Heard But by Our Singing
The desire to be held in esteem by our fellow men is universal and as natural to us as is the instinct for self-preservation.
The Bible recognizes this inborn desire and, contrary to what we might expect, not only does not condemn it but actually appeals to it on occasion. "A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches," says the wise man, and the apostle Paul spoke frankly of the esteem in which certain persons and churches were held and used it as a stimulant to good living on the part of others. We refer to this quality in human nature when we say of a man who has ceased to care what people think of him that he has "lost his self-respect."
We may properly conclude that it is right and natural that we should value the approbation of society. It is a measure of our love for men that we should want them to love us. There is an unrealistic humility which would have it otherwise, but I believe the truth is as stated here.
The cross would not be a cross to us if it destroyed in us only the unreal and the artificial. It is when it goes on to slay the best in us that its cruel sharpness is felt. If it slew only our sins it might be bearable, even kind, as the knife of the surgeon is kind when it removes the foreign matter that would take our lives if allowed to remain; but when we must suffer the loss of things both precious and good, then we taste the bitterness of the nails and the thorns.
To value the esteem of mankind and for Christ's sake to renounce it is a form of crucifixion suffered by true Christians since the days of the apostles. For it cannot be denied that the way of the cross is unpopular and that it brings a measure of reproach upon those who take it. It is rare that a separated Christian escapes a certain odium in his lifetime. After he has been dead a long while, time and distance may soften the lines of the portrait and the world that hated him while he lived will often praise him when he is gone.
John Wesley and his Methodists are good examples of this strange phenomenon. They were scorned and derided while they walked on earth; offscourings they were, to be persecuted or, worse, to be let coldly alone as if they were lepers. Now we sing their hymns and build their sepulchres, but history has recorded the abuses once heaped upon them for their "perfectionism" and for that irrepressible joy of theirs that embarrassed people and made them look away and hurry out of their presence.
Gerhard Tersteegen, whom I never tire of quoting, in a lovely little hymn called "Pilgrim Song," seeks to comfort and cheer the holy wayfarers passing unloved and unnoticed through the wilderness. The last stanza reads,
We follow in His footsteps;
What if our feet be torn?
Where He has marked the pathway
All hail the briar and thorn!
Scarce seen, scarce heard, unreckoned,
Despised, defamed, unknown
Or heard but by our singing,
On, children! ever on!
The line "Or heard but by our singing" has in it more of the true spirit of church history than all the large tomes ever written. The learned historians tell of councils and bulls and religious wars, but in the midst of all the mummery were a few who saw the Eternal City in full view and managed almost to walk on earth as if they had already gone to heaven. These were the joyous ones who got little recognition from the world of institutionalized religion, and might have gone altogether unnoticed except for their singing.
Unsung but singing: this is the short and simple story of many today whose names are not known beyond the small circle of their own small company. Their gifts are not many nor great, but their song is sweet and clear.
John Milton lost his sight and mourned that loss in beautiful and touching verse in the third book of his Paradise Lost. Night had settled all about him, he sighed, and never again would he see
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, & herds, or human face divine.
But in spite of his affliction he refused to be desolate. If he could not see, he could still think and he could still pray; and he could listen to his own heart, he said, and move "harmonious numbers." Like the nightingale he could sing in the darkness
... as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid,
Tunes her nocturnal note.
Well, the world is big and tangled and dark, and we are never sure where a true Christian may be found. One thing we do know: the more like Christ he is the less likely it will be that a newspaper reporter will be seeking him out. However much he may value the esteem of his fellow men, he may for the time be forced to stand under the shadow of their displeasure. Or the busy world may actually not oven know he is there - except that they hear him singing.
A.W. Tozer
Born After Midnight - Chapter - 12
Chicago, IL
1959
