Peter's words receive no answer, for, while he is speaking, another
solemn and silencing wonder has place. Suddenly a strange cloud
forms in the cloudless sky. It is 'bright' with no reflection caught
from the sun; it is borne along by no wind; slowly it settles down
upon them, like a roof, and, bright though it is, casts a strange
shadow. According to one reading of Luke's account, Christ and the
two heavenly witnesses pass within its folds, leaving the disciples
without, and that separation seems confirmed by Matthew's saying
that the voice 'came out of the cloud.' Our evangelist points to its
brightness as singular. It was not merely bright, as if smitten by
the sunlight, but its whole substance was luminous. It is almost a
contradiction to speak of a cloud of light, and the anomalous
expression points to something beyond nature. We cannot but remember
the pillar which had a heart of fire, and glowed in the darkness
over the sleeping camp, and the cloud which filled the house, and
drove the priests from the sanctuary by its brightness. Nor should
we forget that at His Ascension Jesus was not lost to sight in the
blue; but while He was yet visible in the act of blessing, 'a cloud
received Him out of their sight.' It is, in fact, the familiar
symbol of the divine presence, which had long been absent from the
temple, and now reappears. We may note the beauty and felicity of
the emblem. It blends light and darkness, so suggesting how the very
same 'attributes' of God are both; and how His revelation of Himself
reveals Him as unrevealable. The manifestation of His power is also
the 'hiding of His power.' The inaccessible light is also thick
darkness. The same characteristics of His nature are light and joy
to some, and blackness and woe to others.
We may note, too, Christ's passage into the cloud. Moses and Elijah,
being purged from mortal weakness, could pass thither. But Jesus,
alone of men, could pass in the flesh into that brightness, and be
hid in its fiery heart, unshrinking and unconsumed. 'Who among us
shall dwell with everlasting burnings? His entrance into it is but
the witness to the purity of His nature, and the absence in Him of
all fuel for fire. That bright cloud was 'His own calm home, His
habitation from eternity,' and where no man, compassed with flesh
and sin, could live, He enters as the Son into the bosom of the
Father.
Then comes the articulate witness to the Son. The solemnity and
force of the attestation are increased, if we conceive of the
disciples as outside the cloud, and parted from Jesus. This word is
meant for them only, and so is distinguished from the similar voice
at the baptism, and has added the imperative 'Hear him.' The voice
bears witness to the mystery of our Lord's person. It points to the
contrast between His two attendants and Him. They are servants,
'this is the Son.' It sets forth His supernaturally born humanity,
and, deeper still, His true and proper divinity, which John unfolds,
in his Gospel, as the deepest meaning of the name. It testifies to
the unbroken union of love between the Father and Him, and therein
to the absolute perfection of our Lord's character. He is the
adequate object of the eternal, divine love. As He has been from the
timeless depths of old, He is, in His human life, the object of the
ever-unruffled divine complacency, in whom the Father can glass
Himself as in a pure mirror. It enjoins obedient listening. God's
voice bids us hear Christ's voice. If He is the beloved Son,
listening to Him is listening to God. This is the purpose of the
whole, so far as we are concerned. We are to hear Him, when He
declares God; when He witnesses of Himself, of His love, His work,
His death, His judgeship; when He invites us to come to Him, and
find rest; when He commands and when He promises. Amid the Babel of
this day, let us listen to that voice, low and gentle, pleading and
soft, authoritative, majestic, and sovereign. It will one day shake
'not the earth only, but also the heaven.' But, as yet, it calls us
with strange sweetness, and the music of love in every tone. Well
for us if our hearts answer, 'Speak, Lord; for Thy servant heareth.'
Matthew tells us that this voice from the cloud completely unmanned
the disciples, who fell on their faces, and lay there, we know not
how long, till Jesus came and laid a loving hand on them, bidding
them arise, and not fear. So when they staggered to their feet, and
looked around, they saw nothing but the grey stones of the hillside
and the blue sky. 'That dread voice was past,' and the silence was
broken only by the hum of insects or the twitter of a far-off bird.
The strange guests have gone; the radiance has faded from the
Master's face, and all is as it used to be. 'They saw no one, save
Jesus only.' It is the summing up of revelation; all others vanish,
He abides. It is the summing up of the world's history. Thickening
folds of oblivion wrap the past, and all its mighty names become
forgotten; but His figure stands out, solitary against the
background of the past, as some great mountain, which travellers see
long after the lower summits are sunk beneath the horizon. Let us
make this the summing up of our lives. We can venture to take Him
for our sole helper, pattern, love, and aim, because He, in His
singleness, is enough for our hearts. There are many fragmentary
precious things, but there is only one pearl of great price. And
then this will be a prophecy of our deaths--a brief darkness, a
passing dread, and then His touch and His voice saying, 'Arise, be
not afraid.' So we shall lift up our eyes, and find earth faded, and
its voices fallen dim, and see 'no one any more, save Jesus only.'