| The Best Things in Life |
Chapter 5 |
Page 4 |
Here it is that the truth of Christ’s sympathy with our infirmities comes in with its comfort. Our Master wants us to live the perfect life, but he knows how weak we are, and is infinitely patient with us. A writer has said, “How many forwardnesses of ours does Christ smother? How many indignities does he pass by? And how many affronts does he endure at our hands, because his love is invincible, and his friendship unchangeable? He rates every action, every sinful infirmity, with the allowances of mercy; and never weighs the sin, but together with it he weighs the force of the inducement – how much of it is to be attributed to choice, how much to the violence of the temptation, to the stratagem of the occasion, and the yielding frailties of weak nature.”
Many of the words of Christ reveal his sympathy with weakness. In that most wonderful of all his promises, in which he invites the weary to him, promising them rest, he asks men to take his yoke upon them, and then says, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” It is not a yoke that crushes by its weight. He never lays upon his followers any burden which they cannot bear. His commandments are not grievous. He never calls us to any duties that we cannot perform. Whenever he lays a load upon us, he promises grace to carry it. He never suffers us to be tempted above what we are able to endure. There was never yet a responsibility put upon a Christian which was too great for his strength. No one ever is called to endure a sorrow which is sorer than he can bear.
Another word which shows his sympathy with human infirmities is quoted from one of the great prophets as being fulfilled in Christ himself: “A bruised reed shall not break, and smoking flax shall not quench.” What could be more worthless than a reed bruised trampled in the dust? Yet so gentle is our Master that he does not fling aside as of any account even so worthless a thing as a shattered reed. There may be a little life remaining in it, and so he takes it up tenderly, cares for it gently, is patient with it, and waits, until at length it lives again in delicate beauty. Or take the other figure: “Smoking flax shall not quench.” The lamp has burned down so that the flame has gone out, and there is only a little curling smoke coming from the black wick. Does he snuff it out and throw it away? Oh, no; such frailty appeals to him. “There may be a spark left yet,” he says, and he breathes upon it, blowing it, putting oil again into the exhausted lamp, and in a little while there is a bright flame where there was only offensive smoke before.
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