THE LEPER-WARRIOR
"Now Naaman, captain of the host of the king of
Syria, was a great man with his master, and honorable, because by him the
Lord had given deliverance unto Syria—he was also a mighty man of valor;
but he was a leper."—2 Kings 5:1
"The king of Aram had high admiration for Naaman, the
commander of his army, because through him the Lord had given Aram great
victories. But though Naaman was a mighty warrior, he suffered from
leprosy."—2 Kings 5:1
Many are the pleasing and graphic incidents interspersed
throughout Old Testament story, which have the scene of their occurrence
laid in the Land of Promise. In the narrative, however, whose lessons are at
present to engage our attention, we are called to cross the northern
boundary of Lebanon to the contiguous kingdom of Syria, the long and
troublesome rival of Israel. A period of quiescence had now happily
supervened between the Hebrew tribes and their hereditary foe. King Benhadad
and Joram were, for the time, on amicable terms, and a peaceful domestic
picture opens to us, like a gleam of sunshine amid the storms of war.
Every country in the world has been proud of its
illustrious soldiers. We may well believe that the empire of which Damascus
was the capital, would not be behind in doing homage to military genius—that
her highest honors would be heaped on "a mighty man of valor." Such was
NAAMAN, the most conspicuous among the group of figures in our narrative
chapter—"the Earl marshal," as an old writer calls him, "to the King of Aram"—the
commander-in-chief of the Syrian hosts, the favored idol of a warlike race.
Not long before, he had returned flushed with triumph at the head of his
troops from the land of Israel. "By him," we read, "the Lord had given
deliverance to the Syrians." According to Jewish tradition (in the Midrash
Tehillim ) it is he who is spoken of in the last chapter of 1st Kings, as
the "certain man who drew a bow at a venture, and smote Ahab between the
joints of the harness," thereby deciding the fortunes of the day at Ramoth
Gilead. By others, he is described in person as of colossal stature—the
Goliath of the north—a giant cedar in Lebanon. We may picture him, at all
events, as a man of consummate abilities—the trusted adviser of his king—the
pride of the army—his name a household word alike in the palaces of Damascus
and among the hamlets of Syria; invested, doubtless, by his master with the
most distinguished insignia in the power of royalty to bestow—badges of
"barbaric pearl and gold" conferred alone on rare personal prowess and in
recognition of illustrious deeds.
His home, we may farther imagine, would be one of the
"paradises" in that 'wilderness of gardens,'—a palatial dwelling, furnished
and beautified with richest fabrics from looms of the old city—trophies of
victory adorning its walls, shields and bucklers and spears that had been
gathered as spoil in many a hard won fight—with all in external nature that
could minister pleasure to eye and ear—the murmur of streams, the music of
birds, the floral wealth of the most productive "climate of the sun."
So far, too, as we can gather from a few scattered hints
contained in this brief narration, if we except the quick resentment and
impatience of contradiction incident to the training of one born to be
obeyed, Naaman's character seems to have been a noble one. He was not only
"a great man with his master," but "honorable"—of an unblemished reputation.
We may, moreover, claim for him (what is rare in such a proud position of
eminence and power), traits of amiability, benignity, goodness. His was not
the haughty and arrogant demeanor which forbade confidential freedom of
communion with those in lowlier station. His servants were not afraid to
call him "My father;" nor did a Hebrew slave tremble (as she would have done
in the presence of a tyrannical superior) to offer kindly counsel on his
behalf. Her affectionate interest in his circumstances, at once bespeaks her
favorable regard for her master.
But there is something preying on that lofty soul. NAAMAN
is supposed to mean "beautiful," "lovely," "goodly to look upon."
Alas! the name in his case was little else now than a cruel mockery. A foul
worm is shriveling up the gourd which trellised the earth-bower of his
glory—a pestilential touch has turned his gold into base alloy. The most
dreaded of Eastern diseases, and that, too, in its most malignant form, has
assaulted his body, and will soon convert it into a living, loathsome
charnel-house. If he had been a Hebrew by birth, he would have been doomed
to cheerless solitude—shut up night and day, the lonely tenant of a darkened
chamber, separated hopelessly from the outer world, and denied communion
with his own domestic circle—warning all who came near him of the contagious
nature of his plague, by the utterance of the cry, "Unclean! unclean!"
"Room for the leper! Room! And as he came,
The cry passed on.
Forthwith, aside they stood—
Matron and child, and pitiless manhood—all
Who met him on his way, and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he walked
A leper, with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth upon his loins; he seemed like one
Whose heart is with an iron curb repressed,
Crying, 'Unclean! unclean!'"
Although it is evident from the narrative, that this
rigid seclusion, so imperative in the case of the Jew, was not enforced in
the country north of Hermon (for Naaman continued to discharge the duties of
the highest civil office of the state), yet his must necessarily have been
the most miserable of existences. The red spot, the well-known herald
symptom, must at least have appeared, which would end in the ulcered
face, the shriveled skin, the croaking voice, the glaring eyes, the decayed
fingers (soon rendering him unable to draw the bow which had served him heir
to his renown), the wreck of memory, the premature decay of a tortured body,
the depression and despondency of mind, the constant dread of imparting to
others the terrible disease, the feverish and chronic restlessness which
made life a burden. That ever-present thought—rather, we should say, that
terrible reality—would pursue him everywhere, dogging his heels like a
hideous spectre. It would haunt him as he sat with his chiefs by watchfire
and camp on the tented field. It would dim and fret and darken the hour of
triumph, when amid the blare of trumpets and shout of citizens, he rode in
the chariot of victory through the streets of Damascus. When he headed the
festal throng, and entered Rimmon's Temple with his master, it would seem as
if the grim idol, in some fit of wanton, retributive vengeance, had set upon
him this terrible brand—selected him as victim of the supposed curse-mark of
earth's avenging deities, which even the Hebrews considered to be Jehovah's
visible scourge, and which they called "the finger of God." Of no avail to
him were the thousand charms of his Eden-home. Each setting sun, as it
tipped Hermon's crest with gold, chronicled the nearer approach of the enemy
his valor could never vanquish.
Such was NAAMAN. "He was a great man with his master, and
honorable, BUT he was a leper."
1. Let us learn from this touching history,
the vanity of all earthly glory. On the lintels of that
princely home in Aram's princely capital, are written the words, "All flesh
is grass, and all the glory of man is as the flower of grass." He who seemed
to have been once "fair" and "beautiful" as he was brave and generous, may
have the Prophet's wail appropriately uttered over him—"How is the staff
broken, and the beautiful rod!" His beauty "consumes away like a
moth." Our hero, whose martial deeds the matrons and damsels of city and
village, like those of Israel, had celebrated with timbrel and harp, would
envy the lot of the fettered captive or squalid beggar in the cells or
streets of Damascus.
"Put not your trust in princes, nor in man, in whom there
is no help." "Verily, every man at his best state is altogether vanity!" In
vain have courtly physicians lavished on him their skill. In vain have the
balsam-orchards of the Abana distilled their healing treasures. In vain have
sorcerers and magicians exercised their occult arts. In vain has he, again
and again, in piteous supplication bent his knee in the national sanctuary,
and loaded the shrine of the idol god with propitiatory bribes. The malady
is inveterate. That plague-spot embitters every hour of life, and throws the
shadows of despair on an anguished future. Earth has no remedy to soothe his
tortured spirit; he looks forward to the quiet rest of the grave as the only
and welcome release from his load of misery. As the vile worm, in a long
future age, refuted the asserted divinity of King Herod; (Instantly, an
angel of the Lord struck Herod with a sickness, because he accepted the
people's worship instead of giving the glory to God. So he was consumed with
worms and died)—so did this cruel monitor whisper the humbling lesson in the
ear of the warrior—"Let not the mighty man glory in his might!"
"BUT he was a leper." True picture of human life! Go
the round of existence—mark these varying waves which fret and chafe on its
shores. Who is there that has not to tell of some similar shadow projected
on an otherwise bright—it may be the brightest path—some flaw in the strong
building, some blot on the fair temple pillar? Let us gather a few
testimonies.
Here is one who has all that the world can bestow; BUT,
as in the case of Naaman, disease is blanching his cheek, and appointing him
wearisome days and restless nights. What to him, his ingots of gold and
lavish luxuries and lordly palaces, with these weary vigils of pain and
suffering, which rarest skill and tenderest affection strive alike in vain
to mitigate and abbreviate?
Here is another (Daniel 5), with full health and
strength; the magic circle of home is unbroken; no olive plant is missed
around his table. He had boasted, moreover, in the multitude of his riches;
he had won his coveted place amid 'the aristocracy of wealth'—the golden
gate and key had been, as he thought, securely reached and won, opening into
pleasure, ease, and splendor. But, "in the same hour came forth
fingers of a man's hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the
plaster of the palace wall, 'Mene, God has numbered your kingdom, and
finished it!'" His worldly means, which he was a lifetime in amassing, have
taken wings to themselves and fled. One wave of adversity has strewn the
beach with the fragile ruins. Seated amid the wreck of his gilded treasures,
he pursues in silence the monotone of wounded pride and disappointed
ambition—"All is vanity and vexation of spirit;" while an inward voice, like
the whisper of some avenging angel, seems to take up the parable, "Look
here, you rich people, weep and groan with anguish because of all the
terrible troubles ahead of you. Your wealth is rotting away, and your fine
clothes are moth-eaten rags. Your gold and silver have become worthless. The
very wealth you were counting on will eat away your flesh in hell. This
treasure you have accumulated will stand as evidence against you on the day
of judgment." (James 5:1-3).
Here is another, into whose lap the fabled horn of plenty
has been poured. In addition to the possession of that mere vulgar wealth
which is the satisfying goal of so many, he has honors, family possessions,
pride of rank, resources of intellect, cultivated tastes. He has risen to
honorable distinction, and enjoyed the pageantry of power. Before him Fame
has blown her trumpet. He is drinking, apparently to the full, luscious
draughts of earthly glory; fondled and caressed by fawning crowds, the world
points its finger, and says of him, "There, at least, is a happy man!" BUT,
alas! it knows not the secret wound that is preying on his spirit and
poisoning the fountains of life. It knows not how he has to lock up in the
depth of his heart of hearts—the story of his profligate son; how his very
affluence is extorted to pay the wicked debts or to feed the riot and excess
of a profligate life.
Here is another, occupying some similar coveted pinnacle
of distinction, who has reached the goal of success, and outdistanced his
fellows in the uncertain race. BUT, muffled from the world's eye and
estimate, "the heart knows its own bitterness." That very success has roused
the spleen of jealous rivals. Maligned, misunderstood, vilified, he is
doomed to bear in silence the shafts of envy—it may be, the treachery and
detraction of trusted friends.
Here is another, who has health and wealth, and unbounded
material prosperity. Poverty has never darkened his dwelling; the whisper of
malice has never ruffled his peace; troops of true-hearted associates gather
around his hearth; the widow and the orphan have been blessed out of his
abundant treasure, and he himself has been made richer thereby. BUT, ah!
another and more terrible foe has made sad incursions on his homestead. The
names to him most familiar and best beloved have been carved on tombstones.
"Joseph is not, and Simeon is not." He can add his sorrowful testimony to
myriads of broken hearts, that no golden key or golden gate can exclude the
sleepless foe—no golden bridle can rein in the "pale horse." His "but"—his
soliloquy—is the saddest of all—"You have put lover and friend far from me,
and my acquaintance into darkness!"
We need not enlarge. That little exceptional word "but"
qualifies every condition of life, whatever the characteristics of that
condition may be. It blurs the gilded ceilings of the rich; it leaves its
impress, in diversified form, on the dwellings of the poor. It clips and
ruffles the soaring wing of proud intellect. It puts its drag on the
triumphal chariot in the hour of ovation. It is God's voice addressing the
crowd of weary humanity—"Arise, and depart, for this is not your rest; it is
polluted!"
2. This leads us to note, as a second general
lesson, that we should regard our trials as
designed by God for our good. Naaman's trial was indeed no
ordinary one. Of all humiliations, what to him could be more chafing and
galling? We know how captivating in the eyes of Orientals, were outward
attractions—personal form and lordly demeanor and bearing. How touchingly
the minstrel king laments the "beauty" of Israel—the twin heroes fallen in
high places, who were "swifter than eagles and stronger than lions." Here
was "the beautiful"—the admired leader of the Syrian armies—who was
accustomed to be foremost in the fight, and last in the field—about to
become helpless as a child, fit to be occupant not of the martial tent but
of the lazar-house—"from the sole of the foot even unto the head no
soundness in him, but wounds and bruises and putrefying sores" (Isa. 1:6).
And yet in his case the parable was expounded—"Out of the eater came forth
meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness" (Judges 14:14). From that
leper's couch there rose, as in the patriarch's night-vision, a ladder
reaching to heaven. He, who, in an earthly sense, here renounced and
forfeited the name "beautiful," was to be clothed upon with the beauty of
the God of Israel, and to have a name given him better than that of sons or
of daughters!
And is it not so with the Lord's people still? His
dispensations are often incomprehensible. His name to them is that which He
gave to Manoah—"Wonderful," "Secret," "Mysterious." That wearing sickness,
that wasting heritage of pain, these long tossings on a fevered, sleepless
pillow; where can there be love or mercy there? But the silence and
loneliness of the sickbed is the figurative "wilderness," where He "allures"
that He may "speak comfortably unto them, and give them their vineyards from
thence" (Hosea 2:14, 15), rousing them from the contemptible dream of
earthly happiness, from the sordid and the secular, from busy care and
debasing solicitude, to the divine and the heavenly!
Or, that unexpected heritage of poverty—the crash of
earthly fortune—the forfeiture of earthly gain—the stripping the walls of
cherished and familiar treasure, and sending those 'nursed in the lap of
luxury' penniless on the world—where is God's mercy or love here? But it is
through this beneficial, though rough discipline, that God weans from the
enervating influence of prosperity, leading them to exchange 'the mess of
earthly pottage' for 'the bread of life'—perishable substance for the fine
gold of heavenly gain and durable riches.
Or, that cruel blighting of young hope and pure
affection—the withering of some cherished gourd—the opening of early graves
for the loving and beloved; holiest ties formed, but the 'memory' of which
is all that remains. Where is God's kindness and mercy in creating bonds
only to sever them; raising up friends only to bury them?—the plaintive
experience and utterance of the lone mother in Israel, that of many—"Call me
not Naomi, call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me!"
(Ruth 1:20).
But the 'shallow rills' are dried by Him, in order to
lead to the 'great Fountainhead'; the links of earthly affection are broken,
in order that stronger and more enduring ones may be formed above; the rents
have been made in the house of clay, only to render more inviting "the
building of God—the house not made with hands"—stimulating to live more for
that world where there are no "buts"—where all is perfection—where we shall
stand without a "but" and without a fault before the throne.
Yes, suffering Christian! believe it—your trials are
designed by Him who sent them, as in the case of Naaman's leprosy, to bring
you nearer Himself. They are His own appointed gateways, opening up and
admitting to great spiritual blessings. The mother eagle is said purposely
to put a thorn into her nest to compel her young brood to fly. If God gave
us no thorn—if He never disturbed the downy nest of our worldly ease, we
might be tempted to remain grovelers forever. He knows us better; He loves
us better. The day will come when these "buts" in our present lot, will
extract nothing from us but grateful praise; when we shall joyfully testify,
'Had it not been for these wilderness experiences—that leprosy—that
protracted sickness—that loss of worldly position—the death of that
cherished friend, I would still have been clinging to 'earth' as my portion,
content with the polluted rill and the broken cistern, instead of drawing
water out of the wells of salvation.'
As it was Naaman's malady which revealed to him his
wretchedness and misery, and impelled him to cross the heights of
Lebanon to the Prophet's home in Israel; so are God's children, by means of
diversified trial, roused to the conscious reality of their spiritual
danger—aye, and often too, to the presence and power of foes, fiercer than
the beasts of prey which haunted these Syrian mountains. Thus are they
prepared to listen, as they would not otherwise have done, to the Divine
voice, as Naaman listened to it, though in another acceptation of the words,
"Come with me from Lebanon—look from the top of Amana, from the top of
Shenir and Hermon, from the lions' dens, from the mountains of the leopards.
…Your plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire
with spikenard; spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees
of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices—a fountain of
gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon" (Sol. Song 4:8,
13-15).
3. We may gather a third lesson—Not
to envy others; but to be content with our own lot, whatever that may be.
We little know what trials may be lurking in what seems an enviable
position of life—what 'adders' may be sleeping in the flowery bank, or amid
the bed of roses—what rottenness and decay may be under the covering of
virgin snow. "I was envious at the foolish," says Asaph, "when I saw the
prosperity of the wicked. They are not in trouble, as other men; neither are
they plagued like other men. Behold, these are the ungodly, who prosper in
the world; they increase in riches. Verily, I have cleansed my heart in
vain, and washed my hands in innocency; for all the day long have I been
plagued, and chastened every morning.…When I thought to know this, it was
too painful for me; until I went into the sanctuary of God; then understood
I their end. Surely You did set them in slippery places; You cast them down
into destruction. How are they brought into desolation, as in a moment! they
are utterly consumed with terrors" (Ps. 73:12-19).
Let us not be covetous of earthly greatness or
exaltation—of climbing higher the 'dizzy pyramid of human opulence or
ambition'. If we reached the envied summit, we might in all likelihood find
new vexations and trials to which we are strangers in a humbler and lowlier
lot. Though God has appointed a diversity in human rank, we believe there is
a greater equality, a nicer proportionate adjustment in human happiness,
than is at first supposed. The increase of riches or of honors brings too
often only new cares, anxieties, and responsibilities. True substantial
happiness is not dependent on circumstances, but on mind and character. Pass
from many a splendid mansion in city or suburban life, its inhabitants
pampered with all that wealth and luxury can give, but where, at the same
time, there is pride or jealousy, or the smouldering fires of guilty
passion—pass from this to some shepherd's hut in one of our lonely mountain
glens, the abode of honest toil, essential virtue, and simple religion—where
the debasement of malignant envy, and the effeminacy of demon vice are
unknown—around whose frugal table a group of Nature's children are lovingly
gathered—and say, whether true sterling happiness is found under the
gorgeous glitter—or under the smoky rafter? Rather have the cottage with the
"great gain" of godliness and contentment, than the palace without them. "A
little that a just man has, is better than the riches of many wicked."
Whatever be our earthly condition; whether it be at the extremes of opulence
and poverty, or the commoner lot of lowly mediocrity, be this our alone
object of aspiration and ambitious desire—to have God as our portion—the
possession of that loving Father's smile, which transfigures, and beautifies
all we are and all we have—transmuting the basest metal into the gold of
Ophir. The poorest, so far as the world is concerned, if they have an
interest in these better riches, can adopt as their own, the Apostle's
paradox—"Having nothing, yet possessing all things."
"O Thou bounteous Giver of all good,
Who art of all Your gifts, Yourself the crown;
Give what You can, without You we are poor,
And with You rich, take what You will away!"
4. Finally, before closing these preliminary
remarks, let us admire and adore the Divine
sovereignty. What more unlikely subject to be
humbled in the dust—brought to take the place of a little child, than that
ignorant idolater of a heathen land—an utter stranger to the true Jehovah;
inflated, as he could hardly fail to be, with the pride of rank and the
pride of conquest; accustomed to adulation and flattery; moreover, with the
scar of leprosy to stir into rebellion, every feeling of his better nature?
It would seem easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for
this commander of the hosts of Syria to seek for mercy at the hands of the
God and the Prophet of a hated race! But that God had loved him with an
everlasting love; and He will take His own means of saying "to the north,
Give up," and of bringing this son "from afar." God goes to this poor victim
of a loathsome disease, racked with torture amid the splendid mockeries of
regal garments, and downy pillow, and tapestried chamber, (yet truly a bed
of sackcloth and ashes), and says, "Though you have laid among the pots, yet
shall you be as the wings of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers
with yellow gold" (Ps. 68:13). Oh, how wondrous are these sovereign purposes
and decrees of Jehovah! Who can resist, "who has resisted His
will?"
We love to think, that all events are in His hand—from
the creation of worlds and the revolution of empires, to the fall of the
raindrop and the sparrow—and that the complicated wheels of providence are
ever revolving and evolving nothing but good. Is it nations, hatching
schemes of wicked war, and wild ambition, and aggrandizement? How comforting
to think that there is an eye upon every such seething cauldron of human
passions! that there is a hand covering the craters of these slumbering
volcanoes, preventing the imprisoned fires bursting forth until the Lord
gives the word. No, more, that when the lava-stream breaks forth on its
mission of desolation and judgment, it is only for an appointed season and
an appointed reason; and that His own Church will come forth from the fierce
boiling cauldron "fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an
army with banners." There is One in heaven who has the hearts of kings in
His hands, and who turns them even as He turns the rivers of waters. "O
Assyrian, the rod of my anger, and the staff in their hand is mine
indignation. …Behold the Lord, the Lord of Hosts, shall lop the bough with
terror, and the high ones of stature shall be hewn down, and the haughty
shall be humbled! And He shall cut down the thickets of the forest with
iron, and LEBANON shall fall by a mighty One" (Isa. 10:5, 33, 34).
And He who rules over worlds and empires, rules over the
individual human spirit; controls, in the case of each, the empire of
thought and the fitful human will. See how, by the power of His omnipotent
Spirit, He led this haughty soldier of Damascus; how in time He conquered
the pride of rank, the pride of fame, the pride of riches, the pride of
heathen religion, the pride of self-independence, and made him a monument of
His grace and mercy! As we gaze upon Naaman in his solitary chamber, with
ulcered body and reddened eye, shunned by his fellows, weary and desponding
of life—moreover, the votary of a pagan divinity, and shrinking, as we would
have thought, from recognizing the hand and owning the power of the tutelary
deity of his country's enemies—we may well, on all human calculations, adopt
the hopeless words of the Prophet in more than their literal sense—"Can the
Ethiopian change his skin?" But what is impossible with men is possible with
God! By a variety of simple coincidences in His providence, He is to bring
the leper-warrior, like the Hebrew king, to disown all human confidences,
and to say, "In the Lord put I my trust!" (Ps. 11:1).
Shall we, moreover, ask—What was it that recommended
Naaman to the notice and regard of the Jehovah of Israel—leading Him to
select that 'wild olive tree among the rocks of Syria', to be grafted into
the true olive tree? Was it his valor, his victories, his warlike demeanor
and noble bearing, his political sagacity or astute statesmanship, or
brilliant talents? No! these were but the qualities of earth; there was
nothing god-like about them; they won only the hosannahs of this world.
Personal claim on God's favor—he had none. The whole secret of His selection
is thus unfolded—"I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy." "I will call
them my people who were not my people" (Rom. 9:25). God had, in the
sovereignty of His own divine decrees, from all eternity inserted the name
of this Aramite chief in higher and better than any military roll-call—one
among a noble army of spiritual warriors who have since in every age "fought
the good fight of faith, and laid hold on eternal life."
It is worthy of remembrance that the Divine Redeemer, in
the course of His earthly ministry, took this same story of the Syrian
soldier to enforce and illustrate the theme of which we speak. "And there
were many in Israel with leprosy in the time of Elisha the prophet,
yet not one of them was cleansed—only Naaman the Syrian." (Luke 4:27). The
lepers of the covenant-nation were passed by. The leper of a Gentile
kingdom—and that kingdom, too, the sworn foe of Israel—was selected. Still
does the same Lord, "who is rich unto all that call upon Him," love to
manifest and magnify His sovereignty, and the sovereignty of His grace, in
hardened hearts which He breaks, and stubborn wills He subdues, and proud
spirits He brings to lie low and submissive at the cross of His Son! Still
He can fashion the unlikeliest and unshapeliest stones for His heavenly
temple, and show that it is not of him that wills nor of him that runs, but
of Himself who shows mercy. "Who are you, O great mountain? before
Zerubbabel you shall become a plain." "This is the word of the Lord unto
Zerubbabel, saying, Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the
Lord Almighty" (Zech. 4:6, 7). "God has chosen the foolish things of the
world to confound the wise; and God has chosen the weak things of the world
to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world, and
things which are despised, has God chosen, yes, and things which are not, to
bring to nothing things that are—That no flesh should glory in His presence"
(1 Cor. 1:27-29). Side by side with Rimmon's shrine, is to be erected a new
altar-stone, with the strange inscription carved upon it by a proud heathen,
"JEHOVAH ROPHI"—"I am the Lord that heals you."
Are there any who read these pages, to whom the taint
of a deeper and more malignant disease than that of Naaman is adhering,
which is excluding them, as effectually as did the leprosy among the Jews of
old, from all holy fellowship; and specially from fellowship and communion
with the Great Father of Spirits—leaving them "aliens from the commonwealth
of Israel, and strangers from the covenants of promise?" All that you have,
in the shape of material bliss, will avail you nothing in this dreadful
self-isolation from goodness and from God—an isolation in which you feel you
cannot in happiness live, and in which you dare not expect in peace to die.
You may, like Naaman, have the world smiling on you—Fortune strewing your
path with her capricious favors—your name borne on the plaudits of the
multitude; but there is a fretful ulcer, a moral virus within, which poisons
and destroys all outward good. Is there no voice of mercy, no message of
peace for you, and such as you? "Is there no balm in Gilead? is there
no physician there?"
Yes! the gospel discloses a wondrous way, by which the
spiritual leper—(and that, too, even if his case should be the
worst—apparently excluded hopelessly from the camp of the true Israel), may
have a new name given, and become in the true sense of the word—"Naaman,"
"beautiful." He who is the alone Ideal of "the Beautiful"—who appropriates
to Himself the name of "the Beautiful Shepherd," who gave His life for the
sheep (John 10:11), thus addresses you—"Come unto me, all who are weary and
heavy laden, and I will give you rest"—"Though your sins be as scarlet, they
shall be as white as snow; and though they be red like crimson (red and
revolting, like the hue on the skin of leprosy), they shall be as wool"
(Isa.1:18).
A deep sense of the vileness of sin, and a longing to get
rid of it, combined with the realized consciousness of your own inability to
do so, are the only conditions of acceptance and cure. It is said in a
striking verse, "He will beautify the meek with salvation;"
and yet again, "The meek will He guide in judgment, and the meek will He
teach His way." "The meek"—who are they? The contrite, the lowly, the
broken-hearted—those who, like the Syrian warrior, are willing to cast all
their own grounds of cobweb-confidence "to the moles and to the bats"—who,
turning their back on the Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, and
their face toward the waters of Israel, are ready to say, in the words of
one who keenly felt the pain and bitterness, in a spiritual sense, of the
leper's separation from the camp of the true Israel, and longed, above all,
for reinstatement in the forfeited love and fellowship of Him whose favor is
life—"Purge me with hyssop" (the leper's appointed means of purification),
"and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow…Create in me
a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me…For You desire not
sacrifice, else would I give it; You delight not in burnt-offering. The
sacrifices of God are a broken spirit—a broken and a contrite heart, O God,
You will not despise" (Psalm 51:7, 10, 16, 17).