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Sermon #6 New Park Street Pulpit


NO. 6




“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 are whose glory it trumpets forth and whose honor it extols above the heavens. Some are her favorites and their names are carved on marble—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 mold.

Fame caresses 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 traveler rests.

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. Therefore, 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 among 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 spoke 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 melts the rocky heart, that binds up the broken in spirit. A voice that continually says, “Come unto Me all you that are weary and heavy laden.” “Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart and you shall find rest unto your souls.” Jesus Christ was all gentleness. And this is why He has not been extolled among 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 Volume 1 www.spurgeongems.org Sweet Comfort for Feeble Saints Sermon #6 bruising. In order to be saved the fallow ground must be plowed 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 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 says, “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 grows in the bog 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 near tears it up by the roots. You can conceive of nothing more frail or brittle, or whose existence depends more upon circumstances than 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 has His Samsons, here and there, who can pull up Gaza’s gates and carry them to the top of the hill. He has here and there His mighty Gideons, who can go to the camp of the Midianites and overthrow their hosts. He has His mighty men, who can go into the pit in winter and slay the lions—the majority of His people are a timid, weak race. They are like the starlings that are frightened at every passerby, 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, 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 ever 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 Spirit has made him such. Can you say, “No strength have I?” Then this text is for you.

www.spurgeongems.org Volume 1 Sermon #6 Sweet Comfort for Feeble Saints 3 Secondly, the things mentioned in our text are not only weak, but worthless things. I have heard of a man who would pick up a pin as he walked along the street, on the principle of economy. But I never yet heard of a man who would stop to pick up bruised reeds. They are not worth having. Who would care to have a bruised reed—a piece of rush lying on the ground? We all despise it as worthless. And smoking flax! What is the worth of that? It is an offensive and noxious thing and the worth of it is nothing. No one would give the snap of a finger either for the bruised reed or smoking flax.

Well, then, Beloved, in our estimation there are many of us who are worthless things. There are some here, who, if they could weigh themselves in the scales of the sanctuary and put their own hearts into the balance of conscience, would appear to be good for nothing—worthless, useless. There was a time when you thought yourselves to be the very best people in the world—when if anyone had said that you had more than you deserved, you would have kicked at it and said, “I believe I am as good as other people.” You thought yourselves something wonderful—extremely worthy of God’s love and regard but you now feel yourselves to be worthless. Sometimes you imagine God can hardly know where you are, you are such a despicable creature—so worthless—not worth His consideration.

You can understand how He can look upon an animalcule in a drop of water, or upon a grain of dust in the sunbeam, or upon the insect of the summer evening. But you can hardly tell how He can think of you, you appear so worthless—a dead blank in the world, a useless thing. You say, “What good am I? I am doing nothing. As for a minister of the Gospel, he is of some service. As for a deacon of the Church he is of some use. As for a Sabbath-School teacher, he is doing some good—but of what service am I?” And you might ask the same question here. What is the use of a bruised reed? Can a man lean upon it? Can a man strengthen himself with it ? Shall it be a pillar in my house? Can you bind it up into the pipes of Pan and make music come from a bruised reed?

Ah, no. It is of no service. And of what use is smoking flax? the midnight traveler cannot be lighted by it. The student cannot read by the flame of it. It is of no use—men throw it into the fire and consume it. Ah, that is how you talk of yourselves. You are good for nothing. So are these things. But Christ will not throw you away because you are of no value. You do not know of what use you may be and you cannot tell how Jesus Christ values you after all. There is a good women there, a mother, perhaps. She says, “Well, I do not often go out—I keep house with my children and seem to be doing no good.” Mother, do not say so, your position is a high, lofty, responsible one. In training up children for the Lord, you are doing as much for His name as yon eloquent Apollos, who so valiantly preached the Word.

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