Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 April 1896 — STARTING FOR HOME. [ARTICLE]

STARTING FOR HOME.

REV. DR. TALMAGE PREACHES A RADICAL SERMON. The Prodigal's Return Furnishes the Theme for a Powerful Discourse —A Divine Cure for the Ills of the World—A Glorious Invitation. The Capital Pulpit. A most radical gospel sermon is the one •f last Sunday by Dr. Talmage. It runs up and down the Whole gamut of glorious invitation. His text was Luke xv., 18 “I will arise and go to my father.” There is nothing like hunger to take the energy out of a man. A hungry man can toil neither with pen nor band nor foot. There has been many an army defeated not so much for lack of ammunition as for lack of bread. It was that fact that took the fire out of this young man of the text. Storm and exposure will wear out any man's life in time, but hunger makes quick work. The most awful cry ever heard on earth is the cry for bread. A traveler tells us that iq Asia Minor there are trees which bear fruit looking yery much like the long bean of our time. It is called the carob. Once in awhile the people, reduced to destitution, would eat these carobs, but generally the carobs, the beans spoken of here in the text, were thrown only to the swine, and they crunched them with great avidity. But this young man of my text could not even get them without stealing them. So one day, amid the swine troughs, he begins to soliloquize. He says: “These are no Clothes for a rieh man’s son to wear; this is no kind of business for a Jew to be engaged in, feeding swine. I’ll go home; I’ll go home. I will arise and go to my father.” I know there are a great many people who try to throw a fascination, a romance, a halo, about sin, but notwithstanding all that Lord Byron and George Sand have said in regard to it, it is a mean, low, contemptible business, and putting food and fodder into the troughs of a herd of iniquities that root and wallow in the soul of man is a very poor business for men and women intended to be sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty, and when this young man resolved to go home it was a very wise thing for him to do, and the only question is whether we will follow him. Satan promises large wages if we will serve him, but he clothes his victims with rags, and he pinches them with hunger, and when they start out to do better he sets after them all the blopdhounds of hell. Satan comes to us to-day, and he promises all luxuries and emoluments if we will only serve him. Liar, down with thee to the pit! “The wages of sin is death.” Oh, the young man of the text was wise when he uttered the resolution, “I will arise and go to my father.” In the time of Mary, the persecutor, a persecutor came to a Christian woman who had hidden in her house for the Lord’s sake one of Christ’s servants, and the persecutor said, “Where is that heretic?” The Christian woman said, “Yon open that trunk and you will see the heretic.” The persecutor opened the trunk, and on the top of the linen of th* trunk he saw a glass. He said, “There is no heretic here.” “Ah!" she said, “yov look in the glass and you will see tho heretic.” ,

Seeing Ourselves. As I take up the mirror of God’s word to-day, I would that, instead of seeing the prodigal of the text, we might see ourselves—our want, our wandering, our sin. our lost condition—so that we might be aSwise as this young man was and say, “J will arise and go to my father.” The “resolution of this text was formed in a disgust at his present circumstances. If this young man had been by his employer set to culturing flowers, or training vines over an arbor, or keeping an account of the pork market, or overseeing other laborers, he would»not have thought bf going home—if he had had his pockets full of money, if he had been able to say: “I have SI,OOO now of my own. What’s the use of my going back to my father’s house? Do you think I’m going back to apologize to the old man? Why, he would put me on the limits. He would not have going on around the old place such conduct as I have been engaged in. I won tgo home. There is no reason why I should go home. I have plenty of money, plenty of pleasant surroundings. Why should Igo home?” Ah, it was his pauperism, it was his beggary. He had to go home. Some man comes and says to me: “Why do you talk about the ruined state >of the human soul? Why don’t you speak about the progress of the nineteenth century and talk of something more exhilaratItig? It is for this reason: A man never wants the gospel until he realizes he is in a famine struck state. Suppose I should come to you in your home, and you are in good, sound, robust health, and I should begin to talk about medicines, and about how much better this medicine is than that, and some other medicine than some other medicine, and talk about this physician and that physician. After a while you would get tired, and you would say: “I don’t want to hear about medicines. Why do you talk to me of physicians? I never have a doctor.” But suppose I come into your house and I find you severely sick, and I know the medicine that will cure you, and I know the physician who is skillful enough to meet your case. You say: "Bring on all that medicine, bring on that physician. I am terribly sick, and I want help.”

Ruined by Sin. If I come to you, and you feel you are all right in .body, and all right in mind, and all right in soul, you have need of nothing, but suppose I have persuaded you that the leprosy of sin is upon you the worst of all sickness. Oh, then you say, “Bring me that balm of the gospel, bring me that divine medicament, bring me Jesus Christ.” “But,” says some one in the audience, “how do you know that we are in a ruined condition by sin?” Well, I can prove it in two ways, and you may have your choice. I can prove it either by the statements of men or by the statement of God. Which shall it be? You say, “Let us have the statement of God.” Well, he says in one place, “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.” He says in another place, “What is man that he should be clean, and he which is born of woman that he should be righteous?” He says in another place, “There is< none that doeth good—no, not one.” He says in another place, “As by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin. and so death passed upon all men, for that all had sinned.” “Well,” you say, “I am willing to acknowledge that, but why should I take the particular rescue that you propose?” This is the reason: “Except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.” This is the reason: “There is one name given under heaven among men whereby they may be saved.” Then there are a thousand voices here ready to say: “Well, I am ready to accept this help of the gospel. I would like to have this divine cure. How shall Igo to work?” Let me say that a mere whim, an undefined longing, amounts to nothing. You must have a stout, a tremendous resolution like this young man< of the text when he said, “I will arise and go to my father.” “Oh,” says some man, “how do I know my father wants me? How do I know if I go back I would be received?” “Oh,” says some man, “you don't know where I have been; you don’t

know bow far I have wandered; you wouldn’t tall that way to me if you knew all the iniquities I have committed.” What is that flutter among the angels of God? What is that horseman running with quick dispatch? It is news, it is news! Christ has found the lost. Nor angels can their joy contain, But kindle with new fire. The sinner lost is found, they sing, And strike the sounding lyre. God's Infinite Mercy. When Napoleon talked of going into Italy, they said: “You can’t get there. If you knew what the Alps were, you would not talk about it or think about it. You can’t get yonr ammunition wagons over the Alps.” Then Napoleon rose in his stirrups, and, waving his hand toward the mountains, he said. “There shall be no Alps!” That wonderful pass was laid out which has been the wonderment of all the years since—the wonderment of all engineers. And you tell me there are such mountains of sin between your soul and God there is no mercy. Then I see Christ waving his hand toward the mountains. I hear him say, “I will come over the mountains of thy sin and the hills of thine iniquity.” There shall be no Pyrenees; there shall be no Alps. Again, I notice that this resolution of the young man of my text was founded in sorrow at his misbehavior. It was not mere physical plight. It was grief that he had so maltreated his father. It is a sad thing after a father has done everything for a child to have that child ungrateful. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child. That is Shakspeare. “A foolish son is the heaviness of his mother.” That is the Bible. Well, my friends, have not some of us been cruel prodigals? Have we not maltreated our Father? And such a Father! Three times a day has he fed thee. He has poured sunlight into thy day and at night kindled up alj the street lamps of heaven. With what varieties of apparel he hath clothed thee for the seasons. Whose eye watches thee? Whose hand defends thee? Whose heart sympathizes with thee? Who gave you your children? Who is guarding your loved ones departed? Such a Father! So loving, so kind. If he had been a stranger; if he had forsaken us; if he had flagellated us; if he had pounded us and turned us out of doors on the commons, it would not have been so wonderful—our treatment of him; but he is a Father, so loving, so kind, and yet how manw of us for our wanderings have never apologized! If we say anything that hurts our friend's feelings, if we do anything that hurts the feelings of those in whom we are interested, how quickly we apologize! We can scarcely wait until we get pen and paper to write a letter of apology. How easy it is for any one who is intelligent, right hearted, to write an apology or make an apology! We apologize for wrongs done to our fellows, but some of us perhaps have committed ten thousand times ten thousand wrongs against God and never apologized. An Irreparable Loa*. I remark still further that this resolution of the text was founded in a feeling of homesickness. Ido not know how long this young man, how many months, how many years, he had been away from his father’s house, but there is something about the reading of my text that makes me think he was homesick. Some of you know what that feeling is. Far away from home sometimes, surrounded by everything bright and pleasant—plenty of friends—you have said, “I would give the world to be home to-nigkt.” Well, this young man was homesick for his father’s house. I have no doubt when he thought of his father’s house he eaid, “Now, perhaps father may not be living." We read nothing in this story, this parable, founded on everyday life—we ‘ read nothing about the mother. It says nothing about going home to her. I think she was dead. I think she had died of a broken heart at his wanderings, or perhaps he had gene into dissipation from the fact that he could not remember a loving and sympathetic mother. A man never gets over having lost his mother. Nothing said about her, but he is homesick for his father’s house. He thought he would just like to go and walk around the old place. He thought he would just like to go and see if things were as they used to be. Many a man after having been off a long while has gone home and knocked at the door, and a stranger has come. It is the old homestead, but a stranger comes to the door. He finds out father is gone and mother is gone and brothers and sisters all gone. I think this young man of the text said to himself, “Perhaps father may be dead.” Still he starts to find out. He is homesick. Are there any here to-day homesick for God, homesick for heaven?

God Is Walting. A lad at Liverpool went out to bathe; went out into the sea, went out too far, got beyond his depth, and he floated far away. A ship bound for Dublin came along and took Mm on board. Sailors are generally very generous fellows, and one gave him a cap and another gave him a jacket and another gave him shoes.. A gentleman passing along on the beaoh at Liverpool found the lad’s clothes and took them home, and the father was heartbroken, the mother was heartbroken, at the loss of their child. They had heard nothing from him day after day, and they ordered the usual mourning .for the sad event. But the lad took ship from Dublin and arrived in Liverpool the very day the mourning arrived. He knocked at the door. The father was overjoyed and the mother was overjoyed at the return of their lost son. Oh, my friends,- have you waded out too deep? Have you waded down into sin ? Have you waded from the shore? Will you come back? When you come back, will you come in the rags of your sin or will you come robed in the Saviour’s righteousness? I believe the latter. Go home to your God to-day. He is waiting for you. G 6 home! To Be Almost Saved Is to Be Lost. There is a man who said, long ago, “If I could live to the year 1896, by that timq I will have my business matters' all arranged, and I will have time to attend to religion, and I will be a good, thorough, consecrated Christian.” The year 1896 has come. January, February, March. April—a third of the year gone. Where is your broken vow? “Oh,” says sow man, “I’ll attend to that when I get my character fixed up, when I can get over my evil habits; I am now given to strong drink.” Oh, says the man, “I am given to uncleanliness.” Or, says the man: “I am given to dishonesty. When I get over my present habits, then I'll be a thorough Christian.” My brother, you wilt get worse and worse, until Christ taksu you in hand. “Not the righteous, sinners Jesus came to call.” Oh, but you say, “I agree with you in all that, but I mast put it off a little longer.” Do you know there were many who came just as near as you are to the kingdom of God and never entered it? I was at Easthampton. and I went into the cemettry to look around, and in that cemete* there are twelve graves side by side—fae graves of sailors. This crew, some yean ago, in a ship went into the breakers ati Amagansett, about three miles away. 1 My brother, then preaching at Easthi npton, had been at the burial. These nin of the crew came very near being savi 1. The people from Amagansett saw the ressel, and they shot rockets, and they mt ropes from the shore, and these poo fellows got into the boat, and they pul d mightily for the shore, but just bel re they got to the shore the rope snap 1 sd and the boat capsized, and they w< e lost, their bodies

afterward washed upon the beach. Oh, what a solemn day It was—l have been told of * by my brother—when these twelve men lay at the foot of the pulpit, and he read over them the funeral service. They came very near shore—within shouting distance of the shore, yet did not arrive on solid land. There are some men who come almost to the shore of God’s mercy, but not quite, not quite. To be almost saved is to be lost! Two Prodigala. I wilt tell you of two prodigals—the one that got back, and the other that did. not get back. In Richmond there is a very prosperous and beautiful home in many fespects. A young man wandered off from that home. He wandered very far Into sin. They heard of him after, but he always on the wrong track. He would not go home. At the door of that beautiful home one night there was a great outcry. The young man of the house ran down to open the door to see what was the matter. It was midnight. The rest of, the family were asleep. There were the wife and children of this prodigal young man. The fact was he had come home and driven them out. He said: “Out of this house! Away with these children! I will dash their brains out. Out into the’ storm!" The mother gathered them up and tied. The next jporning the brother, the young man who had staid at home, went out to find this prodigal brother and son, and he came where he was and saw the young man wandering up and down in front of the place where he had been staying, and the young man who had kept his integrity said to the older brother: “■Here, what does all thw mean? What is the matter with you? Why do you act in this way?” The prodigal looked at him and said: "Who am I? Who do you take me to be?" He said, “You are my brother." “No, lam not. lam a brute. Have you seen anything of my wife and children? Are they dead? I drove them out last night in the storm. I am a brute' John, do you think there is any help for me? Do you think I will ever get over, this life of dissipation?” He said, “John, there is one thing that will stop this." The prodigal ran his fingers across hl* throat and said: “That will stop it, and I will stop it before night. Oh, my brain! I can stand it no longer." That prodigal never got home. But I will tell you of a prodigal that did get home. In England two young men started from ihelr father’s .house and went,down to Portsmouth—l have been there—a beautiful seaport. Some of you have been there. The father could not pursue his children- for some reason he could not leave home—and so he wrote a letter down to Mr. Griffin, saying: “Mr. Griffin, I wish you would go and see my two sons. They have arrived in Portsmouth, and they are going to take ship and going away from homo. I wish you would persuade them back.” The Pardon of the Gospel. Mr. Griffin went and tried to persuade them back. He persuaded one to go. He went with very easy persuasion because he was very homesick already. The other young man said: “I will not go. I have had enough of home. I’ll never go home.’’ “Well,” said Mr. Griffin, “then if you won't go home I’ll get you a respectable position on a respectable ship." “No, you won’t” said the prodigal; “no you won’t. I am going as a private sailor; as a common sailor. That will plague my father most and what will do most to tantalize and worry him will please me best.” Years passed on and Mr. Griffin was seated in his study one day when a messenger came to him saying there was a young man in irons on a ship at the dock—a ' young man condemned to death—who wished to see this clergyman. Mr. Griffin want down to the dock and went on shipboard. The young man said to him, "You don’t know me, do you?” ..♦‘No," he said, “I don't know you.” “Why, don’t you remember that young man you tried to persuade to go home ’and he wouldn’t go?” “Oh, yes,” soid Mr. Griffin. “Are you that man?” “Yes, Inm that man," said the other. “I would like to have you pray for me. I have committed murder and I must die, but I don’t want to go out of this world until some one prays for me. You are my father’s friend and I would like to have you pray forme.”

Mr. Griffin went from judicial authority to judicial authority to get that young man’s pardon. He slept not night nor day. He went from influential person to influential person, until in some way he got that young man’s pardon. He came down on the dock and as he arrived on the dock with the pardon the father came. He had heard that his son, under a disguised name, had been committing crime and was going to be put to death. So Mr. Griffin and the father went on ship’s deck and at the very moment Mr. Griffin offered the pardon to the young ngin the old father threw his arms around the son’s neck and the son said: “Father, I have done very wrong and lam very sorry. I wish I had never broken your heart. I am very sorry I’’ “Oh,” said the father, “don’t mention It. It won’t make any difference now. It is all over. I forgive you, my son.” And he kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. To-day I offer you the pardon «f the gospel—full pardon, free pardon. I do not care what your crime has been. Though you say you have committed a crime against God, against your soul, agaihst your fellow man, against your family, against the day of judgment, against the cross of Christ—whatever your crime has been, here is pardon, full pardon, and the very moment you take that pardon your Heavenly Father throws his arms around about you and says: “My son, I forgive you. It is all right. You are as much in my favor now as if you had 'never Sinhefl."*' 6h, there is joy on earth and joy ini heaven. Who will take the Father’s embrace?