When a
Preacher is Downcast
by Charles Spurgeon
"Moreover
the Philistines had yet war again with Israel; and David went down, and his
servants with him, and fought against the Philistines: and David waxed
faint."—II Sam. 21:15.
"For, when we were come into Macedonia,
our flesh had no rest, but we were troubled on every side; without were
fightings, within were fears. Nevertheless God, that comforteth those that
are cast down, comforted us by the coming of Titus."—II Cor. 7:5,6.
"In weariness and painfulness, in
watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and
nakedness. Beside those things that are without, that which cometh upon me
daily, the care of all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is
offended, and I burn not?"—II Cor. 11:27–29.
As it is
recorded that David, in the heat of battle, waxed faint, so may it be
written of all servants of the Lord.
Fits of
depression come over the most of us. Cheerful as we may be, we must at
intervals be cast down. The strong are not always vigorous, the wise not
always ready, the brave not always courageous, and the joyous not always
happy.
There may be
here and there men of iron to whom wear and tear work no perceptible
detriment, but surely the rust frets even these; and as for ordinary men,
the Lord knows and makes them to know that they are but dust.
Knowing by
most painful experience what deep depression of spirit means, being visited
therewith at seasons by no means few or far between, I thought it might be
consolatory to some of my brethren if I gave my thoughts thereon, that
younger men might not fancy that some strange thing had happened to them
when they became for a season possessed by melancholy; and that sadder men
might know that one upon whom the sun has shone right joyously did not
always walk in the light.
It is not
necessary by quotations from the biographies of eminent ministers to prove
that seasons of fearful prostration have fallen to the lot of most, if not
all, of them. The life of Luther might suffice to give a thousand
instances, and he was by no means of the weaker sort. His great spirit was
often in the seventh heaven of exultation, and as frequently on the borders
of despair. His very deathbed was not free from tempests, and he sobbed
himself into his last sleep like a greatly wearied child.
Instead of
multiplying cases, let us dwell upon the reasons why these things are
permitted; why it is that the children of light sometimes walk in the thick
darkness; why the heralds of the daybreak find themselves at times in
tenfold night.
God's Preachers Are Still
Frail Humanity
Is it not
first that they are men? Being men, they are compassed with infirmity and
are heirs of sorrow. Grace guards us from much of this, but because we have
not more of grace, we still suffer even from ills preventable. Even under
the economy of redemption it is most clear that we are to endure
infirmities; otherwise, there were no need of the promised Spirit to help
us in them.
It is of
necessity that we are sometimes in heaviness. Good men are promised
tribulation in this world, and ministers may expect a larger share than
others, that they may learn sympathy with the Lord's suffering people, and
so may be fitting shepherds of an ailing flock.
Disembodied
spirits might have been sent to proclaim the Word; but they could not have
entered into the feeling of those who, being in this body, do groan, being
burdened.
Angels might
have been ordained evangelists, but their celestial attributes would have
disqualified them from having compassion on the ignorant.
Men of
marble might have been fashioned, but their impassive natures would have
been a sarcasm upon our feebleness and a mockery of our wants.
Men, and men
subject to human passions, the all-wise God has chosen to be His vessels of
grace; hence these tears, hence these perplexities and castings down.
Moreover,
most of us are in some way or other unsound physically. Here and there we
meet an old man who cannot remember that ever he was laid aside for a day;
but the great mass of us labor under some form or other of infirmity,
either in body or mind.
Certain
bodily maladies, especially those connected with the digestive organs, the
liver and the spleen, are the fruitful fountains of despondency; and let a
man strive as he may against their influence, there will be hours and
circumstances in which they will for awhile overcome him.
As to mental
maladies, is any man altogether sane? Are we not all a little off the
balance?
Some minds
appear to have a gloomy tinge essential to their very individuality. Of
them it may be said, "Melancholy marked [them] for her own"; fine
minds withal and ruled by noblest principles, but yet they are most prone
to forget the silver lining and to remember only the cloud.
These
infirmities may be no detriment to a man's career of special usefulness.
They may even have been imposed upon him by divine wisdom as necessary
qualification for his peculiar course of service.
Some plants
owe their medicinal qualities to the marsh in which they grow; others to
the shades in which alone they flourish. There are precious fruits put
forth by the moon as well as by the sun. Boats need ballast as well as
sail. A drag on the carriage wheel is no hindrance when the road runs
downhill.
Pain has, in
some cases, developed genius, hunting out the soul which otherwise might
have slept like a lion in its den. Had it not been for the broken wing,
some might have lost themselves in the clouds, some even of those choice
doves who now bear the olive branch in their mouths and show the way to the
ark.
Where in
body and mind there are predisposing causes to lowness of spirit, it is no
marvel if in dark moments the heart succumbs to them; the wonder in many
cases is—and if inner lives could be written, men would see it so—how some
ministers keep at their work at all and still wear a smile upon their
countenances.
Grace has
its triumphs still, and patience has it martyrs—martyrs nonetheless to be
honored because the flames kindle about their spirits rather than their
bodies and their burning is unseen of human eyes.
The Preacher's Work Has
Much to Try the Soul
The
ministries of Jeremiahs are as acceptable as those of Isaiahs. Even the
sullen Jonah is a true prophet of the Lord, as Nineveh felt full well.
Despise not
the lame, for it is written that they take the prey; but honor those who,
being faint, are yet pursuing.
The
tender-eyed Leah was more fruitful than the beautiful Rachel. And the
griefs of Hannah were more divine than the boasting of Peninnah.
"Blessed
are they that mourn," said the Man of Sorrows, and let none account
them otherwise when their tears are salted with grace. We have the treasure
of the Gospel in earthen vessels, and if there be a flaw in the vessel here
and there, let none wonder.
Our work,
when earnestly undertaken, lays us open to attacks in the direction of
depression. Who can bear the weight of souls without sometimes sinking to
the dust? Passionate longings after men's conversion, if not fully
satisfied (and when are they?), consume the soul with anxiety and
disappointment.
To see the
hopeful turn aside, the godly grow cold, professors abusing their
privileges, and sinners waxing more bold in sin—are not these sights enough
to crush us to the earth?
The kingdom
comes not as we would, the reverend Name is not hallowed as we desire, and
for this we must weep. How can we be otherwise than sorrowful, while men
believe not our report and the divine arm is not revealed?
All mental
work tends to weary and to depress, for "much study is a weariness of
the flesh." But ours is more than mental work—it is heart work, the
labor of our inmost soul.
How often,
on Lord's Day evenings, do we feel as if life were completely washed out of
us! After pouring out our souls over our congregations, we feel like empty
earthen pitchers which a child might break. Probably, if we were more like
Paul and watched for souls at a nobler rate, we should know more of what it
is to be eaten up by the zeal of the Lord's house.
It is our
duty and our privilege to exhaust our lives for Jesus. We are not to be
living specimens of men in fine preservation, but living sacrifices, whose
lot is to be consumed. We are to spend and to be spent, not to lay
ourselves up in lavender and nurse our flesh.
Such
soul-travail as that of a faithful minister will bring on occasional
seasons of exhaustion, when heart and flesh will fail. Moses' hands grew
heavy in intercession, and Paul cried out, "Who is sufficient for
these things?" Even John the Baptist is thought to have had his
fainting fits. And the apostles were once amazed and were sore afraid.
The Loneliness of God's
Prophet Tends to Depression
Our position
in the church will also conduce to this. A minister fully equipped for his
work will usually be a spirit by himself, above, beyond and apart from
others. The most loving of his people cannot enter into his peculiar
thoughts, cares and temptations.
In the
ranks, men walk shoulder to shoulder with many comrades, but as the officer
rises in rank, men of his standing are fewer in number. There are many
soldiers, few captains, fewer colonels, and only one commander in chief.
So in our
churches the man whom the Lord raises as a leader becomes, in the same
degree in which he is a superior man, a solitary man. The mountaintops stand
solemnly apart and talk only with God as He visits their terrible
solitudes.
Men of God
who rise above their fellows into nearer communion with heavenly things in
their weaker moments feel the lack of human sympathy. Like their Lord in
Gethsemane, they look in vain for comfort to the disciples sleeping around
them. They are shocked at the apathy of their little band of brethren and
return to their secret agony with all the heavier burden pressing upon them
because they have found their dearest companions slumbering.
No one
knows, but he who has endured it, the solitude of a soul which has
outstripped its fellows in zeal for the Lord of Hosts. It dares not reveal
itself, lest men count it mad. It cannot conceal itself, for a fire burns
within its bones. Only before the Lord does it find rest.
Our Lord's
sending out His disciples by two and two manifested that He knew what was
in men. But for such a man as Paul, it seems to me that no helpmeet was
found. Barnabas or Silas or Luke were hills too low to hold high converse
with such a Him-alayan summit as the apostle of the Gentiles.
This
loneliness, which if I mistake not is felt by many of my brethren, is a
fertile source of depression; and our ministers' fraternal meetings and the
cultivation of holy intercourse with kindred minds will, with God's
blessing, help us greatly to escape the snare.
Preachers, by Lack of
Exercise and Recreation, Tend to Melancholy
There can be
little doubt that sedentary habits have a tendency to create despondency in
some constitutions.
Burton, in
his Anatomy of Melancholy, has a chapter upon this cause of sadness.
Quoting from one of the myriad authors whom he lays under contribution, he
says:
Students are
negligent of their bodies. Other men look to their tools. A painter will wash
his pencils. A smith will look to his hammer, anvil, forge. A husbandman
will mend his plow irons and grind his hatchet if it be dull. A falconer or
huntsman will have an especial care of his hawks, hounds, horses, dogs, et
cetera. A musician will string and unstring his lute. Only scholars neglect
that instrument (their brain and spirits I mean) which they daily use. Well
saith Lucan, "See thou twist not the rope so hard that it break."
To sit long
in one posture, poring over a book or driving a pen, is in itself a taxing
of nature. But add to this a badly ventilated chamber, a body which has
long been without muscular exercise, and a heart burdened with many cares,
and we have all the elements for preparing a seething caldron of despair,
especially in the dim months of fog—
When a
blanket wraps the day,
When the rotten woodland
drips,
And the leaf is stamped in
clay.
Let a man be
naturally as blithe as a bird, he will hardly be able to bear up year after
year against such a suicidal process. He will make his study a prison and
his books the warders of a goal, while Nature lies outside his window
calling him to health and beckoning him to joy. He who forgets the humming
of the bees among the heather, the cooing of the wood pigeons in the
forest, the song of birds in the woods, the rippling of rills among the
rushes, and the sighing of the wind among the pines, needs not wonder if
his heart forgets to sing and his soul grows heavy.
A day's
breathing of fresh air upon the hills or a few hours' ramble in the beech
woods' umbrageous calm, would sweep the cobwebs out of the brain of scores
of our toiling ministers who are now but half alive. A mouthful of sea air,
or a stiff walk in the wind's face, would not give grace to the soul, but
it would yield oxygen to the body, which is next best.
God Allows Fainting After
Great Victories Lest We Should Be "Exalted Above Measure"
The times
most favorable to fits of depression, so far as I have experienced, may be
summed up in a brief catalog. First among them I must mention the hour of a
great success. When at last a long-cherished desire is fulfilled, when God
has been glorified greatly by our means and a great triumph achieved, then
we are apt to faint.
It might be
imagined that amid special favors our soul would soar to heights of ecstasy
and rejoice with joy unspeakable, but it is generally the reverse. The Lord
seldom exposes His warriors to the perils of exultation over victory. He
knows that few of them can endure such a test and therefore dashes their
cup with bitterness.
See Elias
after the fire has fallen from Heaven, after Baal's priests have been
slaughtered and the rain has deluged the barren land! For him no notes of
self-complacent music, no strutting like a conqueror in robes of triumph.
He flees from Jezebel, and feeling the revulsion of his intense excitement,
he prays that he may die. He who must never see death yearns after the rest
of the grave.
Even Caesar,
the world's monarch, in his moments of pain cried like a sick girl. Poor
human nature cannot bear such strains as heavenly triumphs bring to it.
There must come a reaction. Excess of joy or excitement must be paid for by
subsequent depressions.
While the
trial lasts, the strength is equal to the emergency. But when it is over,
natural weakness claims the right to show itself.
Secretly
sustained, Jacob can wrestle all night, but he must limp in the morning
when the contest is over, lest he boast himself beyond measure.
Paul may be
caught up to the third heaven and hear unspeakable things, but a thorn in
the flesh, a messenger of Satan to buffet him, must be the inevitable
sequel.
Men cannot
bear unalloyed happiness. Even good men are not yet fit to have "their
brows with laurel and with myrtle bound" without enduring secret
humiliation to keep them in their proper places.
Burden and Weakness Are
Given to Humble Us Before Great Tasks
Whirled off
our feet by a revival, carried aloft by popularity, exalted by success in
soul winning, we should be as the chaff which the wind driveth away were it
not that the gracious discipline of mercy breaks the ships of our vainglory
with a strong east wind and casts us shipwrecked, naked and forlorn, upon
the Rock of Ages.
Before any
great achievement, some measure of the same depression is very usual.
Surveying the difficulties before us, our hearts sink within us. The sons
of Anak stalk before us, and we are as grasshoppers in our own sight in
their presence. The cities of Canaan are walled up to Heaven, and who are
we that we should hope to capture them? We are ready to cast down our
weapons and to take to our heels. Nineveh is a great city, and we would
flee unto Tarshish sooner than encounter its noisy crowds. Already we look
for a ship which may bear us quietly away from the terrible scene. Only a
dread of tempest restrains our recreant footsteps.
Such was my
experience when I first became a pastor in London. My success appalled me.
The thought of the career which it seemed to open up, so far from elating
me, cast me into the lowest depth, out of which I uttered my Miserere and
found no room for a Gloria in Excelsis.
Who was I
that I should continue to lead so great a multitude? I would betake me to
my village obscurity or emigrate to America and find a solitary nest in the
backwoods where I might be sufficient for the things which would be
demanded of me.
It was just
then that the curtain was rising upon my lifework, and I dreaded what it
might reveal. I hope I was not faithless, but I was timorous and filled
with a sense of my own unfitness. I dreaded the work which a gracious
Providence had prepared for me. I felt myself a mere child. I trembled as I
heard the voice which told me to arise and "thresh the mountains…and
make the hills as chaff."
This
depression comes over me whenever the Lord is preparing a larger blessing
for my ministry. The cloud is black before it breaks and overshadows before
it yields its deluge of mercy.
Depression
has now become to me as a prophet in rough clothing, a John the Baptist
heralding the nearer coming of my Lord's richer benison. So have far better
men found it. The scouring of the vessel has fitted it for the Master's
use.
Immersion in
suffering has preceded the filling of the Holy Ghost. Fasting gives an
appetite for the banquet. The Lord is revealed in the backside of the
desert, while His servant keeps the sheep and waits in solitary awe.
The
wilderness is the way to Canaan. The low valley leads to the towering
mountain. Defeat prepares for victory. The raven is sent forth before the
dove. The darkest hour of the night precedes the day-dawn.
The mariners
go down to the depths, but the next wave makes them mount to the heaven.
Their soul is melted because of trouble before He bringeth them to their
desired haven.
Failure to Take Regular
Periods of Vacation and Rest Promotes Fainting and Weariness
In the midst
of a long stretch of unbroken labor, the same affliction may be looked for.
The bow cannot be always bent without fear of breaking. Repose is as needed
to the mind as sleep to the body. Our days of worship (which were, in the
Old Testament, sabbaths) are our days of toil, and if we do not rest upon
some other day, we shall break down. Even the earth must lie fallow and
have her sabbaths; and so must we; hence the wisdom and compassion of our
Lord, when He said to His disciples that they should go "apart into a
desert place, and rest a while."
What! When
the people are fainting, when the multitudes are like sheep upon the
mountains without a shepherd, does Jesus talk of rest? When scribes and
Pharisees, like grievous wolves, are rending the flock, does He take His
followers on an excursion into a quiet resting place?
Does some
red-hot zealot denounce such atrocious forgetfulness of present and
pressing demands? Let him rave in his folly. The Master knows better than
to exhaust His servants and quench the light of Israel. Rest time is not
waste time. It is economy to gather fresh strength.
Look at the
mower in the summer's day, with so much to cut down ere the sun sets. He
pauses in his labor—is he a sluggard? He looks for his stone and begins to
draw it up and down his scythe, with
"rink-a-tink—rink-a-tink—rink-a-tink." Is that idle music? Is he
wasting precious moments? How much he might have mown while he has been
ringing out those notes on his scythe! But he is sharpening his tool, and
he will do far more when once again he gives his strength to those long
sweeps which lay the grass prostrate in rows before him.
Even thus a
little pause prepares the mind for greater serv-ice in the good cause.
Fishermen
must mend their nets. And we must every now and then repair our mental
waste and set our machinery in order for future service. To tug the oar
from day to day, like a galley slave who knows no holidays, suits not
mortal men. Mill streams go on and on forever, but we must have our pauses
and our intervals.
Who can help
being out of breath when the race is continued without intermission? Even
beasts of burden must be turned out to grass occasionally. The very sea
pauses at ebb and flood. Earth keeps the sabbath of the wintry months. And
man, even when exalted to be God's ambassador, must rest or faint; must
trim his lamp or let it burn low; must recruit his vigor or grow
prematurely old. It is wisdom to take occasional furlough.
In the long
run, we shall do more by sometimes doing less. On, on, on forever, without
recreation, may suit spirits emancipated from this "heavy clay";
but while we are in this tabernacle, we must every now and then cry halt
and serve the Lord by holy inaction and consecrated leisure.
Let no
tender conscience doubt the lawfulness of going out of harness for awhile,
but learn from the experience of others the necessity and duty of taking
timely rest.
The Inevitable Blows of
Betrayal, Slander, Criticism Depress God's Best Preachers
One crushing
stroke has sometimes laid the minister very low. The brother most relied
upon be-comes a traitor. Judas lifts up his heel against the Man who
trusted him, and the preacher's heart for the moment fails him. We are all
too apt to look to an arm of flesh, and from that propensity, many of our
sorrows arise.
Equally
overwhelming is the blow when an honored and beloved member yields to
temptation and disgraces the holy Name with which he was named. Anything is
better than this. This makes the preacher long for a lodge in some vast
wilderness where he may hide his head forever and hear no more the
blasphemous jeers of the ungodly.
Ten years of
toil do not take so much life out of us as we lose in a few hours by
Ahithophel the traitor or Demas the apostate. Strife also and division,
slander and foolish censures, have often laid holy men prostrate and made
them go 'as with a sword in their bones.' Hard words wound some delicate
minds very keenly.
Many of the
best of ministers, from the very spirituality of their character, are
exceedingly sensitive—too sensitive for such a world as this. "A kick
that scarce would move a horse would kill a sound divine."
By
experience the soul is hardened to the rough blows which are inevitable in
our warfare. At first these things utterly stagger us and send us to our
homes wrapped in a horror of great darkness. The trials of a true minister
are not few, and such as are caused by ungrateful professors are harder to
bear than the coarsest attacks of avowed enemies.
Let no man
who looks for ease of mind and seeks the quietude of life enter the
ministry. If he does so, he will flee from it in disgust.
To the lot
of few does it fall to pass through such a horror of great darkness as that
which fell upon me after the deplorable accident at the Surrey Music Hall.
I was pressed beyond measure and out of bounds with an enormous weight of
misery. The tumult, the panic, the deaths were day and night before me and
made life a burden.
From that
dream of horror I was awakened in a moment by the gracious application to
my soul of the text, "Him hath God exalted" (Acts 5:31). The fact
that Jesus is still great—let His servants suffer as they may—piloted me
back to calm reason and peace.
Should so
terrible a calamity overtake any of you brethren, may you both patiently
hope and quietly wait for the salvation of God.
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