"They have most satisfaction in themselves, and consequently the sweetest relish of their creature comforts"
About this Quote
Self-satisfaction sounds like a vice until Matthew Henry makes it sound like insulation. In a culture that loved its moral bookkeeping, the Puritan-leaning clergyman is arguing that the deepest pleasure in material life is downstream from an inward condition: a person at peace with their conscience will actually taste their bread more fully. The sentence turns on “consequently,” a word doing heavy theological labor. Creature comforts are not condemned outright; they are demoted. They become secondary effects, not primary goals.
Henry’s intent is quietly disciplinary. He’s not writing to bless consumer appetite; he’s trying to reorder it. “Most satisfaction in themselves” is not modern self-esteem talk, but the older Protestant sense of inward assurance: a settled heart, a conscience not in revolt, a self governed by God rather than whim. That kind of interior steadiness produces “the sweetest relish” because pleasure isn’t fighting guilt, envy, or spiritual anxiety. Comfort is permitted, even celebrated, but only when it doesn’t have to perform the job of salvation.
The subtext is a warning about substitution: if you lack that inward satisfaction, you’ll press “creature comforts” into being anesthetic, status symbol, or proof of worth. Henry’s phrasing also carries a note of realism about human desire. He knows people want softness, warmth, and ease; he just insists that without moral coherence, those goods turn thin and frantic. It’s a theology of enjoyment with a leash on it: pleasure is sweetest when it’s no longer desperate.
Henry’s intent is quietly disciplinary. He’s not writing to bless consumer appetite; he’s trying to reorder it. “Most satisfaction in themselves” is not modern self-esteem talk, but the older Protestant sense of inward assurance: a settled heart, a conscience not in revolt, a self governed by God rather than whim. That kind of interior steadiness produces “the sweetest relish” because pleasure isn’t fighting guilt, envy, or spiritual anxiety. Comfort is permitted, even celebrated, but only when it doesn’t have to perform the job of salvation.
The subtext is a warning about substitution: if you lack that inward satisfaction, you’ll press “creature comforts” into being anesthetic, status symbol, or proof of worth. Henry’s phrasing also carries a note of realism about human desire. He knows people want softness, warmth, and ease; he just insists that without moral coherence, those goods turn thin and frantic. It’s a theology of enjoyment with a leash on it: pleasure is sweetest when it’s no longer desperate.
Quote Details
| Topic | Contentment |
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