THE DAY OF REST. THE CONVENTINENT SEASON. [BY THE REV. W.H. AITKEN, M.A.]

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 307, 13 October 1888, Page 4

THE DAY OF REST. THE CONVENTINENT SEASON. [BY THE REV. W. H. AITKEN, M.A.]

""When I have found a convenient season, * will call for thee."— Acts xxiv. 25 There is something very appalling in the thought of the flood that swept the world. You think of the men and women climbing up crags, and screaming for mercy, whilst the inexorable waters are sweeping them away. There is something very terrible in the thought of those cities of the plain that were buried beneath the fiery deluge ; but thero is something more terrible than aU t-hat in the thought of the ctoss of the Lord Jo&us Christ. The thuuders and lightnings of Mount Sinai are very terrible, but the cross of Calvary is far more terrible still. Aro there any saying, ' Why should it be terrible ?' Consider, my dear friends, the Man, the Son of God, that hung there. Who is Ife ? Tie is the Father's only begotten S >n. God loves Him with an inh'nito alleetion — loves Him for He is one with Him&clf. ]tia the Son of God that is hanging on yonder cross, but he is hanging there representing human guilt. The nail is driven into His hand. God is looking on all the time, and yet God does not extract the nail. Ho cries out in His agony, ' I thhbt,' Mid yet God never so much as sends one drop of water to cool His parched tongue The Father's heart hoard the cry, and yet the Father left Him there in the burning agony ot His thimt. His Falhei heais Him &ay, "My God, my God, why hast Thou fcusaken Me?' Oh! how that cry mu&t ha\o gone thiilling home to the Father's heart ! Can we fancy that God looked on that scene calm and indifferent, when he heard that anguished cry that rolled from the breaking heart of Emmanuel ? And yet God did look on. I fancy I can see the whole host of Heaven gazing up in wistful expectation, one with another stepping forwaid as they expected each moment to have the commission to tear down the shining way, and hand the cup of comfort to those parched lips, and to spread over that darkened atmosphere the very benison of Heaven. 1 can fancy how they waited for the order ; but they waited in vain. Why ? Because God hates sin with an inexorable hatred. God can make no compromise with human guilt •, and, when sin was laid on the person of His dear Son, though He heard that great lamentable ciy ringing through the universe, yet God let it echo and echo, and still there was no answer ; and so Chiisb, the Son of the living God, breathed out His soul in indescribable agony, under the cuishing ■weight of His Father's hand. Is not that something to alarm me, to make mo tremble ? I do not know anything that will make me tremble more than that, ' for God spared not His own Son.' Are you a father, my fiiend? How would you teel if you had your son in that) position — your tender boy whom you love like your own soul ? If you had the power ot relieving him by a simple act of your will, how would you feel before you could bring yourself to ouch a point as nob to spare your son? Y\ hen God saw His own Son dying thus, He spared Him not. Why ? Because Ho hated sin with an exorablc hatred, and that is the thing that you are full of ; that is th c thing you are clothed all round about with ; your nature is steeped in it, your whole experience blighted with it. God looks to you. And now I want to ask you, Do you think He will spare you if He spared not His own Sop, when you decline to avail yourself of the wondrous provision which the Son's death has made. Rest assured, if that is your notion, it is fatal folly to perse veie in it. Felix trembled. Ido not know whether Paul plied him with that argument, bub I cannot help feeling that if Felix had had that cross of Calvary explained to him lie would have trembled fctillmore ; and, if you and I understand what that means, ' My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?' we shall tiemble, too; nay, more, we should probably die with terror were it not that, alongside of that revelation of eternal justice, there is another revelation, and that the revelation ot eternal compassion. Am I speaking to any who arc disposed to say, " We would like to feel conviction of ; bub all you have said does not bring it 9 ' If there it- one thing more than another that makes the sinner tremble, it is the very thing that is revealed in order to still our trembling. What is that ? If there is one thing moio than another that will make a guilty sinner tremble, it is the sight of the cross of Calvary. I know nothing moie appalling in God's universe. Now, what did Felix do when he trembled ? Oh. if he had taken one step more ! Oh, that he had just said what I want you to say : ' Paul, lam trembling. Your words have gone home to my heart. I feel that lam a great and guilty sinner. Now, will you tell me how I may get a remedy ? Have you any remedy tv oiler ? Is there anything that will remove this terrible load, and set my heart right between me and my God ?' Would that he had just taken that simple step further ! It was not much to do. He was so near salvation, and, had he just made that inquiry, the whole thing might have been settled then. Guilty reprobate as he was, he might have been washed in the blood of the Lamb, and at this moment be among the white-robed choir, singing the praises of Emmanuel, and grasping the harp of gold, and shouting for very joy. He allowed his chance to go by, just as some of you are doing. He trembled — some of you are trembling. He said, 'Go thy way, Paul, for this time. I have had enough of it,' and perhaps you aie saying the same. I was preaching nob long ago, and a man sprang to his feet, offended at some remarks I made ; and, as he turned away, he shouied ' Oh, sir, I've had enough of it.' Why? Because, like Felix, they tremble. Thenhearts prick them. They feel in their own inner conscience that verily they are guilty. They have had enough of it. My friend, you have nob had enough of it. You will have more of it still. It will come back bo you now and then all along life's journey. You may escape from my word, you may bury your heart in unbelief and hardness, and the arrow of conviction may not enter, but there are times when it will come back to you. You have not had enough of it even yet. On a dying bed it will return to you. That terrible load, that dread consciousnebS of loss, will come back to you like an adder's sting. Then you may cry out, ' I've had enough of it.' No, you haven't. A few moments more and you will be standing before the great White Throne, and the books will begin to be opened, and one chapter after another will be read, and then you may look up to the Judge, and say, 'Oh, Great God, I've had enough of it.' The Judge of all will read the story right through, and then the dismal wail in bhe region of darkness will be heard — the cry of a lost son ringing on for all eternity — ' I've had enough of it ; I've had enough of it. ' And yeb you will never have enough of it ; never, never, as long as existence remains. *Go thy way for this time. ' Some of you

have been saying that for a long time, and some are saying it now. ' I can stand this mission out,' you say. ' I was very much impressed on Sunday nighc, but I do not feel very much impressed now. Go thy way, mission preacher, for this time. Thou mayest go and preach to othere. Hundreds and thousands may hear thy voice in other places ; but go thy way. Thou hast disturbed me, but I am not going to give up the world.' What, then, dear friend, are you going to lose your soul? ' No, no; I have'no intention of doing that.' What j then ? 'At a more convenient season I will &end for thee.' What ! When is that season going to come ! Have you made up your mind when the convenient season is to begin ? Is it not a convenient season now ? Why is it not a convenient season ? This is a convenient season ; but whnt is your convenient season ? You have had the regular ministry of the Word, haven't you ? Yet that hasn't saved yon ; and now you have had an unusual call, and that has not saved you Now, when is this con venientsea«on going to come? Wiiat is going to bring that change in your circumstances to induce you to do" then what you are not piepaied to do now? I find, dear friend, that you are just committing the sin which brought down judgment upon the Jews. They said in their hearts, ' Ah, this is_ not the day ot our visitation — not a bit of it ! What, call this the day of our vibitation ? What nonsense. There's a man tiding upon an ass and the little children crying out hosannas. You don't mean to say that i« the day ol our visitation ? A few deluded men irom Galilee are there, and it's a pity Li c police don't lay hold of them ; but you don't mean to say this is the day of our visit ition V' That was the spirit in which they spoke and thought ; bub it was the day of their visitation, and by-and-by yours will be made clear to you. A moie convenient season ! Paul waited for it. The months became years. Two years rolled away, and still the convenient season never came. Sometimes Felix would go and see Paul, or Paul would see Felix. They communed together, and I have no doubt that Paul began the old argument about righteousness, tempeiance and judgment to come. Felix would doubtless say, ' Come, Paul, I don't want any of that — a moie convenient season ' Jt never came — it never came. At last, one morning, the news reaches the cell of the prisoner Paul — Felixis recalled. He has left for Rome ; you will never see his face again. He will nevei hear your voice any more ; and 1 can iancy, as the prisoner sat there in his solitude, how those words would come back to his mmd — a more convenient season. And it had never, never come ! Brother and sister, are any of you waiting for a convenient season ? Why are you waiting for it? Because you love your sins ; because you are clinging to the nature that is condemning you — that is why it is. I am going to tell you a fact which I first heard from another's lips, and I almost thought the thing too terrible to be true. I scarcely liked to tell it in public, because it feeemed to me, until it was confirmed, too ghastly. The other day I did tell it in a public meeting as something 1 had heard, and only a short time aiterwards a gentleman who was present said, 'Mr Aitken, 1 knew all about that circumstance. My father was acquainted with the lady ot whom it was true.' Hence I know that Avhat 1 am telling you is a fact. There was a lady who came homo after a solemn religious service, such as at present. She was profoundly impiessed, as some of you might be. She letiied to her room. She was a woman who loved the world dearly. She sat down in her bedroom, and took out paper and ink, and wrote down these word-* : — ' If God ppare me foi twelve months from this time, I will gi\e my heart to God and become a Chiistian.' I supposed she read it over, and thought that time rather risky. By-and-by she drew her pen through it, and wrote a second time, 'If God spare me for six months from this time, 1 will become a Christian.' Still she did not teel verj' comfortable about it. She drew her pen through that, and this time she wiote, 'If God spare me for thico months, I will become a Christian.' And again she drew her pen through that. But she didn't feel comfortable about three months, and she wrote lor the last time, 'If God spare me one month this day month I will give my heart to Him.' The day before that date was the time fixed for a great iancy ball, and she could not make up her mind to gi\e up that. She put out the light and went to bed, and left this written on the table : — ' If God spare me for one month, on ibis day month 1 will give my heart to Him.' Her lady's maid came to call her the next morning. She knocked at the door — there was vo answer. She tried the handle, and at last burst the door open. She entered the room. All was silent. She looked in the bed, and there, pale, and cold and dead, lay this lady upon her bed ; and on the table close by her, was an open paper, and on that open paper was written the words, ' If God spare me for one month from this time, this" day month I will give my heart Ito Him.' God did not spare her one single night. This, surely is a startling case. Many such may not occur ; but I venture to say that facts equally startling in themselves, though not outwardly so striking, are occurring every day. There rises to my mind now a circumstance which occurred only the other day. As I came down from the pulpit, I went down to a pew just in front of me, and went up to a respectably- dressed man, and said, ' My dear man, will you give your heart to Jesus ?' He said, ' No, sir, not to-night.' ' Why not to - night ?' I affectionately pleaded with him, and talked earnestly with him for about half an hour. He grew quite irritable, and I had to withdraw. Only a week or two afterwards that man was struck down in a drunken brawl, and passed into eternity without time even to fay, 'God be merciful to my soul.' Things of this kind are constantly occurring, and they all read one tremendous lesson, and that lesson is, ' What is the use of waiting for a more convenient season ?' Will you be mad enough to risk your souls by waiting for a more convenient season? Where is the man or woman of even common sense that will dare the possibility of ruin while they wait for a more convenient season ? Thank God, this is a convenient season. Again we turn our eyes to that dear cross. I have told you it is the most terrible object in the world. I also tell you it is the most comforting object in the world. Glory be to God for the cross of Christ. There I see my sin is crucified ; there I see God's remedy is provided for me. I need not sink into the darkness of eternal despair. The convenient season is come. The voice and the love of Jesus testify to my heart that the convenient season has come. The influence of the Holy Ghost, striving with my ransomed spirit, testifies that the convenient season has come. The voice of God's Holy Word, from Genesis to Revelation, and that last blessed cry of welcome, ' Whosoever will, may come,' above all, testify that the convenient season has arrived. Glory be to God, it ia a convenient season to-night. The vilest sinner may fly to the cross of Christ; the guiltiest profligate may obtain pardon and peace there ; the most miserable on earth may obtain the

eternal friendship of Jesus. I care nob whab your sins may be ; blessed be God, there is love to o'erleap them all, mercy to extend to the most ruined and fallen ; and wherever there is a poor sunken soul there is God shedding tears of love over it, and drops of blood for its salvation, and the ble&sed message is ' Whosoever will, may come, because now is the accepted time, today is the day of salvation.' May God, by the Holy Spirit, make it so to everyone of our souls.