MONTROSE, 4th January, 1880.
MY DEAR FRIEND,—I will have to be brief to-day, and you will not grudge brevity when I tell you that I have quite a number of new year’s greetings—friendly souvenirs in the shape of books, &c.—to acknowledge, all which kindnesses on the part of friends should fill my heart with gratitude, although I have many trials and tossings to act as ballast. But I believe it is best for us to be kept in our own place by the stinging thorns of affliction, if nothing else will do, than to be allowed to take our own way—the way, too often, of folly and of pride.
I hope this will find you well—well in soul and in body. I trust also that — is getting better, and that it may please the Lord to spare him for service in the church on earth; but, if otherwise designed, it is because the Lord has a higher sphere of work for him in the church above. And yet I have sometimes thought, as to the office of the ministry in the church on earth, that if we realized in the least measure the inconceivably momentous issues to immortal souls—issues of either an eternity of bliss or of an eternity of woe, according as they receive or reject the Gospel message—we must feel that we know not if, even in heaven itself, there will be work more important than the proclamation to sinners of the blessed Gospel of the grace of God, which brings “glory to God in the highest,” and in which all the adorable perfections and attributes of the Triune Jehovah are harmonized and magnified to the very uttermost.
I observe that you say in your last letter—“The communion is to be observed in Dingwall first Sabbath of next month, and I wish I could be there in spirit, if only to get a crumb of what will be going; come you too.” With all my heart, but your invitation is after all too late, for I am there in spirit already. I had a letter from the dear host announcing the forthcoming solemnity, and in replying to him, I enclosed a card to be placed on the parlour mantelpiece so that the assembled friends and brethren might see it, and on the card I wrote—“A brother, cast down but not destroyed, desires a place in your supplications and sympathies.” But then, as it is with “all my heart” that I respond to your invitation, there comes as usual a scolding for you. For what? For saying you would like to be there to get a crumb. Now, it is very right and proper that after a feast of Christ’s is over, we, in view of our ill-deservingness and nothingness, should be thankful for the smallest crumb—the very least taste of Christ and Him crucified that may have been vouchsafed to us. But that is a very different thing from preparing and arranging beforehand to be content with just a crumb, seeing that the Lord says—“Open thy mouth wide and I will fill it.” This systematic cutting down and
limiting and diminishing of the grace that is in Christ’s words is very far from being honouring or pleasing to Him, and it ought not to be allowed to go on, as if our object was to get the minimum or smallest portion consistent with our getting anything at all. Christ has not stinted the provision of the covenant. “He gave Himself for us.” Neither has He stinted the bestowal of the provision. “Ho! every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.” Are we then, as it were, to stint our own mercy, so far as in our power, by our unbelief, our unwillingness, and our unthankfulness? O! be not content without getting Christ—a whole Christ—to dwell in your heart by faith. Be importunate with Him to give you soul appetite, yea, heart relish for the provision of Zion.
Am I too hard upon you? Well, say “his bark is worse than his bite,” and you know that the bark of the St. Bernard’s dog has sometimes done good service to poor travellers. So do not think I have been scolding you, or if you do, take it as a very affectionate scolding, for I would desire, especially in this first week of a new year, to greet you well and lovingly in the name of Him in whom all time centres, and who inhabiteth the praises of eternity.—Yours, &c.
HUGH MARTIN.