Christiana

by Jim Pappas

  "I think it may have been because he confused temptation to sin with the commission of sin," surmised Great-heart.

  "What do you mean by that, Great-heart?" asked Matthew.

  "Well, he would be tempted to do this or think that (as we all are), and then feel guilty for having been tempted."

  "Even if he did not commit a sin?" asked Christiana.

  "Aye. Even if he was totally victorious."

  "But was not even our Lord Jesus tempted?" asked Matthew.

  "Aye," answered Great-heart, "'In all points like as we are and yet without sin'."

  "Amazing!"

  "Indeed! And you can be sure that His temptations were the greatest Satan could muster. Yea, when He came to cross the river, the torrents roared and foamed more than for any other man."

  "So there is no guilt in being tempted, right?" asked James.

  "That's right, Sonny. When the world, the flesh, or the devil come upon us, we must turn instantly to God, surrender our choice to Him, and then . . . then! . . . in His strength resist the devil and he shall flee from us!"

  "Oh, would that we could all remember to do that more faithfully," said Christiana wistfully. "How many stumbles and snares might we escape."

  "How many indeed," agreed Great-heart. "All of them, in fact. For 'tis sure that God is able to keep that which we have committed."

  "Well," said Christiana, "this story of Mr. Fearing has done me much good."

  "How so, Christiana?" asked Mercy.

  "Because Mr. Fearing is just like me. The only difference I see is that when he had fears he moaned and groaned, whereas I kept silent. And where his doubts made him fear to knock, why, mine only made me knock the louder."

  "True indeed!" exclaimed Great-heart. "We have heard tell of your knocking. Some said the door seemed to bulge upon its hinges. Others feared that an earthquake was in the making."

  "Well," said Christiana with a sheepish smile, "that shows you how afraid I really was, doesn't it?"

  "Aye. But 'tis good that your fears spurred you on to such positive action. 'T was a much better choice than to hang back."

  "I also see myself portrayed in Mr. Fearing," volunteered Mercy.

  "Indeed? Which part, pray tell?" asked Christiana.

  "Well, I, like he, am much more afraid of proving unworthy than I am of lions or demons or any hardship. 'Tis my own heart that I do not trust."

  "Aye. And best that you keep tight to that course, Mercy," encouraged Great-heart, "for 'the heart is desperately wicked and deceitful above all things'. But having once come to distrust your own heart, do not fail to put your trust in He whose heart is true beyond all measure - He whom to know is life eternal."

  "Thank you, Great-heart."

  "I too have learned from this man," offered Matthew.

  "How so, my son?" asked Christiana.

  "Well, I too have fears. And they made me think that perhaps I was still in my sins. But if such a fearful one as he can enter in, then certainly so can I."

  "No fears, no grace," piped up James.

  "Please explain, James," requested Great-heart, sensing that the youngest among them had also been taught by the Spirit.

  "Well, is not the fear of God the beginning of wisdom, sir?"

  "Yes."

  "And does not wisdom bring with it grace?"

  "Hmmm. Well said, James," said Great-heart. "Is there another who has something to say about Mr. Fearing?"

  "I have some conclusions to draw," offered Old-Honest, stepping forward with his forefinger pointed to heaven.

  "Say on, Old-Honest."

  "It seems that the way Mr. Fearing dealt so fearlessly with difficulties, lions and Vanity Faire shows him to have been a very zealous man. What seemed to terrify him was sin, death, and hell - things that ought to strike fear into all our hearts."

  "Aye, indeed," agreed Great-heart.

  "And they continued to plague him, not because his heart was in the wrong place . . . "

  "Right you are," interrupted Great-heart, "for when it came to the practical application of his faith, he certainly had a holy spirit of boldness. Why, he would have bitten the flame off a fire brand had it stood in his way."

  "Indeed," continued Old-honest. "So my conclusion is - that his problem was due mainly to his weak mind. He was simply incapable of resting easily in the assurance of his Savior's love. And 'twas this that caused him to dwell so long on the shadowy side of the cross. But never mind that, for he finally learned his lesson and crossed into the sunshine at the end. Only let us, that be of stronger mind or greater faith, move to the sunny side quicker than he."

  "And let us be glad that when the Lord judges, he takes into account that 'this man was born here', " offered Matthew.

  "Well," declared Great-heart, "I think we can conclude our discussion of Mr. Fearing with a verse I have thought up. Ready?"

  "Ready," said all.

  Well, Master Fearing, thou didst fear

  Thy God; and wast afraid

  Of doing anything, while here,

  That would have thee betrayed.

  And thou didst fear the Lake and Pit -

  Would [that] others did so too!

  For, as for them that want thy wit,

  They do themselves undo."

  Now I saw that they journeyed on for a time in silence, each one contemplating the lessons to be learned from Mr. Fearing. Then Mr. Honest cleared his throat and said:

  CHAPTER XIX

  Self-Will

  "A hem, a hem. Have any of you heard of a chap named Mr. Self-will?"

  Old-honest: "Have any of you heard of a chap named Mr. Self-will?

  "No," answered Christiana. "But by his name I can predict his end."

  "I have heard of the man," said Great-heart. "But do tell, did he ever make it into the City?"

  "Pah!" spat out Mr. Honest, nearly choking at the thought. "To the City! Hah! He never even came through the wicket gate!"

  "No? And why not?"

  "How did he dare go by any way but that laid out for him by his Lord?" asked Christiana.

  "'M'thinks 'twas perhaps because he served the wrong lord, Ma'am. When I asked about it, he said he'd gotten himself a special pass that let him enter the 'way' by crossing through Beelzebub's garden."

  "What!" exclaimed Great-heart. "How did he dare!"

  "Well, remember, Mr. Great-heart, 'Self-will' was his name and indeed self-willed was his heart. He had in his mind that he was going to end up in the kingdom come hell or high water - and nothing could convince him otherwise. He feared neither God nor man and had no desire to learn from reason or example."

  "This is truly amazing, Old-honest," exclaimed Great-heart. "If he would not hear from man nor God, then by what wind of doctrine did he set his sail?"

  "He set his sail by the fickle winds of his own pleasure," said the old gent. "He did what he wanted to do when, where and how he wanted to do it."

  "Well, apparently you had some interesting conversations with him. Would you care to share some of them with us?"

  "Certainly. Although, to be frank, some of his phrases were a bit too fleshy for such godly company as this. Therefore, I shall edit just a tad."

  "For which we thank you, Mr. Honest," said Christiana. "The apostle Paul made mention of things done in darkness that a Christian should not even speak of."

  "So, say on," urged Great-heart.

  "Well, I remember the first time I ran into him. I had heard someone whistling a merry tune behind me and paused to await his company. He was a large, handsome man and dressed in some of the best garb of the land. Why I suspect that Gammarelli himself may have been his tailor. Anyway, when he saw me he stopped, swept his fine-feathered cap across his chest, and bowed low. Then he smiled and said:

  Mr. Self-will

  "Ho there, old chap. Whither bound?"

  "To the Celestial City."

  "Indeed! Well, what a merry coincidence. So am I."

  "Well, good. Come along then. I shall be
glad for your company."

  "Indeed you shall. Will's the name, chap. Self-will. I hail from the Land of High-nose."

  "Indeed? And do I detect a faint touch of pride in your voice?"

  "Well, I certainly hope so! We Wills are quite high-born and taught not to forget it. And you? Where do you hail from?"

  "I hail from the lowly town of Stupidity."

  "Oh really? A refugee from Denseville, eh? Heh heh. I didn't think anyone was bright enough to escape that burg. So tell me, old boy, how has your journey gone thus far?"

  "Oh, I am not so quick of wit as most, so I must be a bit more cautious. But I do manage a few steps each day and have hopes to reach the City before too long."

  "Hmmm," mumbled Self-will, already growing weary of our conversation and resisting an urge to yawn.

  "And you?" I asked. "How has your journey gone thus far?"

  "Oh, delightful. Simply delightful. I have met some of the most enchanting people on this trail."

  "Indeed? Like whom?"

  "Well, for starters, there was that merry young wench that lives back yonder."

  "Sir, do you dare call a sister pilgrim a wench?"

  "Well, I, uh . . . Actually, I'm not sure she is a practicing pilgrim. She dwells along the side of the way and comes out at night to greet those men who are weary of traveling alone."

  "Eh? Surely you don't mean Madam Wanton's daughter? The one whose back door leads down to a smoking metal gate?"

  "Well, I never learned her name, but her house did have a peculiar sulfurous odor to it. Ah, but I just thought she had bad taste in incense! Hah, hah!"

  "You went into her house! Don't you know enough to resist the appearance of evil? Why, she is the one who nearly seduced Faithful off from his journey."

  "Nearly seduced! You mean he resisted her?"

  "Of course! He played the part of noble Joseph and gave her the back."

  "Hmmph. Somebody ought to give him the back - of their hand, that is. Hah hah! Oh, well. 'T was his loss, I can assure you."

  "'You mean you . . . you . . . '

  "Stopped? But of course. But only for a short visit. 'Many miles to travel', you know. Heh, heh."

  "What!"

  "Aye. Though she was a 'strange woman', her lips dropped words as sweet as honey and her mouth was smoother than oil."

  "Have you not read the words of Solomon that say 'Her feet go down to death; and her steps take hold on hell'?"

  "Bah! What does Solomon know about women?"

  "Hmmm. And, uh, tell me, sir, what price did she ask for her company?"

  "Hah, hah hah! Get this, Bunky. hah hah hah. All she asked for was my certificate."

  "What! Why, the nerve! In so doing she asked for your very life!"

  "Perhaps. But it did her no good."

  "Ah! You did not give it to her then."

  "Of course not!"

  "Whew!"

  "Because I had none to give! Hah, hah, hah! When she demanded payment, I gave her my birthright instead."

  "Your birthright!"

  "You got it."

  "You played the fool!"

  "Bah! It was nothing to me anyway. Utterly useless."

  "You think like Esau!"

  "Ahh, good 'ole Uncle Esau. He ended up rich enough without his - and I am rich enough without mine. Besides, I can be like Judah and redeem it with a a kid from the flock when I come to where the shepherds are."

  "And did you come by way of the wicket gate?"

  "The what?"

  "The wicket gate."

  "How do you spell that?"

  "W - i- c- k - e - t."

  "Hmmm. Well, what do you know! I always thought it was the "wicked" gate. W - i - c - k - e - d. Heh heh. Learn something new every day."

  "So did you come through it?"

  "Nah. 'Tis way too far out of the wide way. I came the back way through Beelzebub's garden and then popped over the wall. Hah, hah, hah! I tell ya, Gramps, that little maneuver saved me many a dreary mile."

  "But you have neither certificate nor birthright! How do you expect to be admitted at the pearly gate where they demand both?"

  "I just believe, that's all. Where there's a Will, there's a way grandpa Will always said."

  "That sounds like something Ignorance would say, if you ask me."

  "Which I didn't."

  "Hmmm. But back to the harlot. How could you go into another man's wife, seeing that you are a pilgrim? Pilgrims may not do such things!"

  "Indeed they may!"

  "Nay!"

  "But yea! And I have Scripture for it."

  "Which?"

  "Did not David take Bathsheba, another man's wife? And do not the scriptures call him a 'man after God's own heart?' 'A man greatly beloved'?"

  "He was not a man after God's own heart during that slip into sin. And he paid a high price for the rest of his life. Yea, he lost four sons over it!"

  "Bah! Coincidence. So long as we have the virtues of a godly man, we may also indulge a few of his vices."

  "What!"

  "You heard me right, Pops. It's in the Scriptures. Personally, I have several wives in various cities along the way because I follow the example of Solomon."

  "But I . . . "

  "And! I do well in business because (like Sarah and Rahab) I can tell a small lie when to my profit."

  "This is too much!"

  "This is nothing. Wait till you hear . . ."

  "No!"

  "But yes! Listen to this one: Jesus once sent his disciples ahead to take an ass that was not His."

  "So?"

  "So, I, from time to time, have made my journey easier by doing the same. Hah, hah, hah! Can you beat that one? Hah, hah, hah!"

  "Dear sir! I . . . "

  "Furthermore . . ."

  "But . . ."

  "A hem! Please stop interrupting! Furthermore, as Jacob got his inheritance by lies and disguise, so have I."

  "What!"

  "Yep. You heard right, Pappy. And a blessing it has been to me too. Yes, yes. A blessing indeed."

  "Are you saying that a pilgrim may freely engage in all the vile vices you have mentioned?"

  "Nay! Nay. Not just anyone. Only those who also display the virtues I have mentioned. David and Solomon, Sarah and Rahab, Jacob and the disciples - all had many virtues among them. If you emulate their virtues, then God will wink at your vices."

  "And do you truly believe this?"

  "Sure do, Pops."

  "I . . . I . . ."

  "Why so shocked, old boy? Surely, in all your many years of toilsome travel you have seen pilgrims stumble and fall."

  "But of course. And to stumble into sin because of neglect, or carelessness, or sudden temptation is an evil that needs to be repented of and forsaken. But to deliberately choose sin, as you do, is many times worse. Yea, I fear that it may be impossible to restore you to favor with God."

  "Restore! Oh, come on, Pappy. Do you actually think . . . No, no, never mind. You couldn't be that stupid."

  "Think what?"

  "But, on the other hand, from the way you talk, you just might be."

  "Might think what?"

  "Tell me, Gramps. Do you, somewhere back in the murky cobwebs of your wee brain, believe that it is possible to do this pilgrimage thing without slipping into a vice or two?"

  "The Scriptures tell us to 'let this mind be in you that is in Christ Jesus' and that to us are given '. . . exceeding great and precious promises, that by these ye may be partakers of the divine nature.' It also says that 'I will give you a new heart . . . and cause you to walk in my commandments.' Now, if I have a new mind, which is the mind of Christ, and if I am a partaker of the divine nature, common sense tells me that 'humanity united with Divinity does not commit sin'."

  "Bah! I can't believe that."

  "He who has not sufficient faith to believe that God can keep him from sin hath not faith enough to enter heaven."

  "Bah! You dwell in a dream."

  "A child who stumbl
es and falls into the mire is gently forgiven, even though her clothes may be ruined. Are you telling me that she can later choose to jump into the sty, roll around in the muck, and then expect to go unpunished?"