1 Reprinted, with editing, from Trail’s book of sermons, The Christian Graces. The three previous sermons appeared in this Magazine during 2009. Trail (1819-1874) was then minister of the Free Tron Church in Glasgow.
2 Peter 1:5. Add to your faith . . .
Peter enumerates, in orderly succession, the principal Christian graces which spring from faith. The series ranges from faith itself, the primary grace, to charity. Call it an interlinked chain, and it is seen stretched between faith and love – commencing with the former and consummated in the latter.
Here plainly the Apostle exhibits faith first, and after it virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness, brotherly kindness, charity. Yet though faith is first, we may not say that it is the greatest: still less that charity, though last, is the least. “Now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”
There is, however, one reason why the first place, and no other, should be assigned to faith in any list of the Christian graces. To it of right belongs the precedence, as it is the fountain out of which the others flow, the root from which they germinate. It deserves to be named first as the primary grace, for it produces the others. Apart from it, the virtues mentioned afterwards would not exist – at least not as Christian graces.
In a passage where the Apostle James has, strangely enough, been thought to disparage faith, he sets forth its excellence thus: it is not a speculative, barren belief – not a mere intellectual admission of the truth or a naked act of the understanding; but a living, operative principle in the heart. By way of illustration, he supposes the case of a man professing to have faith without works, and he addresses him thus: “But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead?” – that this, which thou mistakest for faith is but a bare belief; the form, it may be, of the living thing, but no more having life than the body without the spirit.
James, I have said, is dealing with a hypothetical case; not what ever actually happens, but what may be supposed. Hence, when he says, “Faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone,” he is not admitting that faith can ever be without works. The whole drift of his reasoning goes to prove the contrary: of necessity, from its very nature, faith is always accompanied with good works; this is our barest conception of it. Indeed good works do not merely go along with it, they are its consequences. It is the cause; they are the effects. They are in it just as the entire plant – stem, branch, leaf and flower – comes from the seed grain which is dropped into the ground.
Deposit that seed in suitable soil, let the air breathe round it and the dew water it and, by a sure law of development, the stem and the branches and the leaves will each come forth in its turn, until the plant is fully formed. So in faith, the spiritual seed is the spiritual plant. Let that seed be deposited in a human heart and be fed – as the Spirit assuredly will feed it, with His sunshine and His dew – and all that was in the seed will burgeon and blossom till the plant of grace, having reached the fulness of its earthly growth, will be transplanted to the paradise of God above. Or, should a soul be taken away by death in the moment that the seed of faith is dropped into it, then the perpetual summer of the better clime will bring forth, as a plant of glory – only far more rapidly than could have been the case here – what on earth would have grown into a plant of grace.
The Lord Himself sets forth, by a simple yet striking metaphor, the same point which James insists on so emphatically: it is in the very nature, and of the very essence, of saving faith to produce good works. Around on every side were to be seen, in the first weeks of vintage, the numerous vineyards of Palestine, purpling with their ripening bunches of grapes its mountain slopes, up to their summits. “I am the vine,” says Christ, pointing to these, “ye are the branches: he that abideth in Me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit.” I Myself, planted by the Father, am the living vine, nourished from its own roots; for the Father has given the Son to have life in Himself; and you, My invited disciples, who have been united to Me by faith, are the engrafted branches. Continue then to draw nourishment out of Me, the heavenly stem, and your every leaf will be green, your round full clusters will ripen for the vintage; you will bear much fruit.
Our Apostle sets forth this same essential characteristic of faith when he gives to it the first place among the Christian graces. It has the precedence, not because it is always the greatest – for charity, the last named, is greater – but because it is the one from which all of them proceed as consequents: the one root, heaven-planted in the heart, from which they all spring.
The expression, “add to”, therefore has special significance here. When a house is being built, we say that the builder adds stone to stone. The last stone on the wall may not have been taken out of the same quarry, or hewn by the same mason, as the stone on which it is laid. The only connection between the two stones now is that they are held together by a little cement in the same building. But when we say that a tree has added to its branches, another idea than that of simple increase by addition is implied. For a tree is built up by an upgrowth from the root, throughout its entire body: the food of the tree being carried in the sap from root to stem, from stem to branch, from branch to twig, and from every twig to its topmost leaflet.
Now, when the Apostle says that we are to add to our faith virtue, knowledge, temperance and the rest, it is in the latter sense he uses the word. It is a living outgrowth: the connection between faith and these other graces is not the same as between the particles of a crystal, for example, but that between the root of a tree and its stem. Faith then is the radical grace, the root of all the other graces. And when we speak of their being added to it, the meaning is that they grow out of it – they are produced, nourished and strengthened by it. In short, they are its fruits.
Now, it is to this point – faith is not merely the primary, but also the producing, grace – that I wish to direct your thoughts at present. Are all these Christian graces fruits of faith? Then two important inferences follow logically: (1) faith is to be tested by them; (2) they cannot exist without faith.
1. The test by which we are to try our faith
The test by which we are to try our faith, whether it is genuine, has nothing mystical or extraordinary about it. It is the simplest possible, that by which you decide the quality of a tree, or determine the nature of a cause. The tree is known by its fruits, the cause by its effects; thus too is faith known. If, from the branches of a tree you pluck bitter apples which set your teeth on edge, you at once pronounce the tree to be bad. Or if its branches, though thickly clothed with foliage, are altogether bare of fruit, you at once say that the tree is barren. Now this is a very simple process, requiring no botanical knowledge; it is merely the evidence of the palate and the eye.
It is precisely so with faith. There are two kinds: true and false; living and dead. Do you wish to know whether yours is the true, not the false; the living, not the dead? Here is the test, simple and short enough: if yours is a living faith, it will not be barren or unfruitful but will bring forth works; if yours is a true faith, it will bring forth good works.
(1.) Perhaps this is much too simple and commonplace a test of faith for some people.
They would have a method which has something of mystery about it: certain nameless emotions and high-wrought feelings, high upliftings of the thoughts and sudden ecstasies, kindling fervour as from a hidden fire, passionate gushes of grief alternating with trances of joy, and wondrous visions breaking in on the mind. Now faith may be accompanied by all of these. But it is certainly not safe to test it by them, for, instead of finding faith, one is very likely to lose oneself in this intricate labyrinth of undefined mental states. A surer method is the simple scriptural test, “He that abideth in Me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit”.
(2.) Perhaps some may think that this method of testing the genuineness of faith by works may appear to savour too much of legality.
But why should it be thought so? Does faith boast of its good works? Does it expect eternal life as their reward? Does it trust any the less in the sole obedience of Jesus Christ because, following His example, it strives to finish the work which God has given it to do? Or, not daring to rest on its works, does faith boast of itself? Does the believer trust in it any more now than when he first believed? Does he expect a reward for it, now that it has done holy deeds, any more than when it could only weep and sigh and call out for mercy?
No, neither in his works, or in the faith which produces them, does the believer place any merit. But the more he is enabled to obey, the more does he feel his shortcomings and confess them. When most fruitful, he most bewails his barrenness, and never is he so much disposed to magnify sovereign grace than after some holy deed. Such being the case, where is the legality in testing our faith by good works?
(3.) Perhaps this method of testing the genuineness of faith by works may appear to some to be too much of an external test.
Is not faith, they ask, an inward affection; and should we not then judge it by our inward experiences – by what we feel as well as by what we say or how we act? Most certainly you are, and this very test, which we would have you apply, requires you to do so. Do you see not that each and every one of these holy graces, which our Apostle enumerates as the fruits of faith, includes these two: an inward affection and the corresponding outward action?
Godliness, for example, has its devout feelings as well as its reverent postures, and its silent meditations no less than its vocal melodies. And brotherly kindness, its heart is all aglow with pity’s gentle flame, while its eyes drop pity’s gentle tears. And while knowledge ponders the holy page in its secret chamber, it may practise openly, before men, the lessons of its studious solitude when it goes forth as prudence and instructed wisdom. And charity, while spreading its mantle to cover a brother’s failings, is moved with the kindest of impulses to love that erring brother none the less.
Botanists divide trees, whether of the forest or the garden, into two great classes, according to their manner of growth: the exogens, or outside growers, and the endogens, or inside growers. In the former, the new wood is deposited on the outside; the tree increasing in bulk by its stem being wrapped round, so to speak, with a succession of fibrous layers – each year adding a new one. In the endogenous trees, the growth is by the accumulation of woody fibres at the centre: and these, pressing outward against the older wood, cause the stem to distend so much year by year.
Now it would be difficult to conceive, in the natural world, a tree which would be at once an exogen, growing from without, and an endogen, growing from within. Indeed, the whole field of botany does not furnish any; no tree can be found which combines in its stem the characteristics of the cedar and the palm. But we do find this combination in the spiritual world; and every Christian grace is an instance of it. For its growth is twofold; it increases from within and from without. At one and the same time, by one and the same process, there is both an inward and an outward expansion. It exhibits, in combination, the special characteristics of the cedar and the palm. It acts as the palm when, with a hidden growth, it increases at the heart. It acts as the cedar when, with a visible growth, it increases in its outward life. Now, if this twofold growth of the Christian graces is kept in view, you will not complain about the method of testing faith by works as focusing too much on what is external, and not enough on what is inward.
(4.) Once more, it is said that this method of testing faith by its fruits may suit the case of those who have been, for some time, under saving impressions, yet how is it to be applied to recent converts?
For, unlike the trees of Eden, which, without seed or sapling, burgeoned and blossomed in a day, the tree of faith, as is the case with our garden trees now, takes a time to come to foliage and fruit. To this we answer that this same test is applicable, but must be modified to suit the particular circumstances of those but newly converted. Of such we shall forbear to ask whether they have yet borne fruit, for faith with them may be only in the leaf. But is there in them a desire to do so? Is it their aim, at least, to be holy? Do they feel that their calling, as professing disciples of Christ, is to keep His commandments?
Such then is the test of faith, even what we apply to the tree: by its fruits you shall know it. Would you know whether you have faith? Let your works decide. Or would you know whether your faith is genuine? Again let your works decide. Or would you know whether your faith is in a healthy state? Again let your works decide. If you can show works, peradventure you have faith. If these works are unto holiness, your faith is assuredly genuine. If these works unto holiness are abundant; if you not only do all Christ’s commandments, but delight in doing them, you may certainly conclude that your faith is in vigorous operation. But where there are no such works, how can there be faith? Or where the works are not holy, how can your faith be genuine? Or where the works are scanty, how can your faith be healthy? The test is simple, but as sure as simple, like all else that is scriptural.
2. As faith is to be tested by good works, so our good works are to be tested by faith.
In other words, whether they are good works depends on whether they proceed from faith; for “whatsoever is not of faith is sin”. Or, to state the same truth in other words, there can be no good works, no true morality, no real virtue, where there is no faith.
Often indeed, the attempt is made to divorce morality from faith, and virtue from piety. You will hear men say that, though they do not pretend to be pious, they claim to be virtuous and moral – though they may not be saints, they are dutiful in the relations of life. But let us look a little into this so-called morality which does not spring from faith. It may have the colour of the true metal; there may be upon it the stamp of the genuine coin. But weigh it in the balance of divine truth; apply to it the test of Scripture; try its ring on the tables of the sanctuary, and you will find it is counterfeit. It may be a close imitation, but it is not from the same mint as Bible morality.
Let us first try what is passed off as honesty, as the world uses the word. Yonder goes an honest man, they say. Well, maybe he has not stolen, has never defrauded his neighbour of his goods or of his gold, is no usurer or extortioner, no unjust dealer, never was known even to drive a hard bargain, owes no man anything, gives full weight and fair measure and an article worth its price, is straightforward and above board in all his dealings, a thorough hater of trickery in business. In short, he is one on whom you can thoroughly depend when you buy or barter or sell, or have commercial transactions of any kind with him. Still, if he has not faith, is this man really honest? Is his integrity of standard weight? It cannot be, for a really honest man is one who gives to everyone his due. But this man, whom the world calls honest, is not doing this. He is, every hour and every day of his life, defrauding God of His due; and we hold that a man who can defraud the greater is not at heart honest towards the less.
Let us apply the same touchstone to what passes as truthfulness in the world. We shall assume that a man is not a downright liar; that he would even scorn to tell a lie; that he does not use equivocations or knowingly mislead; that he does not, by concealing a part of the truth, allow his neighbour to be deceived; that he is no slanderer or backbiter or boaster or busybody; that he has never borne false witness against his neighbour; that his word is, as the saying goes, as good as his bond. We are willing to assume all this; yet if this man does not have faith, is he really truthful in his heart? The thing is impossible, and the reason we give is this: his whole life is, in the sight of God, a practical lie, since it proceeds on a grand fallacy – that what God has said concerning His Son is not true.
Once more, let us put to the test what goes by the name of social virtue in the world. A man is esteemed a good neighbour, a useful citizen, a kind husband, an exemplary parent; he is seen as a pattern of good manners; he is considerate, approachable, charitable; he never turns the poor away from his door; he is ever ready to help those in difficulty and those whose talents have not yet found them fame. Still, if this man does not have faith, is he really benevolent? Is his charity purely unselfish? Is his kindness altogether disinterested? We are loath to strip so fair a character of its virtues when we meet with so much in this world that is openly foul. But we have no choice, for if we do not do so, truth will. Unless selfishness and love can dwell in the same breast, it is simply impossible for an unconverted man, whose heart is, as Scripture tells us, the very essence of selfishness, to love any creature with an altogether pure and disinterested affection.
We therefore proclaim the so-called morality of an unconverted man to be counterfeit; in other words, there can be no good works, no true morality, no virtue, in the Bible sense, where there is no faith. This is because the natural heart is destitute of those dispositions which are essential to morality. It cannot be really benevolent when, in its very essence, it is selfish. It cannot be really truthful, seeing there is untruth at its very core.
But we go further than this. Even if we grant that the elements of natural virtue are not lacking in the renewed heart, still there can be no true morality without faith. For what is morality? Is it merely something between man and man? Is the second table of the law, which prescribes my duty to my neighbour, less a divine code than the first table of the law, which prescribes my duty to my Creator? Certainly not. I can therefore no more fulfill the requirements of the second table of the law than I can fulfill the requirements of the first, unless my obedience springs from a sense of obligation to the will of God, who is the author of the whole law. The sanctions of morality are as much based on His authority, who is the one Lawgiver, as are the sanctions of piety. I may not divide His law, making one part of it human in its obligations and leaving only the other part divine. Both tables – the one which teaches me my duty to my fellow men and the one which prescribes my duty to God Himself – are equally divine. My obedience to either must therefore be based on God’s authority if it is to be acceptable in His sight.
Hence it is evident that morality is not merely certain duties of kindness which I owe to man as my fellow creature, but it is what I owe to him as the creature of God, who has attached His own high authority to the duties He expects man to discharge to man and written them on one of the tables of His law. Now the morality which does not spring from faith cannot have the authority of God as its basis – for this obvious reason: he who is destitute of faith is setting aside the first duty enjoined by the divine law in its gospel form: “This is His commandment, that we should believe on the name of His Son Jesus Christ”. So every unbeliever stops short at the very threshold of the law, where duty begins. By the one act of unbelief, he violates the whole first table of the law, all whose precepts are summed up in one great commandment: Believe on the name of the Son of God. Is it possible to fulfil the second table while the first is trampled on? Can I love my neighbour out of obedience to God’s authority if I set that authority at defiance when it imposes the duties I owe directly to God Himself? Clearly not.
Do we then blot out all moral distinctions? Do we deny that there are degrees of goodness and of badness among the unconverted? Do we make all like, classing the thief with the man who never put forth his hand to steal? Or the braggart and the perjurer with the man who would scorn to foul his lips with a lie? Or the adulterer and the drunkard with the man who is living in chastity and sobriety? No, by no means. The thief, the liar, the immoral person, the wine-bibber are found wanting when weighed in the balance even of the world’s morality. And far be it from us to wipe out the stigma, or whiten the marks of infamy, with which the world brands them.
But we proclaim the world’s own morality to be at fault. Not that we pretend to set down its virtues as so many vices – as if its truthfulness, for example, were falsehood, or its chastity lasciviousness, or its sobriety intemperance. We do not say this; we do not think this. But we do think, and will say, that the world’s truthfulness, its sobriety, its chastity, indeed all its morality and all its outward decorum, not being sanctified with piety or quickened by a living faith, are but the lifeless form of virtue – a body without a soul. The shape, the limbs, the features are there, and the world says that this is morality. But so we might, when gazing on a corpse, say this is the man we saw yesterday. Yes, but yesterday it was the man: our kind friend, our wise counsellor, our lively companion; today it is his dead body.
Come now, you who are unconverted – who deem your morals sound and flatter yourselves that you can be virtuous without being pious – pick out the very choicest of your moral acts; present us with the rarest specimens of your virtuous deeds; show us what you yourselves would reckon your best righteousnesses. The world looks at them and exclaims: How beautiful! How good! What rare charity! What noble integrity! What fine benevolence! But what does God say? How does He judge these choice instances of your so-called natural morality? What does He say about them, your best righteousnesses? Listen, unbelieving moralist, you who think that you can be virtuous without having faith in Christ: Your best righteousnesses are as filthy rags! Thus your fair mantle of morality, the very fairest you could pick out, which cost you so much effort to weave and to get it shaped and trimmed according to the world’s most approved fashion, is held up before your very eyes as a tattered, soiled and all-too-scanty-patchwork! Would that you could be persuaded to fling away this righteousness of yours, that you might be found clothed with the righteousness of Christ!
Blessed be God for the ordinance of prayer! . . . It is some relief when, in distress, we can pour out our trouble into the bosom of a wife or faithful friend; how much more when we leave our complaint before the gracious, wise and faithful God!
John Flavel