“A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not
quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory”–Matthew 12:20.
Babbling fame ever loves to talk of one man or another. Some there be
whose glory it trumpets forth, and whose honor it extols above the
heavens. Some are her favorites, and their names are carved on marble,
and heard in every land, and every clime. Fame is not an impartial
judge; she has her favorites. Some men she extols, exalts, and almost
deifies; others, whose virtues are far greater, and whose characters are
more deserving of commendation, she passes by unheeded, and puts
the finger of silence on her lips. You will generally find that those
persons beloved by fame are men made of brass or iron, and cast in a
rough mould. Fame caresseth Caesar, because he ruled the earth with a
rod of iron. Fame loves Luther, because he boldly and manfully defied
the Pope of Rome, and with knit brow dared laugh at the thunders of
the Vatican. Fame admires Knox; for he was stern, and proved himself
the bravest of the brave. Generally, you will find her choosing out the
men of fire and mettle, who stood before their fellow-creatures fearless
of them; men who were made of courage; who were consolidated
lumps of fearlessness, and never knew what timidity might be. But you
know there is another class of persons equally virtuous, and equally to
be esteemed–perhaps even more so–whom fame entirely forgets. You
do not hear her talk of the gentle-minded Melancthon–she says but
little of him–yet he did as much, perhaps, in the Reformation, as even
the mighty Luther. You do not hear fame talk much of the sweet and
blessed Rutherford, and of the heavenly words that distilled from his
lips; or of Archbishop Leighton, of whom it was said, that he was
never out of temper in his life. She loves the rough granite peaks that
defy the storm-cloud: she does not care for the more humble stone in
the valley, on which the weary traveller resteth; she wants something
bold and prominent; something that courts popularity; something that
stands out before the world. She does not care for those who retreat in
shade. Hence it is, my brethren, that the blessed Jesus, our adorable
Master, has escaped fame. No one says much about Jesus, except his
followers. We do not find his name written amongst the great and
mighty men; though, in truth, he is the greatest, mightiest, holiest,
purest, and best of men that ever lived; but because he was “Gentle
Jesus, meek and mild,” and was emphatically the man whose kingdom
is not of this world; because he had nothing of the rough about him, but
was all love; because his words were softer than butter, his utterances
more gentle in their flow than oil; because never man spake so gently
as this man; therefore he is neglected and forgotten. He did not come to
be a conqueror with his sword, nor a Mohammed with his fiery
eloquence; but he came to speak with a “still small voice,” that melteth
the rocky heart; that bindeth up the broken in spirit, and that
continually saith, “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy
laden;” “Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and
lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.” Jesus Christ was
all gentleness; and this is why he has not been extolled amongst men as
otherwise he would have been. Beloved! our text is full of gentleness; it
seems to have been steeped in love; and I hope I may be able to show
you something of the immense sympathy and the mighty tenderness of
Jesus, as I attempt to speak from it. There are three things to be
noticed: first, mortal frailty; secondly, divine compassion; and thirdly,
certain triumph–”till he send forth judgment unto victory.”
I. First, we have before us a view of MORTAL FRAILTY
–bruised reed and smoking flax–two very suggestive metaphors, and
very full of meaning. If it were not too fanciful–and if it is I know you
will excuse me–I should say that the bruised reed is an emblem of a
sinner in the first stage of his conviction. The work of God’s Holy
Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the fallow ground
must be ploughed up; the hard heart must be broken; the rock must be
split in sunder. An old divine says there is no going to heaven without
passing hard by the gates of hell–without a great deal of soul-trouble
and heart-exercise. I take it then that the bruised reed is a picture of the
poor sinner when first God commences his operation upon the soul; he
is as a bruised reed, almost entirely broken and consumed; there is but
little strength in him. The smoking flax I conceive to be a backsliding
Christian; one who has been a burning and a shining light in his day,
but by neglect of the means of grace, the withdrawal of God’s Spirit,
and falling into sin, his light is almost gone out–not quite–it never can
go out, for Christ saith, “I will not quench it;” but it becomes like a
lamp when ill supplied with oil–almost useless. It is not quite
extinguished–it smokes–it was a useful lamp once, but now it has
become as smoking flax. So I think these metaphors very likely
describe the contrite sinner as a bruised reed, and the backsliding
Christian as smoking flax. However, I shall not choose to make such a
division as that, but I shall put both the metaphors together, and I hope
we may fetch out a few thoughts from them.
And first, the encouragement offered in our text applies to weak ones.
What in the world is weaker than the bruised reed, or the smoking flax?
A reed that groweth in the fen or marsh, let but the wild duck light
upon it, and it snaps; let but the foot of man brush against it and it is
bruised and broken; every wind that comes howling across the river
makes it shake to and fro, and well nigh tears it up by the roots. You
can conceive of nothing more frail or brittle, or whose existence
depends more upon circumstances that a bruised reed. Then look at
smoking flax–what is it? It has a spark within it, it is true, but it is
almost smothered; an infant’s breath might blow it out; or the tears of a
maiden quench it in a moment; nothing has a more precarious existence
than the little spark hidden in the smoking flax. Weak things, you see,
are here described. Well, Christ says of them, “The smoking flax I will
not quench; the bruised reed I will not break.” Let me go in search of
the weaklings. Ah! I shall not have to go far. There are many in this
house of prayer this morning who are indeed weak. Some of God’s
children, blessed be his name, are made strong to do mighty works for
him; God hath his Samsons here and there who can pull up Gaza’s
gates, and carry them to the top of the hill; he hath here and there his
mighty Gideons, who can go to the camp of the Midianites, and
overthrow their hosts; he hath his mighty men, who can go into the pit
in winter, and slay the lions; but the majority of his people are a timid,
weak race. They are like the starlings that are frightened at every
passer by; a little fearful flock. If temptation comes, they fall before it;
if trial comes, they are overwhelmed by it; their frail skiff is danced up
and down by every wave; and when the wind comes, they are drifted
along like a sea-bird on the crest of the billows; weak things, without
strength, without force, without might, without power. Ah! dear
friends, I know I have got hold of some of your hands now, and your
hearts too; for you are saying, “Weak! Ah, that I am. Full often I am
constrained to say, I would, but cannot sing; I would, but cannot pray; I
would, but cannot believe.” You are saying that you cannot do
anything; your best resolves are weak and vain; and when you cry,
“My strength renew,” you feel weaker than before. You are weak, are
you? Bruised reeds and smoking flax? Blessed be God, this text is for
you then. I am glad you can come in under the denomination of weak
ones, for here is a promise that he will never break nor quench them,
but will sustain and hold them up. I know there are some very strong
people here–I mean strong in their own ideas. I often meet with
persons who would not confess any such weakness as this. They are
strong minds. They say, “Do you think that we go into sin, sir? Do you
tell us that our hearts are corrupt? We do not believe any such thing;
we are good, and pure, and upright; we have strength and might.” To
you I am not preaching this morning; to you I am saying nothing; but
take heed–your strength is vanity, your power is a delusion, your might
is a lie–for however much you may boast in what you can do, it shall
pass away; when you come to the real contest with death, you shall
find that you have no strength to grapple with it: when one of these
days of strong temptation shall come, it will take hold of you, moral
man, and down you will go; and the glorious livery of your morality
will be so stained, that though you wash your hands in snow water, and
make yourselves never so clean, you shall be so polluted that your own
clothes shall abhor you. I think it is a blessed thing to be weak. The
weak one is a sacred thing; the Holy Ghost has made him such. Can
you say, “No strength have I?” Then this text is for you.
“This article originally appeared here at Bible Bulletin Board.”
