THOMAS ADAM’S PRIVATE THOUGHTS: CONFESSIONS

The following article represents a continued selection of the thought of one of John Newton’s students, Thomas Adam, extracted from chapter one, “Confessions„, of his scarce, out of print, Private Thoughts. In subsequent issues we hope to print his thoughts on specific subjects as well, such

as the Scriptures, faith, resignation, prayer, good works, etc.

It is my great unhappiness, and curse of nature, that I cannot please both God and myself.

“Grant that this day I fall into no sin.” When I was saying these words, (Feb. 23, 1763,) I sinned grievously, by an uncharitable thought of C.S.

I pray faintly, and with reserve, merely to quiet conscience, for present ease, and almost wishing not to be heard. In a full prayer for full deliverance, there is hope.

All my reading, and pursuit of knowledge, is more with a view to talking, than my own private use, or the benefit of others.

In bodily ailments, I look out every way for help without delay. I have no such anxiety for my soul, though I feel the plague of it, and know of an infallible physician.

If I might have my beloved enjoyment, and live cordially to my own will as long as I pleased, I do not perceive that I should choose to die soon, and go to heaven, for the sake of being with God, and freed from sin.

Whether a late occurrence was a providential direction or not, it has convinced me, beyond all doubt, that I never reflected enough upon the uncertainty and emptiness of worldly things, and that my heart and treasure are not so much in heaven as I imagined.

I lack one point of selfishness, which is, to convert the word of God to my own use. All the reflections I make upon the pride, corruption, blindness, and deadly fall of man, upon the necessity of the daily cross, and death to the world, I bestow freely upon others; and am hindered, by the deceitfulness of my own heart, and the artifice of the devil, from turning the edge of them upon myself.

The same failings, perverse tempers, and evil habits which I see and abhor justly in others, I know and believe to be in myself, and possibly in a higher degree; and yet, in spite of my reason, judgment, and conviction, in spite of all the efforts I can use, I neither do nor can see them in the same light in myself that I do in others.

I want humility — for what? To be admired. My pride will hardly let me believe this, though I fear it is truth.

I should be ready and willing to show my warmest gratitude to the person who can give me ease from pain, or tell me of a cure for my body. O Jesus! what hast thou not done and suffered for my soul! how coldly do I think of it; how poorly do I requite it!

Thank God for decay, pain, and suffering; thank God that I was born to die; thank God that I can die; thank God the time is near; thank God for the prospect and hope of a better world; and thank God for strong consolation through Christ.

I had rather see my own faults than other people’s.

I will not form any schism, nor have another religion for the world. Help me God!

I have been fool enough all my life to do every thing with a view to please, and, for the most part, to defeat my own design.

I have been ready enough, all my life, to prefer myself to all others. When shall I be Christian enough to honour all men, and sink down into my own nothingness?

St. Paul knew human nature but too well, when he said, “Their feet are swift to shed blood,” Rom. 3:15. I protest I am often catching myself at it; and do verily believe that, if we were sincere, we should find within ourselves abundant proof of the assertion. Strange, that I should be conscious of such a nature, and yet unhumbled!

I cannot perceive any other principles in myself than those of fear and shame. I would disobey God if I durst, and, in some instances I even durst do it, upon a confused hope of mercy, or future repentance, if it was not for fear of hurting my reputation.

Prayer and other spiritual exercises are often a weariness to me; a task and a force upon nature. I am but too well pleased with pretences for omitting them; and when they are over, I feel myself at ease, as it were after the removal of a heavy weight: yet thou, O my Saviour, dost warrant and command my importunity and earnestness in asking under all discouragements; I will therefore still present myself before the throne of grace, notwithstanding the want of sensible consolations. Fear not my soul; the operations of the Spirit are in secret, and the daily growth of the spiritual man is imperceptible, as that of corn. Mark 4:27. John 3:8.

I have all my life long been considering what I would do in such and such circumstances, and putting off the season of working to some imaginary period, without ever duly considering what I can do at present, or using the opportunities and abilities I have.

It is in vain to struggle against nature; or, which is the same thing, habit. No caution, consideration, or effort, howsoever repeated, can set me free. I find myself exactly in the state described by St. Paul, Romans 7 and am always crying out with him, “Who shall deliver me?” What immediately follows, fills me with hope and consolation. I am absolutely certain that my deliverance must come from God; and if he pleases to offer it, I will not be so perverse as to take up needless exceptions to his method. There is a great deal in the person and religion of Christ to engage my attention; and I want deliverance so much.

I have for some years been giving myself airs in religion, and assuming a post which does by no means belong to me. I fancied that I must necessarily be something extraordinary, because I endeavoured to be so. I am sensible that all the while I advanced in nothing but “outside” and hypocrisy. I now see the reason of it. The work was my own, and the event, accordingly, shame and confusion, and conviction of my own impotence.

I know that I am hateful and contemptible, and yet I cannot help idolizing that painted thing which I myself am; nor do I ever think worse of any man for being so mistaken as to offer me the incense of his esteem.

In points wherein I thought it was clear I could almost stand upon my own defence before God, I daily discover my hypocrisy and infinite defects. “Lord, what is man! in thy sight shall no flesh be justified;” no, not in any one instance!

The sole ground, being, and essence of rectitude in the soul, and, consequently, all its capacities for happiness, are a hearty love and liking of God for what he is, and for all that he is.

When God takes off his hand, and leaves me to myself, as I believe he does for my conviction and humiliation, I can feel nothing within myself but the foundation of hell.

I perceive, by some fatal symptoms, that higher qualifications for usefulness at present, would only fill me with pride; it is therefore better for me, that they should be withholden till I am disposed to receive them with proper humility, and as the means of a blessed intercourse between God and my own soul.

Whenever I attempt to pray for others, I am soon made sensible that I do it in a cold, heartless manner: a plain indication that love is not at the bottom. It is an awful moment when the soul meets God in private, to stand the test of his all-searching eye.

My state of being, continuance in it, and every thing relating to it, is ordered by God in such a manner as he knows will conduce most to his own glory in my happiness and salvation; and yet I am conscious to myself of a settled adherence to my own choice, and a perpetual struggling against what he wills and ordains. What ground is here for humiliation! What further proof do I need of my corruption? And what a jest is it to think of setting up on the stock of a little morality or outward decency of behaviour, while this accursed root of impiety remains in us!

If any man, pretending to be humble, tells me that God has given him a sight of his own frightful ugliness, I can believe him; but not if he pretends to come by his humility in any other way.

I am perpetually looking out for some fitness in myself, some procuring meritorious cause of God’s acceptance of me, as if I could never be safe till I could challenge reward at his hands as a debt; and yet I believe this is pure opposition to the gospel scheme, and the very infidelity which St. Paul, in particular, levels all his reasonings against.

Till we have a full belief and apprehension of the scripture doctrine of the remission of sins, we are under a kind of necessity of denying, extenuating, and explaining away the guilt of them; and this seals us up in blindness, impenitence, and hardness of heart.

If I acquiesce in the act of prayer, without desiring to receive what I ask for, I never pray.

We are apt to acquiesce in the bare act of prayer, and can be well enough content all our lives, to go without the spiritual good things we pray for. The case is plain, we do not desire them.

I want to sink myself, in my own opinion, truly and sincerely, below other people; and I verily believe, that we can never have any clear sight and knowledge of ourselves and others, till we stand upon lower ground than we are naturally apt to do.

For a great part of my life, I did not know that I was poor, and naked, and blind, and miserable. I have known it for some time, without feeling it. Thank God, I now begin to be pinched with it. Stand aside, pride, for a moment, and let me see that ugly thing — myself.

I know and can tell my sins to God, but to very little purpose, as to any real abhorrence or forsaking of them, unless he is pleased to tell them to me.

What I stick to as a test, in point of duty or religious perfection, is this, Can I do it of myself? If I can, I conclude at once that it does not come up to what God requires of me.

I can make a shift to cheat the world, but I can cheat myself no longer. The inward mask is taken off, at least in part, and I am uneasy till I see more of my own deformity.

I see and believe the reality and guilt of sin in Christ hanging upon the cross, and am convinced, with infallible certainty, that the Scripture lays nothing to the charge of man’s nature but what is true; but I cannot say that I feel and hate sin in myself, in any great degree.

I see very distinctly, that the will and power in me which unites with God, obeys and loves, is not from myself.

Little children have but one appetite, know what they want, and can be quieted with nothing else. Would to God I was so!

There can be no repenting, asking forgiveness, or desiring a change, upon a general confused apprehension of our unworthiness: we can only come to Christ with a catalogue of our sins in our hands; and if the Holy Spirit does not assist in drawing it up, we shall omit a hundred times more than we set down.

To love my sins, a saint to appear,
To grow with wheat, and be a tare,
May serve me while on earth below,
Where tares and wheat together grow,
But soon the reaping time will come,
And angels shout the harvest home.

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