Planning and Expecting

One of our inspired reli­gious leaders of this gen­eration coined the injunction, "Plan great things for God; expect great things from Him." Unless we plan in faith and hope, we shall reap impoverished harvests, for "he which soweth sparingly shall reap also spar­ingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully" (2 Cor. 9:6).

But many who have heard of the good­ness and greatness of God misunderstand the law of the harvest. They gladly sing with the faithful, "Lord, I hear of showers of blessing Thou art scattering full and free," but they forget that there is a price to pay for a bountiful harvest. They remind me of the too-optimistic man who put in the want ads of a newspaper: "Wanted, a cheap, secondhand violin for practice; a Stradivarius preferred." They do not seem to realize at what infinite cost the benefits of the plan of salvation accrue to us.

Back in the old days the Chinese farmers went on the theory that they could eat all their big potatoes and keep the small po­tatoes for seed. They did this for some time. They ate the big potatoes and planted the small ones. But in time nature reduced their crops by the law of diminishing returns, until their potato crops were made up of tubers no bigger than prunes and marbles. Those Chinese farmers learned through bitter experience that they could not keep the best things of life for themselves and use leftovers for seed. So it is in our Christian ex­perience. Often we think that by some crazy twist of the laws of nature our selfish­ness will be rewarded with unselfishness.

When will we ever really learn the inexorable truth—"There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and there is that with­holdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty" (Prov. 11:24)?

I knew of a man who was proud of his ability to play "Blest Be the Tie" on his violin on one string. He did a fairly good job; but happier is the man who learns to play "Have Thine Own Way, Lord" on all four strings of the instrument.

If we are to expect great things from the great God we serve, we must be willing to clear the channels of the heart of their de­bris. Last week I received a letter of con­fession from a young California mother who was in one of my summer graduate courses when I taught at Pacific Union College in 1944. It was one of those letters with which most teachers are familiar—asking forgiveness for a matter of irregular­ity in her work. But there was something different about this letter. There was heart­break between the lines. There were big unwept tears in it. There was a faltering, abject note of fear in it that tore at my heart. She wrote that it had been on her conscience for sixteen years; but now the matter was urgent, for her little son was apparently sick unto death, and she and her husband were calling in the elders for special prayer. She wanted assurance that if she made this humiliating confession the Lord would hear and restore her darling to her heart. And you know, somehow I felt in my soul that that was exactly what the Lord was going to do, for there is one text in the Bible that I like to repeat over and over to myself:

"If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land" (2 Chron. 7:14). And I believe that when we fulfill the conditions, He will heal sick little boys too. Plan great things for God; expect great things from Him.

When I prayed for this distraught young mother in California, who had carried a burden on her heart for so long, I thought of the infirm man who had lain daily at the pool of Bethesda, waiting for the waters to move. In the five porches or verandas of this pool lay hundreds of every nationality and condition of life—the pauper and the peasant, the educated and the well-to-do. The only thing they had in common was trouble, and the hope of a miracle.

Can you think of anything more poignant in all God's Word than the words that describe them—"impotent folk, . . . waiting." The blind, the lame, the with­ered, the infirm, all waiting. Waiting for what? Think of it—God's great house of prayer, the great Temple on the hill at Jerusalem, with its eight great doors of privilege standing wide open and beckon­ing to the oblivious throng in the five porches at Bethesda.

What a picture of the spiritual condition of so many today. First, there were the blind

—blind to the fact that the Great Healer was among them, blind to the opportuni­ties for witnessing for God, blind to the avenues of virtue and their possibilities and talents, blind to the real cause of their infirmities, their cherished and unconfessed sins.

Then there were the halt, or the lame. This is typical of the limping Christian. Did you ever see one? These are they who cannot conceal their malady; their faults are open to the world. It is an affliction that everyone notices. It may be an overdose of ego, a sarcastic tongue, a sour disposition, an uncooperative spirit, a love of show, a slavery to fashion, but everywhere they go they carry their limp.

And there were the withered, the dried-up Christians who haven't any life left in their spiritual muscles. They had an experience once, but it is years since they have passed out a tract, prayed with a neighbor, or spoken to anyone about his soul. They are holders of the truth but are not might­ily swayed by it.

There, too, were the impotent—perhaps the saddest of all. Bright minds they have, cultivated talents, charming personalities, educational advantages, but spiritually im­potent, which means "not able." And the Bible tells us that there was a great multitude of them. And there is a great multi­tude of them today. Impotent folks—waiting—waiting for some opportune moment or tide of fortune, waiting for a more con­venient time than today, waiting for pre­ferment from someone closer to the source of power, waiting for a miracle.

But it took only a five-word question by a man in a seamless dress to waken the long-time cripple to the fact that we can­not expect great things from God until we rid ourselves of the hindrances to faith: "Wilt thou be made whole?" And He meant right then. And He asks the question of us today. There is no yesterday in the gospel vocabulary. And there is no tomorrow; there is only today. "Behold, now is the day of salvation." Vain regrets about yesterday will not do; vain hopes for tomorrow will not suffice; but a triumphant march today leads to a glorious sunset and a quiet eventide of peace and trust.