the mouth of the sepulchre, it is the spot, above all others, where the
Gospel, if it enters, shines and triumphs. In the busy sphere of life
and health, it encounters an active antagonist--the world confronts it,
aims to obscure its glories, to deny its claims, to drown its voice, to
dispute its progress, to drive it from the ground it occupies. But from
the mouth of the grave the world retires; it shrinks from the contest
there; it leaves a clear and open space in which the Gospel can assert
its claims and unveil its glories without opposition or fear. There the
infidel and worldling look anxiously around--but the world has left them
helpless, and fled. There the Christian looks around, and lo! the angel
of mercy is standing close by his side. The Gospel kindles a torch which
not only irradiates the valley of the shadow of death, but throws a
radiance into the world beyond, and reveals it peopled with the sainted
spirits of those who have died in Jesus."
Reader! may this calm departure be yours and mine. "Blessed are the dead
which die in the Lord. ... They REST." All life's turmoil and tossing is
over; they are anchored in the quiet haven. _Rest_--but not the rest of
annihilation--
"Grave! the guardian of our dust;
Grave! the treasury of the skies;
Every atom of thy trust
Rests in hope again to rise!"
Let us seek to have the eye of faith fixed and centred on Jesus _now_.
It is _that_ which alone can form a peaceful pillow in a dying hour, and
enable us to rise superior to all its attendant terrors. Look at that
scene in the Jehoshaphat valley! The proto-martyr Stephen has a pillow
of thorns for his dying couch, showers of stones are hurled by
infuriated murderers on his guiltless head, yet, nevertheless, he "fell
asleep." What was the secret of that calmest of sunsets amid a
blood-stained and storm-wreathed sky? The eye of faith (if not of sight)
pierced through those clouds of darkness. Far above the courts of the
material temple at whose base he lay, he beheld, in the midst of the
general assembly and Church of the First-born of Heaven, "JESUS standing
at the right hand of God." The vision of his Lord was like a celestial
lullaby stealing from the inner sanctuary. With _Jesus_, his last sight
on earth and his next in glory, he could "lay him down in peace and
sleep," saying, in the words of the sweet singer of Israel, "What time I
awake I am still with Thee."
"It matters little at what hour o' the day
The righteous falls asleep. Death cannot come
To him untimely who is fit to die.
The less of this cold world the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality."--MILMAN.
"Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." This tells us that Christ forgets not the
dead. The dead often bury their dead, and remember them no more. The
name of their silent homes has passed into a proverb, "The land of
forgetfulness." But they are not forgotten by Jesus. That which sunders
and dislocates all other ties--wrenching brother from brother, sister
from sister, friend from friend--cannot sunder us from the living,
loving heart on the throne of heaven. His is a friendship and love
stronger than death, and surviving death. While the language of earth is
"Friend after friend departs--
Who hath not lost a friend?"
the emancipated spirit, as it wings its magnificent flight among the
ministering seraphim, can utter the challenge, "Who shall separate me
from the love of Christ?" The righteous are had with Him "in everlasting
remembrance." Their names "written among the living in Jerusalem;" yea,
"engraven on the palms of His hands."
One other thought.--Jesus had at first kindly and considerately
disguised from His disciples the stern truth of Lazarus' departure. "Our
friend sleepeth." "They thought that He had spoken of taking of rest in
sleep." They understood it as the indication of the crisis-hour in
sickness when the disease has spent itself, and is succeeded by a balmy
slumber--the presage of returning health; but now He says unto them
plainly, "Lazarus is dead." How gently He thus breaks the sad
intelligence! And it is His method of dealing still. He _prepares_ His
people for their hours of trial. He does not lay upon them more than
they are able to bear. He considers their case--He teaches by slow and
gradual discipline, leading on step by step; staying His rough wind in
the day of His east wind. As the Good Physician, He metes out drop by
drop in the bitter cup--as the Good Shepherd, His is not rough driving,
but gentle guiding from pasture to pasture. "He leadeth them out;" "He
goeth before them." He is Himself their sheltering rock in the "dark and
cloudy day." The sheep who are inured to the hardships of the mountain,
He leaves at times to wrestle with the storm; but "the _lambs_" (the
young, the faint, the weak, the weary) "He gathers in His arms and
carries in His bosom." He speaks in gentle whispers. He uses the
pleasing symbol of quiet slumber before He speaks plainly out the
mournful reality, "Lazarus is dead." Truly "He knoweth our frame--He
remembereth that we are dust." "Like as a father pitieth his children,
so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him!"
But let us resume our narrative, and follow the journey of the dead
man's "Friend." It is a mighty task He has undertaken; to storm the
strong enemy in his own citadel, and roll back the barred gates! In
mingled majesty and tenderness He hastens to the bereft and desolate
home on this mission of power and love. We left the sisters wondering at
His mysterious delay. Again and again had they imagined that at last
they heard His tardy step, or listened to His hand on the latch, or to
the loving music of His longed-for voice. But they are mistaken; it was
only the beating of the vine-tendrils on the lattice, or the footfall of
the passer by. The Lord is still absent! Their earnest and importunate
heart-breathings are expressed by the Psalmist--"O Lord our God, early
do we seek Thee: our soul thirsteth for Thee, our flesh longeth for Thee
in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is; to see Thy power and Thy
glory, as we _have_ seen Thee." Be still, afflicted ones! He is coming.
He will, however, let the cup of anguish be first filled to the brim
that He may manifest and magnify all the more the might of His
omnipotence, and the marvels of His compassion. The thirsty land is
about to become streams of water. The sky is at its darkest, when, lo!
the rainbow of love is seen spanning the firmament, and a shower of
blessings is about to fall on the "_Home of Bethany_!"
VII.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
The sounds of lamentation had now been heard for four days in the
desolate household.
In accordance with general wont, the friends and relatives of the
deceased had assembled to pay their tribute of respect to the memory of
a revered friend, and to solace the hearts of the disconsolate
survivors. They needed all the sympathy they received. It was now the
dull dead calm after the torture of the storm, the leaden sea strewn
with wrecks, enabling them to realise more fully the extent of their
loss. Amid the lulls of the tempest, while Lazarus yet lived, hope
shrunk from entertaining gloomy apprehensions. But now that the storm
has spent its fury, now that the worst has come, the future rises up
before them crowded with ten thousand images of desolation and sorrow.
The void in their household is daily more and more felt. All the past
bright memories of Bethany seem to be buried in a yawning grave.
We may picture the scene. The stronger and more resolute spirit of
Martha striving to stem the tide of overmuch sorrow. The more sensitive
heart of Mary, bowed under a grief too deep for utterance, able only to
indicate by her silent tears the unknown depths of her sadness.
Thus are they employed, when Martha, unseen to her sister, has been
beckoned away. "_The Master has come._" But desirous of ascertaining the
truth of the joyful tidings, ere intruding on the grief of Mary, the
elder of the survivors rushes forth with trembling emotion to give full
vent to her sorrow at the feet of the Great Friend of all the
friendless![11]
He has not yet entered the village. She cannot, however, wait His
arrival. Leaving home and sepulchre behind, she hastens outside the
groves of palm at its gate.
It requires no small fortitude in the season of sore bereavement to
face an altered world; and, doubtless, passing all alone now through the
little town, meeting familiar faces wearing sunny smiles which could not
be returned, must have been a painful effort to this child of sorrow.
But what will the heart not do to meet such a Comforter? What will
Martha be unprepared to encounter if the intelligence brought her be
indeed confirmed? One glance is enough. "_It is the Lord!_" In a moment
she is a suppliant at His feet. Doubt and faith and prayer mingle in the
exclamation, "Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not
died!"[12]
That she had faith and assured confidence in the love and tenderness of
Jesus we cannot question. But a momentary feeling of unbelief (shall we
say, of reproach and upbraiding?) mingled with better emotions. "Why,
Lord," seemed to be the expression of her inner thoughts, "wert Thou
absent? It was unlike Thy kind heart. Thou hast often gladdened our home
in our season of joy--why this forgetfulness in the night of our bitter
agony? Death has torn from us a loved brother--the blow would have been
spared--these hearts would have been unbroken--these burning tears
unshed, if _Thou hadst_ been here!"
Such was the bold--the _unkind_ reasoning of the mourner. It was the
reasoning of a finite creature. Ah! if she could but have looked into
the workings of that infinite Heart she was ungenerously upbraiding, how
differently would she have broached her tearful suit!
_Her_ exclamation is--"Why this _unkind_ absence?"
_His_ comment on that _same_ absence to His disciples is _this_--"I was
_glad_ for your sakes that I was _not_ there!"
How often are _God_ and _man_ thus in strange antagonism, with regard to
earthly dispensations! Man, as he arraigns the rectitude of the Divine
procedure, exclaiming--"How unaccountable this dealing! How baffling
this mystery! Where is now my God?" This sickness--why prolonged? This
thorn in the flesh--why still buffeting? This family blank--why
permitted? Why the most treasured and useful life taken--the blow aimed
where it cut most severely and levelled lowest?
Hush the secret atheism! This trial, whatever it be, has this grand
motto written upon it in characters of living light;--we can read it on
anguished pillows--aching hearts--ay, on the very portals of the
tomb--"_This_ is for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be
glorified thereby!"
At the very moment we are mourning what are called "_dark_
providences"--"untoward calamities"--"strokes of
misfortune"--"unmitigated evils"--Jesus has a different verdict;--"I am
_glad_ for your sakes."
The absence at Jordan--the still more unaccountable lingering for two
days in the same place after the message had been sent, instead of
hastening direct to Bethany, all was well and wisely ordered. And
although Martha's upbraidings were now received in forbearing silence,
her Saviour afterwards, in a calmer moment, read the rebuke--"Said I not
unto thee, if thou wouldst _believe_, thou shouldst see the glory of
God?"
It is indeed a comforting assurance in all trials, that God has some
holy and wise end to subserve. He never stirs a ripple on the waters,
but for His own glory, or the good of others. The delay on the present
occasion, though protracting for a time the sorrows of the bereaved, was
intended for the benefit of the Church in every age, and for the more
immediate benefit of the disciples.
_They_ were destined in a few brief weeks also to be desolate
survivors--to mourn a Brother dearer still! He who had been to them
Friend--Father--Brother, all in one, was to be, like Lazarus, laid
silent in a Jerusalem sepulchre. The Lord of Life was to be the victim
of Death! His body was to be transfixed to a malefactor's cross, and
consigned to a lonely grave! He knew the shock that awaited their faith.
He knew, as this terrible hour drew on, how needful some overpowering
visible demonstration would be of His mastery over the tomb.
_Now_ a befitting opportunity occurred in the case of their friend
Lazarus to read the needed lesson. "I was glad for your sakes, ... to
the intent ye might believe."
Would that we could feel as believers more than we do--that the dealings
of our God are for the strengthening of our faith, and the enlivening
and invigorating of our spiritual graces. Let us seek to accept more
simply in dark dealings the Saviour's explanation, "It is for _your_
sake!" He gives us a blank for our every trial, indorsing it with His
own gracious word, "This, _this_ is for the glory of God, that the Son
of God may be glorified thereby."
The words of Martha, then, surely teach as their great lesson, never to
be hasty in our surmises and conclusions regarding God's ways.
"Lord! IF Thou _hadst_ been here?" Could she question for a moment that
that loving eye of Omniscience had all the while been scanning that
sick-chamber--marking every throb in that fevered brow--and every tear
that fell unbidden from the eyes that watched his pillow?
"Lord! _if_ Thou hadst been here?" Could she question His ability, had
He so willed it, to prevent the bereavement altogether--to put an arrest
on the hand of death ere the bow was strung?
O faithless disciple, wherefore didst thou doubt? But thou art ere long
to learn what each of us will learn out in eternity, that "_all_ things
are for our sakes, that the abundant grace might, through the
thanksgiving of many, redound _to the glory of God_."
* * * * *
But the momentary cloud has passed. Faith breaks through. The murmur of
upbraiding has died away. He who listens makes allowance for an
anguished heart. The glance of tender sympathy and gentleness which met
Martha's eye, at once hushes all remains of unbelief. Words of exulting
confidence immediately succeed. "But I know that even now whatsoever
Thou wilt ask of God, God will give it Thee."
What is this, but that which every believer exults in to this hour, as
the sheet-anchor of hope and peace and comfort, when tossed on a
tempestuous sea--a gracious confidence in the ability and willingness of
Christ to save. The Friend of Bethany is still the Friend in Heaven. To
Him "all power has been committed;" "as a prince He has power with God,
and must prevail."
Yes, gracious antidote to the spirit in the moment of its trial; when
bowed down with anticipated bereavement; the curtains of death about to
fall over life's brightest joys. How blessed to lay hold on the
_perfect_ conviction that "the Ever-living Intercessor in glory has all
power to revoke the sentence if He sees meet"--that even _now_ (yes
_now_, in a moment) the delegated angel may be sent speeding from his
throne, to spare the tree marked to fall, and prolong the lease of
existence!
Let us rejoice in the power of this God-man Mediator, that He is as able
as He is willing, and as willing as He is able. "Him the Father heareth
always." "_Father, I will_," is His own divine _formula_ for every
needed boon for His people.
How it ought to make our sick-chambers and death-chambers consecrated to
prayer! leading us to make our every trial and sorrow a fresh reason for
going to God. Laying our burden, whatever it may be, on the mercy-seat,
it will be _considered_ by Him, who is too wise to grant what is better
to be withdrawn, and too kind to withhold what, without injury to us,
may be granted.
Let us imitate Martha's faith in our approaches to Him. Ah, in our dull
and cold devotions, how little lively apprehension have we of the
gracious _willingness_ of Christ to listen to our petitions! Standing as
the great Angel of the Covenant with the golden censer, His hand never
shortened--His ear never heavy--His uplifted arm of intercession never
faint. No variety bewildering Him--no importunity wearying Him--"waiting
to be gracious"--loving the music of the suppliant spirit.
Would that we had ever before us as the superscription of faith written
on our closet-devotions, and domestic altars, and public sanctuaries,
_whenever_ and _wherever_ the knee is bent, and the Hearer of prayer is
invoked--"I _know_ that even _now_ whatsoever _Thou_ wilt ask of God,
God will give it Thee."
VIII.
THE MOURNER'S COMFORT.
Martha's tearful utterances are now met with an exalted solace.
"_Thy brother shall rise again._" It is the first time her Lord has
spoken. She now once more hears those well-remembered tones which were
last listened to, when life was all bright, and her home all happy.
It is the self-same consolation which steals still, like celestial
music, to the smitten heart, when every chord of earthly gladness ceases
to vibrate. And it is befitting too that _Jesus_ should utter it. He
alone is qualified to do so. The words spoken to the bereaved one of
Bethany are words purchased by His own atoning work. "Thy brother--thy
sister--thy friend, shall rise again!"
This brief oracle of comfort was addressed, in the first instance,
specially to Martha. It had a primary reference, doubtless, to the vast
miracle which was on the eve of performance. But there were more hearts
to comfort and souls to cheer than one; that Almighty Saviour had at the
moment troops of other bereaved ones in view; myriads on myriads of
aching, bleeding spirits who could not, like the Bethany mourner, rush
into His visible presence for consolation and peace. He expands,
therefore, for their sakes the sublime and exalted solace which He
ministers to _her_. And in words which have carried their echoes of hope
and joy through all time, He exclaims--"I am the resurrection and the
life; he that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;
and whosoever liveth and believeth on Me shall never die!"
If Bethany had bequeathed no other "memory" than _this_, how its name
would have been embalmed in hallowed recollection! Truly these two brief
verses are as apples of gold in pictures of silver. "_Jesus, the
Resurrection and the Life._" Himself conquering death, He has conquered
it for His people--opening the kingdom of heaven to all believers.
The full grandeur of that Bethany utterance could not be appreciated by
her to whom it was first spoken. His death and resurrection was still,
even to His nearest disciples, a profound mystery. Little did that
trembling spirit, who was now gazing on her living Lord with tearful
eye, dream that in a few brief days the grave was to hold HIM, too, as
its captive; and that guardian angels were to proclaim words which would
now have been all enigma and strangeness, "The Lord is risen!" With us
it is different. The mighty deed has been completed. "Christ has died;
yea, rather has risen again!" The resurrection and revival of Lazarus
was a marvellous act, but it was only the rekindling of a little star
that had ceased to twinkle in the firmament. A week more--and Martha
would witness the Great Sun of all Being undergoing an eclipse; in a
mysterious moment veiled and shrouded in darkness and blood; and then
all at once coming forth like a Bridegroom from his chamber to shine the
living and luminous centre of ransomed millions!
Christians! we can turn now aside and see this great sight--death
closing the lips of the Lord of life--a borrowed grave containing the
tenantless body of the Creator of all worlds! Is death to hold that
prey? Is the grave to retain in gloomy custody that immaculate frame? Is
the living temple to lie there an inglorious ruin, like other crumbling
wrecks of mortality? The question of our eternal life or eternal death
was suspended on the reply! If death succeeds in chaining down the
illustrious Victim, our hopes of everlasting life are gone for ever. In
vain can these dreary portals be ever again unbarred for the children of
fallen humanity. He has gone there as their surety-Saviour. If his
suretyship be accepted--if He meet and fulfil all the requirements of an
outraged law, the gates of the dismal prison-house will and must be
opened. If, on the other hand, there be any flaw or deficiency in His
person or work as the Kinsman-Redeemer, then no power can snap the
chains which bind Him; the tomb will refuse to surrender what it has in
custody; the hopes of His people must perish along with Him! Golgotha
must become the grave of a world's hopes!
But the stone _has_ been rolled away. The grave-clothes are all that are
left as trophies of the conqueror. Angels are seated in the vacant tomb
to verify with their gladdening assurance His own Bethany oracle, "The
Lord has risen." "He is indeed the resurrection and the life; he that
liveth and believeth on Him shall never die!"
Yes! however many be the comforting thoughts which cluster around the
grave of Lazarus, grander still is it to gather, as Jesus Himself here
bids us, around His own tomb, and to gaze on His own resurrection scene!
It was the most eventful morning of all time. It will be the focus point
of the Church's hope and triumph through all eternity.
"The Lord is risen!" It proclaimed the atonement complete, sin pardoned,
mediation accepted, the law satisfied, God glorified! "The Lord is
risen!" It proclaimed resurrection and life for His people--life (the
forfeited _gift_ of life) now repurchased. That mighty victor rose not
for Himself, but as the representative and earnest of countless
multitudes, who exult in His death as their life--in His resurrection as
the pledge and guarantee of their everlasting safety;--"I am He that
liveth," and "because I live ye shall live also."
Anticipating His own glorious rising, He might well speak to Martha,
standing before Him as the representative of weeping, sinful, woe-worn
humanity, "He that liveth and believeth on Me shall never die." "_In
Me_, death is no longer death; it is only a parenthesis in life--a
transition to a loftier stage of being. _In Me_, the grave is the
vestibule of heaven, the robing-room of immortality!"
Reader, yours is the same strong consolation. "Believe," "Only believe"
in that risen Lord. He has purchased all, paid all, procured all! Look
into that vacant tomb; see sin cancelled, guilt blotted out, the law
magnified, justice honoured, the sinner saved!
Ay, and more than that, as you see the moral conqueror marching forth
clothed with immortal victory, you see Him not alone! He is heading and
heralding a multitude which no man can number. Himself the victorious
precursor, he is shewing to these exulting thousands "the _path_ of
life." He tells them to dread neither for themselves or others that
lonesome tomb. The curse is extracted from it; the envenomed sting is
plucked away. In passing through its lonesome chambers they may exult in
the thought that a mightier than they has sanctified it by His own
presence, and transmuted what was once a gloomy portico into a triumphal
arch, bearing the inscription, "O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave,
I will be thy destruction!"
IX.
THE MOURNER'S CREED.
How stands our faith?
These mighty thoughts and words of consolation--are they really
believed, felt, trusted in, rejoiced over?
Christian, "Believest _thou this_?"[13] Art thou really looking to this
exalted life-giving Saviour? Hast thou in some feeble measure realised
this resurrection-life as thine own? Hast thou the joyful consciousness
of participating in this vital union with a living Lord? In vain do we
listen to these sublime Bethany utterances unless we feel "_Jesus speaks
to me_," and unless we be living from day to day under their
invigorating power.
He had unfolded to Martha in a single verse a whole Gospel; He had
irradiated by a few words the darkness of the tomb; and now, turning to
the poor dejected weeper at his side, He addresses the all-important
question, "Believest thou _this_?"
Her faith had been but a moment before staggering. Some guilty
misgivings had been mingling with her anguished tears. She has now an
opportunity afforded of rising above her doubts,--the ebbings and
flowings of her fitful feelings,--and cleaving fast to the Living Rock.