Quiet Talks by Samuel Dickey: Gordon, Samuel Dickey - Quiet Talks on Power: 16. A Mother-Heart

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Quiet Talks by Samuel Dickey: Gordon, Samuel Dickey - Quiet Talks on Power: 16. A Mother-Heart



TOPIC: Gordon, Samuel Dickey - Quiet Talks on Power (Other Topics in this Collection)
SUBJECT: 16. A Mother-Heart

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A Mother-Heart

Well, there are just four persons, or groups of persons concerned. There is God; and Satan; and these friends we are talking about; and ourselves, who are not a bit better in ourselves than they—not a bit—but who are trusting some One else to see us through. Somewhere within the lines of those four we must find the blame of this awful state of affairs. Well, we can say very promptly that Satan is to blame. He is at the bottom of it all. And that certainly is true, though it is not all of the truth. Then it can be added, and added in a softer voice because the thing is so serious, and these friends are dear to us, that these people themselves are to blame. And that is true, too. Because they choose to remain out of touch with Him who died that it might not be so. For there is no sin charged where there is no choice made. Sin follows choice. Only where one has known the wrong and has chosen it is there sin charged.

But that this awful condition goes on unchanged that those two ugly words remain true of our dear friends, day after day, while we meet them, and live with them, is there still blame? There are just two left out of the four: God, and ourselves who trust Him. Let me ask very reverently, but very plainly: Is it God's fault? You and I have both heard such a thing hinted at, and sometimes openly said. I believe it is a good thing with reverence to ask, and attempt to find the answer, to such a question as that. And to answer let me first bring to you a picture of the God of the Old Testament whom some people think of as being just, but severe and stern.

Away back in the earliest time, in the first book, Genesis, the sixth chapter, and down in verses five and six are these words: "And the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and"—listen to these words—"that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually."

What an arraignment! "Every imagination," “evil," "only evil;" no mixture of good at all; “only evil continually," no occasional spurts of good even—the whole fabric bad, and bad clear through, and all the time. Is not that a terrific arraignment? But listen further: "And it repented the Lord that He had made man on the earth, and"—listen to these last pathetic words—"it grieved Him at His heart."

Will you please remember that "grieve" is always a love word? There can be no grief except where there is love. You may annoy a neighbor, or vex a partner, or anger an acquaintance, but you cannot grieve except where there is love, and you cannot be grieved except wherein you love.

I have sometimes, more often than I could wish, seen a case like this. A young man of good family sent away to college. He gets in with the wrong crowd, for they are not all angels in colleges yet, quite. Gets to smoking and drinking and gambling, improper hours, bad companions, and all that. His real friends try to advise him, but without effect. By and by the college authorities remonstrate with him, and he tries to improve, but without much success after the first pull. And after a while, very reluctantly, he is suspended, and sent home in disgrace. He feels very bad, and makes good resolutions and earnest promises, and when he returns he does do much better for a time. But it does not last long. Soon he is in with the old crowd again, the old round of habits and dissipations, only now it gets worse than before; the pace is faster. And the upshot of it all is that he is called up before the authorities and expelled, sent home in utter disgrace, not to return.

And here is his chum who roomed with him, ate with him, lived with him. He says, "Well, I declare, I am all broken up over Jim. It's too bad! He was 'hail-fellow, well met,' and now he has gone like that. I'm awfully sorry. It's too bad! too bad!!" And by and by he forgets about it except as an unpleasant memory roused up now and then. And here is one of his professors who knew him best perhaps, and liked him. "Well," he says, "it is too bad about young Collins. Strange, too, he came of good family; good blood in his veins; and yet he seems to have gone right down with the ragtag. It's too bad! too bad!! I am so sorry." And the matter passes from his mind in the press of duties and is remembered only occasionally as one of the disagreeable things to be regretted, and perhaps philosophized over.

And there is the boy's father's partner, down in the home town. "Well," he soliloquizes, "it is too bad about Collins' boy. He is all broken up over it, and no wonder. Doesn't it seem queer? That boy has as good blood as there is: good father, lovely mother, and yet gone clean to the bad, and so young. It is too bad! I am awfully sorry for Collins." And in the busy round of life he forgets, save as a bad dream which will come back now and then.

But down in that boy's home there is a woman—a mother, heartbroken—secretly bleeding her heart out through her eyes. She goes quietly, faithfully fully about her round of life, but her hair gets thinner, and the gray streaks it plainer, her form bends over more, and the lines become more deeply bitten in her face, as the days come and go. And if you talk with her, and she will talk with you, she will say, "Oh, yes, I know other mothers' boys go wrong; some of them going wrong all the time; but to think of my Jim—that I've nursed, and loved so, and done everything for—to think that my Jim—" and her voice chokes in her throat, and she refuses to be comforted. She grieves at her heart. Ah! that is the picture of God in that Genesis chapter. He saw that the world He had made and lavished all the wealth of His love upon had gone wrong, and it grieved Him at His heart.

This world is God's prodigal son, and He is heartbroken over it. And what has He done about it. Ah! what has He done! Turn to Mark's twelfth chapter, and see there Jesus' own picture of His Father as He knew Him. In the form of a parable He tells how His Father felt about things here. He sent man after man to try and win us back, but without effect, except that things got worse. Then Jesus represents God talking with Himself. "What shall I do next, to win them back?—there is My son—My only boy—Jesus—I believe-yes, I believe I'll send Him—then they'll see how badly I feel, and how much I love them; that'll touch them surely; I'll do it." You remember just how that sixth verse goes, "He had yet one, a beloved Son; He sent Him last unto them, saying, they will reverence my Son." And you know how they treated God's Son, His love gift. And I want to remind you tonight that, speaking in our human way—the only way we can speak—God suffered more in seeing His Son suffer than though He might have suffered Himself. Ask any mother here: Would you not gladly suffer pain in place of your child suffering if you could? And every mother-heart answers quickly, "Aye, ten times over, if the child could be spared pain." Where did you get that marvelous mother-heart and mother-love? Ah, that mother-heart is a bit of the God-heart transferred. That is what God is like. Let me repeat very reverently that God suffered more in giving His Son to suffer than though He had Himself suffered. And that is the God of the Old Testament! Let me ask: Is He to blame? Has He not done His best?

Let it be said as softly as you will, and yet very plainly, that those awful words, "damned" and “cursed," whatever their meaning may be, are true of your friends. Then add: It is not so because of God's will in the matter, but in spite of His will. Remember that God exhausted all the wealth of His resource when He gave His Son. There can come nothing more after that.