The Life of John Bunyan [20]
Brother
Bunyan being taken off by the preaching of the gospel" from his
duties as deacon, another member was appointed in his room. His
appointment to the ministry was not long delayed. After "some
solemn prayer with fasting," he was "called forth and appointed a
preacher of the word," not, however, so much for the Bedford
congregation as for the neighbouring villages. He did not however,
like some, neglect his business, or forget to "show piety at home."
He still continued his craft as a tinker, and that with industry
and success. "God," writes an early biographer, "had increased his
stores so that he lived in great credit among his neighbours." He
speedily became famous as a preacher. People "came in by hundreds
to hear the word, and that from all parts, though upon sundry and
divers accounts," - "some," as Southey writes, "to marvel, and some
perhaps to mock." Curiosity to hear the once profane tinker preach
was not one of the least prevalent motives. But his word proved a
word of power to many. Those "who came to scoff remained to pray."
"I had not preached long," he says, "before some began to be
touched and to be greatly afflicted in their minds." His success
humbled and amazed him, as it must every true man who compares the
work with the worker. "At first," he says, "I could not believe
that God should speak by me to the heart of any man, still counting
myself unworthy; and though I did put it from me that they should
be awakened by me, still they would confess it and affirm it before
the saints of God. They would also bless God for me - unworthy
wretch that I am - and count me God's instrument that showed to
them the way of salvation." He preached wherever he found
opportunity, in woods, in barns, on village greens, or even in
churches. But he liked best to preach "in the darkest places of
the country, where people were the furthest off from profession,"
where he could give the fullest scope to "the awakening and
converting power" he possessed. His success as a preacher might
have tempted him to vanity. But the conviction that he was but an
instrument in the hand of a higher power kept it down. He saw that
if he had gifts and wanted grace he was but as a "tinkling cymbal."
"What, thought I, shall I be proud because I am a sounding brass?
Is it so much to be a fiddle?" This thought was, "as it were, a
maul on the head of the pride and vainglory" which he found "easily
blown up at the applause and commendation of every unadvised
christian." His experiences, like those of every public speaker,
especially the most eloquent, were very varied, even in the course
of the same sermon. Sometimes, he tells us, he would begin "with
much clearness, evidence, and liberty of speech," but, before he
had done, he found himself "so straitened in his speech before the
people," that he "scarce knew or remembered what he had been
about," and felt "as if his head had been in a bag all the time of
the exercise." He feared that he would not be able to "speak sense
to the hearers," or he would be "seized with such faintness and
strengthlessness that his legs were hardly able to carry him to his
place of preaching." Old temptations too came back. Blasphemous
thoughts formed themselves into words, which he had hard work to
keep himself from uttering from the pulpit. Or the tempter tried
to silence him by telling him that what he was going to say would
condemn himself, and he would go "full of guilt and terror even to
the pulpit door." "'What,' the devil would say, 'will you preach
this? Of this your own soul is guilty. Preach not of it at all,
or if you do, yet so mince it as to make way for your own escape.'"
All, however, was in vain. Necessity was laid upon him. "Woe," he
cried, "is me, if I preach not the gospel." His heart was "so
wrapped up in the glory of this excellent work, that he counted
himself more blessed and honoured of
Bunyan being taken off by the preaching of the gospel" from his
duties as deacon, another member was appointed in his room. His
appointment to the ministry was not long delayed. After "some
solemn prayer with fasting," he was "called forth and appointed a
preacher of the word," not, however, so much for the Bedford
congregation as for the neighbouring villages. He did not however,
like some, neglect his business, or forget to "show piety at home."
He still continued his craft as a tinker, and that with industry
and success. "God," writes an early biographer, "had increased his
stores so that he lived in great credit among his neighbours." He
speedily became famous as a preacher. People "came in by hundreds
to hear the word, and that from all parts, though upon sundry and
divers accounts," - "some," as Southey writes, "to marvel, and some
perhaps to mock." Curiosity to hear the once profane tinker preach
was not one of the least prevalent motives. But his word proved a
word of power to many. Those "who came to scoff remained to pray."
"I had not preached long," he says, "before some began to be
touched and to be greatly afflicted in their minds." His success
humbled and amazed him, as it must every true man who compares the
work with the worker. "At first," he says, "I could not believe
that God should speak by me to the heart of any man, still counting
myself unworthy; and though I did put it from me that they should
be awakened by me, still they would confess it and affirm it before
the saints of God. They would also bless God for me - unworthy
wretch that I am - and count me God's instrument that showed to
them the way of salvation." He preached wherever he found
opportunity, in woods, in barns, on village greens, or even in
churches. But he liked best to preach "in the darkest places of
the country, where people were the furthest off from profession,"
where he could give the fullest scope to "the awakening and
converting power" he possessed. His success as a preacher might
have tempted him to vanity. But the conviction that he was but an
instrument in the hand of a higher power kept it down. He saw that
if he had gifts and wanted grace he was but as a "tinkling cymbal."
"What, thought I, shall I be proud because I am a sounding brass?
Is it so much to be a fiddle?" This thought was, "as it were, a
maul on the head of the pride and vainglory" which he found "easily
blown up at the applause and commendation of every unadvised
christian." His experiences, like those of every public speaker,
especially the most eloquent, were very varied, even in the course
of the same sermon. Sometimes, he tells us, he would begin "with
much clearness, evidence, and liberty of speech," but, before he
had done, he found himself "so straitened in his speech before the
people," that he "scarce knew or remembered what he had been
about," and felt "as if his head had been in a bag all the time of
the exercise." He feared that he would not be able to "speak sense
to the hearers," or he would be "seized with such faintness and
strengthlessness that his legs were hardly able to carry him to his
place of preaching." Old temptations too came back. Blasphemous
thoughts formed themselves into words, which he had hard work to
keep himself from uttering from the pulpit. Or the tempter tried
to silence him by telling him that what he was going to say would
condemn himself, and he would go "full of guilt and terror even to
the pulpit door." "'What,' the devil would say, 'will you preach
this? Of this your own soul is guilty. Preach not of it at all,
or if you do, yet so mince it as to make way for your own escape.'"
All, however, was in vain. Necessity was laid upon him. "Woe," he
cried, "is me, if I preach not the gospel." His heart was "so
wrapped up in the glory of this excellent work, that he counted
himself more blessed and honoured of