JEPHTHAH
THE Reverend Thomas Bradshaw, of Pike Street Meeting-House, was not a
descendant from Bradshaw the regicide, but claimed that he belonged to
the same family. He was in 1814 about fifty years old, and minister of
one of the most important churches in the eastern part of London. He was
tall and spare, and showed his height in the pulpit, for he always spoke
without a note, and used a small Bible, which he held close to his eyes.
He was a good classical scholar, and he understood Hebrew, too, as well
as few men in that day understood it. He had a commanding figure, ruled
his church like a despot; had a crowded congregation, of which the larger
portion was masculine; and believed in predestination and the final
perseverance of the saints. He was rather unequal in his discourses, for
he had a tendency to moodiness, and, at times, even to hypochondria.
When this temper was upon him he was combative or melancholy; and
sometimes, to the disgust of many who came from all parts of London to
listen to him, he did not preach in the proper sense of the word, but
read a chapter, made a comment or two upon it, caused a hymn to be sung,
and then dismissed his congregation with the briefest of prayers.
Although he took no active part in politics, he was republican through
and through, and never hesitated for a moment in those degenerate days to
say what he thought about any scandal. In this respect he differed from
his fellow-ministers, who, under the pretence of increasing zeal for
religion, had daily fewer and fewer points of contact with the world
outside. Mr. Bradshaw had been married when he was about thirty; but his
wife died in giving birth to a daughter, who also died,—and for twenty
years he had been a widower, with no thought of changing his condition.
He was understood to have peculiar opinions about second marriages,
although he kept them very much to himself. One thing, however, was
known, that for a twelvemonth after the death of his wife he was away
from England, and that he came back an altered man to his people in
Bedfordshire, where at that time he was settled. His discourses were
remarkably strong, and of a kind seldom, or indeed never, heard now.
They taxed the whole mental powers of his audience, and were utterly
unlike the simple stuff which became fashionable with the Evangelistic
movement. Many of them, taken down by some of his hearers, survive in
manuscript to the present day. They will not, as a rule, bear printing,
because the assumption on which they rest is not now assumed; but if it
be granted, they are unanswerable; and it is curious that even now and
then, although they are never for a moment anything else than a strict
deduction from what we in the latter half of the century consider
unproven or even false, they express themselves in the same terms as the
newest philosophy. Occasionally too, more particularly when he sets
himself the task of getting into the interior of a Bible character, he is
intensely dramatic, and what are shadows to the careless reader become
living human beings, with the reddest of blood visible under their skin.
On this particular evening Mr. Bradshaw took the story of Jephthah’s
daughter:—“The Spirit of the Lord came upon Jephthah.” Here is an
abstract of his discourse. “It _was_ the Spirit of the Lord,
notwithstanding what happened. I beg you also to note that there is a
mistranslation in our version. The Hebrew has it, ‘Then it shall be,
that _whosoever_’—not _whatsoever_—‘cometh forth of the doors of my house
to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon, shall
surely be the Lord’s, and I will offer _him_’—not _it_—‘up for a
burnt-offering.’ Nevertheless I believe my text—it _was_ the Spirit of
the Lord. This Hebrew soldier was the son of a harlot. He was driven by
his brethren out of his father’s house. Ammon made war upon Israel, and
in their distress the elders of Israel went to fetch Jephthah. Mark, my
friends, God’s election. The children of the lawful wife are passed by,
and the child of the harlot is chosen. Jephthah forgets his grievances
and becomes captain of the host. Ammon is over against them. Jephthah’s
rash vow—this is sometimes called. I say it is not a rash vow. It may
be rash to those who have never been brought to extremity by the children
of Ammon—to those who have not cared whether Ammon or Christ wins. Men
and women sitting here in comfortable pews”—this was said with a kind of
snarl—“may talk of Jephthah’s rash vow. God be with them, what do they
know of the struggles of such a soul? It does not say so directly in the
Bible, but we are led to infer it, that Jephthah was successful because
of his vow. ‘The Lord delivered them into his hands.’ He would not have
done it if He had been displeased with the ‘rash vow’” (another snarl).
“He smote them from Aroer even till thou come to Minnith. Ah, but what
follows? The Omnipotent and Omniscient might have ordered it, surely,
that a slave might have met Jephthah. Why, in His mercy, did He not do
it? Who are we that we should question what He did? But if we may not
inquire too closely into His designs, it is permitted us, my friends,
when His reason accords with ours, to try and show it. Jephthah had
played for a great stake. Ought the Almighty—let us speak it with
reverence—to have let him off with an ox, or even with a serf? I say
that if we are to conquer Ammon we must pay for it, and we ought to pay
for it. Yes, and perhaps God wanted the girl—who can tell? Jephthah
comes back in triumph. Let me read the passage to you:—‘Behold his
daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: _and she was
his only child_: _beside her he had neither son nor daughter_. And it
came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas,
my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that
trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go
back.’ Now, you read poetry, I dare say—what you call poetry. I say in
all of it—all, at least, I have seen—nothing comes up to that. ‘_She was
his only child_: _beside her he had neither son nor daughter_.’”—(Mr.
Bradshaw’s voice broke a little as he went over the words again with
great deliberation and infinite pathos.)—“The inspired writer leaves the
fact just as it stands, and is content. Inspiration itself can do
nothing to make it more touching than it is in its own bare nakedness.
There is no thought in Jephthah of recantation, nor in the maiden of
revolt, but nevertheless he has his own sorrow. _He is brought very
low_. God does not rebuke him for his grief. He knows well enough, my
dear friends, the nature which He took upon Himself—nay, are we not the
breath of His nostrils, created in His image? He does not anywhere,
therefore, I say, forbid that we should even break our hearts over those
we love and lose. She asks for two months by herself upon the mountains
before her death. What a time for him! At the end of the two months God
held him still to his vow; he did not shrink; she submitted, and was
slain. But you will want me to tell you in conclusion where the gospel
is in all this. Gospel! I say that the blessed gospel is in the Old
Testament as well as in the New. I say that the Word of God is one, and
that His message is here this night for you and me, as distinctly as it
is at the end of the sacred volume. Observe, as I have told you before,
that Jephthah is the son of the harlot. He hath mercy on whom He will
have mercy. He calls them His people who are not His people; and He
calls her beloved which was not beloved. God at any rate is no stickler
for hereditary rights. Moreover, it does not follow because you, my
hearers, have God-fearing parents, that God has elected you. He may have
chosen, instead of you, instead of me, the wretchedest creature outside,
whose rags we will not touch. But to what did God elect Jephthah? To a
respectable, easy, decent existence, with money at interest, regular
meals, sleep after them, and unbroken rest at night? He elected him to
that tremendous oath and that tremendous penalty. He elected him to the
agony he endured while she was away upon the hills! That is God’s
election; an election to the cross and to the cry, ‘Eli, Eli, lama
Sabachthani.’ ‘Yes,’ you will say, ‘but He elected him to the victory
over Ammon.’ Doubtless He did; but what cared Jephthah for his victory
over Ammon when she came to meet him, or, indeed, for the rest of his
life? What is a victory, what are triumphal arches and the praise of all
creation to a lonely man? Be sure, if God elects you, He elects you to
suffering. Whom He loveth He chasteneth, and His stripes are not
play-work. Ammon will not be conquered unless your heart be well nigh
broken. I tell you, too, as Christ’s minister, that you are not to
direct your course according to your own desires. You are not to say,—‘I
will give up this and that so that I may be saved.’ Did not St. Paul
wish himself accursed from Christ for his brethren? If God should
command you to go down to the bottomless pit in fulfilment of His blessed
designs, it is your place to go. Out with self—I was about to say this
damned self; and if Israel calls, if Christ calls, take not a sheep or
ox—that is easy enough—but take your choicest possession, take your own
heart, your own blood, your very self, to the altar.”
During the sermon the Major was much excited. Apart altogether from the
effect of the actual words spoken, Mr. Bradshaw had a singular and
contagious power over men. The three, Mrs. Coleman, the Major, and
Zachariah, came out together. Mrs. Zachariah stayed behind in the lobby
for some female friend to whom she wished to speak about a Sunday-school
tea-meeting which was to take place that week. The other two stood
aside, ill at ease, amongst the crowd pressing out into the street.
Presently Mrs. Coleman found her friend, whom she at once informed that
Major Maitland and her husband were waiting for her, and that therefore
she had not a moment to spare. That little triumph accomplished, she had
nothing of importance to say about the tea-meeting, and rejoined her
party with great good-humour. She walked between the Major and
Zachariah, and at once asked the Major how he “enjoyed the service.” The
phrase was very unpleasant to Zachariah, but he was silent.
“Well, ma’am,” said the Major, “Mr. Bradshaw is a very remarkable man.
It is a long time since any speaker stirred me as he did. He is a born
orator, if ever there was one.”
“I could have wished,” said Zachariah, “as you are not often in chapel,
that his sermon had been founded on some passage in the New Testament
which would have given him the opportunity of more simply expounding the
gospel of Christ.”
“He could not have been better, I should think. He went to my heart,
though it is rather a difficult passage in the case of a man about town
like me; and I tell you what, Coleman, he made me determine I would read
the Bible again. What a story that is!”
“Major, I thank God if you will read it; and not for the stories in it,
save as all are part of one story—the story of God’s redeeming mercy.”
The Major made no reply, for the word was unwinged.
Mrs. Zachariah was silent, but when they came to their door both she and
her husband pressed him to come in. He refused, however; he would stroll
homeward, he said, and have a smoke as he went.
“He touched me, Coleman, he did. I thought, between you and me”—and he
spoke softly—“I had not now got such a tender place; I thought it was all
healed over long ago. I cannot come in. You’ll excuse me. Yes, I’ll
just wander back to Piccadilly. I could not talk.”
They parted, and Zachariah and his wife went upstairs. Their supper was
soon ready.
“Jane,” he said slowly, “I did not receive much assistance from you in my
endeavours to bring our friends to a knowledge of the truth. I thought
that, as you desired the attempt, you would have helped me a little.”
“There is a reason for everything; and, what is more, I do not consider
it right to take upon myself what belongs to a minister. It may do more
harm than good.”
“Take upon yourself what belongs to a minister! My dear Jane, is nobody
but a minister to bear witness for the Master?”
“Of course I did not mean to say that; you know I did not. Why do you
catch at my words? Perhaps, if you had not been quite so forward, Mr.
Caillaud and his daughter might have gone to chapel.”
After supper, and when he was alone, Zachariah sat for some time without
moving. He presently rose and opened the Bible again, which lay on the
table—the Bible which belonged to his father—and turned to the fly-leaf
on which was written the family history. There was the record of his
father’s marriage, dated on the day of the event. There was the record
of his own birth. There was the record of his mother’s death, still in
his father’s writing, but in an altered hand, the letters not so
distinct, and the strokes crooked and formed with difficulty. There was
the record of Zachariah’s own marriage. A cloud of shapeless,
inarticulate sentiment obscured the man’s eyes and brain. He could not
define what he felt, but he did feel. He could not bear it, and he shut
the book, opening it again at the twenty-second Psalm—the one which the
disciples of Jesus called to mind on the night of the crucifixion. It
was one which Mr. Bradshaw often read, and Zachariah had noted in it a
few corrections made in the translation:
“_My God_, _my God_, _why hast Thou forsaken me_? _Our fathers
trusted in Thee_; _they trusted_, _and Thou didst deliver them_. . .
. _Be not far from me_; _for trouble is near_; _for there is none to
help_. . . . _Be Thou not far from me_, _O Lord_: _O my strength_,
_haste Thee to help me_. . . . _Save me from the lion’s mouth_: _and
from the horns of the wild oxen Thou hast answered me_.”
“From the horns of the wild oxen”—that correction had often been precious
to Zachariah. When at the point of being pinned to the ground—so he
understood it—help had arisen; risen up from the earth, and might again
arise. It was upon the first part of the text he dwelt now. It came
upon him with fearful distinctness that he was alone—that he could never
hope for sympathy from his wife as long as he lived. Mr. Bradshaw’s
words that evening recurred to him. God’s purpose in choosing to smite
Jephthah in that way was partly intelligible, and, after all, Jephthah
was elected to redeem his country too. But what could be God’s purpose
in electing one of his servants to indifference and absence of affection
where he had a right to expect it? Could anybody be better for not being
loved? Even Zachariah could not think it possible. But Mr. Bradshaw’s
words again recurred. Who was he that he should question God’s designs?
It might be part of the Divine design that he, Zachariah Coleman, should
not be made better by anything. It might be part of that design, part of
a fulfilment of a plan devised by the Infinite One, that he should be
broken, nay, perhaps not saved. Mr. Bradshaw’s doctrine that night was
nothing new. Zachariah had believed from his childhood, or had thought
he believed, that the potter had power over the clay—of the same lump to
make one vessel unto honour and another unto dishonour; and that the
thing formed unto dishonour could not reply and say to him that formed
it: ‘Why hast thou made me thus?’ Nevertheless, to believe it generally
was one thing; to believe it as a truth for him was another. Darkness,
the darkness as of the crucifixion night, seemed over and around him.
Poor wretch! he thought he was struggling with his weakness; but he was
in reality struggling against his own strength. _Why_ had God so
decreed? Do what he could, that fatal _why_, the protest of his reason,
asserted itself; and yet he cursed himself for permitting it, believing
it to be a sin. He walked about his room for some relief. He looked out
of the window. It was getting late; the sky was clearing, as it does in
London at that hour, and he saw the stars. There was nothing to help him
there. They mocked him rather with their imperturbable, obstinate
stillness. At last he turned round, fell upon his knees, and poured out
himself before his Maker, entreating Him for light. He rose from the
ground, looked again out of the window, and the first flush of the
morning was just visible. Light was coming to the world in obedience to
the Divine command, but not to him. He was exhausted, and crept into his
bedroom, undressing without candle, and without a sound. For a few
minutes he thought he should never sleep again, save in his grave; but an
unseen Hand presently touched him, and he knew nothing till he was
awakened by the broad day streaming over him.