Isaiah 58:6-7

A PLEA FOR THE DISTRESSED

Isaiah 58:6. Is not this the fast that I have chosen? &c.

In the former verses of this chapter we have a description of the state of heart of the Jewish people in the course of their mysterious preparation for destruction.… They are in a condition of all others the most appalling—the condition of the self-deceived (Isaiah 58:2, &c.). The Lord therefore defines in His own vindication what is the sort of humiliation which alone He will accept and honour. There is no contradiction here of the doctrine that is taught in other passages of Scripture, in which the fast is divinely decreed, and the solemn assembly ordered by Divine command. There are occasions which justify, nay, which even require national prostration and sorrow; and there is no sublimer spectacle than the spectacle of a great people moved as by one common impulse to peniteuce and prayer. But in the case before us there was both a lie in the mouth and a reserve in the consecration; there was self-righteous satisfaction in the act, and there was a dependence upon it for the recompense of the reward. There is nothing new in the occasion which has brought us together. We meet under the shadow of a great calamity. There is something in the magnitude of the calamity for which we plead which removes it altogether out of the routine of ordinary charity.… Only once in a lifetime is it possible that such a crisis as this will occur. It is the cry of thousands stricken with the blight of famine from no fault of their own, &c. The present, therefore, is an occasion of national calamity and concern and sympathy; and they especially who have learned at the feet of Jesus are bound to be helpful in their measure, in order that their good may not be evil spoken of, and in order that their religion, in its very comeliest development, may shine forth before the observation of men.

The one point I want especially, without any sort of formal or elaborate treatment, to impress upon you now, is the point which lurks in the last verse of the text; there is my claim—“from thine own flesh.”

God has made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell upon the face of the whole earth. This is the announcement of a grand fact which has never yet been successfully disproved—the essential underlying identity of the human race, however chequered by the varieties of clime and of language—one deep, constant, ineradicable identity which links man to man all over the world. The old Roman could say, “I am a man: nothing, therefore, that is human can be foreign to me.” And Christianity takes that sentiment and exalts it into a surpassing obligation, and stamps upon it the royal seal of heaven. Of course this general law must be modified by minor and smaller varieties, or it will be practically useless. The sympathy that goes out after the world gets lost in the magnitude of the area over which it has to travel; and the very vastness and vagueness of the object will of itself tend to fritter away the intenseness of the feeling. That is a very suspicious attachment which clings to nobody in particular, which rejoices no heart with its affection, which brightens no hearthstone by its light. Hence private affections are recognised and hallowed and commended as the sources from which all public virtues are to spring. There is nothing in them inconsistent with the love of the entire race; they prepare for it, and they lead to it, and they scoop out the channels through which its tributaries are to flow. Who shall sympathise so well with the oppressed people as the man who rejoices in his own roof-tree sacred, and in his own altar-home? &c. Now, these two obligations—the claim of private affection and the claim of universal sympathy—are not incompatible; but they fulfil mutually the highest uses of each other. God has taught in the Scripture the lesson of universal brotherhood, and men may not gainsay the teaching. I cannot love all men equally; my own instincts, and society’s requirements, and God’s commands, all unite in reprobation of that. My wealth of affection must go out after home, and friends, and children, and kindred, and country; but my pity must not lock itself in them; my regard must not confine itself within those narrow limits merely; my pity must go out farther. Wherever there is human need, and human peril, my regard must fasten upon the man, although he may have flung from him the crown of his manhood in anger. I dare not despise him, because, in his filth and in his sin, as he lies before me prostrate and dishonoured, there is that spark of heavenly flame which God the Father kindled, over which God the Spirit yearns with intensest yearning, and which God the Eternal Son spilt His own heart’s blood to redeem. There is no man now that can ask the infidel question of Cain, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” God has made man his brother’s keeper; we are to love our neighbours as ourselves; and if, in the contractedness of some narrow Hebrew spirit, we ask the question, “Who is my neighbour?” there comes the full pressure of utterance to enforce, and to authenticate the answer, “Man is thy neighbour; every one whom penury has rasped or sorrow startled—every one whom plague hath smitten or the curse hath banned—every one from whose home the dearlings have vanished, or around whose heart the pall has been drawn” (P. D. 2387).

I observe further that, as it is now, so in every age since the earliest, there have been distinctions of society in the world. It must be so in the nature of things; it is part of God’s benevolent allotment, as well as part of God’s original economy. A level creation, if you ever come upon it, is not the creation of God, &c. And so it is in society. It is of necessity a union of unequals; there could be no mutual cohesion, or mutual dependence, if we were one perpetual level. God has never made it so; in the nature of things, it could never continue so; and if by the frenzy of some revolutionary deluge all the world were submerged into one level of waters today, you may be sure that some aspiring mountain tops would come struggling through the billows to-morrow. It must be so; it is perfectly impossible, in accordance with God’s known laws, and in accordance with the nature of things, that there should be equality of society in the world. “God hath set the poor in his place,” as well as the rich, for He has said expressly, “He that despiseth the poor reproacheth”—not him, but—“his Maker.” And the announcement of the Saviour, “The poor ye have always with you,” is not only the averment of a fact, but it is a commendation of them, as Christ’s clients, to the succour and to the help of His Church. This benevolence, moreover, is claimed for them, specially enjoined on their behalf, because of their abiding existence as a class of the community (Deuteronomy 15:11). Hence the Saviour has especially commended them unto those who bear His name and who feel His affection shed abroad within their hearts, and He has commended them by the tenderest of all possible ties—“Inasmuch,” &c. And, moreover, the class from which the poor is composed will always be the largest class in society—must be so. The poor compose the army, gather the harvest, plough the waters, construct and work the machinery, and are the stalwart purveyors for all the necessity and comfort of life. Who shall say that they have not a claim upon the resources of the state they serve—aye, and in seasons of special need and in special emergency, upon the charity and upon the justice of the many who are enriched by their toil? Once recognise the relationship, and the claim inevitably follows. A sense of service rendered, and of obligation thereby, will deepen that claim into a closer and closer compass; and religion, attaching to it her holiest sanctions, lifts the recognition of the claim into a duty which the Christian cannot violate without sin. “I will have mercy and not sacrifice.” “Whosoever seeth his brother in need,” &c. Nay, as I said before—and I return to it because no appeal can be so inimitable in its tenderness and so omnipotent in its power—Christ Himself, once poor in the travail of His own incarnate life, and touched therefore with the feeling of their infirmities, adopts them as His own peculiar care, and, pointing to them as they shiver in rags or perish with hunger, gives them to the care of His Church, that they may be warmed and fed, pronouncing at the same time the benediction which in itself is heaven, “Inasmuch,” &c.

I just want to remind you for a moment or two of some of the peculiar circumstances which make this claim more pressing in connection with the liberality of the Churches now. You may meditate, if you please, for a moment upon some of the circumstances of the poor man’s lot, in order to enforce the appeal which Scripture and which reason unite to announce and to commend. I might remind you, for example, of the nature of the occupation in which so many are obliged to pass their lives. Their life is for the most part one dreary monotony of labour. His condition is like that of a traveller in the desert, going on and on through the stifling and interminable sand, with hardly an oasis breaking the wilderness, with hardly an Elim in which to quench his thirst. Day after day, through a cheerless round of drudging duties, must the poor man go—constantly the same—the mouth always demanding the labour of the hands. The family grow up around him, and the children are clamorous for bread. The task must be performed. Ceaselessly the wheel goes round. A strange failing comes upon the heart, but he must work; the lion limbs lose their suppleness, but he must work; the eyes get dim. and troubled with a confusion of age, but he must work—until at last, perhaps, a strange paralysis seizes him, and he reels and dies, leaving his wife to the cold bufferings of the world, and his children to the stranger’s charity, or perhaps to an early and a welcome grave. And then I might remind you of the circumscriptions of the poor from many of the sources of human enjoyment. They do not start fairly with their fellows in the world of intellectual acquirement. To them the sciences are sealed. Rarely can they kindle before a great picture, or travel to a sunny landscape, or be thrilled beneath the spell of an orator’s mighty words. Not to them are the pleasures of sense—the ample board, the convenient dwelling, the gathered friends, and all the appearances of comfort, with which wealth has carpeted its own pathway to the tomb. Theirs is a perpetual struggle between the winner and the spender, and unless they are blest at home, and happy in the consolations of religion, life will be to them a joyless birth—a weariness that ceases not; or if their does come a brief respite, it will be one that gives no leisure for love or hope, but only time for tears. Then I would remind you, too, of the pressure with which ordinary evils—evils to which we are all liable—fall upon the circumstances of the poor. There is no part of the world where the curse has not penetrated. Man is born to trouble everywhere, but all these common ills of life fall with heavier penalties upon the poor. They have to bear the penalties in their condition as well as in their experience. They cannot purchase the skill of many healers, the comforts which soothe the sickness, the delicacies which restore the health; and when the wasting sickness seizes them, they have no time to recover thoroughly. And then the maintenance of the poor—the bare maintenance—depends often upon contingencies which he can neither foresee nor control. If labour fails, bread fails, and homes fail. The more provident and thrifty may struggle against the coming calamity for a while, and live upon the results of their thrift and their care; but you can trace, as you may this day if that famine is protracted, the inevitable progress downwards. One by one the comforts are obliged to be parted with, until there is extremity of desolation. And then that is not all. The sickness comes. The fever follows hard upon the famine; through the noisome court the hot blast sweeps, and the pure air flees away at his presence. Comfort has gone; strength has gone; hope has gone. Death has nothing to do but take possession. And this is no fancy; it is no picture. There are thousands of the homes of your fellows—of “your own flesh,” where this ruin is enacting to-day. And then I might remind you again, of the temptations which come especially and more fiercely in connection with the poor man’s lot. The poor man must struggle for quiescence when he sees that the crumbs “from the rich man’s table” wasted, would furnish him not only with a meal but with a banquet. The poor man must have a stern fight to be contented when he sees, striving all his life as he does to be honest, that he is splashed with the mud from the carriage where fraud and profligacy ride. Hence it is that in times of distress, in times of discontentment, grievances are multiplied; there is a cry that is difficult to repress against those above them; they are denounced as selfish, tyrannical, proud. What more shall I say? It remains now surely that you address yourselves to the duty. Your pity, your philanthropy, your patriotism, and your religion have opportunities of charity to-day which they have very rarely had before. Let that charity flow as it ought—undiminished by any solitary misgiving, waiting to settle apparent discrepancies, or to rail at apparent apathy, or to solve economical problems—waiting to do all that until the famine is driven off from the heart of the hungry, and until the strickeu and sorrowful can again look up and smile. The duty is one from which none are exempt. God forbid that it should be an offering of the rich alone! Desolate homes, starving children, patient women from whose hollow eyes the worm looks out already, men smitten from their manhood into feebleness until they have lost almost all remembrance of the bold and brave beings they were—these are our clients. “Inasmuch,” &c.—that is our never-failing argument. “Ye know the grace,” &c.—that is our example. “She hath done what she could”—that is our measure. “Light breaking forth as the morning, health springing forth speedily, righteousness going before you, the glory of the Lord your reward, light rising in obscurity, darkness as the noonday, the satisfaction of the soul in drought, the land like a watered garden and like a spring of water whose waters fail not,”—there, Divinely spoken, is our “exceeding great reward.”—W. M. Punshoa, LL.D. (in aid of the Fund for the Relief of the Lancashire Distress): Sermons.

Isaiah 58:7; Isaiah 58:10. BENEVOLENCE.

I. Is a Christian duty.
II. Has its seat in the soul. Is the expression of the soul. Finds its demonstration in practical fruits.
III. Must be associated with humility.
IV. Is specially acceptable to God.
V. Its reward.

Light in the soul—on the path—on the condition (Isaiah 58:8).—Dr. Lyth.