LETTERS TO THE AGED
by Archibald Alexander
LETTER FOUR
There is one remaining subject, my dear friends, to which
I wish to call your attention. I refer to the solemn event of our departure
out of life. Whatever may be uncertain in the future, concerning this there
cannot exist the shadow of a doubt. "It is appointed unto men once to die."
(Heb 9:27) "I know that you will bring me to the house appointed for all
living." (Job 30:23) "The grave is my house." (Job 17:13) But we do not need
the voice of revelation to assure us of our mortality: the evidence is daily
before our eyes. Hundreds of our race close their eyes in death every day.
The grave is never satisfied, nor says, 'It is enough.' Of the thousands of
millions who have inhabited this globe, no more than two have escaped the
dissolution of the body.
And we are as certain as we can be of anything, that all
future generations shall go the same way, until Christ shall suddenly make
His glorious appearance, coming in the clouds of heaven, with all His mighty
angels. The men who shall then be found upon the earth shall not die—but
they shall undergo a transformation equivalent to the death and resurrection
of the body. "Behold," says Paul, "Let me tell you a secret. Not all of us
will die, but all of us will be changed—in a moment, in the blinking of an
eye, at the sound of the last trumpet. Indeed, that trumpet will sound, and
then the dead will be raised never to decay, and we will be changed." (1 Cor
15:51-52) If then the second coming of Christ should occur before our
departure from life, we should, indeed, escape a literal death; but we can
scarcely cherish the faintest hope of this kind. Prophecy leads us to
believe that many ages of the world are still future, and that the most
glorious period of the church is to come; when the Gospel shall not only be
preached to all nations—but shall be embraced by all; "when the earth shall
be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea". (Isa
11:9)
Death, when viewed merely by the light of nature, is
truly an appalling event! It is commonly preceded by disease, or the
decrepitude of old age. The separation between the soul and body is usually
accompanied with a convulsive struggle, and the appearance of extreme agony;
so that "the pangs of death", and "the agonies of death", are familiar
phrases among all people. It is manifestly an unnatural event; that is,
these constituent parts of human nature do not seem willing to part—but the
severance of the one from the other is brought about by the operation of
some violent cause. That the soul instinctively and strongly cleaves to its
tenement as long as it can, and by every possible means resists the
separation, requires no proof. That in some instances this adherence to life
is counteracted, so that people voluntarily put an end to this union of soul
and body, or desire to leave the body, furnishes no evidence to the
contrary: it only shows that it is possible for causes to be put into
operation which are even stronger than our attachment to this life.
Besides the pains and agonies of dissolution, there are
other circumstances which render death an object abhorrent to human
feelings. It is a forcible and everlasting separation from all people and
things with which we have been conversant on earth. In it, we take a final
leave of our dearest friends and beloved relatives, dear to our hearts as
our own lives. Husbands are removed from their wives, parents separated from
their children, brothers and sisters must part, friends—who often stick
closer than brothers (Prov 18:24)—here have the tenderest bonds sundered.
The scenes to which we have long been accustomed, the houses in which we
have long dwelt, the churches where we have met the solemn assembly of God's
people, must all be left behind. The old man's armchair is left vacant; his
place in the house of God is empty; the social circle of which he formed a
part is broken; and the work which he was accustomed to perform stands
still, or falls into other hands.
And he who departs, leaving behind him numerous attached
friends, cannot avoid the foresight of the deep affliction. Already, before
his eyes are closed, he sees the mournful group crowding around his dying
bed, to catch the last look of affection, to hear the last broken tones of a
voice soon to be silent in death. The heartbreaking and tears of
affectionate relatives often form one of the most painful circumstances
attending the death of a godly man. He might well express his feelings in
the language of Paul, on another occasion: "What do you mean by crying and
breaking my heart?" (Acts 21:13) But if the dearest friends which the dying
man has, attempt to save themselves and him from the almost intolerable pang
of separation, by withdrawing from the mournful scene, this, in a very small
degree, if at all, mitigates the dreaded pang.
The imagination often paints the scene in more vivid
colors than the reality. When the husband, gasping for his last breath,
observes the absence of the beloved partner of his joys and sorrows, he
knows that she is gone into some secret chamber "to weep there". (John
11:31) And she cannot withdraw into any recess so secluded, as not to seem
to hear the deep-drawn sighs and heavy groans, to see the ghastly looks and
contortions of him on whom all her earthly reliance has been long placed. I
would say then, take her not away from the bedside of the dying husband. Let
he hold his trembling cold hand to the last. Let him have the comfort of
casting his last look on the object of his tenderest affections.
Pastor Samuel Davies—a name so deservedly loved and
revered in Virginia—has a poem, in which he describes the feelings of a
husband and wife, tenderly attached in the prospect of the dissolution of
either first. But there is not much to choose between the two cases, as far
as relates to the parting scene. Those, however, who are left behind are
most deserving of compassion. Those who die in the Lord (Rev 14:13) are at
once blessed, because they rest from their labors; but they who survive are
often burdened with sorrow, and with a desolate heart go mourning all the
day, enveloped in the somber weeds of grief, and their heads hang down as
the bulrush. It seems to me, however, that the mourning on account of the
decease of pious friends ought to be very moderate, and our tears soon dried
up. What better can we ask for our friends, than that they might be safely
lodged in the bosom of Abraham; where they will enjoy to the full, such
"good things" as they could never hope to enjoy in this world?
There is, however, one case of the death of dear
relatives, to which the aged especially are liable. This is the departure
from life of those in whose end there is no ground for scriptural hope. At
the prospect of this judgment my soul has often trembled. May a merciful God
avert it from every pious parent! If we were persuaded that we had uniformly
done our duty towards our deceased friends, the stroke would not be so
heavy; but when remorse for unfaithfulness mingles its bitter streams with
the sorrow occasioned by bereavement, the cup must be bitter beyond
conception.
On this subject I have met, among professing Christians,
with what I consider a fault on both extremes. A venerable clergyman who had
lost a beloved son, who never gave any evidence of genuine repentance or
faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, was unable to bear up under the reflection
that his dear child was in a state of hopeless misery; he therefore sought
relief to his agonized mind by cherishing an error contrary to the analogy
of his whole system of theology. He said to me, "I cannot bring myself to
think that a moral and amiable person, brought up under the Gospel, and
assenting to its doctrines, will, by a gracious God, be made eternally
miserable in hell, although he may not have experienced the new birth."
O sad necessity, which drives a good man to such a false
hope for support and comfort! But this is the practical belief of multitudes
of professors. They hold the doctrine of regeneration and its necessity as a
matter of creed and theory—but in fact, they believe otherwise. A mirthful
young lady, who probably had never spent one half hour in serious thought,
was suddenly carried off by an acute disease, which was so rapid and violent
in its progress, that little or no opportunity was afforded for conversation
with the pastor or pious friends. When some serious person lamented the
unprepared state of the deceased, the suggestion was received in a Christian
congregation and by nominal Christians with a sort of indignation; as though
it was an evidence of uncharitable bigotry to believe one of the plainest
doctrines of the Bible.
The other extreme is that of peremptorily deciding upon
the case of those who die without having given evidence of a change of
heart. This case I will also illustrate by an anecdote which I know to be
true. The brother of a zealous preacher of the Gospel came to his end
suddenly by being thrown from his horse, by which his brains were knocked
out; and it was thought that the young man had been drunk at the time. When
the brother above mentioned came to the house, where the corpse was laid
out, he raised the covering from the face, and, after a solemn pause, said,
with an audible voice, "There lies the senseless body—but the soul is
burning in hell!" And this, too, when the room was full of people.
The true doctrine on this subject is that friends may
indulge hope in relation to these deceased friends as far as they can
consistently with the truth of God; but let no one seek healing for his
wounded spirit by "denying the faith". Even when there is no positive
evidence of a change, we may resort to the slim possibility that it might
have taken place in the last moments; for who has a right to set limits to
the mercy of God, when He has not limited Himself? There is great danger,
however, of expressing opinions or hopes which may lead careless sinners to
indulge in carnal security. It is much better, in such cases, to be silent.
Some ministers, whom I have known, have been so
solicitous to keep sinners from delaying repentance that they have
inculcated the opinion that a deathbed repentance is not only uncertain—but
absolutely ineffectual, and that no hope can be justly entertained for those
who never repented until the last hour. It is true that many who on a
sickbed appear penitent, when they recover soon lose all their serious
impressions and return with renewed avidity to the pursuits of the world.
Their repentance is thus proved to have been spurious. But every fit of
fear, produced by the near prospect of death, ought not to be called
repentance; or at any rate, that repentance which, in Scripture, is
connected with the pardon of sin—which is a real change of the views and
tempers of the mind—by which a man becomes a new creature, old things having
passed away, and all things having become new.
All repentance on a deathbed is not, however, by these
instances proved to be spurious, any more than all conversions of people in
health are proved to be counterfeit because a great many such are to be met
with. I have seen cases of repentance on a deathbed, as satisfactory, and in
which I had as much confidence as in any that I have known among those in
health, prior to the evidence of a good life. And why should it be supposed
that a gracious God will never manifest His power and grace in the
conversion of a sinner on a sickbed? If this should once be admitted as a
principle, it would be worse than useless for a minister of the Gospel, or
any other pious person, to visit an unconverted sinner when on a sickbed, or
to give any answer to his most anxious inquiry, "What shall I do to be
saved?" (Acts 16:30)
I recollect to have heard a preacher solemnly aver from
the pulpit, that there was no instance in the Bible of the conversion of an
aged sinner. This is another extreme which has no good foundation. One of
the most remarkable cases of the conversion of an exceeding great sinner,
recorded in the sacred Scriptures, is of an aged man. I refer to the late
repentance of king Manasseh. There is no man, of whom mention is made in the
sacred volume, to whom a worse character is given, as one that exceeded the
worst of the heathen in his abominable idolatries: "Moreover, Manasseh shed
innocent blood very much, until he had filled Jerusalem from one end to the
other." (2 Kings 21:16) It is true, it is not expressly said that his
repentance occurred in his old age—but it may, with strong probability, be
inferred from the history. (2 Chron 33:11-20.)
If, among my readers, there should be any aged people who
are still impenitent, I would earnestly and affectionately exhort them not
to despair of God's mercy; there still may be hope in their case. My dear
fellow-sinners, there is nothing in God's Word which excludes you from
salvation, unless you voluntarily and obstinately exclude yourselves, by a
rejection of the overture of reconciliation. Christ says to you, as much as
to others, "You will not come unto me—that you may have life." (John 5:40)
I find that I shall be under the necessity of claiming
the old man's privilege of rambling from one subject to another and, in
writing to the aged, I hope I shall be excused for my great length of this
letter. I have not fulfilled my own purpose, either as to the subject matter
or length; and the consequence will be the infliction of another epistle.
But before I conclude this, I wish to say that death, viewed in the light of
Scripture, exhibits a very different aspect from what it does when viewed by
the light of nature, both as it relates to the sinner and the saint. In
regard to the former, we are taught in the volume of truth, "that death was
introduced by the transgression of man". The penalty of the original law
given to man was, "In the day that you eat thereof (that is, of the
forbidden fruit) you shall surely die." (Gen 2:17) And when man became
guilty, the sentence was pronounced, "Dust you are, and unto dust you shall
return" (Gen 3:19) The execution of which penalty has been going on from
that day to this, sweeping off generation after generation, until almost
every part of the earth is filled with dust which once constituted the
bodies of men. Even reason, when soberly consulted, would indicate that
death comes as the punishment of sin; for otherwise the transition from one
state of existence to another would not, under the government of a good God,
be attended with so much pain and fear. But, what reason discovers only in
dim perspective, revelation writes as with a sunbeam: "The wages of sin is
death." (Rom 6:23) "As by one man sin entered into the world, and death by
sin, so death has passed on all men, for that all have sinned."
On the other hand, true believers are now delivered from
the curse of the law, and consequently from death as it is a curse. We may
say, therefore, that the righteous shall never taste death; for Christ, the
Lord, has solemnly averred, "If a man keeps my words, he shall never see
death." (John 8:51) Accordingly, the inspired writers of the New Testament
commonly speak of the decease of Christians as a "sleep". "those who sleep
in Jesus will God bring with him." (1 Thess 4:14) "We shall not all
sleep—but we shall all be changed." (1 Cor 15:51) And of Stephen, it is
said, when he "kneeled down, and said with a loud voice, Lord, lay not this
sin to their charge, he fell asleep". (Acts 7:60)
But when the word death is retained, it must be
understood to have a new sense in relation to the children of God. It is
death despoiled of its sting. It is the outward appearance of death, while
its nature is entirely changed—so changed, that the curse is converted into
a blessing. That which is a rich gain cannot be a curse; but to the sincere
follower of Christ, "to die is gain". (Phil 1:21) That which may be lawfully
an object of ardent desire, cannot be of the nature of a penalty or curse;
but Paul had a desire to depart and be with Christ, and the same desire has
been felt by thousands since.
But to cut the matter short, death is placed in the
category of the richest blessings. "For all things are yours, whether Paul,
or Apollos, or Cephas, or the world, or life, or death, or things present,
or things to come, all are yours." (1 Cor 3:22) The true Christian, then,
has no reason to be appalled at the necessity of entering this darkly shaded
valley. Dear friends, if we only approach, holding up the torch of
revelation by faith, the dismal gloom which has gathered over the tomb will
be immediately dissipated. Faith looks beyond this darkness and across this
valley, and beholds a celestial city, the new Jerusalem. Though much
indebted to John Bunyan—one of the most prolific geniuses the world ever
produced—I cannot easily forgive him for making the passage over Jordan to
Canaan so very difficult for Christian. If he had carried out the allegory,
he would have turned the swelling waves backward, and have shown a dry path
across the stream; for no sooner had the priests, who carried the ark of the
testimony, dipped their feet in the brim of the river than—"all the
Israelites passed over on dry ground". (Josh 3:17) But, after all, perhaps,
the honest tinker drew his picture from the fact; for as Christians seldom
enjoy in life the comfort provided for them, so it is analogous that in
death they should lack that comfort to which in Christ they are entitled.