'While we look not at the things which are seen, but
at the things which are not seen.'--2 COR. iv. 18.
Men may be said to be divided into two classes, materialists and
idealists, in the widest sense of those two words. The mass care for,
and are occupied by, and regard as really solid good, those goods
which can be touched and enjoyed by sense. The minority--students,
thinkers, men of ideas, moralists, and the like--believe in, and care
for, impalpable spiritual riches. Everybody admits that the latter
class is distinctly the higher. Now it is from no disregard to the
importance and reality of that broad distinction that I insist, to
begin with, that it is not the antithesis which is in the Apostle's
mind here. His notion of 'the things that are seen' and 'the things
that are not seen' is a much grander and wider one than that. By 'the
things that are seen' he means the whole of this visible world, with
all its circumstances and relations, and by 'the things that are not
seen' he means the realities beyond the stars.
He means the same thing that we mean when we talk in a much less true
and impressive contrast about the present and the future. To him the
'things that are not seen' are present instead of being, as we weakly
and foolishly christen them, 'the future state.' And it makes all the
difference whether we think of that august realm as lying far away
ahead of us, or whether we feel that it is, as it is, in very deed,
all round about us, and pressing in upon us, only that 'the
veil'--that is to say, our 'flesh'--has come between us and it. Do
not habitually think of these two sets of objects according to that
misleading distinction 'present' and 'future,' but think of them
rather as 'the things that are seen,' and 'the things that are not
seen.'
I. Now, first, I wish to say a word or two about what such a look
will do for us.
Paul's notion is, as you will see if you look at the context, that if
we want to understand the visible, or to get the highest good out of
the things that are seen, we must bring into the field of vision 'the
things that are not seen.' The case with which he is dealing is that
of a man in trouble. He talks about light affliction which is but for
a moment, working out a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory, 'while we look at the things which are not seen.' But the
principle on which that statement is made, of course, has its widest
application to all sorts and conditions of human life.
And the thought that emerges from it directly is that only when we
take the 'things that are not seen' into account, and make them the
standard and the scale by which we judge all things, do we understand
'the things that are seen.' That triumphant paradox of the Apostle's
about the heavy burdens that pressed upon him and his brethren,
lifelong as these burdens were, which yet he calls 'light' and 'but
for a moment' is possible only when we open the shutter of the
dungeon which we fancied was the whole universe, and look out on to
the fair land that stretches beyond. A man who has seen the Himalayas
will not be much overwhelmed by the height of Helvellyn. They who
look out into the eternities have the true measuring rod and standard
by which to estimate the duration and intensity of the things that
are present. We are all tempted to do as villagers in some little
hamlet do--think that their small local affairs are the world's
affairs, and mighty, until they have been up to London and seen the
scale of things there. If you and I would let the steady light of
Eternity, and the sustaining pressure of the 'exceeding weight of
glory' pour into our minds, we should carry with us a standard which
would bring down the greatness, dwindle the duration, lighten the
pressure, of the most crushing sorrow, and would set in its true
dimensions everything that is here. It is for want of that that we go
on as we do, calculating wrongly what are the great things and what
are the small things. When, like some of those prisoners in the
Inquisition, the heavy iron weights are laid upon our half-crushed
hearts, we are tempted to shriek, 'Oh, these will be my death!'
instead of taking in that great vision which, as it makes all earthly
riches dross, so it makes all crushing burdens and blows of sorrow
light as a feather.
But, on the other hand, do not let us forget that this same standard
which thus dwindles, also magnifies the small, and in a very solemn
sense, makes eternal the else fleeting things of this life. For there
is nothing that makes this present existence of ours so utterly
contemptible, insignificant, and transitory, as to block out of our
sight its connection with Eternity. And there is nothing which so
lifts the commonplace into the solemn, and invests with everlasting
and tremendous importance everything that a man does here, as to feel
that it all tells on his condition away beyond there. The shafting is
on this side of the wall, but the work that it does is through the
wall there, in the other chamber; and you do not understand the
cranks and the wheels here unless you know that they go through the
partition and are doing something there beyond. If you shut out
Eternity from our life in time, then it is an inexplicable riddle;
and I, for my part, would venture to say that in that case, the men
who answer the question, 'Is life worth living?' with a distinct
negative, are wise. It is a tale told by an idiot, 'full of sound and
fury, signifying nothing,' unless the light of 'the things not seen'
flashes and flares in upon it.
Further, this look of which my text speaks is the condition on which
Time prepares for Eternity.
The Apostle is speaking about the effect of affliction in making
ready for us an eternal weight of glory, and he says that is done
while, or on condition that during the suffering, we are looking
steadfastly towards the 'things that are not seen.' But no outward
circumstances or events can prepare a weight of glory for us
hereafter, unless they prepare us for the glory. Affliction works for
us that blessed result, in the measure in which it fits us for that
result. And so you will find that, only a verse or two after my text,
Paul, using the same very significant and emphatic verb, writes
inverting the order of things, and says 'He that hath wrought _us
for_ the self-same thing is God.' So that working the thing for us,
and working us for the thing, are one and the same process. Or, to
put it into plain English, our various duties and circumstances here
will prepare the glory of Eternity for us if they prepare us for the
glory of Eternity. But only in the measure in which these outward
things do thus shape and mould our characters do they work out for us
'an exceeding weight of glory.'
It is often thought that a man has been so miserable here that God is
sure to give him future blessedness to recompense him. Well! 'that
depends.' If he has used his miserableness as he will use it when he
lets the light of 'the things not seen' in upon it, then, certainly,
it will work out for him the blessed results. But if he does not,
then, as certainly, it will not. Whilst there are many ways by which
character is hammered and moulded and shaped into that which is fit
to be clothed upon with the glory that is yonder, one of the foremost
of these is the passing through things temporal with a continual
regard to the things that are eternal. If you want to understand
to-day you must bring Eternity into the account, and if you want to
use to-day you must use it with the light of the eternal world full
upon it. The sum of it all is, brethren, that the things seen cannot
be estimated in their true character, unless they are regarded in
immediate connection with the things that are unseen; and that the
things seen will only prepare an eternal weight of glory for us when
they prepare us for an eternal weight of glory.
II. And so, I note that this look at the things not seen is only
possible through Jesus Christ.
He is the only window which opens out and gives the vision of that
far-off land. I, for my part, believe that, if I might use such a
metaphor, He is the Columbus of the New World. Men believed, and
argued, and doubted about the existence of it across the seas there,
until a man went, and came back again, and then went to found a new
city yonder. And men hoped for immortality, and believed after a
fashion--some of them--in a future life, and dreaded that it might be
true, and discussed and debated whether it was, but doubt clouded all
minds, until One, our Brother, went away into the darkness, and came
back again, in most respects as He had gone, and then departed once
more to make ready a city in which all who love Him should finally
dwell, and to which you and I may be sure that we shall emigrate. It
is only in Jesus Christ that the look which my text enjoins is
possible.
For not only has He given a certitude so that we need now not to say
'We think, we hope, we fear, we are pretty well sure, that there must
be a life beyond,' but we can say 'We know.' Not only has He done
this, but also in Him and His life of glory at God's right hand in
heaven, is summed up all that we really can know about that future.
We look into the darkness in vain; we look at Him, and, our
knowledge, though limited, is blessed. All other adumbrations of a
life beyond must necessarily be cast into the metaphorical forms or
the negative symbols in which the New Testament abounds. We may speak
of golden pavements, and thrones, and harps, and the like. We may
say: 'No night there, no sighing, nor weeping, no burdened hearts, no
toil, no pain, for the former things are passed away.' But a future
life which is all described in metaphors, and a future life of which
we know only that it is the negation of the disagreeables and
limitations of the present, is but a poor affair. Here is the positive
truth, 'To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with Me on My
throne.' 'We shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.' And
beyond that nearness to Christ, blessed communion with Christ,
likeness to Christ, royalty derived from Christ, I think we neither
know nor need to know anything about that life.
Not only is He our sole medium of knowledge and Himself the
revelation of our heaven, but it is only by Him that man's thoughts
and desires are drawn to, and find themselves at home in, that
tremendous thought of immortality. I know not how it may be with you,
but I am not ashamed to confess that to me the idea of eternal
continuance of my conscious being is an awful thought, rather
depressing and bewildering than delighting and attractive. I, for my
part, do not believe that men generally do grapple to their hearts,
with any gratitude or joy, that solemn belief of immortal life unless
they feel that it is life with, and in, and like, Jesus Christ. 'To
depart' is dreary, and it is only when we can say 'and to be with
Christ' that it becomes distinctly 'far better.' He is, if I may so
say, at once telescope and star. By Him we see Him; we see, seeing
Him, that the things that are unseen all cluster round Himself and
become blessed.
III. And now, lastly, this look should be habitual with all Christian
people.
Paul takes it for granted that every Christian man is, as the
habitual direction of his thoughts, looking towards those 'things
that are not seen.' The original shows that even more distinctly than
our translation, but our translation shows it plainly enough. He does
not say 'works for us an exceeding weight of glory _for_,' but
_'while'_ we look, as if it were a matter of course. He took it for
granted as to these Corinthians. I wonder if he would be warranted in
taking it for granted about us?
Note what sort of a look it is which produces these blessed effects.
The word which the Apostle employs here is a more pointed one than
the ordinary one for 'seeing.' It is translated in other places in
the New Testament, _'Mark'_ them which walk so as ye have us for
an ensample, and the like. And it implies a concentrated, protracted
effort and interested gaze. A man, standing on the deck of a ship,
casts a languid eye for a moment out on to the horizon, and sees
nothing. A keen-eyed sailor by his side shades his eyes with his
hand, and shuts out cross-lights, and looks, and peers, and keeps his
eyes steady, and he sees the filmy outline of the mountain land. If
you look for a minute, not much caring whether you see anything or
not, and then turn away, and get your eye dazzled with all those
vulgar, crude, high colours round about you here on earth, it is very
little that you will see of 'the things that are not seen.'
Concentrated attention, and a steadfast look, are wanted to make the
invisible visible. You have to alter the focus of your eye if you are
to see the thing that is afar off.
There has to be a positive shutting out of all other things, as is
emphatically taught in the text by putting first the not looking at
'the things that are seen.' Here they are pressing in upon our
eyeballs, all round us, insisting on being looked at, and unless
we resolutely avert our eyes, we shall not see anything else. They
monopolise us unless we resist the intrusive appeals that they make
to us. We are like men down in some fertile valley, surrounded by
rich vegetation, but seeing nothing beyond the green sides of the
glen. We have to go up to the hill-top if we are to look out over the
flashing ocean, and behold afar off the towers of the mother city
across the restless waves. Brethren, unless you shut out the world
you will never see the things that are not seen.
Now, as I have said, the Apostle regards this conscious effort at
bringing ourselves into touch, in mind and heart and faith, with 'the
things that are not seen' as being a habitual characteristic of
Christian men. I am very much afraid that the present generation of
Christian people do not, in anything like the degree in which they
should, recreate and strengthen themselves with the contemplation
which he here recommends. It seems to me, for instance, that we do
not hear nearly as much in pulpits about the life beyond the grave as
we used to do when I was a boy. And, though I confess I speak from
limited knowledge, it seems to me that these great motives which lie
in the thought of Eternity and our place there, are by no means as
prominent in the minds of the Christian people of this generation as
they used to be. Partly, I suppose, that arises from the wholesome
emphasis which has been given of late years to the present day, and
this-side-the grave effects of Christianity, upon character and life.
Partly it arises, I think, from the half-consciousness of being
surrounded by an atmosphere of scepticism and unbelief as to a future
life, and from the most unwise, inexpedient, and cowardly yielding to
the temptation to say very little about the distinctive features of
Christianity, and to dwell rather upon those which are sure to be
recognised by even unbelieving people. And it comes, too, from the
lack of faith, which, again, it tends mightily to increase.
Oh, dear brethren! our consciences tell us what different people we
should be if habitually there shone before us that great, solemn
issue to which we are all tending. Variations in the atmosphere there
will always be, and sometimes the distant outlines will be clearer
and sharper than at others, and the colours will shine out more
distinctly. But surely it should not be that our vision of the
Eternal should be like the vision that dwellers amongst the mountains
have of the summits. They say that some of the great peaks of the
world are swathed in mist all day long, and that only for a few
moments in the morning, or for a brief space in the evening, does the
solemn summit gleam rosy in the light. And that, I am afraid, is very
much like the degree in which most of us look at 'the things that are
not seen' and so we are feeble, and we do not understand 'the things
that are not seen'; and we do not get the good out of them.
Dear brethren, let us turn away our eyes from the gauds that we can
see, and open the eyes of our spirits on the things that are, the
things where Christ is, sitting at the right hand of God. Surely,
surely, it is madness that when two sets of objects are before us,
the one lasting for a moment, and then dying down into black
nothingness, and the other shining on for ever; and when our 'look'
settles whether we shall share the fate of the one or of the other,
we should choose to gaze with all our eyes and hearts at the
perishable and turn away from the permanent. Surely, if it is true
that the things which are seen are temporal, common-sense, and a
reasonable regard for our own well-being, bid us look at the eternal
'things which are not seen,' since only so can the light and the
momentary afflictions, joys, sorrows, or circumstances, work out for
us, and work us for 'a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory.'