Canst thou to knowledge penetrate;
The mind, to face truth's higher glances,
Must swim some time in beauty's trances;
The heavenly harping of the muses,
Whose sweetest trembling through thee rings,
A higher life into thy soul infuses,
And wings it upward to the soul of things."
But is there not something still better, which ought to be an element
in every process of human education? What is man? Merely an
intellectual animal? Nay, but he has a spirit within him allied to
angels and to God. The higher nature calls for culture no less than the
lower. To the development and discipline of the rational and aesthetic
faculties must be subjoined "the nurture and admonition of the Lord."
Otherwise we educate only the inferior part of the man, and leave the
superior to chance and the Devil. Make scholars of your children, but
do not omit to make them Christians. Lead them to Parnassus, but let
them go by the way of Calvary. Conduct them to Olympus, but let them
carry the dew of Olivet upon their sandals. Make them drink deeply from
the wells of human wisdom, but deny them not the living water whereof
if one drink he shall never thirst again.
Why should a "wise master-builder" hesitate to connect religion with
science and literature in the edification and adornment of the soul?
Does not religion favor the most thorough mental discipline and
contribute to the harmonious development of all the spiritual powers?
Does not Christianity stimulate the mind to struggle against
difficulties, ennoble the struggle by investing it with the dignity of
a duty, and render the duty delightful by the hope of a heavenly
reward? "Knowledge is power;" but what knowledge is so mighty as that
which Christ brought from the bosom of the Father? Poetry and
philosophy have their charms; but what poetry is like that of the Holy
Spirit, and what philosophy like that of redeeming love? God's holy
evangel enlarges and strengthens the mind by bringing it into contact
with the sublimest truths, and making it familiar with the profoundest
mysteries. It rectifies our perverted reason, corrects our erroneous
estimates, silences the imperious clamour of the passions, and removes
the stern embargo which the corrupt heart lays upon the aspiring
intellect. It sings us the sweetest songs, preaches to us the purest
morality, and presents for our imitation the noblest examples of
beneficence and self-denial. Under its blessed influence the soul
expands to grasp the thought of God and receive the infinite riches of
his love.
And shall we wrong our sons and daughters by withholding from them this
noblest agency of the higher mental and spiritual culture--
"The fountain-light of all our day,
The master-light of all our seeing"--
and turn them over, with all their instinctive yearnings after the
true, the good, the pure, the divine, to the blind guidance of a
sceptical sciolism, and the bewildering vagaries of a rationalistic
infidelity? "No," to use the language of the late Canon Melville, "we
will not yield the culture of the understanding to earthly husbandmen;
there are heavenly ministers who water it with a choicer dew, and pour
upon it the beams of a brighter sun, and prune its branches with a
kinder and more skilful hand. We will not give up the reason to stand
always as a priestess at the altars of human philosophy; she hath a
more majestic temple to tread, and more beautiful robes to walk in, and
incense rarer and more fragrant to offer in golden censers. She does
well when boldly exploring God's visible works; she does better when
she submits to spiritual teaching, and sits with Mary at the Saviour's
feet."
Gentlemen, it is impossible to overstate the importance of religious
culture in the work of education. Every interest of time and eternity
urges it upon your attention. Your children are accountable and
immortal creatures. "Give them divine truth," says Channing, "and you
give them more than gems and gold; give them Christian principles, and
you give them more than thrones and diadems; imbue their hearts with a
love of virtue, and you enrich them more than by laying worlds at their
feet." Your doctrine may distil as the dew upon the grass, and as the
small rain upon the tender herb; but in some future emergency of life,
the silent influence shall assert itself in a might more irresistible
than the stormy elements when they go forth to the battles of God. If
the work be faithfully done, the impression produced shall not be that
of the sea-fowl on the sand, effaced by the first wave of the rising
tide; but the enduring grooves cut by the chariot-wheels of the King of
Trembling as he rides through the mountain ranges, and the footprints
of his fiery steeds left deep in the everlasting rocks.
Forward, then, with your noble endeavor! You are building for eternity.
You are rearing temples of living stones which shall survive all the
changes and chances of earth and time, and look sublimely down upon the
world's catastrophe. Up! up with your immortal campanile! It is
compacted of imperishable gems, cemented with gold from the mines of
God. No marble sculpture may adorn its niches and cornices; but angel
forms shall walk its battlements in robes of living glory. No hollow
metal may swing in its vaulted _loggie_, sending sweet echoes over
the distant hills, and charming the song-birds to silence along the
flowery Val d'Arno; but richer and holier melodies, ringing out from
its heavenly altitudes, shall mingle with the music of the spheres, and
swell the many-voiced harmony of the City of God!
[1] Preached at the opening of a new college edifice, 1859.
IX.
WAIL OF BEREAVEMENT.[1]
Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of
God hath touched me.--Job xix. 21.
Nothing is more important, yet few things are more difficult, than the
proper control of our spirits in the time of trouble. There are two
extremes to be avoided; stoicism and despondency. Stoicism feels too
little; despondency, too much. The former hardens the heart; the latter
breaks down the spirit. The one is a want of sensibility; the other, a
lack of fortitude. This is an affected contempt of suffering; that, a
practical abandonment of hope. Midway between the two lies the path of
duty and happiness. St. Paul, quoting from King Solomon, warns us
against them both: "My son, despise not thou the chastening of the
Lord"--that is stoicism; "neither faint when thou art rebuked of
him"--that is despondency. Israel is charged with the former: "Thou
hast stricken them, but they have not grieved; they have made their
faces harder than a rock." Job fell into the latter: "Have pity upon
me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath
touched me."
No piece of history is more affecting than that of the perfect man of
Uz. For the trial of his fortitude and his fidelity, the Almighty
delivered him up, with certain restrictions, into the hand of Satan.
The Sabeans and the Chaldaeans robbed him of his oxen, his asses, and
his camels, and slew his servants with the edge of the sword. Fire from
heaven consumed his flocks in the field, and all his children perished
together in a tempest. He was smitten "with sore boils from the sole of
his foot unto his crown; and he took him a potsherd to scrape himself
withal; and he sat down among the ashes." His wife, the last on earth
that ought to have been unkind to him, assailed him with bitter
mockery; saying, "Dost thou still retain thine integrity? Curse God and
die!" Three friends, more faithful than the rest, came from afar to see
and console him in his sufferings; and when they beheld the greatness
of his grief they sat down with him in speechless astonishment; and
surely that seven days' silence was better than any words of condolence
they could have spoken. But when "Job opened his mouth and cursed his
day," and related the sad story of all his troubles, they too became
his censors, charging him with hypocrisy, and secret wickedness, and
oppression of the poor and needy. These allegations stung him to the
heart. Oh! was it not enough that God had forsaken him; that Satan had
assailed him with all his weapons; that predatory bands had stripped
him of his possessions; that the elements of nature had conspired
against his prosperity; that his seven sons and three daughters had
been taken from him in one day; that his body had become a mass of
putrid disease, a loathsome living death; and that the wife of his
youth looked upon him no more with affection, but treated him with cold
indifference or haughty scorn? Must these wise and excellent men, the
last friends left to him, join the cruel mockery, and accuse the
upright of oppression, impiety, and every evil work? "The spirit of a
man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit who can bear?" The
good man's heart is crushed; he is ready to give up all for lost; and
he pours forth his whole soul in this passionate appeal: "Have pity
upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath
touched me."
It is permitted us to complain under such afflictions, provided we do
not "charge God foolishly." There is no guilt in tears, if they are not
tears of despair. It is no crime to feel our loss. Insensibility is no
virtue--has no merit--wins no reward. Religion does not destroy nature,
but regulates it; does not remove sorrow, but sanctifies it; does not
cauterize the human heart, but enables us to "rejoice evermore," and
teaches us to "glory in tribulations also." Abraham mourned for Sarah;
Joseph mourned for Jacob; David mourned for Jonathan, and even for
wicked Absalom; "devout men carried Stephen to his burial, and made
great lamentation over him;" and Jesus, the pattern "Man of sorrows,"
groaned in spirit, and wept at the grave of Lazarus. These
chastisements are intended for our improvement; but if they are not
felt, their end is not realized. If we have no sense of the stroke, how
shall we submit to the hand that smites us? If our hearts are seared
against all painful impressions, God is defeated in the purpose of his
providence, and the best means of our salvation prove ineffectual; for
he that is not sensible of his affliction will continue secure in his
sin. The loss of one who is very dear to us--a husband and father, upon
whom we depend so much for counsel, support, protection and
happiness--must inflict a very deep wound; and who shall forbid that
wound to bleed? None may say to the widow, "Weep not;" but He that can
also say to the dead, "Young man, arise." Grief must have vent, or it
will break the heart. Tears must flow, or they will fester in their
fountains. It is cruel to deny one the relief of mourning, when
mourning is so often its own relief. Sorrow calls for sympathy.
Compassion is better than counsel. It is a great alleviation, when we
can pour out our grief into another's bosom. Sympathy divides the
sorrow, and leaves but half the load. "Bear ye one another's burdens,
and so fulfil the law of Christ." This is what the troubled patriarch
longed for, but could not find. His kindred were estranged from him,
and all his inward friends abhorred him: his servants responded not to
his call, and the wife of his bosom regarded him as an alien. No wonder
that he exclaims, as if his heart were breaking, "Have pity upon me,
have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath touched
me."
But it is better to complain to God than to man. He will appreciate my
complaint He knoweth my heart. He seeth my sincerity. He pitieth me
with more than a father's pity. His word can still the storm and calm
the sea. His look can turn my darkness into light. He hath invited me
to call upon him in the day of trouble, adding, "I will deliver thee,
and thou shalt glorify me." He hath said, "Come unto me, all ye that
labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The apostle
saith, "Is any among you afflicted? let him pray." David saith, "I
cried unto the Lord with my voice; with my voice unto the Lord did I
make my supplication. I poured out my complaint before him; I showed
before him my trouble. When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then
thou knewest my path." There is a psalm--the CII.--on purpose for the
afflicted, and this is its title: "A prayer of the afflicted, when he
is overwhelmed, and poureth out his complaint before the Lord." The
afflicted may complain; when he is overwhelmed he may complain even
unto the Lord; yea, he may pour out his complaint before him, as one
poureth out water; and here is an inspired formula of woe which he may
employ in the divine presence without fear of extravagance or
impropriety. Sorrow sometimes renders one speechless: "I am so
troubled," saith David, "that I cannot speak." Oh! what a relief when
we can empty our anguish into the ear and the heart of God! Such prayer
is not incompatible with perfect submission to the divine will. "I was
dumb, and opened not my mouth, because thou didst it;" dumb as it
respects murmuring, but not as it respects prayer, for the next words
are, "Remove thy stroke away from me; I am consumed by the blow of thy
hand." Jesus in Gethsemane exhibits a pattern of perfect submission
joined with fervent prayer. He "prayed earnestly," "in an agony," "with
strong crying and tears;" thrice prostrating himself upon the ground;
thrice imploring the Father, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from
me;" but as often adding, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be
done."
Oh! yes; you may complain, in the spirit of pious subordination; but
you ought to guard against the excess of sorrow. To grieve too much
were as great an evil as not to grieve at all. Where, then, is the
proper limit, and when does sorrow become excessive, and therefore
sinful? I answer:
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it renders you
unmindful of your remaining mercies. It might be much worse with you
than it is. You have forfeited all your comforts, yet God has withdrawn
but few of them. Are those that remain worth nothing to you because
others have been removed? Will you relish the less the fruit that is
left, because some of it was blighted by untimely frost? You should set
the higher value upon what you have, and enjoy the blessing with a
grateful heart.
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it causes you to
forget the grief of others. You are not the only sufferer in the world,
nor is there any thing very peculiar in your afflictions. Thousands
have experienced similar troubles, losses, bereavements. Some have
parted with more than husband and father--have lost all at once, and
are left to tread the dreary earth alone. You are doubtless acquainted
with many with whom you would not now exchange conditions. And can you
be so selfish as to forget all griefs but your own?
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it makes you
indifferent to the public welfare. Poor old Eli was less afflicted by
the death of his two sons than by the loss of the ark of the Lord,
because with that was so intimately connected the prosperity of his
people, the object dearest to his heart. A Spartan mother, who had five
sons in the battle, stood at the gate of the city when a messenger came
with tidings. "How prospers the fight?" she inquired. "Thy five sons
are slain," answered the messenger. "I did not ask after my sons,"
replied the patriotic woman, "but how prospers the fight?" "We have won
the day," said the other, "and Sparta is safe." "Then let us be
thankful to the gods," exclaimed the inquirer, "for our continued
freedom." Her private griefs were swallowed up in her concern for the
public good.
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it disqualifies
you for the duties of your position.
"Nothing in nature, much less conscious being,
Was e'er created solely for itself."
You live for others. Your friends have claims upon you. Your families
and fellow-citizens require your beneficent activities. You cannot cast
off this responsibility. It is written in your inmost nature. It is
interwoven with the very constitution of human society. Wherefore the
noble faculty of speech, the high prerogative of reason, the sweet flow
of domestic sympathies, and the congregation of men in communities,
with statutes and civil compacts, and distinctions of rank and office?
All these indicate your duty to the human brotherhood; and if you
grieve so as to unfit yourselves for that duty, you defeat the end of
the divine benevolence.
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it blinds you to
the grand purposes of Providence. Poor Job saith, "My soul is weary of
my life," and again and again he desireth the quiet shelter of the
grave. Yet do we find him piously inquiring into the reasons and final
causes of the Almighty's mysterious dealings with him: "I will say unto
God, Do not condemn me; show me wherefore thou contendest with me." We
are well assured that "affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither
doth trouble spring out of the ground." All things are under the
restraint and control of Infinite Wisdom and Love. In every pain you
suffer, whether appointed or permitted only, God is seeking your good.
It were a double loss, doubly aggravated, first to lose your friend,
and then to lose the benefit of the loss. Is not the loss of the former
sufficient, without adding to it, by your immoderate grief, the
infinitely greater loss of the latter?
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it refuses the
proffered consolations of friendship. When Jacob rent his robe, and put
sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned many days for Joseph, and all his
sons and daughters rose up to comfort him, he refused to be comforted,
saying, "I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning." "In Ramah
was a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning; Rachel
weeping for her children, refuseth to be comforted because they are
not." To decline the needed consolation when it is offered, is
certainly a sin. There is some little excuse for the children of Israel
in Egypt, when Moses spake unto them of the promised deliverance, and
"they hearkened not unto him for anguish of spirit and for cruel
bondage." The dying Rachel would have called her son Benoni, "the son
of my sorrow," but that would have been too sad a remembrancer to Jacob
of his beloved wife, and he called him Benjamin, "the son of my right
hand."
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it will not accept
relief even from the hand of God. He hath assured you that his grace is
sufficient for you, and invited you to come to him for help in time of
need. Yea, he is a present help in trouble; and he saith, "I will never
leave thee nor forsake thee." To all who ask, he "giveth liberally, and
upbraideth not." And will you not ask and receive, that your joy may be
full? He hath not given you breath merely for sighs and groans, nor
articulate utterance for ungrateful complaints of his providence. He
hath afflicted you, perhaps, on purpose to draw you to himself; and
will you thus defeat the designs of his mercy? Will you turn your back
upon him when you need him most? Will you refuse to pray when prayer is
most necessary for you? To whom will you go for aid, if not to God?
Where will you find comfort, if not in his love? When will you seek the
throne of grace, if not in time of trouble? Oh! how sweet is it to say
with the psalmist, "In the multitude of my thoughts within me, thy
comforts delight my soul."
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it preys upon your
health and endangers your constitution. Grief unreasonably indulged
soon devours the vigor of the physical system. This is an effectual
method of suicide, not less guilty than a resort to the knife, the
rope, the river, the pistol, or the poison. Some drink themselves to
death, and others grieve themselves to death; who shall pronounce the
former more criminal than the latter? Sorrow sometimes kills as
suddenly as a bullet or a poniard through the heart; and sometimes it
acts as a deadly potion, slow but sure. The food never nourishes, that
is always mingled with tears. When your grief is so great, that no
balmy airs, nor beautiful scenes, nor pleasant melodies, nor sympathies
of friendship, nor solacements of society, nor consolations of
religion, can soothe or refresh the soul, then your health is impaired,
your strength gradually wastes away, the world loses too soon the
benefit of your life, and you haste unsummoned to the judgment. This is
the sorrow of the world which worketh death.
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it sours and
imbitters the spirit against both God and man. This deplorable effect,
instead of the peaceable fruits of righteousness, is often produced by
affliction, when the providence is misinterpreted and perverted. Then
the heart murmurs against God; saying with David, "I have cleansed my
hands in vain;" or with Jeremiah, "My strength and hope are perished
from the Lord;" or with Jonah, "I do well to be angry, even unto
death." I have known persons indulge their grief to such a degree, that
they loved nothing, enjoyed nothing, took interest in nothing, cared
not for their nearest friends, grew indifferent to society, found no
relief in solitude, turned away from the house of God, spurned his holy
oracles, hated books, hated Nature, hated the very sunlight, neglected
their own persons, and spent life in a continual groan. This is
rebellion against Providence. "Why doth a living man complain, a man
for the punishment of his sin?" How much better to say, "I know, O
Lord, that thy judgments are right, and that in faithfulness thou hast
afflicted me!"
Your sorrow is excessive, and therefore sinful, when it continues so
long as to become the settled habitude of the soul. The time for
mourning has been limited by all wise nations, and the wisest have
generally made it shortest. The Egyptians, who knew not God, mourned
seventy days for Jacob; Joseph, his son, only forty-seven days. Israel
mourned thirty days for Aaron, and thirty days for Moses, but only
seven days for Saul. The inward sorrow, however, may last much longer
than the outward show. The formal ceremony is soon laid aside; while
the stricken heart carries its wound, still bleeding, to the grave. But
the first poignancy of grief should not be allowed to continue too
long, lest it produce the injurious effects of which I have already
spoken. When it is not only indulged, but cherished as a luxury, it
soon becomes sinful. When the mourner persists in nursing his woe, and
feeds it with melancholy reflections in silence and seclusion, heeding
neither the dissuasives of friendship nor the solacements of religion,
he despises his own mercy and injures his own soul. Remember your
departed friends with tenderness, but let your sorrow be subdued and
holy, and aid the healing art of Nature with the balm of grace to
shorten as much as may be the term of its continuance.
"But it is my best Friend that hath smitten me. It is the stroke of my
heavenly Father that hath wounded me. For God maketh my heart soft, and
the Almighty troubleth me. He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken
the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am
gone; and my hope hath he removed like a tree. Have pity upon me, have
pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath touched me."
Then it is a painful touch. It is grievous to be smitten by a friend,
and the stroke of the father breaks the heart of the child. Your
bereavement is indeed a fiery trial, a sword in the bones, a spear that
pierceth to the soul. I pity your sufferings, and wonder not at your
complaint.
But it is a common touch. "What son is he whom the father chasteneth
not?" Who hath not lost a friend? Who hath not sat in the shadow of the
tomb? Even the immaculate Saviour suffered in the flesh. "It pleased
the Lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief." And can you hope for
exemption?
And it is a righteous touch. The Creator is also the proprietor, and he
has an unquestionable right to resume what he hath loaned. All are his;
and shall he not do what he will with his own? Shall not the master of
the garden gather his own fruits, the commander of the army dispose of
his own men? What claim have you upon him for happiness? And how much
more misery do you deserve than you have ever suffered!