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‘He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.’
1Jn_5:12
I. Any condition of man short of this possession of Christ is unacceptable in the sight of God; it is death, not life.—This is indeed a most solemn truth, and one upon which it becomes us who are accustomed to the outward observances of religion most strictly to examine ourselves. For our great danger in this day is that of being too easily satisfied with ourselves—of too easily assuming we are safe. Nothing now is risked by the profession of Christianity; position is rather raised than lowered by its adoption. It is very easy to walk in its forms, and very natural for our deceitful hearts to flatter us into the belief that the form is the power. Hence, Christianity is generally professed amongst us; it is also generally held in practice, if not in theory, that salvation is an easy work; and the world will not believe that the kind man, and the upright man, and the liberal man, and the refined man, can possibly be cast out of God. But the test which God applies is this, ‘He that hath the Son hath life; and He that hath not the Son of God hath not life.’ The Bible admits, indeed, that there may be much beauty of character, as well as of form, without vital Christianity, but it denies that this beauty of character, any more than beauty of form, is a title to heaven. There is often a charm of natural disposition which makes a man like a sunbeam in all the relations of life, so that you cannot help but love him, and yet there may withal be no devotion of heart to God. There is often integrity of purpose, benevolence of heart, courtesy of manner, refinement of taste, cultivation of mind, power of intellect—all very precious gifts—and yet no godliness, no poverty of spirit, no mourning for sin, no hungering after righteousness, no love of Christ, and therefore no possession of Him, and no title to His Kingdom. The Creator who gave all these may be, and often is, forgotten by the creature who receives them all. Christ, in Whom are hid all the treasures of knowledge and wisdom, is often slighted by those to whom He has imparted the highest of human powers. And the Spirit, the Lord and Giver of Life, Whose gentle strivings would lead every man to Christ, is neglected, resisted, and quenched. Can there be a deeper sin than this? Is not this the principle of all sin, that the thing formed should be indifferent to the God Who formed it, that the man redeemed should be unconcerned about the Son of God Who redeemed him with His own Blood? Here then, in the presence of Him before Whom all hearts are open; in the presence of Him by Whom we must all soon be judged, I ask you, whether younger or older than myself, to search your own hearts and consciences on this point: ‘Have I such an abiding faith in, and love of, my Saviour, Jesus Christ, that I can say, I humbly trust that He is mine, and I am His?’ Do not think lightly of the question. Look at it on its own merits; in your own closet, on your knees before God your Judge and Jesus Christ your Saviour, try to obtain something like an answer to the question, ‘Have I the Son of God, or have I not?’ For ‘He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.’ He is dead; and ‘the wrath of God abideth on him.’
II. This life will manifest itself in a very decided manner in contrast with the comparative death which is around it.—‘He that saith he abideth in Him, ought himself also so to walk, even as He walked.’ Life is not a mere name, but a reality; not an idea, but an active principle. Christian life is not a profession or an observance, but an appropriation of the wisdom, the love, and the energy of God. And if, as it is most just to admit, man may be so much and do so much without it, to what a moral grandeur and glory ought he to rise with it! ‘What do ye more than others?’ is the question which Christ addresses to His living members; and shame upon them if they must answer, ‘Nothing’; for others have but man’s strength, they the strength of God. Man is a dependent being, he must lean on some one. Other men lean on one another, and fall together to the ground. The Christian leans on the everlasting arm of Christ. His life is borne up by the constant realisation of a living, personal Friend, Whose loving eye looks on him as on St. Peter, gently to rebuke his sin; Whose mighty arm is underneath him, as it was underneath St. Paul, mightily to strengthen him in the hour of his need.
(a) This life has its inner and its outer workings, its root and its branch; ‘within there is the ever fresh conviction of sin, the ever-repeated confession of unworthiness, the struggles of faith with sense, the wrestlings of prayer, the kindlings of hope and love.’ Sometimes it seems almost extinguished as the old nature reasserts its strength; sometimes it seems almost to reach heaven, to have its conversation there, and to be above the rise and fall of this world’s troubled waves. Death knows nothing of this; it has no feeling; the dead soul has no fears or doubts, no struggle, no agony. Feeling, though it be ever so painful, is better than this; better than the cold numbness of mortification; it is at least a sign of life, and this life will struggle through the cloud and darkness to the clear, calm light of day. For peace and joy are the proper healthy life of the Christian soul. ‘Blessed is the people that know the joyful sound; they shall walk, O Lord, in the light of Thy countenance. In Thy name shall they rejoice all the day; and in Thy righteousness they shall be exalted.’ And yet the holiest of all will be the foremost to confess that they are ever falling short; others feel their holiness and wonder at it; but they are ever conscious of sin, and the more they have of life, the keener are their eyes to see, and their touch to feel, the slightest speck of sin. But, blessed be God, He does not depart from us because we have yet remaining corruption. Not our perfect life, but His perfect righteousness forms our title. ‘He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.’
(b) This life manifests itself in outward action, setting man to work, not for himself, but for Christ; making it his ambition to do great things for God’s honour, rather than for his own pleasure; implanting in him, as the great principle of his life, that ‘whether he eat or drink, he shall do all to the glory of God.’ And it will have a most triumphant manifestation hereafter, when the scattered dust of our bodies shall rise again, body and soul be reunited, and death swallowed up of life.
(c) And this resurrection of the body is no little part of life; you will feel the truth of this if for a moment you conceive yourself standing by the dead body of that person whom you love above all else on earth. You are gazing upon what? Mere corruption, upon mere dust and ashes, if there be no resurrection of the body. And can a belief in the immortality of the soul calm you? Can you endure the thought that you shall never, never see that face again? I think not. It might be the heart that you most loved; it might be the character that you most admired; it might be the Christian spirit to which you were most devoted; but it was still heart and character and spirit mirrored in the glance of that eye and the smile of that lip, in the earnestness of that brow and the melody of that voice; and if it were only with the spirit you were again to have intercourse, you would feel it was but half your friend. Death would not be swallowed up. But our Forerunner has gone up to heaven, Bone of our bone, and Flesh of our flesh. He has swallowed up death in victory. Where He is, there we shall be also.
—
Rev. Canon F. Morse.
Illustration‘The records of pastoral visitation press the distinction upon us with the emphasis of actual fact. On the bed of sickness and of death, the contrast between him who has but a name and him who has Life is often very striking. The one gifted, it may be, with intellect and acquirements, and familiar with the facts of Christianity, clearly understands the scheme of salvation, and admires its perfect adaptation to the wants of man. “I can see how it suits others,” he says, “but, alas! I cannot apply it to myself. I believe the facts, but I cannot take them as for me. Christ Jesus is indeed a Saviour, but I cannot think He is my Saviour.” Argument is in vain with such a man. He knows all the Scripture you can bring before him. It has floated for years on the surface of his understanding, but has never reached the depths of his heart. He sees, knows the history of, admires, but he has not, Christ. And between this admiring and this having the difference is infinite. To the other Christ is Life, Christ is all. You may see him poor, desolate, afflicted, his bones wearing through his flesh, his last remaining earthly comfort removed; yet he tells you that he would not be without his trials for the world, they keep him near his Saviour, and that is all he wants. He has no more doubt of his acceptance in Christ than you have of your existence as you stand beside his bed. He tells you in the simple language of a poor sailor that “his sins are cast, not into the shallow water, but into the depths of the sea; that his name is enrolled, not in the Queen’s books, but in the Lamb’s book of Life; that he has good anchorage, the harbour is in view, and as he has often cried in the dark night-watch at sea, ‘All is well.’ ” Who can pass from one such scene to another, and not feel that they re-echo with solemn emphasis, “He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life”?’