The Dove!

Edward Griffin (1770—1837)
 

Genesis 8:8, 9
"Then he sent out a dove to see if the water had receded from the surface of the ground. But the dove could find no place to set its feet because there was water over all the surface of the earth; so it returned to Noah in the ark. He reached out his hand and took the dove and brought it back to himself in the ark."

The dove is held up in Scripture as an emblem of the Church. This species of birds are distinguished by their simplicity and innocence. They are gentle, inoffensive, easily subdued and tamed, and quick to forget injuries. Strongly attached and faithful to their mates, they seem disconsolate under separation, and are easily reconciled when a breach happens between them. They are the most fruitful of birds, bearing almost every month. Their food is the purest seed or grain, their drink is the fairest waters, and they loathe the filth on which the ravens feast. They are weak, defenseless, exposed to injuries, beset with fears, and addicted to mourning. When pursued by ravenous birds they will not fight, but tremble and flee to their windows. In eastern countries they often seek a refuge in caves and holes of rocks, where they nestle and abide. Of all birds they are most attached to home; and if carried to almost any distance and then set free, they will steer straight and rapidly to their favorite cabin.

In allusion to these dispositions, Christ calls his Church his dove, and hails her, sheltered as she is in her eternal refuge, "O my dove, you are in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs." To denote at once her meekness and tenderness, he represents her as regarding him with "doves' eyes." Attached and faithful to him, she sits solitary when he is absent, and when at any time she has grieved him by her follies, she is eager to be restored to favor. Her fruitfulness is in good works.

Unable to live on the filth of sin and worldly objects, she quenches her thirst at the waters of life, and can relish only "the finest of the wheat and—honey out of the rock." In this valley of tears she is addicted to mourning on account of her sins and the miseries of her race. "Like a crane or a swallow" so does she often "chatter;" she mourns like "a dove." With inextinguishable desire she cleaves to her home, the bosom of her God; and when driven from it by the hurry of her passions, nothing, though worlds rise between, can prevent her from rushing back and seeking again a retreat into her father's arms.

Weak and defenseless in herself and exposed to injury, disinclined to strife and incompetent to the rough encounter, she fears and trembles and flees to hide herself in her eternal rock. Like the gentle-spirited Psalmist shrinking from his robust enemies, she often pants with the desire, "O that I had wings like a dove; for then would I fly away and be at rest."

With these several marks of resemblance, a dove may not improperly be considered as the emblem of a Christian. So the ark, in which the Church was sheltered from the storms which swept a wicked world, may, even with the consent of the apostle Peter, be considered as a symbol of Christ. The circumstances recorded in the text, of the dove's leaving the ark, finding restlessness abroad and returning with instinctive eagerness to that friendly refuge, have been employed, without incurring the censure of fanciful allusion, to illustrate the wanderings of Christians, their consequent uneasiness and glad return.

I will not say that the passage was originally intended to be applied in this manner; but if it furnishes an apt illustration of truths obviously taught in other parts of the Bible, it may lawfully be employed for such illustration.

I. First then the dove wandered from the ark; and Christians alas are too prone to wander from Christ. In this state of imperfection and sorrow, they are not so happy or so wise as to abide constantly at home. This happiness is reserved for a better state. O that it were now here. But God knows it is far otherwise with us. Here Christians must have their turns of wandering, that they may learn the depths of their corruption and their unutterable ill deserts; that they may learn the evil by tasting the bitterness of sin; that being weary of a world of pollution and trouble, they may pant after a world of holy and ceaseless rest. Here they must have their turns of wandering, that they may more fully discover their need of a Savior, while they stand amazed at the grace which could stoop so low as to reach and raise them to Heaven; that they may obtain a more affecting sense of the patience and faithfulness of God which bore with them and brought them through; in a word, that they may be fitted for a world of everlasting humility, and be qualified to unite in the praises of redeeming love, and fully learn that lesson which all things were created to teach: that they are nothing and that God is all in all.

Were they made perfect at once, and were never to endure the struggle of two co-existing and contending principles, they could not obtain so exquisite a sense of any one of these truths. The wisdom of God will therefore appear in leaving in his militant people passions capable of being enkindled, and appetites of being enticed, by the various objects which inhabit these regions of seduction and crime. But ah, their guilt, which nothing can excuse or diminish. Redeemed as they have been by a Savior's blood; separated and distinguished as they are from the world—from all the creatures of God; with a title to Heaven in their hands—with all the promises clustering upon them; with crowns of glory ready to drop upon their heads; knowing also as they do their Savior's love, and that all their happiness lies in communion with him, and all their misery in wandering from him, yet they will wander. They will turn their backs on their Lord, their life, and stray in pursuit of airy forms, the sprights of their own distempered imagination. They do not break away at once; they slide gradually and imperceptibly from him.

First they relax their vigilance:

then some constitutional sin, which is always the first to live and the last to die, begins to move:

next their closets and their Bibles are sought with less zeal and tenderness:

then their conversation becomes less spiritual;

the world revives its faded charms;

their sense of everlasting realities becomes stupefied;

visible things fill their eye.

Those three sisters that were born in Heaven—faith, hope, and charity, languish about their hearts; and before they are aware vast regions have risen up between them and God.

II. It was not without an object that the dove left the ark; she went to seek another rest. It is not without an object that Christians wander from Christ; they go to search for rest in other things. Alive at every point with feelings and tastes which were never made for Heaven, and which only earth can gratify—which are naturally loud and importunate for their objects, and though for a moment silenced by the voice of a present God, were not destroyed; no sooner is the voice which stilled them retired, than this swarm of inbred desires renew their clamorous demands for gratification. By help of the imagination, (that mental necromancer—that traitor which stands ready to lend his mystic aid to any rebel in the soul,) each brings his object before the eye, arrayed in charms not its own, and then, more enamored still, presses for permission to embrace it. The soul, half seduced, yields a reluctant consent, and the worldly affections scatter and seize their respective objects.

Some more delicate tastes rest on the beauties of a landscape, and toy with the works of God without ascending to him.

Others, of a more social cast, place friends and society on the throne.

Others start in the race of ambition.

Others dart upon the gains of mammon.

Others pursue the fickle and ever varying phantom of pleasure.

All unite in seeking a paradise on earth in which the mind can rest without ascending to God. This earthly paradise, which glitters and dances in the eye—is the false meteor which has allured many pilgrims from their way. The bright deceit keeping still ahead, can never be overtaken, and the luckless wanderer too late finds himself involved in difficulties from which it is not easy to escape.

III. "But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot." Though some of the mountains stood above the waters, she could find no food adapted to her nature—no convenient cabin for repose. She wandered unsatisfied and uneasy, until she returned on lagging pinions, and mourned at the window for an arm to take her in. It was quite different with the raven which went out about the same time. He felt no uneasiness for what he had left behind—no restless desires to return to the ark. He could flap his wings and exult that he had regained his liberty. Not a look of desire did he turn towards his former prison. He wheeled and circled through the air as blithe as joy itself, snuffing the grateful fumes of human flesh and searching for carcases upon the mountains.

Here is an emblem of one of the most characteristic distinctions between a Christian and a hypocrite. Both may wander; but the state of their minds is very different. The hypocrite can neglect his closet and his Bible, and can abandon his former strict and regular habits, with little disturbance to himself. He can live very composedly without the presence of Christ, without a heart that dwells in Heaven, without thoughts that hold fellowship with the skies. His affections are earthly; his cares are earthly; his calculations are mostly relate to earthly objects; his conversation is earthly and often frivolous. He selects society that is vain and worldly, in preference to the pious and spiritual. None can tell wherein he differs from a man of the world. Still he is composed, cheerful, and mirthful. He is contented to barter communion with Heaven for the diversified pleasures of the world, and with various expedients stills the remonstrances of his conscience.

"Why, who can expect always to be enrapt in religious flights? We are not angels but men, and must shape our minds to the circumstances of this inferior state." There are hours when conscience will be heard, but he has an answer ready to meet her reproaches: "There are many that do worse." If he falls into acknowledged sins, these are "only the ordinary slips of imperfect nature—the spots of God's children." If he commits crimes in secret, such as, were tears in Heaven, would make angels weep, why "David and Peter did as bad;" or he raises some error to justify his crimes. Raven-like, he can glut on the filthy morsels of worldly objects, and feels more happy in his present liberty than in his former confinement. If he is restless, it is not to return to the ark, but to find more prey.

You never hear him mourning like doves in the valleys. He is not apt to be sad. His countenance tells you that his heart is mirthful. Perhaps he scoffs at pious sorrow as the morbid glooms of superstition. Now if this be a dove, tell me, you who can, what it is to be a raven.

Far different is the temper of wandering Christians. With desires which reach to Heaven and which only God can fill, they feel an immense and "aching void." They wander from object to object, but are not satisfied with any. They engage in new enterprises, but their way is hedged up with thorns so that they cannot find their paths. They enter into company, but in the midst of society they are alone. They try festivity, but "even in laughter" their "heart is sorrowful." Every amusement is insipid; every enjoyment is cankered at the root. As well might the earth disclose her cheerful landscapes without the sun, as a pious soul be cheerful without the presence of God. Whatever the world is to sinners, it is forever spoiled for Christians as a place of rest. In that blessed hour when the light of Heaven first broke in upon their darkness, it obscured the glory of the world and ruined it finally as their dependence and portion. In the constitution which God has made, he appears determined that his children shall be happy in him, or be miserable. He seems to have passed an unalterable decree which confines their enjoyments within these limits.

True, their improved tastes may enjoy his bounties and his works, and that in a purer and more sublime degree than men of the world; but it is not with a worldly spirit—not with the same view and estimate of the world that carnal men entertain. And when the presence of God is withdrawn this enjoyment of his works is departed with it. Then their solitary and pining souls can say with David, "My heart is smitten and withered like grass, so that I forget to eat my bread. I am like a pelican of the wilderness—I am as a sparrow alone upon the house-top." Or if they have lost their sensibility, still God vexes them with his arrows. He will not allow them to find rest for the sole of their foot in any corner of creation, until they return to the ark from which they have foolishly and wickedly strayed.

IV. The dove at length returned, forced back by the prevalence of the waters. Just so, wandering Christians will surely return to Christ, and not unfrequently are they driven back by the waves of affliction. That love which chose and separated them from the world—that power which first broke the chains of their bondage—that covenant in which every divine perfection is pledged to complete their salvation—all are engaged to recover them from their wanderings. Were they hid in the remotest corner of the earth—were they, in the act of fleeing from God, arrested like Jonah and deposited at the bottom of the mountains; the eye of Christ would search them out, and his hand would bring them to his holy temple. He who commands the resources of the universe—to whom all nature is a magazine of arms with which he can make war upon his creatures; he can select from an infinite variety of weapons, those with which he may choose to smite his straying children and chastise them back to his arms.

A child may be taken—or a wife—or a parent; all that he has in the world shall be removed, as surely as the Lord loves him, before he shall be allowed to live and die away from Christ. The love which is engaged to reclaim him does not lack means, and will not be resisted.

Neither the corruptions of the heart,

nor the pollutions of the flesh,

nor the allurements of the world,

nor the snares of Satan—

shall be able finally to separate a Christian from the love of Christ!

V. When the dove returned and mourned at the window, did the patriarch shut his compassion against her? No, "he put forth his hand—and pulled her in unto him into the ark." And do you think that Noah had more compassion for a doltish bird, than the Savior has for his disciples and members? Will he allow his turtle dove to sink in the floods when she returns and mourns at his window, and complains that not a place in the wide world will furnish her a rest for the sole of her foot. He who, when she was a raven, gave his life to transform her into a dove, will not, when she is a dove, see her perish, sighing and pleading by his side. When she comes home fleeing before the tempest, or trembling at the talons of a pursuing foe, he will put forth his hand, and with a tenderness which Noah never felt, pull "her in unto him into the ark."

Wandering as she has, He feels a love for her infinitely too great to be expressed. Was ever an infant, after a long unnatural absence, unwelcome to the arms of its mother? That wonder may be; but as the God of truth and grace lives, returning Christians shall never be unwelcome to the bosom of Christ. That hand which wiped the tear from a weeping world—that hand which stanched the wounds of a bleeding race—will receive them, will quell their alarms, will wipe the sorrows from their cheek, and lay them to rest upon his heart. The throbbings of their bosom are still, or are changed to commotions of joy and love. A heavenly calmness, and peace that "surpasses understanding," are descended upon their conscience. See them hang upon his arm. They look up with smiles and tears into those eyes which first looked them into repentance; eyes which still fall on them with the sweetness of Heaven, with the tenderness of Jesus.

Where are now their guilty fears and horrid forebodings? They are all passed away like a restless dream, and now they have awoke in their Savior's arms to immortal hopes and joy! They have awoke, after a dream that they were poor, and found themselves the heirs of all riches! Now are they confounded and open not their mouths any more for shame, because the Lord is pacified towards them for all that they have done. O blessed morning, and blessed be the God that spread its golden light upon the hills. It is well for us that we have a Savior who "restores" our souls, who "leads" us "in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." "Though we have lain among the pots, yet shall we be as the wings of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold." Blessed tidings for broken hearts that are mourning and sighing for an absent God.

"Who is among you that fears the Lord, that obeys the voice of his servant, that walks in darkness and has no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord and stay upon his God." Soon will he return "like a roe or young deer upon the mountains." So he has come. He is here. He stands before you this day and spreads his wounded hands and invites you to his bosom. What prevents you from rushing into his arms and losing your sorrows amidst the joy of that embrace?

Can you elsewhere find a better rest? You have searched the world and you know it is not there. But when all other places exclude you—when in the whole creation you are not allowed one point on which to rest the sole of your foot, this faithful bosom—this last resort—always offers you a safe retreat.

Come gather around me, you beloved but foolish children who have wandered from your Lord, and hear the message which I bring you from him and the remonstrance which I present you in his name.

Had you not known that rest was to be found only with him? Had not experience taught you the vexations and miseries of wandering—you would have been half excused. But in better hours you have tasted his love—you have lain in his bosom—you knew that a departure from him was a plunge into a thousand woes—was abandoning a delight which an angel might gladly have cherished. Apprized of all this, you have slipped from your Savior's arms, and slid, as your folly drew you, into dangers and perplexities.

And where are you now? Dissatisfied with yourselves and with the world around you; dark, guilty, restless, and alone. Where is the blessedness which once you spoke of? Where is the light that cheered your cloudless morning? Where is the calm and happy hours of communion with God which you once enjoyed, while your eye, fixed on Heaven and filled with glory, marked with transport your eternal home? All, all have departed, and changed for night and tempests and fears. And this is not all. You are preparing a future rod to chastise your folly—you are preparing pains and anguish for yourselves. And better that you should be driven back by a whip of scorpions, than be allowed to wander still.

Ah why will you fawn and court and pursue a world that treats you with such harshness and disdain? Gentler treatment would you have had from Christ. He would have cherished you, and soothed you, and sheltered you from a world in arms against you. Why then did you leave his friendly bosom? Did he give you a cause? Had he been to you "a wilderness—a land of darkness?" Has he merited such treatment at your hands?

Ah, had he thus neglected you when your interest was at stake, where but in eternal misery would you now have been? Arise, wretched wanderers, and return! Shake off this drowsiness and sloth; strip away the film from your eyes; tear the world from your hearts; and arise to action and to comfort. Think of the service which you owe him who died for your sins. Think of the invaluable interests of the Church which are in a measure committed to you. All this time your usefulness sleeps, while the world is dying around you for want of your prayers, your zeal, and your godly example.

Look at the doltishness of your children; see the growing irreligion of your houses; mark the looseness of your streets; (streets and houses in which the voice of the Son of God has been often heard,) and here you are, (some of you I fear,) sleeping over the distressing scene, with a heart as doltish as death and as cruel as the grave. In the name of God, if that he art ever felt—if those eyes ever wept—awake and feel and weep. Come, return to the ark of your rest and bring your families with you! A storm is gathering! I hear the roar of approaching floods! Step into the ark before you are swept away!