LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
The sounds of lamentation had now been beard for four
days in the desolate household. In accordance with general practice, the
friends and relatives of the deceased had assembled to pay their tribute of
respect to the memory of a revered friend, and to solace the hearts of the
disconsolate survivors. They needed all the sympathy they received. It was
now the dull dead calm after the torture of the storm, the leaden sea strewn
with wrecks, enabling them to realize more fully the extent of their loss.
Amid the lulls of the tempest, while Lazarus yet lived, hope shrunk from
entertaining gloomy apprehensions. But now that the storm has spent its
fury, now that the worst has come, the future rises up before them crowded
with ten thousand images of desolation and sorrow. The void in their
household is daily more and more felt. All the past bright memories of
Bethany seem to be buried in a yawning grave.
We may picture the scene. The stronger and more resolute
spirit of Martha striving to stem the tide of overmuch sorrow. The more
sensitive heart of Mary, bowed under a grief too deep for utterance, able
only to indicate by her silent tears the unknown depths of her sadness. Thus
are they employed, when Martha, unseen to her sister, has been beckoned
away. "The Master has come." But desirous of ascertaining the truth
of the joyful tidings, before intruding on the grief of Mary, the elder of
the survivors rushes forth with trembling emotion to give full vent to her
sorrow at the feet of the Great Friend of all the friendless!
He has not yet entered the village. She cannot, however,
wait His arrival. Leaving home and sepulcher behind, she hastens outside the
groves of palm at its gate. It requires no small fortitude in the season of
sore bereavement to face an altered world; and, doubtless, passing
all alone now through the little town, meeting familiar faces wearing sunny
smiles which could not be returned, must have been a painful effort to this
child of sorrow. But what will the heart not do to meet such a Comforter?
What will Martha be unprepared to encounter if the news brought to her is
indeed confirmed? One glance is enough. "It is the Lord!" In a moment
she is a suppliant at His feet. Doubt and faith and prayer
mingle in the exclamation, "Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not
have died!"
That she had faith and assured confidence in the love and
tenderness of Jesus we cannot question. But a momentary feeling of
unbelief (shall we say, of reproach and upbraiding?) mingled with better
emotions. "Why, Lord," seemed to be the expression of her inner thoughts,
"were You absent? It was unlike Your kind heart. You have often gladdened
our home in our season of joy—why this forgetfulness in the night of our
bitter agony? Death has torn from us our loved brother—the blow would have
been spared—these hearts would have been unbroken—these burning tears
unshed, if You had been here!"
Such was the bold—the unkind reasoning of the mourner. It
was the reasoning of a finite creature. Ah! if she could but have looked
into the workings of that infinite Heart she was ungenerously
upbraiding, how differently would she have raised her tearful suit!
Her exclamation is—"Why this unkind absence?"
His comment on that same absence to His disciples is this—"I was
glad for your sakes that I was not there!"
How often are God and man thus in strange antagonism,
with regard to earthly dispensations! Man, as he arraigns the rectitude of
the Divine procedure, exclaiming—"How unaccountable this dealing! How
baffling this mystery! Where is now my God?" This sickness—why prolonged?
This thorn in the flesh—why still buffeting? This family bereavement—why
permitted? Why the most treasured and useful life taken—the blow aimed where
it cut most severely and leveled lowest?
Hush the secret atheism! This trial, whatever it be,
has this grand motto written upon it in characters of living light—we can
read it on anguished pillows—aching hearts—yes, on the very portals of the
tomb—"This is for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified
thereby!" At the very moment we are mourning what are called "dark
providences" "unfortunate calamities"—"strokes of misfortune"—"unmitigated
evils"—Jesus has a different verdict—"I am glad for your sakes."
His absence at Bethany—the still more
unaccountable lingering for two days in the same place after the
message had been sent, instead of hastening directly to Lazarus—all was well
and wisely ordered. And although Martha's upbraidings were now received in
forbearing silence, her Savior afterwards, in a calmer moment, read the
rebuke—"did not I say unto you—if you would believe, you would see the glory
of God?"
It is indeed a comforting assurance in all trials, that
God has some holy and wise end to subserve. He never stirs a
ripple on the waters, but for His own glory, or the good of others. The
delay on the present occasion, though protracting for a time the
sorrows of the bereaved, was intended for the benefit of the Church in every
age, and for the more immediate benefit of the disciples. They were
destined in a few brief weeks also to be desolate survivors—to mourn a
Brother dearer still! He who had been to them Friend, Father, Brother,
all in one, was to be, like Lazarus, laid silent in a Jerusalem
sepulcher. The Lord of Life was to be the victim of Death! His
body was to be transfixed to a malefactor's cross, and consigned to a lonely
grave! He knew the shock that awaited their faith. He knew, as this terrible
hour drew on, how needful some overpowering visible demonstration would be
of His mastery over the tomb. Now a befitting opportunity occurred in
the case of their friend Lazarus to read the needed lesson. "I was glad for
your sakes, ...to the intent you might believe."
Would that we could feel as believers more than we
do—that the dealings of our God are for the strengthening of our
faith, and the enlivening and invigorating of our spiritual graces. Let us
seek to accept more simply in dark dealings the Savior's explanation, "It is
for your sake!" He gives us a blank-check for our every trial, endorsing it
with His own gracious word, "This, this is for the glory of God, that the
Son of God may be glorified thereby."
The words of Martha, then, surely teach as their great
lesson, never to be hasty in our surmises and conclusions regarding God's
ways. "Lord! IF You had been here?" Could she question for a moment that
that loving eye of Omniscience had all the while been scanning that
sick-chamber—marking every throb in that fevered brow—and every tear that
fell unbidden from the eyes that watched his pillow? "Lord! if You had been
here?" Could she question His ability, had He so willed it, to
prevent the bereavement altogether—to put an arrest on the hand of death
before the bow was strung?
O faithless disciple, why did you doubt? But you are
before long to learn what each of us will learn out in eternity, that "all
things are for our sakes, that the abundant grace might, through the
thanksgiving of many, redound to the glory of God."
But the momentary cloud has passed. Faith breaks
through. The murmur of upbraiding has died away. He who listens makes
allowance for an anguished heart. The glance of tender sympathy and
gentleness which met Martha's eye, at once hushes all remains of unbelief.
Words of exulting confidence immediately succeed. "But I know that even now
whatever You will ask of God, God will give it You."
What is this, but that which every believer exults in to
this hour, as the sheet-anchor of hope and peace and comfort, when tossed on
a tempestuous sea—a gracious confidence in the ability and willingness of
Christ to save. The Friend of Bethany is still the Friend in Heaven!
To Him "all power has been committed;" "as a prince He has power with God,
and must prevail." Yes, gracious antidote to the spirit in the
moment of its trial; when bowed down with anticipated bereavement; the
curtains of death about to fall over life's brightest joys. How blessed to
lay hold on the perfect conviction that "the Ever-living Intercessor in
glory has all power to revoke the sentence if He sees fit"—that even now
(yes now, in a moment) the delegated angel may be sent speeding from his
throne, to spare the tree marked to fall, and prolong the lease of
existence!
Let us rejoice in the power of this God-man Mediator,
that He is as able as He is willing, and as willing as He is
able. "Him the Father hears always." "Father, I will," is His own divine
formula for every needed blessing for His people. How it ought to make our
sick-chambers and death-chambers consecrated to prayer! leading us to make
our every trial and sorrow a fresh reason for going to God! Laying
our burden, whatever it may be, on the mercy-seat, it will be considered by
Him, who is too wise to grant what is better to be withdrawn, and too
kind to withhold what, without injury to us, may be granted.
Let us imitate Martha's faith in our approaches to
Him. Ah, in our dull and cold devotions, how little lively apprehension have
we of the gracious willingness of Christ to listen to our petitions!
Standing as the great Angel of the Covenant with the golden censer,
His hand never shortened—His ear never heavy—His uplifted
arm of intercession never faint. No difficulty bewildering Him—no
importunity wearying Him—"waiting to be gracious"—loving the music of the
suppliant spirit.
Would that we had ever before us as the superscription of
faith written on our closet-devotions, and domestic altars, and public
sanctuaries, whenever and wherever the knee is bent, and the
Hearer of prayer is invoked—"I know that even now whatever You will ask of
God, God will give it to You."