But what is the water that our Lord Jesus gives? If you look at the commentaries on John 4:14, you will find a great many different replies to this question. But the Bihle itself answers the question in John 7:37-39: “In the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying, If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink. He that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water. (But this spake he of the Spirit, which they that believe on Him should receive: for the Holy Ghost was not yet given; because that Jesus was not yet glorified).” The water which Jesus Christ gives is the Holy Spirit, whom He gives to those who believe on Him, and who ask Him for the Gift (John 4:10). Anyone who really receives the Holy Spirit as an indwelling presence will be fully and forever satisfied, and that is the only possible way to be thus satisfied. It is a great thing to have your joy, not in en vironment, nor in circumstances, nor in possessions, but within your own heart. If our joy is in our environment or in our possessions, we cannot by any possibility be always happy, for sometimes our environment is not what we would have it. So when our environment is pleasant, we are happy, but when it is unpleasant, we are miserable. If our joy is in our possessions, we can not always be happy, for sometimes we have them, and sometimes we lose them. When we have them we are happy, but when they are gone, we are utterly miserable. We are happy when we are rich, but we are miserable when we are poor. We are happy when we are well, but we are miserable when we are sick. We are happy when men speak well of us, but we are miserable when they speak evil of us. We are happy when we have our friends with us, but plunged into the depths of sorrow and despair when they are taken from us. But if our source of joy is in our own hearts, a fountain springing up within us, then we are entirely independent of our surroundings, our circumstances, or our possessions. We are joyful when we are rich, and equally joyful when we are poor; we are joyful when things go just right, and equally joyful when they go “ dead wrong” ; we are joyful when we are well, but equally joyful when we are sick; we are joyful when men speak well of us, but equally joyful when they speak all manner of evil against us; we are joyful when we have our friends with us, but equally joyful when the dearest friend we have on earth is taken from us; indeed, the joy of the indwelling Spirit of God seems oftentimes to well up with even greater power in the moments of deepest bereavement. In that dark hour that comes, sooner or later, to every one of us, when for the last time we look into the face of some dearly loved one lying cold and still in death, what possible comfort can this world give? Is there any surcease for 001 * sorrow in such an hour to be gained by going to the theater, the opera, the card party, the dance? No, those things only add to our sor row. But from this fountain within us, which the in dwelling Spirit has become, gushes up at such a time as that “joy unspeakable and full of glory.” How well I remember such an experience in a time of apparently overwhelming sorrow which came to my wife and me. We had a lovely nine-year-old daughter, a most winsome child. One Saturday afternoon a friend came to our house to take the children with him to Lincoln Park. When they returned that evening about six o’clock, our little Elizabeth said: “ I don’t think I’ll eat any supper tonight; I don’t feel real well.” The next morning when she came down to breakfast she said: “ I don’t think I’ll go to church this morning; my head aches." Monday morning, when she came to the JULY, 1947
breakfast table, she said: “I don’t feel real well yet; I don’t think I’d better go to school today.” Her mother looked into her throat and saw the telltale white patch, and of course, we sent for a physician at once. When he came and had carefully examined the child, he said: “There is nothing to be anxious about. It is not diph theria; it is only tonsilitis. But I will keep a close watch.” The next morning he came again and gave her another examination, and then said: “Well, it is diphtheria, but not a serious case at all. There is noth ing to be alarmed about” That night I slept downstairs to avoid exposing others whom I might have to meet during the following day, and her mother stayed upstairs with the little child. The next morning, long before daylight, her mother ran to the top of the stairs, calling: “Archie, come up, quick!” I rushed upstairs and saw Elizabeth choking. I ran at once for the physician. He came back with me; but Elizabeth was apparently very much bet ter. The choking had all passed away; indeed, she seemed well on the road to recovery. The doctor said: “ For some reason or other I don’t feel like administer ing antitoxin, but keep a close watch on her, and if she gets any worse, telephone me at the Medical Col lege and I will leave my classes and come at once.” But she seemed to grow rapidly better rather than worse; indeed, she said to her Mother: “Mother, I am well; I want to get up and dress.” In the meantime, a trained nurse had come, and her mother came down stairs to talk with me. We were very happy in the thought that our little girl had been spared to us. Suddenly, the nurse ran to the top of the stairs and called: “Come up, quick!” We rushed upstairs. Eliza beth’s eyes were closed. She was breathing rapidly, not choking, but the little heart was giving out. There was no time to send for the doctor. I dropped on my knees to pray. I had hardly time to begin when the spirit of our little one had taken its flight from the mortal body. It was so sudden, so unexpected, it was almost crushing. One morning, as I went to my classes, as I passed around the corner of Chestnut Street and La Salle Avenue, I could contain my grief no longer. There was
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