John Kitto Morning Bible Devotions: October 8

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John Kitto Morning Bible Devotions: October 8

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The Choice

1 Kings 3

God is a great teacher; and all the docile scholars of his school are richly rewarded by him. Look back to the transaction between the Lord and Solomon at Gibeon for full proof of this.

The senses and judgment of the young king were locked up in sleep; he was in that state least of all suited to instruction, when the greatest lesson of his life was taught to him. But it matters little in what state the scholar is—how, for the time, or even habitually, dull or insensate—when He undertakes to be his instructor, who can enlighten both the organ and the object. None teaches like him in mode or matter, and hence the blessedness and the advantage in learning of him. There is nothing good for as in all his treasures of wisdom and knowledge, which He is not most ready, with abounding fullness, to impart. “If any of you lack wisdom,” says James, “let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given him.” Solomon found the truth of this, and so shall every one find who makes the like experiment. The Lord is never displeased with large asking—so that it be proper asking—and his free bounty delights to surpass the largest requests and most audacious hopes of the petitioner. And in this case He did not wait to be asked. He came to press his gifts upon the acceptance of David’s son; asking him to make his choice of all the gifts his almightiness enabled him to offer—or rather, of all that the man was capable of receiving. Whatever we may think of it —and practically we every day deny most of the things we profess to believe—God daily makes as large and liberal offers to us—ay, offers more liberal by far; and quite as surely will He bestow upon us what we ask, and much more, if that which we seek be well pleasing in his sight. Then

“Come, let us put

Up our requests to Him, whose will alone

Limits his power of teaching; from whom none

Returns unlearned, that hath once a will

To be his scholar;”—Quarles.

And well is it with those who, like the same writer, can say—

“I am a scholar. The great Lord of love

And life my tutor is; who, from above,

All that lack learning to his school invites.”

Solomon had learned in his school, and had there received that enlightenment which enabled him at once to discern, even in sleep, the exact good that was fittest for him, and that he most wanted.

Well, Solomon asked for wisdom; and enforced by many reasons his want of it, his own sense of how much it was needed by him. The speech of the young king “pleased the Lord;” and why? because it was in accordance with his will. It was Himself that enabled him, that “put it into his heart, to pray this prayer unto him.” He could not have done so, had not God given him the grace to do it. God loves and approves that which is his own, and both accepts and rewards that which is his own acting in us. “Thou wilt ordain peace for us,” says the prophet; “for thou hast wrought all our works in us,” Isa_26:12.

Take twelve men from the streets: take them, if you like, from schools and colleges—take them even from the church doors—and propose to them the same question which God proposed to Solomon. Let them be assured that they shall have what they will from One who has full power to bestow. How many of them, do you think, will ask as Solomon asked—“Give me wisdom?” We greatly doubt if there would be even one—but surely not more. This is just the last thing that people suppose themselves to be in need of. Probably there are not three of the twelve—perhaps not two—perhaps not one—who does not think himself every whit as wise as Solomon already, although he does not like to say it. It has not occurred to us in all our life—not now scant of days, though, alas! scant in accomplished purposes—to have met with one man who avowed any lack of wisdom, or who, therefore, would have made the choice of Solomon, had that choice been offered to him.

As statistical information is deemed of peculiar value in this age, we may attempt to make “a return” of the mode in which our twelve men would have distributed their choice.

Three at least would answer, “Give us wealth. In the land where our lot is cast, wealth is needed for comfort and usefulness. Yet we seek not our own luxury, but thy honor. That we may have wherewith to be bountiful to those that need—that we may qualify our children for eminent service to thee in high places—that we may aid mission, Bible, and church societies, to the utmost of the means bestowed upon us—that we may subscribe handsomely to the new church, to the parsonage fund, to the fund for the increase of ministers—to the dispensary, to the schools, to the clothing club—to the soup kitchen—to the thousand objects which demand our attention, and which we cannot neglect without discredit in the eyes of the minister and the gentry here.” So some would answer, in meaning, if not in words—but, alas! for the widow’s mite!

Perhaps three more would not speak so high. They would not call it wealth but competency, freedom from anxiety—securing them ability to attend upon the things of the Lord without distraction. Only secure them that, and they have nothing more or better to ask. For who can go on without distress of soul in this way—troubled for the present and the future—with no security against want in one’s old age, and with this continual struggle how to keep up the “appearances” which are so necessary in this evil world?—Alas, for the sparrows! alas, for the lilies of the field!

There are, perhaps, three who covet power, honor, distinction, more than even wealth, which is but a coarser form of the same desire. In one shape or another—from an impatience of superiority—from the love of command—from the burning wish to come out from the general multitude, and to be admired and observed of men, and leave an unforgotten name—power is more generally desired than may at the first view appear, seeing that, in this country at least, it is a less ostensible and avowed pursuit than that of wealth, or (seeing that wealth is power) generally appears in subordination to it. Or there may be among the three one—or less than one (for in statistics one is a divisible proportion)—who, fretted by his external impotency, which hampers him on every side, and prevents him from giving due effect to the large potencies within him, craves beyond all things such power as may enable him to accomplish his large designs, and render fruitful the bold and useful purposes of his will and hope.

There may be two, hardly more, who, on being asked such a question, would think length of days of more consequence than wealth, or competence, or power. They are such whom the tremor, the chill, the cough, the inner pain, the sense of declining strength, have impressed with alarm at the probable shortness of their lives; for without such warning length of days is seldom in these latter times an object of distinct solicitude; for

“All men think all men mortal but themselves,”

and every one silently assumes that his own life will be long. But among those who would make this choice, there may be a few who, standing free in their strength, may yet, from the oppressive consciousness of the swift passage of their days—days so long in youth, so short in age—would passionately entreat for length of days—time—time only, to finish all their labors—time to work out and produce all their large conceptions, and finish all their beneficent undertakings. Such as these will also regard, with something like dread, the breaking up all their old and cherished habits and associations—their children, their friends, their books, their gardens; their trees. With much of this we can sympathize. But let them be of good cheer. Life, though short, is long enough. Even in its ordinary duration it wears out before it ends; and before that end there lies a gulf of “evil days,” in which no pleasure is found. Desire has failed. The sources of life’s enjoyments have been cut off. The sweet uses of life have passed away. Books, and trees, and gardens have ceased to interest. Plans and purposes, that promised us the labor of three lives in one, fall unregretted from our stiffening fingers. And man becomes content to gather up his feet, and die—hoping, as assured, to join the friends who have dropped away one by one before him—and knowing that his children will come to him soon in that land to which he is going.

There is but one of our twelve left. What doth he ask? Let us trust that, among so many—we can scarcely hope there may be more—there is this one, at least, who has the heart to say—“Give me Thyself; for all things are contained in Thee. Thou art wisdom; Thou art wealth; Thou art power; Thou art length of days; Thou art fulness.

“Give what thou wilt, without thee I am poor,

And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.”