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From early spring down to the autumn of the year,
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A very sedate and contemplative man
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had been accustomed to call upon me
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in respect to his religious thoughts and anxieties.
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At first, he seemed to have thoughts only,
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but they ripened by degrees into anxieties.
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He began by asking about theories or doctrines
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apparently without any idea of
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making an application of the truth to himself.
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He had points of difficulty which he wished to have explained.
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And then he found other points,
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and these gradually changed in character
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from abstract questions to those of the application of the truth.
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From the first, I tried to lead him on to the personal application.
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But months passed away before
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he appeared to have much sense of his sin
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or much anxiety about himself.
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But he came to this, and after quite
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a struggle of mind as it appeared to me,
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to lead himself to believe in salvation by personal merit,
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he gave that up. He said to me,
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"I had become convinced that sinners are saved
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not by their own goodness,
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but because they are pardoned on account of Jesus Christ.
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Faith in Him is the only way for them."
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After this, I conversed with him several times
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when he appeared to me to be not far from the Kingdom of God.
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But, I was as often disappointed,
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for he would come back to me again
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in as much trouble and unbelief as before.
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Again and again, I had answered all his inquiries,
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teaching him out of the Scriptures,
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had brought up to his mind all the doctrines of truth,
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the divine promises and directions,
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sin and salvation, but all in vain.
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He had become very solemn
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and seemed to be entirely candid and really in earnest.
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His Bible had become his constant study.
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He was a man of prayer.
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He attended upon all our religious services with manifest interest.
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He appeared to have a deep sense of his sin and danger,
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but he had no hope in Christ.
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I finally said to him one evening, "I do not know, my dear sir,
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what more can be said to you.
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I have told you all that I know.
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Your state as a sinner lost,
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exposed to the righteous penalty of God's law,
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and having a heart alienated from God,
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and the free offer of redemption by Christ,
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and your instant duty to repent of sin
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and give up the world and give God your heart,
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and the source of your help
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through the power of the Holy Spirit assured to you,
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if you will receive Christ, all these things have become
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as familiar to you as household words.
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What more can I say?
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I know not what more there is to be said.
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I cannot read your heart. God can. And you can by His aid.
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Some things you have said almost made me think you a Christian,
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and others again have destroyed that hope.
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I now put it to your own heart.
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If you are not a Christian, what hinders you?"
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He thought a moment. Said he, "I can't feel."
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"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
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"I never thought of it before, sir."
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"How do you know this hinders you?"
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"I can think of nothing else, but I am sure
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I shall never be converted to God
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if I have no more feeling than I have now.
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But that is my own fault.
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I know you cannot help me."
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"No, sir, I cannot. Nor can you help yourself.
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Your heart will not feel at your bidding."
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"What then can I do?" said he with much anxiety.
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"Come to Christ now. Trust Him. Give up your darling world.
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Repent, so iniquity shall not be your ruin."
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He seemed perplexed, annoyed, vexed.
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And with an accent of impatience,
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such as I had never witnessed in him before, he replied,
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"That is impossible. I want the feeling
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to bring me to that, and I can't feel."
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"Hear me, sir," said I, "and heed well what I say.
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I have several points:
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One, the Bible never tells you that you must feel,
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but that you must repent and believe.
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Two, your complaint that you can't feel
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is just an excuse by which your wicked heart
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would justify you for not coming to Christ now.
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Three, this complaint that you can't feel
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is the complaint of a self-righteous spirit."
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"How is it?" said he.
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"Because you look to the desired feeling to commend you to God,
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or to make you fit to come, or to enable you to come."
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"Yes, to enable me," said he.
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"Well, that is self-righteousness in the shape of
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self-justification for not coming.
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Or in the shape of self-reliance if you attempt to come.
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That is all legalism and not the acceptance of gracious Christianity.
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You cannot be saved by the Law.
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Four, your complaint is the language of the most profound ignorance.
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To feel would do you no good.
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Devils feel. Lost spirits feel.
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Five, your complaint that you can't feel
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tends to lead you to a false religion.
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A religion of mere self-righteous feeling.
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Religion is duty.
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"But sir," said he, "there is feeling in religion."
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"But sir," said I, "there is duty in religion, and which shall come first?
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You ought to feel.
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You ought to love God
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and grieve that you are such a senseless sinner."
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"I know I am a sinner, but I can't feel
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any confidence to turn to God, to draw me to Him."
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"You are like the prodigal in the 15th of Luke
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when he thought of saying to his father,
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'make me as one of the hired servants.'"
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"Poor fool, to say that to his father,
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why the very idea is a libel on his father's heart.
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But he didn't think so. Poor fool, he knew no better.
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And you are a greater fool than he.
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He went home.
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And where he met his father, he found his heart.
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He could feel when he found his father's arms around him
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and felt the strong beatings of his father's heart.
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Do as he did. Go home.
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And you will feel, if you've never felt before.
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You will starve where you are. Your husks will not save you."
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As I was uttering this, he hung his head, cast his eyes upon the floor
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and stood like a statue of stone.
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I let him think.
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There he stood for some minutes. Then, turning suddenly to me,
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reaching to me his hand, he said,
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"I'm very much obliged to you. Good night."
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I let him go.
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About a month afterwards, I met him riding alone in his wagon,
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and he insisted upon my taking a seat with him,
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for he had something to say to me.
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And he would drive wherever I wanted to go.
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I was no sooner seated in the wagon than he said to me,
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"the human heart is the greatest mystery in the world,
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inexplicable, contradictory to itself. It is absurd.
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The sinner says, as I said to you that last night,
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'I can't feel' as an excuse
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for holding on to the world.
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I found as soon as I was willing to 'go home'
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as you called it, the road was plain enough."
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"Were you hindered long with that want of feeling?"
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"No. I never thought of it till that night.
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It came upon me like a flash.
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And then just as I was thinking it was a good reason in my favor,
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you dashed it all into shivers."
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"And can you feel now?"
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"Oh, yes. I have no trouble about that.
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I find that if a poor creature will turn to God,
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in the name of Jesus, he will learn to feel as he never felt before."
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Sinners not willing to give up the world
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and wanting an excuse for their irreligion exclaim,
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"I can't feel."
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This chapter is from "A Pastor's Sketches: Conversations with Anxious Souls Concerning the Way of Salvation."
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by Ichabod Spencer, originally published in the mid-19th century.