Lecture XII

THE GUILELESS SPIRIT LOVING NOT THE WORLD, WHICH IS DARKNESS, BUT GOD, WHO IS LIGHT

THE love of the world is here declared to be irreconcilable with the love of the Father. “If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him” (ver 15). And the declaration applies to “the things that are in the world,” comprehending “all that is in the world.” These are represented under three categories or heads, “the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life” (ver. 16). They are afterwards reduced to one, “the lust of the world” (ver. 17); but in the meantime we have to consider them as three. And, in that view, the sixteenth verse is to be regarded, not as giving the reason for the command in the fifteenth, but rather as explanatory of its nature; bringing out the contrast between the two incompatible objects of love, the Father on the one hand, and on the other hand the world, whatever form its lust may take.

Plainly the world is here represented as an order of things very thoroughly complete in itself; self-contained and self-developing. “All that is in the world” is “of the world.” No foreign elements are suffered to intrude; or if they do, the world speedily accommodates and assimilates them to itself. For the world,—what is it? Fallen human nature acting itself out in the human family; moulding and fashioning the framework of human society in accordance with its own tendencies. It is fallen human nature making the ongoings of human thought, feeling, and action its own. It is the reign or kingdom of “the carnal mind,” which is “enmity against God, and is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be.” Wherever that mind prevails, there is the world.

“The things that are in the world” correspond in character to the world itself. The love therefore of any of them is equivalent to the love of the world.

I may seem to be, and may suppose that I am, separated from the world. I may have renounced companionship with that visible outstanding circle, in regard to which, as a whole, it may be too plainly seen that it does not admit the true light to shine in it, but is still in the darkness which that light chases away. For there is a circle which may be thus collectively identified. There is a tolerably well-defined mode of life which a spiritual man cannot but recognise as worldly; and there are a set of people who so manifestly conform themselves to that mode of life, and that alone, as to make it impossible for the most tolerant Christian charity to characterise them otherwise than as worldly persons. Let that then be the world, broadly considered. Now I have withdrawn myself from that world; I have no sympathy with its general tone and spirit; I am attached to another order of things. So far, I think I may say that I do not love the world. In its corporate capacity, as it were, it has lost its hold over me.

But “the things that are in the world,” viewed separately and in detail, may have attractions for me still. I may love them, or some of them, or one of them. If so, it is the same thing to me as if I loved the world itself in the mass. The love of what is in the world, is really the love of the world. Hence the necessity for breaking up the general notion of “the world” into its contents, “the things that are in the world.”

The things that are in the world which may attract love, as distinct objects of desire, even when the world as a whole seems to be discarded, are too manifold to be enumerated. But they may be classified; if not according to their own properties or qualities; at any rate, according to the inward dispositions to which they appeal. The apostle thus classifies them under three heads. “All that is in the world” is distributed into “the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life.” To these three harpies of the soul the world ministers.

First, there is “the lust of the flesh.” The genitive or possessive here —“of the flesh”—denotes, not the object of the desire, but its nature. It is lust of desire of a carnal sort; such as the flesh prompts or occasions. It is the appetite of sense out of order, or in excess. It is not, of course, the appetite of sense itself; that is of God, as the provision for its satisfaction is also of God. The appetite for which food is God’s appointed ordinance, and the appetite for which marriage is God’s appointed ordinance,—the general needs and cravings of the body which the laws of nature and the gifts of providence so fully meet,—the higher tastes which fair forms and sweet sounds delight,—the eye for beauty and the ear or the soul for music;—these are not, any of them, the lust of the flesh. But they all, every one of them, may become the lust of the flesh. And in the world they do become the lust of the flesh. It is the world’s aim to pervert them into the lust of the flesh, and to pander to them in that character, either grossly or with refinement. All its arrangements, its giddy sports and anxious toils, tend in that direction. Sensuality, or that modification of it now spoken of as sensuousness, enters largely into the world’s fascinating cup. And it may be detached plausibly from what is avowedly and confessedly the world; it may be covertly loved, while the world, as such, is apparently hated. Gluttony, drunkenness, uncleanness; the rage for physical or æsthetical excitement which the ball, the theatre, the gaming-table, if not worse excesses, must appease;—these forms or modifications of the lust of the flesh may not be for us the most insidious. It may creep into our affections disguised almost as an angel of light. A certain fondness for the good things of this life, an unwillingness to forego them, a pleasant feeling of fulness in the enjoyment of them, a growing impatience of any interruption of that enjoyment,—how soon may such a way of tasting even the lawful gratifications of sense grow into selfishness and sin! And then how readily does the imagination admit ideas and fancies the reverse of pure! Through how many channels, the news of the day, the gems of literature, the choicest trophies of the fine arts, poesy, sculpture, song, may unholy desire be kindled! I may be out of the world; but this that is in the world, “the lust of the flesh,” may not be out of me.

There is, secondly, “the lust of the eyes.” This must be distinct from the lust of the flesh. It cannot therefore be that “looking on a woman to lust after her,” which the Lord holds to be the commission of adultery in the heart; or that “looking upon the wine-cup when it is red,” against which Solomon warns us. The lust of the eyes is something different. It is lust or desire having its proper seat in the region of contemplation, or of onlooking. It is not merely that the flesh lusts through the eyes, or that the eyes minister to the lust of the flesh. The eyes themselves have their own lust. It is lust that can be satisfied with mere sight; which the lust of the flesh never is, nor can be. It is a feeling of such a sort that a bare look or gaze may please or may offend it. For example, I cannot stand the sight of more good in my neighbour’s possession than in my own. I would be relieved if I saw him worse off than I am. That is to a great extent the instinct of corrupt humanity; it is the way of the world. And it is one of the world’s ways that, even when I renounce the world, I am still apt to follow, or that is apt to follow me. I may be one in whom the world’s sensual or sensuous delights no longer stimulate the lust of the flesh. But my eyes are pained when I see the giddy crowd so happy and secure. My bosom swells and my blood boils when I am forced to look on villany triumphant and vice caressed. It may be all righteous zeal and virtuous wrath; a pure desire to witness wrong redressed and justice done. But, alas! as I yield to it, I find it fast assuming a worse character. I would not myself be partaker of the sinful happiness I see the world enjoying; but I grudge the world’s enjoyment of it. “I was envious,” says David (Ps. 73), “at the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.” That was his temptation; it was his infirmity; it formed the sad burden of more than one of his most plaintive Psalms. It was the love of the world in one of its most stealthy and dangerous forms, winning its way into his heart, and supplanting there, for a time, the love of God.

Once more, thirdly, there is “the pride of life.” Self-indulgence, or “the lust of the flesh,” and envious grudging, or “the lust of the eyes,” might seem to exhaust “all that is in the world.” The whole substance of “the world and the things of the world” is reducible to these two heads, or may be regarded in these two lights: what I long to possess and enjoy myself, and what I cannot calmly bear to see possessed and enjoyed by another. These two views of it exhaust the whole of what is substantial in the world. But the show, the shadow, the semblance, as well as the substance, is something to the world’s vanity, or to my vanity with reference to the world. Nay, it is much; the world’s manifold conventionalisms, for they are indeed manifold, prove it to be much. What pains are taken in the world to save appearances and keep up a seemly and goodly state! It is a business all but reduced to system. Its means and appliances are ceremony and feigned civility. Life is to be ostensibly, nay even ostentatiously, all right. All is to be in good taste and in good style; correct, creditable, commendable. It is the world’s pride to have it so. What is otherwise must be somehow toned down or shaded off; concealed or coloured. Falsehood may be necessary; a false code of honour; false notions of duty, as between man and man, or between man and woman; false liberality and spurious delicacy. Still the world does contrive, by means of all that, to get up and keep up a proud life of its own; a life grand and graceful; having its decencies and respectabilities; yes, and its charities, courtesies, and chivalries too; all very imposing in themselves, and altogether contributing to make the world’s life very imposing as a whole.

That I take to be the “pride of life” in the world. In one aspect, it is undoubtedly mean enough. It sets in motion a game of diplomacy and a race of emulation most destructive of all the truer and finer instincts even of unrenewed humanity. It debauches conscience, and is fatal to high aims. It puts the men and women of the world on a poor struggle to out-manœuvre and outshine one another, to outdo one another, for the most part, in mere externals; while, with all manner of politeness, they affect to give one another credit for what they all know to be little better than shams. Nevertheless, the general effect, I repeat, is imposing. The world’s “pride of life” is something to be proud of after all.

Now of this “pride of life” it is by no means easy even for those who do not love the world to keep themselves altogether clear. It is, as it were, their last worldly weakness. The lust of the flesh may be mortified, crucified, nailed to the cross of Christ; the lust of the eyes may be overcome by the mighty power of love, the love which “envieth not;” and yet the pride of life may cleave to me. It is so difficult to have done with the world’s seemings, and to come out simply as what I am.

Need I suggest how many sad instances of religious inconsistency and worldly conformity spring from this source? I may acquit you of sensuality or sensuousness, and of selfish jealousy; you are free, as to both of these instruments of the world’s power. But what of its opinion? Have you learned to defy it, or to be independent of it? Can you dispense with the world’s approval and brave its frown? Do you not sometimes find yourselves more afraid or ashamed of a breach of worldly etiquette,—some apparent descent from the customary platform of worldly respectability,—than of such a concession to the world’s forms and fashions as may compromise your integrity in the sight of God, and your right to acquit yourselves of guile? The opinion of the world! What the world will think or say! Ah! that pitiful consideration may often sway or embarrass you when you have no selfish longing or envious grudge to gratify. To a large extent, it is identical with that “fear of man which bringeth a snare.” It puts you at the mercy of the idle thoughts and idle words of any onlooker who may presume to judge you. You cannot acquit yourselves altogether of the love of the world so long as you have in your hearts that liking for the world’s good report, or that sensitiveness to the world’s censure, which “the pride of life” implies.

And now, for practical use, let three remarks be made.

1. Of “all that is in the world” it is said that “it is not of the Father, but of the world.” This may be true of things good in themselves, the best things even, when they come to be things “in the world.” They may be of the Father originally, in their true and proper nature; but the world appropriates them and makes them its own; and so they cease to be of the Father, and are now simply of the world. The choicest blessings of home, the holiest ordinances of religion, the very gospel itself, may thus come, when once “in the world,” to be “of the world.” Be not then deceived. Much that meets your eye, as you look on the world and the world’s ways, may seem fair and excellent; graces most attractive, devotions most comely and fervent, amenities most winning, philanthropies most admirable. But God is not really in them all. They “are not of the Father.” A pure and simple regard to his will is not their animating spirit. They are “of the world.” There is nothing in them that rises above the natural influences of self-love and social, as these are blended “in the world.”

Again, 2. “All that is in the world is of the world,” wherever it may be found. The three world-powers or world principles are, always and everywhere, “not of the Father but of the world.” They may be in the Father’s house; they may be in the hearts of the Father’s children; but they are none the better for their being there. They are not themselves cleansed or hallowed by what they come in contact with, however pure and however holy. But all that they touch they smite with leprosy and wither into impotent paralysis. Let us beware then of letting into the sanctuary and shrine of our soul, now become the dwelling-place of God by his Spirit, anything that savours of the world’s sloth and self-indulgence, or of the world’s jealousy and envy, or of the world’s vain pomp and pride. No matter though, as we think, we do not now love the world, but are separated from its friendship, if still we love any of the things of the world. For “all that is in the world is not of the Father, but of the world.” And “if any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.”

Finally, 3. Let us remember that the world which we are not to love, because “all that is in it is not of the Father but is of the world,” is yet itself the object of a love on the part of the Father, with which, as his children, having in us his love, we are to sympathise. “God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” This is said of the very world which we are commanded not to love; and of that world viewed in the very aspect on account of which we are commanded not to love it; as having nothing in it that is really “of the Father.” “God so loved this world,” this very world, thus viewed, having nothing in it or about it that he can recognise as his own, as what he made and meant it originally to be, “that he gave his only begotten Son” on its behalf. And he calls upon us so to love it too; with the same sort of love, and with love moving us to the same sort of effort and the same sort of sacrifice. And it is our so loving the world as the Father has loved it, that will be our best security against loving it as the Father forbids us to love it. Let the world be to us what it is to the Father. Let us look at it as the Father looks at it; as a deep dark mass of guilt, ungodliness, and woe. Let us plunge in to the rescue. Let us lay hold of that young man, whom, as we behold him, like Jesus, we cannot help loving. Let us snatch him, for he is not safe, as a brand out of the burning. If we love the world as God loves it, we will have no heart for loving it in any other way. Its attractions, its fascinations, its amiabilities, its sentimentalisms, will have no charm for us. We see in them only snares to catch and ruin souls that we,—that God,—would have to be saved. We cannot love, with any love of complacency, the world which we love in sympathy with him who “sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.”