over us while bonds of circumstance still hold us from what we see to be
our divine calling,--we compassionate ourselves in pitying him; or, if
we are as yet strong and buoyant, our history before us, plans for
useful service of our time clearly in view, have we not already felt the
symptoms of moral infirmity which make it doubtful whether we shall
reach our goal? There are many hindrances, and even the brave unselfish
man who never loiters in Gaza or in the treacherous valley may find his
way barred by obstacles he cannot remove. But in the case of most the
hindrances within are the most numerous and powerful. This man who
should effect much for his age is held by love which blinds him, that
other by hatred which masters him. Now covetousness, now pride is the
deterrent. Many begin to know themselves and the difficulty of doing
great tasks for God and man when noontide is past and the day has begun
to decline. Great numbers have only dreamed of attempting something and
have never bestirred themselves to act. So it is that Samson's defeat
appears a symbol of the pathetic human failure. To many his character is
full of sad interest, for in it they see what they have fears of
becoming or what they have already become.
What has Samson lost when he has revealed his secret to Delilah? Observe
him when he goes forth from the woman's house and stands in the
sunlight. Apart from the want of his waving locks he seems the same and
is physically the same; muscle and sinew, bone and nerve, stout-beating
heart and strong arm, Samson is there. And his human will is as eager as
ever; he is a bold daring man this morning as he was last evening, with
the same dream of "breaking through all" and bearing himself as king.
But he is more lonely than ever before; something has gone from his
soul. A heavy sense of faithlessness to one prized distinction and known
duty oppresses him. Shake thyself as at other times, poor rash Samson,
but know in thy heart that at last thou art powerless: the audacity of
faith is no longer thine. Thou art the natural man still, but that is
not enough, the spiritual sanction gone. The Philistines, half afraid,
gather about thee ten to one; they can bind now and lead captive for
thou hast lost the girdle which knit thy powers together and made thee
invincible. The consciousness of being God's man is gone--the
consciousness of being true to that which united thee in a rude but very
real bond to the Almighty. Thou hast scorned the vow which kept thee
from the abyss, and with the knowledge of utter moral baseness comes
physical prostration, despair, feebleness, ruin. Samson at last knows
himself to be no king at all, no hero nor judge.
It is common to think the spiritual of little account, faith in God of
little account. Suppose men give that up; suppose they no longer hold
themselves bound by duty to the Almighty; they expect nevertheless to
continue the same. They will still have their reason, their strength of
body and of mind; they believe that all they once did they shall still
be able to do and now more freely in their own way, therefore even more
successfully. Is that so? Hope is a spiritual thing. It is apart from
bodily strength, distinct from energy and manual skill. Take hope away
from a man, the strongest, the bravest, the most intelligent, and will
he be the same? Nay. His eye loses its lustre; the vigour of his will
decays; he lies powerless and defeated. Or take love away--love which is
again a spiritual thing. Let the ardour, the reason for exertion which
love inspired pass away. Let the man who loved and would have dared all
for love be deprived of that source of vital power, and he will dare no
longer. Sad and weary and dispirited he will cast himself down careless
of life.
But hope and love are not so necessary to the full tide of human vigour,
are not so potent in stirring the powers of manhood as the friendship of
God, the consciousness that made by God for ends of His we have Him as
our stay. Indeed without this consciousness manhood never finds its
strength. This gives a hope far higher and more sustaining than any of a
personal or temporal kind. It makes us strong by virtue of the finest
and deepest affection which can possibly move us; and more than that it
gives to life full meaning, proper aim and justification. A man without
the sense of a divine origin and election has no standing-ground; he is
so to speak without the right of existence, he has no claim to be heard
in speaking and to have a place among those who act. But he who feels
himself to be in the world on God's business, to be God's servant, has
his assured place and claim as a man, and can see reason and purpose for
every sharp trial to which he is put. Here then is the secret of
strength, the only source of power and steadfastness for any man or
woman. And he who has had it and lost it, breaking with God for the sake
of gain or pleasure or some earthly affection, must like Samson feel his
vigour sapped, his confidence forfeited. Now his power to command, to
advise, to contend for any worthy result has passed away. He is a tree
whose root ceases to feed in the soil though still the leaves are green.
The spiritual loss, the loss of living faith, is the great one: but is
it for that we generally pity ourselves or any person known to us? Life
and freedom are dear, the ability to put forth energy at our will, the
sense of capacity; and it is the loss of these in outward and visible
ranges that most moves us to grief. We commiserate the strong man whose
exploits in the world seem to be over, as we pity the orator whose power
of speech is gone, the artist who can no more handle the brush, the
eager merchant whose bargaining is done. We give our sympathy to Samson,
because in the midst of his days he has fallen overcome by treachery,
because the cruelty of enemies has afflicted him. Yet, looking at the
truth of things, the real cause of pity is deeper than any of these and
different. A man who is still in living touch with God can suffer the
saddest deprivations and retain a cheerful heart, unbroken courage and
hope. Suppose that Samson, surprised by his enemies while he was about
some worthy task, had been seized, deprived of his sight, bound with
fetters of iron and consigned to prison. Should we then have had to pity
him as we must when he is taken, a traitor to himself, the dupe of a
deceiver, with the badge of his vow and the sense of his fidelity gone?
We feel with Jeremiah in his affliction; we feel with John the Baptist
confined in the prison into which Herod has cast him, with St. Paul in
the Philippian dungeon and with St. Peter lying bound with chains in the
castle of Jerusalem. But we do not commiserate, we admire and exult.
Here are men who endure for the right. They are martyrs,
fellow-sufferers with Christ; they are marching with the cohorts of God
to the deliverances of eternity. Ah! It is the men who are "martyrs by
the pang without the palm," the men who have lost not only liberty but
nobleness, who dragged after false lures have sold their prudence and
their strength--these it is for whom we need to weep. He who doing his
duty has been mastered by enemies, he who fighting a brave battle has
been overcome--let us not dare to pity him. But the man who has given up
the battle of faith, who has lost his glory, him the heavens look upon
with the profound sorrow that is called for by a wasted life.
And how pathetic the touch: "He wist not that the Lord had departed from
him." For a little time he failed to realize the spiritual disaster he
had brought on himself. For a little time only; soon the dark conviction
seized him. But worse still would have been his case if he had remained
unconscious of loss. This sense of weakness is the last boon to the
sinner. God still does this for him, poor headstrong child of nature as
he would fain be, living by and for himself: he is not permitted.
Whether he will own it or not he shall be weak and useless until he
returns to God and to himself. Often indeed we find the enslaved Samson
refusing to allow that anything is wrong with him. Out of sight of the
world, in some very secret place he has broken the obligations of
faith, temperance, chastity, and yet thinks no special result has
followed. He can meet the demands of society and that is enough,
supposing the matter should come to light. Of the subtle poisoning of
his own soul he has no thought. Is the thing hidden then? The law which
determines that as a man is so his strength shall be follows every one
into the most secret place. It keeps watch over our veracity, our
sobriety, our purity, our faithfulness. Whenever in one point our
covenant with God is broken a part of strength is taken away. Do we not
perceive the loss? Do we flatter ourselves that all is as before? That
is only our spiritual blindness; the fact remains.
What a pitiful thing it is to see men in this plight trying in vain to
go about as if nothing had happened and they were as fit as ever for
their places in society and in the church! We do not speak solely of
sins like those into which Samson and David fell. There are others,
scarcely reckoned sins, which as surely result in moral weakness
perceived or unperceived, in the loss of God's countenance and support.
Our covenant is to be pure and also merciful; let one fail in
mercifulness, let there be a harsh pitiless temper cherished in secret,
and this as well as impurity will make him morally weak. Our covenant is
to be generous as well as honest; let a man keep from the poor and from
the church what he ought to give, and he will lose his strength of soul
as surely as if he cheated another in trade, or took what was not his
own. But we distinguish between sin and default and think of the latter
as a mere infirmity which has no ill effect. There is no acknowledgment
of loss even when it has become almost complete. The man who is not
generous nor merciful, nor a defender of faith goes on thinking all is
well with him, imagining that his futile religious exercises or gifts to
this and that keep him on good terms with God and that he is helping the
world, while in truth he has not the moral strength of a child. He acts
the part of a Christian teacher or servant of the church, he leads in
prayer, he joins in deliberations that have to do with the success of
Christian work. To himself all seems satisfactory and he expects that
good shall result from his efforts. But it cannot be. There is the
strain of exertion but no power.
Do we wonder that more is not effected by our organizations, religious
and other, which seem so powerful, quite capable of Christianising and
reforming the world? The reason is that many of the professed religious
and benevolent, who appear zealous and strenuous, are dying at heart.
The Lord may not have departed from them utterly; they are not dead;
there is still a rootlet of spiritual being. But they cannot fight; they
cannot help others; they cannot run in the way of God's commandments.
Are we not bound to ask ourselves how we stand, whether any failure in
our covenant-keeping has made us spiritually weak. If we are paltering
with eternal facts, if between us and the one Source of Life there is a
widening distance surely the need is urgent for a return to Christian
honour and fidelity which will make us strong and useful.
And there is something here in the story of Samson that bids us think
hopefully of a new way and a new life. In the misery to which he was
reduced there came to him with renewed acceptance of his vow a fresh
endowment of vigour. It is the divine healing, the grace of the
long-suffering Father which are thus represented. No human soul needs
to be utterly disconsolate, for grace waits ever on discomfiture. Return
to me, says the Lord, and I will return to you; I will heal your
backslidings and love you freely. Out of the deepest depths there is a
way to the heights of spiritual privilege and power. To confess our
faults and sins, to resume the fidelity, the uprightness, the generosity
and mercifulness we renounced, to take again the straight upward path of
self-denial and duty--this is always reserved for the soul that has not
utterly perished. The man, young or old, who has become weaker than a
child for any good work may hear the call that speaks of hope. He who in
self-indulgence or hard worldliness has abandoned God may turn again to
the Father's entreaty, "Remember from what thou hast fallen and repent."
We pass now to consider a point suggested by the terms in which the
Philistines triumphed over their captured foe. When the people saw him
they praised their God: for they said, Our god hath delivered into our
hand our enemy, and the destroyer of our country which hath slain many
of us. Here the ignorant religiousness and gratitude of Philistines to a
god which was no God might provoke a smile were it not for the
consideration that under the clear light of Christianity equal ignorance
is often shown by those who profess to be piously grateful. You say it
was the bribe which the Philistine lords offered to Delilah and her
treachery and Samson's sin that put him in the enemy's hand. You say,
Surely the most ignorant man in Gaza must have seen that Dagon had
nothing whatever to do with the result. And yet it is very common to
ascribe to God what is nowise His doing. There are indeed times when we
almost shudder to hear God thanked for that which could only be
attributed to a Dagon or a Moloch.
We are told of the tribal gods of those old Syrians--Baal, Melcarth,
Sutekh, Milcom and the rest--each adored as master and protector by some
people or race. Piously the devotees of each god acknowledged his hand
in every victory and every fortunate circumstance, at the same time
tracing to his anger and their own neglect of duty to him all calamities
and defeats. May it not be said that the belief of many still is in a
tribal god, falsely called by the name of Jehovah, a god whose chief
function is to look after their interests whoever may suffer, and take
their side in all quarrels whoever may be in the right? Men make for
themselves the rude outline of a divinity who is supposed to be
indifferent or hostile to every circle but their own, suspicious of
every church but their own, careless of the sufferings of all but
themselves. In two countries that are at war prayers for success will
ascend in almost the same terms to one who is thought of as a national
protector, not to the Father of all; each side is utterly regardless of
the other, makes no allowance in prayer for the possibility that the
other may be in the right. The thanksgivings of the victors too will be
mixed with glorying almost fiendish over the defeated, whose blood, it
may be, dyed in pathetic martyrdom their own hill-sides and valleys. In
less flagrant cases, where it is only a question of gain or loss in
trade, of getting some object of desire, the same spirit is shown. God
is thanked for bestowing that of which another, perhaps more worthy, is
deprived. It is not to the kindness of Heaven, but rather to the proving
severity of God, we may say, that the result is due. Looking on with
clear eyes we see something very different from divine approval in the
prosperous efforts of unscrupulous push and wire-pulling. Those who have
much success in the world have need to justify their comforts and the
praise they enjoy. They need to show cause to the ranks of the obscure
and ill-paid for their superior fortune. Success like theirs cannot be
admitted as a special mark of the favour of that God Whose ways are
equal, Whose name is the Holy and Just.
Next look at the ignoble task to which Samson is put by the Philistines,
a type of the ignominious uses to which the hero may be doomed by the
crowd. The multitude cannot be trusted with a great man.
In the prison at Gaza the fallen chief was set to grind corn, to do the
work of slaves. To him, indeed, work was a blessing. From the bitter
thoughts that would have eaten out his heart he was somewhat delivered
by the irksome labour. In reality, as we now perceive, no work degrades;
but a man of Samson's type and period thought differently. The
Philistine purpose was to degrade him; and the Hebrew captive would feel
in the depths of his hot brooding nature the humiliating doom. Look then
at the parallels. Think of a great statesman placed at the head of a
nation to guide its policy in the line of righteousness, to bring its
laws into harmony with the principles of human freedom and divine
justice--think of such a one, while labouring at his sacred task with
all the ardour of a noble heart, called to account by those whose only
desire is for better trade, the means of beating their rivals in some
market or bolstering up their failing speculations. Or see him at
another time pursued by the cry of a class that feels its prescriptive
rights invaded or its position threatened. Take again a poet, an artist,
a writer, a preacher intent on great themes, eagerly following after
the ideal to which he has devoted himself, but exposed every moment to
the criticism of men who have no soul--held up to ridicule and
reprobation because he does not accept vulgar models and repeat the
catchwords of this or that party. Philistinism is always in this way
asserting its claim, and ever and anon it succeeds in dragging some
ardent soul into the dungeon to grind thenceforth at the mill.
With the very highest too it is not afraid to inter-meddle. Christ
Himself is not safe. The Philistines of to-day are doing their utmost to
make His name inglorious. For what else is the modern cry that
Christianity should be chiefly about the business of making life
comfortable in this world and providing not only bread but amusement for
the crowd? The ideas of the church are not practical enough for this
generation. To get rid of sin--that is a dream; to make men fearers of
God, soldiers of truth, doers of righteousness at all hazards--that is
in the air. Let it be given up; let us seek what we can reach; bind the
name of Christ and the Spirit of Christ in chains to the work of a
practical secularism, and let us turn churches into pleasant lounging
places and picture galleries. Why should the soul have the benefit of so
great a name as that of the Son of God? Is not the body more? Is not the
main business to have houses and railways, news and enjoyment? The
policy of undeifying Christ is having too much success. If it make way
there will soon be need for a fresh departure into the wilderness.
The last scene of Samson's history awaits us--the gigantic effort, the
awful revenge in which the Hebrew champion ended his days. In one sense
it aptly crowns the man's career. The sacred historian is not composing
a romance, yet the end could not have been more fit. Strangely enough it
has given occasion for preaching the doctrine of self-sacrifice as the
only means of highest achievement, and we are asked to see here an
example of the finest heroism, the most sublime devotion. Samson dying
for his country is likened to Christ dying for His people.
It is impossible to allow this for a moment. Not Milton's apology for
Samson, not the authority of all the illustrious men who have drawn the
parallel can keep us from deciding that this was a case of vengeance and
self-murder not of noble devotion. We have no sense of vindicated
principle when we see that temple fall in terrible ruin, but a thrill of
disappointment and keen sorrow that a servant of Jehovah should have
done this in His name. The lords of the Philistines, all the _serens_ or
chiefs of the hundred cities are gathered in the ample porch of the
building. True, they are assembled at an idolatrous feast; but this
idolatry is their religion which they cannot choose but exercise for
they know of no better, nor has Samson ever done one deed or spoken one
word that could convince them of error. True, they are met to rejoice
over their enemy and they call for him in cruel vainglory to make them
sport. Yet this is the man who for his sport and in his revenge once
burned the standing corn of a whole valley and more than once went on
slaying Philistines till he was weary. True, Samson as a patriotic
Israelite views these people as enemies. Yet it was among them he first
sought a wife and afterwards pleasure. And now, if he decides to die
that he may kill a thousand enemies at once, is the self-chosen death
less an act of suicide?
If this was truly a fine act of self-sacrifice what good came of it? The
sacrifice that is to be praised does distinct and clearly purposed
service to some worthy cause or high moral end. We do not find that this
dreadful deed reconciled the Philistines to Israel or moved them to
belief in Jehovah. We observe, on the contrary, that it went to increase
the hatred between race and race, so that when Canaanites, Moabites,
Ammonites, Midianites no longer vex Israel these Philistines show more
deadly antagonism--antagonism of which Israel knew the heat when on the
red field of Gilboa the kingly Saul and the well-beloved Jonathan were
together stricken down in death. If there was in Samson's mind any
thought of vindicating a principle it was that of Israel's dignity as
the people of Jehovah. But here his testimony was worthless.
As we have already said, much is written about self-sacrifice which is
sheer mockery of truth, most falsely sentimental. Men and women are
urged to the notion that if they can only find some pretext for
renouncing freedom, for curbing and endangering life, for stepping aside
from the way of common service that they may give up something in an
uncommon way for the sake of any person or cause, good will come of it.
The doctrine is a lie. The sacrifice of Christ was not of that kind. It
was under the influence of no blind desire to give up His life, but
first under the pressure of a supreme providential necessity, then in
renunciation of the earthly life for a clearly seen and personally
embraced divine end, the reconciliation of man to God, the setting forth
of a propitiation for the sin of the world--for this it was He died. He
willed to be our Saviour; having so chosen He bowed to the burden that
was laid upon Him. "It pleased the Lord to bruise Him; He hath put Him
to grief." To the end He foresaw and desired there was but one way--and
the way was that of death because of man's wickedness and ruin.
Suffering for itself is no end and never can be to God or to Christ or
to a good man. It is a necessity on the way to the ends of righteousness
and love. If personality is not a delusion and salvation a dream there
must be in every case of Christian renunciation some distinct moral aim
in view for every one concerned, and there must be at each step, as in
the action of our Lord, the most distinct and unwavering sincerity, the
most direct truthfulness. Anything else is a sin against God and
humanity. We entreat would-be moralists of the day to comprehend before
they write of "self-sacrifice." The sacrifice of the moral judgment is
always a crime, and to preach needless suffering for the sake of
covering up sin or as a means of atoning for past defects is to utter
most unchristian falsehood.
Samson threw away a life of which he was weary and ashamed. He threw it
away in avenging a cruelty; but it was a cruelty he had no reason to
call a wrong. "O God, that I might be avenged!"--that was no prayer of a
faithful heart. It was the prayer of envenomed hatred, of a soul still
unregenerate after trial. His death was indeed _self_-sacrifice--the
sacrifice of the higher self, the true self, to the lower. Samson should
have endured patiently, magnifying God. Or we can imagine something not
perfect yet heroic. Had he said to those Philistines, My people and you
have been too long at enmity. Let there be an end of it. Avenge
yourselves on me, then cease from harassing Israel,--that would have
been like a brave man. But it is not this we find. And we close the
story of Samson more sad than ever that Israel's history has not taught
a great man to be a good man, that the hero has not achieved the morally
heroic, that adversity has not begotten in him a wise patience and
magnanimity. Yet he had a place under Divine Providence. The dim
troubled faith that was in his soul was not altogether fruitless. No
Jehovah-worshipper would ever think of bowing before that god whose
temple fell in ruins on the captive Israelite and his thousand victims.
XXIV.
_THE STOLEN GODS._
JUDGES xvii., xviii.