“Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is
weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.”—Psalm
cxxxi. 2.
Self-denial of some kind or other is involved, as is evident, in the
very notion of renewal and holy obedience. To change our hearts is to
learn to love things which we do not naturally love—to unlearn the
love of this world; but this involves, of course, a thwarting of our
natural wishes and tastes. To be righteous and obedient implies
self-command; but to possess power we must have gained it; nor can we
gain it without a vigorous struggle, a persevering warfare against
ourselves. The very notion of being religious implies self-denial,
because by nature we do not love religion.
Self-denial, then, is a subject never out of place in Christian
teaching; still more appropriate is it at a time like this, when we
have entered upon the forty days of Lent, the season of the year set
apart for fasting and humiliation.
This indeed is not all that is meant by self-denial; but before
proceeding with the subject, I would ask whether the generality of
mankind go as far as this: it is plain that they do not. They do not go
so far as to realize to themselves that religious obedience involves a
thwarting of those wishes and inclinations which are natural to them.
They do not like to be convinced, much less will they act upon the
notion, that religion is difficult. You may hear men of the world say
plainly, and as if in the way of argument, “that God will not punish us
for indulging the passions with which we are born; that it is no praise
to be unnatural; and no crime to be a man.” This, however, may seem an
extreme case; yet are there not a great many decent and respectable
men, as far as outward character goes, who at least fix their thoughts
on worldly comfort, as the greatest of goods, and who labour to place
themselves in easy circumstances, under the notion that, when they can
retire from the business of their temporal calling, then they may (in a
quiet, unexceptionable way of course) consult their own tastes and
likings, take their pleasure, and indulge themselves in self-importance
and self-satisfaction, in the enjoyment of wealth, power, distinction,
popularity, and credit? I am not at this moment asking whether such
indulgences are in themselves allowable or not, but whether the life
which centres in them does not imply the absence of any very deep views
of sanctification as a process, a change, a painful toil, of working
out our own salvation with fear and trembling, of preparing to meet our
God, and waiting for the judgment? You may go into mixed society; you
will hear men conversing on their friend's prospects, openings in
trade, or realized wealth, on his advantageous situation, the pleasant
connexions he has formed, the land he has purchased, the house he has
built; then they amuse themselves with conjecturing what this or that
man's property may be, where he lost, where he gained, his shrewdness,
or his rashness, or his good fortune in this or that speculation.
Observe, I do not say that such conversation is wrong, I do not say
that we must always have on our lips the very thoughts which are
deepest in our hearts, or that it is safe to judge of individuals by
such speeches; but when this sort of conversation is the customary
standard conversation of the world, and when a line of conduct
answering to it is the prevalent conduct of the world (and this is the
case), is it not a grave question for each of us, as living in the
world, to ask himself what abiding notion we have of the necessity of
self-denial, and how far we are clear of the danger of resembling that
evil generation which “ate and drank, which married wives, and were
given in marriage, which bought and sold, planted, and builded, till it
rained fire and brimstone from heaven, and destroyed them all[1]?”
It is strange, indeed, how far this same forgetfulness and
transgression of the duty of self-denial at present spreads. Take
another class of persons, very different from those just mentioned, men
who profess much love for religion—I mean such as maintain, that if a
man has faith he will have works without his trouble, so that he need
be at no pains about performing them. Such persons at best seem to say,
that religious obedience is to follow as a matter of course, an easy
work, or rather a necessary consequence, from having some strong urgent
motive, or from some bright vision of the Truth acting on the mind; and
thus they dismiss from their religion the notion of self-denial, or the
effort and warfare of faith against our corrupt natural will, whether
they actually own that they dismiss it or not. I say that they do this
at best, for it often happens, as I just now intimated, that they
actually avow their belief that faith is all-sufficient, and do not let
their minds dwell at all on the necessity of works of righteousness.
All this being considered, surely I am not wrong in saying that the
notion of self-denial as a distinct religious duty, and, much more (as
it may well be called), the essence of religious obedience, is not
admitted into the minds of the generality of men.
But let it be observed, I have hitherto spoken of self-denial not as
a distinct duty actually commanded in Scripture, but merely as it is
involved in the very notion of sanctification, as necessarily attendant
on that change of nature which God the Holy Spirit vouchsafes to work
within us. But now let us consider it in the light of the Scripture
precepts concerning it, and we shall come to a still more serious view
of it, serious (I mean) to those who are living to the world; it is
this,—that it is our duty, not only to deny ourselves in what is
sinful, but even, in a certain measure, in lawful things, to keep a
restraint over ourselves even in innocent pleasures and enjoyments.
Now the first proof I shall give of this will at the same time
explain what I mean.
Fasting is clearly a Christian duty, as our Saviour implies in His
Sermon on the Mount. Now what is fasting but a refraining from what is
lawful; not merely from what is sinful, but what is innocent?—from
that bread which we might lawfully take and eat with thanksgiving, but
which at certain times we do not take, in order to deny ourselves. Such
is Christian self-denial,—not merely a mortification of what is
sinful, but an abstinence even from God's blessings.
Again: consider the following declaration of our Saviour: He first
tells us, “Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way which leadeth unto
life, and few there be that find it.” And again: “Strive to enter in,
for many, I say unto you, will seek (only seek) to enter in, and shall
not be able.” Then He explains to us what this peculiar difficulty of a
Christian's life consists in: “If any man come to Me, and hate not his
father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters,
yea, and his own life also, he cannot be My disciple[2].” Now whatever
is precisely meant by this (which I will not here stop to inquire), so
far is evident, that our Lord enjoins a certain refraining, not merely
from sin, but from innocent comforts and enjoyments of this life, or a
self-denial in things lawful.
Again, He says, “If any man will come after Me, let him deny
himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me[3].” Here He shows
us from His own example what Christian self-denial is. It is taking on
us a cross after His pattern, not a mere refraining from sin, for He
had no sin, but a giving up what we might lawfully use. This was the
peculiar character in which Christ came on earth. It was this
spontaneous and exuberant self-denial which brought Him down. He who
was one with God, took upon Him our nature, and suffered death—and
why? to save us whom He needed not save. Thus He denied Himself, and
took up His cross. This is the very aspect, in which God, as revealed
in Scripture, is distinguished from that exhibition of His glory, which
nature gives us: power, wisdom, love, mercy, long-suffering—these
attributes, though far more fully and clearly displayed in Scripture
than in nature, still are in their degree seen on the face of the
visible creation; but self-denial, if it may be said, this
incomprehensible attribute of Divine Providence, is disclosed to us
only in Scripture. “God so loved the world that He gave His Son[4].”
Here is self-denial. And the Son of God so loved us, that “though He
was rich yet for our sakes He became poor[5].” Here is our Saviour's
self-denial. “He pleased not Himself.”
And what Christ did when He came on earth, that have all His saints
done both before and since His coming. Even the saints of the Old
Testament so conducted themselves, to whom a temporal promise was made,
and who, if any, might have surrendered themselves to the enjoyment of
it. They had a temporal promise, they had a present reward; yet, with a
noble faith, and a largeness of soul (how they put us to shame who have
so much higher privileges!) the Jewish believers grudged themselves the
milk and honey of Canaan, as seeking a better country, that is a
heavenly. Elijah, how unlike is he to one who had a temporal promise!
Or take again the instance of Daniel, which is still more
striking,—“They that wear soft clothing are in kings' houses.” Daniel
was first in power in the palace of the greatest monarchs of his time.
Yet what do we read of him? First of his living upon pulse and water,
afterwards of his fasting in sackcloth and ashes, at another time of
his mourning three full weeks, eating no pleasant bread, neither flesh
nor wine coming in his mouth, nor anointing himself at all, till those
three weeks were fulfilled. Can any thing more clearly show the duty of
self-denial, even in lawful things, in the case of Christians, when
even God's servants, before Christ came and commanded it, in proportion
as they had evangelical gifts, observed it?
Or again, consider the words of the text spoken by David, who, if
any, had riches and power poured upon him by the hand of God. He says,
he has “behaved and quieted” himself lest he should be proud, and made
himself “as a weaned child.” What an impressive word is “weaned!” David
had put away the unreserved love and the use of this world. We
naturally love the world, and innocently; it is before us, and meets
our eyes and hands first; its pleasures are dear to us, and many of
them not in themselves sinful, only in their excess, and some of them
not sinful at all;—those, for instance, which we derive from our home,
our friends, and our prospects, are the first and natural food of our
mind. But as children are weaned from their first nourishment, so must
our souls put away childish things, and be turned from the pleasures of
earth to those of heaven; we must learn to compose and quiet ourselves
as a weaned child, to put up with the loss of what is dear to us, nay,
voluntarily to give it up for Christ's sake.
Much more after Christ came does St. Paul give us this same lesson
in the ninth chapter of his first Epistle to the Corinthians: “Every
one that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things,” i. e.
has power over himself, and keeps himself in subjection, as he
presently says. Again, in the seventh chapter, “The time is short; it
remaineth that both they that have wives be as though they had none,
and they that weep as though they wept not, and they that rejoice as
though they rejoiced not, and they that buy as though they possessed
not, and they that use this world as not abusing it.” Here the same
doctrine of moderation or temperance in lawful indulgences is strongly
enforced; to weep, to rejoice, to buy, to possess, to marry, to use
this world, are not unlawful, yet we must not use God's earthly gifts
to the full, but in all things we must be self-denying.
Such is Christian self-denial, and it is incumbent upon us for many
reasons. The Christian denies himself in things lawful because he is
aware of his own weakness and liability to sin; he dares not walk on
the edge of a precipice; instead of going to the extreme of what is
allowable, he keeps at a distance from evil, that he may be safe. He
abstains lest he should not be temperate; he fasts lest he should eat
and drink with the drunken. As is evident, many things are in
themselves right and unexceptionable which are inexpedient in the case
of a weak and sinful creature: his case is like that of a sick person;
many kinds of food, good for a man in health, are hurtful when he is
ill—wine is poison to a man in a fierce fever. And just so, many acts,
thoughts, and feelings, which would have been allowable in Adam before
his fall, are prejudicial or dangerous in man fallen. For instance,
anger is not sinful in itself. St. Paul implies this, when he says, “Be
ye angry and sin not[6].” And our Saviour on one occasion is said to
have been angry, and He was sinless. Almighty God, too, is angry with
the wicked. Anger, then, is not in itself a sinful feeling; but in man,
constituted as he is, it is so highly dangerous to indulge it, that
self-denial here is a duty from mere prudence. It is almost impossible
for a man to be angry only so far as he ought to be; he will exceed the
right limit, his anger will degenerate into pride, sullenness, malice,
cruelty, revenge, and hatred. It will inflame his diseased soul, and
poison it. Therefore, he must abstain from it, as if it were in
itself a sin (though it is not), for it is practically such to him.
Again, the love of praise is in itself an innocent passion, and
might be indulged, were the world's opinion right and our hearts sound;
but, as things are, human applause, if listened to, will soon make us
forget how weak and sinful we are; so we must deny ourselves, and
accept the praise even of good men, and those we love, cautiously and
with reserve.
So, again, love of power is commonly attendant on a great mind; but
he is the greatest of a sinful race who refrains himself, and turns
from the temptation of it; for it is at once unbecoming and dangerous
in a son of Adam. “Whosoever will be great among you, let him be your
minister,” says our Lord; “and whosoever will be chief among you, let
him be your servant[7].” His reward will be hereafter; to reign with
Christ, to sit down with Him on His throne, to judge angels,—yet
without pride.
Again, even in affection towards our relations and friends, we must
be watchful over ourselves, lest it seduce us from the path of duty.
Many a father, from a kind wish to provide well for his family,
neglects his own soul. Here, then, is a fault; not that we can love our
relations too well, but that that strong and most praiseworthy
affection for them may, accidentally, ensnare and corrupt our weak
nature.
These considerations will show us the meaning of our Saviour's words
already cited, about the duty of hating our friends. To hate is to feel
that perfect distaste for an object, that you wish it put away and got
rid of; it is to turn away from it, and to blot out the thought of it
from your mind. Now this is just the feeling we must cherish towards
all earthly blessings, so far as Christ does not cast His light upon
them. He (blessed be His name) has sanctioned and enjoined love and
care for our relations and friends: Such love is a great duty; but
should at any time His guidance lead us by a strange way, and the light
of His providence pass on, and cast these objects of our earthly
affection into the shade, then they must be at once in the shade to
us,—they must, for the time, disappear from our hearts. “He that
loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.” So He says;
and at such times, though still loving them, we shall seem to hate
them; for we shall put aside the thought of them, and act as if they
did not exist. And in this sense an ancient and harsh proverb is true:
we must always so love our friends as feeling that one day or other we
may perchance be called upon to hate them,—that is, forget them in the
pursuit of higher duties.
Here, again, then, is an instance of self-denial in lawful things;
and if a person says it is painful thus to feel, and that it checks the
spontaneous and continual flow of love towards our friends to have this
memento sounding in our ears, we must boldly acknowledge that it is
painful. It is a sad thought, not that we can ever be called upon
actually to put away the love of them, but to have to act as if we did
not love them,—as Abraham when called on to slay his son. And this
thought of the uncertainty of the future, doubtless, does tinge all our
brightest affections (as far as this world is concerned) with a grave
and melancholy hue. We need not shrink from this confession,
remembering that this life is not our rest or happiness;—“that
remaineth” to come. This sober chastised feeling is the very temper of
David, when he speaks of having composed and quieted his soul, and
weaned it from the babe's nourishment which this world supplies.
I hope I have made it clear, by these instances, what is meant by
Christian self-denial. If we have good health, and are in easy
circumstances, let us beware of high-mindedness, self-sufficiency,
self-conceit, arrogance; of delicacy of living, indulgences, luxuries,
comforts. Nothing is so likely to corrupt our hearts, and to seduce us
from God, as to surround ourselves with comforts,—to have things our
own way,—to be the centre of a sort of world, whether of things
animate or inanimate, which minister to us. For then, in turn, we shall
depend on them; they will become necessary to us; their very service
and adulation will lead us to trust ourselves to them, and to idolize
them. What examples are there in Scripture of soft luxurious men! Was
it Abraham before the Law, who wandered through his days, without a
home? or Moses, who gave the Law, and died in the wilderness? or David
under the Law, who “had no proud looks,” and was “as a weaned child?”
or the Prophets, in the latter days of the Law, who wandered in
sheep-skins and goat-skins? or the Baptist, when the Gospel was
superseding it, who was clad in raiment of camel's hair, and ate the
food of the wilderness? or the Apostles, who were “the offscouring of
all things”? or our blessed Saviour, who “had not a place to lay His
head”? Who are the soft luxurious men in Scripture? There was the rich
man, who “fared sumptuously every day,” and then “lifted up his eyes in
hell, being in torments.” There was that other, whose “ground brought
forth plentifully,” and who said, “Soul, thou hast much goods laid up
for many years;” and his soul was required of him that night. There was
Demas, who forsook St. Paul, “having loved this present world.” And,
alas! there was that highly-favoured, that divinely-inspired king, rich
and wise Solomon, whom it availed nothing to have measured the earth,
and numbered its inhabitants, when in his old age he “loved many
strange women,” and worshipped their gods.
Far be it from us, soldiers of Christ, thus to perplex ourselves
with this world, who are making our way towards the world to come. “No
man that warreth, entangleth himself with the affairs of this life,
that he may please Him who hath chosen him to be a soldier. If a man
also strive for masteries, yet is he not crowned, except he strive
lawfully.” This is St. Paul's rule, as has already been referred to:
accordingly, in another place, he bears witness of himself that he
“died daily.” Day by day he got more and more dead to this world; he
had fewer ties to earth, a larger treasure in heaven. Nor let us think
that it is over-difficult to imitate him, though we be not Apostles,
nor are called to any extraordinary work, nor are enriched with any
miraculous gifts: he would have all men like himself, and all may be
like him, according to their place and measure of grace. If we would be
followers of the great Apostle, first let us with him fix our eyes upon
Christ our Saviour; consider the splendour and glory of His holiness,
and try to love it. Let us strive and pray that the love of holiness
may be created within our hearts; and then acts will follow, such as
befit us and our circumstances, in due time, without our distressing
ourselves to find what they should be. You need not attempt to draw any
precise line between what is sinful and what is only allowable: look up
to Christ, and deny yourselves every thing, whatever its character,
which you think He would have you relinquish. You need not calculate
and measure, if you love much: you need not perplex yourselves with
points of curiosity, if you have a heart to venture after Him. True,
difficulties will sometimes arise, but they will be seldom. He bids you
take up your cross; therefore accept the daily opportunities which
occur of yielding to others, when you need not yield, and of doing
unpleasant services, which you might avoid. He bids those who would be
highest, live as the lowest: therefore, turn from ambitious thoughts,
and (as far as you religiously may) make resolves against taking on you
authority and rule. He bids you sell and give alms; therefore, hate to
spend money on yourself. Shut your ears to praise, when it grows loud:
set your face like a flint, when the world ridicules, and smile at its
threats. Learn to master your heart, when it would burst forth into
vehemence, or prolong a barren sorrow, or dissolve into unseasonable
tenderness. Curb your tongue, and turn away your eye, lest you fall
into temptation. Avoid the dangerous air which relaxes you, and brace
yourself upon the heights. Be up at prayer “a great while before day,”
and seek the true, your only Bridegroom, “by night on your bed.” So
shall self-denial become natural to you, and a change come over you,
gently and imperceptibly; and, like Jacob, you will lie down in the
waste, and will soon see Angels, and a way opened for you into heaven.
[1] Luke xvii. 27-29.
[2] Matt. vii. 14. Luke xiii. 24; xiv. 26.
[3] Luke ix. 23.
[4] John iii. 16.
[5] 2 Cor. viii. 9.
[6] Eph. iv. 26.
[7] Matt. xx. 26, 27.