HIRING FAIRS

Henry Law, London, 1871

For a few moments let me crave your ear. I am no stranger to the purpose of your visit. I know why you stand jostled in this throng, courting the craze of an ill-mannered crowd.

My present plan, however, leads not to comments on this faulty fair. My purpose is not to remonstrate or upbraid. When I view this concourse, compassion stifles all reproach. Austerity is silent and tenderness desires to speak. Kindness prevails, while sterner feelings stand aside. Others will this day address you, seeking their own ends. Let me be heard, whose only object is your good. Though unknown, I truly wish you well.

Your conduct claims some measure of excuse. You are misguided by a long-lived custom. You have been taught that servants' places are thus lawfully gained. Perhaps your parents and their parents, too, have boldly done what you now boldly do. That this traffic is un-English and most evil, no thoughtful man can possibly deny. But I cast not the total blame on you. Censure, today, shall not depress your heart. You must not, therefore, turn away. I wear no frowns. I point not to the shame and mischief. A present opportunity is before me, and Christian zeal is warm to use it. If God be pleased to bless my words, you may obtain the best of friends, and join the service of the best of masters.

Your look is now inquiring. You seem to say, these words imply intention to do hiring work. Exactly so. Such is my errand. Intent on this design, I look around, and fix my eye on you. But, understand, I seek no servant for myself. I bear commission from another. My Master sends me, and I am prompt to do His bidding.

Do you reply — This mode of dealing is not common — it is unusual thus to hire — but curiosity is roused, and gladly would I ask some explanation! Does fame commend your Master? What is his reputation?"

Gladly I comply. My Master is great, rich, kind, good, noble. There is none like Him in all the county, or in all the world. His spacious mansion contains many servants. Multitudes wait at His gate. They all receive much care, and bless God for their lot. They work, indeed; for none are happy who live idle lives; but in their work they find delight. Their needs are all supplied. He pays good wages now, and when they have fulfilled their tasks, they are enriched beyond their utmost hopes. But this is meager praise. He is, indeed, far better than this poor account. Not one, who ever became His, would leave His service for all the treasures which this earth can give.

In His household there is room for you, and I this day invite you to this choicest place. I think I hear you say — This is, indeed, a grand account. But where can this Master dwell? He surely is no native of these parts; and, as I cannot break home-ties, His place, though tempting, is no place for me.

Stay — stay! I call you not to emigration, or to distant lands. No lengthy voyage conducts to His abode. At any moment you may reach His presence. No distance separates, if you consent. Peculiar license, too, pervades His house. While you serve Him you may still work in a contiguous farm. You may abide, surrounded by home-friends, and still call Him your Lord.

Your look is now amazed. You suspect that my mind wanders, or my words mock. You think I surely trifle — and, to convict me of wild talk, you ask — What, then, is His name?

Your question helps me, and I thank you for it. With eager joy — with holy pride, I give the glorious name. He is the Lord Christ Jesus — the only-begotten Son of God — Very God of Very God — Heir of all things — Emmanuel God with us — the only Savior of a sin-lost world. I could add more, and leave much more untold — but a full catalogue of all His names at present might perplex and weary you.

But, ah! how is it now! your look is changed — awkward — downcast. The name has checked your gaiety. You seem half-frightened — ill at ease — and anxious to depart.

But pause, dear friend, my message now shall not be long. I perceive, at once, that you have knowledge of this name; and that you clearly catch my purpose, and my wish. But tell me, why you now no longer smile. Whence your averted timid look? Do I not read aright your fear that the service of Christ Jesus would nip the pleasures of life's prime, and doom your youth to dismal gloom!

For this alarm I am not unprepared. It is the common artifice of Satan. It is the widespread net, towards which the giddy float. It is the poisoned cup which youthful lips sip thoughtlessly. It is the pillow of delusion, on which so many sleep to wake in hell. What! Christians sad! At once I contradict the falsehood. When Satan said — "You shall not surely die," did he speak truth? When now he whispers, Christ's servants mope in cheerlessness, he equally deceives. No, I am bold to step to higher ground. I fearlessly proclaim that there is no spark of lasting happiness apart from this great Lord. While every mother's child in Satan's service is an enslaved drudge, Jesus' followers feast at banquets of delight — and quaff an overflowing cup — and sing on the highest heights of joy — and walk in holy liberty.

You raise your eyes wondering — incredulous. You marvel what strange utterance will follow. Well! Let me call you a witness on my side. Looking you in the face, I ask — Is happiness your state? Probably you often laugh and sport. It may be so. But masks of mirth may hide unpeaceful hearts. Do no intruding thoughts put merriment to flight? In pleasure's giddy whirl are there no misgiving pauses? An inward voice will whisper — This life is wrong. A cloud of gloom will darken noisy gaiety. You must confess this picture to be true. Though now you are so gladsome, perhaps you have felt pain and sickness. Where was your gladness then! It left you with a mocking sneer. But if you yet are free from malady's sharp touch, still some neighbor's groans — the passing bell — an open grave — a train of mourners — the pulpit's warning — the thought that you may be the next to die, have caused a shudder. Then the remembrance of judgment after death — of wrath so righteously deserved — of the wages due to sin — of the fire which ever burns — of the worm which ever gnaws — of the unending torments of the lost, has chilled with terror through your aching bosom. If solid happiness were your abiding portion, it would exclude such gloomy guests. Honest conscience cannot but assent that worldly hearts are like the troubled sea, which knows no rest. You are not happy.

But, heed my bidding, give yourself to Christ, and your peace shall flow as a river, and your joy sparkle as the sun-lit sea. Mark His invitation. It is rich in promise — "Come unto Me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The motto on each servant's brow is, "Happy are You, O Israel."

I watch your countenance, and I read its stare. You think I overstate. You know some neighbors, famed for their love of Christ, who writhe in pain, and are brought low by losses — poverty — distress. You perceive that Christians soar not above trouble's reach. Mark me, I say not that union to Christ will guard your body from all pain, and keep back the ever-flowing tide of tears, and bar the door against sorrow and affliction. Far otherwise. My all-wise Master knows the need of chastening discipline.

Thus love corrects, and seemingly is often harsh. A gracious scourge repels from perils — drives from destruction's path — restrains the straying feet. But in these trials there is wondrous gain. Troubles give life to dormant promises — darkness issues in clearer light — in every storm God is a present stay.

Consult your pious neighbors. They will gratefully confess that in their keenest pains they have found supports of sustaining grace. Their experience confirms the word — "I will never leave you, nor forsake you." Question those conversant with hospitals, infirmaries, and scenes of saddest woe. True testimony has often told that greater peace is seldom seen than by the suffering Christian's bed. The words of Sheba's Queen may be applied to Christ — "Happy are your men, happy are these your servants which stand continually before you, and that hear your wisdom."

I have persuasion that your heart responds — Yes! God's children are thus blessed. Theirs is the happy lot. But you have lurking thoughts that this household admits none but the holy and the sanctified. You are conscious that your state is sadly different. Ways of unrighteousness detain your feet. Your light heart is steeped in worldly-mindedness, and has no taste for gospel-walk. Spirituality is not your life.

Do you thence infer that entrance is forbidden, and that rejection waves you off! Would you delight to hear that this objection is a cruel cheat! Take, then, assurance of its utter emptiness. It is a noble feature in this Lord's fame — "He receives sinners." His command is, "Preach the gospel to every creature." He bids His servants to go into the highways and hedges, and to compel the outcasts to come in. His mansion is peopled with rejoicing crowds, who once were light and trifling as you are. All His servants strayed afar off, until they yielded to His call. His gates are never closed against a humble applicant. But is there readiness with you? Will you renounce the devil and his works, and all earth's sinful vanities! I distinctly warn you that His easy yoke requires your entire heart. You must be wholly His, or wholly toil in Satan's slave-house.

But can you hesitate? Wisely make trial of this gracious Lord. All whom He receives He wondrously transforms. The heart of stone will soften. A heart of flesh will take its place. He will renew in you a right spirit. New affections — new desires — new hopes — new tastes — new prospects — new delights — will sprout as blossoms on a summer tree. Old things will pass away; all things will become new. The present desert of your mind will bloom as Eden's lovely garden. The inward blank will be replete with precious, elevated, enchanting thoughts. You will find conversion to be a heaven-wrought change from wretched slavery to noble freedom — from doubts to peace — from blindness to clear sight — from low estate to heavenly heirdom. Will you not come and drink this happy cup?

Why do you yet so seriously sigh? Do I detect a lingering fear that in Christ's household you would still be sad, remembering your former sinful state? You apprehend that keen remorse would still adhere a bitter comrade by your side. You know that wrath pursues transgression. You fear, then, that wrath must ever follow at your heels.

True; each sin must have its punishment — God's truth and justice have this claim. But from this vengeance there is rescue and escape. Hear the glad tidings of His kingdom. "All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all." Jesus is made His people's substitute — their burden-bearer — their sin-remover — their guilt-sustainer. Their debt is placed to His account. His riches pay the full amount. Their curse is rolled on Him, and He endures it, until no more remains. God deals with Him as the guilty one. He, spotless as God can be, receives imputed sins, and fully expiates them all. In the vicarious victim, all claims are satisfied, and wrath expires. Thus His servants are exempt. Jesus, in His life — in the garden — on the cross — suffers their sufferings — dies their death — and so becomes their uttermost salvation. His pains are their pardon — His stripes are their healing — His agony is their recovery. Thus over the portals of His palace the scroll shines brightly, "Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!"

I allow that consciousness of unforgiven sin brings torment — but I maintain that sins washed out can terrify no more. Can crimson dye affright when it is whiter than the whitest snow? All His servants have this cheering knowledge. It is the earliest lesson of their faith — "the blood of Jesus Christ, God's Son, cleanses from all sin." Therefore, throughout His many mansions, the happy chorus rings — "There is redemption through His blood, even the forgiveness of sins." "Their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more." Would not you rejoice to take part in this song! Come, then, and learn the melody.

Well, what is your reply? You look on homely garb — you think of humble birth — you recollect the childhood's hut, and you conclude that this abode is not a fit place for you. This scruple shows ignorance of His condescending grace. Distinction of the poor and rich — the lowly and the great — exists not in His eyes. No! the poor and needy seem to win especial favor. The very humblest, in the humblest hovel — the very neediest of the race of poverty are called as freely as earth's lords. No golden keys are needed to unlock His gates. They open gladly to the poor man's touch. Many a Lazarus is borne by angels to the heights of heaven. "You see your calling, how that not many mighty — not many noble are called; but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world, and things which are despised has God chosen; and things which are not, to bring to nothing things that are." Your apprehension is a groundless fancy. The lowly state is not despised in heaven.

But I will not enlarge. Believe me, no valid bar prevents your instant welcome. Faith overleaps all hindrances. Let me, then, counsel, exhort, beseech you to cast away reluctance, fear, and hesitation. Linger not, nor pause to commune with your carnal heart, or worldly friends. Be persuaded at once — resolutely, unreservedly — to surrender yourself to Christ, the only Savior and the only Hope. "Now is the accepted time." Now, invitations echo in your ears. Now, ready arms are outstretched to receive you. Dream not of a future day. Young as you are, you may be near your grave! Traverse the cemetery. Many lie there who are not as old as you. Some, too, have entered fairs healthy and blithe, and never reached their homes alive.

Say not, I will return — reform my ways — acquire some fitness, and then accept this offered yoke. Be not so mad. Such efforts are the wreck of every hope. You have no power to cleanse your heart as fit abode for Christ. Christ is the entrance to the Christian course. By faith receive Him; and, thus united, advance forward. Until this first step be rightly taken you grope in darkness — no spark of holiness can kindle — your dwelling is in the shadow of death. Extend, then, the hand of faith and grasp the Savior.

You are not called to travel slowly towards Him through a long road of outward forms. Rites may sweetly nourish true believers. But you must be Christ's, before you can be member of His Church, and claim the privileges of His household, and call God, Abba, Father. You must be joined to Him, as branch to the parent stem, before you can look up to heaven as your home, and joy in the promises, and feast with His family at the sacramental table. Stay not in the crowd of formalists who are content with outward show; while faith, which is the saving grace, has never occupied their hearts. True religion is the reign of faith.

May the mighty Spirit of the living God bless, by His conquering power, this earnest effort for your good! While many shall return this night to plunge more deeply into sin, may angels sing aloud because the Lord receives in you another jewel for His crown! While this Fair shall rivet around many stronger bands of ruin, may you enter on a new course leading to victory over sin, and death, and hell, and Satan — securing peace of conscience — usefulness of life — fullness of present joy, and pleasures at His right hand forever!

I now must say, Farewell, and bear your answer to my Lord. Shall I report acceptance, or refusal? Do you welcome or reject? The balance trembles between heaven and hell.

Hear my parting importunity. By all His boundless love — by His accursed death — by His most precious blood — by His redeeming wounds — by His triumphant rising from the grave — by His exalted seat at God's right hand — by the power of His interceding life — by His near coming to reign gloriously — by final gathering before the great white throne — by all the joys of saints in light — by all the miseries of everlasting woe, I implore you to lift up the portals of your heart and cry — Come in, great Savior, come! Let your inmost soul bound forward to profess, "Now to be Yours, and Yours alone, O Lamb of God, I come." May this hiring Fair thus join you to the saved! Seeking an earthly Master, may you find heaven, and a heavenly Lord!