Philippians 1:21

“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

— Philippians 1:21

It will not be disputed that the true test of excellence is its nearest approach to perfection. To nothing will this rule more strictly apply, than to the Christian character. Essentially considered, there can be no difference between one believer and another. Both are equally the objects of God's love, and alike the subjects of His regenerating grace. Both stand on an equal footing of acceptance, and participate in the immunities which belong to the children of God. But it cannot be denied, nor must it be concealed, that there is a great and marked difference in the moral influence which one Christian exerts beyond another. In the measure of his grace—in the depth of his Christianity—in the vigor of his faith—in the luster of his holiness—in the glory he brings to God—and in the consequent happiness of which he is conscious—it may be truly said of the church on earth, as of the church in heaven, "one star differs from another." And to what is this variation to be traced? Undoubtedly to a difference in the tone of spiritual-mindedness. The one is the man of a low, the other of a high Christian standard. Drawing their life, light, and support from one center, they yet seem to move in widely distant orbits. The one appears nearer to the sun than the other. And thus, standing in a closer proximity to the Fountain of all grace, he draws from its fullness the more largely, and dispenses the more freely. His humble walk with God, his close adherence to Christ, his following the Lord fully, imparts a charm to his piety, a brilliance to his example, and a potency to his influence, which place him at once in the highest rank of Christian men.

The last epoch of the Christian's life—such a life as this—cannot but be peculiarly interesting and impressive: It were, perhaps, incorrect to speak of it as the most instructive part of his history. A prolonged course of unreserved consecration to Christ, the record of which would be but a continuous testimony to the truth of the Bible, the character of God, and the power of the Savior's grace in upholding and succouring, sanctifying and comforting the believer, must necessarily constitute a volume of instruction, such as the most triumphant departure could scarcely supply. If this be so, of how much greater moment, then, is it that the Christian should be solicitous how he should live, rather than forestall, by vain and fruitless speculations, the question how he shall die? It is the life, and not the death, that supplies the most satisfactory and assured evidence of real conversion. "Tell me not," says the excellent John Newton, "how a man died; rather tell me how he lived." Let but the religion of an individual be a living, practical embodiment, of the noble sentiment of Paul, "For me to live is Christ," and he need not be unduly anxious about his final change; that change, be it whatever God appoints, must be his gain. It is not always that a life of transcendent beauty—"the beauty of holiness "—is closed by a departure of corresponding interest and grandeur. As if to illustrate the importance and to enforce the lesson of a holy life as a thing of essential moment, God has sometimes disappointed a too eager, and, perhaps, too curious expectation, and has taken home His child, not in a chariot of fire, but of cloud. In other cases, however, we trace the harmony between an eminently godly life and a singularly happy death. Indeed, so strangely and beautifully alike are the two, it were difficult to decide which the most became that bright example, and which brought most honor to God—the dying life, or the living death. Both were emphatically—life in Jesus.