The Path to the Bush 3

I would not call upon Christians to slacken the hand of zeal in plucking sinners as brands from the burning—but I would have them more diligent in extending their holy benevolence to their erring brethren. It should be the object of our solicitude not only to enlarge the church—but also to improve it. The church was intended to present to this selfish world a community which should be the very home of love, where love should dwell, animating guiding and blessing all; where its busy assiduity and tender watchfulness, in preventing or excluding sin, as the intruder upon its sanctity and the violator of its peace, should be seen and admired by those who are without.

Were all the members of our churches living in the exercise of this heaven-born, heaven descended grace; were we all seen in the attitude and act of watching over each other for good—sparing no pains to keep others from sin, or to recover them when they have fallen into it; laboring to stop the sins we could not prevent, and weeping over those we could not arrest; nothing, no not even the re-institution of the primitive community of goods, could invest Christ's redeemed people with a brighter display of the beauties of holiness.

But, alas! we are lacking in this part of our duty. We care not for our brother—we let him alone in his sins, and allow him to render himself more vile. We see the grass growing in the path to the bush, but do not inquire after the feet that formerly trod it, by their visits to the scene of devotion. We need that converted Hottentots should come and show us what brotherly love means, or that we should be stimulated to its exercise by the relation of their simple virtues which is borne to us by their honored teachers.

I have already conceded that the duty of rebuking a brother is a delicate and a difficult one—for such is the pride of our hearts, that we do not like to know our faults, much less to be reproved for them. Hence the indispensable necessity of paying peculiar attention to the spirit and manner in which we perform this too often unwelcome office of Christian love. The surgeon who is solicited to perform some painful operation does it with as gentle a hand, and as kind a look and voice as possible, and does not by a crude, rough manner inflict more anguish than is necessary. Much less should those who undertake without being asked, the healing of the soul, be careful not to offend by a lack of delicacy of touch, nor inflame the disease which they are anxious to cure. "There are three things," said the excellent Philip Henry, "requisite in the setting of a bone, an eagle's eye, a lion's heart, and a lady's hand; so also in reproving."

There was a wisdom and a gentleness in the good Hottentot towards her negligent sister which are as much to be admired as her fidelity. There was no prying curiosity, no groundless suspicion; the path to the bush was overgrown; it was evident to the senses, that the feet that once trod it, had ceased to frequent it—she had visible proof of the fact of a neglect of prayer. And then how gentle was the inquiry, "Sister, has not your soul declined in religion?" There were no haughty airs, no angry tones, no railing accusation; but merely an affectionate inquiry. Here is our pattern. If we cannot do the thing in this manner, we had better not attempt to do it all. We must be quite sure of our motives, that they are pure and unselfish; that we love our brother, and are solicitous for his welfare; that we have no concealed feeling of exultation over his faults, or of readiness to appear superior to him by reproving him. If reproof does not come from love, it shows malice, however adroitly concealed, or under whatever pretense it is carried out.

In our manner we must be all gentleness, and kindness, and humility. It must be evident to the object of our solicitude that we have nothing in view but his good; that we have no inferior or less worthy end to accomplish. Nor should this delicate business be entered upon without sincere and earnest prayer, both for help and for success; that we may be assisted in administering reproof, and the brother whom we are anxious to reclaim be disposed to receive it.

We may give reproof, but God only can give repentance. We should introduce all we say with professions of regard, that carry the evidence of their own sincerity with them. It may soften the mind of our brother if we acknowledge with unaffected candor our own infirmities, and mention, but without flattery, any good we know of him, in order that it may be obvious that we do not reprove him because we are alive only to his faults. If there be an appearance of relenting, and a disposition to confess—we must beware of aggravating the offence, and of investing it with the darkest shades of which it is susceptible.

Indeed in all cases we must be careful, if we wish to produce conviction, not to make the matter really worse than it is, or to begin even with the worst features of the real fact. Nothing can be conceived of more likely to harden the heart of the offender, and to place him in the attitude of resistance and self-defense, than his perceiving in you a disposition to aggravate, than to palliate. If at any time we are not met in the first instance, with the spirit we desire or expect—but should discover the feelings, and hear the language, of irritation, where we hope to find concession, and to produce conviction—we must possess our souls in patience, and not allow ourselves either to be provoked or disheartened. If with unruffled serenity, or undisturbed meekness, we can allow the gust of petulance to expend itself, we may, by persevering but judicious assiduity succeed in our object, and win our brother.

We must also remember, that much discretion is requisite for selecting the right time, as well as for adopting the right manner of rebuke. It should be as soon after the sin has been committed as possible, before the conscience has had time to reconcile itself to the transgression, or has acquired an indifference in the contemplation of it. Sin is of a hardening nature, and it cannot lie long upon the conscience unrepented of, without a process of induration. When Peter denied Christ his injured Master instantly turned and looked upon him; and that look, which no artist's pencil could portray, melted his heart into genuine repentance. He had no time to become carelessly familiar with his crime. This of course does not apply to the cases in which the indulgence of the irascible feelings constitutes a part of the offence. In a time of anger, reason is out of the way; and in the absence of reason, success is hopeless; we should always wait for its return, and endeavor to bring it back. Passion has no ears; and is not a fit state of mind for either the reprover or the reproved. Wait until you are cool before you give rebuke, and until your brother is cool before you expect him to receive it.

It is never in season to reprove another, just after he has been reproving us; for that will have all the appearance of a refined species of revenge. There are favorable times, which a sagacious eye will discern, when the mind, softened by events, pensive and serious by affliction, is like ground mellowed by frost for the reception of the seed. And especially must we be mindful of our Lord's direction, to cast out the beam from our own eye before we attempt to take the mote from our brother's—and also to go to our brother alone, when there is none whose presence shall check the progress of conviction, and prevent the disposition to confess.

Public reproofs wound, mortify, and irritate, and call up a false shame—instead of producing the ingenuous emotions of that holy affection which has no tinge of anger's fiery red in its blush. It is in privacy, where none but God and conscience are present with ourselves and our brother, that we are likely to bring him to repentance. He can then have no suspicion that our object is to expose, rather than to reclaim him; or to display our own excellence, instead of removing his imperfections. Pride and vanity have frequently assumed the censor's chair, but no ambition of this kind can be suspected in him who chooses to have no witnesses of his holy and graceful reproofs.

But now let us turn from him who gives the reproof of holy and affectionate vigilance—to him who receives the reproof. Something profitable for instruction in reference to the latter may he found in "the path to the bush." How meekly did the child of the desert fall under the remonstrance of her friend; instead of resenting, as impertinently officious, this intrusion on her habits of secret fellowship with heaven; how promptly, and how wisely did she apply herself to profit by it! What a beautiful exemplification did she present by her conduct, of the words of the psalmist, "Let the righteous smite me; it shall be a kindness—and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head."

It is not for me to determine which of the two is more easy, to administer reproof with wisdom affection and dignity; or to receive it with meekness gratitude and benefit—great grace is necessary for both. When delivered in a right spirit, and for proper ends, it is one of the most salutary and at the same time most self-denying acts of friendship, and demands to be considered and acknowledged as the very refinement of kindness. Through the deceitfulness of sin, aided by the treachery of the human heart, we are all in imminent danger of committing transgressions, the evil of which we may not see, and the guilt of which we may not feel—until they are disclosed to us by the voice of a friend. What a striking instance of this have we in the case of David, who, until the faithful voice of the prophet plainly said, "You are the man!" remained for months insensible of the guilt of murder and adultery!

When the conscience is not tender, it allows us to do many things without rebuke, and needs to be awakened and instructed by the warnings of those around us—and if we have any concern, certainly if we have any deep concern respecting it, about our own spiritual welfare, we shall feel truly thankful to those who will so far concern themselves about us as to reprove us for our faults. The greatest favor anyone can do us, is to point out to us wherein we are doing wrong, or are neglecting to do what is right. And if there be one kindness which beyond all others ought to be received and acknowledged with ardent gratitude, it is this.

Could we know the painful struggles which our reprover carried on in his own bosom with his amiable fears, before he brought up his courage to the purpose and the act of telling us our failings; could we have seen the palpitating heart and the hesitating step with which he came upon his errand of love; instead of receiving him with a frown, or allowing our pride to be wounded, our temper to be ruffled, and our lips to give utterance to the language of resentment, we should instantly convince him, by every demonstration which a friendly hand, a beaming eye, and a thankful tongue could give, that his generous kindness was not bestowed on one who was insensible of its value—and we should send him away with his richest reward, in the acknowledgment of our fault, and the promise of amendment. How great and good is that man, who in love and dignity can give rebuke; how much greater and better is he that can receive it in gratitude, and follow it with improvement! Our fallen, sunken nature rarely rises to a higher pitch of moral beauty than in such cases as these.

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