"She is not dead, but sleepeth." Luke viii.52
A Great peculiarity of the Christian religion is its transforming
or transmuting power. I speak not now of the regeneration which
accomplishes in the individual soul, but of the change it works upon
things without. It applies the touchstone to every fact of existence,
and exposes its real value. Looking through the lens of spiritual
observation, it throws the realities of life into a reverse perspective
from that which is seen by the sensual eye. Objects which the world
calls great it renders insignificant, and makes near and prominent
things which the frivolous put off. Thus the Christian, among other men,
often appears anomalous. Often, amidst the congratulations of the world,
he detects reason for mourning, and is penetrated with sorrow. On the
contrary, where others shrink, he walks undaunted, and converts the
scene of dread and suffering into an ante-chamber of heaven. In this
light, the Apostle Paul speaks of himself and others, "As sorrowful, yet
always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and
yet possessing all things." Indeed, all the beatitudes are based upon
this peculiarity; for the true blessing, the inward, everlasting riches,
are for those who, in the world's eye, are poor, and mourning, and
persecuted. Jesus himself weeps amid triumphant psalms and sounding
hosannas, while on the cross he utters the prayer of forgiveness, and
the ejaculation of peace.
No wonder, then, that the believer views the ghastliest fact of all in
a consoling and even a beautiful aspect; and death itself becomes but
sleep. Well was that trait of our religion which I have now suggested
illustrated at the bed-side of Jairus' daughter. Well did that noisy,
lamenting group represent the worldly who read only the material fact,
or that flippant skepticism which laughs all supernatural truth to
scorn. And well did Jesus represent the spirit of his doctrine, and its
transforming power, when he exclaimed, "She is not dead, but sleepeth."
Yes! beautifully has Christianity transformed death. To the eye of flesh
it was the final direction of our fate,--the consummate riddle in this
mystery of being,--the wreck of all our hopes,--
"The simple senses crowned his head,
Omega! thou art Lord, they said;
We find no motion in the dead."
Ever, though with higher desires and better gleamings, the mind has
struggled and sunk before this fact of decay, and this awful silence of
nature; while in the waning light of the soul, and among the ashes of
the sepulchre, skepticism has built its dreary negation. And though the
mother could lay down her child without taking hints which God gave her
from every little flower that sprung on that grassy bed,--though the
unexhausted intellect has reasoned that we ought to live again, and
the affections, more oracular, swelling with the nature of their great
source, have prophesied that we shall,--never, until the revelation
of Christ descended into our souls, and illuminated all our spiritual
vision, have we been able to say certainly of death, it is a sleep.
This has made its outward semblance not that of cessation, but of
progression--not an end, but a change--converting its rocky couch to a
birth-chamber, over-casting its shadows with beams of eternal morning,
while behind its cold unconsciousness the unseen spirit broods into
higher life. "He fell asleep," says the sacred chronicler, speaking
of bloody Stephen. "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth," said Christ to his
disciples; and yet again, as here in the text, the beautiful synonyme is
repeated, "She is not dead, but sleepeth."
But I proceed to remark, if the Christian religion thus transforms
death, or, in other words, abolishes the idea of its being annihilation,
or an end, then it gives us a new view of our relations to the departed.
What are these relations? The answers to this question will form the
burden of the present discourse.
I. There is the relation of memory. It is true, we may argue that
this relation exists whether the Christian view of death be correct or
not;--so long have those who are now gone actually lived with us,--so
vivid are their images among the realities of the soul,--though the
grave should forever shut them from our communion. But this relation
of memory has peculiar propriety and efficacy when associated with a
Christian faith. If the dead live no more, what would memory be to us
but a spectre and a sting? Should we not then seek to repress those
tender recollections,--to close our eyes to those pale, sad visions of
departed love? Should we not invoke the glare and tumult of the world
to distract or absorb our thoughts? Would we not say, "Let it come, the
pleasure, the occupation of the hour, that we may think no more of the
dead, plucked from us forever,--let us drive thoughtlessly down this
swift current of life, since thought only harrows us,--let us drive
thoughtlessly down, enjoying all we can, until we too lie by the side
of those departed ones, like them to moulder in everlasting
unconsciousness." I don not say that this would always be the case
without religious hope, but it is a very natural condition of the
feelings in such circumstances,--it is the most humane alternative that
would then be left. At least, no one so well as the Christian can go
into the inner chambers of memory, feel the strength of its sad yet
blissful associations, and calmly invoke the communion of the dead.
I speak not now of what occurs in those first bitter days of grief, when
the heart's wound bleeds afresh at every touch,--when we are continually
surprised by the bleak fact that the loved one is actually dead. But I
speak of those after seasons, those Indian summers of the soul, in which
all the present desolation is blended with the bloom and enjoyment of
the past. Then do we find that the tie which binds us so tenderly to the
departed is a strong and fruitful one. We love, in those still retired
seasons, to call up the images of the dead, to let them hover around us,
as real, for the hour, as any living forms. We linger in that communion,
with a pleasing melancholy. We call up all that was lovely in their
character, all that was delightful in their earthly intercourse. They
live again for us, and we for them.
In this relation of memory, moreover, we realize the fact, that while
the departed were upon earth we enjoyed much with them. This is a truth
which in any estimate of our loss we should not overlook. Do we mourn
that the dead have been taken from us so soon? Are we not also thankful
that they were ours so long? In our grief over unfulfilled expectation,
do we cherish no gratitude for actual good? So much bliss has God
mingled in our cup of existence that the might have withheld. He lent it
to us thus far; why complain, rather, that he did not intrust us with it
longer? O! these fond recollections, this concentrated happiness of past
hours which we call up with tears, remind us that so much good we have
actually experienced.
In close connection with this thought is the fact, that, by some
delicate process of refinement, we remember of the dead only what was
good. In the relation of memory we see them in their best manifestation,
we live over the hours of our past intercourse. Though in extraordinary
instances it may be true that "the evil which men do lives after them,"
yet even in regard to the illustrious dead, their imperfections are
overlooked, and more justice is done to their virtues than in their own
time. Much more is this the case with those around whom our affections
cling more closely. The communion of memory, far more than that of life,
is unalloyed by sharp interruptions, or by any stain. That communion
now, though saddened, is tender, and without reproach.
And even if we remember that while they lived our relations with them
were all beautiful, shall we not believe that when they were taken away
their earthly mission for us was fulfilled? Was not their departure as
essential a work of the divine beneficence as their bestowal? Who knows
but if they had overstayed the appointed hour, our relations with them
might have changed?--some new element of discontent and unhappiness
been introduced, which would have entirely altered the character of
our recollections? At least, to repeat what I have just suggested,
what Christian doubts that their taking away--this change from living
communion to the communion of memory--was for an end as wise and kind as
were all the love and intercourse so long vouchsafed to us?
Vital, the, for the Christian, is this relation which we have with the
dead by memory. We linger upon it, and find in it a strange and
sweet attraction, and is not much of this because, though we may be
unconscious of it, the current of faith subtilely intermingles with
our grief, and gives its tone to our communion? We cannot consider the
departed as lost to us forever. The suggestion of rupture holds a latent
suggestion of reunion. The hues of memory are colored by the reflection
of hope. Religion transforms the condition of the departed for us, and
we consider them not as dead, but sleeping.
II. There is another relation which we have with the dead,--the relation
of spiritual existence. We live with them, not only by communion with
the past, by images of memory, but by that fine, mysterious bond which
links us to all souls, and in which we live with them now and forever.
The faith that has converted death into a sleep has also transformed the
whole idea of life. If the one is but a halt in the eternal march,--a
slumbrous rest preceeding a new morning,--the other is but the flow
of one continuous stream, mated awhile with the flesh, but far more
intimately connected with all intelligences in the universe of God. What
are the conditions of our communion with the living--those with whom we
come in material contact? The eye, the lip, the hand, are but symbols,
interpretations;--behind these it is only spirit that communes with
spirit, even in the market or the street. But not to enter into so
subtle a discussion, of what kind are some of the best communions which
we have on earth? We take up some wise and virtuous book, and enter into
the author's mind. Seas separate us from him,--he knows us not; he never
hears our names. But have we not a close relation to him? Is there not
a strong bond of spiritual communion between us? Nay, may not the
intercourse we thus have with him be better and truer than any which we
could have from actual contact,--from local acquaintance? Then, some icy
barrier of etiquette might separate us,--some coldness of temperament
upon his part,--some spleen or disease; we might be shocked by some
temporary deformity; some little imperfection might betray itself. But
here, in his book, which we read three thousand miles away from him, we
receive his noblest thoughts,--his best spiritual revelations; and we
know him, and commune with him most intimately, not through local but
through spiritual affinities.
And how pleasing is the though that not even death interrupts this
relation. Years, as well as miles--ages may separate us from the great
and good man; but we hold with him still that living communion of the
spirit. Our best life may flow to us from this communion. Some of our
richest spiritual treasures have been deposited in this intercourse of
thought. Some of our noblest hopes and resolutions have been animated by
those whose lips have long since been sealed,--whose very monuments have
crumbled.
A dear friend goes away from us to a foreign land. We watch the
receeding sail, and feel that that is a bond between us, until it fades
away in the far blue horizon. Then it is a consolation to walk by the
shore of that sea, and to realize that the same waters lave the other
shore, where he dwells,--to watch some star, and know that at such an
hour his eye and thought are also directed to it. Thus the soul will not
entertain the idea of absolute separation, but makes all those material
objects agents for its affinities. But how much nearer does that absent
one come to us, when we know that at such an hour we both are kneeling
in prayer, and that our spirits meet, as it were, around the footstool
of God!
Thus we see that even in life there are spiritual relations which bind
us to our fellows, and that often these are dearer and stronger than
those of local contact. Why should we suppose that death cuts off all
such affinities? It does not cut them off. It only removes the loved
from our converse and our sight; but if, when absent in some distant
land of this earth, we are conscious of still holding relations to them,
do we not retain the same though they have vanished into that mysterious
and unseen land which lies beyond the grave? "She is not dead, but
sleepeth." Christianity has taught us to look away from the ghastly
secrets of the sepulchre, and not consider that changing clay as the
friend we mourn, but as only the cast-off and mouldering garment. It has
kindled within us a lively appreciation of the continued existence of
those who have gone from us; taught us to feel that the thoughts, the
love, the real life of the departed, all, in fact, that communed with
us here below, still lives and acts. And our relations to them are
relations which we bear, not to abstractions of memory, to phantoms
of by-gone joy, but to spiritual intelligences, whose current of being
flows on uninterrupted, with whose current of being our own mingles.
I know not how it is with others, but to me there is inexpressible
consolation in this thought.
But I would suggest that, as spiritual beings, we bear even a closer
relation to the departed. I said that Christianity has transformed the
whole idea of life. It has shown that we are essentially spirits, and
that our highest relations are spiritual. If so, it seems an arrogant
assumption to deny that any intercourse may exist between ourselves
and the spiritual world. Possessing as we do this mysterious nature,
throbbing with the attraction of the eternal sphere, who shall say that
it touches no spiritual confines,--that it has communion only with
the beings that we see? It is a dull atheism which repudiates all such
intimations as superstitious or absurd. To speak more distinctly, I
allude to the consoling thought which springs up almost intuitively,
that the departed may, at times, see us, and be present with us, though
we do not recognize them. For wise and good reasons, our senses may so
constrain us that we cannot perceive these spiritual beings. But the
same reasons do not exist to shut them from beholding and visiting us.
The most essential idea of the immortal state is that it yields certain
prerogatives which we cannot possess in our mortal condition. May it
not be, therefore, that while it is our lot to be restricted to sensuous
vision, and to behold only material forms, it is their privilege, having
received the spiritual sight, to see both spiritual and material things?
Nor need we imagine that immortality implies distance from us,--that
change of state requires any great change of place. Looking through
this earthly glass, we see but darkly; but when death shatters it we
may behold close around us the friends we have loved, and find their
spiritual peculiarity is not incompatible with such near residence.
The homes of departed spirits may be all around us,--these spirits
themselves may be ever hovering near, unseen in our blindness of the
senses. At all events, we deem it one of the grand distinctions of
spirit that it is not confined to one region of space, but may pass,
quick as its own intelligence, from sphere to sphere. And while I would
rebuke rash speculation, I would also rebuke the cold materialism which
unhesitatingly rejects an idea like this which I have now suggested.
I maintain, moreover, that such speculation is not all idle. It serves
to quicken within us the thought of how near the dead may be to us, to
purify that thought, and to breathe upon our fevered hearts a consoling
hope. And when I combine its intrinsic reasonableness with the spirit
and spiritualism of Christianity, and that intuitive suggestion which
springs up in so many souls, I can urge but faint objection to those
who entertain it, and would, if possible, share and diffuse the comfort
which it gives. Nearer, than, than we imagine--close as in mortal
contact, and more intimately--may be those whom we, with earthly vision
behold no more; visiting us in hours of loneliness, and affording unseen
companionship; watching us in the stillness of slumber, and reflecting
themselves in our dreams.
But, whether we indulge this notion or not, let us realize the relation
which we have with the departed by the ties of mutual spirituality. Let
us not coldly restrict or weaken this relation. If the material world is
full of inexplicable things,--if we cannot explain the secret affinities
of the star and the flower,--let us feel how full of mystery and how
full of promise is this spiritual universe of which we are parts, and
whose conditions we so little know. Let us cherish that transcendent
faith, that quick, spiritual sympathy, which says of the departed, "They
are not dead, but sleeping."
III. Finally, we have with the dead the relation of discipline. Though
we should see them only in the abstractions of memory,--though it should
be true that they have no spiritual intercourse with us,--yet their
agency in our behalf has not ceased. They still accomplish a work for
us. That work is in the moral efficacy of bereavement and sorrow. In
their going away they lead our thoughts out beyond the limits of the
world. They quicken us to an interest in the spiritual land, as one who
looks upon a map, and listlessly reads the name of some foreign shore,
so, often, do we open this blessed revelation not heeding its recital of
the immortal state. But as, when some friend goes to that distant coast,
that spot on the map becomes, of all places, most vivid and prominent,
so when our loved ones die, the spiritual country largely occupies our
thoughts and attracts our affections. They depart that we may be weaned
from earth. They ascend that we may "look steadfastly towards heaven."
If this is not our everlasting home, why should they all remain here
to cheat us with that thought? If we must seek a better country, should
there not be premonitions for us, breaking up, and farewells, and the
hurried departure of friends who are ready before us? I need not dwell
on this suggestion. We are too much of the earth, earthy, and bound
up in sensual interests. It is often needful that some shock of
disappointment should shake our idea of terrestrial stability--should
awake us to a sense of our spiritual relations--should strike open some
chasm in this dead, material wall, and let in the light of the unlimited
and immortal state to which we go. We need the discipline of bereavement
in temporal things, to win us to things eternal. And so, in their
departure, the loved accomplish for us a blessed and spiritual result,
and instead of being wholly lost to us, become bound to us by a new and
vital relation.
But these loved ones depart, no merely to bind our affections to another
state, but to fit us better for the obligations of this. Perhaps, in the
indulgence of full communion, in the liquid ease of prosperity, we have
scantily discharged our social duties. We have not appreciated love,
because we have never felt its absence. We have shocked the tenderest
ties, because we were ignorant of their tenderness. We have withheld
good offices, because we knew not how rare is the opportunity to fulfil
them. But when one whom we love passes away, then, realizing a great
loss, we learn how vital was that relation, how inestimable the
privilege which is withdrawn forever. How quick then is our regret
for every harsh word which we have spoken to the departed, or for any
momentary alienation which we have indulged! This, however, should not
reduce us to a morbid sensitiveness, or an unavailing sorrow, seeing
that it is blended with so many pleasant memories; but it should teach
us our duty to the living. It should make our affections more diligent
and dutiful. It should check our hasty words, and assuage our passions.
It should cause us, day and night, to meet in kindness and part in
peace. Our social ties are golden links of uncertain tenure, and, one by
one, they drop away. Let us cherish a more constant love for those who
make up our family circle, for "not long may we stay." The allotments of
duty, perhaps, will soon distribute us into different spheres of action;
our lines, which now fall together in a pleasant place, will be wide
apart as the zones, or death will cast his shadow upon these familiar
faces, and interrupt our long communion. Let us, indeed, preserve this
temper with all men--those who meet us in the street, in the mart, in
the most casual or selfish concerns of life. We cannot remain together a
great while, at the longest. Let us meet, then, with kindness, that when
we part no pang may remain. Let not a single day bear witness to the
neglect or violation of any duty which shall lie hard in the heart when
it is excited to tender and solemn recollections. Let only good-will
beam from faces that so soon shall be changed. Let no root of bitterness
spring up in one man's bosom against another, when, ere long, nature
will plant flowers upon their common grave. "Let not the sun go down
upon our wrath," when his morning beams may search our accustomed places
for one or both of us, in vain.
Thus, if the dead teach us to regard more dutifully the living, they
will accomplish for us a most beautiful discipline. Their departure may
also serve another end. It may teach us the great lessons of patience
and resignation. We have been surrounded by many blessings, and yet
perhaps, have indulged in fretfulness. A slight loss has irritated us.
We have chafed at ordinary disappointments, at little interruptions in
the current of our prosperity. We have been in the habit of murmuring.
And now this great grief has overtaken us, that we may see at what
little things we have complained,--that we may learn that there is a
meaning in trouble which should make us calm,--that we had no right to
these gifts, the privation of which has offended us, but that all
have flowed from that mercy which we have slightly acknowledged, and
peevishly accused. This great sorrow has stricken us, piercing through
bone and marrow, in order to reach our hearts, and touch the springs of
spiritual life within us, that henceforth, we may look upon all sorrow
in a new light. Little troubles have only disturbed the surface of our
nature, making it uneasy, and tossing it into fretful eddies; this heavy
calamity, like a mighty wind, has plunged into the very depths, and
turned up the foundations, leaving us, at length, purified and serene. I
believe we shall find it to be the general testimony that those who have
the least trouble are the loudest complainers; while, often, the souls
that have been fairly swept and winnowed by sorrow are the most patient
and Christ-like. The pressure of their woe has broken down all ordinary
reliances, and driven them directly to God, where they rest in sweet
submission and in calm assurance. Such is the discipline which may be
wrought out for us by the departure of those we love. Such, and other
spiritual results, their vanishing may secure for us, which we never
could have gained by their presence; and so it may be said by some
departing friend,--some one most dear to our hearts,--in a reverent
sense, as the Master said to his disciples, "It is expedient for you
that I go away; for if I go not away the Comforter will not come unto
you."
As I have already touched upon the region of speculation, I hardly dare
drop a hint which belongs here, though it grows out of a remark made
under the last head. But I will say that it is not unreasonable to
suppose that the departed may perform a more close and personal agency
than this which I have just dwelt upon. Often, it may be, they are
permitted messengers for our welfare; guardians, whose invisible wings
shield us; teachers, whose unfelt instructions mysteriously sway us.
The child may thus discharge an office of more than filial love for the
bereaved parents. The mother may watch and minister to her child.
The father, by unseen influences, win to virtue the heart of his
poor prodigal. But whether this be so or not, certain are we that the
departed do discharge such an agency, if not by spiritual contact with
us, or direct labor in our behalf, by the chastening influence that
their memory sheds upon us, by uplifting our thoughts, by spiritualizing
our affections, by drawing our souls to communion with things celestial
and with God.
Let us see to it, then, that we improve this discipline; that we quench
not the holy aspiration which springs up in our sorrow; that we neglect
not the opportunity when our hearts are softened; that we continue the
prayer which first escaped our lips as a sigh and a call of distress;
that the baptism of tears lets us into the new life of reconciliation,
and love, and holiness. Otherwise, the discipline is of no avail, and,
it may be, we harden under it.
And, finally, let me say, that the faith by which we regard our
relations to the departed in the light that has been exhibited in this
discourse, is a faith that must be assimilated with our entire spiritual
nature. It must be illustrated in our daily conduct, and sanctify every
thought and motive of our hearts. We should not seek religion merely for
its consolations, and take it up as an occasional remedy. In this way
religion is injured. It is associated only with sorrow, and clothed, to
the eyes of men, in perpetual sadness. It is sought as the last resort,
the heart's extreme unction, when it has tried the world's nostrums
in vain. It is dissociated from things healthy and active,--from all
ordinary experiences,--from the great whole of life. It is consigned to
the darkened chamber of mourning, and the weary and disappointed spirit.
Besides, to seek religion only in sorrow,--to fly to it as the last
refuge,--argues an extreme selfishness. We have served the world and our
own wills, we have lived the life of the senses, and obeyed the dictates
of our passions so long as they could satisfy us, and now we turn to God
because we find that he only can avail us! We seek religion for the good
it can do us, not for the service we can render God. We lay hold of it
selfishly, as something instituted merely for our help, and lavish our
demands upon it for consolation, turning away sullen and skeptical,
it may be, if these demands are not immediately answered. Many come
to religion for consolation who never apply to it for instruction,
for sanctification, for obedience. Let us learn that we can claim its
privileges only by performing its duties. We can see with the eye of its
clear, consoling faith, only when it has spiritualized our entire being,
and been developed in our daily conduct. Affliction may open religious
ideas in the soul, but only by the soul's discipline will those ideas
expand until they become our most intimate life, and we habitually enjoy
celestial companionship, and that supersensual vision of faith by which
we learn our relations to the departed.
That faith let us receive and cherish. If we live it we shall believe
it. No sophistry can steal it from us, no calamity make us surrender it.
But the keener the trial the closer will be our confidence. Standing
by the open sepulchre in which we see our friends, "not dead, but
sleeping," we shall say to insidious skepticism and gloomy doubt, in the
earnest words of the poet,
"O! steal not thou my faith away,
Nor tempt to doubt a lowly mind.
Make all that earth can yield thy prey,
But leave this heavenly gift behind.
Our hope is but the seaboy's dream,
When loud winds rise in wrath and gloom;
Our life, a faint and fitful beam,
That lights us to the cold, dark tomb;
Yet, since, as one from heaven has said,
There lies beyond that dreary bourn
A region where the faithful dead
Eternally forget to mourn,
Welcome the scoff, the sword, the chain,
The burning waste, the black abyss:--
I shrink not from the path of pain,
Which leads me to that world of bliss.
Then hush, thou troubled heart! be still;--
Renounce thy vain philosophy;--
Seek thou to work thy Maker's will,
And light from heaven shall break on thee.
'Twill glad thee in the weary strife,
Where strong men sink with falling breath;--
'Twill cheer thee in the noon of life,
And bless thee in the night of death."