The Minister's Fainting Fits (part 2)
"These infirmities may
be no detriment to a man's career of special usefulness; they may even have
been imposed upon him by divine wisdom as necessary qualifications for his
peculiar course of service. Some plants owe their medicinal qualities to the
marsh in which they grow; others to the shades in which alone they flourish.
There are precious fruits put forth by the moon as well as by the sun. Boats
need ballast as well as sail; a drag on the carriage-wheel is no hindrance when
the road runs downhill. Pain has, probably, in some cases developed genius;
hunting out the soul which otherwise might have slept like a lion in its den.
Had it not been for the broken wing, some might have lost themselves in the
clouds, some even of those choice doves who now bear the olive-branch in their
mouths and show the way to the ark. But where in body and mind there are
predisposing causes to lowness of spirit, it is no marvel if in dark moments
the heart succumbs to them; the wonder in many cases is—and if inner lives
could be written, men would see it so—how some ministers keep at their work at
all, and still wear a smile upon their countenances. Grace has its triumphs
still, and patience has its martyrs; martyrs none the less to be honoured
because the flames kindle about their spirits rather than their bodies, and
their burning is unseen of human eyes. The ministries of Jeremiahs are as
acceptable as those of Isaiahs, and even the sullen Jonah is a true prophet of
the Lord, as Nineveh felt full well. Despise not the lame, for it is written
that they take the prey; but honour those who, being faint, are yet pursuing.
The tender-eyed Leah was more fruitful than the beautiful Rachel, and the
griefs of Hannah were more divine than the boastings of Peninnah. "Blessed
are they that mourn," said the Man of Sorrows, and let none account them
otherwise when their tears are salted with grace. We have the treasure of the
gospel in earthen vessels, and if there be a flaw in the vessel here and there,
let none wonder.
Our work, when
earnestly undertaken, lays us open to attacks in the direction of
depression. Who can bear the
weight of souls without sometimes sinking to the dust? Passionate longings
after men's conversion, if not fully satisfied (and when are they?), consume
the soul with anxiety and disappointment. To see the hopeful turn aside, the
godly grow cold, professors abusing their privileges, and sinners waxing more
bold in sin—are not these sights enough to crush us to the earth? The kingdom
comes not as we would, the reverend name is not hallowed as we desire, and for
this we must weep. How can we be otherwise than sorrowful, while men believe
not our report, and the divine arm is not revealed? All mental work tends to
weary and to depress, for much study is a weariness of the flesh; but ours is
more than mental work—it is heart work, the labour of our inmost soul. How often,
on Lord's-day evenings, do we feel as if life were completely washed out of us!
After pouring out our souls over our congregations, we feel like empty earthen
pitchers which a child might break. Probably, if we were more like Paul, and
watched for souls at a nobler rate, we should know more of what it is to be
eaten up by the zeal of the Lord's house. It is our duty and our privilege to
exhaust our lives for Jesus. We are not to be living specimens of men in fine
preservation, but living sacrifices, whose lot is to be
consumed; we are to spend and to be spent, not to lay ourselves up in lavender,
and nurse our flesh. Such soul-travail as that of a faithful minister will
bring on occasional seasons of exhaustion, when heart and flesh will fail.
Moses' hands grew heavy in intercession, and Paul cried out, "Who is
sufficient for these things?" Even John the Baptist is thought to have had
his fainting fits, and the apostles were once amazed, and were sore afraid.
Our position in the
church will also conduce to this. A
minister fully equipped for his work, will usually be a spirit by himself,
above, beyond, and apart from others. The most loving of his people cannot
enter into his peculiar thoughts, cares, and temptations. In the ranks, men
walk shoulder to shoulder, with many comrades, but as the officer rises in
rank, men of his standing are fewer in number. There are many soldiers, few
captains, fewer colonels, but only one commander-in-chief. So, in our churches,
the man whom the Lord raises as a leader becomes, in the same degree in which
he is a superior man, a solitary man. The mountain-tops stand solemnly apart,
and talk only with God as he visits their terrible solitudes. Men of God who
rise above their fellows into nearer communion with heavenly things, in their
weaker moments feel the lack of human sympathy. Like their Lord in Gethsemane,
they look in vain for comfort to the disciples sleeping around them; they are
shocked at the apathy of their little band of brethren, and return to their
secret agony with all the heavier burden pressing upon them, because they have
found their dearest companions slumbering. No one knows, but he who has endured
it, the solitude of a soul which has outstripped its fellows in zeal for the
Lord of hosts: it dares not reveal itself, lest men count it mad; it cannot
conceal itself, for a fire burns within its bones: only before the Lord does it
find rest. Our Lord's sending out his disciples by two and two manifested that
he knew what was in men; but for such a man as Paul, it seems to me that no
helpmeet was found; Barnabas, or Silas, or Luke, were hills too low to hold
high converse with such a Himalayan summit as the apostle of the Gentiles. This
loneliness, which if I mistake not is felt by many of my brethren, is a fertile
source of depression; and our ministers, fraternal meetings, and the
cultivation of holy intercourse with kindred minds will, with God's blessing,
help us greatly to escape the snare.
There can be little
doubt that sedentary habits have a tendency to create
despondency in some constitutions. Burton, in his "Anatomy of
Melancholy," has a chapter upon this cause of sadness; and, quoting from
one of the myriad authors whom he lays under contribution, he
says—"Students are negligent of their bodies. Other men look to their
tools; a painter will wash his pencils; a smith will look to his hammer, anvil,
forge; a husbandman will mend his plough-irons, and grind his hatchet if it be
dull; a falconer or huntsman will have an especial care of his hawks, hounds, horses,
dogs, &c.; a musician will string and unstring his lute; only scholars
neglect that instrument (their brain and spirits I mean) which they daily use.
Well saith Lucan, "See thou twist not the rope so hard that it
break." To sit long in one posture, poring over a book, or driving a
quill, is in itself a taxing of nature; but add to this a badly-ventilated
chamber, a body which has long been without muscular exercise, and a heart
burdened with many cares, and we have all the elements for preparing a seething
cauldron of despair, especially in the dim months of fog—
"When
a blanket wraps the day,
When the rotten woodland drips,
And the leaf is stamped in clay."
Let a man be naturally
as blithe as a bird, he will hardly be able to bear up year after year against
such a suicidal process; he will make his study a prison and his books the
warders of a gaol, while nature lies outside his window calling him to health
and beckoning him to joy. He who forgets the humming of the bees among the
heather, the cooing of the wood-pigeons in the forest, the song of birds in the
woods, the rippling of rills among the rushes, and the sighing of the wind
among the pines, needs not wonder if his heart forgets to sing and his soul
grows heavy. A day's breathing of fresh air upon the hills, or a few hours,
ramble in the beech woods? umbrageous calm, would sweep the cobwebs out of the
brain of scores of our toiling ministers who are now but half alive. A mouthful
of sea air, or a stiff walk in the wind's face, would not give grace to the
soul, but it would yield oxygen to the body, which is next best.
"Heaviest
the heart is in a heavy air,
Ev'ry wind that rises blows away despair."
The ferns and the
rabbits, the streams and the trouts, the fir trees and the squirrels, the primroses
and the violets, the farm-yard, the new-mown hay, and the fragrant hops—these
are the best medicine for hypochondriacs, the surest tonics for the declining,
the best refreshments for the weary. For lack of opportunity, or inclination,
these great remedies are neglected, and the student becomes a self-immolated
victim."
