John Kitto Morning Bible Devotions: December 10

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John Kitto Morning Bible Devotions: December 10

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Heart-Reading

2 Kings 8-11

Let us today recur to the fact that, when Elisha looked steadfastly in the face of Hazael, and the latter perceived that the prophet was reading his heart, “he was ashamed.” “Ah,” it will be said, “and there was good reason why he should be ashamed, for there was murder in his heart.” That there was murder in his heart we do not quite know; but we do know that, whether this were so or not, there was great reason why he should be ashamed in the presence of one whom he believed, to know his most secret thoughts. This we know; because we believe the man lives not, and never did live, who could stand such inspection without quailing before it. Is there one that reads this who can affirm that he could stand with unblenched cheek before the man whom he believed to be viewing his naked soul—divested of all the purple and fine linen which cover its littleness, its foulness, its deformities, its sores, from the view of the outer world? Is there one who could endure, without confusion of face—without a quivering frame—the keen anatomy of his character, his conduct, his spirit, by even the most friendly hand in the world? Would he be content that any human eye should trace the tortuous meanderings of feeling in regard to any one matter in which he has ever been engaged—the unholy thought—the ungenerous imputation—the low suspicion—the doubt, the dislike, the covetousness, the hate, the contention—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, the pride of life—that more or less enter into and defile, with the prints of villainous hoofs, the fairest gardens of life?

We rub on pretty well by ourselves—indeed, far too well. If the conscience be tender enough to make us aware of the plague of our own heart, and to smite us with the sense of our sins and our short-comings, we too generally find ourselves in a condition to deal gently with our own case. The act of self-accusation is soon followed by one of self-excusation; and in time the hand acquires good practice in trimming the obvious asperities and sharp angles of his own character into roundness. Very soon

“Excuse

Comes prologue, and apology too prompt.”

No man hateth his own flesh, but nourisheth and cherisheth it too well. He knows that no one will handle the sore places of his character so softly as he himself does—that no one will confine himself so much to the oil and the wine, or abstain so wholly from rough medicaments and harsh operations. This, he thinks, is knowing himself better—is a more careful balancing of all the circumstances of his case, than can be expected from others, or is possible to them. They will not, he thinks, take the same trouble to understand him so thoroughly, to allow for all his difficulties so unreservedly, to adjust the balance of his good and evil so nicely, as he himself does. It is partly for these reasons—and partly because he abhors that less friendly eyes than his own should look behind the outer veil he presents to the world—and because he would not that any should be privy to the great secret which lies between him and the world—that he shrinks from the too near inspection of his fellow-creatures.

In this we show how much more fear we have of man than of God. To us it is of infinitely less concernment, both for this world and for the world to come, what man thinks of us than what God thinks—what man knows than what God knows; yet while we shrink with such instinctive dread from the too near survey of a fellow-sinner, we manage to get on very quietly, with small trouble of mind, in the perfect knowledge that One who cannot be mistaken—who sees through all disguises, and from whom nothing can be for a moment hid, and who understands us far better than we ourselves know, or than our nearest friends or keenest enemies imagine—has a sleepless eye fixed with unceasing vigilance upon our hearts.

This keen susceptibility to the inspection and good opinion of man, and this comparative indifference to the constant survey of God, is a familiar thing, and strikes us little, because it is familiar; but it is nevertheless one of the strangest anomalies of our nature, and is beheld with astonishment and grief by the angels of God. In their view it is an inversion of the whole order of life and being. To them God is all—his inspection is all; and that different state of things, which gives more practical importance to the survey of a sinful fellow-creature like ourselves, must present a greater mystery than any of those deep problems in material or spiritual nature, which men have vainly labored to solve for a thousand years. To us it is plainer. Evil is, alas! more intelligible to man than to angels; and the good and the true is more intelligible to them than to us. It is sin which has cast a veil between our souls and God—a veil transparent to him, but opaque to us. He sees us as clearly in our deformity as He did in our beauty; but we have ceased to see him, or to see him as He is. There was a day when man welcomed God’s inspection, and rejoiced that

“God was ever present-ever felt.”

But he had no sooner fallen than the consciousness of God’s presence became irksome to him, and he sought to hide himself from his sight. We do the same, and for the same reason; for we are our father’s heirs. There is a bird of which we are told that it plunges its head into darkness, and because it no longer sees its pursuers, believes itself unseen by them. This was the very thing that Adam did when he hid himself among the trees in the garden, and it is the thing that we do daily. We do not realize the unseen. We live by sight, and not by faith.

How different would be our conversation and our walk, if we lived and moved in the ever-present consciousness that the unseen Eye was upon us and noted all our steps, and that the opinion of us, hereafter to be pronounced in the presence of the assembled universe, as the foundation of final and unchangeable judgment—fixing our lot forever—shutting us up in despair, or opening all the golden doors of joy—is a matter of inconceivably more importance to us than all that the world can think or say, can offer to us or deprive us of. Let us believe, that to walk and act from day to day with this as a vital consciousness about us—as a check to sin, an encouragement to faith, and a stimulus to duty—without any supreme anxiety but to walk so as to please God—is a most pleasant life—is the very antepast of heaven. There is no bondage in it. It is perfect freedom; and is happiness as complete as this world allows. It relieves us from many masters, and redeems from bondage to a thousand fears. O, the blessedness of being freed from this slavish reference to erring man’s judgment of our conduct and our motives, by being enabled to realize the presence, and to welcome the inspection of One who, although He be of purer eyes than to endure iniquity, is incapable of harsh, unjust, or unkind judgment—who has become to us, in Christ Jesus, a kind and loving Father, and longs with deep yearnings of paternal affection to pour out upon us all the fulness of his everlasting love! It is quite impossible for any one to be truly happy until this great work—the reversal of the ordinary influences upon his life—has been wrought within him, making God first and man second in all his thoughts; until the great matter becomes God’s judgment of us, and the small matter man’s; until, in answer to all injurious thoughts and imputations, we can answer with Paul—“It is a small matter for me to be judged of you or of man’s judgment; for I serve the Lord Christ.”