Like Jim, I spent much of the morning away from the keyboard and making the most of the Scottish sun. It was not poetry, however, that sustained my attention this morning (as it will tonight when I follow my evening ritual of reading a Les Murray poem before retiring). It was a sermon on hope by that awesome preacher of Rhu, John McLeod Campbell. Lamenting the lack of assurance and the attendant anxiety in his parishioners, he pleads with them to resist seeking assurance in good works, even though this is precisely where the anxious soul so often retreats. Rather than harass them, however, Campbell does what the preacher must do – reminds them of the Father’s heart for them, revealed in costly love and the fullness of grace:

Those who know that the heart of God yearns over them with a father’s love – those who know that the Son of God has redeemed them from the curse of the law – those who know that the Holy Spirit is given them through Jesus Christ – those who know that Christ will yet raise their mortal bodies incorruptible – those who know that they will be kings and priests unto God – these are they who can tread this earth as the sons of God – who can present a bold front, not in their own strength, but in that of Jesus, conflicting with the devil and all his servants, and trampling them under foot – these are they who are prepared for all trials and conflicts, who will be more than conquerors, and of whom it will be written, that they conquered by the blood of the Lamb – these are they who will come out of great tribulations and that gloriously, having washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb – these are they who will dwell for ever in the New Jerusalem; and that faith is the victory that overcometh the world. But that man has no such faith, who, amid all the weariness of this body of sin and death – who, amid all the devices of Satan, does not know whether God loves him or not whether he has a Saviour or not – whether he has the Spirit of Christ or not – whether he has a better and an enduring substance.

The spurious gospel obliges men, in their desire of peace of conscience, to forge graces, and to pass them for current coin. I do feel as if I had come to a country in which the people of the land had lost all the pure gold, and all the king’s coin, at the same time that they felt their need of a currency of some kind, and so had had recourse to the coining of lead, gilding it over, making it look like gold, and calling it gold.

After some meditation on these fighting words, I turned to prayer … and then to Forsyth … but that’s for another post.

Note: The photo really is of the Scottish sky.