Thoughts on Religious
Experience
Archibald Alexander, 1844
Deathbed of the believer
We have arrived now at a very solemn part of our subject.
The writer feels that it is so to himself, as he knows that he must soon be
called to travel the road which leads to the narrow house appointed for all
living. If after having gone through this scene, he were permitted to return
and finish these papers on Religious Experience, by narrating what the soul
suffers in passing the gate of death, and more especially what are its views
and feelings the moment after death—he would be able to give information
which at present no mortal can communicate.
The thought has often occurred, when thinking on this
subject, that the surprise of such a transition as that from time to
eternity—from the state of imprisonment in this clay tenement to an unknown
state of existence—would be overwhelming even to the pious. But these are
shortsighted reflections. We undertake to judge of eternal things by rules
only suited to our present state of being and our present feelings. That the
scene will be new and sublime, beyond all conception, cannot be doubted; but
what our susceptibilities and feelings will be, when separated from the
body, we cannot tell.
Is it not possible that our entrance on the unseen world
may be preceded by a course of gradual preparation for the wonderful objects
which it contains, analogous to our progress through infancy in the present
world? That knowledge of future things will be acquired gradually and not
instantaneously, we are led to believe from the constitution of the human
mind, and from all the analogies of nature. The soul may therefore have to
go to school again, to learn the first elements of celestial knowledge; and
who will be the instructors, or how long this training may continue, it
would be vain to conjecture.
Whether in this gradual progress in the knowledge of
heavenly things our reminiscence of the transactions in which we were
engaged upon earth will be from the first vivid and perfect, or whether
these things will at first be buried in a sort of oblivion, and be brought
up to view gradually and successively, who can tell us? But I must
withdraw my imagination from a subject to which her powers are entirely
inadequate. Though I have been fond of those writings of Thomas Dick, Isaac
Taylor, and Isaac Watts, which give free scope to reasonings from analogy in
regard to the future condition of the believer; yet I am persuaded that they
add nothing to our real knowledge. Their lucubrations resemble the vain
efforts of a man born blind to describe to his fellow-sufferers the
brilliance of the stars, the splendors of the sun, or the milder beauties of
a lovely landscape. While he seems to himself to approach nearest to the
object, he is in fact most remote from any just conceptions of it.
This brings to recollection, what has often appeared
highly probable in regard to the development of our mental powers, that as
in infancy some of our most important faculties, as for example, reason,
conscience, and taste, are entirely dormant, and gradually and slowly make
their appearance afterwards; so, probably, this whole earthly life is a
state of infancy in relation to that which is to come, and there may
exist now, in these incomprehensible souls of ours, germs of faculties never
in the least developed in this world—but which will spring into activity as
soon as the soul feels the penetrating beams of celestial light, and which
will be brought to maturity just at the time when they are needed. The
capacity of the beatific vision may now be possessed by the soul, deeply
enveloped in that darkness which conceals the internal powers of the mind
even from itself, except so far as they are manifested by their actual
exercise. How shallow then is all our mental philosophy, by which we attempt
to explore the depths of the human mind!
But are these conjectural speculations for edification?
Do they bring us any nearer to God and to our beloved Redeemer? I cannot say
that they do. At the best they are no more than an innocent amusement. In
indulging them, we are in great danger of becoming presumptuous, and even
foolish, by supposing that we possess knowledge, when in fact our brightest
light is but darkness. Vain man would be wise. Let us then cease from man.
Let us cease from our own unsubstantial dreams, and lay fast hold of the
sure word of prophecy as of a light shining in a dark place. "To the law and
to the testimony; if they speak not according to these, there is no light in
them", (Isa 8:20) or as some render the passage, "light shall never rise to
them".
One simple declaration of the Word of God is worth more
to a soul descending into the valley and shadow of death, than all the
ingenious and vivid imaginings of the brightest human minds.
In view of the absolute and undoubted certainty of our
departure out of life, it seems very strange that we should be so
unconcerned. If even one of a million escaped death, this might afford
some shadow of a reason for our carelessness; but we know that "it is
appointed unto men once to die". (Heb 9:27) In this warfare there is no
discharge, and yet most men live as if they were immortal. I remember the
foolish thought which entered my childish mind when my mother informed me
that we all must die. I entertained the hope that before my time came, some
great change would take place, I knew not how—by which I would escape this
dreaded event.
I will not address the death of the wicked at
present. The dying experience of the believer is our proper subject,
and we read that one object of Christ's coming into the world was "to
deliver such as were all their life time subject to bondage through fear of
death".
Death, in itself considered, is a most formidable evil,
and can be desirable to none. The fear of death is not altogether the
consequence of sin; the thing is abhorrent to the constitution of man. Death
was held up in terror to our first parents when innocent, to prevent their
transgression, and having entered the world by their sin in whom we all
sinned, this event has been ever since a terror to mortals—"The King of
Terrors!"
Man instinctively cleaves to life; so does every sentient
being. There are only two things which can possibly have the effect of
reconciling any man to death. The first is the hope of escaping from misery
which is felt to be intolerable: the other an assurance of a better, that
is, a heavenly country. The Captain of our salvation conquered death and him
who had the power of death, that is the Devil—by dying Himself. By this
means he plucked from this monster his deadly sting—by satisfying the
demands of God's holy law. "For the sting of death is sin, and the strength
of sin is the law." (1 Cor 15:56) All those, therefore, who are united to
Christ meet death as a conquered and disarmed enemy. Against them he is
powerless. Still, however, he wears a threatening aspect, and although he
cannot kill, he can frown and threaten—and this often frightens the timid
sheep. They often do not know that they are delivered from his tyranny, and
that now he can do nothing but falsely accuse, and roar like a hungry lion
disappointed of his prey. There are still some who all their lifetime are
subject to bondage "through fear of death". (Heb 2:15) Their confidence is
shaken by so many distressing doubts, that though sincerely engaged in the
service of God, they can never think of death without sensible dread; and
often they are afraid that when the last conflict shall come, they will be
so overwhelmed with terror and despair, that they shall prove a dishonor to
their Christian profession.
I recollect a sickly but pious lady who, with a profusion
of tears, expressed her anxiety and fear in the view of her approaching end.
There seemed to be ground for her foreboding apprehensions because, from the
beginning of her profession, she had enjoyed no comfortable assurance—but
was of the number of those who, though they "fear God, and obey the voice of
his servant, yet walk in darkness and have no light" (Isa 50:10) of comfort.
But mark the goodness of God and the fidelity of the Great Shepherd. Some
months afterwards I saw this lady on her deathbed—and was astonished to find
that Christ had delivered her entirely from her bondage. She was now near to
her end and knew it—but she shed no tears now but those of joy and
gratitude. All her darkness and sorrow were gone. Her heart glowed with love
to the Redeemer, and all her anxiety now was to depart and be with Jesus.
There was, as it were, a beaming of heaven in her countenance. I had before
tried to comfort her—but now I sat down by her bedside to listen to the
gracious words which proceeded from her mouth, and could not but send up the
fervent aspiration, "O let me die the death of the righteous, and let my
last end be like hers!" (Num 23:10) Then I knew that there was one who had
conquered death, and him who has the power of death; for Satan, to the last
moment, was not permitted to molest her.
No arguments have ever so powerfully operated on my mind,
to convince me of the reality and power of experimental religion, as
witnessing the last exercises of some of God's children. Some of these
scenes, though long past, have left an indelible impression on my memory;
and I hope a beneficial impression on my heart.
Another lady I had often observed passing along her
way—humble, gentle, silent—evidently not seeking to be conspicuous, but
rather to remain unnoticed and unknown. She had a few chosen female friends
with whom she freely communicated, for her heart was affectionate and her
disposition sociable. To these she poured out her inmost soul and received
from them a similar return. She was crushed under an habitual feeling of
domestic affliction—but not of that kind which freely utters its complaints
and engages the sympathy of many. Her sorrows were such as her delicacy of
feeling did not permit her even to allude to. The conduct of an imprudent
father weighed heavily on her spirits—but towards him—and her mother being
dead, she kept his house—she was assiduously respectful; and while he made
himself the laughing stock of his acquaintances, she endeavored to make his
home comfortable. But often I thought that her lively sensibility to the
ridicule and reproaches which fell upon him would be an injury to her
delicate constitution; and the more so, because this was a subject on which
she would not converse—not even with the intimate, confidential friends
before mentioned. It was evident that her health was slowly giving way, and
that the disease which carries off nearly one half of the adults in this
land was secretly consuming her vitals. But she never complained, and seemed
rather to become more cheerful as her eye became more brilliant and her
cheeks more ashen. She was, for a long time after this, seen occupying her
humble retired place in the house of God, and still went her accustomed
rounds among her poor and sick neighbors, while doing everything to render
home comfortable to her restless, unhappy parent. At length, however, her
strength failed, and she was obliged to confine herself to the house, and
before long to her bed. Being informed of this, as her pastor, I visited
her.
Hitherto her extreme modesty and retired habits had
prevented me from having much personal acquaintance with this excellent
woman. I was accompanied to the house by one of her intimate friends. The
house was a cottage, and all its furniture of home manufacture; but upon the
whole there was impressed a neatness and order, which indicated a superior
taste in her who had long had the sole management. I did not know but that
from her habitual reserve and silence she would be embarrassed in her
feelings and reserved in her communications—but I was happily disappointed.
She received me with an affectionate smile and a cordial shake of the hand,
and said that she was pleased that I had thought it worth my while to come
and see a poor dying woman. Not many minutes were spent in compliments or
general remarks; she entered freely and most intelligently into a narrative
of her religious exercises which had commenced at an early period of her
life, and expatiated in the sweetest manner on the divine excellencies of
the Savior, not as one who was speaking what she had learned from others, or
from the mere exertion of her own intellect—but as one who felt in the heart
every word which she uttered. There was a gentleness, a suavity, and a meek
humility expressed in every tone of her voice, and the same was depicted on
every lineament of her countenance. Though, when in health, she was never
reckoned beautiful, yet there was now in her countenance, animated with hope
and love and pious joy—or rather peace—a beauty of countenance which I never
saw equaled. It was what may without impropriety be called spiritual beauty.
I found what I had not known before, that her mind had been highly
cultivated by reading. This was manifest in the propriety, and indeed I may
say, elegance of her language. Not that she aimed at saying fine things.
Such an idea never entered her humble mind; but possessing, naturally, a
good understanding which she had carefully improved by reading, especially
the best Christian authors, and being now animated with a flow of pious
affection which seemed never to ebb, all these things gave her language a
fluency, a glow, and a vividness, which was truly remarkable. I have often
regretted that I did not put down at the time her most striking
expressions—but the mere words could convey no more than the shadow of such
a scene.
It has often been remarked that the speeches of great
orators, when written and read, have scarcely a resemblance to the same
speeches delivered with all the pathos, the grace, and the varied
intonations and gestures of the orator. The same may more truly be said of
the sayings of the dying Christian; we may catch the very words—but the
spirit, the sacred and solemn tones, free from all affectation, the heavenly
serenity of countenance, and the countless methods of manifesting the pious
affections of the heart, never can be preserved, nor distinctly conveyed by
words to others. The mind of this young lady possessed a uniform serenity,
undisturbed with fears, doubts, or cares. Everything seemed right to her
submissive temper. It was enough that her heavenly Father appointed it to be
so. For many weeks she lay in this state of perfect tranquility, as it were
in the suburbs of heaven, and I believe no one ever heard a complaint from
her lips. Even that grief which had preyed on her health, when she was able
to go about, had now ceased to cause her pain. Hers was, in my apprehension,
the nearest approximation to complete happiness which I ever saw upon earth;
yet there was no violence of feeling, no agitation, no rapture. It was that
kind of happiness which, from its gentleness and calmness, is capable of
continuance.
As it was her request that I should visit her often, I
did so as frequently as the distance of my residence and my other avocations
would permit; not, as I often said, with any expectation of communicating
any good to her—but of receiving spiritual benefit from her heavenly
conversation. O! how often did I wish that the boldest infidels—and they
were rampant at that time—could have been introduced into the chamber of
this dying saint. Often, especially after witnessing this scene, I
endeavored to describe to such as attended preaching, the power of true
religion to sustain the soul in the last earthly conflict; but they were
incredulous as to the facts, or ascribed them to some strange enthusiasm
which buoyed up the soul in an unusual manner. But here there was no
enthusiasm—nothing approaching to what may be called a heated imagination.
All was sober—all was serene—all was gentle—all was rational. And, although
forty-five years have passed since this scene was witnessed, the impression
on my mind is distinct and vivid. The indescribable countenance, calm but
animated, pale with disease but lighted up with an unearthly smile; the
sweet and affectionate tones of voice; the patient, submissive, cheerful,
grateful temper—are all remembered with a vividness and permanence with
which I remember nothing of recent occurrence. When I think of such scenes,
I have often thought and said, "If this be delusion, then let my soul
forever remain under such delusion!"
If the foregoing was a sample of the deathbed exercises
of all Christians, then would I say that their last days are their best
days, and the day of death happier than the day of birth. This, however, is
far from being a true view of the general fact. It is a select case—one of a
thousand—upon the whole the happiest death I ever witnessed.
I have, indeed, seen dying people agitated with a kind of
delirious rapture, in which the imagination has been so excited, that the
person looked and spoke as if the objects of another world were actually
present to the view. In such case the nervous system loses its tone, and
when the general feelings are pious and the thoughts directed heavenward,
the whole system is thrilled with an indescribable emotion. We have a number
of recorded death-scenes which partake of this character, and are greatly
admired and extolled by the injudicious and fanatical. Scenes of this kind
are frequently the effect of disease, and sometimes of medicine operating on
the idiosyncrasy of particular people. Such people may be pious—but the
extraordinary exhilaration and ecstasy of which they are the subjects ought
not to be ascribed to supernatural influence—but to physical causes. Between
such experiences and the case described above, there is no more resemblance
than between a blazing meteor which soon burns itself out, and the steady,
warming beams of the spring sun.
I once witnessed an extraordinary scene of this kind in a
sceptic, who neglected religion and scoffed at its professors until very
near the close of life. He then seemed to be agitated and exhilarated with
religious ideas and feelings, leading him to profess his faith in Christ,
and to rejoice and exult in the assurance of salvation—and all this without
any previous conviction of sin, and unmingled at the time with deep
penitential feelings. Well, why might it not have been an instance of
sovereign grace, like that of the thief on the cross? It is possible.
As in life, that piety which is founded on knowledge, and
in which the faculties of the mind continue to be well balanced and the
judgment sound, is by far the least suspicious; so those deathbed exercises,
which are of a similar character, are much to be preferred to those which
are flighty, and in which reason seems to regulate the helm no longer; but
an excited and irregular imagination assumes the government of the man.
According to this rule, some glowing narratives of death-scenes will be set
aside, as, if not spurious—yet not deserving to be admired and celebrated as
they often are.