Effect Of My Views On My Public Work

As could be expected in those days, my views on Restitution — views I announced rather quickly — met with considerable disapproval from the Plymouth Brethren and many of my other orthodox friends. I had to endure a fair amount of what might be called persecution, though in truth I took a certain satisfaction in it, for I felt it was a grand thing to know so much more of God than those who opposed me.

I often compared my feelings to those of a civilized traveler trying to explain the marvels of his world to people in a remote, “savage” country— people who could neither understand nor believe what he described. His sense of superior knowledge would make their disapproval and opposition only a reason to pity their ignorance and to bear with it patiently. On that same principle, I almost enjoyed being regarded as a heretic, and I never wanted anyone’s endorsement. To be endorsed felt, to me, like being bound; and I preferred to be a free lance, unhindered in my absolute mental and spiritual freedom.

At that time the discovery I had made was not as widely known as it is now, and it seemed likely that holding what many considered a grave heresy might hinder my Christian work. And perhaps it did in some circles. But as I always had far more invitations to speak than I could possibly accept, I never truly suffered any difficulty. I tried to be courteous enough not to place on others — especially those who found my views abhorrent — the burden of endorsing me. Still, the revelation I had received was too glorious to withhold whenever a door opened. And since I refused to sail under false colors, and insisted that any place I spoke should know beforehand exactl y what a “heretic” I was, I generally enjoyed all the freedom I desired.

In fact, these very views — and my open confession of them under rather trying circumstances — opened the way for some of our most important and fruitful work. It happened in this way.

In 1873, my husband came to England to hold meetings in the interests of the Higher Life, or what I prefer to call the Life of Faith. I followed soon after, and upon my arrival in London I was invited to meet a gathering of leading Evangelical ladies who were to decide whether it would be safe for them to support me and lend their influence to the work.

Lady Mount Temple, one of the women present, later described the meeting in her life of Lord Mount Temple: “I think it was in 1873 that Mr. Pearsall Smith cam e to England from America, followed a few months later by his dear, beautiful wife. It was a time long to be remembered. They came, one may say, full of the new wine of the Spirit, longing to help others onward in the Divine life. A friend invited us to lunch to meet them. I shall never forget my first sight of Hannah Smith. We called her the ‘angel of the Churches,’ and she looked like one, with her golden hair and clear, beautifully cut face, in a dress all her own, yet as simple as that of the Friends among whom she had been raised.

“What especially drew me to her that day was this. I must confess that I was only a seeker after truth. Hannah was sitting in a small circle of excellent orthodox friends, gathered to hear the good things she had to share, and she was, in fact, on trial. She had seen a funeral procession in the street, and when she mentioned it, we all adopted the conventional expression of sorrow.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘when I see a funeral I always give thanks for a brother or sister delivered from the trials and pains of this mortal state.’ I thought, How wonderful! And I could not help asking, ‘Is that possible? Do you feel this about everyone?’ I was indeed an enfant terrible.

“She paused for a moment and glanced around. She was among evangelicals, at a time when the universal hope was considered a heresy, and this was her examination. She later said she experienced a brief inner struggle. But truth prevailed, and with her bright, fearless look she said, ‘Yes— about everyone. For I trust in the lov e of God.’ I surrendered my heart immediately to this trust, love, and candor.”

I remember the occasion perfectly, and the thoughts running through my mind. I knew I was being tested, and I suspected that my answer might shock the entire company. But I felt that loyalty to God required me to say what honored Him, and to leave the consequences in His hands.

The moment I finished speaking, Lady Mount Temple — then Mrs. Cowper Temple — rose from her seat, came straight to me, and, though I was a stranger, gave me a warm, affectionate kiss.

“You must come and hold some meetings at Broadlands,” she said at once. I don’t know what the others felt, but not a word of disapproval was spoken, and they later became some of my dearest friends.

The result was that, within a few weeks, Broadlands — the country home of Lord and Lady Mount Temple in Hampshire — was opened to us for our first conference. It was a time of extraordinary blessing, and it became the doorway to all the later conferences and to our entire subsequent work in England and beyond.

When a conference was planned at Brighton in 1874, some members of the organizing committee became anxious about my “heresies,” fearing they might hinder the work. They persuaded my husband — who had arrived in England before I did — to write to me in America and tell me that unless I promised to keep my views quiet, they would strongly oppose my participation in the meetings. Recently, while looking through an old bundle of letters, I found my reply, which reveals precisely how I felt at the time: “Philadelphia, April 6, 1874.

Thy letters from London have arrived. Thee need not think I would be troubled at not being allowed to speak in the meetings, for nothing would suit me better. I am not in the least anxious to preach. Indeed, I consider it quite a favor on my part to be willing to do it at all, and just as much of a favor on others’ part to listen to me. If your committee should say, ‘We do not want to hear you speak at Brighton,’ I would have thanked them heartily. No one need feel any delicacy about this. But it must be thoroughly understood that I will make no compromises for anyone, and that I believe in Restitution more firmly than ever. I do not think I could bear the misery I see in this poor, sad, sin-stricken world without it. Our temperance work brings us face to face with such helpless suffering that my heart would break if I did not know that God loves all His creatures and has something gracious in store for everyone.”

Since I would not compromise — and since it was still considered important to have me at the meetings — the committee dropped the matter and decided to take me as I was, heresies and all.

When my husband wrote to tell me this, I replied: “Philadelphia.

I am very glad thee has escaped thy difficulty about thy heretical preaching wife with so little trouble. But the idea of B — , with his shaky views, undertaking to excommunicate me! I do not think it honest. I will not sail under false colors, and my conviction about Restitution grows stronger every single day. If they leave me alone in England, I will probably say little about it; but if there is even the slightest hint of compromise or secrecy on my part, I will blaze out into a perfect conflagration. I cannot endure anything of that sort. So please remember this, ye Lords of Creation.

Seriously, though, I do not feel drawn to preach or teach Restitution over there, and if the dear, frightened orthodox friends make no fuss about it, I am unlikely to do so. Their worries about me do not annoy me in the least. I believe I actually enjoy being the target of the odium theologicum.

I suppose there is som ething of the war horse in my constitution.”

Whether the committee’s fears were well founded or not, I cannot say; I only know that not once, during all my work in England, did I ever feel that my views on Restitution hindered the reception of my message or closed even a single door. In fact, I believe they opened doors that might otherwise have remained shut. The deeper truth was that my underlying belief in the absolutely unlimited justice and love of God enabled me to speak with a far more courageous faith than I could ever have managed without it. I am convinced that without this conviction I would have been deprived of half my power.

Whatever others may think, the revolution this discovery worked in my own experience was immense — beyond words. The spiritual romance of my life became more captivating than ever.

Every day brought some deeper and more radiant insight into the unimaginable goodness and unselfishness of God. I felt at last that I was beginning to enter into the meaning of the Apostle’s prayer for the Ephesians: that we might comprehend, with all the saints, the breadth and length and depth and height of Christ’s love, and know— even if only faintly — the love that surpasses knowledge.

Such love truly does surpass knowledge; it could arise only from the heart of a wholly unselfish God. I stood in awe before its breadth and length and depth and height, and I marveled — endlessly — that I could ever have imagined a Divine love with boundaries.

For a long time the joy of it all was so wonderful that I thought there could be nothing more to discover about God — that I had reached the final revelation.

But a further unveiling awaited me, and the fourth epoch of my soul’s life— its most entrancing