LETTERS of J. C. Philpot (1841
- 1845)
February 26, 1841
My dear friend, Joseph Parry—I desire deeply to sympathize with you
in your present distress. I believe you will find it hereafter to contain in
it the root and seed of the best of blessings. I know that it is useless to
try to comfort you, that being the Lord's sole prerogative. He alone can
bring your soul out of prison, and I believe He will do it to the glory of
His holy Name. If the Lord had meant to have destroyed you, He would never
have thus applied His holy Law to your conscience, but would have let you go
on in delusion and been in peace and quiet.
I believe the soul is often quickened before the Law is
experimentally known, and this, perhaps, is your case. Look at all the
saints of God—such as Hart, Bunyan, Huntington, Barry. They have all passed
under the bond of the Law before solid deliverance came. The Lord is able to
deliver. He hears the cry of the prisoner, and preserves those who are
appointed to die. Jesus is just such a Saviour as you need—mighty to save,
able to save to the uttermost all who come to God by Him. You have never
been in such deep waters before, but when the Lord shall bring you out, your
joys will rise as high. My dear friend, can you not cast yourself at a
throne of mercy and grace? Can you not confess how base you have been and
are? Can you not groan forth your soul to the Lord, and seek salvation,
mercy, and pardon from Him? You condemn yourself as a presumptuous wretch.
Indeed, indeed, we have, all that know our own hearts, reason to cry and
groan under the sin of presumption. But did you ever take up religion as a
matter of gain, or ever were allowedly a hypocrite? I never heard you boast
of things beyond your experience, or talk of liberty and assurance when it
was not given you. I would gladly encourage your poor drooping soul to wait
at mercy's doorposts until light appears. Thousands have been saved out of
as deep waters as you are now wading in; and why not you—oh, why not you?
I would advise you, my dear friend, in your present state
to have nothing to do with the chapel service, as Satan is sure to employ it
as a weapon against you. Let Mr. Dredge and Mr. Tuckwell carry it on as well
as they can.
I cannot allow a post to elapse without dropping you a
line, but hope to write again in a few days. I will not ask you to write,
but shall be glad, and indeed very anxious, to hear from friend Tuckwell how
you are in soul matters. My dear friend, is there any limit to the Lord's
power and love? Oh, may He quickly appear!
Your affectionate Friend,
J. C. P.
March 2, 1841
My dear friend, Joseph Parry—As I wrote you so hasty a letter the
other day, I feel disposed to drop you a few lines of sympathy again without
waiting for an answer to my last.
I fully believe that you will one day, if not soon, see
and feel that the present fiery trial through which you are passing contains
wrapped up in it a spiritual and eternal blessing. "I will bring the third
part through the fire;" "I counsel you to buy of Me gold tried in the fire."
Are not these the words of Him who cannot lie? The Lord has seen good for
your profit and His own glory to plunge you into these waves of trouble; but
He who has thrust you down can, and doubtless will, one day lift you up.
What has produced your trouble? Not the commission of some outward sin to
disgrace you before men; not any providential reverses; but the application
of the Word of God with power to your conscience. But why should God apply
His word to your soul unless He has a gracious purpose in it? The Law was
never applied to the conscience of a reprobate. The Lord allows the lost
to glide smoothly on until they drop into hell. You have often sighed
and panted after a divine deliverance into the light, life, liberty, joy,
and peace of the Gospel. But, perhaps, you little thought that you would be
plunged into such terrors, fears, and alarms as to be, as it were, without
hope; and that this would be the way to know Christ and the power of His
resurrection. But when the blessed change shall come you will see and feel
how needful all this work was to endear the blessing.
I dare say you think that you are not a common sinner,
but a gospel sinner, a presumptuous hypocrite that has rushed into religion
of your own accord. I think, my dear friend, few know you better than I do.
Our long and unreserved intimacy has, of course, made me well acquainted
with you spiritually as well as temporally. I will not allow that you have
been a presumptuous gospel sinner; I know better. I have never seen allowed,
indulged presumption in you. Like myself, you have a vile, presumptuous,
hypocritical heart, but it has been with you as with Paul, "That which I do,
I allow not." You have had more or less of a tender conscience. You have had
at times some seasons of solemn prayer to a heart-searching God; you have
felt a knitting of soul to the people of God; you have esteemed such as Mrs.
Wild, Dorcas, Edith, etc., as the excellent of the earth. I will not say
anything of outward sacrifices, as none who know themselves can take such
evidences. But I would appeal to inward feelings and scriptural evidences.
But you say, "They are all swept away, and I cannot find
in myself one evidence." No! if you could, there would not be such a
thorough sweeping of the house. But cannot you cast yourself as the vilest,
the worst, the basest of wretches, at the feet of sovereign mercy? Oh, my
friend, is your case, however seemingly desperate, beyond the reach of
Jesus' arm, or the efficacy of His atoning blood? Is He not mighty to save;
and has He not saved, pardoned, and blessed thousands as black, as guilty,
as helpless, and as hopeless, as you feel yourself to be? I know that you
cannot lay hold of any truth of this nature. But your fear, and guilt, and
terror, and despair do not alter the case, nor render Him less able, less
willing to save. He is able to save to the uttermost all who come
unto God by Him. You are not beyond "the uttermost," nor ever will be.
Many now in glory have sunk as low, many lower than you.
Look at Barry, and Huntington, and Gibbs, and Wade; all have sunk below a
hope in God's mercy, and all have been brought out to praise His glorious
name.
A well-taught and well-exercised man, who could go in and
out before the people, would be very desirable for you at the present
juncture. I think you will find a suitable letter in the Standard,
which was written to me by "a Sinner Saved" (A. Charlwood, Norwich), in
December number. You will see there what a state of despair he was in for
five years, and what a deliverance he enjoyed. He now seems to live in the
enjoyment of pardoning love. The first letter in this month's number, signed
"G. M." (George Muskett), is from the young man whom he mentions as his
minister, and who seems to be a well-taught man.
I will not weary you, my dear friend, with more now. May
the Lord bring you out of prison, smile into your soul, and set you at happy
liberty. Who can tell the boundless riches of His grace to the vilest of the
vile?
Accept my affectionate sympathies and prayers for your
deliverance.
Your affectionate Friend,
J. C. P.
October 4, 1841
My dear Friend, Joseph Parry—. . . I would rejoice should it please
the Lord to bless Daniel Smart's ministry to your soul; to wait for a
deliverance amid many sinking fears whether it will ever come is trying
work. Fear, guilt, bondage, and self-pity are painful companions.
Hope delayed makes the heart sick, but there is no doubt a needs-be for the
delay. It says, "He brought down their heart with labor; they fell down, and
there was none to help." But it is not a little labor that can bring the
heart down. The word implies long continued toil, and that they became faint
and weary with perpetual exertion. Could you see matters from a right point
of view, you would doubtless feel that your present state of soul trouble is
far preferable to carelessness and carnality. In those wretched states of
mind, deliverance is not desired nor sought after; but you feel that you
must perish without it. It is a good thing to be crying for mercy, and
sighing forth the desires of the soul, for the promise-keeping God has given
many sweet promises to those who seek His face.
I trust that my late visit to Allington may be manifested
to have been of the Lord. I felt more, I believe, of the power and presence
of the Lord than I have often felt before during my former visits. I am much
obliged to you and Mrs. Parry for your kind hospitality.
Your affectionate friend,
J. C. P.
October 15, 1841
My dear friend, Isaac Harrison—Our letters crossed on the road, as
you would probably perceive by the date of mine.
It will not be in my power to go to Leicester for a
Lord's-day this year, as I have been absent so many already. Next Lord's-day
at Godmanchester will be the sixteenth that I have been absent at different
intervals since the spring, and as this already exceeds by three or four
Sundays my usual times of absence, I must now stay at home for some time to
come. I think, however, I can promise (D.V.) two week evenings next month,
November 10th and 11th, as I feel a desire to give you a little assistance,
though I cannot go on a Lord's-day. I have not yet spoken to the friends,
but doubt not to obtain their consent.
It is well to be on our guard against crafty and
designing professors of religion; and yet I believe, especially in the
matter of pecuniary assistance, we may carry our caution too far. Our
covetous heart is very ready to suggest reasons why we should not assist
those who are in need, and we are glad to catch at the idea that they are
hypocrites, to save our own selves. But we are to do good to all men,
especially to those who are of the household of faith. A man in distress is
a fit object for relief, and it becomes those whom God has blessed with
abundance to be "ready to distribute." If he is a child of God, he has a
greater claim upon our sympathy, and to him it should be given freely; but
it seems to me that to say, "I will give to none but those who are commended
to my conscience as living souls," has a strong tendency to shut up a man's
affections of compassion and foster a spirit of covetousness. Poor Morse,
with his large family, is an object of compassion, even if he be not a
minister of righteousness. Mr. Ireson gave him, I think, nearly a new suit
of clothes when a little assistance was raised for him at Cliffe. The Lord
has blessed you with abundance, and, in so doing, has made you a steward of
His bounty for others. I trust you will excuse the freedom of these remarks,
which have been drawn from me from a feeling I had in reading your letter.
I doubt not that you have your trials, and will have
more. Standing as the head of a cause in a large professing town will bring
with it plenty of trials, and your religion can only be proved to be genuine
by being put into the furnace. An untried religion is no religion, and he
who has no cross here will have no crown hereafter.
Remember me kindly to your sisters and Mrs. Hardy, and
believe me,
Yours sincerely, for the truth's sake,
J. C. P.
January 28, 1842
[Miss Richmond kept a school for young ladies.]
My dear friend, Miss Richmond—I feel so unable to give wise and spiritual
counsel that I hardly know what to write in answer to your letter. My carnal
mind would advise one thing, and my better judgment another. I feel for you
temporally and spiritually, and would be sorry to hear that you were obliged
to give up your school, and leave Stadham; but I have usually found whatever
perplexities and difficulties occur in our path, that they are such
more from our own crookedness and waywardness, than from what they are in
themselves. The path is straight enough, but our eyes look crookedly at it,
and then the road appears to be crooked. Were our eye single, the path would
be plain and clear; but the films of self-seeking and flesh-pleasing darken
in our view the path itself. We often know not how to act, not because the
right way is difficult to find, but because the road is too rough and thorny
for our tender and ease-loving feet.
But it is in this way, I think, that the Lord tries the
strength and reality of faith. He brings the soul, as it were, to a certain
point in the road, where He sets this question before it, "Will you serve Me
or yourself? Will you act with a single eye to My glory, or please your
flesh?" All looks dark and gloomy; no possible way of deliverance appears,
and there is nothing but the naked word of God, lying with more or less
weight upon the conscience. Now if the soul is secretly strengthened to
stand on the Lord's side, and not hearken to the flesh, deliverance will
sooner or later come. But if the flesh be pleased, bondage and the rod will
follow. See this in the case of Abraham (Gen. 22), Moses (Heb. 11:24-26),
and the three children (Dan. 3). These would not consult the flesh, but
acted in faith, and to them all deliverance came.
Your present difficulties seem to be two—1. Whether you
should teach the Church catechism? 2. Whether you should have with the
children what is termed "family prayer"? The first seems to be the more easy
to answer. In the first place, your own convictions; and in the second, the
word that you received, as you believe, from the Lord ["Be faithful unto
death, and I will give you a crown of life," Rev. 2:10.] seem quite
sufficient to decide that matter. You would be rebelling, not merely against
light in your judgment, but also against the special word of promise in your
soul, were you to draw back to consent to teach the children the catechism.
You know that whatever they are in Covenant purposes, they are not
manifestly "members of Christ, children of God, and the inheritors of the
kingdom of heaven," still less were they made such when sprinkled at the
font. I cannot see how you can swerve here without positive sin.
As to the other point, I cannot speak so decidedly.
Family prayer might be preserved, and yet not a form persevered in. You
might offer up a few petitions in the presence of the children, in which you
might keep your conscience clear of, at least, wilfully mocking God. Their
inattention is not your sin, and I think a few simple words might be offered
up by you which need not pain your conscience, and which would yet preserve
you from the imputation of utterly neglecting any recognition of God in your
family. I do not think that you could conscientiously teach them or hear
them what is called "say their prayers" individually; but I do not see that
you are called upon to prevent or forbid them doing so, if they had been
taught so to do before they came to you. I cannot say how I would act under
similar circumstances; but I seem at present to feel this, that if I had a
pupil who had been taught to pray before he came under my care, I would not
forbid him, though I would not hear him. I could not make the child
understand why he should not say his prayers without leading him to believe
that there was no such thing to be attended to as prayer, because I could
not make him understand the difference between carnal and spiritual prayer.
If I were to teach him, or hear him say prayers, I am so far mocking God,
and sinning against light, but the child has not my knowledge, and does not
at any rate wilfully mock God thereby.
But, indeed, it is a most difficult point, and one on
which special light is needed for our individual guidance. I can only refer
you to the "Wonderful Counselor," out of whose mouth comes knowledge and
understanding. You need much wisdom, much grace, much faith, much strength,
which the Lord alone can supply you with. May you be much at the throne. "If
any man lacks wisdom," etc. (James 1:5). The Lord is able to deliver you,
and amply provide for you temporally as well as spiritually. "It is better
to suffer than to sin." The Lord can send you children from most unexpected
quarters, or so turn the hearts of the parents that they shall disregard
what in your mind is burdensome. A lady who keeps a school at Kensington,
and is a member at Zoar, was very fearful of losing her school when she
joined the church, but her school has never more flourished. So full of
unbelief are our hearts, so able to deliver is the Lord.
I am sure that it is our wisdom, as well as our mercy,
when we can act as conscience bids. None were ever eventually losers by
making sacrifices for Christ. With all my unbelief, I must say that He has
been faithful to His promise (Mark 10:29, 30).
I shall be glad to hear from you again, and hope that the
Lord may direct you in all things. I was very sorry to hear of poor
Brookland's heavy affliction in the loss of his little girl. Give him my
love and sincere sympathy in his heavy trial.
My love to the friends; greet them by name. My kind
remembrances to your sisters.
Believe me to be, yours very sincerely,
J. C. P.
March 14, 1842
My dear friend, Arthur Charlwood—I take shame to myself that I have
delayed so long to answer your kind and experimental letter. I was so much
pleased with it that I intended to send it to the Standard, but I
have somehow or other mislaid it and cannot put my hand upon it. Your poetry
would have appeared in the Standard, but it was lost upon the road
there. I sent it with something of my own, and it never reached its
destination. I could not understand why J. Gadsby did not send me the proof;
and when I wrote and asked the reason I received for an answer that he had
never received anything of the kind. I therefore concluded it was the will
of the Lord that my piece should not appear, and did not attempt to rewrite
it. I am sorry, however, that it involved the loss of your piece too.
I have been far from well of late, having suffered from
pain in my chest and cough. Sometimes I have thought it has been sent to
bring me to my end. This has produced some searchings of heart, and I have,
at times, felt a spirit of grace and supplication whereby I have been
enabled, in a very close and urgent manner, to wrestle with the Lord for His
blessing. I have, however, chiefly desired Himself, as knowing and feeling
that all gifts fall short of the blessed Giver Himself. I can join in Paul's
earnest breathing, "That I may know Him, and the power of His resurrection."
O what treasures of wisdom and knowledge and grace are locked up in those
few words—"That I may know Him!" The creatures we soon know, and,
generally speaking, the more we know any man the worse we esteem him.
But this glorious God-man cannot be known but by special revelation; and
then how small a part do we understand; for who has sought out the Almighty
to perfection?
All below the skies is uncertain and unsatisfactory. Day
after day comes and goes, and finds as well as leaves us jaded and tired of
the things of time and sense. What rest is there for a restless soul in this
polluted world? We must die to it and die out of it before abiding peace and
rest can be enjoyed. But here the flesh shrinks, reason fails, and nature
stands aghast. To die in order to live, to put off the mortal to become
immortal, to firmly believe this, and be willing to die to obtain it, what a
triumph of faith is here! I cannot say I am in the spot. I shrink, and turn
away from the gloomy portal. Jesus has abolished death and brought life and
immortality to light; but I need the sweet application of that truth to my
soul.
I hope the Lord still encourages you to go laboring on in
the vineyard. Many are our disappointments and humbling lessons in it. I
sometimes think I am the dullest, blindest, least able to speak to
edification, of all the ministers of truth. I can find neither text nor
matter, neither thoughts, feelings, words nor power. I seem to labor all in
vain, to beat the air, to thresh chaff and merely stir up dust, to stupefy,
blind, and suffocate myself and my hearers. I cry to God for dew, savor, and
power; but feel dry, dead, and barren. And should I feel otherwise, and I
have some little enlargement of heart and mouth, there is a cursed something
in me which would rob God of all the glory and burn incense to my own drag,
though my sighs and cries for help previously should seem sufficient to
teach my doltish heart that in me dwells no such good thing as unction and
power.
We would not dare to serve our earthly benefactors so,
and after receiving their liberality coolly button up our pockets and say we
are indebted to them for nothing, for that they never gave us a penny. Truly
the Lord must be stronger than I and prevail; truly He must overcome me and
melt me into faith and love, by proving in me that His grace superabounds
over all the aboundings of my iniquity. As the hymn says—"Your mercy is more
than a match for my heart." And I am sure that nothing but
superabounding, victorious, overshadowing, and overpowering grace will
subdue me to the feet of Jesus and slaughter my idols. God knows what is
in man, which legal preachers and dead Calvinists do not. It is not a man's
head that needs subduing, renewing, melting, and winning. The 'law' works
wrath, 'dry doctrine' works presumption, 'pharisaism' produces
self-complacency, the 'letter' genders strife of words, and a 'dead
profession' begets all manner of hypocrisy; while all the time sin, Satan,
self, and the world reign and riot supreme in the carnal mind. The gates of
the citadel are shut against God and godliness until the Prince of peace
comes to take possession, and moves and melts the heart to realize, embrace,
and submit to His blessed scepter.
"Lord," I sometimes say, "take my heart; subdue and melt
it, and make it all that You would have it to be." But, alas! idols too
often lift up their heads in it, darkness covers it, the wild boar out of
the forest destroys it, dogs bark, swine burrow and grunt, and vultures
prowl about to pick up carrion in it; so that it may be said, "What ails you
now, that you are full of stirs, a tumultuous city?" The voice alone of the
Prince of peace can still these stirs and make a great calm, wherein He is
heard alone.
I am glad to hear that the Lord continues to smile upon
the cause at Jireh. If room be really needed, an enlargement cannot be
objected to, if done prudently and economically. I can hold out no
expectation of paying a visit to Norwich this year, being obliged to
diminish instead of increase my pulpit labors. I have even written to the
friends in London to decline my annual visit this year. They have written,
however, to say that, having been unsuccessful in procuring supplies instead
of me, they intend to keep it open, hoping it may please the Lord to grant
me better health in the summer. I need rest and quiet, and therefore must
decline invitations until the Lord, if ever, may strengthen me.
My love to Mr. and Mrs. Charlwood and the friends. As I
could not find your last letter I have sent another instead, though not so
good, I think, to the Standard.
Yours affectionately, for the truth's sake,
J. C. P.
March 24, 1842
My dear friend, Joseph Parry—I would be sorry if my delay in replying
to your letter should seem on my part a mark of neglect or of coldness. Most
of my hindrances in answering the letters of my friends arise not from them,
but from myself.
But were I to enumerate all the obstacles that daily and
well-near hourly occur from that moving mass of carnality and helplessness
which I carry about with me, and under the load of which I often groan,
being burdened, my letter would be all preface, and, like some sermons that
I have heard, consist almost wholly of introduction.
It seems scarcely possible for me to tell you how unlike
I am to everything I wish to be, and how like to everything which I wish not
to be. I would be spiritually minded, would read the Word of God with
delight, would approach the mercy seat with freedom of access, would look
back upon the past without sorrow, and to the future without apprehension. I
would never throughout the day forget, "You, God, see me;" I would not
occupy nor interest my mind in anything earthly, sensual, or devilish; I
would be continually fixing my eyes on the cross of Immanuel, and be living
upon His grace as freely, sensibly, lovingly, and savingly revealed. This is
what I would wish to be.
And as to what I would wish not to be, I
would not be a miserable idolater, raving and roaming after some ash-heap
god, nor a wild donkey of the desert snuffing up the wind, nor a peevish
rebel, nor a sullen self-seeker, nor a suspecting infidel. If not all these
in open, daring, unchecked practice, I am it all in inward bent and wretched
feeling.
A friend of mine brought me word the other day that some
of the Bedfordshire Calvinists had spread a report that I was turned
Baxterian or Fullerite. Had I no other preservative, I think my daily and
almost hourly sense of my miserable helplessness and thorough impotency to
raise up my soul to one act of faith, hope, or love would keep me from
assenting to Andrew Fuller's lies. Nothing suits my soul but sovereign,
omnipotent, and superabounding grace. I am no common sinner, and must
therefore have no common grace. No texts have been much sweeter to my
soul than Jer. 20:7, "You are stronger than I, and have prevailed;" and Rom.
5:20, 21, "Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound," etc.
I find true religion to be a very different thing from
what I once thought it. There was a time when, in all apparent
sincerity, I was looking to my spirituality and heavenly mindedness as
evidences of my salvation, instead of being a poor needy suppliant and
starving petitioner for a word or a smile from the Lord Himself. It seemed
more as if my spirituality were to take me to Christ, than that my miserable
poverty and nakedness were qualifications to bring Christ down to me; but
all these idols have tumbled into ruins. I am now in that state that
Immanuel, the God-man Mediator, must have all the glory, by stooping down to
save, bless, and teach an undone wretch, who has neither spirituality, nor
piety, nor religion, nor anything holy or heavenly in himself, and whose
chief desire, when able to breathe it forth, is to be but the passive clay
in the hands of the Divine Potter, and sensibly to feel the almighty, though
gentle, fingers molding him into a vessel of honor fit for the Master's use.
You speak of "going down 'Lumber Lane.'" I, alas! seem to
live in it. When we go down a lane, we may hope to get to the bottom of it;
but I seem to have my house there, and besides all the mud in winter, and
all the dust in summer, there are tall thick hedges made of thorns which
shut out the sun. But I am glad to have that in me which hates "Lumber
Lane," and longs after green pastures, still waters, and the warm sun.
Yours affectionately,
J. C. P.
June 17, 1842
My dear friend, William Scott—I was truly sorry to hear of the
affliction that has befallen you, which I learned on Wednesday on my return
from Oakham, but only heard the particulars this evening. I have felt my
mind moved to write you a few lines, not only to sympathize with you in your
affliction, but also to express my affection for you, and my sincere
pleasure that the blessed Lord has been with you to bless your soul with
some melting sense of His mercy and love. My dear friend, if you can view it
by the eye of living faith, you will see your present state of pain and
bodily suffering a million times preferable to all that the worldlings can
covet. The things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not
seen are eternal. It is incalculably better to be afflicted and have
Jesus in the affliction, than to have all the honors, pleasures, and riches
that Satan can offer or the world bestow. But we do not voluntarily
choose afflictions. The Lord takes care to choose them for us, and they are
just such as are suitable to our condition and circumstances. You would not
have chosen a broken leg and arm, but doubtless it was good for you to have
them broken, or they would not have been so. It might have been your neck;
and then how distressing would that have been to your wife and family and
friends.
Now, though we feel for you, we can in a measure rejoice
that the Lord has blessed your soul in this affliction; and this unspeakable
mercy has knitted our hearts more to you than before. There is no curse in
this affliction, no vindictive punishment. It is rather the voice of a kind
Father, gently whispering to you, "My son, give Me your heart." You are
withdrawn from your wife, family, and friends, and thrown among strangers.
All this may be that the Lord may have more of your thoughts and affections.
There is a sweet hymn of Hart's in Gadsby's Selection, 707, which I hope you
may sweetly experience.
My dear friend, it will be your wisdom and mercy to be
often committing your way unto the Lord. You know how much I insist upon
secret prayer and supplication. And it will be your wisdom, too, to read
much of the Word of God during the time you are thus laid aside. Read
Proverbs 2 and 3, and see the promise made to those who seek wisdom. You
will find the Psalms sweet reading, and the Gospel of John, especially
chapters 14, 15, 16, 17. To read, meditate, pray over, and ask the Lord to
bless what you read to your soul, you will find sweet and profitable. I am
not setting my friend a task to perform a duty to be done in an Arminian,
Pharisaical way, but pointing out a sweet path in which we both, I trust
have walked. Avoid unnecessary conversation with carnal people; they will
make your soul lean and barren. They will want to amuse you, as they call
it; but sin is all the amusement they know; and the guilt of that on
your conscience will be far worse than the pain of a broken limb. Tell them
you need quiet. The company of the Blessed Trinity will comfort you in
solitude, and leave a sweet savor behind, which the company of the wicked
will only mar and rob you of.
You will probably find a season of impatience after the
season of patience that you have been favored with. Satan may be allowed to
try your mind, and cast a doubt over the Lord's manifested mercy. It will be
your mercy if you can hold fast your confidence in spite of unbelief and
Satan. Remember it has great recompense of reward (Heb. 10:35), and is not
to be cast away at the devil's bidding.
May the Lord make your bed in your sickness, and sweetly
overshadow your soul with His love which passes knowledge.
Yours affectionately in the bonds of the gospel,
J. C. P.
July 19, 1842
My dear friend, Miss Richmond—It will not be in my power
to visit Stadham for a Lord's-day on account of my other engagements; but I
hope (D.V.) to be at Abingdon on Lord's-day, August 28, when I shall hope to
see my friends from that place. As my time is so limited, I greatly fear
that I shall not be able to visit it for a week-day evening, which I would
like to do, did circumstances permit, feeling an interest in the place and
in the cause of truth therein.
But what with weak bodily health, and what with similar
or greater soul indisposition, I feel very unfit in every way to accept any
engagement of a preaching nature. Many times I feel fit neither for the
Church or for the world; being too barren and unprofitable for the former,
and having too much light and sense of the evil of sin to join the latter.
My own evil heart is more or less my daily burden, and hinders me in
everything which I would think, say, or do in the name of the Lord.
Sin, in some shape or other, is continually haunting me;
and I find the truth of what Paul says, "When I would do good, evil is
present with me." But by this I am taught to prize the atonement which the
Son of God has made by shedding His own precious blood, that it might be a
complete propitiation for sin; nor can I find the least relief from the
guilt, filth, or dominion of indwelling sin, but by faith going out towards
and laying hold of the blood and righteousness of Jesus. Here, sometimes,
the poor and needy soul is enabled to cast anchor, and only, so far as it
does this, can any true or solid peace be tasted.
A child of God can never rest satisfied with the
knowledge of sin. He cannot rest in a spiritual discovery of the disease.
No! he must have some experimental acquaintance with the remedy, "The blood
of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin." Sweet words, when any measure of
their truth is experimentally felt. "All sin" is a very comprehensive word.
The horrible aboundings of iniquity in our carnal mind, the vain
imaginations, polluting thoughts, presumptuous workings, vile lusts—what can
cleanse our consciences from the filth, guilt, and power of those hourly
abominations, but the precious blood of Christ as of a Lamb without blemish
and without spot? Yet often in our feelings we are, as Berridge
describes—"The fountain open stands, yet on its brink I dwell."
We lack the power to wash therein and be clean. And this
makes us add—"Oh! put me in with Your own hands, and that will make me
well."
I am glad to hear that the Lord deals kindly with you in
providential matters, and, in spite of all your unbelief and distrust, still
brings you pupils. What a mercy it is that though we believe not, He
continues faithful. Did the blessed Lord change as we do, what would become
of us? But with Him there is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.
My love to the friends.
Yours very sincerely, for truth's sake,
J. C. P.
November 24, 1842
My dear friend, George Isbell—You must not expect me to answer your letters
with much regularity or expediency. I have many hindrances to regular
correspondence with my friends, of which the chief perhaps is the lack of
what David felt when he penned Psalm 45. Were I, like him, "bubbling up some
good matter", I would have more of the pen of a ready writer. One said of
old, "Behold, my heart is as wine which has no vent; it is ready to burst
like new bottles." His heart was all in a ferment with the things of God,
and he would gladly speak that he might be refreshed. Blessed speaking,
preaching, and writing when such is the case. But oh, how rare with me to be
thus alive in the things of God! How rarely do pen and tongue move with
spiritual readiness and divine unction! Carnal fluency in the pulpit or
in the parlour may and often does exist with much barrenness and leanness of
soul. The liberty of the flesh in handling divine matters is very
different from the liberty of the spirit. The latter may exist where the
tongue is tied, and vice versa.
I am glad you desire to see your way made plain before
you leave —. I think — might prove a much more trying spot. The old garment
and the new patch never coalesce; and there you would have to take to an old
church as at —. I consider myself favored in having had new ground to till
here and at Oakham. My best people are, like myself, seceders from the
Church of England. I remember reading, I think in Anson's voyage, of the
effects of a long calm at sea. Corruption and sickness were the consequence,
and they gladly hailed the whitening surf at a distance as the herald of a
breeze. So a calm in a church may not be the most desirable thing. If it
teaches you patience and forbearance, meekness, gentleness and love, it will
be a blessing eventually. — may be to you a Southsea Common to make you a
soldier. I do not mean to say I understand the use of arms, but if I know
anything of drill, I learned it in my seven years' exercise at Stadham. I
was raw indeed when I went there, but had many trials and few friends or
counselors in them. I often acted very rashly and hastily, and frequently
mistook my own spirit for the Spirit of the Lord. You will find it your
wisdom never to allude to church or personal matters in the pulpit. Leave
them all in the vestry with your hat and gloves. A pulpit battery is usually
more destructive to the assailant than the assailed. . . .
Our love to Fanny and our relatives.
Yours affectionately and sincerely,
J. C. P.
December 19, 1842
My dear Friend—According to your wish, I attempt to reply to your friendly
and experimental letter. You do not, I hope, measure my esteem and affection
for you by the frequency of my letters; as, were you to judge of them by
that standard, you might almost conclude that I had neither one nor the
other for you. But I do assure you that such a conclusion would be most
erroneous. I have very much correspondence on hand, which must be attended
to, and many necessary engagements to occupy both my mind and my time. But I
confess, after all, that had I more of what David felt when penning Psalm
45, and were my heart, like his, "bubbling up with a good matter", my pen
would be more that of a ready writer. And perhaps I feel this more sensibly
in writing to those whom I esteem most. I feel my shallowness and ignorance,
compared with their superior light and life; and perhaps my pride makes me
loath to show them my barrenness and leanness. I am glad, however, to find
so much in your heart that resembles mine—the same sense of helplessness and
weakness, the same feeling of the beggary and bankruptcy of our fallen
nature, and, through mercy, the same sighs and breathings at a throne of
grace, the same restless dissatisfaction with the things of time and sense,
and the same going out in desire and affection after the light of the Lord's
countenance and the manifestations of His goodness and favor.
I find my religion more or less a daily work. Some trial
or temptation, some doubt or fear, some seeking the Lord's face, some
sighing forth my soul after Him, and, at rare seasons, some eating His Word
and finding it precious, some relief and sweet sensations at a throne of
grace, some life and liberty in preaching. Some of these things form more or
less daily and weekly work with me. I am indeed very far from knowing what I
desire to know, or being what I wish to be—and am often a puzzle to myself,
seeing and feeling no more grace than the most carnal wretch who makes no
profession; and yet having restraints and inward checks, breathings, and
sighings of which I am persuaded such know nothing.
So you see, my dear friend, that I am at present very far
from that strong confidence, so much spoken of in London, which speaks of
sin as a nonentity, and as though there were nothing to apprehend or to
suffer from the world or the flesh. As I feel on these matters, so I preach;
and I find, every now and then, testimonies that power and dew have
accompanied the word. My congregations continue large, especially at
Stamford, and I have many proofs that I have a place in the affections of
the people.
I am glad the friends among whom you are now ministering
have made a separation on the grounds of truth. I am no friend to splits and
divisions, where they can be avoided; but we had much better come out and
be separate than live in error.
Yours affectionately, for truth's sake,
J. C. P.
January 5, 1843
My dear Friend—You will doubtless have thought me very dilatory in answering
your kind and experimental letter; but I am treating you only as I do others
of my correspondents, and therefore you must not complain. Where there is a
union from God, it will stand in the absence of communication, either
personally or by letter; and where there is no such union, all the
letter-writing in the world cannot create any lasting tie. Union with the
members resembles union with the Head. There will be many things to try it,
many hard tugs to snap it, many blasts from hell endeavoring to break it
asunder. But, as union with Christ outlives every storm, so union with the
people of Christ will stand amid all the gusts and breezes that blow upon
it.
Where there is the fear of the Lord in the soul—spiritual
humility, simplicity, and godly sincerity, a measure of faith in the blessed
Redeemer, and of love to the tried people of God—my soul is glad to unite
with such. But I cannot unite with vain confidence, dead assurance, and a
reckless, careless walk and conversation. My path, indeed, lies more in the
darkness than in the light, more in sighing and seeking after the Lord than
in sweetly rejoicing in Him, more in the valley than on the mount. I have
been led much of late from time to time to cry to the Lord to keep me from
evil, that it may not grieve me. I see such sin in my wretched, fallen
nature, and feel so much my weakness against temptation, and see at the same
time what a horrible and dreadful thing sin is, that I am led from time to
time earnestly to call upon the Lord to hold me up that I may be safe. I
feel, too, my ignorance in divine things; how dark my mind is when not
enlightened by the Blessed Spirit; how unable I am to realize any portion of
God's Word, to feed upon any one truth, or taste the sweetness of any one
promise. And thus I feel myself led to look up for divine teaching, and that
the Lord Himself would make His blessed truth known to my soul.
As I was taking my walk today, I seemed favored with a
spirit of prayer, and was enabled to seek the Lord's face with some measure
of sincere desire towards Him; when these words dropped into my mind, "In
everything, by prayer and supplication, let your requests be made known unto
God. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, shall keep your
hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." What a sweet promise! And shall not
the Lord fulfill it? Can He deny Himself? For not to perform His promises
would be to deny Himself. And what better, what richer, what sweeter thing
can we receive into our wavering and often warring hearts than "the peace of
God, which passes all understanding"? Peace through the blood of the
Mediator, the slaughtered Immanuel, implies reconciliation to God,
forgiveness of sin, blessed sensations of mercy and love here, and eternal
bliss and glory hereafter.
But how short-lived are any divine sensations in the
soul! If we find the Word of God sweet, if we are enabled to meditate on
some blessed truth, if favored to pray with some earnestness and feeling, or
to preach with some liberty of soul, we soon have to return to our place,
and again walk in darkness, carnality, and hardness of heart. But something
heavenly is felt again, and this once more lifts up the soul Godwards.
I fear you had not a very pleasant visit to L. I greatly
fear that all is not right with the old gentleman, and that there is more
crookedness and craft than I once imagined he could be capable of. But I
would be glad, for the sake of the few who love experimental truth, that the
chapel might be left open for the supplies who have hitherto gone there. In
the course of things, his life cannot be very long; and it would seem a pity
for the chapel to fall into the hands of the enemies of truth. I would
counsel, therefore, the friends at L. to maintain peace as long as it can be
done with a good conscience; not, indeed, to sacrifice the least portion of
truth, nor wink at any evil, but in unimportant matters rather to give
way than strive. I have a good opinion of N.'s firmness for truth, and
yet quietness of spirit; and think much will depend upon him. Good, however,
will be done where we little expect, and some casual hearer, whom neither we
nor the church know, may carry off the blessing. One would hope that in that
large town truth has not been preached in vain.
I wrote this last evening, and have now no more to add
than that, with my kind regards to your wife and friends,
I am, yours very sincerely, for truth's sake,
J. C. P.
March 17, 1843
My dear friend—Time and circumstances did not permit me on Tuesday evening,
when I saw you at Barrowden, to do anything more than merely acknowledge the
receipt of your letter. I take this opportunity, therefore, to write a few
lines in answer to it. I am exceedingly sorry that this fresh root of
bitterness has sprung up to trouble us; but I feel glad that it did not
originate in me. H— commenced the correspondence by complaining of my being
prejudiced against him. I thought, therefore, as an honest man, I could not
do otherwise than state my reasons for my unfavorable opinion. This seems
much to have stirred up his indignation, and he wrote me a reply, of which I
would much sooner be the receiver than the sender. I would like you to see
it, that you may judge whether "the meekness and gentleness of Christ" are
more visible in it, or the proud spirit of man's heart. I confess, for my
part, though I would by no means un-Christianize the man, that I see in his
reply little of those blessed fruits which spring from the gracious
operations of the Holy Spirit in the heart. At any rate, I most earnestly
desire to be kept from such a spirit, and feel no union with it.
How contrary are all the preceptive parts of the New
Testament, and all the words and all the example of the Blessed Lord—to
everything bitter, contentious, and self-exalting! Men, even good men, often
err under the idea of boldness and faithfulness; and mistake the fire of
their own spirit for the fire from heaven that came down upon the altar. I
have had this spirit myself, and know from experience that there is no dew
nor unction of the Spirit attending it. This carnal fire dries up all such
heavenly dew. And I know from experience that a tender conscience cannot go
into the sanctuary of the Lord's presence with this unholy fire burning in
the heart or carried in the hands. It is far better to be censured unjustly
ourselves, than for us to pass harsh and unfounded judgments on others; and
it is, I believe, a part of a Christian's cross, and one branch of his
inward suffering with and conformity to Christ, to be misunderstood and
misrepresented. Jesus was said to have a devil and to be mad, was called
a glutton and a wine-bibber, and was crucified as a blasphemer. Thus He was
misunderstood and misrepresented; and the servant is not greater than his
Lord, but must fill up that which is behind of the afflictions of Christ. If
you feel your conscience bearing you witness in the Holy Spirit that you
desire not to have the pre-eminence, to be called a Diotrephes cannot injure
you; and if you feel meekness and love in your heart, and that you dare not
give a false testimony, such charges as "murder," etc., may pain, but cannot
harm you. The 'causeless curse' shall not come upon you. I trust we may one
day clearly see the needs-be for this painful affair, and in the meantime
watch, wait, and pray.
I was very glad to see Mrs. Clementson's testimony, which
was fully commended to my conscience as a divine work. I felt I could give
her the right hand of fellowship, and would be glad to see her one with us
in the church.
I do indeed sincerely desire that we may be at peace
among ourselves, and walk in union and brotherly love; "for where envying
and strife is, there is confusion and every evil work" (James 3:16). The
Lord clothe us with humility and fill our hearts with His dying love!
Yours affectionately, for Christ's sake,
J. C. P.
March 31, 1843
My dear friend, Isaac Harrison—I am glad that I did not go to
Leicester this last visit in vain. I felt encouraged by the good attendance
all the times I preached, and the great attention shown by the people. I
felt also some little liberty, and had ground to hope that the Lord was with
me of a truth. I believe I can say I delivered my conscience, whether men
would hear or forbear to hear, and did not use flattering words. The result
must be left with God, who works all things after the counsel of His own
will. He alone can bless His own word. In these God-dishonoring days, when
"truth is fallen in the streets, and equity cannot enter" doors, hearts, or
chapels, it is a mercy to have an ear to hear, a conscience to feel, and a
heart to embrace and love God's simple saving truth. Too few in our day can
move along without being flattered at every step. Remove from hundreds their
carnal motives, which keep them moving on in a profession, and they would
stop as certainly as a locomotive would were all supply of steam cut off.
And this seems to me the miserable office of many ministers—to keep their
people moving along, by flattering them under various forms. Faithful and
yet kind and affectionate dealing with their consciences is little thought
of. So that when such people come to hear other ministers who speak to their
consciences, they stand amazed at the novelty of the sound, and, if rotten
at heart, kick and rebel against the unwelcome truth. As Job says, "They
rebel against the light" (24:13). And the Lord says they hate the light
(John 3:20). I have been surprised so many would come to hear their death
sentence read; but it was so in the time of the apostles (Acts 7:44). And I
believe faithful preaching will draw a congregation where unfaithful will
not. "Wisdom is justified of her children."
Kind remembrances to your sisters and the friends.
Yours sincerely, for truth's sake,
J. C. P.
June 24, 1843
My dear friend, Isaac Harrison—I purpose, if the Lord wills, to leave
Oakham for Leicester on Tuesday morning by the coach, and intend to bring my
wife and little girl with me. We think of getting down at the turnpike at
Belgrave, as I did before, but as I have to preach that evening we shall
sleep at the chapel-house.
I have been but poorly since I came home, and was able to
preach but once on Lord's-day, and that much shorter than usual.
We cannot always, nor indeed often, see how these trials
work together for good. Here, however, is the more exercise of faith and
patience. "Let patience," says James, "have her perfect work;" but if
patience has no trials to bear no dark and mysterious dispensations to
endure, she can have no work at all, much less a perfect one.
I have had a letter from Mr. Brown, of Woburn, and
greatly fear the breach is irreparable. I certainly think he has not been
treated well. But at present I have heard one side only, and therefore feel
it premature to come to any decision on the subject.
I hope your sister at Belgrave will take care to have the
bed well aired for my wife and daughter, as I shall feel anxious about them.
Yours very sincerely, for the truth's sake,
J. C. P.
March 25, 1844
My dear friend, Isaac Harrison—I am sorry that I shall not be able to
be with you on Lord's-day, April 21st. I am sorry it should happen so; but I
cannot leave my people here wholly unprovided for. You may expect me,
however, (D.V.) for the 14th; and it is my present intention to go on the
Friday afternoon previous by Pettifer's coach.
I wish I could have had the pleasure of friend M'Kenzie's
company here for a day or two. One of the friends (Mrs. Knight) offered to
pay a part of his expenses if he would come; and I am sure the friends
generally would have been much pleased to hear him. I so rarely hear
ministers myself that I feel it to be a treat to hear a man of truth; and
have rarely heard such without some profit, though not always with comfort.
I am glad the friends at Alfred Street hear profitably.
What a wonderful thing truth is; and how much more wonderful to have it
applied to the soul! It is a mercy when the soul feels the word of God to be
sweeter than honey and the honeycomb. My earnest desires accompany friend
M'Kenzie's labors, that the Lord may abundantly bless him. My sincerest
Christian affection to him. Remember me affectionately to your sisters and
the friends.
Yours very sincerely,
J. C. P.
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