The times most
favourable to fits of depression (spiritual discouragement), so far as I have experienced, may be summed
up in a brief catalogue. First among them I must mention the hour of
great success. When at last a long-cherished desire is fulfilled, when
God has been glorified greatly by our means, and a great triumph achieved, then
we are apt to faint. It might be imagined that amid special favours our soul
would soar to heights of ecstasy, and rejoice with joy unspeakable, but it is
generally the reverse. The Lord seldom exposes his warriors to the perils of
exultation over victory; he knows that few of them can endure such a test, and
therefore dashes their cup with bitterness. See Elias after the fire has fallen
from heaven, after Baal's priests have been slaughtered and the rain has
deluged the barren land For him no notes of self-complacent music, no strutting
like a conqueror in robes of triumph; he flees from Jezebel, and feeling the
revulsion of his intense excitement, he prays that he may die, lie who must
never see death, yearns after the rest of the grave, even as Caesar, the
world's monarch, in his moments of pain cried like a sick girl. Poor human
nature cannot bear such strains as heavenly triumphs bring to it; there must
come a reaction. Excess of joy or excitement must be paid for by subsequent
depressions. While the trial lasts, the strength is equal to the emergency; but
when it is over, natural weakness claims the right to show itself. Secretly sustained,
Jacob can wrestle all night, but he must limp in the morning when the contest
is over, lest he boast himself beyond measure. Paul may be caught up to the
third heaven, and hear unspeakable things, but a thorn in time flesh, a
messenger of Satan to buffet him, must be the inevitable sequel. Men cannot
bear unalloyed happiness; even good men are not yet fit to have "their
brows with laurel and with myrtle bound," without enduring secret
humiliation to keep them in their proper place. Whirled from off our feet by a
revival, carried aloft by popularity, exalted by success in soul-winning, we
should be as the chaff which the wind driveth away, were it not that the
gracious discipline of mercy breaks the ships of our vainglory with a strong
east wind, and casts us shipwrecked, naked and forlorn, upon the Rock of Ages.
Before any great
achievement, some measure of
the same depression is very usual. Surveying the difficulties before us, our
hearts sink within us. The sons of Anak stalk before us, and we are as
grasshoppers in our own sight in their presence. The cities of Canaan are
walled up to heaven, and who are we that we should hope to capture them? We are
ready to cast down our weapons and take to our heels. Nineveh is a great city,
and we would flee unto Tarshish sooner than encounter its noisy crowds. Already
we look for a ship which may bear us quietly away from the terrible scene, and
only a dread of tempest restrains our recreant footsteps. Such was my
experience when I first became a pastor in London. My success appalled me; and
the thought of the career which it seemed to open up, so far from elating me,
cast me into the lowest depth, out of which I uttered my miserere and
found no room for a gloria in excelsis. Who
was I that I should continue to lead so great a multitude? I would betake me to
my village obscurity, or emigrate to America, and find a solitary nest in the
backwoods, where I might be sufficient for the things which would be demanded
of me. It was just then that the curtain was rising upon my life-work, and I
dreaded what it might reveal. I hope I was not faithless, but I was timorous
and filled with a sense of my own unfitness. I dreaded the work which a
gracious providence had prepared for me. I felt myself a mere child, and trembled
as I heard the voice which said, "Arise, and thresh the mountains, and
make them as chaff." This depression comes over me whenever the Lord is
preparing a larger blessing for my ministry; the cloud is black before it
breaks, and overshadows before it yields its deluge of mercy. Depression has
now become to me as a prophet in rough clothing, a John the Baptist, heralding
the nearer coming of my Lord's richer benison. So have far better men found it.
The scouring of the vessel has fitted it for the Master's use. Immersion in
suffering has preceded the baptism of the Holy Ghost. Fasting gives an appetite
for the banquet. The Lord is revealed in the backside of the desert, while his
servant keepeth the sheep and waits in solitary awe. The wilderness is the way
to Canaan. The low valley leads to the towering mountain. Defeat prepares for
victory. The raven is sent forth before the dove. The darkest hour of the night
precedes the day-dawn. The mariners go down to the depths, but the next wave
makes them mount to the heaven: their soul is melted because of trouble before
he bringeth them to their desired haven.
In the midst of a long
stretch of unbroken labour, the same affliction may be looked for. The bow cannot be always bent
without fear of breaking. Repose is as needful to the mind as sleep to the
body. Our Sabbaths are our days of toil, and if we do not rest upon some other
day we shall break down. Even the earth must lie fallow and have her Sabbaths,
and so must we. Hence the wisdom and compassion of our Lord, when he said to
his disciples, "Let us go into the desert and rest awhile." What!
when the people are fainting? When the multitudes are like sheep upon the
mountains without a shepherd? Does Jesus talk of rest? When Scribes and
Pharisees, like grievous wolves, are rending the flock, does he take his
followers on an excursion into a quiet resting place? Does some red-hot zealot
denounce such atrocious forgetfulness of present and pressing demands? Let him
rave in his folly. The Master knows better than to exhaust his servants and
quench the light of Israel. Rest time is not waste time. It is economy to
gather fresh strength. Look at the mower in the summer a day, with so much to
cut down ere the sun sets. He pauses in his labour, is he a sluggard? He looks for
his stone, and begins to draw it up and down his scythe, with
"rink-a-tink—rink-a-tink—rink-a-tink." Is that idle music? is he
wasting precious moments? How much he might have mown while he has been ringing
out those notes on his scythe! But he is sharpening his tool, and he will do
far more when once again he gives his strength to those long sweeps which lay
the grass prostrate in rows before him. Even thus a little pause prepares the
mind for greater service in the good cause. Fishermen must mend their nets, and
we must every now and then repair our mental waste and set our machinery in
order for future service. To tug the oar from day to day, hike a galley-slave
who knows no holidays, suits not mortal men. Mill-streams go on and on for
ever, but we must have our pauses and our intervals. Who can help being out of
breath when the race is continued without intermission? Even beasts of burden
must be turned out to grass occasionally; the very sea pauses at ebb and flood;
earth keeps the Sabbath of the wintry months; and man, even when exalted to be
God's ambassador, must rest or faint; must trim his lamp or let it burn low;
must recruit his vigour or grow prematurely old. It is wisdom to take
occasional furlough. In the long run, we shall do more by sometimes doing less.
On, on, on for ever, without recreation, may suit spirits emancipated from this
"heavy clay," but while we are in this tabernacle, we must every now
and then cry halt, and serve the Lord by holy inaction and consecrated leisure.
Let no tender conscience doubt the lawfulness of going out of harness for
awhile, but learn from the experience of others the necessity and duty of
taking timely rest.
