Lukewarmness
The very thought of lukewarmness implies that the soul has previously been in a good, hot state of grace. Those who have never had their hearts melted by the heat of spiritual fire will never have the malady of lukewarmness. It is like pestilent insects, which attack thriving, fruitful plants, and not dry, dead sticks. We would hardly think of a dry, barren desert as suffering from drought, for the very thought of suffering from drought implies that the ground has previously been well watered.
It often happens that those who have been the most richly blessed with divine grace, and who have been lifted into fervent love, will imperceptibly decline into lukewarmness. Very few Christians escape this miserable tepidity altogether. One of the worst features about lukewarmness is that it steals on the soul in such quiet, respectable ways. If the horrible thing had horns and hoofs, and a smack of criminality in it, it would alarm the soul. But, as a rule, lukewarmness of spirit is so decent and well-behaved, that it chloroforms its victim and kills him without a scream of terror. This is what makes it so awfully fatal. While open sin slays its hundreds, nice, respectable lukewarmness slays its tens of thousands.
Envision a soul that has been all aglow with sanctifying grace, but is now beginning to get lukewarm: We see a heart seemingly spotless and empty, with the heavenly Dove and the good angels just on the outside; yet their faces are turned away, as if about to leave. And, on the other hand, we would see unclean beasts and birds—also on the outside of the heart, but facing it, as if about to enter. We would see the eyes half closed, as if about to take a nap, and a dull, expressionless mouth, reminding us of a winter fireplace where the fire burns low. Oh, could the soul but see the awfulness of such a condition!
Lukewarmness is indicated by a negligence in acts of piety, and a carelessness in fixed habits of devotion, such as daily reading God’s Word, regular seasons of prayer, constant guarding of our conversation, seasons of fasting, and habits of divine and heavenly meditation. There is not only a carelessness in the performing of these acts, but a dullness of spirit, a slovenliness of mind, in the doing of them. As nearly all tight-rope walkers and lion-tamers sooner or later get killed in their foolish games by a little carelessness, so do many Christians fall from elevated grace, and are devoured by lions, through a thoughtless and careless spirit in Christian duty.
Another symptom of lukewarmness is a trusting to the “magic” of former grace. The soul may have experienced, by instantaneous regeneration or sanctification, such floods of light and love as seem to sweep it out on an irresistible tide, and everything religious seems so easy that everything works like a charm. But this very flood-tide of holy ease can become a snare to the soul if it leans upon these instantaneous blessings to work by a sort of magic, and to take the place of patient, thoughtful perseverance. The flood of grace was not obtained at ease, nor will the flow be maintained by any relaxing from duty. There are hundreds who are lazily expecting the mere blessing of sanctification to take them through, and do not perceive that the chilling past is settling down in the edges of their souls. It is as if a captain of a fine ship, after getting her out to sea, with the sails all set, and fairly in the wind, should lash the helm, and tell the crew they might take a holiday, expecting the wind and the ship, the chart and the compass, to do the rest. There are more souls doing this thing than we dream of.
Another element in lukewarmness is a sort of indefinite contentment with the present level of the spiritual life. There is a quiet, unexpressed decision of the mind that the soul is getting on very well, and that it will settle down into its present thought and feelings. Most Christians have quietly decided to live the remainder of their days just about like they are now doing. They expect no further great epochs in their experience.
A great many holiness people are so suspicious of what resembles a “third” work that they expect no great widening deluges of the Spirit, but nestle down in the thought that if they can only keep a clean heart, they will never bother themselves about the ocean-depths of boundless, melting, fiery love. Such souls are already on the decline, and do not know it. Their spiritual life resembles a quiet, drowsy, summer Sunday afternoon. They feel that Saturday night’s work has been well done up; the Sunday morning religion has been nicely attended to; they can’t bear the thought of the duties of Monday morning, and so they spend the time napping. Even holiness preachers settle down into this Sunday-afternoon condition, with just enough spiritual fervor to brush the summer flies away.
It is amazing how few Christians are seriously determined to get beyond their present experience; so then of course they do not get beyond. And this lukewarmness manifests itself by a disposition to criticise as heretics those who do push beyond. The legalist suspicions the man as being erratic who knows his sins are forgiven; the merely converted man looks upon the fully sanctified with a good deal of suspicion; and even many who are sanctified regard any greater enlargements in the Holy Ghost life as bordering on heresy. And so it goes on. Will there ever be an end to the narrowness of our minds and the littleness of our faith?
Another element in lukewarmness is the secret rationalization in the mind that the soul has done so much for God, has fought so many battles, endured so many afflictions, had so many uplifts in grace, that it can put itself on the retired list of the army and draw full pay. This is a very subtle disposition, and the soul hardly dares to whisper it to itself, for the conscience feels that its meanness is like the Gunpowder Plot to assassinate the king, which must not be breathed. And yet, where is the saint who has known much of God, into whose mind Satan has not sent this low, sneaking thought? God only knows how many of His children, once hot with holy love, are now living, like broken-down aristocracy, on the faded splendors of the past. Their experiences resemble faded photographs, or the withered flowers that were used at last week’s funeral.
Another feature in lukewarmness is the hidden compliment which the soul takes to itself, that glowing fervor is only a juvenile thing which it has outgrown, and that it is now '‘serving God on principle.” All states of toning down in spiritual life are accompanied by some sort of self-complacency. When the soul begins to think less of God, and of the precious blood, and of the Holy Ghost, it begins to think more of itself.
This thought of serving God on cold principle indicates a sad state: it may not be fatal, but it is ruinous to deep spirituality. One of the worst things about it is its respectability. It keeps in the beaten path of decent, orthodox religion; it can pass in and out among any circle of Christians; no one can lay any charge against it; it does nothing to call down severe rebukes; it is an old, sober, well-behaved thing, keeping on polite terms with everybody and everything in general. If only something horrible would happen to it; if it could be hurled to the dust in humiliation and mortification; if it could only be set weeping and wailing, this would truly be an infinite advantage. But such a miserable state of soul is so pleasing to the devil that he will not even tempt it to commit any notable sin, lest it should be shocked into renewed repentance and fervor of grace. The devil delights to bury a hot religious experience in a smooth shroud of cold virtue.
There is one more symptom of lukewarmness I will note, and that is a dull sense of inward breaking with God. The heart feels that something is not just right. The orthodoxy is all right; the outward life may be correct; the verbal testimony still kept up; and all Christian duties in a general way looked after. But the animating spirit is weakened. There is no conscious touch from God; no sense of fullness dilating the heart; no sweet vision of God’s attributes; no bright, far-away fields open to it in secret prayer; no lowly feeling of kissing the Savior’s feet; no rapt adoration of His majesty; no sweet hymns vibrating in the mind during the sleep; no melting, yearning love for the saving of souls; no spells of divine laughter rippling through the mind; no bullet-like piercing of the words of the Scripture; no whispering of the Holy Ghost as of old; no conscious grasp on the throne through prayer. The gleam is gone from the eye; the smile from the lip; the divine throb from the heart; the promptness has left the will; the gentleness has left the voice; the third heavens, with its retinue, have gone off somewhere. Some unpleasant, undefinable, unexplorable something has settled on the inner spirit. It has ceased to feel toward Jesus as a real lover. It is getting offensive to the Holy Spirit; and unless something can be done to rekindle its fading fires, it will nauseate the Infinite heart, and Christ will spew it out of His mouth. This is an awful metaphor, and indicates the awfulness of lukewarmness.
These things saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of the creation of God; I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth. Because thou sayest, I am rich, and increased with goods, and have need of nothing; and knowest not that thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked: I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire, that thou mayest be rich; and white raiment, that thou mayest be clothed, and that the shame of thy nakedness do not appear; and anoint thine eyes with eyesalve, that thou mayest see.
As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten: be zealous therefore, and repent. Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in his throne. He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches.