The Doxology in Empty Flour Barrel.
It is one thing to trust God when the flour-barrel is full, when there is money in the bank to fall back on and when the wages are coming in regularly.
It is quite another thing to trust God when the barrel is empty, the money in the bank gone, and no wages coming in. Under these conditions one is apt to find that what was supposed to be faith in God was simply faith in a full flour-barrel.
I heart the Rev. J. Hudson Taylor, on the China Inland Mission, say, “When I came to a place of testing where my faith was most needed, I found it gradually going; then I learned to look less to my faith, and to depend more on God's faithfulness.”
Only as we come to God's Word and plant our feet upon the promises shall we find faith abiding in times of testing.
The flour may be gone; the money may be gone, the salary gone; but God is there.
I know this to be true. I had often said in public talks, “It takes real faith in God to be able to put your head into an empty flour-barrel and sing the doxology.” My wife had heard me say this and not long since she called me to the kitchen. I said, “What do you want me for?”
She replied, “I want you to come out here and sing.” I thought this queer, so I went out to see what it all meant.
In the center of the floor there was an empty flour-barrel she had just dusted out.
“Now, my dear,” said she, “I have often heard you say one could put his head into an empty flour-barrel and sing, 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow,' if he believed what God said. Now here is your chance' practive what you preach.”
There was the empty flour-barrel staring at me with open mouth; my pocket-book was empty as the barrel; I was not on a salary, and knew of no money that was coming in. I do not know that my wife enjoyed my preaching, but she was evidently bent on enjoying my practicing. I looked for my faith and could not find it; I looked for a way of escape, but could not find that, my wife blocking the door of the exit with the dust-brush covered with flour.
I said, “I will put my head in and sing, on one conditon.”
“What's that?” said my wife.
“The condition that you will put your head in with me. You know how you promised to share my joys and sorrows.”
She consented; so we put our heads in and sang the long-metre doxology. I will not say what else we did, but we had a good time; and when we got our heads out we were a good bit powdered up, which we took as a token that there was more flour to follow.
Sure enough, though no person knew of our need or the empty barrel, the next day a grocery man called with a barrel of flour for the Gibbuds! Who sent it, or where it came from, we do not know to this day, save that we know that our heavenly Father knew that we had “need of these things.”
I have joined with a thousand voices in singing the grand old doxology; I have sung it in many a fine church building, also in the open air under the blue canopy of heaven; but there is something very peculiar about the sound of the song when sung in an empty flour-barrel under the foregoing conditions. I have repeated the experience once or twice since with the same result though now I never spend any time in looking for my faith; I simply apply for flour at Phil. 4:19, and then sing. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” Bread, butter, beef, beans, and all our needs we find can be supplied from the same place.
In days gone by we have trusted in a good salary, but that sometimes failed to materialize; we have trusted in a good committee, but they did not always know when rent was due. But the Lord knows when the first day of the month comes around, and He has never failed to send us our rent money before it was due. “Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily (in 'truth,' the margin says) thou shalt be fed,” the Douay version reading, “Though shalt be fed with riches.”
There is board and lodging for anybody who will “trust in the Lord and do good.”--H.B. Gibbud.
Illustrative Anecdotes for
Preachers, Sunday School Teachers, and the Family Circle. Henry
M. Tyndall. 1925. #375 (Page 200-201).