The
Widow Directed to the Widow's God
by John Angell James, 1841
THE WIDOW OF NAIN
Addressed to widows who are
called to lose their children also.
Soon afterward Jesus went with his disciples to the
village of Nain, with a great crowd following him. A funeral procession was
coming out as he approached the village gate. The boy who had died was the
only son of a widow, and many mourners from the village were with her. When
the Lord saw her, his heart overflowed with compassion. "Don't cry!" he
said. Then he walked over to the coffin and touched it, and the bearers
stopped. "Young man," he said, "get up." Then the dead boy sat up and began
to talk to those around him! And Jesus gave him back to his mother. Luke
7:11-15
The mercy of Christ—as it never lacked objects in this
sorrowful world—so it was never wearied in relieving them. One day he healed
the servant of the centurion, upon being earnestly solicited to do it, to
show what efficacy there is in 'the prayer of faith'; the next day, he
restored to life the son of a widow, without being asked, to demonstrate his
'sovereignty in the bestowment of his favors'. One act of beneficence seemed
only to make him more ready and more willing to perform another; in this
also he is an example to his people, who are not to satisfy themselves with
any measure of good works.
But let us attend to the present instance of his
miraculous kindness. As he drew near to a small town called Nain, a funeral
procession was coming out at the gate, and was slowly moving towards the
place of sepulcher, which, with the Jews, was always outside the walls of
their cities. It was not 'accidental' that the Savior came up just at that
time—but was 'ordained' for the glory of God. Here was a spectacle to move a
harder heart than that of Christ. The victim of death was in this instance,
a young man, cut off in the flower of his age, and on that account, a loss
to society—but a still heavier loss to that venerable form, which, with the
attire of a widow, as well as the moans of a bereaved mother,
is following the corpse to its last home.
It is a short—but simply touching narrative, which the
historian gives, "A funeral procession was coming out as he approached the
village gate. The boy who had died was the only son of a widow." When the
scripture would convey the most impressive idea of the depth of human
sorrow, it uses this form of speech, "As one that is in bitterness for an
only son." There it is before us, in that forlorn widow. It is afflictive to
see a loving couple following an only child to the grave. But then,
they consider, as with tearful eyes they look upon each other, that there
might have been a grief still harder to be borne, than even this.
"Thank God," they exclaim, "we are spared to each other," and thus
they find, even at the opening grave of an only child, a supporting thought
in the presence of each other. But here is a case in which there is no one
to share the grief, and support the fainting heart of this sorrowful
woman—her husband was already in the grave—and her son, her only son, is
about to be laid on the coffin of his father. At this juncture the Son of
God drew near–
"His heart is made of tenderness,
His affections melt with love."
The widow's sorrows touched that heart! "When the Lord
saw her, his heart overflowed with compassion. 'Don't cry!' he said." Oh if
she was not too much absorbed in grief to heed him, what must she have
thought of such an injunction! "Who has cause to weep if it is not I. If
tears are ever in season—they are now. Stranger, cease to taunt me with such
an exhortation, unless you can restore to my widowed arms, the child that
lies sleeping there in death." She knew not who it was that spoke to her—but
she shall soon know to her unutterable joy. As the Lord of life and
death, he approaches the coffin—and frees the prisoner! "Young man, I say
unto you, arise."
That is the voice which shall one day burst every tomb,
call up our vanished bodies, from those elements into which they are
resolved, and raise them out of their beds of dust—to glory, honor, and
immortality. The grave shall restore all it receives, whether that grave be
in the sea, in the dry land, in the forest, the wilderness, or in the
crowded cemetery. "Why should it be thought a thing incredible, that God
shall raise the dead?" It is no harder for the Almighty word, which gave
being unto all things, to say, "Let them be restored," than "let them be
made." The sleeping youth obeyed the mandate, rose upon the coffin, cast off
his grave clothes, and threw himself into the arms of his astonished,
enraptured, and overwhelmed mother!
Blessed type of that wondrous scene just alluded to, when
at the sound of the last trumpet, this mortal shall put on immortality, and
this corruptible shall put on incorruption, and death shall be swallowed up
in victory. I attempt not, for who could succeed in the effort, to portray
the mother's joy, and her renewed communion with her lost child—perhaps all
she could find composure enough to say, was "Rejoice with me, for this my
son was dead, and is alive again!"
I now turn to those who are appointed to bear like
sorrows, without the immediate expectation, or the hope of her relief. I
mean those widows, and such there are, who have been called to part from an
only child. Forlorn, indeed, is your situation—desolate your house—bereaved
your heart of its last earthly hope. Not to sympathize with you, not to
concede the greatness of your calamity, would be the most cruel
insensibility, such as I pray God to preserve me from.
But stop, is all dead? Your husband is
dead, your parents are dead, your children are dead! But is
not God alive—is not Christ alive—is not the Bible
alive? Has the tomb swallowed up all? No! Be this your exultation, "The
Lord lives and blessed be my rock, and let the God of my salvation be
exalted!" True, you cannot expect that the power of Christ will be exerted,
at least, until the resurrection, to call your only child from the grave—but
the same heart which pitied the widow of Nain, pities you. Jesus sees you as
certainly, and compassionates you as tenderly as he did her—although his
compassion may not be exerted in precisely the same manner.
Perhaps that only son was the last thing that stood
between you and the Savior—to detain your heart from him. You had not been
weaned from the world until he was taken. You still sought your happiness
'on earth'. Your whole soul was bound up in that child. Even for God and
Christ, you had no supreme love, while he lived—and as there was a purpose
of eternal mercy to be fulfilled, by the death of that child, it pleased God
to remove him. You would not come to Christ while that obstacle was in the
way, and therefore God displaced it—now, the way to the cross is all clear.
The Savior has come to the widow, not indeed to raise her son—but to save
her soul—not to say to him, "Arise young man;" but to say to you, "Arise,
and be saved." If by the loss of your only son, you should gain the
salvation of your immortal soul, you will find a present solace for your
sorrows, and an eternal source of gratitude that they were sent.
But what are you to do without him? Let God answer that
question; "I will never leave you, nor forsake you." Your child was
your comforter. Be it so—but is there not a divine comforter, who frequently
reserves his choicest consolations, for the most disconsolate seasons? Your
son was your support. This, I admit, is trying to faith and confidence in
God. A dependant widow, to lose the only child on whom she leaned for
support, seems the last extremity of human destitution. It is in such
extremities God loves to put forth his power. He often brings us into a
very wilderness, to show us his own all-sufficiency! He strips us of the
last comfort, and then says to us, "Now trust in me for everything." "But
now, O Israel, the Lord who created you says—Do not be afraid, for I have
ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you go through
deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through
rivers of difficulty, you will not drown! When you walk through the fire of
oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you. For
I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior!" Isaiah
43:1-3.
There are other considerations which should induce
submission, even to your melancholy lot. Heavy trials are sometimes
sent to prevent heavier ones still. There are calamities, worse than death;
either our own death, or the death of our nearest friends. It is better
to die in honor, than to live in sin and disgrace! How many widows are
there whose only sons are breaking their mother's hearts by their
misconduct? Is not many a mother at this moment exclaiming thus, in her
solitude, O my child, would God the grave had covered you, while you were
yet in good reputation, and comparative innocence! Alas! that you should
have lived to disgrace yourself, and bring down your widowed mother's grey
hairs in sorrow to the grave!"
I remember to have read, or heard somewhere, the
following anecdote. A widowed mother had an only son, who while yet a youth,
was seized with an alarming illness. Her heart was in the greatest tumult of
grief at the prospect of his death. She sent for her minister to pray for
her child's recovery. It was his 'preservation from death' that was to be
the subject of the minister's petitions, rather than the mother's submission
to the will of God. Like a faithful pastor, he begged her to control her
excessive grief and solicitude, and resign her son to God's disposal—but to
no avail—it seemed as if she neither could nor would give him up. Prayer was
to pluck him from the borders of the grave, whether God were willing to
spare him or not. Her son lived—the mother with ecstatic joy, received him
back, as from the borders of the tomb. He grew to adult age. But it was to
die in circumstances ten thousand times more afflictive to the mother's
heart, than his earlier death would have been. As he came to manhood he
turned out profligate, extravagant, dishonest. His crimes became
atrocious—he was detected, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged! And
seven years from the day when that minister prayed for his life, he was
visited in prison, by his wretched mother—on the day of his execution!
Oh! widow is there not a heavier calamity than the death,
in ordinary circumstances, of an only son? I would not for a moment suggest
that it is probable your son would have come to this—but it is possible! Or
if not to this, yet to something that would have embittered all your future
days. Would not this distressed woman, look with envy upon others whose
children had died in honor and good reputation, and think their affliction
not worthy of the name, compared with hers? Would she not look back with
deep remorsefulness upon her own rebellious grief and unwillingness to give
up her child at the will of God?
Before I close this chapter, I would suggest, that as the
death of an only child removes from your widowed heart, the last hope or
object of a terrestrial nature, which seemed to give interest to earth, or
occupation upon it—you should look for objects of another kind—even such as
are spiritual, heavenly, and divine! Seek, then, not only for a richer
enjoyment of personal religion, as the chief source of consolation—but
cherish a warmer zeal for its diffusion, as the best and happiest occupation
that can employ your faculties, or your time. Now that God has taken from
you your son, adopt the cause of his Son. Consecrate yourself
afresh to the interests of evangelical piety. What have you now to do on
earth—what is left for you to do—what can you find to do—but distribute by
your property, if you possess much—and by your personal labors, if you are
in health—distribute the benefits of the gospel, the blessings of salvation,
to those who are destitute of them!
Live, now, wholly for God, and the salvation of the human
race. Soften the weight of your cross—by making known the glory of the cross
of Christ. Instead of retiring into seclusion—to nourish your woe—to leave
your sorrow to prey upon your heart—or to let life fret itself away amid the
indolence of grief—rouse your spirit for holy action! Let your loss be the
gain of others, by your employing your time and resources for their benefit.
Freed from every tie that bound your soul to personal or relative objects,
feel at liberty for doing good to others. Active benevolence is the best
balm for such wounds as yours! Allow yourself no leisure for dark and
melancholy thoughts to collect, or for busy memory to torment you with
distressing recollections. Your departed child does not need your
property—give it to God. Your departed child does not need your time, nor
your solicitude—give them to God. In pitying the sorrows of others, you will
find a sweet solace for your own. Occupy your lonely heart, and hours as
lonely as your heart—with projects of mercy, and purposes of beneficence. If
your affliction shall lead to such a result, you may then say of active
benevolence, that it is one of the best reliefs that mourners have, and
makes their sorrows blessed!