_SIN AND SHAME_
v. 11-18
The keynote of the fifth elegy is struck in its opening verse when the
poet calls upon God to remember the _reproach_ that has been cast upon
His people. The preceding poems dwelt on the sufferings of the Jews;
here the predominant thought is that of the humiliations to which they
have been subjected. The shame of Israel and the sin which had brought
it on are now set forth with point and force. If, as some think, the
literary grace of the earlier compositions is not fully sustained in
the last chapter of Lamentations--although in parts of it the feeling
and imagination and art all touch the high-water mark--it cannot be
disputed that the spiritual tone of this elegy indicates an advance on
the four earlier poems. We have sometimes met with wild complaints,
fierce recriminations, deep and terrible curses that seem to require
some apology if they are to be justified. Nothing of the kind ruffles
the course of this faultless meditation. There is not a single jarring
note from beginning to end, not one phrase calling for explanation by
reference to the limited ideas of Old Testament times or to the
passion excited by cruelty, insult, and tyranny, not a line that reads
painfully even in the clear light of the teachings of Jesus Christ.
The vilest outrages are deplored; and yet, strange to say, no word of
vindictiveness towards the perpetrators escapes the lips of the
mourning patriot! How is this? The sin of the people has been
confessed before as the source of all their misery; but since with it
shame is now associated as the principal item in their affliction, we
can see in this fresh development a decided advance towards higher
views of the whole position.
May we not take this characteristic of the concluding chapter of the
Book of Lamentations to be an indication of progress in the spiritual
experience of its author? Perhaps it is to be partially explained by
the fact that the poem throughout consists of a prayer addressed
directly to God. The wildest, darkest passions of the soul cannot live
in the atmosphere of prayer. When men say of the persecutor, "Behold
he prayeth," it is certain that he cannot any longer be "breathing
threatening and slaughter." Even the feelings of the persecuted must
be calmed in the presence of God. The serenity of the surroundings of
the mercy-seat cannot but communicate itself to the feverish soul of
the suppliant. To draw near to God is to escape from the tumults of
earth and breathe the still, pure air of heaven. He is Himself so calm
and strong, so completely sufficient for every emergency, that we
begin to enter into His rest as soon as we approach His presence. All
unawares, perhaps unsought, the peace of God steals into the heart of
the man who brings his troubles to his Father in prayer.
Then the reflections that accompany prayer tend in the same direction.
In the light of God things begin to assume their true proportions. We
discover that our first fierce outcries were unreasonable, that we had
been simply maddened by pain so that our judgment had been confused.
A psalmist tells us how he understood the course of events which had
previously perplexed him by taking his part in the worship of the
sanctuary, when referring to his persecutors, the prosperous wicked,
he exclaims, "Then understood I their end."[282] In drawing near to
God we learn that vengeance is God's prerogative, that He will repay;
therefore we can venture to be still and leave the vindication of our
cause in His unerring hands. But, further, the very thirst for revenge
is extinguished in the presence of God, and that in several ways: we
see that the passion is wrong in itself; we begin to make some
allowance for the offender; we learn to own kinship with the man while
condemning his wickedness; above all, we awake to a keen consciousness
of our own guilt.
[282] Psalm lxxiii. 17.
This, however, is not a sufficient explanation of the remarkable
change in tone that we have observed in the fifth elegy. The earlier
poems contain prayers, one of which degenerates into a direct
imprecation.[283] If the poet had wholly given himself to prayer in
that case as he has done here very possibly his tone would have been
mollified. Still, we must look to other factors for a complete
explanation. The writer is himself one of the suffering people. In
describing their wrongs he is narrating his own, for he is "the man
who has seen affliction." Thus he has long been a pupil in the school
of adversity. There is no school at which a docile pupil learns so
much. This man has graduated in sorrow. It is not surprising that he
is not just what he was when he matriculated. We must not press the
analogy too far, because, as we have seen, there is good reason to
believe that none of the elegies were written until some time after
the occurrence of the calamities to which they refer, that therefore
they all represent the fruit of long brooding over their theme. And
yet we may allow an interval to have elapsed between the composition
of the earlier ones and that of the poem with which the book closes.
This period of longer continued reflection may have been utilised in
the process of clearing and refining the ideas of the poet. It is not
merely that the lessons of adversity impart fresh knowledge or a truer
way of looking at life and its fortunes. They do the higher work of
education--they develop culture. This, indeed, is the greatest
advantage to be gained by the stern discipline of sorrow. The soul
that has the grace to use it aright is purged and pruned, chastened
and softened, lifted to higher views, and at the same time brought
down from self-esteem to deep humiliation. Here we have a partial
explanation of the mystery of suffering. This poem throws light on the
terrible problem by its very existence, by the spirit and character
which it exhibits. The calmness and self-restraint of the elegy, while
it deepens the pathos of the whole scene, helps us to see as no direct
statement would do, that the chastisement of Israel has not been
inflicted in vain. There must be good even in the awful miseries here
described in such patient language.
[283] Lam. iii. 65.
The connection of shame with sin in this poem is indirect and along a
line which is the reverse of the normal course of experience. The poet
does not pass from sin to shame; he proceeds from the thought of shame
to that of sin. It is the humiliating condition in which the Jews are
found that awakens the idea of the shocking guilt of which this is the
consequence. We often have occasion to acknowledge the fatal
hindrance of pride to the right working of conscience. A lofty
conception of one's own dignity is absolutely inconsistent with a due
feeling of guilt. A man cannot be both elated and cast down at the
same moment. If his elation is sufficiently sustained from within it
will effectually bar the door to the entrance of those humbling
thoughts which cannot but accompany an admission of sin. Therefore
when this barrier is first removed, and the man is thoroughly humbled,
he is open to receive the accusations of conscience. All his
fortifications have been flung down. There is nothing to prevent the
invading army of accusing thoughts from marching straight in and
taking possession of the citadel of his heart.
The elegy takes a turn at the eleventh verse. Up to this point it
describes the state of the people generally in their sufferings from
the siege and its consequences. But now the poet directs attention to
separate classes of people and the different forms of cruelty to which
they are severally subjected in a series of intensely vivid pictures.
We see the awful fate of matrons and maidens, princes and elders,
young men and children. Women are subjected to the vilest abuse,
neither reverence for motherhood nor pity for innocence affording the
least protection. Men of royal blood and noble birth are killed and
their corpses hung up in ignominy--perhaps impaled or crucified in
accordance with the vile Babylonian custom. There is no respect for
age or office. Neither is there any mercy for youth. In the East
grinding is women's work; but, like Samson among the Philistines, the
young men of the Jews are put in charge of the mills. The poet seems
to indicate that they have to carry the heavy mill-stones in the
march of the returning army with the spoils of the sacked city. The
children are set to the slave task of Gibeonites. The Hebrew word here
translated _children_ might stand for young people who had reached
adult years.[284] But in the present case the condition is that of
immature strength, for the burden of wood they are required to bear is
too heavy for them and they stumble under it. This is the
scene--outrage for the girls and women, slaughter for the leading men,
harsh slavery for the children.
[284] v. 13.
Next, passing from these exact details, the poet again describes the
condition of the people more generally, and this time under the image
of an interrupted feast, which is introduced by one more reference to
the changes that have come upon certain classes. The elders are no
longer to be seen at the gate administering the primitive forms of law
entrusted to them. The young men are no longer to be heard performing
on their musical instruments.[285] Still speaking for the people, the
poet declares that the joy of their heart has ceased. Then the aspect
of all life must be changed to them. Instead of the gay pictures of
dancers in their revelry we have the waiting of mourners. The guest at
a feast would be crowned with a garland of flowers. Such was once the
appearance of Jerusalem in her merry festivities. But now the garland
has fallen from her head.[286]
[285] v. 14.
[286] v. 15, 16.
This imagery is a relief after the terrible realism of the immediately
preceding pictures. We cannot bear to look continuously at scenes of
agony, nor is it well that we should attempt to do so, because if we
could succeed it would only be by becoming callous. Then the final
result would be not to excite deeper sympathy, but the very reverse,
and at the same time a distinctly lowering and coarsening effect would
be produced in us. And yet we may not smother up abuses in order to
spare our own feelings. There are evils that must be dragged out to
the light in order that they may be execrated, punished, and
destroyed. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ broke the back of American slavery
before President Lincoln attacked it. Where, then, shall we find the
middle position between repulsive realism and guilty negligence? We
have the model for this in the Biblical treatment of painful subjects.
Scripture never gloats over the details of crimes and vices; yet
Scripture never flinches from describing such things in the plainest
possible terms. If these subjects are ever to become the theme of
art--and art claims the whole of life for her domain--imagination must
carry us away to the secondary effects rather than vivify the hideous
occurrences themselves. The passage before us affords an excellent
illustration of this method. With a few keen, clear strokes the poet
sketches in the exact situation. But he shows no disposition to linger
on ghastly details. Though he does not shrink from setting them before
us in unmistakable truth of form and colour, he hastens to a more
ideal treatment of the subject, and relieves us with the imaginary
picture of the spoiled banquet. Even Spenser sometimes excites a
feeling of positive nausea when he enlarges on some most loathsome
picture. It would be unendurable except that the great Elizabethan
poet has woven the witchery of his dainty fancy into the fabric of his
verse. Thus things can be said in poetry which would be unbearable in
prose, because poetry refines with the aid of imagination the tale
that it does not shrink from telling quite truly and most forcibly.
The change in the poet's style prepares for another effect. While we
are contemplating the exact details of the sufferings of the different
classes of outraged citizens, the insult and cruelty and utter
abomination of these scenes rouse our indignation against the
perpetrators of the foulest crimes, and leave nothing but pity for
their victims. It is not in the presence of such events that the sins
of Israel can be brought home to the people or even called to mind.
The attempt to introduce the thought of them there would seem to be a
piece of heartless officiousness. And yet it is most important to
perceive the connection between all this misery and the previous
misconduct of the Jews which was its real cause. Accordingly
intermediate reflections, while they let the scenes of blood and
terror recede, touch on the general character of the whole in a way
that permits of more heart-searching self-examination. Thus out of the
brooding melancholy of this secondary grief we are led to a distinct
confession of sin on the part of the people.[287]
[287] v. 16.
This is the main result aimed at throughout the whole course of
chastisement. Until it has been reached little good can be effected.
When it is attained the discipline has already wrought its greatest
work. As we saw at the outset, it is the shame of the situation that
awakens a consciousness of guilt. Humbled and penitent, the chastened
people are just in the position at which God can meet them in gracious
pardon. Strictly speaking, perhaps we should say that this is the
position to which the elegist desires to lead them by thus appearing
as their spokesman. And yet we should not make too sharp a distinction
between the poet and his people. The elegy is not a didactic work; the
flavour of its gentle lines would be lost directly they lent
themselves to pedagogic ends. It is only just to take the words before
us quite directly, as they are written in the first person plural, for
a description of the thoughts of at least the group of Jews with whom
their author was associated.
The confession of sin implies in the first place a recognition of its
existence. This is more than a bare, undeniable recollection that the
deed was done. It is possible by a kind of intellectual jugglery even
to come to a virtual denial of this fact in one's own consciousness.
But to admit the deed is not to admit the sin. The casuistry of
self-defence before the court of self-judgment is more subtle than
sound, as every one who has found out his own heart must be aware. In
this matter "the heart is deceitful above all things."[288] Now it is
not difficult to take part in a decorous service where all the
congregation are expected to denominate themselves miserable
offenders, but it is an entirely different thing to retreat into the
silent chamber of our own thought, and there calmly and deliberately,
with full consciousness of what the words mean, confess to ourselves,
"We have sinned." The sinking of heart, the stinging humiliation, the
sense of self-loathing which such an admission produces, are the most
miserable experiences in life. The wretchedness of it all is that
there is no possibility of escaping the accuser when he is self. We
can do nothing but let the shame of the deed burn in the conscience
without any mollifying salve--until the healing of Divine forgiveness
is received.
[288] Jer. xvii. 9.
But, in the second place, confession of sin goes beyond the secret
admission of it by the conscience, as in a case heard _in camerâ_.
Chiefly it is a frank avowal of guilt before God. This is treated by
St. John as an essential condition of forgiveness by God, when He
says, "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive
us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."[289] How far
confession should also be made to our fellow-men is a difficult
question. In bidding us confess our "faults one to another,"[290] St.
James may be simply requiring that when we have done anybody a wrong
we should own it to the injured person. The harsh discipline of the
white sheet is not found in apostolic times, the brotherly spirit of
which is seen in the charity which "covereth a multitude of
sins."[291] And yet, on the other hand, the true penitent will always
shrink from sailing under false colours. Certainly public offences
call for public acknowledgment, and all sin should be so far owned
that whether the details are known or not there is no actual
deception, no hypocritical pretence at a virtue that is not possessed,
no willingness to accept honours that are quite unmerited. Let a man
never pretend to be sinless, nay, let him distinctly own himself a
sinner, and, in particular, let him not deny or excuse any specific
wickedness with which he is justly accused; and then for the rest, "to
his own lord he standeth or falleth."[292]
[289] 1 John i. 9.
[290] James v. 16.
[291] 1 Peter iv. 8.
[292] Rom. xiv. 4.
When the elegist follows his confession of sin with the words, "For
this our heart is faint," etc.,[293] it is plain that he attributes
the sense of failure and impotence to the guilt that has led to the
chastisement. This faintness of heart and the dimness of sight that
accompanies it, like the condition of a swooning person, suggest a
very different situation from that of the hero struggling against a
mountain of difficulties, or that of the martyr triumphing over
torture and death. The humiliation is now accounted for, and the
explanation of it tears to shreds the last rag of pride with which the
fallen people might have attempted to hide it. The abject wretchedness
of the Jews is admitted to be the effect of their own sins. No thought
can be more depressing. The desolation of Mount Zion, where jackals
prowl undisturbed as though it were the wilderness,[294] is a standing
testimony to the sin of Israel. Such is the degradation to which the
people whom the elegist here represents are reduced. It is a condition
of utter helplessness; and yet in it will rise the dawn of hope; for
when man is most empty of self he is most ready to receive God. Thus
it is that from the deepest pit of humiliation there springs the
prayer of trust and hope with which the Book of Lamentations closes.
[293] v. 17.
[294] ver. 18.