THE “Question” at the Stornoway communion some years ago was:—”Therefore prophesy and say unto them, Thus saith the Lord, God: ‘O my people, I will open your graves and cause you to come up out of your graves, and bring you into the land of Israel” (Ezek. xxxvii. 12). The Captain who, as usual, broke the ground for the brethren was not long speaking when he said:—”I remember one day in France, when the Germans were shelling us very badly, one great shell came and tore up the ground of the cemetery. It cast out the bodies of our comrades, recently buried there, and left them exposed to the light of heaven. This happened in a spiritual sense to God’s people. They were buried in the grave of a state of nature, but the commandment came, and they were cast out of that grave, and brought to the light their lost and ruined condition as sinners.”
He was speaking on another occasion about the love and gratitude of the sinner to God in the day he tastes of His mercy in Christ Jesus. “An incident comes to my mind,” he said, “in connection with the Battle of Omdurman, when Lord Kitchener, in 1898, gained his sweeping victory which brought the Soudan under British sway as a British Protectorate. After the battle, parties were sent out to separate the living from
the dead, to render first-aid to the wounded, and carry them to hospital. There was one ferocious looking dervish on the field, severely wounded, who kept his glazing eyes on us as we were handling our own wounded and doing everything possible for them. Wherever we were employed, the eyes of the dervish followed us, dumbly imploring succour which seemed to be not for him the enemy of Britain’s King. But at last, we turned our attention to our wounded foes, this dervish among them, doing as much for him as we had done to our own men. The dervish recovered, under the hand of God, and the kindness and skill of British doctors and nurses, and instead of being our blood-thirsty enemy, there was no one in all the Soudan who had a warmer place or a better word for the British flag and the British race than he.”
Illustrating the difficulties of the Lord’s people in taking comfort from, and in resting on, the promises which once were made life to them, he said: “There is a small river near the place where I was born. I was so used to the stepping stones across this rivulet, in my boyhood, that I could step across on them blindfolded. I remember coming home on one occasion on furlough, arriving at night on a visit to the old home. I expected no difficulty in crossing over. But the river was in spate, the stepping stones were covered deeply in the water, and with the darkness of the night, all combined to make the crossing once so easy, a matter of great difficulty and grave danger. Thus it happens in the experience of the Lord’s people. The truths on which once upon a time, they could rest with confidence are to them no longer what they were, owing to the temptations of Satan and the darkness in which they often times walk.”
The following illustrations were never used by Captain Macleod in public, as far as we are aware, but they may be useful to some one.
Giving as a mark of the Lord’s people, that they rejoice at the hearing of a sinner being born again and brought into
the Saviour’s Kingdom, he would tell the following: “There was an old lady in our village, whose perigrinations down the village street was a sure sign to us boys that a birth was expected. We knew as we saw her entering a house that we would soon hear of an event that would bring happiness to that home. When everything would be put in due order and the old lady duly refreshed after accomplishing her duties, the contented smile on her face as she made her way homewards assured us boys that we had made no mistake as to the errand which had necessitated her friendly visit.”
He often rehearsed in private what he called “The General’s Inspection” to show the distinction between the true believer and the hypocrite. “The first thing a soldier receives is his regimental number. Every article of his kit has this number branded on it; every sock, shirt, belt, etc. There is always a great bustle of preparation on the night before the General’s inspection, and every article not on the soldier’s person must have its place on his bed, next morning, with regimental number up. The stated hour finds each soldier standing at the foot of his bed with his extra pair of socks, extra shirt, razor, razor-strop, etc., spread out on the bed before him. At the bed nearest the door stands a new recruit, in the full blaze of his new uniform, full-confident that he will obtain the General’s utmost praise. The next bed is that of an old soldier who has fought many battles and knows more than any soldier in the room about the realities of warfare. The state of his kit is an eyesore to him; his socks have been so often darned that it is difficult to know what was their first colour, his shirt has been patched, until the wearing parts have lost all identity with the loom at which it was woven; the razor-strop is a pitiable sight with disfiguring cuts and hacks all over its surface. The old veteran expects nothing from his General but a severe reprimand for the state of his kit. The next bed is a scene of sorrow and fear; the owner stands lamenting the loss of several articles of his kit; some one has
been at work during the night and this poor fellow finds himself deprived of what he had carefully arranged the night before. He is sure he will get into trouble when the General comes. Impudence reigns supreme at the foot of the remaining bed in the barrack room; he who stands there is confident that he has everything in right order, and that if he will not be applauded, that he will pass the inspection in safety.
The General enters, stops at bed one, “How long have you been in the army?” “Six months, Sir.” The General passes on, advising the new recruit to keep his kit in good condition. He stops at bed number two. “How long have you been in the army?” “Twenty-one years, Sir.” “Twenty-one years! I heartily congratulate you on the splendid condition in which you have kept your kit. How nicely you have darned that sock. How neatly you have patched that shirt. I have nothing but the utmost commendation for you after your twenty-one years’ service.” The General passes on. “What’s wrong here? a sock missing, a belt missing, razor-strop missing.” “Please, Sir,—I had everything in order last night, but during the night, some one came and robbed me of these articles.” “Have you reported your loss to your sergeant?” “Yes, Sir.” “Sergeant, has this man reported to you that he has been robbed during last night?” “Yes, Sir.” “Very well,” the General says: “Do your best to find the thief,” and passes on to the next bed. He glances over the array on the bed. His eye catches wrong numbers on some of the articles. “Hallo! what’s wrong here,” he exclaims. Up comes his cane. It goes under a sock, he throws it over his head. “That’s not your sock.” Cane down again, this time under a belt. He throws it over his head. “That’s not your belt.” “Sergeant, call the guard!” The guard enters, and the soldier who was so confident finds himself under arrest for claiming what did not belong to him.
Captain Macleod delighted in telling about his conversation with the late Donald Mackenzie, North Tolsta, father of John Mackenzie, student who was killed in France. Donald was
unable to attend the evening services at the last communion of his life and the Captain went to see him after the prayer meeting on the Saturday. “What was occupying your mind, Donald, when we were at the prayer meeting?” the Captain asked. Donald replied: “You know that our church in Tolsta faces towards the south, and that the sun shines directly on the door end of it at noon. I was thinking that if a hole no bigger than the breadth of a pin were made through the church wall, and then a wider one, and one wider than that till you made a hole so wide that a horse and cart might go through it that when the sun would shine at noonday, if you would ask the pin hole: ‘Are you getting plenty of the sun?’ it would say, ‘I am as full of the sun as I can well be,’ and every hole would say the same, even the one through which the horse and cart could go could only say what the pin hole could say. And that is how the saints in glory will be. Some will be greater than others, but everyone of them will be filled with the fulness of the Sun of Righteousness.” Donald, in less than a fortnight after that, entered in to be filled with that glory himself.
On one occasion he compared the ruined race of Adam to a crowd of pleasure-seekers in a train. All on board seemed to be so happy, singing songs, playing cards, and acting only as those who are madly bent on pleasure act. The men driving the train and conducting it were as foolish as the people they were driving. Most of the station agents were of the same mind as the pleasure-seekers; they laughed at their rude jests and smiled as they heard their songs. At some stations a man calls out to the gay travellers to come out as the train is sure to come to grief. A few listen to him and come out but the others are bent on having all the pleasure they can. The train speeds on with its merry crowd until it is whirled into a deep gully the bridge over which had been carried away by a flood. Such is the end of the crowd who seemed so happy and who neglected the invitations and warnings given to them.