ISAIAH ON PROVIDENCE
Even when I was in the act of rolling up the book of Isaiah, very late at
night, it occurred to me that the question “Is there a life after death?”
might be connected with another, “Is there to be hereafter a reign of
righteousness?” I tried to give my mind rest by thinking of other things;
but this second question came back to me again and again both before and
after I retired to rest. Epictetus spoke about “the sceptre and throne
of Diogenes”: but I knew he would not assert that the philosopher’s
“sceptre” implied any present kingdom except over his own mind and the
minds of a small band of Cynics—small in comparison with Stoics and
Epicureans, and nothing at all in comparison with the non-philosophic
myriads. As for a kingdom of righteousness after death in another world,
I was now certain that Epictetus did not expect it; and I began to doubt
whether he expected such a kingdom at any time in this world. If to
believe in Providence means to believe in a God who foresees and prepares
that which is best—I could not understand where Epictetus could find a
basis for such a belief.
With the Jews, it was otherwise. They, I could see, had received a
special training, which made them, more than any other nation known to
me, begin by expecting a reign of righteousness on earth. Beginning thus,
and being largely disappointed, they might be led on to expect a reign of
righteousness in heaven. Their history was like a collection of stories
for children, teeming with what a child might call surprises, but a
prophet judgments—evil, uppermost, suddenly cast down; humble patient
goodness, chastened by pains and trials, lifted up to lordship over its
past oppressors. Examples occurred to me before I slept, and many more
during the night, in my waking moments. I had not noticed them so clearly
when reading the Law consecutively. Now, grouped together, they came
almost as a new revelation—if not of history, at all events of legend,
and of a nation’s thoughts, and of the training through which the Jew
Paul must have passed in his childhood and youth.
First, there was Abraham—Abraham the homeless, going out from unbelievers
to worship the one God, and receiving a promise that he should be the
father of blessing, for multitudes in all the nations of the earth;
Abraham the childless, rewarded with the child of promise; Abraham the
kind and yielding, who gave way to his kinsman Lot, so that the older
patriarch was content with the inferior pastures while the younger chose
the fertile lands of Sodom and Gomorrah; Abraham the father of the one
child that embodied the truth of the one God, offering up that child on
the altar, and receiving him back as if from Hades; Abraham the landless,
without a foot of ground in the land promised to him, buying with money
a cave to bury his family. “Surely,” I said, “the story of Abraham, in
itself, is a compendium of national history not indeed for Rome, but for
a nation of peace (if only the nation could live up to it!) most fit for
training a child to become a citizen in the City of Righteousness!”
If the life of Abraham was full of surprises or paradoxes, so too were
the lives of the other patriarchs and leaders of the nation. Isaac,
“laughter,” laid himself down to die in appearance, but to “laugh”
at death in reality. Esau was the “elder,” yet he was to “serve the
younger.” Jacob was promised lordship over his brother in the future, but
he bowed down before him in the present. The same patriarch, a poor man,
with nothing but his “staff,” became rich and prosperous. Yet, because
he had deceived his father, he in turn was deceived by his children and
sorely tried by their contentions. Through Samuel, the little child,
God rebuked Eli the high priest; and the little one became the prophet
and judge of Israel. David, the despised and youngest of many brethren,
became the greatest of Israel’s kings.
Such was the history of the great men of the ancient Jews—tried, but
triumphing over trial. On the other hand, the history of the mass of the
common people, from the time when they were a family of twelve sons,
shewed them as going astray, lying, quarrelling and rebelling. For this
they were punished by plagues and enemies; then, delivered by judges or
prophets; but only, as it seemed, again to fall away, and to be delivered
again; so that the reader of the histories, apart from the prophecies,
might well suppose that these ebbs and flows were to go on for ever; that
Israel was to be always imperfect, always liable to rebellion; and that
the promise to Abraham was never to be fulfilled. More especially might a
reader of the histories anticipate this when he saw the great empires of
the east, Assyria and Babylon, leading the tribes away into captivity and
destroying Jerusalem and the Temple.
Such were my thoughts by night concerning the Law and the Histories
of Israel. Resuming the study of the prophecy early next morning, I
perceived that in the sins and backslidings of the people there was
yet another and far deeper illustration of what might be called “the
law of paradoxes.” Not only came prosperity out of adversity but also
righteousness out of sin, and out of punishment promise. Some of
Isaiah’s most comforting prophecies arose from the invasion of Israel
by Assyria. In this connexion there came a promise about a “child” that
was to be “born,” of whom it was said “the government shall be upon his
shoulder.” These things reminded me of passages in the poems, where the
poet—musing on the chastisements and deliverances that followed the sins
of Israel—exclaims “His mercy endureth for ever,” or “I remember the days
of old, I meditate on all thy doings.” In the history of Greece and Rome
I could find comparatively few stories of such “doings.” How indeed could
I reasonably expect them? Romans and Greeks worship many Gods, but only
one Father of Gods and men. Athens might claim Athene, and other cities
might have their special patrons among the Gods. But how could it be
supposed that the Father of Gods and men would make any one nation His
peculiar care? Virgil says that Venus was on the side of the future Rome,
and that Jupiter favoured Venus; but Juno intervenes for Carthage. Then
Jupiter has to compromise between Juno and Venus, or to conciliate Juno
by laying the blame on fate! “How different,” I exclaimed, “all this is
from the Hebrew egotism that represents the one God as continually saying
to Israel ‘Thee have I chosen’!”
Yet I had hardly uttered the word “egotism” before I felt inclined to
qualify it, adding, “But it is not ‘egotism’ from Paul’s point of view.”
For indeed Paul seemed to think that God chose Abraham, not for Abraham’s
own sake—or at all events not merely for Abraham’s own sake—but for the
sake of “all the nations of the earth,” to bring light and truth to
them. Epictetus spoke of Diogenes as “bearing on himself the orb of the
world’s vast cares.” Somewhat similarly—when I took up the Law of the
Jews to revise the thoughts that had come to me in the night—I found the
Law describing the life of Abraham the friend of God. For I did not find
Abraham blessed or happy—as the world would use the terms “blessing” and
“happiness.”
Abraham begins as a homeless wanderer, going forth from his kindred at
the bidding of the one true God; and a homeless wanderer he remains
to the end. He is a father of kings but no king himself, not even a
landowner! He has to buy with money land enough to bury his dead! His
life is one of intercession as well as concession. Abraham intercedes
for the dwellers in Sodom and Gomorrah, feeling it a painful thing that
even a few righteous should suffer with the many. Once indeed Abraham
becomes a soldier. But it is not for himself. It is for his kinsman and
for the rescue of captives. Abraham makes himself a servant, waiting at
table upon his guests. Abraham offers to God the life of his only son.
If Paul was right, and if the children of Abraham mean the men that
do such things as these in such a spirit as this, and if “the seed of
Abraham” is the man that incarnates this spirit, then, I thought, there
was perhaps no egotism when the prophet of Israel represented God as
saying to the descendant of Abraham, “Thou, Israel, my servant, Jacob
whom I have chosen, the seed of Abraham my friend.” For it may mean
“I have not chosen the rich, I have not chosen the great and strong.
I have chosen the good and kind and truthful and courageous; him only
have I chosen.” And soon afterwards God says, “I have chosen thee in the
furnace of affliction,” that is to say, “I have not chosen thee to make
thee selfishly happy and prosperous, but to make thee my servant, like
Abraham, for the service of all the world.”
The same truth appeared to apply to Moses, who, next to Abraham, might
be called the greatest of the “servants of the Lord.” Even from the
cradle he was in peril of death. He delivered his countrymen, as it
were, against their will. The burden of their rebellions pressed on him
through his life, and caused him to be cut off from the land of promise
in the moment of his death. He saw it from afar off but was not allowed
to enter it. He was prohibited because of his sin; and his sin fell upon
him because his people sinned. “The Lord was wroth with me,” said Moses,
“for your sakes.” That was the greatest burden of all. With the lives of
Abraham and Moses before me, it seemed that the greatest servants were
also the greatest sufferers.
Having this fresh light, I turned again to the description of the
Suffering Servant in Isaiah. Did the prophet mean some particular
prince of the house of David who was actually “chosen in the furnace of
affliction” in order to deliver Israel? Or did he mean Israel itself,
scattered through the world and afflicted in order that it might deliver
the world? Plato modelled his Republic in the form of a man: had Isaiah
any such double meaning? Did he predict a second David delivering sinful
Israel, and also a purified Israel delivering a sinful world? Was he
carried, so to speak, by the past into the future? That is to say, had
he in mind some prince actually tortured and imprisoned, and as good as
dead, for the sake of the people, and did the prophet regard this prince
as destined to be raised up from the darkness of the prison house and to
reign on earth? Or else was the prince, though actually killed, destined
to be raised up and to reign after death in his own person, or to reign
in the person of his descendants?
About all these questions I felt that it was not for me to judge. I did
not know enough about the history of the people and the language of their
poets and prophets. But there remained with me this general truth, as
being not only at the bottom of this prophecy, but also pervading the
history of Israel, namely, that in order to make a great nation, great
men must die for its sake. And I began to conceive a possibility that the
greatest of all men, some real “son of Abraham”—I mean some spiritual
son of Abraham, not necessarily a Jew—might arise in the history of the
world, who might be willing to die not for one nation alone but for all
the nations of the empire. But how? And against what enemies? As soon
as I asked myself these questions, the conception faded away. I thought
of Nero enthroned in Rome, and of the Beast enthroned in the heart of
man. Against either of these foes I did not understand how the death of
any “son of Abraham,” or “servant of God,” could avail. How could such a
Servant “divide the spoils of the strong, because his soul was delivered
over to death”? This was beyond me.
For the rest, Isaiah appeared to me to carry on throughout the book
of his prophecies that thread of unexpectedness about which I spoke
above—I mean, that what prophets (foreseeing them) call judgments, men
of the world (not foreseeing) call surprises. Yes, and even prophets
and righteous men—not foreseeing enough—often lift up their hands in
amazement, exclaiming, “This hath God wrought!” or “The stone that the
builders rejected hath become the headstone of the corner!” But there was
a dark as well as a bright side in these surprises. The disappointments
were often most strange. For example, Isaiah saw a vision of the
Lord “high and lifted up.” But with what result? The prophet himself
was straightway cast down with the thought of being “unclean.” Even
afterwards, when his lips had been cleansed with the coal from off the
altar so that he might deliver God’s message, the message was, “Hear ye,
indeed, but understand not!”—because his warning was to be rejected.
And so it was throughout, paradox on paradox! Israel was “chosen” in
one sentence, “backsliding” in the next. The “despised and rejected”
servant was to be “lifted up.” The transgressions of the world were to be
taken away by a deliverer, who was to be “reckoned among transgressors.”
Sometimes, as if despairing of the noble and learned among his own
people, the prophet seemed to appeal to the poor and simple, according to
the words of David, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou
ordained strength!” Sometimes he even seemed to turn away from Israel
itself—at all events from the majority of the nation—to the remnant, and
to the pious among other nations, as though they, yes, even foreigners,
might receive the fulfilment of the promise made to the seed of Abraham!
Amid all these (to me) perplexing paradoxes, one thing was
clear—constituting a great difference between Isaiah and Epictetus. The
former saw God in history. The latter did not. Epictetus said (as I have
shewn in a previous chapter) that, up to the time of death, man can
always find peace by following the “logos” within himself during life;
after death he ceases to exist. “Bearing these things in mind,” said he,
“and seeing the sun and moon and stars, and enjoying the earth and sea,
man is not deserted any more than unhelped.” These words now returned
to my mind, and I perceived the force of what they did _not_ say. They
said that God was to be seen in the sun and moon and stars; but they did
_not_ say that He was to be seen where Isaiah saw Him, in the nations of
the earth controlled by the Supreme. It is true that Isaiah, too—like
Epictetus—bade his readers look up to the stars as witnesses to God. But
Isaiah seemed to me to reckon men superior to stars.
David certainly did so. David had “considered” all the glories of the
visible heaven. Yet he counted them inferior to “man,” who was “made
but little lower than God,” and inferior to the “son of man,” who had
received “dominion” over God’s works. In the same spirit, Isaiah, as
it seemed to me, spoke of the Maker of the heavenly bodies as being
adorable, not because He had made them multitudinous and bright, but
because He led them like a flock—as though even a star might wander but
for the kindness of the divine Shepherd. Moreover God seemed to him to
be controlling the mighty powers of the heaven for the service of man,
“_Behold, the Lord, the Lord, He cometh with strength, and His arm with
lordship. Behold, His reward is with Him, and His work before Him. As a
shepherd shall He shepherd His sheep, and with His arm He shall gather
the lambs, and encourage those that are with young. Who measured out the
water with His hand, and the heaven with a span, and all the earth with
His fingers? Who established the mountains by measure and the valleys
with a scale? Who hath known the mind of the Lord and who hath become His
fellow counsellor so as to instruct Him?_”
Thus, according to the prophet, there was to be a great advent in which
God was to “come” with “reward.” He predicted a future “shepherding” of
the “sheep” and “gathering” of the “lambs,” corresponding to the past
“measuring” of the “heaven.” According to the philosopher there was to
be no such future. All things were to go round and round. Instead of
“sheep” or “lambs,” bubbles in an eddy seemed a more appropriate metaphor
to describe the results of human life in accordance with the general
tendency of Epictetian doctrine.