BIBLE EMBLEMS.
BY THE LATE REV. EDWARD E. SEELYE, D. D.
SCHENECTADY, N. Y.
PUBLISHED BY THE
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,
150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.
ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by the AMERICAN
TRACT SOCIETY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern
District of the State of New York.
CONTENTS.
I. The higher Rock 5
II. The sun in his might 28
III. The voice of blood 48
IV. Christians God's temples 67
V. God's witnesses 86
VI. Christians shining 102
VII. The raven and the dove 118
VIII. The rainbow 137
IX. The smoking furnace and burning lamp 151
X. The altar of incense 171
XI. Eating under the juniper-tree 188
XII. The other side 206
BIBLE EMBLEMS.
I.
The higher Rock.
LEAD ME TO THE ROCK THAT IS HIGHER THAN I. PSALM 61:2.
This is a humble cry: the cry of a soul needing help--a soul looking
outside of and beyond self for aid and succor.
Strange and unusual as it is to hear it, it is the most rational cry that
the human soul ever uttered.
It cannot be disguised, that man is unsatisfied with his present
condition. He looks for something higher. He longs to become what he is
not now.
Every soul has within it the secret consciousness of imperfection, and a
secret aspiration for improvement. Evils and infirmities now encompass
it, but it has an idea of a higher state of being, and a more perfect
development of spiritual life.
The great question is, how man shall gain this spiritual life. Where is
the power which shall effect his elevation and improvement? Where is he to
look for that influence which will insure his progress, which will exalt
and sanctify him, and fit him to fulfil the great end of his creation? Is
it from earth, or heaven? Is it within him, or above him? Is it human, or
divine? Is it nature, or is it grace?
This is the vital question to be settled; the turning-point of all our
views of religion and humanity.
We are satisfied that the only basis of man's improvement lies in his
dependence upon almighty power. The only rock on which he can ever be
satisfied to rest, is the Rock that is higher than he. If ever his
condition is bettered, it must be by some agency outside of himself. If
ever he is to reach a heaven of perfection and of blessedness, he must be
drawn thither by a heavenly power.
We confess we expect very little from all the flattering theories of
self-dependence and self-development. We are tired of the endless talk of
man's noble and sublime endowments, and his vast capacities for reaching
his ultimate perfection. We turn away from much that is uttered under the
guise of religion, which is little else than a ringing of perpetual
changes on the progressive energy of human nature, and which utterly
ignores the need of divine grace, while it teaches man to make himself a
seraph. Very empty is it all to us--this godless humanitarianism,
discoursing perpetually upon human progress, while it says not a word
about man's dependence upon any thing above himself.
It may please the multitude to tell them that they must look solely to
themselves for all the resources of a higher life. It tickles the vanity
of men to preach to them of the virtues of self-reliance, and to exhort
them with high-sounding oratory to cultivate their manhood, and follow the
higher instincts of their nature; to bid them behave worthy of themselves,
to find the true law of their being in their own self-hood, and to rely
upon the strength of their own spiritual muscle to climb to the higher
regions of spiritual perfection. Men love to hear it. They listen readily
to the voice of such charmers. It flatters their pride. It deifies their
manhood. It gets rid of all those humbling notions of dependence upon
God's power. It does away with all such useless exercises as prayer and
supplication. It tells men to be true to themselves, to kindle the sparks
of their own manhood, and walk in the light of them, while it says nothing
of a "Rock which is higher than they."
Grand as such teachings may seem to many, they sound very sad to the
Christian: sad, because they are not true; sad, because they are as
delusive as they are flattering.
According to all these theories, man is directed to himself for his own
salvation and improvement. Nature, and not grace, must save him. He is his
own rock on which he must build. He has no object above himself to look
to. His god is his own developed humanity. What then is there for him to
hold fellowship and communion with higher than himself? What is there to
draw him upward; what to excite him to action? How can he rise above his
own level? On what ladder will he plant his feet, and what object will
attract his gaze and nerve him to exertion?
With nothing outside of himself and above himself to look to, you shut him
up to grovel in the dust. Without the law of a higher attraction
influencing him, man, with all his ambitious pretensions, will stay where
he is. It is only when the sun is in the heavens, scattering its warm
beams over the world, that the ocean sends up from its bosom its tribute
to the sky. Destroy this solar attraction, and no particle of moisture
would rise above the surface.
So the human soul aspires to something above itself, in obedience to the
law of spiritual attraction which is beyond itself. Isolate it from God,
who is far above it, turn away its thoughts from any rock higher than it,
bid it look perpetually inward and never outward and upward, and you have
doomed it to despair.
"Is it not strange," remarks the earnest and profound John Foster, "to
observe how carefully some philosophers, who deplore the condition of the
world and profess to expect its melioration, keep their speculations clear
of any idea of Divine interposition? No builders of houses or cities were
ever more attentive to guard against the access of flood or fire. If He
should but touch their prospective theories of improvement, they would
renounce them as defiled, and fit only for vulgar fanaticism. No time is
too long to wait, no cost too deep to incur, for the triumph of proving
that we have no need of a Divinity regarded as possessing that one
attribute which makes it delightful to acknowledge such a Being--the
benevolence which would make us happy.
"But even if this noble self-sufficiency cannot be realized, the
independence of spirit which has labored for it must not sink at last into
piety. This afflicted world, 'this poor terrestrial citadel of man,' is to
lock its gates, and keep its miseries, rather than admit the degradation
of receiving help from God."
That religion which is taught us in the Bible, is the opposite of all the
cruel mockeries of a godless philosophy. It tells of human progress. It
bids us hope for a higher life. It cheers us with promises of deliverance
and salvation. But it bids us "cease from man, whose breath is in his
nostrils," and points us to a Cause above ourselves. It sounds no
panegyrics upon our manhood. It talks not of nature's doings, but of
grace. It tells us not to trust ourselves, to rely upon our self-hood, but
to consent to be helped by a divine power. It leads us not to ourselves,
but to "the Rock that is higher" than we.
And in so doing we maintain that the religion of Jesus Christ alone meets
the deep-felt want of our souls.
After all the cherished pride of independence, after all the praises sung
to "our godlike manhood," after all the strugglings for self-development,
the soul feels a consciousness of its weakness, and is burdened with a
sense of its own impotency. There are occasions, not a few, when it gives
the lie to all the shallow pratings of philosophy, and looks around it for
help. It feels its own infirmities. It wants to escape from its loneliness
and isolation. It reaches after a power which it does not possess. It
cries for a "Rock which is higher" than it.
The religion of Christ meets this condition of our nature. It tells me I
must look beyond myself. It shows me where to look. It reveals to me a
Rock, firm, enduring, safe, where I may rest--not in me, but above me,
"higher than I"--to which, if I would reach it, I must consent to be led,
and to receive aid.
In this school of religion are we taught the lessons of the deepest
humility, and the most absolute dependence--lessons such as were never
taught in the porch or the grove of refined philosophy. They are opposed
to the strongest instincts of our carnal hearts. They extort from the soul
the confession of its own helplessness: "Save, Lord, or I perish."
Yet conflicting as true religion is with the pride and self-confidence of
carnal man, its provisions and conditions meet precisely the wants of a
humble believer. This abnegation of self, and looking away from and above
self, is the highest comfort of a Christian's life. This Rock, higher than
he, is what he wants to get hold of and lean upon. Lead me to it, is his
prayer, uttered from every department of his soul.
1. The _understanding_ utters it, when it seeks for knowledge. It asks for
a wisdom above its own, to instruct us in the great truths of our being,
our relations to God, our duties, and our destiny. It feels that divine
wisdom alone is competent to declare what the divine will is.
Men may bid me hear it through the voice of reason; but that cannot
satisfy the soul. Like the spider which spins its web from its own bowels
and hangs it in the air, have men been long busy in deducing from their
own reason their profoundest systems of truth and virtue, and in laying
down the rule of duty which would guide them to life eternal. But the
result of all such labors has been poor indeed. All the systems which
reason has ever framed could never rise above the finite; and multitudes
of them have proved but metaphysical cobwebs, entangling the soul which
seeks to walk upon them in their perplexing meshes, till, in its
strugglings, it breaks through them all, and drops down into the abyss of
hopeless scepticism.
I cannot trust my eternal welfare to such deceptive oracles. I want to
hear a voice outside of myself to teach me life and duty. I want to hear
what God speaks to me, and to believe it because He speaks it. And though
in his divine revelation he says many things which are not articulate to
my reason, still reason forbids me not to trust in them. Faith lays hold
of them, and climbs upward to rest upon "the Rock." Here the Christian
soul takes refuge. To the infallible word of God it flies, from all the
Babel utterances of rationalistic errors, as its only security, its
fortress, and high tower.
2. The human _will_ also needs to look above and beyond itself for the
Rock of its support.
"There is," says a profound writer, "a sentiment to be found in divers
forms among all men, the sentiment of the need of some external succor, of
a support to the human will, of a force which can lend its aid and
strength to our necessity."
How true this is every Christian knows by sad experience. "To will is
present with me," says Paul, "but how to perform that which is good, I
find not."
How changeable our volitions. How many purposes unexecuted lie like wrecks
along the shores of our past history. The best of resolutions glow for a
time in the soul, but the genial spark thus kindled is soon blown out in
the wild tempest of the passions. Our states of mind are variable as the
sky. They carry the will along with them. There are tides of human
feeling, just as there are tides in the ocean, which ebb and flow in
ceaseless agitation. That old Saxon monarch who with his courtiers went
down to the shore and issued his command to the ocean surges to go back,
till the waves, in mockery of his authority, dashed over his feet, was as
successful as he will be, who thinks to subdue with the voice of his own
authority the active elements within him, and to subject to the mandates
of the human will the troubled sea of thought and feeling in the soul.
Oh, when thus my will is powerless for good, when resolutions strongly
framed and guarded go down one by one under the shock of temptation, when
thus I climb and fall backwards, repent and sin, and repent again only to
resolve anew, then it is I feel the need of something more potent to fix
my resolutions and give stability to my purposes. Then it is I wait to
hear the voice of God's authority, and ask to be led to some "Rock higher
than I."
3. Again, to such a Rock as this the believer's _affections_ naturally
aspire. Unless some object more excellent and worthy than self be
discovered, then is selfishness the highest virtue. Such an object cannot
be found in the creature things which surround us. Magnify them as we may,
the soul feels that they are inferior to itself; in all its attempts to
love them and go out after them, the soul has a secret consciousness of
degradation. It feels that it is stepping downwards and not upwards, when
it turns its love upon the material vanities around it. There is, all the
while, a suppressed sense of dissatisfaction, a wish and a longing for
something better to love, something higher for the heart to reach after.
This feeling in the Christian makes him look upward. God as revealed in
Christ is alone sufficient to fill his heart. He discovers the holiness
and excellency of his nature. He sees him with all the attributes of
divinity and humanity harmoniously blended together, the chief among ten
thousands; the one altogether lovely. He feels that he is worthy of his
love. He is drawn to him with the cords of love. He is looking higher than
self. There is none upon earth he desires besides Him. Now he has found
the only object he can safely love. Other things have mocked him: earthly
vanities have trifled with his affections; they have betrayed his trust;
but Christ fills his heart. He is a higher rock than himself, and he turns
thither as his only rest. Lead me to this Rock; let my soul climb here
above the lower level of earth and sense; for here my hope shall not be
put to shame.
4. This higher Rock is the only refuge I can find when I feel the need of
_pardon and sanctification_. The human conscience testifies of guilt.
God's law has been set at naught, and its penalty has been incurred.
Justice demands a satisfaction for transgression, else the gate of
reconciliation is closed for ever. How can this fearful difficulty be
overcome? How can God forgive the guilty? Shut me up to myself, and I am
in despair. I could commit the sin myself, but I cannot give the
satisfaction. All my present attempts to obedience can have no effect upon
what I have done before. My guilt is where I cannot reach it. My prayers
and tears and vows cannot wash out the damning record which stands against
me. Even could I reform my life and tread in the path of holiness from
this time forth, there is guilt already which I cannot cancel.
Oh, the utter helplessness of the soul is one of the most agonizing
feelings which attend conviction of sin. Guilt stares me in the face,
after all my strugglings. The dark waters go over my head, and I sink for
ever, were it not for a rock I can seize hold of, which is Christ a
Saviour. The gospel points me to an atonement made for me in the death of
Jesus Christ, and bids me look by faith to the sacrifice of the cross.
This is precisely what I want.
Oh let me reach this Rock, and I can count over my transgressions without
despair; for here the justice of God is satisfied. Here is a full
atonement for them all. Here God smiles upon me with a look of
forgiveness, for the law is magnified, and grace abounds. Here is my
refuge against all the accusations of conscience and the terrors of guilt.
Here on this Rock I rest in peace, a high Rock, above the clouds where the
lightning flashes of wrath play and justice hurls the bolts.
Lastly, this divine Rock is the Christian's only support in _the trying
calamities of life_. Whatever be their nature, whether temptations, or
afflictions, or spiritual distresses, he meets them by looking above and
beyond himself for aid.
There is a kind of heroism which the world applauds, exhibited sometimes
by men in the trying straits of life, a gloomy heroism which inspires them
to breast misfortune with an iron nerve, and "take up arms against a sea
of troubles," in firm reliance upon their own indomitable will. It never
quails before the face of danger, but will perish in the fierce encounter
rather than submit to fear. Often it assumes the form of a grim and
sullen stoicism, which sheds no tear over the desolation of cherished
hopes, and utters no plaintive cry over the wreck of lost affections. With
dogged silence it buries the last of kindred, and at last lies down to die
with features cold and mute as marble, and with sealed passports departs
to the eternal world.
This, which the world calls manly firmness, is a foul libel on humanity,
but a few degrees removed from the sublime stolidity of the brute.
The Christian lays claim to no such heroism, but looks for aid in trouble.
He is willing to be helped. From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee
when my heart is overwhelmed, "Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I."
The idea suggested is that of a sufferer struggling in the angry billows;
and while he feels his strength rapidly wearing out, he turns his eye in
every direction across the boundless waters to find some succor. No
friendly sail is seen. Not a spar or plank is left of his shattered
vessel. Every thing has gone down beneath the remorseless tide. But
yonder looms a solitary rock high in the air. Storms rage about it in
vain. The surges dash and roar around its base. The maddened waters are
lashed into foam and spray. But there it stands, firm, unmovable,
invincible. Heedless of tide and wave and storm, it looks tranquilly out
upon the chafed and angry elements, as unconcerned as though naught but
sunbeams played and zephyrs whispered.
What that rock is to the wrecked and exhausted mariner who has at length
reached its base, and lain down in its friendly clefts, such is Christ to
the tossed and troubled believer. In the upheavings of life, when all
other trusts have failed, and the waters of affliction are breaking over
him, he betakes himself to God, and climbs upon the Rock of ages.
He has no idea of standing on his manhood when distress and death confront
him. He is willing to own his dependence, and humbly fly to God for aid.
Faith in God is to him a mightier resource than the boasted iron nerve and
proud unconquerable will of nature.
The religion of the Bible teaches us _humility_ and _dependence_. Human
nature needs help. Human nature must give up its vaporing. Sinners cannot
save themselves. If we are ever saved, it must be by looking above, and
not within. There is no regenerating power left in the carnal heart. No
mere development of the man will ever result in his salvation. There must
be an agency _ab extra_ to interpose, else we perish. God, not man, must
have the glory of our salvation. This is plainly the Bible method; and the
sooner we learn to look away from self to something higher, the nearer are
we towards attaining it.
Again, the gospel system _meets our wants_, as well as tells us of them.
It reveals the Rock higher than we. It points us to a divine Saviour. The
same voice which tells us of our necessities, tells us also of the
supplies God has furnished to meet them all. Here divine knowledge is
given to relieve our doubts, and enlighten our ignorance. Here is divine
power tendered to help the feebleness of the will. Here is divine love
exhibited to quicken our affections. Here is a divine atonement provided
to expiate our guilt. Here is a divine Spirit revealed to sanctify our
souls and fit them for heaven and glory. Why all this outlay for those who
have ability to take care of themselves? Why such vast provisions for men,
if there be yet aught belonging to them which, by mere self-development,
can make them holy and meet for heaven? Why such rich display of grace, if
there be any thing left to hope from in mere nature?
It follows that _faith_ is the great element of practical religion.
"_Believe_, and thou shalt be saved," is the great command and promise of
the gospel. Trust in Me for aid; look up to the Rock for a refuge.
_Prayer_ therefore becomes the vital exercise of a Christian life. It is
the soul's outlooking beyond itself; its aspiration after God; the medium
through which it receives blessings from its Saviour. For this faith in
God is not mere spiritual imbecility, nor torpid helplessness. It is the
movement of an earnest soul, awake to its deep necessities, and looking
heavenward for help. Prayer is its earnest utterance, its living activity.
Lead me upward, is its cry; help me to climb the rock; bear me above
temptations which draw me earthward; support me in the conflict which I
must meet in my upward way to heaven.
The strength of a Christian's life, paradoxical as it may seem, lies in
its dependence. Look up then to the Rock of your salvation. Wait at the
throne of grace for aid; wrestle earnestly in prayer, if you would rise
above your present level. You are not shut up to nature's resources. You
have a higher Rock, where you may build your house. And when the winds of
trouble blow, and the floods of death sweep by, your house will stand the
shock, and shelter you from harm, for it is founded on a rock.
My dear, yet impenitent friend, our subject tells you what you must come
to in order to be saved. You must quit your hold on self, and consent to
look without you for salvation. The sooner you look this fact plainly in
the face the better. All your reliance upon your own self-hood, all your
boasted progress in virtue, all your godless cultivation of your so called
manhood, may be welcome incense offered on the altar of human pride, but
they keep you away from the true salvation.
The religion of the Bible is for sinners who need help. Its salvation is
for those who are in a lost condition. You must admit this fact, or go
without it. If you cannot consent to be saved by interposing grace, you
must be left to nature, and the result will be at last, you will not be
saved at all. If you will not brook to be told that you are "poor and
miserable and blind and naked," and that you must find in Christ Jesus a
Rock higher than you, and trust in his atonement to remove your guilt, and
pray for the Holy Spirit to wash and sanctify you, then you must do the
best you can without a Saviour. You may carry your head up a while, and
scorn to be a suppliant; you may plume yourself upon your independence and
self-reliance, and ask no favors of God or man; you may disdain to utter a
prayer, or a confession; but your glory will be short. Death will soon
strip you of your pride, and rob you of your boasting. God will call you
to the judgment-seat, and put your manhood to the test.
My dying friend, you cannot keep your present position; you must abandon
it ere long. Why not do it now? Why wait till you are driven from it to
eternal disgrace, when you may now turn from it, and secure thereby
eternal life? You have got to bow; you have got to pray; you have got to
awake to a conviction of your guilt, either now, or in eternity. Why not
now--now, when help is near you, and salvation is offered you--now, when
the Rock that is higher than you is accessible to you, and you are bidden
to hide in its friendly clefts from the gathering storm of Jehovah's
wrath?
You may refuse to look upon it now; but not so hereafter. From your deep
abyss of gloom your eye will see it far away in the upper world of glory,
with the glad companies of the redeemed sitting upon its summit in eternal
rest and peace, and singing with the angels. And the spontaneous prayer
which would break from your lips, "Lead me to yonder Rock that is higher
than I," will be choked and silenced by the awful conviction, that between
you and it there is a great gulf fixed, a chasm which no tears can
bridge, no prayers can span. Now the Rock is near. The Saviour reaches out
his hand. Grasp it, sinner, by faith. Hold on to it and climb to the
strong-holds, or you must sink to hell.
II.
The Sun in his Might.
LET THEM THAT LOVE HIM BE AS THE SUN WHEN HE GOETH FORTH IN HIS MIGHT.
JUDGES 5:31.
Thus closes the song of Deborah, the judge and heroine of Israel. Its
theme has been the thrilling events of the great battle with Sisera and
the Canaanites, the victory of Balak, and the overthrow of Jabin and his
hosts. But at its close she rises from the particular event to a general
prediction, in the form of a prayer for the destruction of all the enemies
of God, and the safety and blessedness of his own people. "So let all
thine enemies perish, O Lord; but let them that love him be as the sun
when he goeth forth in his might."
"_Them that love him_" is a brief, but most fitting description of true
believers, whether Jewish or Christian. Saints are distinguished from
others, not only in their relations to God, but in their affections
towards him. Reconciled to God through Jesus Christ, they love him with a
reverential, obedient, and constant love. Such are, in the highly poetic
language of the prophetess, compared to the sun when he goeth forth in his
might.
A bold and extravagant figure indeed it appears to us at first view. To
liken Christians to the sun may seem presumptuous--the sun, that glorious
orb which marshals at his command the planets and satellites that revolve
around him--that great central fountain of light and heat, scattering his
rays over the vast fields of immensity, imparting light and warmth and
vitality throughout his vast territories, and gladdening the numerous
tribes of creatures which inhabit them.
But the comparison in the text is specific rather than general. It is to
_the going forth_ of the sun in his might--to his apparent motion round
the earth, produced really by the revolution of the earth upon its axis.
The Scriptures employ the language of common life when they describe the
phenomena of the natural world.
The going forth of the sun is seen when he rises in glory in the eastern
sky, and climbs the heavens in majestic splendor, scattering the mists
and gloom of night; when with untiring steps he mounts the zenith, and
bends his course along the western slope, till at the close of day he
flings aslant over mountaintop and embosomed lake his parting beams, and
dips his golden rim behind the horizon, to shine on other lands and
gladden their inhabitants.
It is this tireless movement of the sun, this daily progress of the king
of day, patrolling as with a giant's tread the ramparts of the skies, that
the text employs to illustrate the course of God's people in the world.
Parallel to the text is the passage in Proverbs 4th: "The path of the just
is as the shining light, which shineth more and more unto the perfect
day." Our subject is then to study the life and experience of the
Christian as illustrated by the sun when he goeth forth in his might.
What more sublime and glorious sight can be conceived of than this
every-day phenomenon, so common that it is unappreciated and almost
unnoticed by the multitudes of busy men--the going forth of the sun in his
might? O ye effeminate children of sloth, it is worth snatching a lazy
hour from your feverish beds, to rise before the dawn, and watch how the
shadows of the night gradually soften and flee away at the approach of the
sun-rising, and how the eastern sky lifts her curtains of crimson and gold
to welcome his coming. The various tribes of animated creation rejoice on
every side. The lark warbles his glad notes, and soars high in the air to
catch his first beams.
It is the sun going forth in his might that quickens the life-pulse of
nature, and scatters the gloom which enshrouded her. Fresh and joyous as a
bridegroom coming out of his chamber, he lifts his head above the hills,
and bathes the earth in the splendor of his rays. Shadows retreat through
glen and valley to their caves. Breezes gently touch the forest-leaves,
and chant their matinee. Placid lakes from their mirrored surface toss
back the day-beams. Dew-drops pendent on the flower-petals glisten like
diamonds on a vestal's brow. Cascade and cataract with their silvery spray
weave mimic rainbows in his beams. Distant mountains in solemn grandeur
lift their tall peaks like golden turrets in the sky; while from jutting
promontory and wave-washed beech old ocean peals out her deep, full
diapason, and hails the advent of the day. Ah, when I gaze upon a scene
like this, I cease to wonder that in other lands, unvisited by the gospel,
the Parsee bows and worships the rising sun, and lifts his hands and prays
with rapt devotion to the orb of day.
Follow the sun's course from the horizon upward; how, never halting, never
wearying, he drives his fire-chariot through the long circuit of the
heavens. And when at close of day he bids us a short adieu, it is not with
the jaded look of an exhausted courier whose strength is gone, but with
the same effulgent countenance that he wore before. Still does he go forth
in his _might_ when, at evening, from his broad disc he throws with lavish
profusion his effulgence over the floating clouds in the vault above, and
over hill-top and plain stretched out below.
Would you take the full meaning of the sun's going forth in his _might_,
you must bear in mind that this his glorious career is not the phenomenon
of a day, but that precisely thus has he fulfilled his mission through
weary centuries--that on the generations long forgotten he shone with the
same exhaustless splendor; and that since creation's birth, when he was
commissioned by the Almighty to rule the day, he has never failed to walk
the skies. Centuries have not wearied him; ages have marked no wrinkles on
his brow; but as when the world was new he circled it with light and
beauty, so now with the same might does he go forth weariless, changeless.
What is there in this going forth of the sun in his might analogous to the
life of the people of God? Where is the point of comparison? How is the
moral experience of a Christian to be likened to this going forth of the
sun? Unlike the sun, he is not the centre of a mighty system. Unlike the
sun, he has no inherent light to scatter around him. Rather like the moon
than like the sun does he shine, borrowing all his light from Christ the
Sun of righteousness; just as the moon gathers what beams she has from the
sun, and reflects them towards us with fainter and more subdued radiance.
Like the moon, the Christian shines only when shone upon.
In speaking of Bible imagery, we must beware of straining the figures
employed, and forcing upon them an interpretation which is beyond their
natural meaning.
The text does not compare the light of the Christian with the light of the
sun, but simply the Christian with _the going forth_ of the sun.
The analogy then leads us to speak, in the first place, of the
_progressive_ nature of the Christian's life--his constant upward
advancement.
The sun is ever going forth. There is no pause nor cessation to his
movements. Tempests and storms sweep over us, and calms succeed; changes
and revolutions mark every thing here on earth, but the sun stops not in
his career. His work is never done.
Even so is the Christian life--an onward movement, an advancement step by
step in the work of grace.
As Christians, there is no such thing as our standing still, or resting
satisfied with our present attainments in knowledge and holiness. It is
this onward impulse, this disposition to push forward, this ardent longing
for increasing grace, which is one of the strongest evidences that we are
truly Christians. Hypocrites and self-deceived ones occasionally are
susceptible of religious emotion. Hypocrites may join the church, and stay
there till they die, and yet feel no need of progress. But where grace is
truly felt, it causes the believer to long for more. The least conformity
to the divine image begets a desire for more holiness. It can be satisfied
only by awaking in his likeness. "Not as though I had already attained,"
"I count not myself to have apprehended," is the sentiment of every true
Christian soul. "I press towards the mark for the prize of the high
calling of God in Christ Jesus," is the fixed purpose of every believer.
The Christian's efforts in grace are not self-exhausting, but
self-invigorating. The more he runs, the swifter of foot is he. The duties
of yesterday never weary his strength for to-day.
Would you test your piety? then look not back in the distance of years to
find the evidences of your salvation. But look at the passing weeks and
months, to trace along their history the workings of divine grace. And Oh,
let me warn you that you are trusting in a false and empty hope, unless
there be found in your experience a growing conformity to Christ your
Saviour, a series of conquests over temptations and besetting sins, a
steadier fidelity in Christian duty, a deeper spirituality, a giving way
of carnal lusts, a stronger faith, a brighter hope, and a nearer
anticipation of heaven and glory. For if you are indeed a Christian, there
will be found in you an onward progress in a holy life, a moving forward
towards perfection, which will justify us in comparing it to the going
forth of the sun.
Again, a Christian life is like the going forth of the sun, inasmuch as it
is a progress involving _a mighty power_. The text speaks of the sun going
forth in his _might_. The psalmist also describes him, "rejoicing as a
strong man to run a race." The apparent motion of the sun daily through
the heavens, suggests the idea of almighty power. As if conscious of his
strength, he strides like a giant across the sky.
So is the Christian's progress in a holy life one which involves an outlay
of exhaustless energies.
He lives through the power of God. His going forth is in the might of the
Spirit which upholds him.
When the apostle speaks of "the exceeding greatness of his power to
us-ward who believe, according to the working of his mighty power, which
he wrought in Christ when he raised him from the dead;" when he talks of
"striving according to his working, which worketh in me mightily;" when
he, in Ephesians, attributes his call to the ministry to the effectual
working of the power of the grace of God; and when he ascribes glory in
the church by Jesus Christ throughout all ages, "unto him that is able to
do exceeding abundantly above all that we can ask or think, according to
the power _that worketh in us_;" when too the apostle John tells believers
that "greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world," do you
not perceive that the very sun going forth in his might through the
mid-heavens is a spectacle of omnipotence no grander or more sublime than
a poor Christian going forth from earth to heaven?
The necessity of this mighty interposition of the divine Spirit arises
from the helplessness to which sin has reduced us, and the obstacles to a
holy life which beset the Christian.
This power of the Holy Ghost dwells in the believer; first renewing or
regenerating him, and then sustaining him. It operates upon his own
faculties in such a way that they are called out in earnest effort.
Without this power given to us, who of us could stand? We "wrestle not
against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers,
against spiritual wickedness in high places." There is no greater mistake
you can fall into than to conceive that a Christian life is a task of
feebleness and imbecility. If you would go forth at all, you must advance
with a perseverance which never despairs, a vigilance which never
slumbers, and a courage which never quails. If you would call yourself a
Christian, you must run like the athlete and struggle like the wrestler;
for the believer's course is a powerful movement, like the going forth of
the sun in his might.
Faith, the great executive principle of the Christian, is a far different
thing from a mere assent to creeds and formulas. It is a _power_, a
_mighty power_, quickened in the Christian by the Holy Spirit--a power
which moves the will, and controls the lusts, and overcomes the world. Ask
yourself, Do you know aught of such a power? Have you felt its workings in
your soul? Has grace subdued your passions and fixed your purposes? Has it
abased your pride and relaxed your covetousness? Has it worked in you
mightily? If not, then has the kingdom of God come to you in word only,
not in power.
Again, the sun's going forth is a _joyous_ progress. Nothing is more
suggestive of joy than the sun shining. His very face is the synonym of
gladness. Nature smiles beneath his rays. Lambs skip on the hill-sides,
the birds sing gayly, the forests clap their hands.
Fit emblem is the sun's going forth of the healthy development of a
Christian life. Gloom and grace are not twin sisters. Joy is a prominent
element in genuine experimental religion. "The fruits of the Spirit are
love, joy, peace." "Let the righteous be glad," says David; "let them
rejoice before God. Yea, let them exceedingly rejoice." "Rejoice in the
Lord always;" "rejoice evermore," is the sentiment of the apostle Paul.
The want of this holy joy in your experience is no evidence of your deep
piety. Rather is it a proof of a low and imperfect life--a defective
faith. Surely it is the Christian, above all others, who should dwell in
peace. It is he who can cherish in his bosom a felt sense of God's favor,
which is life, and of his loving-kindness, which is better than life. It
is he whose soul should walk all day in the light of God's countenance.
But let not this Christian joy be confounded with the boisterous merriment
of the ungodly. It is far, very far removed from the mere pleasures of
sense. It is not to be sought for in the butterflies of fashion flitting
in saloons of gayety, nor in the hoarse laugh of the midnight bacchanalian
revel. It is not the silly trifling of brainless fools, who are lovers of
pleasure more than lovers of God. But it is the calm, the tranquil joy of
the soul at peace with God. Like the joyous sun should the Christian go
forth, bright and peaceful, exhibiting in his life that steady hope and
cheerful confidence and benignant peace which are as wide apart from the
levity and thoughtlessness of the world as they are from the austere gloom
of the cloister and the repulsive asceticism of the convent.
Yours is the duty to exhibit to the world a joyous service to your Lord
and Saviour. Yours is the privilege to show to your fellow-men that you
have found happiness elsewhere than in folly and dissipation, and that
there are other pleasures within your reach than the pleasures of sin,
which are for a season.
It is important also to observe, that although the life of a real
Christian is always progressive, still this progress may not always be
_visible_ to himself, much less to others. There may be seasons when he
can discover no advancement, and when his course is obscured.
It is even so with the going forth of the sun in his might. Every day he
makes the circuit of the heavens. He is never stationary. But all days are
not the same: clouds sometimes gather; storms and tempests rage above us;
the angry elements muster their grim cohorts in the sky; the lightning
flashes, the thunders roll; the earth lies shrouded in the drapery of
night. Where now is the sun, which a little while ago shone brightly upon
us? Has he fled in terror? Has he retreated back, and hid behind the hills
above which he rose at morn? No, he has not faltered; far above those
clouds, beyond the reach of storm and strife, he still moves on
undisturbed. Watch; as the storm subsides, he shows the same bright,
joyous face between the opening clouds, and fringes their edges with his
golden beams. Yonder he rides in the heavens, just as before. His going
forth suffered no interruption when the winds swept and the thunder-clouds
lowered. True, we could not see him; but when the dark mantle is drawn
aside, lo, there he is, undimmed, the same majestic sun, still going forth
in his might; and yonder his rays are sporting with the raindrops, and
arching the horizon with the rainbow, in whose brilliant colors the
Almighty long ago wrote his covenant with the patriarch and with mankind.
So is it with the Christian's progress through the stormy trials and
temptations of human life. External circumstances seem sometimes to
conspire against him: the tongue of slander may be turned against him; the
envenomed shaft of malice may wound his character; his integrity may be
suspected, and his good name be cast out as evil; darkness and unbelief
may settle upon his own soul; manifold temptations may suddenly surprise
him, and he be left to doubt and question whether he be not a castaway:
but we are not to conclude that such seasons are all against him. We
believe that all the while there may be, there is, progress in such
experiences. They are trials which test his faith; they are fires which
burn out the corruption which lurks within him.
Although we cannot discern in every case the precise benefit which is to
be secured, although we cannot see why God allows some of his dear people
to be buffetted continually, yet certain we are that all the temptations
which overtake them and the afflictions which weigh upon them are
disciplinary in their nature, and are made subservient to their ultimate
sanctification. Even in the temporary lapses of the Christian, which
surprise and overcome him, there may be the germ of future and higher
advancement. Through these he learns his weakness, and is taught the
lesson of humility and dependence; and they are followed by a more
resolute gathering up of his strength in God, and a more prayerful
watchfulness, which give promise of future progress. And accordingly we
have often seen the Christian come out of such experience like gold tried
in the furnace, a brighter Christian, a better man, a more chastened,
humbled, sanctified believer, for whose good all things are made to work
together, according to God's promise. Like the sun's going forth after
storms have we seen many a saint emerge from the clouds of adversity, and
in later days exhibit a consistency which told that the trials he endured
had resulted in good.
Be not discouraged then, Christian, because all days are not alike to you.
Think not that there can be no progress when you are encompassed with
cares and vexed with temptations. Yield not your confidence when your way
seems troubled; for like the sun which goes forth in his might when the
elements are astir, so must you keep moving heavenward through the gloom
and discouragements of earth.
Such are the Scripture representations of the life of God's own people. It
is a progressive life--a powerful and a joyous life--a life advancing and
maturing in the face of difficulties.
Compare this, professing Christian, with your actual life. Perhaps you
have long professed to love God and to serve him; and what has been your
progress? Has the work of grace advanced so that now you can say that you
are far beyond your former experience? Can you find in the mastery over
temptations, the crucifixion of your lusts, your habitual delight in the
word of God and prayer and holy living, and in your indifference to the
world, its pleasures and its gains, that you have been moving onward and
upward? Oh then, in your sun-like path, we bid you press eagerly forward
unto the perfect day. It is not time yet to relax a single muscle. You
cannot halt or loiter.
But are there some with whom it is far otherwise? After living in the
church for years, are you just as cold and dormant, just as covetous and
worldly as you were years ago? And dare you liken your dwarfed and sickly
life to the sun when he goeth forth in his might? Nay, rather must we
describe you as a lost pleiad, or one of those "wandering stars" of which
Jude speaks, "to which is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever."
Are you growing in grace? If not, you are graceless. If there is no
movement, there is no life. If you are a Christian, there is in you a
spiritual power of locomotion which will not let you rest. A Christian
goes forth like the sun. Once indeed the sun paused at the command of
Israel's leader; but there is no Gideon in the world mighty enough to stop
the sunlike course of the Christian in the path of grace; nor is there a
mount Gibeon to be found where you can bid him stand still.
III.
The Voice of Blood.
AND TO THE BLOOD OF SPRINKLING, THAT SPEAKETH BETTER THINGS THAN THAT
OF ABEL. HEB. 12:24.
This is the last entry made in the rich inventory of spiritual blessings
which Christians enjoy under the gospel economy. The blood of Christ shed
upon the cross is called "the blood of sprinkling," in allusion to the
blood of the paschal lamb; or more generally, to the blood of the
burnt-offerings which was sprinkled upon and around the altar. The
sprinkling of blood was, under the Levitical economy, the symbol of
purification, as we are told by the apostle that "almost all things are,
by the law, purged with blood."
The text declares that the blood of Christ, shed for sinners, speaks
better things than the blood of Abel, which was shed by the murderous hand
of his brother, and called for vengeance.
There has always seemed to be a strange, mysterious influence in blood
shed by violence. It has a voice mightier than all other voices, which
thrills the human soul with awful terror. Once the Almighty spoke in
thunder from the blackened brow of Sinai; but generations before and after
that, he spoke to men through the medium of blood. This was the language
of all the divine sacrifices offered in the remotest times. The
instructions of the whole Levitical economy were written in blood--blood
upon the altar, upon the four horns of the altar, upon its sides, around
it--ever speaking in language of deep and awful meaning to the worshipper.
Man's blood shed by violence cannot be silenced. It has a cry which rings
in the ears, a voice at which all living men start back aghast. It wails
like an avenging fiend in the track of murder. It will not keep still. It
summons the world to find out the guilty.
The text introduces a contrast between the blood of Christ and that of
Abel, or rather, between their utterances. Both spoke, and spoke with
mighty power; but their language was far different. In the one it was
_terror_, in the other _peace_.
It may be a subject of inquiry, why this distinct and exclusive reference
to the blood of Abel, when so many since his time have died by the hands
of violence? Every murder speaks, as well as Abel's. The bloody deed
committed to-day will publish itself. It is the hardest thing in the world
to conceal it. The providence of God often seems to turn the very arts and
expedients which were designed to hide it and hush its voice, into the
means of its detection. The stone cries out of the wall, and the beam out
of the timber answers it. Blood will speak through walls of masonry,
through deepest midnight darkness, across seas and deserts uninhabited.
But passing over the many dark calendars of crime which generations had
filled up, the apostle singles out Abel alone, as he was the first one of
our race who died, and that by the hand of violence. That murder woke the
first cry of blood which the world ever heard. It was when the world was
young. And as then there were no human courts established to sit in
judgment upon crime and punish the guilty, the Almighty himself came forth
from his solitude and made inquisition for blood, and pronounced sentence
upon the fratricide. The testimony upon which God convicted Cain, was the
testimony of blood. It cried unto heaven from the ground; and by the
prompt and terrible interposition of the Almighty at that epoch, God
impressed upon the race the sacredness of human life and the certain
vengeance which would pursue the man who shed blood.
The blood of Abel, though it spoke a language like to that of ten thousand
murders since committed, still arrests attention; for it was the first cry
of murder which had shocked the world. It stands at the head of the dark
roll of guilt which is still filling up. It stained for the first time the
bosom of our mother earth. It flung a ghastly mangled corpse into the
first family of our race, and deepened the gloom which, at the fall,
settled upon the earliest history of humanity, into shadows black as
Tartarus.
These considerations would be enough to prompt the apostle to single out
the death of Abel from all that followed it.
And in the text he contrasts its testimony with that of the blood of
Christ.
What was its utterance? What did the blood of Abel say? Come with me and
stand over the revolting spectacle. Look on the clotted gore and ghastly
features of the murdered man, and hear the testimony: