The wrinkled face, the decrepit form, the blemish, and the deformity,
will then, in God's saints, be exchanged for the brilliancy of immortal
beauty, beyond what thought can conceive! But how then will an Absalom
appear? Let Nature's favoured ones turn from the looking-glass to God's
Word, and test by that mirror of truth both what they are and what
they are likely to be; whether their goodliness be but as "the flower
of grass which passeth away," or be the faint, dim type of that beauty
with which God will clothe His redeemed, who, though now in the world,
and perhaps admired and sought after there, are yet (like their Master)
"not of the world," nor look for their happiness in its vain pleasures
or empty applause.
[Illustration]
XXIV.
Seed Corn from Barzillai's Gift.
TWICE is the aged Barzillai brought before us in Scripture. On the
first occasion, when David, fleeing from his unnatural son, had with
his faithful followers crossed over Jordan, the Gileadite, himself too
old to join in the approaching conflict, brought valuable help to those
who were to bear the burden and heat of the day.
Let us notice the minuteness with which every article of the old man's
gift is noted down in the Word of God, not even the homeliest omitted.
"Barzillai the Gileadite of Rogelim brought beds, and basons, and
earthen vessels, and wheat, and barley, and flour, and parched corn,
and beans, and lentiles, and parched pulse, and honey, and butter, and
sheep, and cheese of kine, for David, and for the people that were
with him, to eat: for they said, The people is hungry, and weary, and
thirsty, in the wilderness." Considerate kindness was shown; the mind
of the old man had revolved what would be most needed, and therefore
most welcome; his was a freewill offering, a timely offering, gladly
accepted, and afterwards royally requited.
Again old Barzillai comes before us in Scripture, but not this time
as bringing aid to a fugitive, but as welcoming a king at the head of
victorious forces. David was returning to reign when the venerable
Gileadite went over Jordan with the king. Then were the old man's loyal
services acknowledged and richly rewarded; his was the kiss, and the
blessing, and the promise, "Whatsoever thou shalt require of me, that
will I do for thee." That was a day of honour and of rejoicing to the
faithful Barzillai when his royal master returned in peace to his own.
A few thoughts are suggested to the mind by the parallel between the
position of David's followers in their time of need, and that of
Christ's soldiers now struggling in warfare against the powers of
evil, especially as regards missionaries in heathen lands. This is a
time when many of the followers of our heavenly King are called, as it
were, into the wilderness. The missionary quits home and country, and
goes forth to do battle with idolatry in the dark places of the earth.
We read of the brave devotion of Ittai, who, when David would have
dismissed him from sharing his perils, exclaimed, "As the Lord liveth,
and as my lord the king liveth, in what place my lord the king shall
be, whether in death or life, there will thy servant be!" and we feel
that such is the spirit which should animate the Christian missionary.
But we need our Barzillais also, to strengthen the hands of those whose
perils and hardships they are unable to share.
"What have I done to aid the missionary cause?" is a question which
each should solemnly ask his conscience. We rest in our comfortable
homes, on our tables are the honey and the butter, in our barns the
barley and the wheat. Have our offerings to our King, in the persons of
His servants, been proportioned to the means bestowed upon us by the
rich bounty of God?
How much lies in that word "proportioned!" The widow with her two mites
gave, we know, more than all the rich who cast into the treasury. What
proportion does what we bestow on the cause of missions bear to what we
spend on our pleasures? Are there not many who would be startled by the
idea of its being their duty to subscribe to missions a sum equal to
what they would, without a scruple, lavish on a single entertainment, a
picture, or an article of plate?
The question of "systematic beneficence" rises before us. Some urge on
us the duty of devoting a tenth of all that we possess to the Lord;
others would have us not mete out our charity thus, but would bid us
give as we have the power, whenever our help is required. It seems
that the adoption of either mode of giving should greatly depend on
the character of the individual, and that we should study our own
dispositions, to know which we should make our own. There are some
Christians whose zeal is so warm, whose hearts so liberal, that the
idea of fixing upon any proportion as a rule would only chill and cramp
their charity. When St. Paul was delighting to spend and to be spent,
who would have suggested to him that he should lay aside a "tenth"
of his earnings for God! We do not measure out the waters of the
overflowing river that pours its rich treasures through the land; we
should but mar its beauty by attempting to curb its windings and bring
it to a uniform width. Let it contract here, or expand there; it is
ever flowing onward, a type of the "cheerful giver," whom God loveth.
But the bounty of many—perhaps of most men—is not so full or so free.
If we have not the river, let us dig the canal,—that is, adopt the rule
of systematic beneficence, mete out boundaries and fix embankments,
not to prevent the waters of charity from overflowing, but to prevent
their being encroached upon by the sand of selfishness, the mud of
worldliness. Thus has God walled in His Sabbaths, not to confine
devotion to one in seven, but (amongst other reasons) to insure a given
space for its exercise, from which earthly concerns should be carefully
excluded.
The Christian makes his business arrangements as if the week held but
six days, and inconveniences are thus avoided which would otherwise
often arise. If he were in like manner to count but nine-tenths of his
income as his own, and systematically consider the remaining portion
as not his, but God's, he would, in most cases, no more miss the
tenth of his earnings than he now does the seventh of his days, and
the consecrated gold, like the consecrated Sabbath, would, with God's
blessing upon it, yield a rich harvest through ages eternal.
The ease with which systematic beneficence enables us to give, is not
the only advantage accruing from it. It necessitates an increase in
charity proportioned to increase in our wealth. This is a point too
much neglected. It might appear that a man whose income is doubled
would naturally also double the amount of his alms; that he who had a
thousand a year would give much more largely upon its being increased
to two. But it is to be feared that this is seldom "practically" the
case. Wants expand in more than equal ratio to the means of satisfying
them. The larger residence, the increased establishment, the better
style of entertaining, place the richer man still in the position
of living quite up to his income; the "stereotyped guinea" in the
missionary report has not at the end of the year become two, though
systematic beneficence might have raised it to a hundred without any
sensible difficulty. The channel of the canal was not deepened and
widened "at once," and the new supplies are sunk and lost in daily
household expenditure, or evaporate in ostentation.
The Jews were commanded to devote a tenth of their property to God;
and it seems clear that a Christian cannot be required to do "less"
than a Jews who knew not, as we do, the "grace of our Lord Jesus
Christ, who, though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor,
that we through His poverty might be rich." There are many persons,
indeed, who cannot maintain even their independence without a painful
struggle; to speak of systematic beneficence to such, would appear but
mockery; "faith" must be their wealth, their offerings their "prayers;"
but we have our Barzillais amongst us, who, having enough and to
spare, are bound by every consideration of gratitude and duty to give
freely—liberally—joyfully.
The time is coming when our King will return in triumph to His own.
Then will the Shimeis who rejected Him and despised His cause fall down
in terror before Him; and the wondering Barzillais find that their
gifts of love, even to the "lentiles and parched pulse and honey,"
nay, even to the "cup of cold water" given for the sake of their King,
have all been registered, and will be a thousand-fold requited by
Him. Then will the deep adoring gratitude of the redeemed far exceed
that expressed in the words of the Gileadite: "Why should the king
recompense me with such a reward!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XXV.
Temple Lily Work.
IN the porch of King Solomon's magnificent temple stood two mighty
pillars of brass, nearly thirty feet in height: to the one he gave
the name Jachin, "He shall establish;" to the other Boaz, "strength."
Thus would the royal preacher seem to teach all generations that to
the house of prayer we should come to be firmly established in sound
doctrine, and to receive strength to stand fast in the faith.
But we are not only told of the size and material of those stately
columns, but of their ornaments also: "The chapiters that were upon
the top of the pillars were of lily work in the porch." Such details
were not deemed too insignificant to find a place in the Word of
God. Now, the question of the amount of ornament to be desired in a
church is not one into which I desire to enter, believing that where a
devout congregation worship God in spirit and in truth, it is of minor
importance whether the edifice in which they meet be fair as Solomon's
temple, or plain as the "upper room" in which the disciples assembled.
Let us rather consider the beautiful lily work on the pillars as a type
of that which is lovely crowning that which is lofty; the spirit of
kindly sympathy towards our fellow-worshippers forming a complement and
addition to exalted devotion towards God.
Were we to ask the use of churches, we might receive the reply, "They
are buildings set apart for prayer, praise, and preaching, and the
celebration of the sacraments ordained by our Lord." This might be a
correct, but it would not be a complete answer, unless it conveyed the
idea of social worship, brethren meeting as brethren in the house of
their Father, lovingly uniting their hearts and voices, as they hope
to do in their home above. Much is it to be regretted that there is so
little of this spirit of religious sympathy; that we have, as it were,
the pillars of brass without the lily work round them. There is often a
chilling formality in places of worship, that makes us painfully feel
that the world has brought its distinctions and its vanities even into
the house of prayer. We see, perhaps, the large pew with its solitary
occupant, while weary women are standing in the aisle; it is the piece
of silver that admits to the seat, and those who are unable to bribe
are treated as strangers, almost as intruders, in the place where,
beyond all others, they should find themselves welcome. Is it not
constantly the man "in goodly apparel," the woman "in gay clothing," to
whom it is virtually said, "Sit thou here in a good place;" while the
poor must obey the implied though unuttered command, "Stand thou there,
or sit here under my footstool?"
"Hospitality in church" is not a subject likely to be treated of in
either religious or moral essay; the very name might provoke a smile;
but I had once a practical sermon preached to me on the subject, which
sank deeper into my memory than almost any sermon which I ever heard,
which makes me venture to mention the trivial incident.
Many years since, I entered as a stranger a church in Brighton.
The preacher was a very popular one, and I knew that I might have
difficulty in obtaining a seat, so I took the first which I saw vacant;
it was a free seat, close to a wall. I soon found that my position
was a very undesirable one as regarded comfort; a large air-hole was
directly in front, probably intended to warm the church with hot air,
but that which rose up, almost under my feet, was the chilling breath
of November.
I merely state the circumstance to introduce mention of the conduct
of two ladies, perfect strangers to me, between whom I chanced to be
seated. The one on my left hand surprised me by offering to change
places with me: as there was no reason why she should be exposed to the
chilling draught rather than myself, I of course declined her offer.
I know not whether the lady on my right was related to the other, but
she was at least her sister in kindness; for she lent to me, an utter
stranger, her handsome fur tippet to place over my knees, to protect me
from cold.
"A very trivial incident indeed," may be said; but when I consider its
effect upon my own mind, I cannot look upon it as so trivial: often and
often has the example of those ladies recurred to me in church. I heard
an eloquent sermon on that November day in Brighton; but I derived at
least as much benefit from the conduct of two of the congregation.
I asked myself why they should be so kind to me, a stranger, and
concluded that they were not of those who merely attend church to keep
up a cold, heartless form of devotion, but that they had felt the
"genial" influence of Christianity while uniting in social prayer. With
them the pillars of brass lacked not the lily work on the chapiter.
Church is a place that often affords opportunity for the exercise of
the little courtesies of life. The proffered scat, the church-book
lent, the place in the hymn-book found for the deaf, the guiding hand
held out to the blind,—these are trifling things in themselves, but
they warm the heart of strangers, and make devotion itself more earnest
by contact with Christian kindness. In church, selfishness and pride
are peculiarly repulsive; we should feel the connecting link which
binds together those who are one in Christ; we should see that our
religion is one of humility and love. Solomon's noble pillars would
have looked cold and hard but for the graceful lily work which crowned
them; it might not, indeed, add to their strength, but it greatly
enhanced their beauty.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XXVI.
The Widow's Cruse.
WHO, on first glancing at this homely piece of earthen-ware, an
oil-cruse, with nothing to distinguish it from thousands used in the
dwellings of the poor, would connect it with a miracle? Yet day after
day, for the space of years, was it mysteriously supplied, while the
prophet Elijah, the widow and her son, were fed on the store never
failing.
We know not whether the oil within multiplied itself like the bread in
the hands of the Lord's disciples, or whether an angel, pleased to be
employed on such a mission of mercy, each night replenished an empty
cruse. How the miracle was wrought matters not to us; the widow who had
obeyed the word of the man of God, who had been willing to share her
little with him, found that little increased to an inexhaustible supply.
What hallowed meals must have been those partaken of in the cottage at
Sarepta, where Elijah was the guest, and where every morsel of the food
on the board was a pledge of the peculiar favour of God!
The widow of Sarepta was evidently a woman of faith, and we believe
that her grace was renewed day by day, like the oil in her cruse. Yet
it is not impossible that her faith, like that of the Israelites when
they were fed by manna from Heaven, like our own amid a thousand proofs
of the watchful providence of God, may have known times of wavering
and weakness. The widow would but have resembled others, if at some
time she had looked with anxious fear even at this cruse so constantly
supplied, and had thought, "How small it is, how unable to contain more
than enough for the wants of a day! It is true that I have never yet
found it empty, but what if it should fail at last! The heavens are
still like brass, and the earth like iron; no rain has fallen—or is
likely to fall; others wealthier far than me are perishing around me!
If this oil and meal should fail, whither could I turn, to whom could
I go? I should see my only son wasting with hunger before my eyes! Oh,
how fearful would be the fate before us if the oil in this cruse should
fail!"
We can at once see the unbelief, ingratitude, and folly of such fears,
if ever the widow entertained them; but are not such fears common
guests within our own bosoms? What had the widow's hopes to rest on?
"Experience" and a "promise." And have not we the same? Have we not
experienced that God can and will help us; that He has brought us
through past troubles; that He has known how to fill the cruse in time
of need, though He may not cause it to overflow, nor give more than
sufficient for the wants of the day? And have we not His promise, "Seek
ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added to
you. Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take care for
the things of itself?"
We are slow to trust God's providence and love. We would have visible
stores laid up for the future; we are not content with the cruse. While
we torture ourselves with the thought, "What if at last it should
fail?" We need the Saviour's reproof, "Ye of little faith, wherefore
did ye doubt?"
"Give us this day our daily bread." There is a lesson conveyed in
these words of the prayer put by our Lord Himself into the mouths of
His servants. We ask—not for luxuries—but "bread;" we ask not for
stores, but for "this day's" supply. It is more difficult for us, in
our artificial state of society, to exercise the simplicity of faith
as expressed in this prayer, than it was for the first disciples. We
multiply our wants, and are discouraged if they be not abundantly
supplied. It is no common attainment to be able from the heart to say
with the apostle, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith
to be content."
It is not only for the supply of our earthly need that we should look
with calm trust to God. There are those who have never known what it is
to want anything that money can buy, who yet require to reflect on the
widow's cruse in order to strengthen their faith. We are oppressed with
fears for the future: "If that trouble come upon me, how shall I meet
it? If that sorrow be sent, how shall I bear it? Will not grace fail
under such a temptation?"
"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within
me? hope thou in God: far I shall yet praise Him."
Hath He not said, "As thy days, so shall thy strength be?" May we not
"come to Him boldly, for grace to help in time of need"? We are indeed
but weak and frail, earthly vessels that have held but little; but the
blessing of God, if vouchsafed to us, will make us even as the cruse at
Sarepta—grace will secretly be supplied, by means of which the world
knows nothing.
And let us remember that the famine time will not last for ever; the
day draws near when there will be a sound of an abundance of rain.
"Drop down, ye heavens, from above, and let the skies pour down
righteousness: let the earth open, and let them bring forth salvation,
and let righteousness spring up together; I the Lord have created it."
Grace and peace will not then be meted out, as it were, drop by drop,
but flow as the river, and as the waves of the sea; the supply in the
cruse will be exchanged for measureless joy, the handful of meal for
the banquet prepared in the mansions of bliss!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XXVII.
Elijah's Letter.
OVER this letter a strange mystery hangs, such as is attached to no
other writing of man. This is a letter to King Jehoram, a letter of
stern rebuke, of terrible denunciation: it stands as a death-warrant
issued by the Almighty on the idolater, the oppressor, the murderer,
whose hands were stained with the blood of his six brethren, the sons
of the noble Jehoshaphat.
But by whom was this letter written? The Bible informs us by Elijah;
but—before Jehoram had ascended the throne, or had committed his
fearful crime, Elijah the prophet had gone up to Heaven in a chariot
of fire! Hence arises a difficulty which has perplexed the minds of
the learned, and which has given rise to various conjectures. Some
have imagined that for Elijah we should read Elisha; but, as has been
forcibly remarked, "we have no evidence whatever that any mistake has
been made by the copyists, but all the evidence lies on the other side.
The Septuagint version, which was very early made, and very widely
spread, has it Elias—that is, according to Greek, 'Elijah'; and not
Elisha, which latter word in Greek is 'Eliseus'. Again, the Jewish
historian Josephus, referring to this event, has expressly the word
Elijah."
Krümmacher appears to hold that the mysterious writing actually came
from the world of spirits; that that hand which had never known
corruption had traced the letters denouncing judgment upon a most
wicked king. There is a third conjecture, which seems to bear with it
much of probability; that the prophet, foreknowing both the crimes of
Jehoram and their punishment, wrote the letter before his ascension,
and left it to be delivered in the ripeness of time. If either of these
latter conjectures point to the actual fact, what a solemn interest
attaches to this message from the departed, the letter to a monarch of
earth from one who dwelt upon earth no more!
It is interesting to reflect on the power and influence which writings
may possess after the death of the writer, nay, in consequence of
his death. A parent's letter, received after his departure from this
state of being, may penetrate a heart that was closed against all the
warnings of that parent when alive. We set an especial value upon
"last" messages, "last" words; they are like proofs of an engraving
made more precious from the plate being broken.
An instance is given by the traveller Palgrave of a writing left as
a legacy, in itself so beautiful, and written under circumstances so
interesting, that I cannot forbear transcribing the greater part of it.
The reader will, I trust, forgive what may appear as a digression.
Palgrave received the following account, on the occasion of his visit
to Moharreb, an island on the eastern coast of Arabia, from a learned
Arab named Mogheeth, who was scarcely able to finish his recital from
the emotion which it caused him.
The famous Ahmed el Ghazalee, native of Toos in Persia, a poet who
lived in the twelfth century, said one day to his disciples, "Go and
bring me new and white garments, for the King hath summoned me to his
presence."
They obeyed, and on their return they found their master lifeless.
By the side of the corpse lay a paper, on which were inscribed the
following lines. It is impossible not to be struck with the spirit
breathing through the poetry, which appears not to be Mohammedan, but
Christian. Some of the ideas seem actually to be gleaned from the
writings of the apostles; there is St. Paul's sublime view of death,
St. John's lofty revelation of God as love, though there is no allusion
to the great doctrine of justification by faith. As the religion of
Christ prevailed in early ages in the islands of the Persian Gulf, we
cannot but think that it left traces behind, as the "garden flower
grows wild" where it once was carefully cultivated, springing up in
congenial soil, though no longer tended by man. These are the lines by
which the dead Ahmed el Ghazalee spake, as if from the realm of spirits:
"Tell my friends who behold me dead,
Weeping and mourning my loss awhile,
Think not this corpse before you myself;
That corpse is mine, but it is not I.
I am undying life, and this is but my body,
Many years my house, and my garment of change.
I am a bird, and this body was my cage;
I have winged my flight elsewhere, and left it for a token.
I am a pearl, and this my shell
Broken open and abandoned to worthlessness.
I am a treasure; this was a spell
Thrown over me, till the treasure was released in truth.
Thanks be to God who has delivered me,
And has assigned me a lasting abode in the highest.
There am I now the day conversing with the happy,
And beholding face to face unveiled Deity;
Contemplating the Mirror wherein I see and read
Past and present, and whatever remains to be."
* * * *
"I have journeyed on, and left you behind;
How could I make an abode of your halting-place?
Ruin then my house, and break my cage in pieces,
And let the shell go perish with kindred illusions;
Tear my garment, the veil once thrown over me,
Then bury all these, and leave them alike forgotten.