'They embalmed him, and he was put in a coffin in Egypt.'
--GENESIS l. 26.
So closes the book of Genesis. All its recorded dealings of God with
Israel, and all the promises and the glories of the patriarchal line,
end with 'a coffin in Egypt'. Such an ending is the more striking, when
we remember that a space of three hundred years intervenes between the
last events in Genesis and the first in Exodus, or almost as long a
time as parts the Old Testament from the New. And, during all that
period, Israel was left with a mummy and a hope. The elaborately
embalmed body of Joseph lay in its gilded and pictured case, somewhere
in Goshen, and was, no doubt, in the care of the Israelites, as is
plain from the fact that they carried it with them at the exodus. For
three centuries, that silent 'coffin in Egypt' preached its impressive
messages. What did it say? It spoke, no doubt, to ears often deaf, but
still some faint whispers of its speechless testimony would sound in
some hearts, and help to keep vivid some hopes.
First, it was a silent reminder of mortality. Egyptian consciousness
was much occupied with death. The land was peopled with tombs. But the
corpse of Joseph was perhaps not laid in one of these, but remained
housed somewhere in sight, as it were, of all Israel. Many a passer-by
would pause for a moment, and think; Here is the end of dignity second
only to Pharaoh's, to this has come that strong brain, that true heart,
Israel's pride and protection is shut up in that wooden case.
'The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate,
Death lays his icy hand on kings.'
Yes, but let us remember that while that silent sarcophagus enforced
the old, old lesson to the successive generations that looked on it and
little heeded its stern, sad teaching of mortality, it had other
brighter truths to tell. For the shrivelled, colourless lips that lay
in it, covered with many a fold of linen, had left as their last
utterance, 'I die, but God will surely visit you,' No man is necessary.
Israel can survive the loss of the strongest and wisest. God lives,
though a hundred Josephs die. It is pure gain to lose human helpers, if
thereby we become more fully conscious of our need of a divine arm and
heart, and more truly feel that we have these for our all-sufficient
stay. Blessed is the fleeting of all that can pass, if its withdrawal
lets the calm light of the Eternal, which cannot pass, stream in
uninterrupted on us! When the leaves fall, we see more clearly the rock
which their short-lived greenness in its pride veiled. When the
many-hued and ever-shifting clouds are swept out of the sky by the
wind, the sun that lent them all their colour shines the more brightly.
The message of every death-bed and grave is meant to be, 'This and that
man dies, but God lives.' The last result of our contemplation of
mortality, as affecting our dearest and most needful ones, and as sure
to include ourselves in its far-reaching, close-woven net, ought to be
to drive us to God's breast, that there we may find a Friend who does
not pass, and may dwell in 'the land of the living,' on whose soil the
foot of all-conquering Death dare never tread.
Nor are these thoughts all the message of that 'coffin in Egypt.' In
the first verses of the next book, that of Exodus, there is a
remarkable juxtaposition of ideas, when we read that 'Joseph died and
all his brethren and all that generation.' But was that the end of
Israel? By no means, for the narrative goes on immediately to
say--linking the two things together by a simple 'and'--that 'the
children of Israel were fruitful, and increased abundantly, and
multiplied and waxed exceeding mighty.'
So life springs side by side with death. There are cradles as well as
graves.
'The individual withers,
And the race is more and more.'
Leaves drop and new leaves come. The April days are not darkened, and
the tender green of the fresh leaf-buds is all the more vigorous and
luxuriant, because it is fed from the decaying leaves that litter the
roots of the long-lived oak. Thus through the ages the pathetic
alternation goes on. Penelope's web is ever being woven and run down
and woven again. Joseph dies; Israel grows. Let us not take half-views,
nor either fix our thoughts on the universal law of dissolution and
decay, nor on the other side of the process--the universal emergence of
life from death, reconstruction from dissolution. In our individual
histories and on the wider field of the world's history, the same large
law is at work, which is expressed in the simplest terms by these old
words, 'Joseph died, and all his brethren and all that generation'--and
'the children of Israel were fruitful and increased abundantly.' So the
wholesome lesson of mortality is stripped of much of its sadness, and
retains all its pathos, solemnity, and power to purify the heart.
Again, that 'coffin in Egypt' was a herald of Hope. The reason for
Joseph's dying injunction that his body should be preserved after the
Egyptian fashion, and laid where it could be lifted and carried away,
when the long-expected deliverance was effected, was the dying
patriarch's firm confidence that, though he died, he had still somehow
a share in God's faithful promise. We do not know the precise shape
which his thought of that share took. It may have been merely the
natural sentiment which desires that the unconscious frame shall
moulder quietly beside the mouldering forms which once held our dear
ones. This naturalised Egyptian did his work manfully in the land of
his adoption, and flung himself eagerly into its interests, but his
heart turned to the cave at Machpelah, and, though he lived in Egypt,
he could not bear to think of lying there for ever when dead,
especially of being left there alone. There may have been some trace in
his wish of the peculiar Egyptian belief that the preservation of the
body contributed in some way to the continuance of personal life, and
that a certain shadowy self hovered about the spot where the mummy was
laid. Our knowledge of the large place filled by a doctrine of a future
life in Egyptian thought makes it most probable that Joseph had at
least some forecast of that hope of immortality, which seems to us to
be inseparable from the consciousness of present communion with God.
But, in any case, Israel had charge of that coffin because the dead man
that lay in it had, on the very edge of the gulf of death, believed
that he had still a portion in Israel's hope, and that, when he had
taken the plunge into the great darkness, he had not sunk below the
reach of God's power to give him personal fulfilment of His yet
unfulfilled promise. His dying command was the expression of his
unshaken faith that, though he was dead, God would visit him with His
salvation, and give him to see the prosperity of His chosen, that he
might rejoice in the gladness of the nation, and glory with His
inheritance. He had lived, trusting in God's bare promise, and, as he
lived, he died. The Epistle to the Hebrews lays hold of the true motive
power in the incident, when it points to Joseph's dying 'commandment
concerning his bones' as a noble instance of Faith.
Thus, through slow creeping centuries, this silent preacher said--'Hope
on, though the vision tarry, wait for it, for it will surely come. God
is faithful, and will perform His word.' There was much to make hope
faint. To bring Israel out of Canaan seemed a strange way of investing
it with the possession of Canaan. As the tardy years trickled away,
drop by drop, and the promise seemed no nearer fulfilment, some film of
doubt must have crept over Hope's bright eyes. When new dynasties
reigned, and Israel slowly sank into the state of bondage, it must have
been still harder to believe that the shortest road to the inheritance
was round by Goshen. But through all the darkening course of Israel in
these sad centuries, there stood the 'coffin,' the token of a
triumphant faith which had leapt, as a trifle, over the barrier of
death, and grasped as real the good which lay beyond that frowning
wall. We have a better Herald of hope than a mummy-case and a pyramid
built round it. We have an empty grave and an occupied Throne, by which
to nourish our confidence in Immortality and our estimate of the
insignificance of death. Our Joseph does not say--'I die, but God will
surely visit you,' but He gives us the wonderful assurance of
identification with Himself, and consequent participation in His
glory--'Because I live, ye shall live also.' Therefore our hope should
be as much brighter and more confirmed than this ancient one was as
that on which it is based is better and more joyous. But, alas, there
is no invariable proportion between food supplied and strength derived.
An orchid can fling out gorgeous blooms, though it grows on a piece of
dry wood, but plants set in rich soil often show poor flowers. Our hope
will be worthy of its foundation, only on condition of our habitually
reflecting on the firmness of that foundation, and cultivating
familiarity with the things hoped for.
There are many ways in which the apostle's great saying that 'we are
saved by hope' approves itself as true. Whatever leads us to grasp the
future rather than the present, even if it is but an earthly future,
and to live by hope rather than by fruition, even if it is but a
short-reaching hope, lifts us in the scale of being, ennobles,
dignifies, and in some respects purifies us. Even men whose
expectations have not wing-power enough to cross the dreadful ravine of
Death, are elevated in the degree in which they work towards a distant
goal. Short-sighted hopes are better than blind absorption in the
present. Whatever puts the centre of gravity of our lives in the future
is a gain, and most of all is that hope blessed, which bids us look
forward to an eternal sitting with Jesus at the right hand of God.
If such hope has any solidity in it, it will certainly detach us from
the order of things in which we dwell. The world is always tempting us
to 'forget the imperial palace' whither we go. The Israelites must have
been swayed by many inducements to settle down for good and all in the
low levels of fertile Goshen, and to think themselves better off there
than if going out on a perilous enterprise to win no richer pastures
than they already possessed. In fact, when the deliverance came, it was
not particularly welcome, oven though oppression was embittering the
peoples' lives. But, when hope had died down in them, and desire had
become languid, and ignoble contentment with their flocks and herds had
dulled their spirits, Joseph's silent coffin must have pealed in their
ears--'This is not your rest; arise and claim your inheritance.' In
like manner, the pressure of the apparently solid realities of to-day,
the growth of the 'scientific' temper of mind which confines knowledge
to physical facts, the drift of tendency among religious people to
regard Christianity mainly in its aspect of dealing with social
questions and bringing present good, powerfully reinforce our natural
sluggishness of Hope, and have brought it about that the average
Christian of this day has fewer of his thoughts directed to the future
life than his predecessors had, or than it is good for him to have.
Among the many truths which almost need to be rediscovered by their
professed believers, that of the rest that remains for the people of
God is one. For the test of believing a truth is its influence on
conduct, and no one can affirm that the conduct of the average
Christian of our times bears marks of being deeply influenced by that
Future, or by the hope of winning it. Does he live as if he felt that
he was an alien among the material things surrounding him? Does it look
as if his true affinities were beyond the grave and above the stars? If
we did thus feel, not at rare intervals, when 'in seasons of calm
weather, our souls have sight of that immortal sea,' which lies glassy
before the throne, and on whose banks the minstrels stand singing the
song of Moses and of the Lamb, but habitually and with a vivid
realisation, which makes the things hoped for more solid than what we
touch and handle, our lives would be far other than they are. We should
not work less, but more, earnestly at our present duties, whatever
these may be, for they would be seen in new importance as bearing on
our place in that world of consequences. The more our goal and prize
are seen gleaming through the dust of the race-ground, the more
strenuous our effort here. Nothing ennobles the trifles of our lives in
time like the streaming in on these of the light of eternity. That
vision ever present with us will not sadden. The fact of mortality is
grim enough, if forced upon us unaccompanied by the other fact that
Death opens the gate of our Home. But when the else depressing thought
that 'here we have no continuing city' is but the obverse and result of
the fact that 'we seek one to come,' it is freed from its sadness, and
becomes powerful for good and even for joy. We need, even more than
Israel in its bondage did, to realise that we are strangers and
pilgrims. It concerns the depth of our religion and the reality of our
profiting by the discipline, as well as of our securing the enjoyment
of the blessings, of the fleeting and else trivial present, that we
shall keep very clear in view the great future which dignifies and
interprets this enigmatical earthly life.
Further, that 'coffin in Egypt' was a preacher of patience. As we have
seen, three centuries at least, probably a somewhat longer period,
passed between the time when Joseph's corpse was laid in it, and the
night when it was lifted out of it by the departing Israelites. No
doubt, hope deferred had made many a heart sick, and the weary
question, 'Where is the promise of His coming?' had in some cases
changed into bitter disbelief that the promise would ever be fulfilled.
But, for all these years, the dumb monitor stood there proclaiming, 'If
the vision tarry, wait for it.'
Surely we need the same lesson. It is hard for us to acquiesce in the
slow march of the divine purposes. Life is short, and desire would fain
see the great harvests reaped before death seals our eyes. Sometimes
the very prospect of the great things that shall one day be
accomplished in the world, and we not there to see, weighs heavily on
us. Reformers, philanthropists, idealists of all sorts are
constitutionally impatient, and in their generous haste to see their
ideals realised, forget that 'raw haste' is 'half-sister to delay' and
are indignant with man for his sluggishness and with God for His
majestic slowness. Not less do we fret and fume and think the days drag
with intolerable slowness, before some eagerly expected good rises like
a star on our individual lives. But there is deep truth in Paul's
apparent paradox, that 'if we hope for that we see not, then do we with
patience wait for it.' The more sure the confidence, the more quiet the
patient waiting. It is uncertainty which makes earthly hope short of
breath, and impatient of delay.
But since a Christian man's hope is consolidated into certainty, and
when it is set on God, cannot only say, I trust that it will be so and
so, but, I know that it shall, it may well be content to be patient for
the fulfilment, 'as the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of
the earth, and hath long patience for it.' 'One day is with the Lord as
a thousand years' in respect of the magnitude of the changes which may
be wrought by the instantaneous operation of His hand when the
appointed hour shall strike, and therefore it should not strain our
patience nor stagger our faith that 'a thousand years' should be 'as
one day,' in respect of the visible approximation achieved in them,
towards the establishment of His purpose. The world was prepared for
man through countless millenniums. Man was prepared for the advent of
Christ through long centuries. Nineteen hundred years have effected
comparatively little in incorporating the issues of Christ's work in
the consciousness and characters of mankind. Much of the slowness of
that progress of Christianity is due to the faithlessness and sloth of
professing Christians. But it still remains true that God lifts His
foot slowly, and plants it firmly, in His march through the world. So,
both in regard to the progress of truth, and the diffusion of the
highest, and of the secondary, blessings of Christianity through the
nations, and in respect to the reception of individual good gifts, we
shall do wisely to leave God to settle the 'when' since we are sure
that He has bound Himself to accomplish the fact.
Finally, that 'coffin in Egypt' was a pledge of possession. It lay long
among the Israelites to uphold fainting faith, and at last was carried
up before their host, and reverently guarded during forty years'
wanderings, till it was deposited in the cave at Machpelah, beside the
tombs of the fathers of the nation. Thus it became to the nation, and
remains for us, a symbol of the truth that no hope based upon God's
bare word is ever finally disappointed. From all other anticipations
grounded on anything less solid, the element of uncertainty is
inseparable, and Fear is ever the sister of Hope. With keen insight
Spenser makes these two march side by side, in his wonderful procession
of the attendants of earthly Love. There is always a lurking sadness in
Hope's smiles, and a nameless dread in her eyes. And all expectations
busied with or based upon the contingencies of this poor life, whether
they are fulfilled or disappointed, prove less sweet in fruition than
in prospect, and often turn to ashes in the eating, instead of the
sweet bread which we had thought them to be. One basis alone is sure,
and that is the foundation on which Joseph rested and risked
everything--the plain promise of God. He who builds on that rock will
never be put to shame, and when floods sweep away every refuge built on
sand, he will not need to 'make haste' to find, amid darkness and
storm, some less precarious shelter, but will look down serenely on the
wildest torrent, and know it to be impotent to wash away his fortress
home.
There is no nobler example of victorious faith which prolonged
confident expectation beyond the insignificant accident of death than
Joseph's dying 'commandment concerning his bones.' His confidence,
indeed, grasped a far lower blessing than ours should reach out to
clasp. It was evoked by less clear and full promises and pledges than
we have. The magnitude and loftiness of the Christian hope of
Immortality, and the certitude of the fact on which it reposes, the
resurrection of Jesus Christ, should result in a corresponding increase
in the firmness and clearness of our hope, and in its power in our
lives. The average Christian of to-day may well be sent to school to
Joseph on his death-bed. Is our faith as strong as--I will not ask if
it is stronger than--that of this man who, in the morning twilight of
revelation, and with a hope of an eternal possession of an earthly
inheritance, which, one might have thought, would be shattered by
death, was able to fling his anchor clean across the gulf when he gave
injunction, 'Carry my bones up hence'? We have a better inheritance,
and fuller, clearer promises and facts on which to trust. Shame to us
if we have a feebler faith.