JESUS COMFORTING HIS FRIENDS.
Not all regret, the face will shine
Upon me while I muse alone;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:
Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead;
Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.
TENNYSON.
A gospel with no comfort for sorrow would not meet the deepest needs of
human hearts. If Jesus were a friend only for bright hours, there
would be much of experience into which he could not enter. But the
gospel breathes comfort on every page; and Jesus is a friend for lonely
hours and times of grief and pain, as well as for sunny paths and days
of gladness and song. He went to a marriage feast, and wrought his
first miracle to prolong the festivity; but he went also to the home of
grief, and turned its sorrow into joy.
It is well worth our while to study Jesus as a comforter, to learn how
he comforted his friends. For one thing, it will teach us how to find
consolation when we are in trouble. This is a point at which, with
many Christians, the gospel seems oftenest to fail. In the days of the
unbroken circle and of human gladness, the friends of Jesus rejoice in
his love, and walk in his light with songs; but when ties are broken,
and grief enters the home, the hearts that were so full of praise
refuse to take the consolation of the gospel. This ought not so to be.
If we knew Christ as a comforter, we would sing our songs of trust even
in the night.
Another help that we may get from such a study of Jesus will be power
to become a true comforter of others. This every Christian should seek
to be, but this very few Christians really are. Most of us would
better stay away altogether from our friends in their times of sorrow,
than go to them as we do. Instead of being comforters to make them
stronger to endure, we only make their grief seem bitterer, and their
loss more unendurable, doing them harm instead of good. This is
because we have not learned the art of giving comfort. Our Master
should be our teacher; and if we study his method, we shall know how to
be a blessing to our friends in their times of loss and pain.
Much of the ministry of Jesus was with those who were in trouble.
There was one special occasion, however, when there was a great sorrow
in the circle of his best friends. We may learn many lessons if we
read over thoughtfully the story of the way Jesus comforted them.
It was the Bethany home. Before the sorrow came, Jesus was a familiar
guest, a close and intimate friend of the members of the household. He
always had kindly welcome and generous hospitality when he came to
their door. They did not make his acquaintance for the first time when
their hearts were broken. They had known him for a long time, and had
listened to his gracious words when there was no grief in their home.
This made it easy to turn to him and to receive his comfort when the
dark days of sorrow came.
There are some who think of Christ only as a friend whom they will need
in trouble. In their time of unbroken gladness they do not seek his
friendship. Then, when trouble comes suddenly, they do not know how or
where to find the Comforter. Wiser far are they who take Christ into
their life in the glad days when the joy is unbroken. He blesses their
joy. A happy home is all the happier because Jesus is a familiar guest
in it. Love is all the sweeter because of his benediction. Then, when
sorrow's shadow falls, there is light in the darkness.
There seems to be no need of the stars in the daytime, for the sunshine
then floods all earth's paths. But when the sun goes down, and God's
great splendor of stars appears hanging over us, dropping their soft,
quiet light upon us, how glad we are that they were there all the
while, waiting to be revealed! So it is that the friendship of Jesus
in the happy years hangs above our heads the stars of heavenly comfort.
We do not seem to need them at the time, and we scarcely know that they
are there; we certainly have no true realization of the blessing that
hides in the shining words. But when, one sad day, the light of human
joy is suddenly darkened, then the divine comforts reveal themselves.
We do not have to hasten here and there in pitiable distress, trying to
find consolation, for we have it already in the love and grace of
Christ. The Friend we took into our life in the joy-days stands close
beside us now in our sadness, and his friendship never before seemed so
precious, so tender, so divine.
When Lazarus fell sick, Jesus was in another part of the country. As
the case grew hopeless, the sisters sent a message to Jesus to say, "He
whom thou lovest is sick." The message seems remarkable. There was no
urgency expressed in it, no wild, passionate pleading that Jesus would
hasten to come. Its few words told of the quietness and confidence of
trusting hearts. We get a lesson concerning the way we should pray
when we are in distress. "Your Father knoweth what things ye have need
of," and there is no need for piteous clamor. Far better is the prayer
of faith, which lays the burden upon the divine heart, and leaves it
there without anxiety. It is enough, when a beloved one is lying low,
to say, "Lord, he whom thou lovest is sick."
We are surprised, as we read the narrative, that Jesus did not respond
immediately to this message from his friends. But he waited two days
before he set out for Bethany. We cannot tell why he did this, but
there is something very comforting in the words that tell us of the
delay. "Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When,
therefore, he heard that Lazarus was sick, he abode at that time two
days in the place where he was." In some way the delay was because of
his love for all the household. Perhaps the meaning is that through
the dying of Lazarus blessing would come to them all.
At length he reached Bethany. Lazarus had been dead four days. The
family had many friends; and their house was filled with those who had
come, after the custom of the times, to console them. Jesus lingered
at some distance from the house, perhaps not caring to enter among
those who in the conventional way were mourning with the family. He
wished to meet the sorrowing sisters in a quiet place alone. So he
tarried outside the village, probably sending a message to Martha,
telling her that he was coming. Soon Martha met him.
We may think of the eagerness of her heart to get into his presence
when she heard that he was near. What a relief it must have been to
her, after the noisy grief that filled her home, to get into the quiet,
peaceful presence of Jesus! He was not disturbed. His face was full
of sympathy, and it was easy to see there the tokens of deep and very
real grief, but his peace was not broken. He was calm and composed.
Martha must have felt herself at once comforted by his mere presence.
It was quieting and reassuring.
The first thing to do when we need comfort is to get into the presence
of Christ. Human friendship means well when it hastens to us in our
sorrow. It feels that it must do something for us, that to stay away
and do nothing would be unkindness. Then, when it comes, it feels that
it must talk, and must talk about our sorrow. It feels that it must go
over all the details, questioning us until it seems as if our heart
would break with answering. Our friends think that they must explore
with us all the depths of our grief, dwelling upon the elements that
are specially poignant. The result of all this "comforting" is that
our burden of sorrow is made heavier instead of lighter, and we are
less brave and strong than before to bear it. If we would be truly
comforted we would better flee away to Christ; for in his presence we
shall find consolation, which gives peace and strength and joy.
It is worth our while to note the comfort which Jesus gave to these
sorrowing sisters. First, he lifted the veil, and gave them a glimpse
of what lies beyond death. "Thy brother shall rise again." "I am the
resurrection, and the life: he that believeth on me, though he die, yet
shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth on me shall never
die." Thus he opened a great window into the other world. It is
plainer to us than it could be to Martha and Mary; for a little while
after he spoke these words, Jesus himself passed through death, coming
again from the grave in immortal life. It is a wonderful comfort to
those who sorrow over the departure of a Christian friend to know the
true teaching of the New Testament on the subject of dying. Death is
not the end; it is a door which leads into fulness of life.
Perhaps many in bereavement, though believing the doctrine of a future
resurrection, fail to get present comfort from it. Jesus assured
Martha that her brother should rise again. "Yes, I know that he shall
rise again in the resurrection at the last day." Her words show that
this hope was too distant to give her much comfort. Her sense of
present loss outweighed every other thought and feeling. She craved
back again the companionship she had lost. Who that has stood by the
grave of a precious friend has not experienced the same feeling of
inadequateness in the consolation that comes from even the strongest
belief in a far-off rising again of all who are in their graves?
The reply of Jesus to Martha's hungry heart-cry was very rich in its
comfort. "I am the resurrection." This is one of the wonderful
present tenses of Christian hope. Martha had spoken of a resurrection
far away. "I am the resurrection," Jesus declared. It was something
present, not remote. His words embrace the whole blessed truth of
immortal life. "Whosoever liveth and believeth on me shall never die."
There is no death for those who are in Christ. The body dies, but the
person lives on. The resurrection may be in the future, but really
there is no break in the life of a believer in Christ. He is not here;
our eyes see him not, our ears hear not his voice, we cannot touch him
with our hands, but he still lives and thinks and feels and loves. No
power in his being has been quenched by dying, no beauty dimmed, no
faculty destroyed.
This is a part of the comfort which Jesus gave to his friends in their
bereavement. He assured them that there is no death, that all who
believe in him have eternal life. There remains for those who stay
here the pain of separation and of loneliness, but for those who have
passed over we need have no fear.
How does Jesus comfort his friends who are left? As we read over the
story of the sorrow of the Bethany home we find the answer to our
question. You say, "He brought back their dead, thus comforting them
with the literal undoing of the work of death and grief. If only he
would do this now, in every case where love cries to him, that would be
comfort indeed." But we must remember that the return of Lazarus to
his home was only a temporary restoration. He came back to the old
life of mortality, of temptation, of sickness and pain and death. He
came back only for a season. It was not a resurrection to immortal
life; it was only a restoration to mortal life. He must pass again
through the mystery of dying, and his sisters must a second time
experience the agony of separation and loneliness. We can scarcely
call it comfort; it was merely a postponement for a little while of the
final separation.
But Jesus gave the sisters true consoling besides this. His mere
presence brought them comfort. They knew that he loved them. Many
times before when he had entered their home he had brought a
benediction. They had a feeling of security and peace in his presence.
Even their inconsolable grief lost something of its poignancy when the
light of his face fell upon them. Every strong, tender, and true human
love has a wondrous comforting power. We can pass through a sore trial
if a trusted friend is beside us. The believer can endure any sorrow
if Jesus is with him.
Another element of comfort for these sorrowing sisters was in the
sympathy of Jesus. He showed this sympathy with them in coming all the
way from Perea, to be with them in their time of distress. He showed
it in his bearing toward them and his conversation with them. There is
a wonderful gentleness in his manner as he receives first one and then
the other sister. Mary's grief was deeper than Martha's; and when
Jesus saw her weeping, and her friends who were with her weeping, he
groaned in the spirit and was troubled. Then, in the shortest verse in
the Bible, we have a window into the very heart of Christ, and find
there most wonderful sympathy.
"Jesus wept." It is a great comfort in time of sorrow to have even
human sympathy, to know that somebody cares, that some one feels with
us. The measure of the comfort in such cases is in proportion to the
honor in which we hold the person. It would have had something--very
much--of comfort for the sisters, if John or Peter or James had wept
with them beside their brother's grave. But the tears of Jesus meant
incalculably more; they told of the holiest sympathy that this world
ever saw--the Son of God wept with two sisters in a great human sorrow.
This shortest verse was not written merely as a fragment of a
narrative--it contains a revealing of the heart of Jesus for all time.
Wherever a friend of Jesus is sorrowing, One stands by, unseen, who
shares the grief, whose heart feels every pang of the sorrow. There is
immeasurable comfort in this thought that the Son of God suffers with
us in our suffering, is afflicted in all our affliction. We can endure
our trouble more quietly when we know that God understands all about it.
There is yet another thing in the manner of Christ's comforting his
friends which is very suggestive. His sympathy was not a mere
sentiment. Too often human sympathy is nothing but a sentiment. Our
friends cry with us, and then pass by on the other side. They tell us
they are sorry for us, but they do nothing to help us. The sympathy of
Jesus at Bethany was very practical. Not only did he show his love to
his friends by coming away from his work in another province, to be
with them in their sore trouble; not only did he speak to them words of
divine comfort, words which have made a shining track through the world
ever since; not only did he weep with them in their grief,--but he
wrought the greatest of all his many miracles to restore the joy of
their hearts and their home. It was a costly miracle, too, for it led
to his own death.
Yet, knowing well what would come from this ministry of friendship, he
hesitated not. For some reason he saw that it would be indeed a
blessing to his friends to bring back the dead. It was because he
loved the sisters and the brother that he lingered, and did not hasten
when the message reached him beyond the river. We may be sure,
therefore, that the raising of Lazarus, though only to a little more of
the old life of weakness, had a blessing in it for the family. This
was the best way in which Jesus could show his sympathy, the best
comfort he could give his friends.
No doubt thousands of other friends of Jesus in the sorrow of
bereavement have wished that he would comfort them in like way, by
giving back their beloved. Ofttimes he does what is in effect the
same,--in answer to the prayer of faith he spares the lives of those
who are dear. When we pray for our sick friends, we only ask
submissively that they may recover. "Not my will, but thine be done,"
is the refrain of our pleading. Even our most passionate longing we
subdue in the quiet confidence of our faith. If it is not best for our
dear ones; if it would not be a real blessing; if it is not God's
way,--then "Thy will be done." If we pray the prayer of faith, we must
believe that the issue, whatever it may be, is God's best for us.
If our friend is taken away after such committing of faith to God's
wisdom and love, there is immeasurable comfort at once in the
confidence that it was God's will. Then, while no miracle is wrought,
bringing back our dead, the sympathy of Christ yet brings practical
consolation. The word comfort means strengthening. We are helped to
bear our sorrow.
The teaching of the Scriptures is that when we come with our trials to
God, he either relieves us of them, or gives us the grace we need to
endure them. He does not promise to lift away the burden that we cast
upon him, but he will sustain us in our bearing of the burden. When
the human presence is taken from us, Christ comes nearer than before,
and reveals to us more of his love and grace.
The problem of sorrow in a Christian life is a very serious one. It is
important that we have a clear understanding upon the subject, that we
may receive blessing and not hurt from our experience. Every sorrow
that comes into our life brings us something good from God; but we may
reject the good, and if we do, we receive evil instead. The comfort
God gives is not the taking away of the trouble, nor is it the dulling
of our heart's sensibilities so that we shall not feel the pain so
keenly. God's comfort is strength to endure in the experience. If we
put our life into the hands of Christ in the time of sorrow, and with
quiet faith and sweet trust go on with our duty, all shall be well. If
we resist and struggle and rebel, we shall not only miss the blessing
of comfort that is infolded for us in our sorrow, but we shall receive
hurt in our own life. When one is soured and embittered by trial, one
has received hurt rather than blessing; but if we accept our sorrow
with love and trust, we shall come out of it enriched in life and
character, and prepared for better work and greater usefulness.
There is a picture of a woman sitting by the sea in deep grief. The
dark waters have swallowed up her heart's treasures, and her sorrow is
inconsolable. Close behind her is an angel striking his harp,--the
Angel of Consolation. But the woman in her stony grief sees not the
angel's shining form, nor hears the music of his harp. Too often this
is the picture in Christian homes. With all the boundlessness of God's
love and mercy, the heart remains uncomforted.
This ought not so to be. There is in Jesus Christ an infinite resource
of consolation, and we have only to open our heart to receive it. Then
we shall pass through sorrow sustained by divine help and love, and
shall come from it enriched in character, and blessed in every phase of
life. The griefs of our life set lessons for us to learn. In every
pain is the seed of a blessing. In every tear a rainbow hides. Dr.
Babcock puts it well in his lines:--
The dark-brown mould's upturned
By the sharp-pointed plough--
And I've a lesson learned.
My life is but a field,
Stretched out beneath God's sky,
Some harvest rich to yield.
Where grows the golden grain?
Where faith? Where sympathy?
In a furrow cut by pain.