Twenty-Five Village Sermons. Charles Kingsley

down the thick bushes, and makes the wild deer slip their young.  So we read in the psalms in church; that is David’s account of the thunder.  I take it for a true account; you may or not as you like.  See again.  Those springs in the hill-sides, how do they come there?  ‘Rain-water soaking and flowing out,’ we say.  True, but David says something more; he says, God sends the springs, and He sends them into the rivers too.  You may say, ‘Why, water must run down-hill, what need of God?’  But suppose God had chosen that water should run up-hill and not down, how would it have been then?—Very different, I think.  No; He sends them; He sends all things.  Wherever there is any thing useful, His Spirit has settled it.  The help that is done on earth He doeth it all Himself.—Loving and merciful,—caring for the poor dumb beasts!—He sends the springs, and David says, “All the beasts of the field drink thereof.”  The wild animals in the night, He cares for them too,—He, the Almighty God.  We hear the foxes bark by night, and we think the fox is hungry, and there it ends with us; but not with David: he says, “The lions roaring after their prey do seek their meat from God,”—God, who feedeth the young ravens who call upon Him.  He is a God!  “He did not make the world,” says a wise man, “and then let it spin round His finger,” as we wind up a watch, and then leave it to go of itself.  No; “His mercy is over all His works.”  Loving and merciful, the God of nature is the God of grace.  The same love which chose us and our forefathers for His people while we were yet dead in trespasses and sins; the same only-begotten Son, who came down on earth to die for us poor wretches on the cross,—that same love, that same power, that same Word of God, who made heaven and earth, looks after the poor gnats in the winter time, that they may have a chance of coming out of the ground when the day stirs the little life in them, and dance in the sunbeam for a short hour of gay life, before they return to the dust whence they were made, to feed creatures nobler and more precious than themselves.  That is all God’s doing, all the doing of Christ, the King of the earth.  “They wait on Him,” says David.  The beasts, and birds, and insects, the strange fish, and shells, and the nameless corals too, in the deep, deep sea, who build and build below the water for years and thousands of years, every little, tiny creature bringing his atom of lime to add to the great heap, till their heap stands out of the water and becomes dry land; and seeds float thither over the wide waste sea, and trees grow up, and birds are driven thither by storms; and men come by accident in stray ships, and build, and sow, and multiply, and raise churches, and worship the God of heaven, and Christ, the blessed One,—on that new land which the little coral worms have built up from the deep.  Consider that.  Who sent them there?  Who contrived that those particular men should light on that new island at that especial time?  Who guided thither those seeds—those birds?  Who gave those insects that strange longing and power to build and build on continually?—Christ, by whom all things are made, to whom all power is given in heaven and earth; He and His Spirit, and none else.  It is when He opens His hand, they are filled with good.  It is when He takes away their breath, they die, and turn again to their dust.  He lets His breath, His spirit, go forth, and out of that dead dust grow plants and herbs afresh for man and beast, and He renews the face of the earth.  For, says the wise man, “all things are God’s garment”—outward and visible signs of His unseen and unapproachable glory; and when they are worn out, He changes them, says the Psalmist, as a garment, and they shall be changed.

      The old order changes, giving place to the new,

      And God fulfils Himself in many ways.

      But He is the same.  He is there all the time.  All things are His work.  In all things we may see Him, if our souls have eyes.  All things, be they what they may, which live and grow on this earth, or happen on land or in the sky, will tell us a tale of God,—shew forth some one feature, at least, of our blessed Saviour’s countenance and character,—either His foresight, or His wisdom, or His order, or His power, or His love, or His condescension, or His long-suffering, or His slow, sure vengeance on those who break His laws.  It is all written there outside in the great green book, which God has given to labouring men, and which neither taxes nor tyrants can take from them.  The man who is no scholar in letters may read of God as he follows the plough, for the earth he ploughs is his Father’s: there is God’s mark and seal on it,—His name, which though it is written on the dust, yet neither man nor fiend can wipe it out!

      The poor, solitary, untaught boy, who keeps the sheep, or minds the birds, long lonely days, far from his mother and his playmates, may keep alive in him all purifying thoughts, if he will but open his eyes and look at the green earth around him.

      Think now, my boys, when you are at your work, how all things may put you in mind of God, if you do but choose.  The trees which shelter you from the wind, God planted them there for your sakes, in His love.—There is a lesson about God.  The birds which you drive off the corn, who gave them the sense to keep together and profit by each other’s wit and keen eyesight?  Who but God, who feeds the young birds when they call on Him?—There is another lesson about God.  The sheep whom you follow, who ordered the warm wool to grow on them, from which your clothes are made?  Who but the Spirit of God above, who clothes the grass of the field, the silly sheep, and who clothes you, too, and thinks of you when you don’t think of yourselves?—There is another lesson about God.  The feeble lambs in spring, they ought to remind you surely of your blessed Saviour, the Lamb of God, who died for you upon the cruel cross, who was led as a lamb to the slaughter; and like a sheep that lies dumb and patient under the shearer’s hand, so he opened not his mouth.  Are not these lambs, then, a lesson from God?  And these are but one or two examples out of thousands and thousands.  Oh, that I could make you, young and old, all feel these things!  Oh, that I could make you see God in every thing, and every thing in God!  Oh, that I could make you look on this earth, not as a mere dull, dreary prison, and workhouse for your mortal bodies, but as a living book, to speak to you at every time of the living God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!  Sure I am that that would be a heavenly life for you,—sure I am that it would keep you from many a sin, and stir you up to many a holy thought and deed, if you could learn to find in every thing around you, however small or mean, the work of God’s hand, the likeness of God’s countenance, the shadow of God’s glory.

      SERMON II

      RELIGION NOT GODLINESS

Psalm civ. 13–15

      “He watereth the hills from his chambers: the earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.  He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the earth; and wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make his face to shine, and bread which strengtheneth man’s heart.”

      Did you ever remark, my friends, that the Bible says hardly any thing about religion—that it never praises religious people?  This is very curious.  Would to God we would all remember it!  The Bible speaks of a religious man only once, and of religion only twice, except where it speaks of the Jews’ religion to condemn it, and shews what an empty, blind, useless thing it was.

      What does this Bible talk of, then?  It talks of God; not of religion, but of God.  It tells us not to be religious, but to be godly.  You may think there is no difference, or that it is but a difference of words.  I tell you that a difference in words is a very awful, important difference.  A difference in words is a difference in things.  Words are very awful and wonderful things, for they come from the most awful and wonderful of all beings, Jesus Christ, the Word.  He puts words into men’s minds—He made all things, and He makes all words to express those things with.  And woe to those who use the wrong words about things!—For if a man calls any thing by its wrong name, it is a sure sign that he understands that thing wrongly, or feels about it wrongly; and therefore a man’s words are oftener honester than he thinks; for as a man’s words are, so is a man’s heart; out of the abundance of our hearts our mouths speak; and, therefore, by right words, by the right names which we call things, we shall be justified, and by our words, by the wrong names we call things, we shall be condemned.

      Therefore a difference in words is a difference in the things which those words mean, and there is a difference between religion and godliness; and we shew it by our words.  Now these are religious times, but they are very ungodly times; and we shew that also by our words.