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A SERIOUS CALL TO A DEVOUT AND HOLY LIFE by William Law CHAPTER III. Of the great danger and folly, of not intending to be as eminent and exemplary as we can, in the practice of all Christian virtues.
ALTHOUGH the goodness of God, and His rich mercies in Christ Jesus, are a
sufficient assurance to us, that He will be merciful to our unavoidable
weakness and infirmities, that is, to such failings as are the effects of
ignorance or surprise; yet we have no reason to expect the same mercy towards
those sins which we have lived in, through a want of intention to avoid them.
For instance; the case of a common swearer, who dies in that guilt, seems to
have no title to the Divine mercy; for this reason, because he can no more
plead any weakness or infirmity in his excuse, than the man that hid his talent
in the earth could plead his want of strength to keep it out of the earth.
But now, if this be right reasoning in the case of a common swearer, that his
sin is not to be reckoned a pardonable frailty, because he has no weakness to
plead in its excuse, why then do we not carry this way of reasoning to its true
extent? why do not we as much condemn every other error of life, that has no
more weakness to plead in its excuse than common swearing?
For if this be so bad a thing, because it might be avoided, if we did but
sincerely intend it, must not then all other erroneous ways of life be very
guilty, if we live in them, not through weakness and inability, but because we
never sincerely intended to avoid them?
For instance; you perhaps have made no progress in the most important Christian
virtues, you have scarce gone half way in humility and charity; now if your
failure in these duties is purely owing to your want of intention of performing
them in any true degree, have you not then as little to plead for yourself, and
are you not as much without all excuse, as the common swearer?
Why, therefore, do you not press these things home upon your conscience? Why do
you not think it as dangerous for you to live in such defects, as are in your
power to amend, as it is dangerous for a common swearer to live in the breach
of that duty, which it is in his power to observe? Is not negligence, and a
want of sincere intention, as blameable in one case as in another?
You, it may be, are as far from Christian perfection, as the common swearer is
from keeping the third commandment; are you not therefore as much condemned by
the doctrines of the Gospel, as the swearer is by the third commandment?
You perhaps will say, that all people fall short of the perfection of the
Gospel, and therefore you are content with your failings. But this is saying
nothing to the purpose. For the question is not whether Gospel perfection can
be fully attained, but whether you come as near it as a sincere intention and
careful diligence can carry you. Whether you are not in a much lower state than
you might be, if you sincerely intended, and carefully laboured, to advance
yourself in all Christian virtues?
If you are as forward in the Christian life as your best endeavours can make
you, then you may justly hope that your imperfections will not be laid to your
charge: but if your defects in piety, humility, and charity, are owing to your
negligence, and want of sincere intention to be as eminent as you can in these
virtues, then you leave yourself as much without excuse as he that lives in the
sin of swearing, through the want of a sincere intention to depart from it.
The salvation of our souls is set forth in Scripture as a thing of difficulty,
that requires all our diligence, that is to be worked out with fear and
trembling. [Phil. ii. 12]
We are told, that "strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, that leadeth unto
life, and few there be that find it." [Matt. vii. 14] That "many are called,
but few are chosen." [Matt. xxii. 14] And that many will miss of their
salvation, who seem to have taken some pains to obtain it: as in these words,
"Strive to enter in at the strait gate: for many, I say unto you, will seek to
enter in, and shall not be able." [Luke xiii. 24]
Here our blessed Lord commands us to strive to enter in, because many will
fail, who only seek to enter. By which we are plainly taught, that religion is
a state of labour and striving, and that many will fail of their salvation; not
because they took no pains or care about it, but because they did not take
pains and care enough; they only sought, but did not strive to enter in.
Every Christian, therefore, should as well examine his life by these doctrines
as by the commandments. For these doctrines are as plain marks of our
condition, as the commandments are plain marks of our duty.
For if salvation is only given to those who strive for it, then it is as
reasonable for me to consider whether my course of life be a course of striving
to obtain it, as to consider whether I am keeping any of the commandments.
If my religion is only a formal compliance with those modes of worship that are
in fashion where I live; if it costs me no pains or trouble; if it lays me
under no rules and restraints; if I have no careful thoughts and sober
reflections about it, is it not great weakness to think that I am striving to
enter in at the strait gate?
If I am seeking everything that can delight my senses, and regale my appetites;
spending my time and fortune in pleasures, in diversions, and worldly
enjoyments; a stranger to watchings, fastings, prayers, and mortification; how
can it be said that I am working out my salvation with fear and trembling?
If there is nothing in my life and conversation that shows me to be different
from Jews and Heathens; if I use the world, and worldly enjoyments, as the
generality of people now do, and in all ages have done; why should I think that
I am amongst those few who are walking in the narrow way to Heaven?
And yet if the way is narrow, if none can walk in it but those that strive, is
it not as necessary for me to consider, whether the way I am in be narrow
enough, or the labour I take be a sufficient striving, as to consider whether I
sufficiently observe the second or third commandment?
The sum of this matter is this: From the abovementioned, and many other
passages of Scripture, it seems plain, that our salvation depends upon the
sincerity and perfection of our endeavours to obtain it.
Weak and imperfect men shall, notwithstanding their frailties and defects, be
received, as having pleased God, if they have done their utmost to please
Him.
The rewards of charity, piety, and humility, will be given to those, whose
lives have been a careful labour to exercise these virtues in as high a degree
as they could.
We cannot offer to God the service of Angels; we cannot obey Him as man in a
state of perfection could; but fallen men can do their best, and this is the
perfection that is required of us; it is only the perfection of our best
endeavours, a careful labour to be as perfect as we can.
But if we stop short of this, for aught we know, we stop short of the mercy of
God, and leave ourselves nothing to plead from the terms of the Gospel. For God
has there made no promises of mercy to the slothful and negligent. His mercy is
only offered to our frail and imperfect, but best endeavours, to practise all
manner of righteousness.
As the law to Angels is angelical righteousness, as the law to perfect beings
is strict perfection, so the law to our imperfect natures is, the best
obedience that our frail nature is able to perform.
The measure of our love to God, seems in justice to be the measure of our love
of every virtue. We are to love and practise it with all our heart, with all
our soul, with all our mind, and with all our strength. And when we cease to
live with this regard to virtue, we live below our nature, and, instead of
being able to plead our infirmities, we stand chargeable with negligence.
It is for this reason that we are exhorted to work out our salvation with fear
and trembling; because unless our heart and passions are eagerly bent upon the
work of our salvation; unless holy fears animate our endeavours, and keep our
consciences strict and tender about every part of our duty, constantly
examining how we live, and how fit we are to die; we shall in all probability
fall into a state of negligence, and sit down in such a course of life, as will
never carry us to the rewards of Heaven.
And he that considers, that a just God can only make such allowances as are
suitable to His justice, that our works are all to be examined by fire, will
find that fear and trembling are proper tempers for those that are drawing near
so great a trial.
And indeed there is no probability, that any one should do all the duty that is
expected from him, or make that progress in piety, which the holiness and
justice of God requires of him, but he that is constantly afraid of falling
short of it.
Now this is not intended to possess people's minds with a scrupulous anxiety,
and discontent in the service of God, but to fill them with a just fear of
living in sloth and idleness, and in the neglect of such virtues as they will
want at the day of Judgment. It is to excite them to an earnest examination of
their lives, to such zeal, and care, and concern after Christian perfection, as
they use in any matter that has gained their heart and affections. It is only
desiring them to be so apprehensive of their state, so humble in the opinion of
themselves, so earnest after higher degrees of piety, and so fearful of falling
short of happiness, as the great Apostle St. Paul was, when he thus wrote to
the Philippians: "Not as though I had already attained, either were already
perfect: . . . but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are
behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward
the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus." And then he
adds, "Let us therefore, as many as are perfect, be thus minded." [Phil. iii.
12-15]
But now, if the Apostle thought it necessary for those, who were in his state
of perfection, to be "thus minded," that is, thus labouring, pressing, and
aspiring after some degree of holiness, to which they were not then arrived,
surely it is much more necessary for us, who are born in the dregs of time, and
labouring under great imperfections, to be "thus minded," that is, thus earnest
and striving after such degrees of a holy and Divine life, as we have not yet
attained.
The best way for any one to know how much he ought to aspire after holiness, is
to consider, not how much will make his present life easy, but to ask himself,
how much he thinks will make him easy at the hour of death.
Now any man that dares be so serious, as to put this question to himself, will
be forced to answer, that at death, every one will wish that he had been as
perfect as human nature can be.
Is not this therefore sufficient to put us not only upon wishing, but labouring
after all that perfection, which we shall then lament the want of? Is it not
excessive folly to be content with such a course of piety as we already know
cannot content us, at a time when we shall so want it, as to have nothing else
to comfort us? How can we carry a severer condemnation against ourselves, than
to believe, that, at the hour of death, we shall want the virtues of the
Saints, and wish that we had been amongst the first servants of God, and yet
take no methods of arriving at their height of piety, whilst we are alive?
Though this is an absurdity that we can easily pass over at present, whilst the
health of our bodies, the passions of our minds, the noise, and hurry, and
pleasures, and business of the world, lead us on with eyes that see not, and
ears that hear not; yet, at death, it will set itself before us in a dreadful
magnitude, it will haunt us like a dismal ghost, and our conscience will never
let us take our eyes from it.
We see in worldly matters, what a torment self-condemnation is, and how hardly
a man is able to forgive himself, when he has brought himself into any calamity
or disgrace, purely by his own folly. The affliction is made doubly tormenting,
because he is forced to charge it all upon himself, as his own act and deed,
against the nature and reason of things, and contrary to the advice of all his
friends.
Now by this we may in some degree guess how terrible the pain of that
self-condemnation will be, when a man shall find himself in the miseries of
death under the severity of a self-condemning conscience, charging all his
distress upon his own folly and madness, against the sense and reason of his
own mind, against all the doctrines and precepts of religion, and contrary to
all the instructions, calls, and warnings, both of God and man.
Penitens6 was a busy, notable
tradesman, and very prosperous in his dealings, but died in the thirty-fifth
year of his age.
A little before his death, when the doctors had given him over, some of his
neighbours came one evening to see him, at which time he spake thus to
them:--
I see, my friends, the tender concern you have for me, by the grief that
appears in your countenances, and I know the thoughts that you have now about
me. You think how melancholy a case it is, to see so young a man, and in such
flourishing business, delivered up to death. And perhaps, had I visited any of
you in my condition, I should have had the same thoughts of you.
But now, my friends, my thoughts are no more like your thoughts than my
condition is like yours.
It is no trouble to me now to think, that I am to die young, or before I have
raised an estate.
These things are now sunk into such mere nothings, that I have no name little
enough to call them by. For if in a few days or hours, I am to leave this
carcass to be buried in the earth, and to find myself either forever happy in
the favour of God, or eternally separated from all light and peace, can any
words sufficiently express the littleness of everything else?
Is there any dream like the dream of life, which amuses7 us with the neglect and disregard of
these things? Is there any folly like the folly of our manly state, which is
too wise and busy, to be at leisure for these reflections?
When we consider death as a misery, we only think of it as a miserable
separation from the enjoyments of this life. We seldom mourn over an old man
that dies rich, but we lament the young, that are taken away in the progress of
their fortune. You yourselves look upon me with pity, not that I am going
unprepared to meet the Judge of quick and dead, but that I am to leave a
prosperous trade in the flower of my life.
This is the wisdom of our manly thoughts. And yet what folly of the silliest
children is so great as this?
For what is there miserable, or dreadful in death, but the consequences of it?
When a man is dead, what does anything signify to him, but the state he is then
in?
Our poor friend Lepidus8 died, you
know, as he was dressing himself for a feast: do you think it is now part of
his trouble, that he did not live till that entertainment was over? Feasts, and
business, and pleasures, and enjoyments, seem great things to us, whilst we
think of nothing else; but as soon as we add death to them, they all sink into
an equal littleness; and the soul that is separated from the body no more
laments the loss of business, than the losing of a feast.
If I am now going into the joys of God, could there be any reason to grieve,
that this happened to me before I was forty years of age? Could it be a sad
thing to go to Heaven, before I had made a few more bargains, or stood a little
longer behind a counter?
And if I am to go amongst lost spirits, could there be any reason to be
content, that this did not happen to me till I was old, and full of riches?
If good Angels were ready to receive my soul, could it be any grief to me, that
I was dying upon a poor bed in a garret?
And if God has delivered me up to evil spirits, to be dragged by them to places
of torments, could it be any comfort to me, that they found me upon a bed of
state?
When you are as near death as I am, you will know that all the different states
of life, whether of youth or age, riches or poverty, greatness or meanness,
signify no more to you, than whether you die in a poor or stately apartment.
The greatness of those things which follow death makes all that goes before it
sink into nothing.
Now that judgment is the next thing that I look for, and everlasting happiness
or misery is come so near me, all the enjoyments and prosperities of life seem
as vain and insignificant, and to have no more to do with my happiness, than
the clothes that I wore before I could speak.
But, my friends, how am I surprised that I have not always had these thoughts?
for what is there in the terrors of death, in the vanities of life, or the
necessities of piety, but what I might have as easily and fully seen in any
part of my life?
What a strange thing is it, that a little health, or the poor business of a
shop, should keep us so senseless of these great things, that are coming so
fast upon us!
Just as you came in my chamber, I was thinking with myself, what numbers of
souls there are now in the world, in my condition at this very time, surprised
with a summons to the other world; some taken from their shops and farms,
others from their sports and pleasures, these at suits of law, those at gaming
tables, some on the road, others at their own firesides, and all seized at an
hour when they thought nothing of it; frightened at the approach of death,
confounded at the vanity of all their labours, designs, and projects,
astonished at the folly of their past lives, and not knowing which way to turn
their thoughts, to find any comfort. Their consciences flying in their faces,
bringing all their sins to their remembrance, tormenting them with deepest
convictions of their own folly, presenting them with the sight of the angry
Judge, the worm that never dies, the fire that is never quenched, the gates of
hell, the powers of darkness, and the bitter pains of eternal death.
Oh, my friends! bless God that you are not of this number, that you have time
and strength to employ yourselves in such works of piety, as may bring you
peace at the last.
And take this along with you, that there is nothing but a life of great piety,
or a death of great stupidity, that can keep off these apprehensions.
Had I now a thousand worlds, I would give them all for one year more, that I
might present unto God one year of such devotion and good works, as I never
before so much as intended.
You, perhaps, when you consider that I have lived free from scandal and
debauchery, and in the communion of the Church, wonder to see me so full of
remorse and self-condemnation at the approach of death.
But, alas! what a poor thing is it, to have lived only free from murder, theft,
and adultery, which is all that I can say of myself.
You know, indeed, that I have never been reckoned a sot, but you are, at the
same time, witnesses, and have been frequent companions of my intemperance,
sensuality, and great indulgence. And if I am now going to a judgment, where
nothing will be rewarded but good works, I may well be concerned, that though I
am no sot, yet I have no Christian sobriety to plead for me.
It is true, I have lived in the communion of the Church, and generally
frequented its worship and service on Sundays, when I was neither too idle, or
not otherwise disposed of by my business and pleasures. But, then, my
conformity to the public worship has been rather a thing of course, than any
real intention of doing that which the service of the Church supposes: had it
not been so, I had been oftener at Church, more devout when there, and more
fearful of ever neglecting it.
But the thing that now surprises me above all wonders is this, that I never had
so much as a general intention of living up to the piety of the Gospel. This
never so much as entered into my head or my heart. I never once in my life
considered whether I was living as the laws of religion direct, or whether my
way of life was such, as would procure me the mercy of God at this hour.
And can it be thought that I have kept the Gospel terms of salvation, without
ever so much as intending, in any serious and deliberate manner, either to know
them, or keep them? Can it be thought that I have pleased God with such a life
as He requires, though I have lived without ever considering what He requires,
or how much I have performed? How easy a thing would salvation be, if it could
fall into my careless hands, who have never had so much serious thought about
it, as about any one common bargain that I have made?
In the business of life I have used prudence and reflection. I have done
everything by rules and methods. I have been glad to converse with men of
experience and judgment, to find out the reasons why some fail and others
succeed in any business. I have taken no step in trade but with great care and
caution, considering every advantage or danger that attended it. I have always
had my eye upon the main end of business, and have studied all the ways and
means of being a gainer by all that I undertook.
But what is the reason that I have brought none of these tempers to religion?
What is the reason that I, who have so often talked of the necessity of rules,
and methods, and diligence, in worldly business, have all this while never once
thought of any rules, or methods, or managements, to carry me on in a life of
piety?
Do you think anything can astonish and confound a dying man like this? What
pain do you think a man must feel, when his conscience lays all this folly to
his charge, when it shall show him how regular, exact, and wise he has been in
small matters, that are passed away like a dream, and how stupid and senseless
he has lived, without any reflection, without any rules, in things of such
eternal moment, as no heart can sufficiently conceive them?
Had I only my frailties and imperfections to lament at this time, I should lie
here humbly trusting in the mercies of God. But, alas! how can I call a general
disregard, and a thorough neglect of all religious improvement, a frailty or
imperfection, when it was as much in my power to have been exact, and careful,
and diligent in a course of piety, as in the business of my trade?
I could have called in as many helps, have practised as many rules, and been
taught as many certain methods of holy living, as of thriving in my shop, had I
but so intended, and desired it.
Oh, my friends! a careless life, unconcerned and unattentive to the duties of
religion, is so without all excuse, so unworthy of the mercy of God, such a
shame to the sense and reason of our minds, that I can hardly conceive a
greater punishment, than for a man to be thrown into the state that I am in, to
reflect upon it.
Penitens was here going on, but had his mouth stopped by a convulsion, which
never suffered him to speak any more. He lay convulsed about twelve hours, and
then gave up the ghost.
Now if every reader would imagine this Penitens to have been some particular
acquaintance or relation of his, and fancy that he saw and heard all that is
here described; that he stood by his bedside when his poor friend lay in such
distress and agony, lamenting the folly of his past life, it would, in all
probability, teach him such wisdom as never entered into his heart before. If
to this he should consider how often he himself might have been surprised in
the same state of negligence, and made an example to the rest of the world,
this double reflection, both upon the distress of his friend, and the goodness
of that God, who had preserved him from it, would in all likelihood soften his
heart into holy tempers, and make him turn the remainder of his life into a
regular course of piety.
This therefore being so useful a meditation, I shall here leave the reader, as
I hope, seriously engaged in it.
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