe that we deſerve well by what we have done, and hope that it will contribute ſomething to our happineſs. Fearfulneſs is ſo eſſential to an evil conſcience, and confidence to a good conſcience, that by them the wiſe man cha⯑racterizes the vicious and the virtuous: The wicked flee when no man purſueth; but the righte⯑ous are bold as a lion ^*. Along with ſatisfaction in reviewing the paſt, a good conſcience be⯑gets tranquillity in the proſpect of the future. [279] It gives a ſenſe of ſecurity; it infuſes hope, often even aſſurance, that it ſhall be well with us. This is a part of that peace of mind, which it eſtabliſhes; this forms one diſtinction between it and every other joy; and to a rea⯑ſonable creature, prone to look forward, inevi⯑tably ſolicitous about what ſhall befal him hereafter, this renders a good conſcience the moſt important of all joys.

HOPE ſprings ſo naturally from conſciouſ⯑neſs of virtue, that a ſingle good action pro⯑duces ſome degree of it, though we know our⯑ſelves to be very faulty in other particulars. We reckon ourſelves ſecure, at leaſt as to the conſe⯑quences of that action. If it meet with praiſe, if it bring us honour or advantage, we accept them as our right: if it be miſconſtrued and cenſured, we are diſappointed, we feel with indignation that we are injured, and hug ourſelves in the ſenſe of our integrity. It cheriſhes good hope, not only towards men, but alſo towards God: it leads us to expect his bleſſing on it. The expectation is ſo natural, that bad conſequences, proceeding from a well-intended and worthy action, have ſometimes ſurprized even religi⯑ous perſons into a momentary arraignment of the juſtice of Divine Providence. It is ſo na⯑tural, that it enables the man, whoſe good deeds are traduced, or repaid with evil, to ap⯑peal [280] to God for their rectitude, and fearleſsly to plead that he will vindicate them. In relation to the particular crimes with which David was falſely charged by his enemies, he often ad⯑dreſſes God, in words which ſeem to befit only innocence: Hear the right, O Lord, attend unto my cry, give ear unto my prayer that goeth not out of feigned lips; let my ſentence come forth from thy preſence, let thine eyes behold the things that are equal: thou haſt proved mine heart, thou haſt tried me, and ſhalt find nothing ^*. Judge me, O Lord, for I have walked in mine integrity: examine me, O Lord, and prove me; try my reins and my heart: I will waſh mine hands in inno⯑cency; ſo will I compaſs thine altar, O Lord ^†. Of the like confidence towards God, dictated by the conſciouſneſs of integrity in ſome par⯑ticular inſtance of calumniated behaviour, we find examples every day. We have all expe⯑rienced it in ourſelves. It is not confined to the uniformly virtuous.

BUT the conſciouſneſs of uniform virtue, of genuine and habitual holineſs, produces a boldneſs and confidence of a more enlarged and important nature. A particular good ac⯑tion can give confidence only in reſpect of its proper conſequences: but univerſal and per⯑ſevering [281] goodneſs begets a ſenſe of ſecurity in reſpect of the final reſult of our whole beha⯑viour. It inſpires and it ſuſtains the bleſſed hope of a ſtate of pure and permanent happi⯑neſs. By the favour of him who made us, this glorious privilege is annexed to the up⯑right obedience of his will. By his appoint⯑ment in the moment of our creation, the work of righteouſneſs is peace; and the effect of righte⯑ouſneſs, quietneſs, and aſſurance for ever ^*. Sin⯑leſs obedience would produce full and unin⯑terrupted aſſurance of happineſs. But in every human breaſt, the ſenſe of innumerable fail⯑ings, and of ſome heinous offences, raiſes doubts and apprehenſions which often break the fulneſs of aſſurance. Yet ſo great is the power of virtue, that the teſtimony of con⯑ſcience for the habitual ſincerity of our hearts, can generally diſpel our fears, and ſupport our expectation of approbation and reward from God, notwithſtanding the multitude of our imperfections. Encouraged by that teſti⯑mony, we no longer tremble at the rigour of inexorable juſtice; we look up to the indul⯑gence of divine mercy with humble confi⯑dence.

IT is only, we muſt confeſs, the diſpenſa⯑tion of redemption by Jeſus Chriſt, that lays a [282] ſure foundation for a guilty creature's confi⯑dence in God; it alone can render his truſt rational and conſiſtent; it alone can warrant the ſons of men to aſpire to ſo tranſcendent an happineſs as that of heaven. Yet ſo con⯑genial is this confidence and truſt to the vir⯑tuous ſoul, that even into thoſe who were wholly ignorant of that diſpenſation, a good conſcience has always infuſed the hope of a future happineſs and of an happineſs greater than can be found on earth. The beſt of the heathens pleaſed themſelves with the expecta⯑tion, of living after death in the ſociety of all the great and good men of former ages. It was nature itſelf that raiſed the expectation: the God of nature authorized it. The diſpen⯑ſation of redemption was decreed by him be⯑fore the world began: he had it in his eye when he created man: he adapted human na⯑ture to the whole of that ſtate for which he deſigned human creatures: he framed its con⯑ſtitution with a reference to the ſecret inten⯑tions of his grace. He therefore impowered conſcience to ſuggeſt to all good men, hopes which are unaccountable to mere reaſon, which can be juſtified only by the revelation of a merciful diſpenſation, rendering repent⯑ance available to the forgiveneſs of ſins, and entitling our imperfect and unprofitable ſer⯑vice [283] to the reward of perfect and endleſs hap⯑pineſs.

TO us, Chriſtians, this revelation is vouch⯑ſafed. By it we are aſſured, that God has al⯑ready reconciled the world to himſelf by Jeſus Chriſt; that by his ſacrifice the pardon of ſin is obtained for every penitent; that by the merit of his obedience unto death, the incon⯑ceivable glory of heaven is purchaſed for all who ſincerely obey the goſpel; that he has al⯑ready entered into heaven, to make interceſſion for us ^*, and as our fore-runner ^†, to prepare a place for us ^‡. This revelation reſolves the doubts of nature, confirms its hopes, and brightens its proſpects. Enlightened by it, a good conſcience exerts itſelf with unimpaired force. The Chriſtian's hope is enlivened and invigorated by faith. Having his heart ſprinkled from an evil conſcience, he can look up to God in full aſſurance of faith ^‖; he can rejoice in ſtedfaſt hope that he ſhall enjoy the divine protection and favour in this world, and that, when he is called to his great account hereafter, he ſhall be acquitted from his ſins, ſaved from wrath ^§, and bleſſed with everlaſting happi⯑neſs. Beloved, if our heart condemn us not, [284] then have we confidence toward God ^*. Our confidence is built upon promiſes numerous and explicit. It is ſtrengthened by the t [...]ti⯑mony of the Holy Spirit, which is the [...] of our inheritance ^†. Of Chriſtian virtu [...], therefore, everlaſting conſolation and good [...] through grace ^‡, are the native fruits.—If the ſenſe of many defects and frequent lapſes hinders ſome who are habitually ſincere, from reaping theſe fruits, it can be imputed only to their defections and their ſins: completer and more conſiſtent virtue would have ſe⯑cured their peace of mind. If a melancholy and timid temper, or miſtakes concerning the terms of the Chriſtian ſalvation, overcaſt their ſouls with a cauſeleſs gloom, it is only an acci⯑dental cloud intercepting, for a ſeaſon, the light and comfort to which their virtue gives them a right.

MOST of our joys are tranſient, and moſt of our hopes fallacious; they wither in the day of trouble, they vaniſh in the hour of death. But the joy and the hope of a good conſcience are permanent. Far from being blaſted by affliction, they often draw nutri⯑ment from it, and flouriſh in unwonted freſh⯑neſs when ſorrows moſt abound. By the preſ⯑ſure [285] of adverſity, the good man becomes recollected in himſelf; his ſpirit is rouſed within him; his fortitude is called forth. A conſcience void of eſſence toward God and toward man ^*, is his only remaining refuge: he finds it a ſource of unuſual intrepidity; he derives from it a firmneſs of hope, and a fullneſs of joy, which he never knew before. Even in his death the righteous hath hope ^†. At the ap⯑proach of death his hope often becomes more lively: the doubts which at times perplexed him diſappear: the ſins which often alarmed his fears, he perceives to be relinquiſhed and pardoned: the infirmities for which he often mourned, he ſees to be compaſſionable. Eter⯑nity looks leſs formidable, in proportion as it is viewed nearer, and diſcerned more clearly. He feels himſelf by grace entitled to that eter⯑nal life, which is the gift of God through Jeſus Chriſt our Lord ^‡. Without anxiety or dread, he is able to com [...]t the k [...]eping of his ſoul to God ^‖. He reſigns it in calm confidence that he ſhall be raiſed again to immortal happi⯑neſs.

THUS, ſtedfaſt virtue is neceſſarily attended by a good conſcience; and a good conſcience [286] neceſſarily inſpires hope, boldneſs, and confi⯑dence towards God. If theſe be the preſent conſequences of a virtuous courſe, how can we entertain a doubt that it will likewiſe pro⯑duce the bleſſed conſequence by which the Apoſtle recommends it in the text? If theſe accompany the good man through life, and forſake him not in the dark hour of death, why ſhould they deſert him in the bright morning of the reſurrection? If they have ſtrength enough to endure all the ſtorms which beat upon them in this world of turbu⯑lence, why ſhould they die away when they are tranſplanted into the regions of ſerenity which are exempt from every ſtorm? If faith in Chriſt unſeen can now preſerve them, is it poſſible that they ſhould be extinguiſhed when our eyes ſhall ſee him, on whom we have be⯑lieved, coming in his glory? Shall that hope, which ſupported itſelf when it was deferred, begin to languiſh when it is juſt ready to be fulfilled? It cannot fail, on the contrary, to riſe into firm aſſurance and undiſturbed joy.

FOR completing the proof of this, we pro⯑poſed, SECONDLY, to ſhew, that the deſign and the circumſtances of Chriſt's appearance are ſuch, as muſt increaſe the boldneſs and con⯑fidence of all who have been ſincerely and habitually holy.—Can it then be, that they [287] will not rather deſtroy it? Is not the day of the Lord great and very terrible? And who can abide it ^*? Very terrible it will be to the wicked; but to the righteous it will be com⯑fortable. It is common for the ſame object to produce contrary effects on contrary tem⯑pers. Let us in thought tranſport ourſelves for a little to the judgment of the laſt day.—The Scripture has in part revealed its ſolem⯑nities: let us conſider how they may naturally be expected to affect the man whoſe temper and conduct have through life cheriſhed good hope towards God. Awful and ſtriking they doubtleſs are: the fainteſt conception of them will give us a feeling ſenſe of the importance of that intrepidity which, through their pro⯑greſs, the righteous alone will be able to pre⯑ſerve; but the fulleſt detail of them could not raiſe a ſuſpicion that they will break the firm⯑neſs of the virtuous ſoul.

ALL the preparations for the judgment of the world, will be awful. When ſigns ſhall be ſeen in the ſun, and in the moon, and in the ſtars; when the ſea and the waves ſhall roar; when the powers of heaven ſhall be ſhaken; when the ſign of the Son of man ſhall appear in heaven; who among all that are alive and remain unto [288] the coming of the Lord, can ſtand undiſmayed? There will be upon the earth diſtreſs of nations with perplexity, all the tribes and kindreds of the earth mourning and wailing, men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after thoſe things which are coming on the earth ^*. But from this conſternation, the righteous of every tribe, and kindred and nation, are exempt. Their won⯑der is without amazement, their awe is void of terror, and their expectation of anxiety. When theſe things begin to come to paſs, they look up and lift up their heads, for they know that their redemption draweth nigh ^†. The convul⯑ſions of nature which they behold around them, are the appointed preludes to its com⯑pletion; and their greatneſs only indicates the immenſity of its value.

WHILE the living ſee theſe ſigns, the dead ſhall hear the trump of God, and the voice of the Archangel ^‡, commanding them to ariſe. It tumbles down the vaulted ſepulchres; it rends the foundations of the mountains; it ſhakes the depths of the ocean: but it ſhakes not the ſoul of the righteous, nor diſturbs his thoughts. The moment it reaches his ear, he knows it to be the call to immortality: the moment he awakes from the grave, he finds himſelf par⯑taker [289] of the reſurrection of the juſt ^*. If the light of the morning is cheering to man, the dawning of eternal day muſt be tranſporting. The joy of a priſoner releaſed from the dun⯑geon in which he has been long confined, is faint, in compariſon of their joy who, by the opening of the grave, have now obtained the everlaſting redemption of their body ^†. A reſur⯑rection unto life has always been the hope and the comfort of the Chriſtian ^‡: when the hope is now accompliſhed, when he has already at⯑tained unto the reſurrection of the dead ^§, it muſt be unmixed joy. At death the ſpirits of juſt men are made perfect ^‖: and riſing at the laſt day, conſcious of their being perfect, they cannot but be certain that they ſhall not come into condemnation, but have come forth unto ever⯑laſting life ^¶. Their very ſenſes aſſure them, that they are the children of the reſurrection, who cannot die any more ^**; for they inform them, that they bear no longer the image of the earthy, but the image of the heavenly ^††. They ſee with their eyes, they feel through their whole frame, that their bodies are raiſed ſpi⯑ritual, in incorruption, in glory, in power ^‡‡—In a moment too, in the twinkling of an eye, at [290] the laſt trump, the living, who had not fallen aſleep, ſhall be changed, this corruptible putting on incorruption, and this mortal immortality ^*. The quick and the dead together experience in themſelves mortality ſwallowed up of life ^†: Chriſt hath already changed their vile body; it is faſhioned like unto his own glorious body ^‡. With what ineffable rapture will they then enter into the full ſenſe of that triumph, which the Apoſtle has expreſſed as ſtrongly as the feeble⯑neſs of mortal language can admit, Death is ſwallowed up in victory: O death, where is thy ſting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jeſus Chriſt ^§!—Every thing is gone, which could check or abate their triumph. The avoca⯑tions of ſenſe cannot for a moment divert the conſciouſneſs of their purity: the objects of ſenſe cannot impreſs a feeling of uneaſineſs to damp their joy in that conſciouſneſs. They have now no mortal part, from which vapours can riſe, to involve their hearts in heavineſs.—Imperfect conceptions of God, or of them⯑ſelves, cannot now miſlead them into doubt, or diſtract them with gloomy apprehenſions: the knowledge which was in part, is done away; that which is perfect, is come ^‖. No poſſibi⯑lity of future perils or temptations can infuſe [291] the leaſt grain of diffidence, to adulterate their gladneſs: every danger is ſurmounted; tempt⯑ation is annihilated; their trial is finiſhed; the laſt enemy death is deſtroyed ^*. Their confidence is the ſecurity conſequent on a victory already gained; their joy is the triumphant exulta⯑tion of the conqueror. The humble and timid Chriſtian, whoſe evening was overcaſt with clouds, who could not reſign his ſpirit with⯑out ſolicitude and trembling, awakes in ſun⯑ſhine, filled with gladneſs, rapt into extaſy. The ſtedfaſt Chriſtian, who was, even in his earthly ſtate, delivered from the ſpirit of fear ^†, who lived and who died rejoicing in hope of the glory of God ^‡, forgets all his former peace in the exuberance of delight which now flows in upon him. Not with the firmeſt perſuaſion of faith, or the fulleſt aſſurance of hope ^§, but with the infallible certainty of experience, they cry out, Who ſhall ſeparate us from the love of Chriſt? In all things we are more than con⯑querors through him that loved us ^‖!

AROUND them, they behold the multitudes of men innumerable, who have peopled all the regions of the earth, from the creation to the laſt day. Of theſe many have awaked to ſhame and everlaſting contempt ^¶. The haggard [292] form of the wicked, the confuſion of their faces, the trembling of their joints, proclaim that they have come forth unto the reſurrection of damnation ^*. Were the righteous man acceſ⯑ſible to fear for himſelf, the ſight of the wicked would inſtantly baniſh it: his whole figure is a contraſt to theirs; their viſible deſpondence, of which he bears no mark, confirms his con⯑fidence; their deſperation proves the import⯑ance of his own ſecurity, and elevates his joy in it.—He finds himſelf in a great company of ſaints: they differ, as one ſtar differeth from another ſtar in glory ^†; but in glory they all appear. They wear robes of immortality reſembling his own: like himſelf, they look up with confidence, and are not aſhamed. He mingles in the general aſſembly of the firſt-born ^‡; he congratulates, and is congratulated by them; they recognize each other as kindred ſpirits, companions in tribulation and in patience, fellow-labourers and fellow-conquerors, com⯑patriots of the kingdom of heaven. By aſſo⯑ciating together, by the mutual contagion of heart-felt ſentiments, they are more embolden⯑ed, their confidence invigorated, and their joy exalted.

[293]THEN ſhall they ſee the Son of man, coming in the clouds of heaven, with power and great glory ^* But they ſhall ſee him without fear. It is the Son of man. The Judge of the world comes in human nature: a pledge of his mildneſs and equity in judging human creatures; a token that he can be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; for in that nature, he was in all points tempted like as we are ^†: an intima⯑tion that he acknowledges his relation to them; a cheering, an elevating evidence that he is not aſhamed to call them brethren ^‡; an aſſurance that he will preſent them to his Father, ſaying, Behold I and the children which God hath given me ^§! It is he who came in abaſement, to redeem the world. It is he who died, that he might become the Saviour of the obedient. It is he who has already expiated all their fail⯑ings by his blood. After his reſurrection, it is certain that his hands bore the print of the nails, and his ſide the mark of the ſpear ^‖, by which his blood was ſhed: and probably his body will retain theſe ſignatures of his philan⯑thropy and grace, when he returns to judge the world. He has always been for true Chriſt⯑ians an advocate with the Father ^¶. He can⯑not [294] but make the moſt gracious allowances for all their imperfections. Before this merciful Judge, how ſhould they who, through life, ſtudied to abide in him, but have confidence and boldneſs? Inſtead of ſhrinking from his preſence, they welcome him with ſhouts, Lo, this is our Lord, we have waited for him, and he will ſave us; we will be glad, and rejoice in his ſalvation ^*.

LET the wicked tremble at his coming: to the righteous, the purpoſe of his coming is the moſt exhilarating. He who was once of⯑fered to bear the fins of many, now unto them that look for him, appears the ſecond time, with⯑out ſin, unto ſalvation ^†. He appears on pur⯑poſe to diſpenſe the mercy of God to all who have accepted it. He appears to diſplay the munificence of God to all who have ſerved him in ſincerity. This is the time to which good men always looked forward by faith, with earneſt expectation, for the accompliſh⯑ment of the precious promiſes ^‡ of the goſpel. This is the time of which Jeſus ſaid, I will come again, and receive you unto myſelf, that where I am, there ye may be alſo ^§. Behold, I come quickly, and my reward is with me ^‖.—Aſſuredly conſcious that they have adhered to [295] the terms of God's ſalvation, and are entitled to the great reward, their joy is full. The faith by which they were wont to eye it, is improved into ſight. The hour is come, in which they are to receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away ^*: they perceive it ready: with alacrity they ſtretch out their hand to take hold of it.

SUCH being the Judge, and ſuch to them the purpoſe of his coming, the glory and power with which he comes cannot poſſibly abaſh them. On the contrary, theſe encourage their confi⯑dence and exultation. They are the enſigns of his majeſty, who is their patron and their friend: they are the badges of his authority to ſeal their ſalvation: they are the evidences of his power to bleſs them. They add ſpirit to their boldneſs, and rapture to their gladneſs. The ſplendour, the treaſures, and the forces of a ſovereign, terrifying to his enemies, are, in prop [...]tion to their great⯑neſs, the protection [...] the boaſt of his loyal ſubjects. [...] ſhall be the glory of the Son of man at his appearing.—He ſhall come in his own glory ^†. The majeſty of his perſon is awful: but only guilt unforgiven can render it tremendous. The righteous, deli⯑vered from the guilt of all their ſins, can con⯑template [296] it without confuſion. They contem⯑plate it with deep veneration: but their vene⯑ration has no mixture of pain or dread; it is like the ſolemn reverence of the happy ſpirits who ſurround the throne of God, and always behold his face ^*, replete with ſedate and placid enjoyment. The glory of the Son of man is magnificent: viewed without terror, it can only exalt and expand the ſoul. It is the dig⯑nity of perfect excellence: it gratifies the nobleſt faculties with the ſublimeſt of delights. It is the effulgence of divine benignity, raviſh⯑ing to the heart. The word of truth has aſ⯑ſured us, that in that day, the Lord ſhall be glo⯑rified in his Saints, and admired in all them that have believed ^†. To them, his eyes brighter than a flame of fire, confounding to the ſinner as the flaſhes of lightning, beam mildneſs and condeſcenſion. To them, his countenance as the ſun ſhining in his ſtrength, is not dazzling, but ſplendid and cheering. To them, his voice, loud as the ſound of many waters ^‡, is only grand and elevating. To them, the glories of his perſon are animating and tranſporting, not only as being the ſecurity, but alſo as being the exemplar of their own immortal glory.—For he has promiſed to them, that when he ſhall [297] appear, they ſhall be like him ^*, that they ſhall be glorified together ^† with him, that the glory which his Father gave him, he will give them ^‡. Aſtoniſhed with the brightneſs of his glory, how muſt they triumph in the thought of being quickly cloathed with the like glory!

HE ſhall come in his Father's glory ^§: not only inveſted with his authority, but attended by his Shechinah, the token of his imme⯑diate preſence. It was always the pledge of his kindneſs to his people: when it filled his houſe, they praiſed the Lord, ſaying, For he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever ^‖. It is now the evidence of the completion of his kindneſs. It is the aſſurance that henceforth the tabernacle of God is with men, and he that ſitteth on the throne ſhall dwell among them, and God himſelf ſhall be their God ^¶.

HE ſhall come with all the holy angels ^**; an innumerable company ^††, a glorious retinue of mighty ſpirits. At the ſight of one of them, man in his mortal ſtate has oftener than once been terrified: but the children of the reſurrec⯑tion feel themſelves equal to the angels ^‡‡.— [298] They behold them with pleaſure, attending their Lord, to contribute to his glory. They know that he has brought them with him, on purpoſe to ſubſerve their own advancement; to miniſter for the heirs of ſalvation ^*; to GA⯑THER them together from one end of heaven to the other ^†; to ſevere them from among the wicked, that they may ſhine forth as the ſun, in the king⯑dom of their Father ^‡.

UNAPPALLED they ſhall ſee the Judge ſit upon the throne of his glory ^§, and all nations aſ⯑ſembled at the judgment-ſeat. Even rejoic⯑ing, they ſhall ſtand before it. It is the tri⯑bunal to which they were always accuſtomed to appeal from the injuſtice of men: it is the tribunal from which they conſtantly expected the reward of all their labours, ample compen⯑ſation for all their ſorrows, the ſentence which was to fix them immutably in perfect happi⯑neſs. It is now erected. Their aſſurance is confirmed, their joy riſes as they approach to it. To them, it is the throne of grace ^‖. The tranquillity of their reflections makes them cer⯑tain that they ſhall be found in peace, without ſpot, and blameleſs ^¶. When the judgment is ſet, and the books opened ^**, all the procedure ſup⯑ports [299] and augments their boldneſs. When they meet the eye of the Judge, it ſmiles upon them with complacence, and darts new rays of gladneſs into their ſouls. He judges his peo⯑ple with equity ^*. In as much as ye have done it unto one of the leaſt of theſe my brethren, ye have done it unto me ^†, is his indulgent conſtruction of their good actions. Their frailties are ex⯑cuſed by his clemency, who remembereth that they were duſt ^‡. Their ſins are mercifully covered: they were forſaken, and they are no more imputed to them. Partakers of the re⯑demption which is in Chriſt ^§, they are, in the gracious acceptance of the Judge, holy, and without blemiſh, and unreproveable in his ſight ^‖ They are found written in the book of life ^¶.—They are caught up together in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air ^**. They are ſet on his right hand ^††. Sentence is pronounced in their fa⯑vour. It is proclaimed through the univerſe, that they are juſtified, approved, and glorified. The King places them with him on his throne ^‡‡. He authorizes them, with him, to judge the world, and the angels ^§§. The dimneſs of the moſt aſſured faith, the feebleneſs of the moſt eſtabliſhed hope, is now no more: it is ſuper⯑ſeded by the clearneſs of viſion and the fulneſs [300] of fruition. Their whole frame is joy, rap⯑ture, triumph.

WHAT, though nature be all in flames; the elements melting with fervent heat; the heavens on fire, paſſing away with a great noiſe; the earth, and the works that are therein, burnt up ^*! The conflagration cannot excite either a fear or a ſorrow in their happy ſouls. The ſaints, when ſuſtained only by faith in God inviſible, had ſuch a ſuperiority to the moſt frightful com⯑motions of nature, which themſelves too might be involved in, and ſuffer from, as enabled them to ſay, God is our refuge and ſtrength: therefore will we not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midſt of the ſea, though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains ſhake with the ſwell⯑ing thereof ^†. How perfect then will their ſu⯑periority be to the final convulſions of nature, when they ſhall ſee God, and when they ſhall know that the wreck of worlds can give no diſappointment to their deſires, no diſturbance to their peace. They behold it, not only un⯑concerned, but exulting. They know that the things which have been, are now diſſolved, only that from their ruins, refined by fire, there may ariſe, according to God's promiſe, new hea⯑vens [301] and a new earth, wherein dwelleth rightcouſ⯑neſs ^*.—He that ſitteth upon the throne, ſaith, Be⯑hold I make all things new ^†. The glorious edi⯑fice riſes at his word. It is the holy city ^‡ of the great God, the ſpacious manſion of eternal de⯑light. The righteous enter into it, and there live and reign in glory and joys inconceivable, for ever and ever ^§.

THUS,—both from the hope which accom⯑panies the conſciouſneſs of virtue in the preſent life,—and from the fitneſs of all the circum⯑ſtances of the judgment, to raiſe the hope of the virtuous into aſſurance, and convert it into triumph,—it is evident, that if, by the diligent practice of all virtue, we abide in Chriſt, we ſhall have confidence when he ſhall appear, and not be aſhamed before him at his coming. Can there be a more bleſſed proſpect? Can there be a ſtronger incentive to indefatigable diligence and un⯑deviating conſtancy in Chriſtian virtue? By this conduct alone it is attainable. In the pre⯑ſent world▪ in this land of darkneſs and deceit⯑fulneſs, the wicked may flatter and ſolace them⯑ſelves with deluſive hopes of mercy and favour from God; but theſe will vaniſh, as the dreams of the night, at the approach of the eternal day. In this world, the falſe confidence of the hypo⯑crite, [302] the daring boldneſs of the enthuſiaſt, the blind preſumption of the thoughtleſs ſinner, may rival, or even outſhine, the humility of Chriſtian hope; but in the day of wrath, they ſhall periſh; it alone ſhall continue and in⯑creaſe. In this world, religion has its joys, the pureſt, the moſt ſatisfying, that belong to the lot of mortal man. They are ſmall in compa⯑riſon with thoſe which await good men when they ſhall be raiſed to immortality; they are but like the earlieſt dawn in compariſon with the meridian light: but as the dawn preſages the perfect day, they are earneſts of thoſe exalted joys. If we act in ſuch a manner as to ſecure preſent rejoicing in the teſtimony of our conſci⯑ence ^*, we ſhall likewiſe be able to rejoice in the great day of the Lord. Undaunted we ſhall hear the ſound of the laſt trump ^†. With glad⯑neſs we ſhall perceive that we are not found naked but cloathed ^‡ with incorruptible bodies. Undazzled our eyes ſhall ſee the Son of man com⯑ing in his glory ^§: his majeſty ſhall be the con⯑firmation of our hopes. Intrepid we ſhall ſtand before his judgment-ſeat, undergo our trial, and wait for our ſentence. Enraptured we ſhall hear the ſentence of approbation pro⯑nounced in our favour. Conſciouſly ſecure we ſhall look on the fall of diſſolving worlds. We [303] ſhall ſee a more ſtupendous fabric raiſed. We ſhall be received into it, and be for ever with the Lord ^*.

IF we would keep this glorious proſpect continually in our eye, it could not fail to de⯑termine us to that holy conduct by which alone it can be realized to us. No temptation could have art or ſtrength enough to defeat its influ⯑ence. The moſt faſcinating pleaſures of ſin could not entice us, if, in the moment of their ſolicitation, we reflected, that by venturing to taſte them, we ſhall forfeit our confidence, and be covered with ſhame, in the important day when every one of us ſhall give account of himſelf to God ^†. No danger, no difficulty, no loſs, no ſuffering, could deter us from our duty, if, in the moment of its aſſault, we preſerved a lively ſenſe, that every danger which we brave⯑ly face, every difficulty which we ſtrenuouſly combat, every loſs which we reſolutely incur, every pain which we patiently endure, rather than neglect what is good, or do what is evil, will add a wreath to our crown of rejoicing in the preſence of our Lord Jeſus Chriſt at his com⯑ing ^‡. With whatever violence corrupt appe⯑tites and paſſions rage within us, we would reckon no ſelf-denial too ſevere, no labour too [304] hard, no vigilance too intenſe, no perſeverance too fatiguing, in order to ſubdue and mortify them, if we maintained a permanent convic⯑tion, that every ungoverned propenſity is a [...] of bitterneſs ſpringing up to trouble us ^*, that we muſt conquer before our tranquillity can be eſtabliſhed, that we can triumph only in con⯑ſequence of a victory.

WHETHER the remembrance of groſs tranſ⯑greſſions or ſeeble wavering will impair the confidence and debaſe the joy of thoſe who are upright on the whole, while they are ren⯑dering their account and expecting their ſen⯑tence, I preſume not to determine. But certain it is, that it diſturbs their preſent peace, ener⯑vates their hope, overwhelms them with ſor⯑row, fills them with melancholy thoughts, and often occaſions their meeting death with ter⯑ror and dejection, and leaving this world with perplexing doubts, or deſpondence, concerning their eternal ſtate. And certain it likewiſe is, that inconſtancy or heinous offences will leſſen their happineſs in heaven. He which ſoweth ſparingly, ſhall reap alſo ſparingly ^†. The noble⯑man advanced his ſervants in exact proportion to what each had gained by his pound ^‡. To be unſtable in holineſs, to be often ſtarting aſide [305] into faulty actions, even though we again re⯑cover ourſelves by repentance, comes not up to the full import of abiding in Chriſt: nor can be expected completely to aſcertain our right to the glorious privileges which attend it. If we would be ſure to give account with joy ^*, we muſt ſtudy to render our virtue pure, our goodneſs uniform, our obedience perſevering, our improvement continually progreſſive.—Then ſhall the Lord ſtabliſh our hearts unblame⯑able in holineſs before God, even our Father, at the coming of our Lord Jeſus Chriſt with all his ſaints ^†. Wherefore we beſeech you, brethren, by the coming of our Lord Jeſus Chriſt, and by our gathering together unto him, that ye be not ſhaken ^‡, nor fall from your own ſtedfaſtneſs, but grow in grace ^§.

NOW unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to preſent you faultleſs before the preſence of his glory with exceeding joy, be glory and majeſty, dominion and power, both now and ever. ^‖

Amen.

SERMON X. THE SELF CONDEMNATION OF THE WICKED AT THE DAY OF JUDG⯑MENT.

THE future judgment is in many reſpects awful to all men, and dreadful to the wicked. But no circumſtance renders it more dreadful to them than this, That in the day of judgment they ſhall be ſelf condemned. To be ſelf-condemned is exquiſitely painful. The wicked ſometimes feel the torment of it in this world; they are always expoſed to it: and when they ſhall be called to judgment, they cannot poſſibly eſcape it. This reflection binds down upon the guilty ſoul all the ter⯑rors of that tremendous ſeaſon, and muſt be a powerful motive to that repentance and reform⯑ation which will deliver us from the ago⯑nies [308] of guilt. The text naturally ſuggeſts it to our thoughts. It is part of a parable ſpoken by our Saviour. Alluding to the ſtate of Judea, at that time a Roman province, parts of which were beſtowed by the empe⯑rours on tributary princes, he repreſents a no⯑bleman going into a far country, to receive a kingdom; calling his ſervants together before his departure; giving each of them a piece of money to improve during his abſence; re⯑turning after having received the kingdom; calling them to an account for the money which he had entruſted to them; applauding thoſe who had improved it, and rewarding them in proportion to the degree of their im⯑provement; but condemning one who had hid the money in a napkin: firſt, judging him out of his own mouth, and then commanding him to be puniſhed. The meaning of the parable is this: Our Lord Jeſus Chriſt, who has aſcended into heaven, to receive from his Father the kingdom and dominion over all, and has left his followers to improve the advantages which they enjoy by their reaſonable and moral na⯑ture, and by revelation; will return at the end of the world, will call them and all mankind before his judgment-ſeat, will munificently reward his faithful ſervants according to their deſerts, but will force the wicked to condemn themſelves out of their own mouths, their [309] conſcience accuſing them, anticipating their ſentence, and bearing witneſs to its juſtice. By ſeriouſly reflecting on this miſery at pre⯑ſent, we may avoid it, we may be excited to forſake thoſe ſins which will produce it, and, in the diligent practice of holineſs, obtain, in its ſtead, the approbation of our own minds, brightening the ſolemnity of the judgment into gladneſs, and aſſuring us of everlaſting happineſs as the iſſue of our trial. May this be the effect, as it is the ſincere deſign, of the reflections which we propoſe to offer on the confuſion and anguiſh, which, at the coming of the Son of God to judgment, all the wicked ſhall endure, in being ſelf-condemned! That theſe reflections may, by the grace of God, produce conviction, I ſhall ſhew,

FIRST, That by the ſtate of their minds in this world, the wicked are prepared for being ſelf-condemned, and enduring all the horrors of guilt in the day of judgment; and,

SECONDLY, That the nature and circum⯑ſtances of the judgment will awaken the ſenſe of guilt, and raiſe the anguiſh of their ſelf⯑condemnation to extremity.

FIRST, To be convinced that wicked men cannot eſcape ſelf-condemnation at the day of [310] judgment, we need only conſider what is the ſtate of their minds in the preſent world. It cannot be better illuſtrated, than by the ac⯑count which the wicked ſervant, cenſured in this parable, gives of himſelf. Lord, behold here is thy pound, which I have kept laid up in a napkin: for I feared thee, becauſe thou art an au⯑ſtere man: thou takeſt up that thou laidſt not down, and reapeſt that thou didſt not ſow. His plea confutes itſelf. His conduct was the reverſe of what his profeſſed opinion of his maſter's character naturally dictated. He knew that his lord would demand more than he had lent him; yet, by laying it up unemployed, he ren⯑dered it impoſſible that he could return him more. Palpable as the inconſiſtence was, he never attended to it during the abſence of his lord: but he inſtantly convicted him by the very juſtification which he offered, and cauſed him feel that he had already condemned his own practice by his avowed ſentiments: Thou knoweſt that I auſtere man, taking up that I laid not down, and reaping that I did not ſow: wherefore then gaveſt thou not my money into the bank, that at my coming I might have required my own with uſury? The queſtion was unan⯑ſwerable; he was ſilenced and confounded. Perfectly ſimilar is the condition of the wicked. Their practice is contradictory, though often they perceive it not, to their nature, to their [311] principles, to what they are, to what they be⯑lieve, to what they profeſs; and is condemned by all theſe.

EVERY man has conſcience in his breaſt, to point out his duty, to command him to perform it, and to reprove him when he tranſgreſſes it. Every man is ſenſible, and at times ſhews, that he has conſcience, and that he has it for this very purpoſe. When it has loſt the power of enforcing obedience to its dictates, it notwithſtanding continues long to excite a painful ſenſe that they ought to be obeyed. Hence the ſhuddering reluctance which precedes the perpetration of iniquity; and hence the cutting remorſe which attends reflection on it. What ſinner is there, who never had experience of theſe? Which of you dare ſay, that you were perfectly eaſy in your vices when you firſt engaged in them, and till you had by habit gradually ſteeled your heart againſt the ſenſe of guilt? Or can the moſt obdurate among you deny, that, after all your endeavours to elude the agonies of guilt, they ſtill break in upon you on ſome particular occaſions? Indeed, if we ſaw not the wicked at greater eaſe, than it is poſſible to be, under the actual feeling of this ſelf-torment, we could not doubt that they endured it con⯑ſtantly, while they remained conſcious of impe⯑nitence [312] in any ſin. For every ſin is a violation of our nature, a violation of the law of God written in our hearts ^*, an act of rebellion againſt conſcience, to which God hath given a right to govern us, and authority to chaſtiſe our diſobedience; and therefore every ſin is the proper object of its rebukes, and eſſentially worthy to be condemned by it.

THUS every ſinner is ſelf-condemned as he is a man, condemned by his own nature; we moreover call ourſelves Chriſtians; and every ſinner is likewiſe ſelf-condemned as he is a Chriſtian; he is condemned by his ſaith, con⯑demned by his profeſſion. You live in the ha⯑bitual practice of ſin; yet you believe the ſcripture to be infallible truth, which forbids, and threatens puniſhment againſt every ſin. Thou liveſt,—I ſpeak to every individual who knows that he is guilty,—in impurity, in fleſhly luſts, in drunkenneſs, in debauchery; yet thou acknowledgeſt that divine revelation by which God hath called us not unto unclean⯑neſs, but unto holineſs ^†, and which teacheth us to live ſoberly ^‡. Thou art unjuſt, diſhoneſt, oppreſſive, malicious, revengeful, envious, cenſorious, ſlanderous, uncharitable; yet thou receiveſt that religion which teacheth men to [313] live righteouſly ^*, and whoſe end is charity ^†. Thou indulgeſt impiety, profaneſt the name of God, diſregardeſt his authority, repineſt againſt his providence, liveſt without any ha⯑bitual ſenſe of him; and nevertheleſs thou owneſt the divinity of that book which re⯑quires that denying all ungodlineſs, we ſhould live godly ^‡, and which aſſures us, that love to God is the firſt and great commandment ^‖. Thou committeſt what God has forbidden; and yet knoweſt that they which commit ſuch things are worthy of death ^§. Thou addeſt iniquity to iniquity; and yet believeſt that the great Judge will ſay, Depart from me ye that work iniquity: I never knew you ^¶. What is this but to believe, and to know, that you have incurred eternal death?

WHILE ſinners continue men, their nature pronounces them worthy of puniſhment; while they call themſelves Chriſtians, their ſaith ſentences them to the pains of hell. Re⯑morſe wringing them with anguiſh, and ap⯑palling them with terrors, ſometimes awakens them to a diſtracting ſenſe that they are in this manner ſelf-condemned: and even when they elude remorſe, they often betray their [314] ſenſe of their being notwithſtanding ſelf-con⯑demned. Elſe why do we ſeek to diſguiſe or con⯑ceal our vices? Or why are we aſhamed when they are detected? Is not this to acknowledge that we diſapprove them, and know that they deſerve to be diſapproved by all men? Or why do we condemn vice in others, often the very vice in which we indulge ourſelves? What is this, but in judging another to give ſentence againſt ourſelves? The inconſiſtence is very common. The legiſlator enacts laws, and fixes heavy penalties againſt crimes in which himſelf lives. The magiſtrate executes the laws on his fel⯑low-ſubjects for offences from which himſelf is by no means free; he paſſes ſentence on them for diſhoneſty, while himſelf is guilty of partiality, oppreſſion, or corruption; he in⯑flicts death on the murderer, while himſelf ſheds innocent blood under the forms of pub⯑lic juſtice. The preacher denounces the ven⯑geance of God againſt ſins which ſtain his own practice. One man cenſures another, or indignantly proſecutes him, for tranſgreſſions notoriouſly chargeable upon himſelf, or which he indulges in another form, or with greater ſecrecy, or from which he has abſtained only for want of opportunity. By all this, we judge ourſelves in another man's perſon, and proclaim that, even when we are [...] in our ſins, we condemn ourſelves in that thing [315] which we allow Rom. xiv. [...]2. Is it poſ [...]ble then that any perſon who lives in ſin, can avoid condemning himſelf when he ſhall ſtand before the judg⯑ment-ſeat of Chriſt?

IT is very true that, in this life, the wicked are not always ſenſible of their being ſelf-con⯑demned. But can this be any ſecurity,—I will not ſay, againſt the judgment of God—but againſt the judgment of their own hearts hereafter? They are already actually ſelf-con⯑demned: to make them ſenſible of it, is all that is wanting to render them miſerable. If in this life they never became ſenſible of it, what would it avail them? A criminal un⯑der ſentence of death may fall aſleep, and loſe all conſciouſneſs of his condition; but is he therefore not condemned to death? or is it therefore impoſſible that he ſhould ever again reflect on his being condemned? And if the wicked are now ſo faſt aſleep, ſo thoughtleſs, ſo ſtupid, as to have loſt all con⯑ſciouſneſs of their guilt, is this a proof, is it ſo much as the fainteſt preſumption, either that they are not really guilty, or that they ſhall never feel themſelves guilty? There are many objects in this world fit to divert or to blunt the feeling of their real ſtate: but at the [316] reſurrection, theſe ſhall be all removed; and what can obſtruct it then? The preſent tran⯑quillity of the ſinner gives him no ſecurity againſt the tortures of an evil conſcience, even throughout this life. He needs only think ſeriouſly but for one hour, of what he is, and what he has done, to be wretched. On the moſt incidental recollection of his more hei⯑nous ſins, regret, diſſatisfaction, ſhame, terror, conſternation, riſe and ſeize upon him, like tormenters let looſe from hell, to puniſh him before the time. Often when he affects a cheerful countenance, often when none ſuſpects his hidden woe, the fiends which haunt the guilty breaſt prey inwardly upon him, and make him miſerable in his own reflections and forebodings. Can they fail then to invade him in the awful hour of his final judgment? They will aſſault him with tenfold rage. Their wounds will be all empoiſoned with the cor⯑roding venom of deſpair.

THUS, ſinners, the preſent condition of your ſouls evinces that you muſt be ſelf-condemned at the day of judgment. You are already con⯑demned in your ſins by the eſſential principles of your own nature, and by that religion which you believe and profeſs. You are in this manner ſelf-condemned, even when you have no ſenſe or thought of it: often you are [317] awakened, in the preſent world, to the cutting ſenſe of it; and overpowered with remorſe, ſhame, and fearful apprehenſions: theſe are the imperfect foretaſtes, and they are the ex⯑preſs intimations, the certain pledges of that unſpeakable anguiſh, confuſion, and terror, to which you ſhall certainly be awakened at the day of judgment. For,

SECONDLY, The nature and circumſtances of the judgment are ſuch as cannot fail to rouſe the wicked to the ſenſe of their whole guilt, and to aggravate it beyond endurance. Only fix your attention for a moment, on the ſolemn proceſs, on the awful tranſactions of the day of vengeance; and doubt of it, if you can. How dreadfully do they ſurpaſs all the occurrences which have often alarmed wicked men with an excruciating conſciouſ⯑neſs of their own demerit?

I WILL not enlarge on the convulſions of nature, and the appearances of terror, which will precede and introduce the day of the Lord; the roarings of the ſea ^*; the quakings of the earth ^†; the blood, and fire, and pillars of ſmoke ^‡; the ſigns and wonders in heaven ^‖; [318] the ſtars falling down ^*; the moon turned into blood; and the ſun into an orb of darkneſs ^†; all dreadfully announcing the approach of the Judge. Theſe portents will diſmay the wicked, overwhelm them with diſtreſs, diſtract them with perplexity ^‡, melt their heart in the midſt of them, and cauſe them to mourn and wail ^‡. But they will be perceived only by thoſe who will be then alive. It is by the re⯑ſurrection, that all the reſt of the wicked ſhall be arouſed to the tortures of ſelf-re⯑proach.

An angel cometh down from heaven, and crieth with a loud voice, and ſoundeth the trump of God ^§. The grave, the earth, the ſea, give up their dead ^¶. The dead hear the voice of the Son of God, and live, and come forth ^**. That voice, that trump, which raiſes the dead, awakens the wicked to all the miſgivings of conſcious guilt, to the full view of all the horrors of their miſerable ſtate; it awakens them to fruit⯑leſs remorſe and racking deſpair. How can it fail? The guilty—it is the decree of God, the unchangeable law of human nature—are eaſily alarmed; they catch a conſuming flame from every ſtrange occurrence. The ſons of Jacob [319] but felt ſome ſome hardſhip, and apprehended ſome danger, in a diſtant country: and imme⯑diately their conſcience reminded them of their ill-deſert in ſelling Joſeph ^*. Belſhazzar had made a ſplendid feaſt, and was indulging himſelf amidſt his lords, his wives, and his concubines, in all the pleaſures of luxury, wine, and revelling; when the fingers of a man's hand came forth, and wrote upon the wall—he underſtood not what; but it conjured up terrors to his mind, in the very hour of diſſipation and riot; the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, ſo that the joints of his loins were looſed, and his knees ſmote one againſt another ^†. The very winds will ſometimes ſeem to whiſper their offences to the wicked. And will not that voice force them on their remembrance which ſoundeth louder than the thunder, from the one end of heaven to the other? that voice which they know to be the call to judgment? The ſignal for the coming of an earthly judge is terrify⯑ing to the criminal; how much more terrify⯑ing, to every conſcious ſinner, muſt that trum⯑pet be, which announces the appearance of the univerſal Judge from heaven, and pro⯑claims the great and laſt aſſize?—Awakened by that trumpet, to the torturing ſenſe of [320] guilt—happy for them to have ſlept for ever;—but awake they muſt,—the wicked come forth reluctant, ghaſtly, trembling. And to what a ſcene? How changed from the pre⯑ſent world! In the preſent world, the objects of ſenſe divert your thoughts from yourſelves; the buſtle of buſineſs engroſſes your attention, gaieties and amuſements diſſipate your reflec⯑tion; inconſideration hides your real charac⯑ter from your eyes, the avocations of life turn off the anguiſh which your ſuſpicions of it ſometimes threaten. But at the reſurrection, the phantoms have diſappeared; they find no place beyond the grave; they have left you diſ⯑tracted for not having ſooner diſcovered their deſtructive vanity. Even on earth, they could not always infatuate you into peace; your own heart knows, that guilt has ſometimes pierced it, like a ſharp arrow, when there ap⯑peared no hand which let it fly; and when, abſorbed in worldly cares, or diſſolved in the effuſeſt mirth, you ſeemed to be ſecure from every wound: when then you riſe naked from the grave, and can find no ſhield; and when all things around you conſpire in impreſſing you with your guilt, how certainly and how deeply ſhall it lacerate your ſouls? To think, is to be miſerable; and not to think, is impoſ⯑ſible. In the preſent world, when the ſinner is rouſed from his thoughtleſſneſs, and con⯑ſtrained [321] ſtrained to reflect upon his ways, he can often elude the rebukes of conſcience by the chi⯑canery of ſelf-deceit. He can perſuade himſelf that his ſins are ſmall, and abate the ſeverity of remorſe; he can miſrepreſent his vices as innocent, and ſtifle the uneaſy ſenſe of them; he can confound them with virtue, and glory in what is in truth his ſhame. But the bright⯑neſs of Chriſt's coming will reveal all the illu⯑ſions of ſelf-deceit. Every thing will appear as it really is. No faſcination can hide or diſguiſe a ſingle crime. Every ſin ſtarts up in its genuine form; its baſeneſs is written on it as with a ſun-beam; no colouring can varniſh over its deformity; no philm can obſtruct the full perception of it. All the painted virtues of men, to their confuſion, ſhew themſelves real vices; their laborious religion is diſcovered to have been but abject ſuperſtition; their flaming zeal, but bigotry, bitterneſs, and cruelty; their prudence and frugality, ava⯑rice; their generoſity, vanity, and profuſion; their charity oſtentation; their rigid juſtice, hard-heartedneſs and rancour. The paſt ſuc⯑ceſs of their ſelf-impoſition adds to the bitter⯑neſs of their reflections. We befool ourſelves whenever we attempt to diſguiſe our vices from ourſelves. It is to be willingly lulled into a falſe ſecurity, which muſt end in unex⯑pected ruin. In the preſent world, by conti⯑nuing [322] to act in bold defiance to conſcience, the wicked can ſtupify it, and ſtop its mouth from either inculcating their duty, or warning them of their danger. But the effrontery of the moſt daring and abandoned ſinner will fail when he is called to judgment. Though he could diſpute the commands of conſcience, and deſpiſe its threatenings of puniſhment, he finds that when the ſeaſon for puniſhment is come, it inflicts it with a power that is irre⯑ſiſtible. Pierced by its ſtings, he writhes him⯑ſelf in torture, he is embowelled with agonies; they are entwiſted with the eſſential principles of his frame.—The night is paſt; the dark⯑neſs which concealed him from his own eyes is over and gone; gone with them, and gone for ever his reſt and peace. He laments that ever he was at reſt; he bewails that ever he enjoyed peace in ſin. It has forfeited his everlaſting peace. There is no longer a poſſi⯑bility of diſregarding the things which were unſeen, and deemed remote, perhaps uncer⯑tain. The cauſe of diſregarding them has ceaſed. All other things have fled before the glories of the laſt day, like miſt before the wind. Theſe alone are preſent now; they are heard, and ſeen, and felt. The ſinner was forewarned that he would be brought into judgment; he nevertheleſs indulged himſelf in what he knew could not endure the trial; [323] and he found means to evade the painful ap⯑prehenſion of his condemnation, which might have reſtrained him. But the ſeverer pain which he now endures, by what means can he evade? The angel of the reſurrection has, with the blaſt of his breath, ſwept away all the refuges of lies ^*. He might have known what has now befallen him! He could not avoid ſometimes dreading it! He might have prevented it! But now it is inevitable! The reflection aggravates the tortures of remorſe and terror, to whoſe united ſury his ſepulchre has caſt him out. Neither heaven nor earth, neither eternity nor time, contains aught that can alleviate his pain. The paſt, the future, and the preſent conſpire to inflame it. The paſt is a precious opportunity of obtaining eternal happineſs, wilfully loſt, and loſt for ever. The future diſcloſes only the certain proſpect of puniſhment for having loſt it. The preſent is full of agonizing reflections, and fearful apprehenſions, and of objects cal⯑culated for driving them into his inmoſt ſoul. It is the ſtate of retribution, not the ſtate of trial, into which he has ariſen. The appointed meſſenger has already proclaimed, that there ſhall be time no longer ^† : he that is unjuſt, let him be unjuſt ſtill; and he which is filthy, let him [324] be filthy ſtill ^*. He cannot indulge the ſainteſt hope of retrieving his condition. In the mo⯑ment of deep remorſe for an atrocious ſin, an awakened conſcience, ſometimes even in this life, repreſents it as unpardonable: then it will declare with irreſiſtible perſuaſiveneſs, that every unforſaken ſin is in truth unpardonable. How dreadful is the miſery of guilt and de⯑ſpair united! If guilt may become the moſt unſufferable torment that can ſeize a man, even now when there is room for its being ex⯑piated, what will it be, when there is no more place for repentance? In vain would we attempt to expreſs to the full the torture which vice has often inflicted on the guilty mind; the inward pain which drove Adam to hide himſelf from God; the conſternation which ſhook Belſhazzar at his idolatrous debauch; the anguiſh which tore the traitor Judas when he hanged himſelf; the wretchedneſs which wrung the wicked emperour when he defied all the gods and goddeſſes to make it greater. Much leſs can we put in words, that compli⯑cated agony which the wicked ſhall ſuffer at the laſt. It ſurpaſſes thoſe greateſt diſtreſſes incident to mortal man, more than they ſur⯑paſs the ſlighteſt ailment that draws a tear from a puny or fretful child. To ſee that [325] the puniſhment of hell is to be inſtantly inflicted! to be confounded with its great⯑neſs! yet to feel it perfectly juſt! not to dare to call it too ſevere! not to be able to al⯑lege a reaſ [...]n why it ſhould not be rigorouſly executed!—It is an agony without a name!

THE whole world is aſſembled. The ſinner beholds thouſands, like himſelf, pale, trem⯑bling, agitated by the ſame unutterable ago⯑nies. Can the ſight make him forget himſelf, or eaſe the torment which ariſes from reflect⯑ing on himſelf? It muſt be but a ſlight diſ⯑treſs, in which one can derive conſolation from his having fellow-ſufferers. The horrors of guilt admit no alleviation from companions in miſery; they are heightened by the ſight of them; it reverberates a man's reflections upon himſelf, and ſharpens them. The ſight of an accomplice, though he betrayed no ſymptoms of a troubled conſcience; the conviction of another for a crime ſimilar to their own, though they were in no danger of detection, has ſometimes ſurpriſed the wicked into a re⯑collection of miſdeeds which they had long forgotten, and kindled a devouring fire within them. And can the preſence of all the world of ſinners, at the laſt day, fail to kindle a fire like hell, in every wicked man; when their agonies are impreſſed on every feature, [326] obvious in the quaking of every joint, intui⯑tively ſeen, and when he knows that he and they together have come forth to condemnation? He meets his aſſociates in vice; and is over⯑whelmed with additional confuſion. He meets his ſeducers; and his rage againſt them con⯑vulſes him with a freſh torment. He meets thoſe whom he has corrupted; and their up⯑braidings harrow up his ſoul. The miſery of every ſinner is contagious as the peſtilence. Every groan of a guilty heart, ſerves for fuel to feed the flames of all the reſt.—But here likewiſe are all the generations of the righte⯑ous. They riſe, as they fell aſleep, intermin⯑gled with the wicked. But how ſplendidly diſtinguiſhable from them? By the ſolemni⯑ties of this great day, they are fixt in awe; but it is ſerene and pleaſant; they rejoice, they triumph, in confidence of the approba⯑tion of the Judge; their ſerenity and their joy every moment grow and become more conſpi⯑cuous; by the emanations of their inward gladneſs, their very bodies are already glori⯑fied. All the tokens of their bleſſedneſs are like barbed arrows, tearing the hearts of the wicked. They run to and fro, like ſparks among the ſtubble ^†, and lay waſte their ſpirits within them. Even on earth, the good man,^* [327] though compaſſed with infirmities, depreſſed by poverty, deſpicable for his external mean⯑neſs, reputed unhappy in compariſon, is un⯑eaſy to the wicked; he was made to reprove their thoughts; his deeds upbraid them with their offences; he is grievous unto them, even to be⯑hold ^*. But when they ſhall ſee the whole company of congregated ſaints raiſed each in glory, and ſtanding in great boldneſs, when they ſhall diſcern among them the man whoſe ad⯑monitions they ſlighted, whoſe practice they ridiculed, whoſe perſon they inſulted; then they ſhall be troubled with terrible fear, and ſhall be amazed at the ſtrangeneſs of his ſalvation: and groaning for anguiſh of ſpirit, they ſhall ſay within themſelves, This was he whom we had ſometimes in deriſion, and a proverb of reproach: we fools accounted his life madneſs, and his end to be without honour: how is he numbered among the children of God, and his lot is among the ſaints! We have wearied ourſelves in the way of wickedneſs and deſtruction ^†! On all the inhe⯑rent torments of guilt, theſe reflections accu⯑mulate the gnawings of unavailing and unre⯑lenting ſpite and envy.—But all theſe are only the beginnings of ſorrows ^‡.

THE Judge of the world appears, deſcend⯑ing in awful majeſty; his glory covereth the [328] heavens ^*. Angels, more numerous than the ſtars of the firmament, and more radiant than the ſun, attend him at his coming. The breaſts of the wicked are all tumult and diſtraction; horror chills their hearts, and ſhame is upon all their faces. The appear⯑ance of a ſingle angel, with his glory veiled, ſent on a meſſage of kindneſs, has laid even good men proſtrate on the earth, in bitter abomination of their vileneſs, and made them to tremble becauſe they were unclean. And when the whole hoſt of heaven, angels and archangels, cherubim and ſeraphim, thrones and dominions, principalities and powers, ſhall appear together, ſhining in the fulneſs of their celeſtial ſplendour, and on purpoſe to miniſter to the final deſtruction of all the wicked, can it be but every ſinner muſt be alarmed into tribulation, and anguiſh, and terror in the conſciouſneſs of his impurity and guilt? Before the face of the Son of God, when his glory was hid under the form of a ſer⯑vant ^†, and when he ſpake in the mildeſt ac⯑cents, the ruffians who came up boldly to apprehend him, daunted in an inſtant, went backward and fell to the ground ^‡: at his word, when he bore only the likeneſs of m [...]n †▪ a whole legion of devils trembled and [...] [329] in apprehenſion, that he would torment them before the time ^*. When therefore he ſhall come to judgment,—how changed from him at whom the legion trembled! not now in faſhion as a man ^†, not now eclipſed by mor⯑tal fleſh; but, as he was from the beginning, in the form of God ^†, the brightneſs of his gl [...]ry ^‖, ſhining, as befits the only-begotten of the Father, in all his natural and all his mediato⯑rial glory; and not in his perſonal glory alone, but in all the glory likewiſe of his Father ^§, in⯑veſted with all the majeſty of God; and now perhaps to puniſh, but certainly to take venge⯑ance on them that know not God, and that obey not the goſpel of our Lord Jeſus Chriſt ^¶: When this majeſtic one, ſo tremendouſly arrayed, on ſight of whom, leſs awfully diſplayed, even his beloved John fell at his feet as dead ^§§, ſhall appear to judge the world, how ſhall the wicked ſtand before him? They dare not ſtand: yet ſtand they muſt. Fear and diſmay is upon them, pangs have taken hold of them, as the pangs of a woman that travaileth ^¶¶. They run about howling for ſhelter; they hide them⯑ſelves in the dens and caverns of the earth; they cry out to the rocks and to the mountains, [330] fall on us, and hide us from his face; for the great day of his wrath is come, and who ſhall be able to ſtand ^*? He abhors their ways; and themſelves feel them to be abominable. He is come to puniſh them; and their own hearts condemn them to the puniſhment. The juſ⯑tice of God demands it: they cannot fabricate a plea againſt its being inflicted. The very goodneſs of God cuts them off from hope; it dictated thoſe laws which they have obſtinately violated. They cannot pray, they cannot aſk forgiveneſs; their conſcience thunders in their ears, that it is now impoſſible. They cannot bear to think of the miſery which they have entailed upon themſelves; but they can think of nothing elſe; it obtrudes itſelf upon them. Can the puniſhment which they dread, be heavier than the anguiſh which they endure already! What need of a ſentence to com⯑pleat their woe! They are loaded with greater wretchedneſs than they can bear! But they ſhudder in expectation of more unſufferable wretchedneſs.

A great white throne ^† is erected. The Son of God ſits down upon it. The noon-day light is loſt in the celeſtial eſſulgence which ſurrounds him. He caſts his eyes upon the wicked; and [331] they are troubled. When Peter had fallen, the Lord turned and looked upon him ^*. It was a look full of compaſſion; yet it cut him to the heart; and he went out, and wept bitterly ^‡. If a look of tenderneſs from Jeſus, when a pri⯑ſoner, ſtung Peter with ſo ſharp contrition for a ſingle ſin, with what horror will his look of anger, from the throne of his glory ^†, when his face and his eyes ſhall be more dazzling than the meridian ſun, overwhelm the wicked, in the unavailing recollection of tranſgreſſions numberleſs and atrocious? If the ſorrow of repentance was ſo violent, what will be the ſorrow of conſternation and deſpair?—They are brought before the judgment-ſeat. They can make no defence. Should they plead any of thoſe excuſes with which they were wont to reconcile themſelves to their ſins, they would be turned into evidences and aggravations of their guilt. It ſtares them in the face. They accuſe themſelves; they witneſs againſt them⯑ſelves. Remorſe has often compelled men to pub⯑liſh their crimes, when without this they could never have been known; in the day of judg⯑ment remorſe is ſtronger; and diſſimulation would be in vain. The Judge cannot be de⯑ceived; nothing can be hid; the moſt per⯑verſe [332] ſilence, the hardieſt denial could not pre⯑vent a ſingle ſin from being proclaimed upon the houſe-tops ^*. But with what anguiſh of ſpirit muſt they divulge their ſins? To be forced to accuſe a friend, eſpecially in a capi⯑tal caſe, is torture. What then muſt it be for a man to accuſe and to give teſtimony againſt himſelf, in the moſt capital caſe, when ever⯑laſting deſtruction muſt be his ſentence? The confeſſion of a fault is never unaccompanied with ſome degree of ſhame; to have a confeſ⯑ſion extorted from himſelf, of a crime which, from conſciouſneſs of its baſeneſs, he laboured to conceal, covers a perſon with confuſion: the ignominy of a public confeſſion is ſo great, as to be deemed an expiation of very in⯑jurious offences; the mortification which it occaſions is almoſt worſe than death; to avoid the ſhame of detection, men have ſometimes ruſhed into enormous deeds which their very hearts abhorred. How then can we conceive the mortification, the confuſion, the diſgrace, which overpower and rack the ſinner, when all his ſins are dragged out of that darkneſs in which he hoped to bury them for ever; when his own conſcience is conſtrained to diſcloſe his moſt hidden wickedneſs, to reveal the guilt of all his thoughts, and words, and ac⯑tions, [333] before the whole world of reaſonable beings, the aſſembly of all nations and ages, the numberleſs hoſts of angels, the glorious Judge; when he is forced with his own mouth to pronounce them atrocious, inexcuſe⯑able, and worthy of damnation?—The Judge ſets the wicked on his left hand ^*. He rehearſes their demerits. He convinces them of all their ungodly deeds, and of all their hard ſpeeches ^†. He gives the tremendous ſentence; Depart from me, ye curſed, into everlaſting fire, pre⯑pared for the devil and his angels ^‡. It cometh from his gracious lips, who died to ſave them from deſtruction; it wounds the deeper. They feel its juſtice, and are ſtruck with horror. Heaven and earth reſound with the united ac⯑knowledgments of men and angels. Thou art righteous, O Lord, becauſe thou haſt judged thus ^‖.

THE diſſolution of the world will accompany the judgment of mankind; and it will heighten the ſorrows and the terrors of the wicked. The agonies of a perſon who awakes in the midſt of flames, and muſt ſtand ſtill till they devour him, the conſternation of a perſon who perceives the earth opening beneath his feet, and howls, and ſinks into its bowels, defy [334] deſcription; but they bear no proportion to the convulſions of the wicked, when all na⯑ture ſhall be commixed in univerſal conflagra⯑tion, the mountains conſumed, the rocks melted down, the earth burnt up, the hea⯑vens tumbling, the ſtars, the moon, the ſun, falling blazing from their orbits. A faint de⯑ſcription of this cataſtrophe impreſſes aſtoniſh⯑ment; what will the execution of it be! The world on fire would be in itſelf a ſight of ter⯑ror; but the wicked are involved in its de⯑ſtruction. It wrings them with a tormenting ſenſe of the folly of their ſins. A heavy loſs, or a deep affliction is generally ſufficient to open the eyes of the ſinner to the unprofita⯑bleneſs of his vices. But now his all is loſt: his affliction is complete. In that world were all the objects which tempted him to commit his ſins, all the objects in which he ſought his happineſs, his only portion; and now it is gone for ever. He has wearied himſelf for things which are not. The whole creation is converted into a weapon for avenging God upon his enemies. The bottomleſs pit is un⯑covered. Hell opens its mouth. The angels gather out of the kingdom of God, all them that offend, and all them which do iniquity, and caſt them into the furnace of fire ^*. The ſenſe of [335] guilt remains. The torture of ſelf-condemna⯑tion aggravates all their ſufferings. The abyſs is full of weeping, and wailing, and gnaſhing of teeth ^*.

WHAT madneſs is it to ruſh on all theſe complicated horrors? It is a madneſs charge⯑able on all who live in wickedneſs. They are the neceſſary conſequences of wickedneſs. Conſider them in time; and be perſuaded to repent of all your ſins. Ye giddy and ye thoughtleſs, attend to them, and learn to think ſeriouſly of your moſt important inte⯑reſts: if ye trifle away the ſeaſon in which they may be ſecured, ye will be awakened to thoughtfulneſs, when it can avail only to diſ⯑cover and enhance your irreparable miſery. Ponder then, ye hypocrites; they are your por⯑tion: ceaſe to impoſe yourſelves upon the world for other than you are; ſtudy to be really what you wiſh to appear: in the hour of judgment, your falſehood will be expoſed, and the rottenneſs of your hearts ſhewn naked to the whole creation; whatever is not ſincere and genuine will be a ſting; your fair pretences and goodly profeſſions will be your confuſion. Think of them, ye abandoned, ye openly profane; harden not your hearts [336] any longer in your profligacy; your bold con⯑tempt of obligation will be no defence, in the day of your account, againſt the laſhes of your conſciences for having violated it; your audacity in committing ſin, will be changed into a ſtounding dread of the merited puniſh⯑ment of ſin. If you have fortified yourſelves in obduracy, by caſting off the belief of reve⯑lation, the falſe courage which this intoxica⯑tion has produced will fail in the morning of the reſurrection: your boaſted freedom and depth of thought will unmaſk itſelf, and ſtand forth a vicious prejudice armed with ſcourges to chaſtiſe you as its voluntary ſlaves: you will be forced to reproach yourſelves for having diſobeyed the goſpel which you diſbe⯑lieved, becauſe God gave you the opportunity of believing it: and you will diſcover that even its falſhood could not vindicate you, be⯑cauſe the principles of your own reaſon, and the dictates of your own conſcience, inculcate the very virtues which it requires. If you have renounced the principles of reaſon, perſuaded yourſelves that there is no God nor future ſtate, and debauched yourſelves from the very ſenſe of good and evil; yet your infidelity will vaniſh in the grave; the reſurrection will convince you, to your unutterable anguiſh, that you are not beaſts which periſh; you ſhall find that to baffle the ſuggeſtions of your moral na⯑ture, [337] is not to ſubvert its conſtitution: con⯑ſcience will re-aſſume its power; reaſon will re-aſſert its rights; you ſhall ſee the face of that God whom you denied, and ſink beneath his terrors in that ſtate of retribution which you derided. Ye who believe the goſpel, but obey it not; ye who pervert it from its real intention, and turn its grace into licentiouſ⯑neſs; ye who abuſe its promiſes to cheriſh the hope of happineſs on any terms conſiſtent with wilful ſin; be aſſured that its purity will ren⯑der you without excuſe in the day of wrath, and force your own mouth to condemn you: if you forſake not your ſins, the religious profeſ⯑ſions which you now regard as an impenetrable ſhield, will fly from your graſp, and leave you defenceleſs againſt the wounds of guilt. Ye who are blind to your own character, and keep yourſelves eaſy in your ſins by the arti⯑fices of ſelf-deceit, open your eyes in time, be⯑hold yourſelves as you truly are, and be re⯑formed: when it is too late, your eyes will certainly be opened, and no diſguiſe, no var⯑niſh will be able to hide from them the blackneſs of your hearts, and the vileneſs of your practices. Conſider, ſinners, and trem⯑ble, and be troubled, that by ceaſing to be ſinners, ye may have reſt in the final day of tribulation.

[338]IF you can withſtand incitements to repent⯑ance, ſo alarming, you muſt even ſleep on in ſin, and take your reſt on the brink of de⯑ſtruction. Yet your judgment lingereth not, your ſelf-condemnation ſlumbereth not ^*. Be perſuaded to prevent it ſpeedily. Under a deep ſenſe of the dreadful iſſue of iniquity, let us call ourſelves to a ſtrict account, and diligently ſearch out our moſt ſecret ſins. For every ſin with which your conſcience charges you, con⯑demn yourſelves honeſtly and impartially. Excuſe none of your ſins; extenuate none of them; repreſent them all to yourſelves in their whole enormity. Shrink not from the remorſe which the view of them produces; however ſevere, it is a wholeſome pain: purſue it to re⯑pentance; rear it into a vehement and habitual abhorrence of evil. Actuated by this principle, guard carefully againſt every ſin; abſtain from whatever you muſt diſapprove upon reflection; allow not yourſelves in any thing which you but ſuſpect that you will afterwards wiſh undone. Let conſcience, informed by that goſpel according to which you ſhall be judged ^†, be your guide in every part of your conduct: for what you do by its direction, you ſhall never need to condemn yourſelves. As long as you find any thing in you which your hearts condemn, you remain imperfect: la⯑bour [339] to become more perfect. Every day amend ſome fault in your temper, or ſome error in your practice. Wear off by degrees your moſt natural infirmities; reckon every defect in your virtue a real vice. Leave no⯑thing for which your hearts can reproach you; if for any thing they now reproach you, and you forſake it not, they will reproach you more grievouſly at the laſt day. Decline not the labours of reformation and improvement: they alone can preſerve you from the agonies of ſelf-condemnation, and from the wrath of God; and amidſt all the ſolemnities of the judgment, all the convulſions of nature, and all the terrors of the wicked, they will give the righteous peace, confidence, and joy, and fix them in the manſions of everlaſting hap⯑pineſs. Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my laſt end be like his ^*.

Amen.

SERMON XI. IN FOUR PARTS. THE INFLUENCE OF THE PASTORAL OFFICE ON THE CHARACTER.
Preached before THE SYNOD OF ABERDEEN, At ABERDEEN, April 8, 1760, and publiſhed at their Deſire.