BY THE REV. DONALD BEATON, WICK.
IV.—Bunyan’s “Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners.”
WHILE the above series does not by any means profess to be an exhaustive treatment of the wide field implied in the title, still it would betray an inexcusable lack of knowledge of the true position of things to make no reference to any of the writings of John Bunyan. In this article it is intended to guard against such an omission by making some mention of “Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners.” It has by no means obtained such a world-wide reputation as Bunyan’s immortal allegory, “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” nevertheless it is a book bearing the impress of one of the finest writers in our literature, and relates in graphic and eloquent language the long and, at times, terrible experiences of a soul fleeing from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City. In the introduction to the work, he warns against all expectancy of fine literary finish in language characteristic enough. “I could also have stepped,” he says, “into a style much higher than this in which I have here discoursed, and could have adorned all things more than here I have seemed to do; but I dare not. God did not play in convincing of me; the Devil did not play in tempting me; neither did I play when I sank as it were into a bottomless pit, when the pangs of hell caught hold on me; wherefore, I may not play in my relating of them, but be plain and simple, and lay down the thing as it was.” This is Bunyan’s own estimate of his work, as far as “Grace Abounding” is concerned, but it may be no exaggeration to say that no one with any sense of the power of language can have any other feeling than that it is written in a masculine and graphic style, and that, while it may be lacking in the beautiful literary grace and masterly analysis of Christian experience which give such charm to “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” it has passages which can equal any in the great allegory. It is the life story of Bunyan’s awakening to some sense of the great realities of eternity, and ere his course was run these matters were no empty shadows to him. He struggled on if by any means he might get into the Celestial City, and this book is the narrative of these struggles. “The Philistines understand me not,” he says. “It is something of a relation of the work of God upon my soul, even from the very first, till now; wherein you may perceive my castings down and risings up, for He wounded, and His hands made whole. It is written, the father to the children shall make known the truth of God. Yea, it was for this reason I lay so long at Sinai, to see the fire and the cloud and the darkness that I might fear the Lord all the days of my life upon the earth, and tell of His wondrous works to my children.” The work was written for the benefit of those who acknowledged Him as their spiritual father.
The life story of the author is known to most. It is a life of strange vicissitudes and wonderful providences. He first saw the light at Elstow, in the month of November, 1628. His father’s home, he tells us, was of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all the families in the land, and being such he could make no boast of high-born state according to the flesh; nevertheless, in considering all things, he expresses gratitude to God that He brought him in by this door to partake of the grace and life that is in Christ by the Gospel. In the old documents, his father is described as a “braseyer,” which is practically equivalent to our blacksmith. His mother died before he had reached the age of sixteen, and on his father marrying again he left the shelter of the parental roof. He enlisted in the Parliamentary army, and though under arms for only a few months he had some very narrow escapes. After a short experience of soldiering he returned to Elstow, where he laboured at his father’s trade. The first indication of any serious thoughts about eternity were awakened by reading two books belonging to his wife—Dent’s “Plain Man’s Pathway to Heaven” and Bayly’s “Practice of Piety.” He now set about reforming himself that he might be more acceptable in the sight of God. He attended church regularly, adoring with great devotion the priest, the clerk, and the vestments. Under the spell of this delusion, he tells us he could have lain down at the clergymen’s feet and been trampled upon by them, so much was he bewitched by their name, garb, and work. But the thought that he was a sinner had not as yet crossed his mind. The day, however, that was to him the beginning of days, was near at hand. On the Sabbath the pastor had preached a sermon on the duty of observing the Lord’s Day and keeping it holy. Bunyan, after hearing the sermon, according to his usual custom, proceeded to Elstow Green to have a game at cat. He was just beginning the game when, with all the suddenness of a flash of lightning, he heard a voice, as it were, speaking to his soul. “Wilt thou leave thy sins and go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to hell,” was the startling question. Bunyan stood awed before the solemn question, and felt that it demanded an answer. Around him were his companions, utterly oblivious of the mighty problems that had all of a sudden presented themselves to his mind. They played their game with the lightheartedness of those who had never faced these momentous truths that were stirring the soul of John Bunyan to its depths. He felt as if the heavens had opened, and the angry face of Jesus was all he could see. There came immediately after this a temptation that tried him severely—Christ would not forgive nor pardon him his transgressions inasmuch as he had sinned so greatly and grievously against Him. He now determined to allow himself to drift with the stream, as there appeared no more hope for him. The recollection of these things in after years drew from him the grateful and touching acknowledgment to the God who showed him mercy—”The good Lord, whose mercy is unsearchable, forgive me my transgressions.” It was after he had made the above resolution, when he went after sin with great greediness of mind, that there occurred the well-known incident of his swearing, and the rebuke administered to him by a woman whom he describes as a wicked and ungodly wretch. Here is his own account of the matter:—”One day, as I was standing at a neighbour’s shop window, and there cursing and swearing and playing the madman, after my wonted manner, there sat within the woman of the house, and heard me; who, though she was a very loose and ungodly wretch, yet protested that I swore and cursed at that most fearful rate, that she was made to tremble to hear me, and told me further that I was the ungodliest fellow for swearing that ever she heard in all her life; and that I, by thus doing, was able to spoil all the youth in the whole town if they came but in my company.” “By this reproof,” he says, “I was put to secret shame, and that, too, as I thought, before the God of heaven.” This rebuke, so sharply administered, and coming from such an unexpected quarter, cured him effectually of the vice of swearing. He now fell in with a man who made profession of religion, and being influenced by him, he took to reading his Bible, especially the historical parts, for as yet he could not understand the writings of Paul and the other Scriptures, being still ignorant of the corruptions of his nature. There was now a great reformation in his life, and his neighbours took him to be a very godly man. This pleased him immensely for, as he tells us, he was proud of his godliness. He now left off dancing and other practices, and by this time he had become such a slave to his own self-righteousness that he thought no man in England could please God better than he. He was, sometime after this, called to Bedford to work at his calling, and, in passing through the streets, he came across three or four poor women sitting in a door and conversing on their experiences. “I drew near,” he says, “to hear what they said, for I was now a brisk talker myself in the matters of religion. But I may say I heard but I understood not, for they were far above me, out of my reach. Their talk was about a new birth, the work of God on their hearts, also how they were convinced of their miserable state by nature.” This conversation, though very disconcerting to his self-righteous ideas, had a most beneficial effect. He could not get rid of their words, and he was irresistibly drawn to frequent their company every opportunity he could get. The Holy Spirit in this mysterious way was carrying on His gracious work, and he leaves it as his testimony that at this time it was as difficult to take his mind from heaven to earth as it afterwards was to get it again from earth to heaven. A great questioning now arose in his soul as to whether he had faith or not. Without faith he knew he would perish, and so pressing had the matter become to him that he determined to put an end to his questioning by attempting to work a miracle. Fortunately, however, he was kept back from this temptation. About this time the state and happiness of the women whose conversation had been so beneficial to him were presented to him in a kind of vision. He saw them set on the sunny side of some high mountain, refreshing themselves with the pleasant beams of the sun, while he was shivering and shrinking in the cold, afflicted with the frost, snow, and dark clouds. Between him and them there was a wall, and through this wall his soul greatly desired to pass, for he concluded that if he could obtain his desire he would be in the very midst of them, and there be comforted with their Sun. He searched the wall diligently for an opening but was unsuccessful for a time, but at last he saw a narrow gap. He attempted to get through but it was too narrow. After repeated attempts he managed to get his head through, and after a struggle his whole body. “Then was I exceeding glad,” he says, “and went and sat down in the midst of them, and so was comforted by the light and the heat of their Sun.” The interpretation of this beautiful and striking vision, as given by Bunyan himself, is as follows: “The Mountain signifies the Church of the living God; the Sun, the comfortable shining of His merciful face on them that were therein; the Wall was the Word of God, that made a separation between the Christians and the world; the Gap in the Wall was the Lord Jesus Christ, who is the way to God the Father. But forasmuch as the passage was wonderful narrow, even so narrow that I could not, but with great difficulty, enter in thereat, it showed me that none could enter into life but those who were in downright earnest, and unless also they left this wicked world behind them; for here was only room for body and soul, but not for body and soul and sin.”
The question of being elected to eternal life now agitated his distressed soul. “It is neither in him that willeth, nor in him that runneth, but in God that showeth mercy,” ever came up before the mind of this earnest seeker in every attempt he made to take a forward step. “Neither in him that willeth, nor in him that runneth,” Satan kept repeating to him, until at last he almost sank in despair. While in this condition of mind, a certain passage in the book Ecclesiasticus “fell with weight upon his spirit”: “Look at the generations of old and see; did ever any trust in God and were confounded.” He searched the Scripture diligently for this passage, but could not find it. At length he came across it in the Apocrypha. This at first somewhat daunted him; but he blesses God that though it was not in the canonical books, yet inasmuch as it contains the sum and substance of many of the promises, he considered it his duty to take comfort from it. Some reference must now be made to what may be called the greatest temptation which harassed his soul, and to the description of which he has devoted so many pages of “Grace Abounding.” There came a time in his life when his love to Christ was so great that he speaks of it as hot as fire; but the great Tempter, ill at ease at the progress Bunyan was making, came to him saying, “Sell Christ! sell Christ!” He was troubled with this temptation for about a year, and it followed him so persistently that he was not rid of it for a day, nor even an hour for many days together, unless when he was asleep. He could neither eat his food, stoop for a pin, chop a stick, or cast his eye on anything, but he would be met with the temptation, “Sell Christ for this, or sell Christ for that; sell Him, sell Him.” And under this stress of deep emotion, all his body in motion, he would cry out, “I will not, I will not, I will not; no, not for thousands, thousands, thousands of worlds!” At last the awful moment came when in desperation he cried out, “Let Him go if He will.” “Now was the battle won,” is his own melancholy comment, “and down I fell, as a bird that is shot from the top of a tree, into great guilt and fearful despair. Thus, getting out of his bed I went moping into the field; but, God knows, with as heavy a heart as mortal man, I think, could bear; where, for the space of two hours, I was like a man bereft of life, and as now past all recovery and bound over to eternal punishment.” The case of Esau was forever coming up before his mind—the repentance that had been sought with tears but had not been obtained. He thought of Manasseh, of David, and of Peter; they had committed great sins, but none of them were like him; he had parted with Jesus, he had sold his Saviour. He prayed earnestly, but at every prayer Esau rose up before him, as it were, to ban his earnest pleading. At last, through certain passages of Scripture coming to his mind, he began to think that his sin was not unpardonable after all, and he prayed as a soul seeing a faint glimmer of light in the awful gloom. And this was his prayer: “O Lord, I beseech Thee, show me that Thou hast loved me with an everlasting love.” He had no sooner said this than the words came with sweetness, “I have loved thee with an everlasting love.” Yet the Tempter did not leave him, but he drew comfort from the message he had received as he mused on the gracious promise: “I loved thee whilst thou wast committing this sin, I loved thee before, I love thee still, and I will love thee forever.” This was by no means the end of the dreadful struggle, but he had a comfortable outgate at last, as the old divines would put it. It is this wrestling with the principalities and powers, in severe and protracted conflict, that makes the “Grace Abounding” such a treasure to other pilgrims passing on to the Celestial City. Space forbids us enlarging further on other incidents recorded in this remarkable autobiography; but if it is the Lord’s will the next article, dealing with “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” may touch on some interesting incidents in the later life of the author of the immortal dream.