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* * * * *

[Illustration: cover]

_The World's Great Sermons_






Formerly of Yale Divinity School Faculty;
Author of "How to Speak
in Public," Etc.

With Assistance from Many of the Foremost
Living Preachers and Other Theologians



Professor Emeritus of Practical Theology
in Yale University




_Printed in the United States of America_



GUTHRIE (1803-1873). _Page_
The New Heart 1

MAURICE (1805-1872).
The Valley of Dry Bones 23

MARTINEAU (1805-1900).
Parting Words 45

MANNING (1808-1892).
The Triumph of the Church 61

PARK (1808-1900).
The Prominence of the Atonement 87

SIMPSON (1810-1884).
The Resurrection of Our Lord 119

THEODORE PARKER (1810-1860).
The Transient and Permanent in
Christianity 147

MACLEOD (1812-1872).
The True Christian Ministry 177

MOZLEY (1813-1878).
The Reversal of Human Judgment 205




THOMAS GUTHRIE, preacher, philanthropist, and social reformer, was
born at Brechin, Forfarshire, Scotland, in 1803. He spent ten years
at the University of Edinburgh and was licensed to preach by the
Presbytery of Brechin in 1825. In 1830 he was ordained minister of
Arbirlot. After a valuable experience in evangelical preaching among
the farmers, weavers and peasants of his congregation, he became one
of the ministers of Old Greyfriars Church, Edinburgh, in 1827. Lord
Cockburn described his sermons in that city as appealing equally
"to the poor woman on the steps of the pulpit" as to the "stranger
attracted solely by his eloquence." He was a great temperance
advocate, becoming a total abstainer in 1844, and has been styled
"the apostle of the ragged school movement." Retiring from the
active work of the ministry in 1864, he still remained in public
life until he died in 1873. Through long practise, Dr. Guthrie
delivered his memorized discourses as tho they fell spontaneously
from his lips. His voice has been described as powerful and musical.
He was fond of vivid illustration, and even on his death bed, as
he lay dying in the arms of his sons, he exclaimed: "I am just as
helpless in your arms now as you once were in mine."




_A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put
within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh,
and I will give you an heart of flesh._ - Ezekiel xxxvi., 26.

As in a machine where the parts all fit each other, and, bathed in
oil, move without din or discord, the most perfect harmony reigns
throughout the kingdom of grace. Jesus Christ is the "wisdom," as
well as the "power" of God; nor in this kingdom is anything found
corresponding to the anomalies and incongruities of the world lying
without. There we sometimes see a high station disgraced by a man of
low habits; while others are doomed to an inferior condition, who
would shine like gilded ornaments on the very pinnacles of society.
That beautiful congruity in Christ's kingdom is secured by those who
are the objects of saving mercy being so renewed and sanctified that
their nature is in harmony with their position, and the man within
corresponds to all without.

Observe how this property of "new" runs through the whole economy
of grace. When mercy first rose upon this world, an attribute of
Divinity appeared which was new to the eyes of men and angels.
Again, the Savior was born of a virgin; and He who came forth from a
womb where no child had been previously conceived, was sepulchered
in a tomb where no man had been previously interred. The infant had
a new birthplace, the crucified had a new burial-place. Again, Jesus
is the mediator of a new covenant, the author of a new testament,
the founder of a new faith. Again, the redeemed receive a new name;
they sing a new song; their home is not to be in the old, but in
the new, Jerusalem, where they shall dwell on a new earth, and walk
in glory beneath a new heaven. Now it were surely strange, when
all things else are new, if they themselves were not to partake of
this general renovation. Nor strange only, for such a change is
indispensable. A new name without a new nature were an imposture.
It were not more an untruth to call a lion a lamb, or the rapacious
vulture by the name of the gentle dove, than to give the title of
sons of God to the venomous seed of the serpent.

Then, again, unless man received a new nature, how could he sing the
new song? The raven, perched on the rock, where she whets her bloody
beak, and impatiently watches the dying struggles of some unhappy
lamb can not tune her croaking voice to the rich, mellow music of a
thrush; and, since it is out of the abundance of the heart that the
mouth speaketh, how could a sinner take up the strain and sing the
song of saints? Besides, unless a man were a new creature, he were
out of place in the new creation. In circumstances neither adapted
to his nature, nor fitted to minister to his happiness, a sinner
in heaven would find himself as much out of his element as a finny
inhabitant of the deep, or a sightless burrower in the soil, beside
an eagle, soaring in the sky, or surveying her wide domain from the
mountain crag.

In the works of God we see nothing more beautiful than the divine
skill with which He suits His creatures to their condition. He
gives wings to birds, fins to fishes, sails to the thistle-seed, a
lamp to light the glowworm, great roots to moor the cedar, and to
the aspiring ivy her thousand hands to climb the wall. Nor is the
wisdom so conspicuous in nature, less remarkable and adorable in the
kingdom of grace. He forms a holy people for a holy heaven - fits
heaven for them, and them for heaven. And calling up His Son to
prepare the mansions for their tenants, and sending down His Spirit
to prepare the tenants for their mansions, He thus establishes a
perfect harmony between the new creature and the new creation.

You can not have two hearts beating in the same bosom, else you
would be, not a man, but a monster. Therefore, the very first thing
to be done, in order to make things new, is just to take that which
is old out of the way. And the taking away of the old heart is,
after all, but a preparatory process. It is a means, but not the
end. For, strange as it may at first sound, he is not religious who
is without sin. A dead man is without sin; and he is sinless, who
lies buried in dreamless slumber, so long as his eyes are sealed.
Now, God requires more than a negative religion. Piety, like fire,
light, electricity, magnetism, is an active, not a passive element;
it has a positive, not merely a negative existence. For how is pure
and undefiled religion defined? "Pure religion and undefiled is to
visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction." And on whom
does Jesus pronounce His beatitude? "If ye know these things, happy
are ye if ye do them." And what is the sum of practical piety - the
most portable form in which you can put an answer to Saul's
question, "Lord, what wouldst thou have me to do?" What but this,
"Depart from evil, and do good." Therefore, while God promises to
take the stony heart out of our flesh, He promises more. In taking
away one heart, He engages to supply us with another; and to this
further change and onward stage in the process of redemption, I now
proceed to turn your attention.

By way of general observation, I remark that our affections are
engaged in religion. An oak - not as it stands choked up in the
crowded wood, with room neither to spread nor breathe, but as it
stands in the open field, swelling out below where it anchors its
roots in the ground, and swelling out above where it stretches
its arms into the air, - presents us with the most perfect form of
firmness, self-support, stout and sturdy independence. So perfectly
formed, indeed, is the monarch of the forest to stand alone, and
fight its own battles with the elements, that the architect of
the Bell Rock lighthouse is said to have borrowed his idea of its
form from God in nature, and that, copying the work of a divine
Architect, he took the trunk of the oak as the model of a building
which was to stand the blast of the storm, and the swell of the
winter seas.

Observe, that although the state of the natural affections does
not furnish any certain evidence of conversion, it is the glory
of piety that these are strengthened, elevated, sanctified by the
change. The lover of God will be the kindest, best, wisest lover
of his fellow-creatures. The heart that has room in it for God,
grows so large, that it finds room for all God's train, for all
that He loves, and for all that He has made; so that the Church,
with all its denominations of true Christians, the world, with all
its perishing sinners, nay, all the worlds which He has created,
find orbit-room to move, as in an expansive universe, within the
capacious enlargement of a believer's heart. For while the love of
sin acts as an astringent - contracting the dimensions of the natural
heart, shutting and shriveling it up - the love of God expands and
enlarges its capacity. Piety quickens the pulse of love, warms and
strengthens our heart, and sends forth fuller streams of natural
affection toward all that have a claim on us, just as a strong and
healthy heart sends tides of blood along the elastic arteries to
every extremity of the body.

This new heart, however, mainly consists in a change of the
affections as they regard spiritual objects. Without again traveling
over ground which we have already surveyed, just look at the heart
and feelings of an unconverted man. His mind being carnal, is enmity
or hatred against God. This may be latent, not at first sight
apparent, nor suspected, but how soon does it appear when put to the
proof? Fairly tried, it comes out like those unseen elements which
chemical tests reveal. Let God, for instance, by His providences or
laws, thwart the wishes or cross the propensities of our unrenewed
nature - let there be a collision between His will and ours - and the
latent enmity flashes out like latent fire when the cold black flint
is struck with steel.

In conversion God gives a new spirit. Conversion does not bestow
new faculties. It does not turn a weak man into a philosopher.
Yet, along with our affections, the temper, the will, the judgment
partake of this great and holy change. Thus, while the heart ceases
to be dead, the head, illuminated by a light within, ceases to be
dark; the understanding is enlightened; the will is renewed; and our
whole temper is sweetened and sanctified by the Spirit of God. To
consider these in their order, I remark -

By this change the understanding and judgment are enlightened.
Sin is the greatest folly, and the sinner the greatest fool in
the world. There is no such madness in the most fitful lunacy.
Think of a man risking eternity and his everlasting happiness on
the uncertain chance of surviving another year. Think of a man
purchasing a momentary pleasure at the cost of endless pain. Think
of a dying man living as if he were never to die. Is there a convert
to God who looks back upon his unconverted state, and does not say
with David, "Lord, I was as a beast before Thee."

Now conversion not only restores God to the heart, but reason
also to her throne. Time and eternity are now seen in their just
proportions - in their right relative dimensions; the one in its
littleness, and the other in its greatness. When the light of heaven
rises on the soul, what grand discoveries does she make - of the
exceeding evil of sin, of the holiness of the divine law, of the
infinite purity of divine justice, of the grace and greatness of
divine love. On Sinai's summit and on Calvary's cross, what new,
sublime, affecting scenes open on her astonished eyes! She now, as
by one convulsive bound, leaps to the conclusion that salvation is
the one thing needful, and that if a man will give all he hath for
the life that now is, much more should he part with all for the life
to come. The Savior and Satan, the soul and body, holiness and sin,
have competing claims. Between these reason now holds the balance
even, and man finds, in the visit of converting grace, what the
demoniac found in Jesus' advent. The man whose dwelling was among
the tombs, whom no chains could bind, is seated at the feet of
Jesus, "clothed, and in his right mind."

By this change the will is renewed. Bad men are worse, and good men
are better than they appear. In conversion the will is so changed
and sanctified, that altho a pious man is in some respects less,
in other respects he is more holy than the world gives him credit
for. The attainments of a believer are always beneath his aims; his
desires are nobler than his deeds; his wishes are holier than his
works. Give other men their will, full swing to their passions, and
they would be worse than they are; give that to him, and he would be
better than he is. And if you have experienced the gracious change,
it will be your daily grief that you are not what you not only know
you should be, but what you wish to be. To be complaining with
Paul, "When I would do good, evil is present with me; that which I
would I do not, and what I would not, that I do," is one of the best
evidences of a gracious, saving change.

Children of God! let not your souls be cast down. This struggle
between the new will and the old man - painful and prolonged altho
it be - proves beyond all doubt the advent of the Holy Spirit. Until
the Savior appeared there was no sword drawn, nor blood shed in
Bethlehem, nor murderous decree issued against its innocents - they
slept safely in their mothers' bosoms, Herod enjoyed his security
and pleasure, and Rachel rose not from her grave to weep for her
children because they were not. Christ's coming rouses all the
devil in the soul. The fruits of holy peace are reaped with swords
on the fields of war; and this struggle within your breast proves
that grace, even in its infancy a cradled Savior, is engaged in
strangling the old Serpent. When the shadow of calamity falls on
many homes, and the tidings of victory come with sad news to many
a family, and the brave are lying thick in the deadly breach, men
comfort us by saying, that there are things worse than war. That is
emphatically true of this holy war. Rejoice that the peace of death
is gone.

By conversion the temper and disposition are changed and sanctified.
Christians are occasionally to be found with a tone of mind and a
temper as little calculated to recommend their faith as to promote
their happiness. I believe that there are cases in which this is
due to a deranged condition of the nervous system, or the presence
of disease in some other vital organ. These unhappy persons are
more deserving of our pity than our censure. This is not only the
judgment of Christian charity, but of sound philosophy, and is a
conclusion to which we are conducted in studying the union between
mind and body, and the manner in which they act and re-act upon each
other. So long as grace dwells in a "vile body," which is the seat
of frequent disorder and many diseases - these infirmities of temper
admit no more, perhaps, of being entirely removed, than a defect of
speech, or any physical deformity. The good temper for which some
take credit may be the result of good health and a well-developed
frame - a physical more than a moral virtue; and an ill temper,
springing from bad health, or an imperfect organization, may be a
physical rather than a moral defect - giving its victim a claim on
our charity and forbearance. But, admitting this apology for the
unhappy tone and temper of some pious men, the true Christian will
bitterly bewail his defect, and, regretting his infirmity more than
others do a deformity, he will carefully guard and earnestly pray
against it. Considering it as a thorn in his flesh, a messenger
of Satan sent to buffet him, it will often send him to his knees
in prayer to God, that the grace which conquers nature may be made
"sufficient for him."

I pray you to cultivate the temper that was in Jesus Christ. Is he
like a follower of the Lamb who is raging like a roaring lion? Is
he like a pardoned criminal who sits moping with a cloud upon his
brow? Is he like an heir of heaven, like a man destined to a crown,
who is vexed and fretted with some petty loss? Is he like one in
whose bosom the dove of heaven is nestling, who is full of all
manner of bile and bitterness? Oh, let the same mind be in you that
was in Jesus. A kind, catholic, gentle, loving temper is one of the
most winning features of religion; and by its silent and softening
influence you will do more real service to Christianity than by
the loudest professions, or the exhibition of a cold and skeleton
orthodoxy. Let it appear in you, that it is with the believer under
the influence of the Spirit as with fruit ripened beneath the genial
influences of heaven's dews and sunbeams. At first hard, it grows
soft; at first sour, it becomes sweet; at first green, it assumes
in time a rich and mellow color; at first adhering tenaciously to
the tree, when it becomes ripe, it is ready to drop at the slightest
touch. So with the man who is ripening for heaven. His affections
and temper grow sweet, soft, mellow, loose from earth and earthly
things. He comes away readily to the hand of death, and leaves the
world without a wrench.

In conversion God gives a heart of flesh. "I will give you a heart
of flesh."

Near by a stone, a mass of rock that had fallen from the overhanging
crag, which had some wild flowers growing in its fissures, and
on its top the foxglove, with its spike of beautiful but deadly
flowers, we once came upon an adder as it lay in ribbon coil,
basking on the sunny ground. At our approach the reptile stirred,
uncoiled itself, and raising its venomous head, with eyes like
burning coals, it shook its cloven tongue, and, hissing, gave
signs of battle. Attacked, it retreated; and, making for that gray
stone, wormed itself into a hole in its side. Its nest and home
were there. And in looking on that shattered rock - fallen from its
primeval elevation - with its flowery but fatal charms, the home
and nest of the adder, where nothing grew but poisoned beauty, and
nothing dwelt but a poisoned brood, it seemed to us an emblem of
that heart which the text describes as a stone, which experience
proves is a habitation of devils, and which the prophet pronounces
to be desperately wicked. I have already explained why the heart
is described as a stone. It is cold as a stone; hard as a stone;
dead and insensible as a stone. Now, as by the term "flesh" we
understand qualities the very opposite of these, I therefore remark
that -

In conversion a man gets a warm heart.

Let us restrict ourselves to a single example. When faith receives
the Savior, how does the heart warm to Jesus Christ! There is music
in His name. "His name is an ointment poured forth." All the old
indifference to His cause, His people, and the interests of His
kingdom, has passed away; and now these have the warmest place in a
believer's bosom, and are the object of its strongest and tenderest
affections. The only place, alas! that religion has in the hearts
of many is a burial-place; but the believer can say with Paul,
"Christ liveth in me." Nor is his heart like the cottage of Bethany,
favored only with occasional visits. Jesus abides there in the
double character of guest and master, its most loving and best loved
inmate; and there is a difference as great between that heart as it
is, and that heart as it was, as between the warm bosom where the
Infant slept or smiled in Mary's arms and the dark, cold sepulcher
where weeping followers laid and left the Crucified.

Is there such a heart in you? Do you appreciate Christ's matchless
excellences? Having cast away every sin to embrace him, do you set
him above your chiefest joy? Would you leave father, mother, wife,
children, to follow Him, with bleeding feet, over life's roughest
path? Rather than part with Him, would you part with a thousand
worlds? Were He now on earth, would you leave a throne to stoop
and tie His latchet? If I might so speak, would you be proud to
carry His shoes? Then, indeed, you have got the new, warm heart
of flesh. The new love of Christ, and the old love of the world,
may still meet in opposing currents; but in the war and strife of
these antagonistic principles, the celestial shall overpower the
terrestrial, as, at the river's mouth, I have seen the ocean tide,
when it came rolling in with a thousand billows at its back, fill
all the channel, carry all before its conquering swell, dam up the
fresh water of the land, and drive it back with resistless power.

In conversion a man gets a soft heart.

As "flesh," it is soft and sensitive. It is flesh, and can be
wounded or healed. It is flesh, and feels alike the kiss of kindness
and the rod of correction. It is flesh; and no longer a stone,
hard, obdurate, impenetrable to the genial influences of heaven.
A hard block of ice, it has yielded to the beams of the sun, and
been melted into flowing water. How are you moved now, stirred now,
quickened now, sanctified now, by truths once felt no more than
dews falling out of starry heavens, in soft silence upon rugged
rock. The heart of grace is endowed with a delicate sensibility, and
vibrates to the slightest touch of a Savior's fingers. How does the
truth of God affect it now! A stone no longer, it melts under the
heavenly fire - a stone no longer, it bends beneath the hammer of the
word; no longer like the rugged rock, on which rains and sunbeams
were wasted, it receives the impression of God's power, and retains
the footprints of His presence. Like the flowers that close their
eyes at night, but waken at the voice of morning, like the earth
that gapes in summer drought, the new heart opens to receive the
bounties of grace and the gifts of heaven. Have you experienced such
a change? In proof and evidence of its reality, is David's language
yours - "I have stretched out my hands unto thee. My soul thirsteth
after thee as a thirsty land"?

In conversion a man gets a living heart.

The perfection of this life is death - it is dead to be sin, but
alive to righteousness, alive to Christ, alive to everything which
touches His honor, and crown, and kingdom. With Christ living in
his heart, the believer feels that now he is not himself, not his
own; and, as another's, the grand object of his life is to live to
Christ. He reckons him an object worth living for, had he a thousand
lives to live; worth dying for, had he a thousand deaths to die. He
says with Paul, "I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live."
In the highest sense alive, he is dead, dead to things he was once
alive to; and he wishes that he were more dead to them, thoroughly
dead. He wishes that he could look on the seductions of the world,
and sin's voluptuous charms, with the cold, unmoved stare of death,
and that these had no more power to kindle a desire in him than in
the icy bosom of a corpse. "Understandest thou what thou readest?"

It is a mark of grace that the believer, in his progress heavenward,
grows more and more alive to the claims of Jesus. If you "know the
love of Christ," His is the latest name you will desire to utter;
His is the latest thought you will desire to form; upon Him you will
fix your last look on earth; upon Him your first in heaven. When
memory is oblivious of all other objects - when all that attracted
the natural eye is wrapt in the mists of death, when the tongue is
cleaving to the roof of our mouth, and speech is gone, and sight is
gone, and hearing gone, and the right hand, lying powerless by our

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