CHRISTIAN
HOPE
By John Angell James, 1859
THE OBJECT OF HOPE
The exercise of hope necessarily supposes an object. We
could as soon conceive of an effect without a cause, as a hope without an
object. It means, as we have shown, the desire and expectation of something
which the mind apprehends at the time to be both desirable and probable. It
is the soul's act in coveting, reaching after, and looking for—something
future and something good. Now what is the OBJECT of Christian hope?
Viewing it in its widest latitude of meaning, hope may
contemplate, and be considered as exercised in regard to, many things, even
in this world. Any future good yet to be possessed and enjoyed in reference
to our religious state and well-being, may be an object of hope. Is some
important and difficult duty to be performed at a future time? It is
an object of hope—to be enabled by divine help to discharge it. Here is
something good, something future, and something to be both desired and
expected. Or is some affliction seen looming with portentous form and
aspect, in the distance? Then to be sustained under it, and carried through
it, is a future good to be desired and expected—and is therefore an object
of hope. Or is there the appearance of some spiritual good of any kind seen
in futurity, and some ground to expect it? Here also is an object of hope.
In short, in this view of the matter, hope runs through the whole course of
our spiritual as well as our natural life.
It is in this reference the word is generally, if not
universally, used in the Old Testament. The future state, though not totally
unrevealed under the Mosaic economy, was touched upon with extraordinary
reserve, rarely proposed as an object of hope, and as rarely employed as a
motive to righteous conduct. In the Jewish Theocracy, which was in fact an
earthly government, administered by God as its political sovereign, temporal
and national blessings, and immediate divine interpositions for bestowing
them, were the objects of the hopes of the Jews as such. Hence, see the
language which will be found in Hosea 2:5-9, and very many other passages of
the prophets. It is true GOD is said to be their hope—but this means that
their desires and expectations of future good things rested on his promise
and perfections. I do not say that the pious and intelligent Jew had no hope
of eternal glory. I believe he had—but I mean that the hope spoken of in the
Old Testament generally referred not to this—but to temporal benefits.
The object of the Christian's hope, so far as earth and
time are concerned, is a redeemed, regenerated, holy, happy world. It is for
this he longs, and prays, and labors—and this he confidently expects,
because God has promised it—here is the foundation, and justification, and
encouragement, of all his efforts for the conversion of the nations to
Christ. All our Missionary Institutions are based upon this hope. This is
the spring of all our energies, and the stimulus of our labors. This
sustains us under sacrifices and self-denial, discouragement and defeat,
delay and disappointment. We have God's command as our warrant; God's
promise for our support; God's glory for our end; and God's approbation for
our reward. Amid the restless tides, the perpetual vicissitudes, and the
mighty revolutions of human affairs, we go on with our missionary
enterprise, assured we shall not labor in vain. It is a work of faith, a
labor of love, and therefore we carry it on with the patience of hope.
But, after all that has been said on these objects, the
Christian hope, that which is so frequently spoken of by the apostles in
their writings, has respect to something ulterior, to something above our
earth, and beyond the range of time. It penetrates the veil that conceals
the unseen world, and lays hold of the invisible realities of eternity. Hope
is one great part of the life of true religion; and religion, while it
imposes many obligations, and confers many blessings upon earth, points
heavenwards. It is a messenger from Paradise come to fetch us there, and
which bestows many favors upon us by the way.
1. In this relation, the first object of Christian hope
is an entrance into heaven
immediately after death. I am aware that
this is neither the only nor the highest object of Christian desire and
expectation; and that, of course, the felicity of the Christian in his
disembodied state is not complete; and also that less is said about his
death and entrance into glory, than about the day of Christ's second coming,
and the scenes of that glorious advent. Yet something is said about it, and
therefore something should be thought about it. Be it so, that our felicity
is not complete until the resurrection morning, and that the revelation of
Christ is the event to which the sacred writers direct our attention; yet,
is it nothing to throw off the burden of the flesh? Nothing to be done with
sin and sorrow, care and fear, labor and weariness, disease and death?
Nothing to have passed through the dark valley, and to arrive safely in the
kingdom of light and glory!
The apostle's mind, at any rate, appears to have been
much taken up with the idea of his going to heaven at his death, when he
said, "For me to die is gain—I have a desire to depart and be with Christ.
We are confident, I say, and willing to be absent from the body, and present
with the Lord." Our Lord, who attached great importance to this, directed
the attention of his people to it, where he says, "Be faithful unto death,
and I will give you a crown of life." So did his beloved apostle in that
precious declaration, "I heard a voice saying unto me, Write, Blessed are
the dead who die in the Lord."—Rev. 14:13.
That the believer continues a conscious existence after
death until the resurrection, and enters upon his eternal repose immediately
after dissolution, is evident from the language of the apostle just quoted.
For would not everyone, unbiased by 'doctrinal systems', conclude from his
language that he hoped to be with Christ immediately on his departure, and
that, in fact, he desired his departure purposely to be with him? Had he not
expected this, would he not rather have desired to remain? For surely he
must have thought it better to live and labor for Christ, than lie in an
unconscious state in the grave. No, if this were not the case, would not his
decease be a going away from that presence of Christ which he enjoyed upon
earth? How could he be absent from the body at all, if the soul were to
sleep with it until the resurrection? Nothing can be clearer or more certain
than that the apostle thought he would, at his death, go to heaven.
Neither our reason, nor our experience, nor our
observation, can enable us to comprehend, or even conjecture, how our
disembodied spirits will exist and act separated from their earthly
companion, the body. Whether, indeed, they are pure spirit, we can hardly
say, some being of opinion that God only is this, and that even angels have
some material dwelling; and if our souls are pure spirit we cannot conceive
what relation they have to space; and how they communicate with each other.
These, and many other questions, such as the place of their residence, their
occupations, and the means of communion, which our inquisitive curiosity and
a fruitless speculation might ask, and which no divinity or philosophy could
answer, may sometimes engage and perplex the thoughts of believers.
The better way is not to allow these difficulties to
occupy our thoughts at all; to put them aside, and to be satisfied, as Paul
appears to have been, with this one idea, that "we shall be ever with the
Lord." We need not ask how we shall see him without bodily eyes, or hear him
without the organs of sound. Do we not sometimes realize his presence now?
Are there not, seasons when we can no more doubt that we are in communion
with him than we can doubt our own consciousness? Yet we see him not, hear
him not, touch him not. It is a purely mental exercise; it is the thinking
power alone that is engaged. No bodily organ is employed, no sensation is
transmitted to the soul along any nerve to the brain. It is a mental
presence, and a mental bliss. If the soul is not out of the body, which of
course it is not, it is acting without the bodily senses, and though an
unhealthy state of the brain would prevent these exercises of thought, yet
this does not prove that the soul is so dependent upon the brain for its
operations, that it cannot act without it.
Still I admit that though perfectly happy, as far as it
can be in a disembodied state, it is not, until the resurrection, in a
perfect state of its full and final bliss.
2. But the
supreme object of Christian desire and expectation
is that which the apostle has set forth in his epistle to Titus, "Looking
for that blessed hope, and the glorious appearing
of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ," Titus 2:13. Before we
come to the consideration of my design in bringing forward this passage, I
will give a brief exposition of its meaning, so far as it contains a
description of the person of Christ.
Christ, then, is to appear. He is now the object of
BELIEF—He is hereafter to be the object of VISION. We are now blessed in
believing on him—we shall hereafter be more blessed in seeing him. We are
not, to imagine that this contradicts his language to Thomas, when he
rebuked him for his incredulity in the following language—"Thomas, because
you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen,
and yet have believed."—John 20:29. Our Lord is not here comparing believing
with seeing—so much as speaking of the different degrees of faith. Happy, or
worthy of commendation, are they who have not seen, and yet have, upon
credible evidence, believed. There were some of the apostles, or other
people perhaps, who, calling to recollection Christ's own predictions, had,
upon the report of others, believed that he was risen from the dead—while
Thomas demanded the evidence of his senses. Their faith was much stronger
than his, and more entitled to commendation. From hence it seems probable
that there might have been somewhat of boasting on the part of Thomas, in
his speech on the evening of the resurrection, as if he were a man of too
strong an understanding to be easily imposed upon. He would not believe that
his Master had risen on such trivial evidence as the reports of the
women—nothing would satisfy him but visual demonstration.
And while our Lord praised those among the disciples who
had believed credible report—full well knowing that through all future ages
faith must be grounded on the evidence of authentic testimony, and not on
that of the senses—he intended to bestow his commendation on all who would
from that time believe on him through the inspired report of his witnesses.
His language, therefore, is not a comparison between the blessedness of
believing and seeing, as if there were more happiness in the former than in
the latter; for then the least believer on earth would be more blessed than
the highest apostle in heaven. It is simply an commendation on all those
who, until the coming of Christ, instead of demanding the evidence of sense,
or more proof than God has given us of the mission of his Son—would, with
meekness, humility, and candor, yield to that which he has given us. It was
for our encouragement these gracious words were spoken. We have not seen
him—but we have abundant evidence that he is what he said he was, the Son of
God; that he did what it is said he did, died for our offences, and rose
again for our justification—and therefore in him whom we have not seen, we
believe; and believing him, we love him, and rejoice with joy unspeakable
and full of glory.
Oh, no—we cannot put believing above seeing. There is joy
and peace in believing, just as there is joy in the well-authenticated
report that some dear friend or relative, who is pursuing our interests
abroad, is alive and well—remembers us, and will soon return to us. Every
letter that brings glad tidings of his love, and activity, and purpose of
coming back, gives us delight. Believing is in this case, a happy state of
mind—but what is this to the bliss of seeing him, of beholding him in full
prosperity and health, of feeling ourselves in his arms, hearing his voice,
and beholding his smiles! Those only can conceive of such raptures who have
experienced them.
Yes, and so it will be in regard to Christ. We do rejoice
in faith. To believe what is testified of Christ, must be followed with
unutterable joy, when that faith is intelligent and strong. We do not wonder
the apostle should say, "Rejoice in the Lord always, and again, I say,
rejoice!" But what is this to the vision of the Savior? Old Jacob
rejoiced in the report which his sons brought him of Joseph's state and
splendor in Egypt—but what was this compared with the almost overpowering
rapture of seeing his glory, and feeling his arms clasping him to his bosom?
What deep and solemn emotions are produced by the emblems of Christ's broken
body in the supper of the Lord. How highly, susceptible minds, which are
much under the power of imagination, profess to be moved by the masterpieces
of painting. Yet these, with the exception of Raphael's picture of the
Transfiguration, and a few others setting forth the Last Judgment, generally
relate to the scenes of his humiliation. But what artist can ever attempt to
rise to the glorious appearance of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ? It
were almost blasphemy to attempt it; and though it may seem like an
expression of vandalism to say it, yet I am sometimes inclined to wish that
the arts had left the person and work of Christ outside their circle of
objects—as too sacred or too grand for pictorial representation. The
sculptor may portray in marble, and the painter on canvass, the humanity of
Christ—but they cannot exhibit to the senses the divinity with which it is
mysteriously united. They may delineate the outward cross on which that
humanity was nailed—but they cannot set forth the inward agony of soul, of
the divine sufferer. They may give vivid expression to the passion of grief
and the virtue of patience which the countenance exhibits—but not the divine
power by which they are sustained. They may excite our sympathies—but by all
their genius can do nothing to strengthen our faith. So that all their
images and their pictures, however they may gratify our taste, do very
little to increase our knowledge and invigorate our hope. It is the inspired
detail of all this, as recorded by the sacred writers, that alone can answer
these ends.
We have only to believe, and hope, and wait, and the
divine reality of a revealed Savior shall be exhibited to the senses of the
body of the resurrection. In what magnificence of language, in what splendor
of imagery, in what sublimity of thought—have the sacred writers set forth
this stupendous event of the second advent of Christ. I will here collate,
and hope the reader will turn to them—a few of the passages in which this is
bought before us. Our Lord himself begins the description—Matt. 25:31; the
apostles follow—1 Cor. 15.; 1 Thess. 4:13-18; Col. 3:4; 2 Thess. 1:7-10,
2:8; 2 Peter 3:10-13; 1 John 3:2; Rev. 1:7, 20-22.
I enter not on the controverted subject of his
pre-millennial or post-millennial coming. In whatever sense it is
understood, the coming of
Christ is the supreme object of the Christian hope,
as set forth in the New Testament. Alone and apart from all the events that
stand connected with it, no Christian mind can be insensible to its profound
and absorbing interest. Were it possible to call from the grave any of the
great geniuses that have adorned, blessed, and elevated our common
nature—what intense interest would they excite. Would not scholars travel to
the ends of the earth to see Homer or Virgil; philosophers to see Plato,
Socrates, Bacon, or Aristotle; poets to see Shakespeare, Milton, or Dante;
mathematicians to see Euclid, Newton, or Pascal?
And, coming from the world to the church, who that could
possessed the means, would not cross oceans and continents to see Abraham or
Moses, Daniel or Isaiah, Paul or John, Luther or Cranmer? But what are any
of these but stars of various magnitudes to the sun? Let any one ponder the
expression—THE GLORIOUS APPEARANCE OF OUR GREAT GOD AND SAVIOR! What a
sublimity is in the idea! The manifestation of the Creator of the Universe!
The manifestation of the Redeemer of a lost world! The manifestation of Him
who unites in his one person the uncreated glories of the Godhead, and all
the milder beauties of the perfect man. In that one ineffable manifestation,
to have the controversies of all ages about the person of Christ settled
beyond the possibility of doubt or dispute—to have it made plain to every
mind, that he is indeed the great God as well as our Savior—to see thus
before us in full-robed majesty—for the confusion of his enemies, and the
consolation of his friends—the God-man!
Such is the ultimate hope of the believer, and well might
the apostle call it the blessed hope; an adjective that expresses,
and but feebly expresses—for what can fully express—all the happiness it
even now imparts to those who indulge it; much less that which will be
enjoyed when this desired and expected good will realize it, and the soul
shall enjoy the full fruition of it. The second advent of Christ is the
great object of Christian hope, about which far more is said in the New
Testament than about the believer's entrance at death into heaven.
In connection with the appearance of Christ, will be the
RESURRECTION of the dead.
It is probable that Christians dwell too little on this grand article of
their belief, and are taken up too exclusively with the soul and its
heavenly bliss. It is conceded that the body is an inferior part of
our complex nature. But, it is a part, and as truly the workmanship of God
as the soul. It is the most exquisite material organism in the universe, and
an essential part of our manhood. Man is not man without it. Christ died
to redeem the body as well as the soul, and as the purchase of his
blood, it has, on that account, a great value. It was formed to be a
habitation, yes, a temple of the soul, and though smitten into ruin and
desolation by death, it is to be rebuilt in a more glorious form at the
resurrection. "Christ," says the apostle, "is Lord both of the dead and the
living." He has established his throne upon the sepulcher, and stretched his
scepter over the domain of the King of Terrors, who is his vassal prince. He
owns, watches, and guards the sleeping dust of his saints. Hence we may with
comfort yield up in death not only our spirits—but our poor bodies, into his
hands, and say with our poet—
God, my Redeemer, lives,
And often from the skies,
Looks down and watches all my dust,
Until he shall bid it rise.
And with equal comfort may we yield up the bodies of our
friends to his keeping until the morning of the resurrection. Does not this
strip the grave of part of its terrors, and invest the tomb with a kind of
sanctity? It is not a prison where the body is incarcerated—but a chamber,
where it sleeps under the guardian care of its Redeemer. The apostle has
said more about the body as a separate part of our nature than even about
the soul. Who can read that wondrous chapter in the epistle to the
Corinthians without astonishment and delight?—a chapter which proves its own
inspiration. Whence—but from heaven, had this Jew such ideas, so far beyond
all that Cicero ever knew, or Plato ever taught, or ever Moses or Isaiah
revealed?
With the heathen philosophers the resurrection of the
body was thought to be not only impossible—but undesirable even if it were
possible. They had a notion that matter (as distinguished from spirit) was
essentially and incurably evil, and that, therefore, a resurrection would be
a curse and not a blessing. Hence we find that when Paul preached this
doctrine at Athens, the philosophers made him, on this account, the object
of their ridicule. From his address to the Corinthian church we learn that
some of its members had drunk into this error, and considered that the
resurrection signified not a material quickening of the dead body—but a
spiritual quickening of a dead soul. Others of the first Christians held the
same notion, as is evident from what he says of Hymenaeus and Philetus. This
opinion is still professed, I believe, by the followers of Emanuel
Swedenborg. To confute this notion, or at any rate the general opinion that
there is no resurrection of the dead, is the design of the elaborate and
conclusive argumentation in the chapter to which I have just alluded—an
argument which the apostle founded on the resurrection of Christ—HE lived,
died, and rose again, not as a private—but public person, the representative
of his people; so that if he rose, they will also rise. Their
resurrection is involved in his. Hence he commences the chapter with, not
only an assertion of Christ's resurrection—but a summary of the evidence of
it.
How is it, then, that Christians do not more frequently
dwell on this grand and delightful truth? One reason, perhaps, is its
mysterious nature, and most mysterious it is—how a body, which at death, is
dissolved into all its simple elements, and which elements may be taken up
to form grass, flowers, trees, fruits, the bodies of animals, yes, of other
men—can be raised again, so as to be in any sense the same body, transcends
all human conception. And yet it must be in some sense the same body, or its
re-existence would be a creation, and not a resurrection. Yet it cannot be
the same body, as regards its numerical particles, for the body is ever in a
state of change, and the body we now possess is not, as to the numerical
particles of which it is composed, the same as it was seven years ago; yet,
as to identity, it is still the same body. What then will constitute its
identity? No philosophy, no divinity can penetrate the mystery.
The apostle, in answer to the cavil, "With what body do
they come?" answers analogically by a reference to the grain sown, which
dies before it rises into the blade and the ear. But this was not so much
intended to explain the mystery, as to answer an objection. The cavil was,
"How can a dead body become a living one?" The thing seems an impossibility.
"Look," says he, "at the grain of corn cast into the earth, is there not
death before life there?" If you had never known or heard of the process of
germination and vegetation, and had never seen the growth of a plant, would
you not, when you saw the grain cast into the earth, when you saw it decay
and turn to dust, deem it altogether improbable that it would in any form
ever rise put of the ground? Yet, says the apostle, this does take place,
and this should remove all objections against the idea of the resurrection
of a dead body. There is an analogy, an imperfect one, it is admitted, and
the main objection in one case would also be equally against the
acknowledged and indisputable fact in the other. The apostle does not draw a
parallel between the two cases, for they are not parallel. The whole of the
grain does not die, there is a germ—but we know of no such living,
indestructible germ in the human body which is preserved from the power of
the last enemy. And then this resurrection of the grain is by slow degrees
of vegetation, whereas the body is raised at once perfect and glorious.
The argument is altogether of a popular character, and
must not be pressed too far. The objection was, that the holy died and
returned to dust and could not rise again. Paul says in reply—You may make
the same objection to the grain that is sown, that dies also. The main body
of the kernel dies. In itself there is no prospect that it will spring up.
The analogy may be carried a little farther than this, and be intended also
to set forth, as far as such and illustration can go, the greatness and
beauty of the change that will take place in the body by the resurrection.
Look at the blade of wheat; see it in all the elegance of its form; the
cylinder and joints of its stem; the freshness of its verdure; the
gracefulness of its blade; the richness of the ear and crown of its
berries—and compare all this with the grain from which it sprang, when in a
state of decay in the earth—and then see a faint emblem of the change to be
made in our poor frail bodies by the resurrection. Now consider what the
apostle has said on this subject—
"It is sown in CORRUPTION," even while alive it is
subject to painful, loathsome, and wasting disease; and when dead it falls
under the process of putrefaction, and sinks into a state of dissolution and
dust. But it is raised imperishable—unsusceptible to pain, disease,
decay, and disorganization.
"It is sown in DISHONOR"—corruption itself is
dishonor; it requires covering and concealment before it descends to the
grave, to hide its deformities and defilements. And when dead, it is hurried
off to the grave, as too offensive for the fondest eye to look upon. But it
shall be "raised in glory," for the apostle tells us, "our
citizenship is in heaven, from whence we look for the coming of our Lord
Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body (the body of humiliation,) by
the mighty power whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."—Phil.
3:21. Can the idea of glory itself be carried higher than to be like Christ?
See him transfigured on Mount Tabor, when his face shone as the sun, and his
clothing glittered with a purity whiter than the snow, and he was one blaze
of splendor. We are to be raised like that!
"It is sown in WEAKNESS." In life it is feeble,
soon weary, needing sleep, food, medicine, to keep it in working condition
at all—often unfit for its occupation, and pressed down first by infirmity
and then by age—and at last worn out, unable to resist the approach of
death, and dropping into the grave. But it is "raised in power," it
shall be lifted above the frailties of humanity, no longer be a clog to the
soul—but wings to the soul, needing no more sleep, or food, or renovating
treatment—but nerved with the vigor of immortal youth, and capable of the
service of God without weariness or languor.
"It is sown a NATURAL" or "animal body." It now
possesses a lower physical life like the brute animals—has animal instincts,
passions, propensities, and appetites, and thus corresponds with the
inferior creatures; it is supported in the same manner, and is, like them,
subject to the law of mortality. But it is "raised a spiritual body,"
from which the lower animal life will be extruded, and a new kind of
physical existence introduced. It will still be a material body—but, not an
animal one. Its organic structure will be entirely changed. Some of its base
senses will probably be extinguished, some of its purest ones retained, such
as sight and hearing, though how this can be without its present material
organization is now a mystery. Other senses, of which we can now have no
more conception than the blind has of colors, or the deaf of sounds, will be
added.
In short, "the perishable must clothe itself with the
imperishable, and the mortal with immortality!" Oh, the glorious
sublimity, the mysterious magnificence, the rapturous incomprehensibility of
these two words, as applied to the body—IMPERISHABILITY and
IMMORTALITY! We can enter but a little way into the poet's words—
My flesh shall slumber in the ground,
Until the last trumpet's dreadful sound;
Then burst the chains with sweet surprise,
And in my Savior's image rise!
It is to this the apostle's lofty language applies, where
he says, "Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we
have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human
hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling,
because when we are clothed, we will not be found naked. For while we are in
this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed
but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be
swallowed up by life."—2 Cor. 5:1-4. What an expression, "mortality,
swallowed up of life!" Our little, feeble, short-lived self, body and soul,
absorbed in an ocean of eternal life!
Nor ought we to consider our own resurrection, apart from
the resurrection of the whole redeemed family, as the exclusive object of
hope. At the coming of Christ, the reign of the King of Terrors will come to
an end; the iron scepter which he has swayed for so many centuries shall
drop from his hand; he shall be deposed from his throne; and he himself, the
last enemy, shall be destroyed. Death itself shall die! Then shall come to
pass the saying, "Death is swallowed up in victory." The countless
multitudes of believers of every age, shall come forth from their graves,
when the living saints, in a moment, at the last trumpet, in the twinkling
of an eye, shall be changed—and the unimagined, unimaginable multitude
ascend to meet the Lord in the air!
Such is the object of the Christian's hope, as regards
the resurrection of the body. Faith may and does believe it. Hope may and
does desire and expect it—but imagination's utmost thought, its most
adventurous and brilliant conception, dies away, and confesses the
feebleness of its effort. The 'wing of imagination', after a few fluttering
attempts to rise, droops—and piety hears and obeys the voice which says,
"Wait, and you shall see!"
In that day of consummation, that "bridal of the soul,"
the redeemed man will stand complete, glorified in body and soul—a fit
inhabitant of a world of glory! How joyfully, exultingly, and triumphantly,
will the blessed spirit re-enter its material habitation—then transformed
from a poor, dilapidated, mud-wall cottage—into a glorious mansion, a sacred
temple, a royal residence, a house not made with hands, eternal in the
heavens. O, what awaits this humanity of ours! How death and the grave lose
their terrors in this glorious prospect! How wonderful that the world should
not lose its power over us—by the superior attractions of this scene of
transcendent and incomparable glory.
But more is yet to be told; and all may be summed up in
that word of mysterious meaning, of unfathomable bliss, and of inconceivable
glory— HEAVEN.
This is the expression and summation of all the believer hopes for beyond
the gave. This is the word which sheds such a luster on the page of the New
Testament, and distinguishes it so illustriously from the Old. But where—and
what is it? Over one part of this question the veil of silence is
dropped by the hand of God, as it is over many other subjects; for "it is
the glory of God to conceal a matter." Many would have felt it a
satisfaction had the Savior, when he spoke of his Father's house with its
many mansions, told us the precise region of our eternal home— so that
looking out on the starry skies we might have been able to fix on the sun,
the moon, or some planet, and say, "Yonder it is! Yonder is the world to
which the spirits of my fathers have already gone, and to which I myself,
before long, am going!" How delightful it would have been, we are ready to
think, to be able every day, or every night, to look up and see the light of
our Father's dwelling, just as a child in his journeying home from school
can see his paternal home stand out conspicuously in the landscape.
But this cannot be. It would not harmonize with the
gospel scheme, which requires that from beginning to end we should live
by faith, and not by sight. We are to see nothing while on
earth—but believe everything. Just as when we reach heaven, we shall see
everything, and accept nothing by faith.
It is no concern where heaven is—since we know
what it is. Location is a small item in its bliss. We feel that now. The
faithful wife would sooner dwell with her loving husband in a cottage than
be separated from him in a palace. The affectionate child pines in a mansion
for the home of his parents, though that is a scene of comparative poverty.
Location has infinitely less to do with happiness on earth, than the
domestic and social relationships, ties, and affections. Still, we doubt
not, that even heaven's location will be a part of heaven's glories. God "is
not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them."
There is, perhaps, something more than figure in the ravishing description
of the New Jerusalem, in the last two chapters of the Revelation. Not that
for a moment we contend for an exact literalness in that dazzle of material
splendor. But it may still be considered as intimating, in some degree, the
visible glory of the residence of the redeemed family.
But what is heaven? What is it, in turning the eye
of hope to the future world—we are to desire and to expect? Here again, we
say, God is silent about many things. "It does not yet appear what we
shall be." Many subjects cannot be revealed. We might as well attempt to
explain to an infant prince, his future state and glory as the powerful
monarch of a mighty empire—as to explain to a child of God on earth all his
future honor and bliss in heaven! There are felicities and occupations in
heaven, for which we have no terms, and no ideas. But how much is told us.
Our Lord has summoned it all up in that most sublime and
comprehensive of all phrases, "ETERNAL LIFE"—everlasting existence,
with all that can render it an eternal blessing. It is life, intellectual,
physical, spiritual, social—in absolute perfection—and all this forever!
Such life, that compared with it, all we have known of life here, deserves
the name of death, rather than life. Eternal life is so full, so rich, so
abundant, as to exclude all pain, all care, all fear, all gnawing hunger,
and parching thirst, all wearisome labor! In short, the body and soul to be
so free from all the least interruption of enjoyment, as that through
eternity there shall never be a moment when there shall not be a fullness of
joy; when the happy immortal shall not be able to say, "THIS IS LIFE!" Even
the very 'negative descriptions' ascribed to the heavenly state, seem to
make a paradise of themselves. Knowing to our regret what we now are—as
regards our sins, our sorrows, and our cares—it is a part of our bliss to
know what we shall NOT be in our eternal state. "He will remove all
of their sorrows, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying
or pain! For the old world and its evils are gone forever!" Rev. 21:4
But let us now dwell upon the positive descriptions of
heaven, and consider what we SHALL be. There is, perhaps, no term
more frequently employed to set forth our future state, than the word " GLORY."
None could have been more appropriately selected. It signifies, when used to
describe material objects—brightness, splendor, dazzling effulgence. Hence
we apply it to the sun, or any unusually bright light in the heavens. It
means the perfection of material manifestation—that which reveals all
things, beautifies all things, perfects all things. In figurative language
it means honor, renown—that which renders any person or thing illustrious.
So that when we find the deficiency of ordinary words to set forth the
greatness, the grandeur, and transcendental nature of any person, action, or
thing—we call in the aid of this word, and exclaim, "It is GLORIOUS!"
What, then, must heaven be—which is a state of
unparalleled, perfect, infinite "GLORY." This, like the term "life," conveys
a more impressive idea of our future state than lengthened and labored
description. The apostle sums up heaven in one place thus—"We rejoice in
hope of the glory of God." This probably means not only the glory which God
has prepared for us in all its details—but the direct perception and
enjoyment which in heaven we shall have of God himself! The service,
knowledge, and enjoyment of God, must form the loftiest employment of any
creature's powers, however exalted he may be, and the richest bliss his
heart can know. "To know God, and Jesus Christ whom he has sent, is eternal
life," not only the means of obtaining it—but its essential felicity.
In this world how little we know of God—how much less we
enjoy of God. To every unconverted man, creation, instead of illustrating
the Deity, has thrown a cloud of obscurity over him; and even to the
believer, he is seen in dimness and disguise; so that almost all he can do
is to long after him. But in heaven God will show himself personally to man;
the thick veil shall be lifted up; the barrier of interception, now so
opaque and impenetrable, will be removed. "Then shall the great Father of
the Universe stand revealed to the eye of his creatures rejoicing before
him, when all that design and beauty by which this universe is enriched,
shall beam in a direct flood of radiance from the original mind that evolved
it into being; when the sight of infinite majesty shall be so tempered by
the sight of infinite mercy, that the awe which else would overpower, will
be sweetened by love, into a most calm, and solemn, and confiding reverence;
and the whole family of heaven shall find it to be enough happiness forever,
that the glories of Divinity are visibly expanded to their view, and they
are admitted into the high delights of ecstatic and ineffable communion with
the living God."
But it may be asked, how will God reveal himself to the
glorified inhabitants of heaven? "They shall see his face." Not that the
essence of God can be seen any more in heaven than it is on earth. Jesus
Christ will there be the image of the invisible God. We shall see him, and
thus will be verified to us the words of the Savior to Philip, "He who has
seen me has seen the Father." We find this representation to have been
adopted by both by Christ and his apostles. "Father, I will that they also
whom you have given me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory,
which you have given me"—John 17:24. Our Lord speaks of this vision as
constituting the very substance of our heavenly felicity. This glory,
however, does not refer exclusively to his personal appearance, though this
is included—but also to the completion of his mediatorial work, to the state
and majesty in which he dwells, to the homage which is paid him, to the
infinite stores of wisdom, grace, and power which he possesses; to all he
is, has done, and can do, to bless the universe. He prayed that his
disciples might be brought to see the wonderful contrast presented by his
heavenly condition, to his earthly condition. They had seen him as the Man
of Sorrows, and he desires they should behold him as the Lord of glory! He
knew the love his true disciples bear to him, and that they could have no
higher happiness than to be with him, and see his exaltation and honors,
just as Joseph desired his brethren to tell his father of all his glory in
Egypt, from a knowledge of the pleasure it would convey to his paternal
heart.
In the sublime visions of the Apocalypse, where heaven is
opened to our view, it is Christ who is represented as the glory of that
place, lighting up all countenances with joy, filling all hearts with
gladness, and making all tongues vocal with praise. He is the sun of that
blessed world—the orb of that nightless, cloudless, and eternal day. This
was the heaven Paul longed for when he desired to depart—even to be with
Christ. That one idea of being with Christ filled his soul, and he thought
it enough. To be absent from the body, and present with the Lord, was the
prevailing wish of his truly Christian heart. With this he cheered the
spirits of the Thessalonians weeping over the graves of departed
relatives—"So shall we ever with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another
with these words."—1 Thes. 4:18.
How entirely this falls in with all our present ideas,
both natural and spiritual. When our affection is very strongly fixed upon
an individual, and our feelings are wrought up to a high pitch of intensity,
it is the presence and converse of that individual which constitutes our
chief joy. Any where, and any how—with them is our earthly Paradise. We want
no other company. To be alone with them is our desire. Does not the
Christian understand and feel all this in reference to Christ? Is he not now
the object of his supreme regard? Are there not moments when he has such
views of Christ's glory, such conceptions of his amazing mercy, such a sense
of his love, such feelings of gratitude and affection, that he is ready to
say, "If I feel all this now, when I only believe, what must be the felicity
of beholding his full-orbed glory, of gazing upon his face, and hearing his
loving voice. I can conceive of no higher heaven, no more perfect paradise,
than to be in the presence of Him who died for me upon the cross?" There is
something wonderfully impressive, delightful, and unique in thus resolving
the bliss of heaven into a particular state of mind, and that state as
consisting of an adoring and grateful love, for a being to whom we are
indebted for redemption from an infinitude and eternity of torment, and to
an infinitude and eternity of bliss; and who adds to all these claims upon
our gratitude, additional claims upon our homage and admiration--for His own
infinity and eternal glories!
Among the felicities of heaven, and a rich one it is,
such as at times makes the Christian's heart to leap for joy, is
the spiritual perfection of our
nature. "We shall be like him," says the
apostle, "for we shall see him as he is." Nothing that defiles or works
abomination shall have any entrance into that state. Only perfect holiness
can produce perfect happiness, and we shall be perfectly holy in heaven. The
last stain will be effaced from our nature; the final stroke of absolute
perfection will be given to our soul; the last filling in to the image of
God in our spirit will be accomplished. We shall know the meaning, because
we shall possess the reality, of that rapturous expression, "The spirits of
just men made perfect." Cowper has strikingly expressed all this in one of
his hymns—
But though the poison lurks within,
Hope bids me still with patience wait,
Until death shall set me free from sin,
Free from the only thing I hate.
Had I a throne above the rest,
Where angels and archangels dwell,
'One sin' unslain within my breast,
Would make that heaven as dark as hell.
The pris'ner sent to breathe fresh air,
And blessed with liberty again,
Would mourn were he condemned to wear
One link of all his former chain.
But oh! no foe invades the bliss,
When glory crowns the Christian's head,
One view of Jesus as he is,
Will strike all sin forever dead!
Nor must we omit as part of the object of Christian hope,
the society of heaven.
Man is a social being. Solicitude was not good for him even in Paradise, nor
would it be good for him in heaven. Companionship seems needed by every
being in the universe—God alone excepted. How large a portion of our
happiness now arises from friendship, fellowship, and converse. It will be
so above. What attractions does heaven present on this ground. There will be
the goodly fellowship of the prophets, the glorious company of the apostles,
the noble army of martyrs. There, all the holy men and women whose names
shine with such splendor on the page of inspiration, both of the Old and New
Testament—Abraham and Moses, David and Samuel, Paul and Peter, James and
John. There, all that have adorned the pages of uninspired ecclesiastical
history, the pious kings; the godly bishops; the zealous reformers, Luther
and Melancthon, Calvin and Cranmer, Knox and Zwingle. There, all the
faithful ministers, Wesley and Whitefield, Scott, Chalmers, Hall and Jay.
There, the devoted missionaries, Schwartz and Brainard, Morrison and Carey,
Martyn and Vanderkamp. There, the palm-bearing multitude which no man can
number, gathered out of every kindred, and tribe, and people, "who have
washed their robes and made them white and clean in the blood of the Lamb."
All, all, sinlessly perfect—all with glorified bodies,
exalted intellects, and stainless hearts! All freed from those infirmities
which sometimes disturbed the communion of saints upon earth, and by hard
speeches and bitter controversies grieved each other's minds—now harmonized
by perfect knowledge, perfect holiness, and perfect love. Oh, to be
introduced to such society, to be one of them, to dwell with them, to
maintain eternal converse with them! To be gathered together with them, and
all to Christ!! This is heaven, and what a heaven!
But are there no
OCCUPATIONS in heaven?
Is it a state of glorified indolence, of paradisaic voluptuous ease, where
the immortal spirit, the inquisitive soul, yearning after knowledge and made
for activity, will spend eternal ages lounging through the streets of the
New Jerusalem, or dozing in dreamy repose on the banks of the river of life,
and in the shadow of the tree of life? Nothing of the kind! Heaven is a busy
world, a place of universal activity, occupations worthy of glorified
immortals will be found there.
Now we know only in part; there shall we know everything
as we are known. KNOWLEDGE is not only power—but bliss. It is that to
the mind, which water is to the thirsty palate; what it craves after when it
has it not, and luxuriates in when it has. The whole universe will be thrown
open to our contemplation. Space, and the material universe, will be one
vast library, and its countless millions of stars, so many volumes to read
and study, in order to know the glories of creation. Providence, with all
its vast machinery and complicated schemes, combining in its plan, the
history of the mightiest nations, and lowest individuals, and all
manifesting the wisdom, power, and love of God, will form another department
of study, where happy spirits will have mysteries solved, which baffled the
loftiest intellects on earth. But the object of deepest interest, of
profoundest research, and most delighted inquiry will be the most sublime of
all God's works—the scheme of Redemption. The 'attractions of the cross'
will be felt in heaven! It will be seen to be the focal point of God's
manifested glory. The connections, the bearings, the full and complete
results of Christ's mediation, now so imperfectly known, will furnish a
subject of study, never to be exhausted, and a source of happiness which
will ever satiate—but never glut. In heaven, it is said, with beautiful
simplicity, "His servants shall serve him." In what way, we cannot now
say—but it will be an employment worthy of the place, the servant, and the
Master.
And all this forever! ETERNITY is the crown of
heavenly glory! The greater the bliss of heaven is, the more necessary
to its full enjoyment does it seem that it should be eternal. To look from
such felicity through the vista of millions of ages, and see at that
distance a termination, would throw a damp on all our joys, a shadow on our
brightest scenes. But amid this rapturous and sublime festivity, to be able
to say, "All this forever," this is heaven. A slight enjoyment, if eternal,
rises into a vast magnitude—but the addition of eternity to
infinitude, surpasses all conception, except that of the omniscient
intellect. And this is our portion, if we are Christians, "An inheritance
incorruptible, undefiled, and that fades not away." It seems too vast for
our possession. Its magnitude creates a kind of incredulity. To live as long
as God lives! We are ready to say, "Can it be?" Yet it is all that—there is
an eternity before us, in which to grow in knowledge and bliss, and make
approaches to attainments all but infinite—eternity to tower from height to
height in glory—eternity to enjoy God and his works. How is it we think so
little about it? How is it that such amazing joys do not create constant
bliss? How is it we do not enter more deeply and more constantly into the
apostle's expression, "We rejoice in hope of the glory of God"? Because our
faith is so weak—our hope so languid—our time so occupied, and our attention
so diverted from it—that we allow ourselves no leisure to meditate upon it.
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