CHAPTER ten
CHAPTER ten
────────────────────────
He Being Dead Yet Speaketh: A Life’s Account
❆ ❆ ❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆ ❆ ❆
A life well lived does not end when the man dies. It ends when the last echo of his voice fades from the last ear that heard it — and since I am persuaded that some things spoken in the power of the Holy Spirit echo into eternity, I am not sure it ever fully ends. The Scripture says of Abel that he, being dead, yet speaketh. Abel offered a sacrifice. He spoke the language of blood and covering and the acceptance of the sinner through a substitute. He spoke it with his hands and his altar rather than his lips. And four thousand years later the testimony still stands, the voice still sounds, the message still proclaims what it proclaimed in the first generation of the world.
I do not know what will be said of my life when those who knew me are themselves gone. I hope it will be said that the blood of Christ was preached clearly, and that souls were brought into the knowledge of it. I hope it will be said that a man was found faithful in two parishes across fifty-four years of ministry, and that the faithfulness was not his own but the gift of the One for whom the ministry was done. And I hope it will be said, most simply and most truly, what was said of Enoch before the Flood and of me on the last day of December 1892: he walked with God.
Let me now look back from the end of the walk to the beginning. Not to survey my own achievements — there is a judgment-seat for that, and the One who sits upon it knows the account better than I ever could. But to trace the line of grace that ran through a life, to name the instruments God used, to honour the company He gave, and to say plainly what I believe made the difference between a life that would have been ordinary and the life that was actually lived.
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
THE STREAM OF PIETY: WHERE THE LIFE BEGAN
I was born into a stream. That is the first thing to say. I did not arrive at the faith I held by my own inquiry or reasoning or spiritual experiment. I was born into a household where the Shorter Catechism was as much the furniture of childhood as the table and chairs, where the family worship was as regular as the rising of the sun, where the Bible was not a curiosity but a daily companion from the very beginning of conscious memory. My mother — left a widow at thirty with seven children when I was eleven years old — held that household in the stream of God’s grace through everything that followed.
The stream that ran through our household ran from further back than our family. It ran through the Scottish Reformation and the Covenanting struggle, through the great saints of the seventeenth century whose writings shaped my inner life as thoroughly as any of the living teachers I encountered. It ran through Samuel Rutherford, whose letters I read as a young man and whose pulpit fragment I kept on my mantelpiece for the whole of my ministry. It ran through John Welsh, who rose from his bed at night to wrestle in prayer for those who cared not to plead for themselves. It ran through Samuel Rutherford’s own master, Robert Boyd, and back further still through the great line of those who had kept the Gospel alive in Scotland through dark centuries of spiritual struggle.
If my religious life was modelled on that of another, it was modelled on the life of the Reformers and Covenanters. I studied their writings and drank in much of their spirit. I had something of their strength and reality of purpose, the same fidelity to truth, though with perhaps more love and less fiery vehemence — often the same quaint habit of speech, and the same fervour of spirit that would have led any of them to lay down his life for the Lord he loved. The words of a Reformer and martyr — “We have a good and gentle Lord; let us follow His steps” — might have been my own. I did not find it hard to unite a reverent belief in the most solemn and mysterious truths of the Bible with a joyous and triumphant hope. Calvinism and the evangelical creed were never, I was told by one who knew me, so fairly recommended as by a man who stood by every doctrine, even the most severe, while he seemed to live in perpetual sunshine, spreading not gloom but brightness and good nature wherever he appeared.
I believed everything in the Confession of Faith. But I also believed more than was in it — for Jordan may overflow his banks. The doctrines of grace are not a cage that confines the soul to orthodoxy. They are the riverbed through which the waters of God’s love flow with greatest force and depth. A man who knows the doctrines of grace and has felt their weight and savour will not be a cold man. He will be, if he is anything, warmer than the man who has only sentiment and no doctrine to give the sentiment its proper direction.
(Proverbs 11:30 KJV)
“The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life; and he that winneth souls is wise.”
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
THE FRIENDS WHO MADE THE MAN
I have said much in the earlier pages of this account about M’Cheyne, about the brotherhood of ministers that sustained my early years, about Horatius and John. Let me say now, with the perspective of the whole life behind me, what that company meant in the long run.
A man is shaped by his friends more than he is shaped by most other forces in his life, and the shaping happens mostly below the surface — in the tone of the conversations he has over years, in the standard of holiness modelled by those around him, in the way that certain questions are treated as settled because the company he keeps treats them as settled. I was given, in the years of my formation, a company of men for whom the inner life was the life that mattered most. M’Cheyne, who rose at six and spent the first hours of the day in prayer before the congregation had breakfast. Moody-Stuart, whose unfailing buoyancy of brightness through daily rejoicing in the Lord was the most consistent character I knew. The whole band of the early 1830s, for whom holiness was not a topic of Sunday discourse but the daily texture of their existence.
That standard — once set, once seen, once felt to be real and attainable and expected — could not be unfelt. A man who has been in company where holiness is the norm does not easily accept its absence from his own life as normal. The rebuke of M’Cheyne after the sermon at St. Peter’s — “You forgot there might be many listening who shall never see Him in His beauty” — was possible because M’Cheyne was the kind of man whose rebuke I was willing to receive. From a lesser man, or a harder man, or a man whose own life was not already a reproach to its hearers, the same words might have stung without instructing. From M’Cheyne, they both stung and healed in the same moment. Good friends do that. They tell you what you need to hear in a way that you are able to receive it.
And then M’Cheyne was gone at twenty-nine, and the loss of him was irreplaceable in the ordinary sense — there was no one who quite occupied that place again. But he was not gone in the deeper sense. The Memoir I wrote preserved his voice for a generation that never heard him. Through it, the standard of holiness he represented was passed on to ministers I never met and congregations I never visited and countries I never entered. The dead man whose voice I tried to record accurately went on speaking in the record, and the speaking — to my repeated astonishment and gratitude — produced the same fruit in other lives that the living voice had produced in mine.
Dr. Cuyler of New York wrote to me in 1879 with news that moved me greatly. He said he had asked Moody who had rendered him the most assistance in Great Britain. Moody answered: “The Lord Chancellor and Dr. A. A. Bonar — the first by attending my London meetings and giving me his powerful influence, and Dr. A. A. Bonar by helping me to a deeper knowledge of the Word, and by his letters and counsels.” Cuyler added: “There, my dear modest brother, is not that a jewel at least in advance from your heavenly crown?” I did not know what to make of such testimony. I had not thought of my counsel and letters as significant. But God uses small things — a conversation, a letter, a word spoken in passing — and the effect accumulates over years into something that no single moment of it could have predicted.
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
THE TWO PLACES: COLLACE AND FINNIESTON
I served in two parishes. In the whole of my ministry I moved only once, and the move was made with great reluctance and only at what I believed to be the clear call of God. I say this not as a model to be slavishly imitated — God calls men to different fields, some narrow and some wide, some stationary and some mobile — but because I believe the depth of what was accomplished in both places was inseparable from the length of the time spent in each.
Collace gave me eighteen years. For the first several of them very little seemed to happen by the world’s measure. The congregation was small, the district was quiet, and the results of the labour were not always visible. But the roots were going down. The prayer habits of a lifetime were being formed. The pastoral knowledge of an individual flock — the knowledge that comes only from years of sitting in the same homes through births and deaths and conversions and backsliding and illness and recovery — was being accumulated. And then, in 1839 and the years that followed, the great revival swept through, and the roots that had been going down for years suddenly had a river to draw from.
The Collace people said of me at the Jubilee in 1888: “When you came among us in 1838, Collace was a comparatively spiritual desert. When you left it was like a watered garden — a field that the Lord had blessed.” Fifty years had passed between the planting and that testimony. The effects, they said, remained to that day in living souls and in the social and religious habits of the people. The work done in one small Scottish parish in the 1840s was still bearing fruit in the 1880s. A soul saved in the revival of 1840 had a child who grew up in the knowledge of the Gospel, who had children of his own who were raised in the same knowledge. The waves spread outward from the original stone, and they spread for generations.
Finnieston was different — harder, denser, more resistant in its early years, but ultimately more fruitful in sheer numbers. The district around the Clyde was one of the most heavily populated and most spiritually desolate urban territories in Scotland. I came to it in 1856 feeling like a missionary to the heathen who has to spend months learning the language and habits of the people. For two full years barely anyone came. And then the wave of the American revival broke over Scotland, and Finnieston was touched, and from that point onward the congregation grew and the work deepened and the blessing continued for the remaining thirty-six years of my ministry there.
What those two places together represent is a theology of the ordinary — the theology that says that the most significant work of God in a generation is usually not done by the famous but by the faithful, not in the great centres but in the small ones, not by the brilliant but by the persevering. I was not a brilliant man by the standards of my generation. I had no extraordinary gifts that set me apart from my contemporaries. What I had was a daily habit of prayer, a daily engagement with the Word, a daily care for the flock entrusted to me, and a daily dependence on the Spirit of God to make all of it effectual. These things, maintained over fifty-four years, produced what they produced. And what they produced was, I can say without pride, more than I ever expected.
(Isaiah 55:10–11 KJV)
“For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater: so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void.”
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
THE SECRET OF THE LIFE: FELLOWSHIP AT THE MERCY-SEAT
Those who knew me in life said: “I never met him without being the better for it.” I am glad that was the impression, and I trust it was sometimes true. The credit belongs entirely to the source from which whatever good was in me came. The secret lay in the everyday fellowship with the Lord. I looked not at the things that are seen but at the things that are not seen.
I said to the young ministers gathered at Northfield: “For forty years there has not been a day that I have not had access to the Mercy-seat.” And again, on my eighty-second birthday: “It was in the year 1830 that I found the Saviour, or rather, that He found me and laid me on His shoulders rejoicing, and I have never parted company with Him all these sixty-two years.” Those two statements together are the account of the life. Access every day. Company never broken. Everything else — the sermons, the books, the pastoral visits, the revival seasons, the grief and the joy — was the fruit of those two things. And the fruit was always in proportion to the root.
The daily life that produced this fellowship was simple. Two hours in prayer and Scripture before going out, every morning of my latter years. A card on the mantelpiece: He who has truly prayed has completed the half of his study. A text on the wall of the study: But Thou remainest. A Hebrew Bible on the small table by the fireplace, a Greek Testament beside it, and my father’s old Bible on the desk with its shorthand notes of early conversations about the faith. The physical arrangements of the study were not the secret. They were expressions of it. They were the domestic evidence of a soul whose deepest orientation was toward the invisible God.
I was not a man without weakness. The diary showed that. Confessions of dryness, of preaching without unction, of failing in the very graces I had exhorted others to pursue. The diary was honest in a way that a public ministry cannot always be. But the confessions in the diary all shared a common direction — they all turned back toward the Mercy-seat, back toward the blood of Christ, back toward the One who does not despise a broken and a contrite heart. The pattern of the life was not unbroken victory. It was unbroken return. I never learned to sin without returning to the Mercy-seat. And the Mercy-seat was always open.
I once said: “If a believer can do without the blood he is a backslider.” I said it to others as a caution. I say it now to myself, looking back over the whole of the life, as a testimony. I could never do without it. The longer I lived the more I needed it. The more clearly I saw the holiness of God, the more I felt the weight of my own sinfulness, and the more wonderful the blood of Christ appeared — that the infinite distance between what God requires and what I could produce had been fully bridged by one act of self-giving love on a hill outside Jerusalem. That wonder never grew old. That gratitude never faded. The Cross was as astonishing to me at eighty-two as it had been at twenty.
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
WHAT I CARRIED FROM THE MEN WHO CAME BEFORE
I have spoken much of M’Cheyne and of my brothers and of the ministers of my own generation. Let me speak now of the older company whose lives shaped mine even though I never met them.
Samuel Rutherford. I read his letters as a student and felt in them a heat of love for Christ that I had never encountered in any living man. The extravagance of his devotion to Jesus — the way he would pour out page after page of sheer adoration, calling Christ the “only lovely,” the “fairest of ten thousand,” the desire of his soul even in the darkest depths of his Scottish winter of exile — set a standard for me that I spent the rest of my life trying to approach. I kept a fragment of his pulpit on my mantelpiece and a panel of Lady Kenmure’s pew from Anwoth in my study. I went on pilgrimage to his grave and his church. I edited his letters and his sermons and gave them back to my generation. I did all of this because I believed that the kind of love for Christ that Rutherford had was not his peculiar possession but a gift available to any soul that would seek it with the same urgency he brought to the seeking.
Jonathan Edwards. I stood under the elm-trees at Northampton in 1881 where Edwards and his wife had sat together, and I prayed there. I visited the grove of pines where he had gone to commune with God in the long New England mornings. I wrote in my diary that day: “Lord, give me fully what is meant by ‘that Christ may dwell in your heart,’ and by ‘Christ liveth in me.’” Edwards represented for me the possibility of combining intellectual rigour with spiritual intensity — of being both a theologian of the first rank and a man whose inner life was a continual burning. He showed that the life of the mind, when fully surrendered to Christ, does not become less itself. It becomes more itself, because it is now working in its proper element: the truth of God, with the Spirit of God illuminating it.
David Brainerd. The diary of Brainerd — that young missionary to the American Indians who spent himself in prayer and preaching in the New Jersey wilderness and died at twenty-nine — was one of the formative books of my youth. There are superficial similarities between Brainerd and M’Cheyne: both young, both consumed by the work, both dead before thirty. But the deeper similarity is in the quality of the inner life — the willingness to be nothing, to go anywhere, to spend everything, for the sake of the souls God had called them to reach. Brainerd once wrote that he did not desire to live for any reason but the glory of God and the good of souls. That sentence could have been my own. I did not achieve it as he achieved it, but it remained the aspiration.
John Welsh, the son-in-law of John Knox. Welsh, who rose at night to pray for his flock until the morning cold forced him back to his bed. Welsh, who was said to have kept his plaid beside him so that when he woke in the night he could wrap it around himself and pray without disturbing his wife. Welsh, who laid his hands on a dying man and prayed him back to life. That story may be disputed. The spirit of the man who prayed it is not. I inherited from Welsh the conviction that prayer is the first work of the ministry, not the last resort. That the work done on the knees before the congregation rises in the morning is more consequential than the work done from the pulpit when they gather in the evening.
(Hebrews 11:4 KJV)
“By faith Abel offered unto God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain, by which he obtained witness that he was righteous, God testifying of his gifts: and by it he being dead yet speaketh.”
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
THE MOODY REVIVAL AND THE WIDER WORLD
I did not plan to be part of what happened in 1874 when the Moody revival swept through Scotland and the Finnieston congregation received what was said to be a larger share of blessing than any other church in Glasgow. I did not plan to be of use to Moody at Northfield in 1881. I did not plan for the Memoir of M’Cheyne to cross the Atlantic and the Pacific and find readers in continents I would never visit. I was a parish minister in Scotland. I had two places and fifty-four years.
But God was doing something in those decades that was wider than any parish and larger than any individual ministry. The decades of the 1830s and 1840s in Scotland — the revival, the Disruption, the band of young ministers who fired the whole country with a sense of what the Church could be when it was truly alive to the Spirit — produced effects that radiated outward for a generation. The Memoir of M’Cheyne, published in 1844, was read within years of its publication in every English-speaking country in the world and translated beyond them. The young minister of Collace who had grieved his friend to the grave and then described the life as faithfully as he could had become, without seeking it, the instrument of a worldwide spiritual influence that he could not have predicted or planned.
Moody himself said that I helped him to a deeper knowledge of the Word and by my letters and counsels. I cannot fully account for that. What I know is that I gave Moody what I gave everyone: the same Christ, the same Word, the same urgency about the souls of the unsaved. If that was helpful to a man who preached to millions, then the lesson is that there is no small version of the Gospel and no large version. There is only the Gospel, and when it is preached faithfully, with the unction of the Holy Spirit, God multiplies it to reach however many He has determined to reach through it. The five loaves were not enlarged before they were distributed. They were distributed as they were, and the miracle was in the giving.
The revival of 1874 affected my congregation in ways I have not fully described in these pages. Fresh life flowed through the whole body of the congregation, widening its interests and expanding its energies and sympathies. Christians from other lands were attracted to Finnieston as they passed through Glasgow, and many a casual visitor stayed at the close of a service to express thanks for the spiritual quickening he had received. The Communion seasons became gatherings of God’s people from widely separated church connections — a foretaste of the fellowship above that is yet to come. The local was becoming global, the particular was touching the universal, and none of it was my doing.
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
WHAT REMAINS: A WORD TO THOSE WHO COME AFTER
I want to say something, in this final chapter, not to those who knew me but to those who did not — to the men and women who come across this account long after the events it describes have faded from living memory, who find in it something they were not expecting, who lay it down and feel stirred toward a life they have not yet lived.
The life I have been describing is available to you. Not the external circumstances of it — those were particular to a time and a place and a set of providential arrangements that were unique. But the substance of it: the daily access to the Mercy-seat, the daily feeding on the Word, the daily care for the souls around you, the daily expectation of the return of the King. These are not skills requiring unusual gifts. They are habits requiring only the will to form them and the grace to sustain them. And the grace is always there, because the Giver of grace is always there, and His supply is always proportioned to the need of those who come to Him.
I said to believers in my later years: “We are not to indulge for a moment the belief: ‘I must count on a season of languor in my Christian life.’ Where did you find that in the Bible? ‘Like the palm-tree flourishing.’ Ask any gardener and he will tell you it is a sad indication of any plant to stop growing.” That word is addressed as much to a generation I never met as to the one I did. Languor is not inevitable. Fruitlessness in old age is not the necessary condition of a life well spent. The promise is that those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of God. Our God shall flourish still in old age, they shall be fat and flourishing, to show that the Lord is upright.
If you are a minister reading these pages, I say to you what I said to the young ministers at Northfield: for forty years there has not been a day I have not had access to the Mercy-seat. Not forty days. Not forty months. Forty years. Make that your aim, not as an achievement to report but as an orientation to maintain. The daily access is not the cause of the other things. It is the context in which the other things become possible. Without it, the preaching may be orthodox but it will not be alive. The visiting may be conscientious but it will not be unctuous. The letters may be accurate but they will not carry the freight of eternity. With it, the humblest service becomes significant, because the humblest servant has been in the presence of the King.
If you are not a minister but a reader who has found in these pages a man whose company you are glad to have kept for a while — receive the same word at a different angle. The Mercy-seat is open to you. The blood that gives access to it was shed for you as personally as it was shed for any of the great servants of God whose stories fill the pages of Christian history. The access that was the secret of a long ministry is the access available to every believer in every age and every station. You do not need to be a Bonar or a M’Cheyne or a Rutherford to find what they found. You need only to come, and to keep coming, and to take what is freely given.
“For forty years there has not been a day that I have not had access to the Mercy-seat.” Perhaps you are just beginning. Perhaps the forty years lie ahead of you, or some portion of them. Go toward them with hope. Go toward them with the knowledge that the One who kept me through eighteen quiet years at Collace before the revival broke, through the long slow early years of Finnieston before the congregation came, through the grief of 1864 and the thinning of the circle in the decades that followed — the same One is present for your years, for your parish, for your grief, for your waiting.
He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. He does not vary according to the century or the country or the spiritual temperature of the age. The access that was open in 1830, on a Sabbath in October in a quiet Edinburgh room where a young man read Guthrie’s Trial and found to his wonder that he simply believed — that access is open now, and will be open until the last soul for whom Christ died has found its way home.
(Hebrews 13:8 KJV)
“Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.”
❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆
THE FINAL WORD: WHAT I DID NOTHING BUT RECEIVE
I want to close not with an exhortation but with a testimony. Not with what I did but with what was done for me. Because the great error of any account of a life of Christian ministry is to leave the reader with the impression that the life was the achievement of the man, rather than the gift of the God who called the man and sustained him and made the work fruitful against every reasonable expectation.
On the day of my conversion in 1830, I said afterward: “I did nothing but receive.” The fullness and freeness of divine grace filled my heart. I did not earn it. I did not prepare for it sufficiently. I did not achieve it by the quality of my spiritual seeking. I received it — in the way that a man receives a gift, by simply taking what was held out to him. And from that day until the day I passed within the veil, sixty-two years later, everything was a continuation of the same posture. I received. Grace was given and I took it. Truth was offered and I believed it. Work was assigned and I did it. Souls were brought to the door of the pulpit and I preached to them. Fruit was given and I gave thanks for it. But the receiving was always mine and the giving was always His.
This is not false modesty. It is the theological statement of what happened. The palm-tree does not create the rain. It receives the rain and grows. The channel does not create the water. It draws the water from the spring and carries it to where the thirsty people are. I was a channel. The spring was God. What passed through the channel was His. And if the channel happened to be clean enough on some days that the water reached the thirsty people without picking up too much of the clay it flowed through — if the ministry was, on some occasions, a true vehicle of grace rather than an obstacle to it — then the credit belongs to the One who kept the channel open and kept the spring flowing and kept the thirsty people coming to drink.
I expect, at the judgment-seat of Christ, to be surprised by what was accomplished through me that I knew nothing of. The letter that carried an unexpectedly sharp word into an unexpected place. The sermon that struck a particular hearer at a particular moment when that word was the exact word he needed and no other would have served. The visit paid on a Friday afternoon to the house where a dying man was ready to receive what I had to offer, when his readiness and my visit and the Spirit’s timing all converged in a moment that was arranged by no one visible. These things happened. They happen in every faithful ministry. And the One who arranged them will display them at the last day, to His own glory and the wonderment of the instruments He used.
“The best part of all Christian work is that part which only God sees.” I said that. I believe it with my whole heart. And now I see it, because I am where God is, and what was done in secret is secret no longer, and the fruit of fifty-four years of the ordinary work of the Gospel is visible in its fullness to the eyes of the One for whom it was all, always, done.
“I have never parted company with Him all these sixty-two years.”
That is the testimony. That is the account. That is the life. Go thou and do likewise.
❆ ❆ ❆ Andrew A. Bonar: The Soul Winner of Scotland ❆ ❆ ❆
How to Live in the Miraculous!
This is a quick explanation of how to live and move in the realm of the miraculous. Seeing divine interventions of God is not something that just spontaneously happens because you have been born-again. There are certain biblical principles and truths that must be evident in your life. This is a very basic list of some of these truths and laws:
1.You must give Jesus Christ your whole heart. You cannot be lackadaisical in this endeavour. Being lukewarm in your walk with God is repulsive to the Lord. He wants 100% commitment. Jesus gave His all, now it is our turn to give our all. He loved us 100%. Now we must love Him 100%.
My son, give me thine heart, and let thine eyes observe my ways (Proverbs 23:26).
So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth (Revelation 3:16).
2.There must be a complete agreement with God’s Word. We must be in harmony with the Lord in our attitude, actions, thoughts, and deeds. Whatever the Word of God declares in the New Testament is what we wholeheartedly agree with.
Can two walk together, except they be agreed? (Amos 3:3).
For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward him (2 Chronicles 16:9).
3.Obey and do the Word from the heart, from the simplest to the most complicated request or command. No matter what the Word says to do, do it! Here are some simple examples: Lift your hands in praise, in everything give thanks, forgive instantly, gather together with the saints, and give offerings to the Lord, and so on.
I can of mine own self do nothing: as I hear, I judge: and my judgment is just; because I seek not mine own will, but the will of the Father which hath sent me (John 5:30).
4.Make Jesus the highest priority of your life. Everything you do, do not do it as unto men, but do it as unto God.
If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth (Colossians 3:1-2).
5.Die to self! The old man says, “My will be done!” The new man says, “God’s will be done!”
I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me (Galatians 2:20).
Now if we be dead with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him (Romans 6:8).
6.Repent the minute you get out of God’s will—no matter how minor, or small the sin may seem.
(Revelation 3:19).
As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten: be zealous therefore, and repent.
7. Take one step at a time. God will test you (not to do evil) to see if you will obey him. Whatever He tells you to do: by His Word, by His Spirit, or within your conscience, do it. He will never tell you to do something contrary to His nature or His Word!
For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother (Matthew 12:50).
Then went he down, and dipped himself seven times in Jordan, according to the saying of the man of God: and his flesh came again like unto the flesh of a little child, and he was clean (2 Kings 5:14).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dr. Michael and Kathleen Yeager have served as pastors/apostles, missionaries, evangelists, broadcasters, and authors for over five decades. Doc Yeager has authored over 650 books. Helping to establish over 27 Churches. They flow in the gifts of the Holy Spirit, teaching the Word of God with wonderful signs and miracles following in confirmation of God's Word. In 1982, they began Jesus is Lord Ministries International, in Biglerville, where they still pastor as of the writing of this book.
Some of the Books Written by Doc Yeager:
“Living in the Realm of the Miraculous #1to 5
“I need God Cause I’m Stupid”
"The Miracles of Smith Wigglesworth"
“How Faith Comes 28 WAYS”
“Horrors of Hell, Splendors of Heaven”
“The Coming Great Awakening”
"Sinners In The Hands of an Angry GOD”, (modernized)
"Brain Parasite Epidemic"
"My JOURNEY To HELL" - illustrated for teenagers
"Divine Revelation Of Jesus Christ"
"My Daily Meditations"
"Holy Bible of JESUS CHRIST"
"War In The Heavenlies - (Chronicles of Micah)"
"My Legal Rights To Witness"
“Why We (MUST) Gather! - 30 Biblical Reasons”
“My Incredible, Supernatural, Divine Experiences”
PLUS, MORE THEN 550 MORE TITLES