bassador of the cross is constrained to ask, "Who is sufficient for these things?"- he finds, in the promised presence and efficiency of the Spirit, an answer, ever ready and full and cheering, "My sufficiency is of God." Is there any thing the mind can contemplate, more truly sublime and beautiful than this alliance of the weakness of humanity with the strength of Divinity, thus constituting the ministry associate laborers with the eternal God in the regeneration of the world!

But the Providence of God is also pledged to aid in the same great enterprise. Christ, the author of the Gospel and the founder of the ministry, is "Head over all things to the Church." Not only by him were all things created, but by him also are they sustained and controlled and made subservient to the accomplishment of his purposes of grace. "The government is upon his shoulder," and He so directs the affairs of earth, that every event which affects persons or communities, every revolu tion in the world of matter or mind, every commotion that agitates Church or State, is an element of power under his control, and moves in his train to give present success and final triumph to the ministry of reconciliation.

This direction and tendency of things may not be always obvious to our limited comprehension. We can see but parts of what constitutes the mighty whole, and are often constrained to exclaim, "Verily thou art a God that hidest thyself, O God of Israel, the Saviour." We cannot understand how events seemingly the most adverse are made to move the wheels of the chariot of salvation. But so it is. And though darkness frequently enshroud his operations, and his purposes seem to develop through diverse and circuitous channels, yet they at length meet and terminate in the accomplishment of that whereunto they are sent. And though his ways be oftentimes in the great waters, and those waters be frequently agitated by storms, still the Son of God is upon the troubled element, and here and there a billow bending under his footsteps, and here and there a wave ruffled by his movement, reveal to us an Almighty energy that has power to control the tempest, and, when his purposes demand it, to say, "Peace, be still

Such, then, are the aids secured to the ministry in the work to which it is called. And in view of the divine condescension in thus signalizing the agency of imperfect men by lending to it the resources of his energy, the spirit of the holy apostle, dilated with sentiments too sublime for utterance, could only exclaim in the impotence of overwhelming adoration, confidence, and joy, "I magnify mine office."

The same pledges, my brethren, belong to us, and they constitute the basis of our confidence and hope in the work in which we are engaged. Away, then, with despondency! Away with fear! He who has instituted the ministry, who has

chosen the weak things of the world to confound the mighty, has made the result to depend upon nothing less than his own omnipotence. Then "let the heathen rage, and kings set themselves." His counsels shall stand, and he will do all his pleasure. "Lo, I AM WITH YOU ALWAYS," is the standing pledge of the final triumph of the work of the ministry. This is the badge of our office; this the shekinah of our sanctuary; this the "hiding of our power," this the motto upon our banner; and BY THIS WE CONQUER !

SERMON DLXVIII.

BY REV. A. L. STONE,

PASTOR OF PARK ST. CHURCH, BOSTON, MASS.

PRACTICAL ATHEISM.

"Without God in the world."—EPHESIANS II: 12.

A SOUL without God is like the earth without the sun. Quench in the heavens the orb of day, how dark, dumb, and dead would be the earth below! No flush of morning's rising, no genial heat of high noon, no sunset glory. Darkly would the rivers flow, the brooks complain, and the waves of ocean roll. Hushed all the voices of the groves; shut and scentless the flowers; silenced the sends of busy labor; chained every foot of man ;-and poor stricken Nature would lie cold and mute as a corpse, her great, vital heart slowly ceasing to beat. As the sun is the life and light of the natural world, so is God of the spiritual. Where He is not, there is no true life, no real joy, no abiding peace. Without his presence and friendship, the soul is dark and dead, cold and comfortless. It must be visited by an ever-recurring gloom, foreboding of disaster; a sense of want and dread-afraid of God and his judgments. There may be the short-lived intoxications of pleasure; momentary forgetfulness in the heat of some eager race for the world's prizes; the fitful shining of some delusive hope; but, in the pauses of sober thoughtfulness, the shadow comes back, and' night resumes its reign.

I wish to speak to you of this desolate condition; of what it is; of its guilt and misery; that, having gained your convictions thus far, I may urge upon you more importunately the free and full offer in the gospel of the divine love and favor.

What is it to be without God in the world? The question?

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is asked, not of the dwellers in heathen isles, but here, under the blaze of Christian institutions, the light of a Divine revelation shining through all our homes. What is it for one of you, roofed over and walled in by sanctuary privileges this day, to be "without God?" We answer,

I. NEGATIVELY

1. It is not to be without the knowledge of God. That sacred name was called over you in solemn ritual, at the font of baptism; you were taught to lisp it when first you clasped your infant palms in prayer. Looking out with wondering eyes upon earth, its streams and flowers and fruits, and up to the sun, shining in his strength, and the moon and stars, you were told that God made them all. With your earliest schooling, one book was put into your hands with signs of reverence, which you took reverently, as the giver said, "This is God's Book." As your days of young mirth circled round, there came always one day when the tumult of your pastimes was softly hushed, and you sat down to learn the nursery rhyme

"I must not work, I must not play,

Upon God's holy Sabbath-day."

And then, with burnished face and fresh attire, you were led slowly, checked in the frolic impulses that would make you leap and shout, to the house of God. This has been your education from the cradle. And now the name of God is familiar to you as household words. His greatness, glory, and majesty; his holiness, justice and truth; his eternity and omnipotence; his revealed will given in the old historic record, and in the code of Sinai-nothing of all this is strange to you now. You have looked upon the symbols of the sacramental board, and know their volumed meaning; and have heard many a time over the feast the chant of this thrilling strain: "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." And in the ordinances of his Word this God has spoken to you, and you have heard and known his voice; and he has called after you by the accents of his providence and his Spirit, and you could not mis. take his utterance; and all this for years, for your lifetime past, so that none of you are ignorant of God; and whatever it may be for one of you, in the sense I mean, to be without God, it cannot be that you are without the knowledge of God.

2. It is not to be without the favors of God. These fall upon you thick and fast as the snow of orchard blossoms in spring. You cannot help your indebtedness to God for life and all its blessings. Whether you acknowledge him, love him, serve him, or not, it must still and ever be true that he made you, that he preserves you, that he bestows all your good things

upon you. The lips that never praise him, he colors with the red hue of health; the eye never lifted to his throne adoring, he opened on this world of light and beauty; the heart cold at the tale of his boundless compassions, he sends to it every pulsation of life and joy. This thought I would have you carry with you, that the man who lives without God is yet an infinite debtor to his providential goodness. He is not without God, because God has deserted him and left him an outcast on some barren waste, unvisited by kindness and bounty. He may have been greatly favored with worldly good; all his paths may drop fatness; garner and cup overflow; God at his table, loading it; God at his couch, guarding it; God with his sick, healing them; God in his field, making it fruitful; God in his work, making it prosperous; God with his friends, making them kind; God in his plans, giving him foresight; God in his art, giving him skill; God in his trouble, giving him light; God in his peril, giving him safety; God, in every walk of his life, his benefactor, provider, defender, and constant keeper: all this may be, and yet, and though it heighten inexpressibly the guilt of it and the wonder of it, it may still be true that this man, so blessed and favored and courted by kindness, ingrate, and blind, and stony-hearted, is living without God in the world. II. AFFIRMATIVELY—

1. It is to be without God as an object of love and worship. The term in our text, translated without God, is "Atheoi," which has its straightest English in the word Atheists. There are two kinds of atheism: one, speculative or theoretical, the other, virtual and practical; one denying the existence of a God, the other ignoring all his claims to the heart. One is blind of mind, looking out upon a world teeming with wonders, instinct every where, in sky, and earth, and sea, with proof of intelligent skill and design, and discerning no evidence of a Creator; the other is hard of heart, before the full vision of Godunresponsive, unfearing, unloving. Which is the truer, the more real, if not the more literal atheism? Which, in the sight of God, is the worst? Is it a greater crime stupidly to mistake the demonstration of God's existence, than to admit that he lives and reigns glorious in holiness, and yet pay him no reverence? The practical atheist is one who believes that God is, and yet trembles not; that he is a great King, and yet brings no homage; that his tender mercies are over all his works, and yet offers no thanksgiving; that he will by no means clear the guilty, and yet has no terror; that he will come to judgment, and yet goes smilingly forward toward the great white throne,. unawed, and stout of heart. God is seated on the circle of the heavens; the earth is his footstool; his face is veiled with light; adoringly the angelhood cast their crowns before him ;: his hand moves the worlds in space: this puny mortal beholds,

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comprehends, believes; but bows not, worships not, bends no knee, lifts no song; lives, as though God, with all his awfulness, glory, and goodness, were not. Is he not an atheist?

When does he worship God? Not when the day wakes himhe rises without prayer; not when the night disrobes him-he lies down without prayer; not when his feast is spread—he returns no thanks before he eats. Does he ever kneel, does he ever say, "Our Father," and does he love when he does not worship? Do all his warm affections go up incense-like to the skies? Is the language of his heart and his lips, "Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none on earth I desire beside thee?" Does any human ear ever hear him say that; does God's ear ever hear it; does his heart ever think it? If he loved God, could he be denied communion with him? But where is his closet? If he loved him, he would love to be like him; for there is no Scripture truer than that every man is like his God. If he loved him, he would do his will, for the appeal of the Saviour is unanswerable: "If ye love me, keep my commandments." Does he love God? He would love his law, the perfect transcript of his character: he would love his Son, the brightness of his glory, and the express image of his person; he would love to meditate upon his glorious perfections.

Is there no one of you who studiously and habitually keeps God out of thought? When do you pray to him? When do you show an attachment to him that enthrones him, in your regard, above every object beloved beside, in all the universe? How often do you even think of him? Perhaps when he makes his tempests roar about you; when he speaks in the thundervolley; when the glance of his eye in the steely lightning flashes across your path; when he lifts your sea-craft on the stormy wave; when he sends death over your threshold; in such ap proaches, possibly, you think of him, for you cannot help it—you are made afraid at his power; but, oh! do your thoughts cling lovingly, constantly, filially, to his name? Do you not live, for the most part, as though there were "nothing above to excite awe, nothing around to awaken tenderness ?" And are you not thus atheoi," without God in the world ?"

2. It is to be without God in the plans and toils of life. Each of you has his labor. Its call breaks your morning slumber; you are seen bending to it in the heat of day. Scarce do you dismiss it from your thought as you press again the pillow. You tax your utmost sagacity; you match all your wit and cunning against other men's, in laying your plans. How eager, how busy, how absorbed you are in this hurrying to and fro of every day! For some reason, your very heart is in it. Your interest is unfeigned, cordial, intense. There is nothing like insincerity or lukewarmness in your untiring, heroic devotion to these pursuits. What is the animating principle? What