The patriarch Job experienced the darkness and mystery of sorrow
when he thus spoke:--"Know now that God hath overthrown me, and hath
compassed me with his net. Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not
heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment. He hath fenced up my
way that I cannot pass, and he hath set darkness in my paths. He hath
stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. He hath
destroyed me on every side, and I am gone; and mine hope hath he
removed like a tree." "Even to-day is my complaint bitter; my stroke
is heavier than my groaning. O that I knew where I might find him!
that I might come even to his seat!" "Behold, I go forward, but he is
not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him: on the left hand,
where he doth work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on the
right hand, that I cannot see him. But he knoweth the way that I take:
when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold."
The sweet singer of Israel sung in darkness when he said:--"My heart
is sore pained within me; and the terrors of death are fallen upon
me. Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath
overwhelmed me. And I said, O that I had wings like a dove! for then
would I fly away, and be at rest." "Thou hast laid me in the lowest
pit, in darkness, in the deeps. Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and
thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. Thou hast put away mine
acquaintance far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them:
I am shut up, and I cannot come forth."
The prophet Jeremiah cried out of the depths of mysterious sorrow when
he poured forth these lamentations:--"I am the man that hath seen
affliction by the rod of his wrath. He hath led me, and brought me
into darkness, but not into light. Surely against me is he turned;
he turneth his hand against me all the day." "He hath set me in dark
places, as they that be dead of old. He hath hedged me about, that I
cannot get out; he hath made my chain heavy." "And thou hast removed
my soul far off from peace: I forgat prosperity. And I said, My
strength and my hope is perished from the Lord: remembering mine
affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall. My soul hath them
still in remembrance, and is humbled in me."
And did not our blessed Lord himself experience, as a man, the mystery
of sorrow when he cried in Gethsemane, "If it be possible, let this
cup pass from me;" and when, during that "hour and power of darkness"
on the cross, He exclaimed, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken
me?"
If, then, our Father visits us with any sorrow which is to us dark and
mysterious, let us "not think it strange concerning the fiery trial
which is to try us, as if some strange thing happened to us." Let us
rather gratefully remember, that ever since our Lord has ascended up
on high, and given us His Spirit to teach us and to abide with us for
ever, and for our profit has recorded in His holy Word not only His
acts, but also His _ways_ towards the children of men, we are enabled
to see much, light piercing our greatest darkness and sorrow, and so
to know God as to strengthen our faith in His wisdom and love.
I do not know any narrative in the whole Word of God which at once
reveals so much of this darkness and light--of the mystery of sorrow
for a time, and the solution of the mystery afterwards--as that of the
sickness, death, and resurrection of Lazarus.
That family in Bethany, we know, consisted of Lazarus and his sisters,
Martha and Mary. They were poor, and unknown to the great and busy
world; but their riches and rank in the sight of the ministering
angels were great indeed, for Jesus "loved them." This was the charter
of the grandest inheritance. But though loved by Jesus, that love did
not hinder them from being visited by a sudden affliction, and plunged
for a while into deepest gloom. We are able in spirit to cross their
lowly threshold, and to understand all that took place in that humble
home: for human hearts and human sorrows are the same in every age.
Lazarus, the head of the house, is laid on a bed of sickness. We need
no details to enable all who have watched the progress of disease in
the beloved member of a family--and who has been exempted from this
anxiety?--to realise how the symptoms of illness, treated at first
perhaps lightly, would become more serious, then alarming, until
foreboding thoughts of death pained every tender affection; and we can
understand how advice would be asked from kind neighbours, and every
possible remedy applied. But in vain! The sufferer gets worse, and
the signs of approaching dissolution rapidly succeed in delirium,
prostration of strength, or altered features, until the chill of
hopelessness creeps over the hearts of the sisters, and hot tears fill
their watching eyes, and prayers tremble upon their pale lips, as in
silence they wait for the dread hour of death to their dear one! We
see it all!
But ere this last moment was reached by Martha and Mary, they are
full of hope that it may be averted, for they have a secret source of
relief in a Physician of body and soul. So long as they have Jesus
with them, they cannot despair. He is not, however, in Bethany, but at
Bethabara beyond the Jordan, a day's journey off. Yet they can send
for Him; and they accordingly do so, with this simple message,
"Lazarus, whom thou lovest, is sick." It is enough. There is not a
word of their love, or of the love of Lazarus to Him. The appeal is to
His own heart. No request is proffered. Everything is left to Himself.
Did they not, however, feel assured that Jesus would manifest His love
to them in the way which seemed to _them_ the best way,--nay, the one
way only by which they could receive comfort, and be relieved from
their anxiety and sorrow,--and that was by delivering Lazarus from
sickness and death? For they could not but recall at that moment the
many instances in which Jesus had displayed His power and love during
the three years He had lived amidst the sorrowing and suffering in
Judea; how unwearied His goodness had ever been; how "multitudes" had
come to Him, and "He healed them all;" how health had flowed from His
hands and His lips, and from His _very_ garments; how He had showered
down His blessings upon Gentile as well as Jew, upon those who were
aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and were accounted as "dogs;"
how He had healed by merely speaking a word at a distance, and even
anticipated prayer, by restoring a dead son to his widowed mother, who
had never asked or expected such a blessing. And now! will He refuse
to help His own beloved friend? Shall strangers, heathen, publicans
and sinners, be promptly heard and answered, and Lazarus whom He loved
forgotten? Impossible! The healing word must be spoken, or Jesus
himself will come and manifest Himself as mighty to save!
Who can doubt but that such were the anticipations of Martha and
Mary, when they sent in their distress the message to their Lord and
Friend--"Lazarus, whom thou lovest, is sick?"
The messenger has departed. With what anxiety must they have measured
out the time within which it was possible for Jesus to receive the
intelligence. They who have sent far away for a physician in a
critical case, when every minute was precious, can sympathise with
their anxiety. Time passes: has the Saviour yet received the tidings
of their grief? Probably not, for there is no improvement in Lazarus.
The healing word has not been spoken. Time passes: now He must have
heard! Yet Lazarus is no better. Time passes: and the messenger has
returned, but without Jesus! Yet surely not without some message of
consolation? some hope held out of relief? He brings neither! Jesus
had said, indeed, that this sickness was not unto death, or rather,
was "unto death only for the glory of God, that the Son of God might
be glorified thereby." But what means this? Does it mean that Lazarus
was to die? Has Jesus, then, actually refused to aid them? Though He
did not promise to come, or had not spoken the word of healing, He
must surely do either I It cannot be, no it _cannot_ be, that He will
desert them, or leave them alone in this trial! "Jesus, tarry not!"
might have been their wailing cry: "Lazarus whom thou lovedst is
sinking fast, and soon all will be over with him. Friends, neighbours,
look along the road, watch the brow of that distant hill, look along
that valley, and see if there are any signs of His coming?"
Alas! 'tis all in vain Lazarus is dead! And beside that silent body
the two sisters are breaking their hearts. Life and death, faith
and unbelief, are struggling terribly for the mastery, and strange
thoughts of Christ flit across their minds like storm-clouds athwart
the sun. One brother is gone, the other has not come. The one dearly
loved them; the other!--they had believed in Jesus as the Messiah:
they had loved Him with reverent and deep affection, they had
worshipped--and now!--God of Abraham, forsake us not utterly! Our
fathers trusted Thee, and were not put to shame! Oh, deliver our feet
from falling, and our souls from going down to the pit! Lord, help our
unbelief!
In some such form as this the storm of doubt and anguish must have
torn the minds of those mourners. But the storm is not yet over; the
deepest darkness has not yet come. Their brother is dead. Death
with his marks, which once seen can never be mistaken, stamps every
lineament of that well-known countenance. It is death's colour on the
cheek; death's cold stiffness in the limbs; and no hand but his could
so close those eyes and make rigid those lips. There is no swoon here!
Swathe him then in the garments of the grave; make ready for the
funeral; let him be buried for ever out of sight; follow him to the
ancestral tomb, and let the other household dead be remembered, and
the other sad processions from the home of the living to the home of
the lost and gone be recalled, and think that as they never returned,
so never can he. Lay the body gently down beside those who have been
long sleeping there; look at it; remember the past since childhood;
weep and say farewell; return, Martha and Mary, with wrung hearts to
your home, and see the empty room and listen for a voice that is no
more, and experience a second death in the emptiness, the silence of
this changed abode, and let the heaviest burden of all be borne, the
deepest sorrow of all be endured--_the doubt of a Saviour's love!_
Yes, that terrible agony of doubt was there. Other friends came to
sympathise with them, and to be present with them at the funeral; but
this Friend was absent, and did not send even one comforting message!
Of what avail is His coming now? for Lazarus has been dead four days,
and corruption is already doing its foul work on his body. Here is
"darkness that might be felt!"
Would that we could feel how real all this mysterious sorrow must have
been to those sisters--_our_ sisters, with our hearts, affections, and
sympathies--that so we may be the more prepared to receive the blessed
teaching which this narrative is designed to afford, and have our
faith strengthened by seeing how the darkness and perplexity which
belong so often to God's providential dealings towards us, may be
caused by the deepest workings of that very love which we do not for a
time see, and therefore may in our blindness and weakness for a time
doubt.
But we must now look at the other portion of this history, which
interprets the one we have been considering, and reveals the mind and
ways of Jesus, now, as then, to His sorrowing friends.
We read that "_when_ Jesus heard that Lazarus was sick," "he abode two
days still in the same place where he then was." But His thoughts and
His heart were all the while in Bethany. He saw all that was taking
place there. He was cognisant of every groan and tear; yet He did
nothing to prevent the progress of the disease, or to lessen the
intensity of the sorrow. At the very moment when the sisters watch
their brother's last breath, Jesus "said unto them plainly, Lazarus is
dead,"
Let us inquire, then, whether we can discover any reasons which could
have induced our Lord thus to prolong His stay at Bethabara, and to
absent Himself from Bethany. What means this deep calm and quiet at
such a time beside the troubled waters of the Jordan?
Now, we must ever remember that the grand end of all our Lord did,
was that "God might be glorified thereby,"--that the character of the
Father might be revealed in the fullest possible manner in and by
Jesus the Son. But in order that this, in the circumstances in which
He was then placed, might be accomplished, He had many things to
consider; many complex interests pertaining to the kingdom of God to
weigh and to reconcile, so as to bring out of them all glory to God in
the highest, with good-will to man.
(_a._) Jesus had in the first place to consider the _good_ of His
beloved _friends in Bethany_. _They_ were thinking probably of their
own _comfort only_, and of that too as coming but in one way, by the
deliverance of Lazarus from sickness or death. But there is something
of more importance to immortal beings than mere comfort. Love to souls
is a very different sentiment, and manifested in a very different
manner, than love to mere animals. To get quit of grief; to have tears
dried up and smiles restored; to be delivered from all anxiety, and
relieved from the heavy burden of sorrow, never mind _how_,--this is
surely not the highest end which one who, wisely and truly loved,
would seek for his brother in adversity? The highest, the best,
the enduring and eternal interests of the sufferer must _first_ be
considered. His comfort, doubtless, cannot be overlooked, but then
it must be such comfort as God can sympathise with and rejoice in; a
comfort, therefore, which is in harmony with true spiritual life, and
which will strengthen that life unto life eternal. Every other comfort
is a delusion, a cheating of the soul, a laughter that must end at
last in the experience of a deeper sorrow than before. He who bids
us seek _first_ the kingdom of God and His righteousness, cannot
discipline us or aid us to seek any lower good first, because He loves
our true and highest good most. Jesus had therefore to consider how He
could bring true _good_, and therefore true comfort in the end, out
of this sickness and death, to Martha, Mary, and also to Lazarus. To
restore the brother to his sisters--was this best for _them_, taking
into account every circumstance of their history within and without?
To restore Lazarus to life--to a world of sin and temptation, again to
die--was this the best for _him_? These were solemn questions, which
Divine love and wisdom alone could answer.
(_b._) But Jesus had to consider the good of _His disciples._ For
years these simple-minded men had followed Him, and had been educating
by Him to become the teachers of the world. HOW then shall this event
be best turned to account for the strengthening of their faith, for
the enlarging of their spiritual vision of God's glory, as revealed by
His Son? But Jesus remembered them also: "I am glad," He said, "for
_your_ sakes that I was not there, to the intent that ye may believe."
(_c._) Beyond the inner circle of His friends in Bethany and His
more immediate followers, there was the multitude of poor, ignorant,
fanatical, and _unbelieving Jews_--the wandering sheep, many of whom,
had to be gathered into the fold of this the Good Shepherd. Jesus
had their interests also at heart, as is evident from His prayer
subsequently at the tomb of Lazarus: "_Because of the people_ which
stand by I said it, that _they_ may believe that thou hast sent me."
(_d._) Nor must we, in contemplating the many objects of love which
occupied the thoughts of the Saviour, forget how _intimately connected
the raising of Lazarus was with His own death_. That last great
miracle of Divine power and love--almost, if not His last on
earth--was to mark the beginning of His own deepest humiliation and
sorrow. The hatred of the Jews was at this time so intense, that
Thomas was amazed that He should hazard a journey to a place so near
Jerusalem as was Bethany. "The Jews of late sought to stone thee; and
goest thou thither again?" And so dangerous did this journey seem,
that while bravely resolving to accompany Him, Thomas said, "Let
us also go, that we may die with him." But this hatred was to be
intensified by the display of Christ's glory at the tomb of Lazarus;
for we read that "from _that_ day forth they took counsel to put Him
to death." The opening of the tomb to bring Lazarus forth was thus
the opening of His own to descend thither as "crucified, dead, and
buried." The gratitude of Mary for having her brother restored was
soon to be unconsciously expressed by her anointing his mighty
Restorer for His own burial. No wonder that Jesus paused ere He took
this last step which intervened between Himself and the death which
should end His work and mission upon earth.
(_e._) And, as including all these considerations and many more, _His
own glory_ as the Divine Son of God was involved in what was to take
place at Bethany. And this, again, involved the destinies of the human
race, and the good and comfort of the Church throughout coming ages.
Whatever became of Martha or Mary or Lazarus,--though the sisters
should weep out their little day of life, and though their brother's
sleep should be unbroken till the resurrection morning,--what was
all this to the revealing of Jesus as the Saviour of men, and as
the "resurrection and the life" of human bodies and of human souls?
Inconceivably less in proportion than are the interests of one person
to those of the whole universe! And thus you see that while those
humble mourners, in the weakness of the flesh, and in their earthly
short-sightedness, were thinking only of themselves, Jesus the Saviour
of mankind had to think of many persons and of many things, so that
every interest might be attended to, and the good of the whole kingdom
of God be remembered, while not a hair on the head of Martha, Mary, or
Lazarus was forgotten. Oh, blessed Saviour and glorious King! who can
thus govern worlds and mould the ages of human history, while His ear
is open to the prayers, and His thoughts occupied with the concerns,
of the humblest mourners, as if they alone existed in the mighty
universe of God!
Before shewing the blessed teaching which sufferers may gather from
this twofold picture of mysterious sorrow and of thoughtful love, let
us study for a moment the circumstances attending the meeting of Jesus
with Martha and Mary. Many of these are deeply interesting and full
of instruction; but I confine myself to one point only, the evidence
which I cannot but think they afford of the shaken faith of the
sisters for a time in the love of Jesus.
Martha was the first to meet Him outside of the town, where in quiet,
and undisturbed by the noisy mourners from Jerusalem, and by their
sympathising friends, Jesus desired, with His considerate kindness,
to probe and heal those sorely wounded hearts. And what was her
salutation? "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died!"
What means this? Is it an expression of confidence only in His power?
Is it a confession of faith? Or does it not rather evidence unbelief?
Does it not imply a sorrowing complaint, uttered, indeed, with
reverence, and in such gentle language as was compatible with sincere
faith, but still a complaint from a wondering and disappointed because
wrung spirit, expressed in language which suggested the additional
question asked only in the heart, "_And why wert Thou not here_?"
Jesus reasoned with her. She believes, yet still doubts and questions
why He had not come; she trusts Him, yet sees no light with reference
to His dealings towards themselves. One thing she will do, however,
amidst the darkness--she will cling to Christ as her only hope and
refuge! Mary remains in the house. Why? Was it that she had not heard
of the arrival of Jesus, or of Martha having gone to meet Him? Or is
her heart so torn by distracting thoughts, that for a moment she knows
not what to do? She dare not say to Him all she feels. Her keen and
sensitive heart is agonised by entertaining for a moment even the bare
suspicion of unkindness on His part. She fights against the horrid
thought, which, like a demon, torments her, yet she cannot yet quite
banish it, and meet Him with the full, unreserved, gushing love which
something tells her is His due. But however this may have been, a
message from Himself rouses her: "The Master is come, and calleth for
thee; and as soon as she heard that, she arose quickly and came unto
him." But how did she meet Him! Ah! Martha and she have surely been
together pondering over the mystery of His absence, and they have
inwardly come to the same conclusion; and so she too fell at the
Master's feet, with the same wailing cry from her full heart, "Lord,
if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died!" As she uttered
these words, "Jesus wept!" There are expressions and single words in
Scripture which reveal a whole heaven of glory--like the opening in
the telescope, which, though but as a pin-point of light, reveals
the glory of sun, moon, and stars. What a revelation of love is
this--"Jesus wept!" But what mean these tears? They are visibly
significant of much sorrow. The cup of the "Man of sorrows" was always
full; what caused it thus to run over? Only twice in His life do we
read of the Saviour's weeping,--now, when at Bethany, and in a few
days afterwards, when entering Jerusalem during the week of His
crucifixion. Did Jesus now weep from mere human sympathy with sisters
mourning for a dead brother? or did He weep because He mourned their
own lost faith in His love to them? We are well aware of the tenacity
with which most people cling to the former method of accounting for
the Saviour's tears, and what pain it seems to give when the latter
view is pressed upon them, as if they were thereby robbed of some
special source of comfort in affliction, and left without any other
declaration in the Word of God--at all events, without any other
incident in the life of Jesus--fitted to inspire confidence in His
sympathy. It is not difficult to account for this feeling on our
part. For it is much easier to understand tears shed for mere human
suffering, than tears shed for human sin. The one kind of sorrow
is common, the other is rare. The one is almost instinctive, and
necessarily springs from that benevolence which belongs to us as men,
but the other can only spring from that love of souls which belongs to
us as "partakers of the sufferings of Christ," and from possessing,
therefore, a realising sense of the infinite importance of a right or
wrong state of being towards God, and from beholding the darkness of
evil casting its dread shadows over a dear one's spirit. Hence an
atheist can mourn over our loss of friends by death, while the man of
God alone can mourn over our loss of God himself by unbelief. Then,
again, every person welcomes the sympathy of another in his sorrows;
while he might at the same time have no sympathy with the grief
experienced by another for his sins. The one might be gladly welcomed
as most loving, but the other be proudly rejected as most offensive.
Why therefore should true Christians cling with such fondness to the
idea of Christ weeping with Martha and Mary, because they lost their
brother, and not rather see a far deeper love and a source of far
deeper comfort in his tears, because they had, for a moment even, lost
their faith? Surely those who know Christ do not depend solely on such
a proof as this of the reality of His humanity, and of His sympathy
with the affliction of His brethren; nor can that kind of sympathy
be the highest which can be afforded by all men whose hearts are
not utterly steeled by selfish indifference. Besides, however real
Christ's sympathy was with sorrow of every kind, why did He express it
on this occasion more than on any other? Nay, why did He weep at the
very moment when He purposed, by a miracle of power, to restore the
dead brother to his sisters, and in a few minutes to turn their sorrow
into joy? Why weep with those whose tears were shed in ignorance only
of the coming event which was so soon to dry them? But the Saviour's
tears came from a different and a profounder source! They welled out
of a heart whose deep and tender love was not trusted in, but doubted
even by those whom He loved most deeply and tenderly, and at the very
moment too when He was about to pour forth upon them the richest
treasure of His love, and to do exceeding abundantly above all they
could ask or think. Remember only how He of all men loved; how as a
man He longed for His brother's sympathy, and how as a holy Saviour He
longed for His brother's good. Remember how earnestly He sought for
the one grand result, that of hearty confidence in His goodwill, as
the only restorative of humanity fallen and in ruins through the curse
of unbelief. Remember, too, how lonely He was in the world; how
few understood Him in any degree, or responded even feebly to the
constant, boundless outpouring of His affection; and how many returned
His good with evil, His love with bitterest hate;--remember all
this, and conceive if you can what His feelings must have been when
returning to this home of His heart, to this green spot amidst the
wilderness of hateful distrust, with His whole soul full of such
glorious purposes of love and self-sacrifice, and then at such a
time to find his best and dearest friends smitten with the universal
blight, fallen to the earth and prostrate in the dust under the
crushing burden of unbelief! He does not weep, at first, when Martha
addresses him; but when Mary, the loving and confiding--she of all on
earth--complains; when faith has failed in even her!--oh, it is too
much for His heart! "And thou too!"--"Jesus wept!" Ah! that shadow of
death in such a soul as this was infinitely sadder to Him than the
dead body of her brother, nay, than the contents of all the festering
graveyards of the world! For what is death to sin? and what is the
power which can restore by a word the dead body to life, in comparison
with that which is required to restore an unbelieving soul to God? It
was this unbelief, the most terrible spectacle which earth presents to
the eye of a holy and loving Saviour, that made Him weep as He beheld
it for a moment, like a demon-power taking possession of His own best
beloved. And it was this same essential evil, and this alone, which
made Him weep once again as He entered Jerusalem, when He cried, "How
often would I have gathered you, but ye would not!"
In perfect accordance with this view, we read that when some of the
Jews said, as He walked towards the tomb of Lazarus, "Could not this
man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this
man had not died?" "Jesus _therefore again_ groaning in himself,
cometh to the grave." For again the words expressed lost faith in His
power, or in His love to "this man." In like manner, when Martha, as
if to persuade Him not to attempt impossibilities, reminded Him of the
long time in which Lazarus had lain in the grave, saying, "Lord, by
this time he stinketh," Jesus sternly rebukes her, "Said I not unto
thee, _that if thou wouldest believe_, thou shouldest see the glory
of God?" And tell me, is there not inexpressible comfort in this love
which mourns over sin as the greatest loss and the greatest sorrow? I
can get many, as I have said, in the world to understand and to feel
with me in all my sufferings from loss of wealth, of health, of
friends, or of any earthly blessing. Relations, acquaintances,
strangers, even enemies, could be found who would do so. But who
will so love me as to carry my crushing burden of sin? Who can fully
understand its exceeding sinfulness I Who can fathom the depths into
which I have fallen, or enter the body of death which imprisons my
spirit. One only, the truest, the best, the most loving of all, my
Saviour! And His hatred of my sin, and His sorrow for it, is just the
measure of His love to me, and of His desire to deliver me, and to
make me a partaker of His own blessed rest and peace, through faith
and love in His Father and my Father, in His God and my God!
I shall pass by the remaining facts in this narrative, the raising of
Lazarus, and the memorable scene when Jesus sat as a guest with the
family of Bethany, again restored to one another, and to Himself in
love; and when Mary with unutterable thoughts anointed His feet with
ointment, and wiped them with the hair of her head. I would rather
occupy the space which remains, in gathering from what has been said a
few general lessons of importance chiefly to mourners.
My suffering brother or sister! permit me to address you as if
personally present with you, seeing your distress, and sharing it
as those cannot choose but do who have themselves experienced the
darkness of sorrow. Such darkness and perplexity I have known, and I
so remember with deepest gratitude the strength and comfort which were
then afforded by the revelation of the ways of Christ, as illustrated
by this narrative, that I desire to help others as I have been myself
helped.
The one grand lesson which it teaches us is, _never, in our darkest
hour, to lose confidence in the love of Christ towards us_, as if He
had forgotten to be gracious, and either could not or would not help
us. Banish the sinful thought! "Beware lest there should be in any of
you _the evil heart_ of unbelief." For such unbelief is the greatest
calamity which can befall us. It is, verily, "sorrow's crown of
sorrow," Let us rather "hold fast our confidence, which hath a great
reward."
Like the family in Bethany, you too, I shall suppose, are visited
with a sudden and "mysterious" bereavement. Like them you may pray to
Christ, and ask a specific blessing; and like them you may think He
has not heard your prayer, nor ever will answer it, because He does
not do this at the time or in the manner you wished or anticipated.
His thoughts and ways with reference to you may thus be utterly
dark--darker than blackest night. Yet the servant of the Lord, "though
he walks in darkness, and has no light," must "trust in the Lord, and
stay himself upon his God." For the ways of Christ to His suffering
friends in Bethany, when absent from them beyond the Jordan, are a
revelation of His ways to us now, when He is in glory beyond the
tomb. Now, as then, He never forgets us, never overlooks the least
circumstance in our history, and never ceases for one moment to have
that interest in us which is possible only for such a Brother or
Saviour to possess. But now, as then, He has _manifold interests
to consider_; ten thousand times ten thousand complex and crossing
consequences to weigh. While we, perhaps, have our thoughts wholly
occupied with but one desire, our own individual comfort, our own
deliverance from this or that trial, the wise and all-loving Jesus
has to provide for much more than this. Our own good and growth in
grace--the good of those in sickness--the good of children, relations,
friends, yea, it may be of generations yet unborn, who may be affected
at this crisis in our family history by what Jesus does or does
not,--all this must be considered by Him who loves all, and seeks the
good of all, and who alone can trace out the marvellous and endless
network of influence by which man is bound to man from place to place
and from age to age. No one, therefore, but the Lord of all can decide
what is best to be done in the circumstances of each case, in order
that most good may be done, and that God may be glorified thereby. He
alone knows how this link of "sickness unto death" is connected with
other links in the mysterious chain of human history. And if so, then
surely it becomes us, poor, ignorant, blind, selfish creatures, to bow
before His throne with holy reverence; to yield ourselves and all our
concerns meekly and lovingly into His hands, in the full assurance of
faith that our interests are there in best and safest keeping; to feel
that it is our first duty and noblest privilege to trust Him when we
cannot trace Him, being persuaded that He does all things well, and
_that what we know not now we shall know hereafter_.
Amidst all darkness, perplexity, and apparent confusion, remember the
certainties which abide unmoved, and "shine aloft as stars." It is
_certain_ that "all things work together for the _good_ of those who
love God;" that "thou wilt keep him in perfect _peace_, whose soul is
stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee;" and that "nothing
can separate us from the love of Christ," (His love to us.) It is
_certain_ that our Christian dead are in His presence; and that no one
knows them or loves them as that Saviour does, who made them with His
own hands, and redeemed them with His own blood. It is _certain_ that
if we are believers in Christ, we are still united to those departed
ones, in labour, in worship, in love, in hope, and in joy; for,
"whether we wake or sleep, we live _together_ with Him." It is
_certain_, that if "we are Christ's," "all things are ours, whether
life or death, things present or things to come!"
Hold fast, then, O mourner, thy confidence in thy Lord! Have patience,
fret not, despair not, and a day shall come to thee like that which
came at last to the mourners in Bethany--it may be here, it may not be
until we meet Him beyond the bounds of time, yet come it must--when
all this earthly history, and all His doings towards us, shall be read
in the clear and full light of perfect knowledge; when out of this
seeming chaos and confusion the most perfect order will be evolved
before our wondering eyes; and when we shall joyfully acknowledge
with what majestic grandeur the world has ever been governed by its
glorious King! Then, when we hear how He has governed ourselves,
and trace the path along which He has led us since childhood, and
understand the reasons which induced Him at such a time and in such a
way to afflict us;--then, when the ways and thoughts of that mind and
heart are laid bare;--and then, too, when we recall our fears, our
doubts, our rebellions, our want of confidence in Him, what shall our
thoughts and feelings be? When His love and ours, His wisdom and ours,
His plans and ours, are thus contrasted, as we sit down at the great
supper with our own Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, and every one worthy of
our love restored to us for ever, beholding the unveiled face of our
Lord in glory; oh, then, it might seem almost essential to our peace
to be able to weep bitterly, and repent heartily, for our unworthy
suspicions and ungenerous treatment of such a Friend and Saviour! But,
blessed be His name! we shall then be able to give Him all He asks,
_our whole hearts_, and, like Mary, kneel at His feet, and there pour
forth the sweet fragrance of our gratitude, love, and joy, as we too
hear from His lips such words as these uttered amidst the light and
glory of the upper sanctuary: "Said I not unto thee, that if thou
wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God!"