Ezekiel 36:24

I will take you from among the heathen.

The benefits flowing from redemption

I. In carrying out the work of redemption God will call His people out of the world. “I will take you from among the heathen.” By nature His people are no better than other people. They were no better till grace made them so. Here are two children. They were born of one mother; nestled in one loving bosom; rocked in one cradle; baptized in one font. Reared under the same roof, they grew up under the same training; sat under the same ministry; and, in death not divided, are sleeping now, where their dust mingles in a common grave. But the one is taken, and the other left. This, a child of God, ascends to heaven; the other, alas! is lost. Mysterious fate! Yet who dare challenge the justice and decree of God? By nature this whole world is sunk in sin, and in a sense all men are idolaters. The Hindu reckons his divinities by thousands and tens of thousands; yet the world has a larger Pantheon; as many gods as it has objects, be they innocent or guilty, which usurp the place of Jehovah, and dethrone Him in the creature’s heart. Nor are men less idolaters if drunkards, though they pour out no libation to Bacchus, the god of wine; nor less idolaters, if impure, that they burn no incense at the shrine of Venus; nor less idolaters, if lovers of wealth, that they do not mould their gold into an image of Plutus, and, giving a shrine to what lies hoarded in their coffers, offer it their morning and evening prayers. It may therefore be justly said of all who have been converted by the grace of God, that He has taken them from among the heathen.

II. The power of Divine grace is strikingly displayed in this effectual calling. It is a remarkable fact that, while the baser metals are often diffused through the body of the rocks, gold and silver lie in veins, collected together in distinct metallic masses. They are in the rocks, but not of the rocks. Some believe that there was a time, long gone by, when, like other metals, these lay in intimate union with the mass of rock, until by virtue of some electric agency, their scattered atoms were put in motion, and, made to pass through the solid stone, were aggregated in those shining veins, where they now lie to the miner’s hand. These precious metals are the emblems of God’s people. And as by some power in nature God has separated them from the base and common earths, even so by the power of His grace will He separate His chosen from a reprobate and rejected world. They shall come at His call. It is in a state of deep ungodliness--without God, without the love of God, without holiness, without purity of heart, without solid peace of conscience--that grace finds all it saves. It is indeed amazing to see what grace will do, and where grace will grow; in what unlikely places God has His people, and out of what unfavourable circumstances He calls them. I have seen a tree proudly crowning the summit of a naked rock; and there, sending its roots out over the bare stone, and down into every cranny in search of food, it stood securely anchored by these moorings to the stormy crag. I have wondered how it could grow up there, starved on the bare rock, and how it had survived the rough, unkindly nursing of many a wintry blast. Yet, like some neglected, ragged child, who from early infancy has been familiar with adversities, it has lived and grown; it has stood erect on its weather-beaten crag when the pride of the valley has bent to the storm; and, like brave men, who, scorning to yield, nail their colours to the mast, there it maintains its defiant position, and keeps its green flag waving on nature’s rugged battlements. More wonderful still is it to see where the grace of God will live and grow. “Never despair” should be the motto of the Christian; and how ought it to keep hope alive under the darkest and most desponding circumstances, to see God calling grace out of the foulest sin! Look at this cold creeping worm! Playful childhood shrinks shuddering from its slimy touch; yet a few weeks, and with merry laugh and feet that press the flowery meadow that same childhood is hunting an insect which never alights upon the ground, but, flitting in painted beauty from flower to flower, drinks honeyed nectar from their fairy cups, and sleeps the short summer night away in the bosom of their perfumes. If that is the same boy, this is no less the self-same creature. Change most wonderful! yet but an imperfect emblem of the Divine transformation wrought on those who are transformed by the renewing of their minds. Glorious change! Have you experienced its Divine gracious influences?

III. God will make up the number of His people. “I will gather you out of all countries.” There are some pleasant gatherings in this world which are alloyed with pain. Christmas, the New Year, or a birthday time comes round, summoning the members of a scattered family. Some are dead and gone--“Joseph is not, and Simeon is not”; and a dark cloud hangs on a mother’s brow, as on the cheek of yet another her anxious eye, quick to see, discovers an ominous spot that threatens “to take Benjamin away.” There is a gathering also when, at the close of a hard-fought day, the roll of the regiment is called, and to familiar names there comes no answer back. They shall answer no trumpet but that which calls a world to judgment. When daylight breaks on the shore and the shipwreck, there is also a mustering and reckoning of numbers. There, a mother clasps and kisses the living babe which the waves had plucked from her arms, and she never hoped more to see; and here, a true brother cheers up the boy whom he held in a grasp strong as death, while, with the other hand buffeting the billows, he bore him safely to the beach. But many, less fortunate, are wringing their hands in the wildness of unavailing grief. Flying from group to group, distracted mother’s cry, Where is my child? These are mournful mutterings. In striking contrast to them look at the gathering in that land-locked creek on Melita’s shore:--It was a frightful storm; the coast is unknown; the ship, run ashore, grounds in deep water with nigh three hundred souls on board. “Some on boards, and some on broken pieces of the ship”; but, by whatever way it came to pass, it did come to pass, as the narrative tells, “they escaped all safe to land.” Even so shall it be with those of whom Jesus says, I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish. My Father that gave them Me is greater than all, and no man is able to pluck them out of My Father’s hand. Happy those who sail in the ship, and have embarked in the same good cause with Christ. The Lord knoweth them that are His; and all that His Father hath given Him He shall keep. But my text tells us not only that He will gather His people, but gather them out of all countries. Let those mark that who, indulging an extravagant patriotism, or shrivelled up in the cold and contracted spirit of bigotry, allow themselves to limit the Holy One of Israel, and say with the Jews of old, We have Abraham to our father, we are the people of the Lord; the temple of the Lord are we. God has people both where we look not for them, and know not of them. The Gospel is indigenous in no country, and yet belongs to all. Every sea is not paved with pearl shelves; nor does every soil grow vines and stately palms; nor does every mine sparkle with precious gems; nor do the streams of every land roll their waters over gold-glittering sands. These symbols of grace have a narrow range; not grace itself. She owns no lines of latitude or longitude. All climates are one to her. She wears no party badge; and belongs neither to caste, nor class, nor colour. With this truth, as by a zone of love, elastic enough to stretch round the globe, we would bind together the whole family of man. Let it awaken in Christian hearts an interest in every land, and an affection for every race.

IV. We are assured that God will bring all His people to glory, by the fact that His own honour, as well as their welfare, is concerned in the matter. When I think of the sins to be forgiven, and the difficulties to be overcome, the wonder seems, not that few reach heaven, but that any get there. We have read the story of voyages during which for nights the weary and storm-tossed sailors enjoyed no sleep, and for days saw no sun. Lying at one time becalmed beneath a fiery sky, at another time shivering amid fields of ice; here with sunken rocks around them, and treacherous currents there sweeping them on dangerous reefs, exposed to sudden squalls, long dark nights, and fearful tempests, the wonder was that their battered ship ever reached her port. Some while ago a vessel entered one of our western harbours, and all the town went out to see her. Well they might. She had left the American shore with a large and able-bodied crew. They have hardly lost sight of land when the pestilence boards them; victim drops after victim; another and another is committed to the deep: from deck to deck, from yard to yard, she pursues her prey; nor spreads her wings to leave that ill-fated ship till but two survive to work her over the broad waters of a wintry sea. And when, with providence at the helm, these two men, worn by toil and watching to ghastly skeletons, have brought their bark to land, and now kiss once more the wives and little ones they never thought more to see, and step once more on a green earth they never more hoped to touch, thousands throng the pier to see the sight, and hear the adventures of a voyage brought to such a happy issue against such dreadful odds. Yet there is never a bark drops anchor in heaven, nor a weary voyager steps out on its welcome strand, but is a greater wonder. Save for the assurance that what God hath begun He will finish, but for the promise that what concerns His people He will perfect, oh, how often would our hope of final blessedness expire! To compare small things with great, our heavenward journey, with its dangers and changes, has sometimes appeared to me like that of a passenger to our own lovely, romantic city. On these iron roads he now rolls along rich and fertile plains; now, raised to a dangerous and dizzy height, he flies across intervening valleys; now he rushes through a narrow gorge excavated in the solid rock, with nothing seen but heaven; now, plunging into the earth, he dashes into some gaping cavern, and for a while loses sight even of heaven itself; then again he sweeps forth and on in sunshine, till the domes and towers and temples of the city burst upon his view; and, these now near at hand, he concludes his journey by passing through an emblem of death. Entering a gloomy arch, he advances slowly and in darkness through a place of graves, and then all of a sudden emerges into day, to feast his eyes on the glorious scenery, and receive the kind welcomes and congratulations of waiting friends, as he finds himself safe “in the midst of the city.” (T. Guthrie, D. D.)