A Sermon Delivered By C. H. Spurgeon, At The Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington. 7/22/2011*7/22/2011
The time of my departure is at hand. (2 Timothy 4:6)
1. So near, so very near the change — his removal from this to another world; and so very conscious of it; yet Paul looked back with calm satisfaction; he looked forward with sweet assurance; and he looked around with deepest interest on the mission that had engaged his life. As you must have noticed while we were reading the chapter, in his case “the ruling passion was strong in death.” Writing what he well knows is the last letter he shall ever write, its main topic is care for the church of God — anxiety for the promotion of the truth — zeal for the furtherance of the gospel. When he is dead, and gone from the post of service, the scene of suffering, the field of enterprise, on whom shall his mantle fall? He desires that in Timothy he may find a worthy successor, strong in the faith, sincere of heart, and having dauntless courage as well, one who will wield the sword and hold the banner when his hand is palsied in death. Men have usually shown us what lies at the bottom of their heart when they have come to die. Often their last expiring expressions have been indicative of their entire character. Certainly you have before you in the last sentences of Paul’s pen a fair epitome of his entire life. He is trusting in the Saviour; he is anxious to show his love for that Saviour. The welfare of the Christian church and the advancement of the holy cause of the gospel are uppermost in his mind. May it be yours and mine to live entirely for Christ, and to also die for him. May this always be foremost in our thoughts, “How can I advance the kingdom of our Lord and Saviour? By what means can I bless his church and people?” It is very beautiful to observe the way in which Paul describes his death in this verse. According to our translation he speaks of it as an offering. “I am now ready,” he says, “to be offered.” If we accept this version he may be supposed to mean that he felt as one standing like a young bull or a lamb, ready to be laid on an altar. He foresaw he would die a martyr’s death. He knew he could not be crucified as his brother Peter had been, for a Roman citizen was, as a rule, exempt from that ignominious death. He expected to die in some other manner. Probably he guessed it would be by the sword, and so he describes himself as waiting for the sacrificial knife to be used, so that he might be presented as a sacrifice. So I say the words of our translation would lead us to think. But the original is far more instructive. He here compares himself, in the Greek, not to an offering, but to the drink offering. Every Jew would know what that meant. When there was a burnt sacrifice offered, the young bull or the victim then slain was the main part of the sacrifice. But sometimes there was a little, what if I say an unimportant, supplement added to that sacrifice — a little oil and a little wine were poured on to the altar or the young bull, and thus a drink offering was said to be added to the burnt offering. Now, Paul does not venture to call himself an offering, — Christ is his offering. Christ is, so to speak, the sacrifice on the altar. He compares himself only to that little wine and oil poured out as a supplement to it, not necessary for its perfection, but tolerated in performing a vow, or allowed in connection with a freewill offering, as you will find if you refer at leisure to Numbers 15:4-8. So the drink offering was a kind of addendum, by which the person who gave it showed his thankfulness. So Paul is resolved to show his thankfulness to Christ, the great sacrifice, and he is willing that his blood should be poured as a drink offering on the altar where his Lord and Master was the great burnt offering. He rejoices when he can say, “I am ready to be presented as a drink offering to God.”
We have mainly to do with the second description which he gives of
his death. What does he say when the hour that this grim monster must
be grappled with is at hand? I do not find him sad. Those who delight
in gloomy poetry have often represented death in terrible language.
“It is hard,” one says —
To feel the hand of death arrest one’s steps,
Throw a chill blight on all one’s budding hopes,
And hurl one’s soul untimely to the shades.
And another exclaims —
Oh God, it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing,
In any shape, in any mood!
I’ve seen it rushing forth in blood,
I’ve seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swollen convulsive motion.
It is not for the apostle Paul. I do not even hear him speak of flying through the gate as our grand old poet has described death. He does not say, “The hour of my dissolution is at hand” — a very proper word if he had used it; but he is not looking so much at the process as at the result of his dying. He does not even say, “The hour of my death is at hand,” but he adopts a beautiful expression, “The time of my departure” — words which are used sometimes to describe the departure of a vessel from the port; the pulling up of the anchor so that it looses its moorings, when about to put out to sea — so he feels himself like a ship lying at the harbour for awhile — but he says, “The time for pulling up the anchor, the time for letting loose the cable, and cutting from the mooring is at hand; I shall soon be launched upon my voyage.” And he knew very well where that voyage would end, in the fair havens of the port of Peace in the better country, where his Lord had gone before him.
3. Now we will proceed very briefly to say a word about departure; and then a shorter word still about the time of our departure; and then a little more about the time of our departure being at hand — trying here, especially, to bring forward some lessons which may be of practical usefulness for each one of us.
4. I. First, then, dear brethren, let us think a little about OUR DEPARTURE.
5. It is quite certain we shall not dwell here for ever: we shall not live here below as long as the first man did, or as those antediluvian fathers, who lived some eight or nine hundred years. The length of human life then led to greatness of sin. Monstrosities of evil were ripened through the long continuance of physical strength, and the accumulating force of eager passions. All things considered, it is a mercy that life is abridged and not prolonged to a thousand years. Amidst the sharp competition of man with man, and class with class, there is a barrier to every scheme of personal aggrandizement, a limit to all the spoils of individual despotism, a restraint upon the hoardings of any one’s avarice. It is well, I say, that it should be so. The narrow span of life clips the wings of ambition, and seizes its prey. Death comes in to deprive the mighty of his power, to stop the rapacity of the invader, to scatter abroad the possessions of the rich. The most reprobate men must end their career after they have had their seventy or eighty years of wickedness. And as for the good and godly, though we mourn their exit, especially when we think that they have been prematurely taken from us, we remember how the triumphs of genius have been for the most part achieved in youth, and how much the world has been enriched by the heads and hearts of those who have only sown the seeds of faith and left others to reap the fruits. If into less than the allotted term they have crowded the service of their generation, we may save our tears, for our regrets are needless. The summons will reach each one of us before long. We cannot stay here as long as the ancient fathers of our race: we expect, and it is fitting that we should prepare to go. The world itself is to be consumed one day. “The elements shall melt with fervent heat.” The land on which we stand we are accustomed to call terra firma, but beneath it is probably an ocean of fire, and it shall itself feel the force of the ocean. We must not marvel, the house being so frail, that the tenants are unsettled and migratory. Certainly, whether we doubt it or not, we shall have to go. There will be a departure for us. Beloved believer in Christ Jesus, to you the soft term, “Departure” is not more soft than the truth it represents. To die is to depart out of this world to the Father. What do you say about your departure? What do you say about what you are leaving, and what do you think of that land to which you go? Well, about the land we are leaving, my brethren, we might say many harsh things if we wanted to, but I think we had better not. We shall speak more correctly, if we say the harsh things about ourselves. This land, my brethren, has been a land of mercy for us: there have been sorrows in it; but in bidding it farewell we will do it justice and speak the truth concerning it. Our sorrows have usually sprung up in our own hearts, and those that have come from the soil itself would have been very light if it had not been for the plague of our hearts, which made us vex, and fret over them. Oh, the mercy you and I have enjoyed even in this life! It has been worth while to live for us who are believers. Even if we had to die like a dog dies, it has been worth while to live for the joy and blessedness which God has made to pass before us. I dare not call that an evil country in which I have met my Saviour, and received the pardon for my sin. I dare not call that a bad life in which I have seen my Saviour, though it is through a glass darkly. How shall I speak evil of that land where Zion is built, beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, the place of our solemn assemblies, where we have worshipped God? No; cursed of old as the earth was to bring forth the thorn and the thistle, the existence of the church of God in that land seems to a great degree to have made reparation for the blight to those who know and love the Saviour. Oh, have we not gone up to the house of God in company with songs of ecstatic joy, and have we not when we have gathered around the table of the Lord — though nothing was upon it except the type and emblem — have we not felt it a joyous thing to be found in the assembly of the saints, and in the courts of the Lord’s house even here? When we loose our cable, and bid farewell to earth, it shall not be with bitterness in retrospect. There is sin in it, and we are called to leave it; there has been trial in it, and we are called to be delivered from it; there has been sorrow in it, and we are glad that we shall go where we shall sorrow no more. There have been weakness, and pain, and suffering in it, and we are glad that we shall be raised in power; there has been death in it, and we are glad to bid farewell to shrouds and to funeral knells; but for all that there has been such mercy in it, such lovingkindness of God in it, that the wilderness and the solitary place have been made glad, and the desert has rejoiced and blossomed as a rose. We will not bid farewell to the world, execrating it, or leaving behind us a cold shudder and a sad remembrance, but we will depart, bidding adieu to the scenes that remain, and to the people of God who remain in it yet a little longer, blessing him whose goodness and mercy have followed us all the days of our life, and who is now bringing us to dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
6. But, dear brethren, if I have had to speak in a somewhat apologetic manner about the land from which we depart, I shall need to use many apologies for my own poor description about the land to which we are bound. Ah, where are you going, spirit loosened from your clay — do you know? Where are you going? The answer must be, partly, that we do not know. None of us have seen the streets of gold of which we sang just now; those harpings of the harpers, harping with their harps, have never fallen on these ears; eye has not seen it, ear has not heard it: it is all unrevealed to the senses; flesh and blood cannot inherit it, and, therefore, flesh and blood cannot imagine it. Yet it is not unknown, for God has revealed it to us by his Spirit. Spiritual men know what it is to feel the spirit, their own newborn spirit, living, glowing, burning, triumphing within them. They know, therefore, that if the body should drop off they would not die. They feel there is a life within them superior to blood and bone, and nerve and sinew. They feel the life of God within them, and no one can deny it. Their own experience has proven to them that there is an inner life. Well, then, when that inner life is strong and vigorous, the spirit often reveals to it what the world of spirits will be. We know what holiness is, do we not, brethren? Are we not seeking it? That is heaven — perfect holiness is heaven. We know what peace means; Christ is our peace. Rest — he gives us rest: we find that when we take his yoke. Rest is heaven. And rest in Jesus tells us what heaven is. We know, even today, what communion with God is. If anyone should say, “I do not know it,” I should reply to him like this: “Suppose I said to you, ‘You know not what it is to eat and drink’ ”: the man would tell me that I lied to him, for he knew, as he knew his own existence, what it was to eat and drink; and, as surely as I live, I have communion with God. I know it as certainly as you know that I have declared it to you. Well, friends, that is heaven. It has only to be developed from the seed to the produce, and there is heaven in its full development.
7. Communion with saints is similar — do we not know what that is? Have we not rejoiced in each other’s joys, been made glad with the experience of our brethren? That, too, carried to perfection, will be heaven. Oh, to throw yourself into the bosom of the Saviour and lie there taken up with his mind and his love, yielding all things to his supremacy, beholding your King in him! When you have been in that state you have had a foretaste of heaven. Your view may have been only as one seeing a man’s face in a shadow yet you would know that man again even by the shadow; so we know what heaven is. We shall not be strangers in a strange land when we get there. Though, like the Queen of Sheba, we shall say, “The half has not been told to me,” yet we shall reflect on it like this: “I surmised there would be something like this. I did know from what I felt from its buddings in my soul below that the full blown flower would be something like this.” Where are you going, then, spirit that is departing to soar through tracks unknown to yourself? Your answer is, “I am away: away to the throne of him whose cross first gave me life, and light, and hope. I am away to the very bosom of my Saviour, where I hope to rest and to have fellowship with the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven.” This is the departure that you may soon expect.
8. Suppose, dear friend, the thought of departing from this world to the glory world should ever startle you, let me remind you that you are not the first who ever went that way. Your vessel is in the harbour, as it were, or at the dock; she is going out on her voyage; oh, but you will not go alone, nor have you to track your course through paths unnavigated or unknown before! When the Portuguese captain first went by the Cape of Storms it was a venturous voyage, and he called it the Cape of Good Hope when he had rounded it. When Columbus first went in search of the New World, his was a brave spirit that dared to cross the unnavigated Atlantic. But oh, there are tens of thousands that have gone where you go. The Atlantic that separates us from Canaan is white with the sails of the vessels that are on voyage there. Do not fear, they have not been wrecked; we hear good news of their arrival; there is good hope for you. There are no icebergs on the way, no mists, no counter currents, and no sunken vessels or quicksands; you have only to cut your moorings, and with Christ on board you shall be at your desired haven at once.
Remember, too, your Saviour went that way. Do you have to depart? So
Christ departed that way too. Some of my brethren are always so
pleased — pleased as some children are with a new toy — at the idea that
they shall never die; that Christ will come, it may be before the
time of their decease; for, “we shall not all sleep, but we shall all
be changed.” Well, let him come, indeed, let him come; come quickly.
But if I had my choice, if it were permitted for me to choose, I
would prefer to pass through the portals of the grave. Those who are
alive and remain to the coming of the Lord will not prevent, go
before, or steal a march on those who are asleep. But surely they
will lack one point of conformity to their Lord, for he did not
disdain to sojourn for awhile in the tomb, though it was impossible
that he should be held by death. Let the seal of death, then, be set
upon this face of mine, so that my fate in the matter may be like
his. Enoch and Elijah were exempt from this privilege — privilege, I
call it — of conformity to his death. But it is safe to go by the
beaten track, and desirable to travel by the ordinary route to the
heavenly city. Jesus died. Through the valley of shadows, the vale of
the shadow of death, the footprints of Emmanuel are all along the
way: go down into it and do not fear. Remember, too, dear brothers
and sisters, that we may well look forward to our departure, and look
forward to it expectantly too! Is it not expedient by reason of
nature? Is it not desirable by reason of grace? Is it not necessary
by reason of glory? I say, is not our departure needful by reason of
nature? Men are not, when they come to hoary age, what they were in
the prime of their days. The staff is needed for the foot, and the
glasses are required for the eyes; and after a certain number of
years, even those on whom Time has gently laid his hand, find the
taste is gone. They might proclaim, like old Barzillai, that they do
not know what they eat or drink. The hearing fails, the daughters of
music are silent, the whole tenement gets very infirmed. Oh, it would
be a melancholy thing if we had to continue to live! Perhaps there is
no more hideous picture than what the satirist drew of men who lived
on to six or seven hundred years of age — that strange satirical man,
Jonathan Swift. Be thankful that we do not linger on in imbecility.
Kind Nature says we may depart; she gives us notice, and makes it
welcome by the decays that come upon us. Besides, grace desires it;
for it would be a poor experience of his kindness as our best and
truest friend who did not make us long to see our Saviour’s face. It
is no mere drivelling sentiment, I hope, when we join to sing —
Father, I long, I faint to see
The place of thine abode;
I’d leave thy earthly courts, and flee
Up to thy seat, my God!
I must confess there was one verse in the hymn we sang just now which I could not quite chime in with. I am not eagerly wishing to go to heaven tonight. I have a great deal more to do here; therefore I do not want to take a hasty leave of all below. To very many of us, I suppose, there are times of quiet contemplation and times of rapt devotion, when our thoughts surmount these lower skies, and look within the veil; and then, oh, how we wish to be there! Yet there are other times; times of strenuous activity when we buckle on the armour and press to the front; and then we see such a battle to be waged, such a victory to be won, such a work to be done, that we say: “Well to remain in the flesh, to continue with you all for the joy and furtherance of your faith, seems more loyal to Christ, more needful for you, and more in accord with our present feelings.” I think it is idle for us to be crying to go home; it is too much like the lazy workman, who wants Saturday night to come when it is only Tuesday morning. Oh, no; if God spares us to do a long life’s work, so much the better. At the same time, as a spark flies upward to the sun, the central source of flame, so the newborn spirit aspires towards heaven, towards Jesus, by whom it was kindled. And, I add, that glory demands it, and makes our departure needful. Is not Christ in heaven praying that we may be with him where he is? Are there not the saints in heaven, of whom it is said, they without us cannot be perfect? The circle of the skies cannot be completed until all the redeemed are there. The grand orchestra of glory misses some notes as yet. What if the bass is full, some trebles and tenors are still needed there! There are some sopranos that will be required to swell the enchanting melodies, and consummate the worship of the Eternal! What, therefore, nature prepares for, grace desires, and glory itself demands, we have no just cause to shudder about. Our departure need not make us afraid.
10. II. Having so occupied so much time on this first point, I have little or no time to enlarge on the second. The TIME OF OUR DEPARTURE, though unknown to us, is fixed by God, unalterably fixed; so rightly, wisely, lovingly settled, and prepared for, that no chance or haphazard can break the spell of destiny.
11. The wisdom of divine love shall be proven by the carefulness of its provision. Perhaps you will say: “It is not easy to discern this; the natural order of things is so often disturbed by casualties of one kind or another.” Let me remind you, then, that it is through faith, only through faith, we can understand these things; for it is as true now of the providence of God as it was of old of the creation of God that “things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.” Because the mode of your departure is beyond your own knowledge, it does not follow that the time of your departure is not foreseen by God. “Ah! but,” you say, “it seems so shocking for any one to die suddenly, unexpectedly, without warning, and so come to an untimely end!” I answer you like this. If you take counsel with death your flesh will find no comfort; but if you trust in God your faith will cease to debate with these feverish anxieties, and your spirit will enjoy a sweet calm. Dire calamities befell Job when he was bereaved of his children and his servants, his herds and his flocks. Yet he took little notice of the different ways in which his troubles were brought about; whether by an onslaught of the Sabeans or by a raid of the Chaldeans; whether the fire fell from heaven, or the wind came from the wilderness; it mattered little. Whatever strange facts broke upon his ear, one thought penetrated his heart, and one expression broke from his lips. “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” So, too, beloved, when the time of your departure arrives — whether by disease or decay, whether it is by accident or assault, that your soul leaves its present tenement — rest assured that “your times are in his hand”; and know for a certainty that “all his saints are in his hand” likewise. Besides this, dear friends, since the time of our departure must come, if the manner of it were at our own disposal, then I think most of us would say, “What I shall choose, I do not know.” Fevers and agues, the pangs and tortures of one malady and another, or the delirium accompanying sickness, are not so much to be preferred to the shock of a disaster, or the terror of a wreck at sea because one is the prolonging of pain, and the other the despatch of providence. Which should we covet — a quick dispatch or to desire weeks or months spent in the vestibule of the grave? Rather we should say, “Let the Lord do with me as seems good to him.” To live in constant communion with God is a sure relief from all these bitter frettings. Those who have walked with him have often been favoured with such anticipations of their departure as no physician could give them. Survivors will tell you that though death seemed to come suddenly to the godly merchant, he had in the last acts of his life appeared to expect and prepare for it, and even to have taken an affecting farewell of his family while in the vigour of health, as though he were aware that he was setting out on his last journey, which a few hours afterwards it proved to be. So, too, the minister of Christ has sometimes fallen, expiring in his pulpit with a nunc dimittis, “Now let you your servant depart in peace” on his lips; secretly, but surely, made ready to depart and to be with his Lord. There is a time to depart; and God’s time to call me is my time to go.
12. III. Now, to our third point — THE TIME AT HAND. “The time of my departure is at hand.”
13. In a certain sense, every Christian here may say this; for whatever interval may interpose between us and death, how very short it is! Have you not all a sense that time flows faster than it did? In our childhood days, we thought a year was quite a period of time, a very epoch in our career; now as for weeks — one can hardly consider them! We seem to be travelling by an express train, flying along at such a rate that we can hardly count the months. Why, the past year only seemed to come in at one door and go out at the other; it was over so soon. We shall soon be at the terminus of life, even if we live for several years; but in the case of some of us, God knows of whom, this year, perhaps this month, will be our last. I think tomorrow night we shall have to report at the church meeting the deaths of nine members of this church within the last eight or nine days. Since these have gone, some of us may expect to follow them. There are those who will evidently go; disease has set in upon them. Some of those disorders that in this land seem to be always fatal, tell these dear friends that the time of their departure is undoubtedly at hand. And then old age, which comes so gracefully and graciously to many of our matrons and our veterans, shows, beyond all dispute, “the time of your departure is at hand.” The lease of your life is almost up. Not indeed that I would address myself to such special cases only. I speak to every brother and sister in Christ here. “The time of our departure is at hand.” What then, dear friends?
14. Is this not a reason for surveying our condition again? If our vessel is just launching, let us see that she is seaworthy. It would be a sad thing for us to be near departing, and yet to be just as near discovering that we are lost. Remember, dear friends, it is possible for anyone to maintain a decent Christian profession for fifty years, and be a hypocrite after all; possible to occupy an office in the church of God, and that of the very highest, and yet to be a Judas; and one may not only serve Christ, but suffer for him too, and yet, like Demas, may not persevere to the end; for all that looks like grace is not grace. Where true grace is, there it will always be; but where the semblance of it is, it will often suddenly disappear. Examine yourself, good brother; set your house in order, for you must die and not live. Do you have the faith of God’s elect? Are you built on Christ? Is your heart renewed? Are you truly an heir of heaven? I charge every man and woman within this place, since the time of his departure may be far nearer than he thinks, to take stock and see whether he is Christ’s or not.
15. But if the time of my departure is at hand, and I am satisfied that it is all right with me, is there not a call for me to do all I can for my household? Father, the time of your departure is at hand; is your wife unsaved? Will you pass another night without lovingly speaking to her about her soul? Are those dear boys unregenerate? Is that girl still thoughtless? The time of your departure is at hand. You can do little more for the lads and lasses; you can do little more for the wife and the brother. Oh! do what you can now. Sister, you are consumptive; you will soon be gone. You are the only Christian in the family. God sent you there to be a missionary. Do not have to say, when you are dying, “The last hope of my family is going out, for I have not cared for their souls.” Masters, you who have servants around you, you must soon be taken away. Will you not do something for their souls? I know if there were a mother about to go to Australia, and she had to leave some of her children behind, she would fret if she thought, “I have not done all that needs to be done for those poor children. Who will care for them now that their mother is gone?” Well, but to have neglected something necessary for their temporal comfort would be little in comparison with not having cared for their souls! Oh! let it not be so! Let it not be a thorn in your deathbed that you did not fulfil the relationships of life while you had the opportunity. “The time of my departure is at hand.”
16. Then there is a third lesson. Let me try to finish all my work, not only in regards to my duty for my family, but in respect to all the world as far as my influence or ability can reach. Rich men, be your own executors. Do what you can with your substance while it is your own. Men of talent, speak for Jesus before your tongue has ceased to articulate, and becomes a piece of clay. George Whitfield may supply us with a fine model of this uniform consistency. He was so orderly and precise in his habits, and so scrupulous and holy in his life, that he used to say he would not like to go to bed if there were a pair of gloves out of place in the house, much less were his will not made, or any part of his duty unfulfilled to the best of his knowledge. He wished to have all right, and to be fully prepared for whatever might happen, so that, if he never woke again from the slumbers of the night, no one would have cause to reflect upon anything he had left undone, entailing needless trouble on his wife or his children. Such care bestowed on what some account to be trifles is a habit worthy of our imitation. The main work of life may be sadly spoiled by negligence in little things. This is a striking test of character. “He who is faithful in what is least is faithful also in much: and he who is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.” Oh, then! time is fleeting, despatch is urgent; gather up your thoughts, quicken your hands, speed your pace, for God commands you to make haste. If you have anything to do, you must do it soon. The wheels of eternity are sounding behind you. Press on! If you are to run a race you must run it fast, for Death will soon overtake you. You may almost feel the hot breath of the white horse of Death upon your cheeks already. Oh God, help us to do something before we go from here and be seen no more. It was grand of the apostle that in the same breath, when he said, “The time of my departure is at hand,” he could also say, “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” So may we be able to say when the time of our departure has arrived.
If the time of our departure is at hand, let it cheer us amid our
troubles. Sometimes, when our friends go to Liverpool to sail for
Canada, or any other distant region, on the night before they sail
they stay in a very poor inn. I think I hear one of them grumbling,
“What a hard bed! What a small room! What a poor view” “Oh,” says the
other, “never mind, brother; we are not going to live here; we are
off tomorrow.” Remember in like manner, you children of poverty, this
is not your rest. Put up with it, you are away tomorrow. You sons of
sorrow, you daughters of weakness, you children of sickness, let this
cheer you: —
The road may be rough,
But it cannot be long
And I’ll smooth it with hope,
And cheer it with song.
Often when I have been travelling on the continent I have been obliged to stay at a hotel that was full, where the room was so inconvenient, that it scarcely furnished any accommodation at all. But we have said, “Oh, never mind: we are off in the morning! What does it matter for one night?” So, since we are soon to be gone, and the time of our departure is at hand, let us not be ruffling our tempers about trifles, nor raise evil spirits around us by complaining and finding fault. Take things as you find them, for we shall soon be up and away.
18. And if the time of my departure is at hand, I should like to be on good terms with all my friends on earth. If you were going to stay here always, when a man treated you badly, apart from a Christian spirit, you might as well have it out with him; but since we are going to stay such a little while, we may well put up with it. It is not desirable to be too ready at taking an offence. What if my neighbour has an ugly temper, the Lord has to put up with him, and so I may. There are some people with whom I would rather dwell in heaven for ever than live with them half an hour on earth. Nevertheless, for the love of the brethren, and for the peace of the church, we may tolerate much during the short time we have to brook with peevish moods and perverse humours. Does Christ love them, and shall not we? He covers their offences; why, then, should we disclose them or proclaim them abroad? If any of you have any grievances with one another, if there is any bickering or jealousy between you, I should like you to settle it tonight, because the time of your departure is at hand. Suppose there is someone you spoke harshly to, you would not like to hear tomorrow that he was dead. You would not have cared what you said to him if he had lived, but now that the seal is set upon all your communications with each other, you would wish that the last contact had been more friendly. There has been a little difference between two brothers — a little coldness between two sisters. Oh, since one or other of you will soon be gone, settle it! Live in love, as Christ loved you and gave himself for you. If one of you were going to Australia tomorrow, never to come back again, and you had had a little tiff with your brother, why I know before you started out you would say, “Come, brother, let us part as good friends.” So now, since you are so soon to depart, end all strife, and dwell together in blessed harmony until the departure actually occurs.
19. If the time of my departure is at hand, then let me guard against being elated by any temporal prosperity. Possessions, estates, creature comforts dwindle into insignificance before this outlook. Yes, you may have procured a comfortable house and a delightful garden, but it is not your rest: your tenure is about to expire. Yes, you may say, “God did prosper me last year, the bank account did swell, the premises were enlarged, and the business thrived beyond all expectation.” Ah! hold them with a loose hand. Do not think that they are to be your heaven. Be very jealous lest you should get your good things here, for if you do you will not have them hereafter. Do not be lifted up too much when you grasp the gain, of which you must so soon release your hold. As I said concerning the discomfort of the hotel, we did not think much of it, because we were going away. So, if it happens to be very luxurious, do not be enamoured with it, for you must go tomorrow. “These are the things,” one said, when he looked at a rich man’s treasures, “that make it hard to die.” But it need not be so, if you hold them as gifts of God’s kindness, and not as gods to be worshipped with self-indulgence, you may take your leave of them with composure; “knowing in yourselves that you have in heaven a better and an enduring substance.”
20. Lastly, if the time of our departure is at hand, let us be prepared to bear our testimony. We are witnesses for Christ. Let us bear our testimony before we are taken up and join with the cloud of witnesses who have finished their course and rested from their labours. Do you say, “I hope to do that on my deathbed?” Brother, do it now: do it now, for you may never have an opportunity to do it then. Mr. Whitfield was always desirous that he might bear a testimony for Christ in the hour of death; but he could not do so at that momentous crisis, for as you well know, he was suddenly taken ill after preaching, and very soon expired. Was this to be grievously deplored? Ah, no. Why, dear friends, he had borne so many testimonies for his Lord and Master while he was alive, there was no need to add anything in the last few moments before his death, or to supply the deficiencies of a life devoted to the proclamation of the gospel. Oh, let you and I bear our testimony now! Let us tell to others wherever we can what Christ has done for us. Let us help Christ’s cause with all our might while it is called today. Let us work for Jesus while we can work for him. Concerning the thought that we can undo the effect of our idleness by the spasmodic effort of our dying breath, that would be a vain hope indeed compared with living for Jesus Christ. Your dying testimony, if you are able to give it, will have the greater force if it is not a sickly regret, but a healthy confirmation of your whole career.
21. I only wish these words about departure were applicable to all here. “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” But, “ ‘As I live,’ says the Lord God, ‘I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his ways, and live.’ ” Oh unconverted man, the time for letting loose your cable draws near; it is even at the door. You must shortly set sail for a far country. Alas! then yours is not the voyage of a passenger, with a sweeter clime, a happier home, a brighter prospect in view. Your departure is the banishment of a convict, with a penal settlement looming in the distance; rife with fear and devoid of all hope, for the term of your banishment is interminable. I fear there are some of you who may depart before long full of gloom with a fearful looking for of judgment and of fiery indignation. I seem to see the angel of death hovering over my audience. He may, perhaps, select for his victim an unconverted soul. If so, behind that death angel something far more grim is waiting. Hell follows death for souls that do not love Christ. Oh, make haste, make haste! Seek Christ. Lay hold on eternal life; and may infinite mercy save you, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen and Amen.
(See Spurgeon_Sermons “Publications” 3566 @@ "Treasury of David")