By the late DEAN LAW, D.D.
EACH woman’s son is born an heir—not to a palace or a crown, not to broad lands or mines of gold, not to ancestral lineage of fame, not to high rank among the rich and great, not to a soft seat on luxury’s lap, but to the patrimony of a common portion—trouble. Few are called to be honoured and caressed, to be idols of admiring crowds, to outstrip others in the worldly race, to enjoy sound health and sinewy strength, to superfluity of sublunary goods; but many are called to suffering. Our usual walk is in a vale of tears. The billows of affliction swell around us, and storms of distress, with little intermission, buffet. Where is the eye which rarely weeps? Where is the breast which seldom sighs? Bereavements go forth to their daily work. Pains and diseases do not slumber. The lament is not uncommon, “In the morning, would God it were evening! In the evening, would God it were morning!” (Deut. xxviii. 68.). Wails belong not to a scanty class. We know that the white-robed multitude came out of great tribulations.
Man is indeed endowed with wondrous gifts of intellect; and mental resources, neither few nor weak, labour to exclude the entrance of care. But they can erect no fortress which care fails to scale. They can construct no intercepting bars. Trouble has a key for every lock, and takes its seat by every chair. It is the rich man’s shadow, and lies on penury’s low pallet. It marches with every camp, and sails in every fleet. It is the native of each clime, and has its root in every soil. Flight to lonely deserts will not secure escape; and crowds give no concealment. To be a man is to be linked to trouble.
This truth cannot be controverted, for every heart confirms it. We read it in the annals of our race. It is the stamp on history’s brow. In diversity—large as diversity can be—there is the oneness of distress. In Eden’s garden, clear sunshine was a brief delight; obscuring clouds soon cast a dismal gloom. Sin came. All troubles thronged its rear. The woman hears—”I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception.” The man hears—”In sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life.” “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward” (Job v. 7). It is our common course—our beaten path—the well-known stream, on which we float. Earth is a wide Bochim.
Doubtless some mitigating periods intervene. In stormy days the wind is sometimes lulled; and the sun sometimes breaks the densest clouds. In sandy deserts some green spots are found. So, in a troublous life, there are some intervals of rest. But they are not sufficient to nullify the rule that trouble is largely written on life’s page.
But there is great diversity in man’s inward state. Some are new-born of God—the children of eternal love—the heirs of never-ending life—the sheep of Christ’s pasture—His appointed spouse—the purchase of His blood—the called of His Spirit—His joy, His portion, His delight. On them the eye of God beams lovingly; His power protects; His wisdom guides; His angels encamp around them. Will not their course be constant sunshine? Will they not soar where trouble cannot come?
Such conclusion would be a fallacy. Their precious privileges bring not such immunity. It is for ever true—”Many are the afflictions of the righteous.” “We must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God” (Acts xiv. 22).
But yet there is a grand, happy, glorious distinction. They are sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing. In their lowest depths they sing. In all their trials they rejoice. In all afflictions they give thanks. Troubles thicken, but consolations more than abound. Their heart of sorrow is a heart of joy.
Many considerations bring to them support. The time of trouble is the time of thought. They suffer, and they ponder. Their eyes look inward and above. They ask “Whence comes this trial?” The reply is obvious. It is not the working of blind chance. God’s will designs; His hand inflicts it. It is ordered in the courts of heaven. It is prearranged in the covenant of grace, who will repine when he endures according to a Father’s will? It is a precious word—”As many as I love I rebuke and chasten” (Rev. iii. 19). This is a plank which upholds the sinking heart. This is an anchor which keeps it steady in the roughest waves. The spirit cannot faint which tastes this cordial. The trouble dismays not which is fringed with shining evidence of heavenly mission. Then welcome trials. They subserve spiritual weal or they would not be sent.
But this view is general and vague. It may bewilder rather than instruct. In wide expanse particular objects are too faintly seen. Let the horizon now be narrowed; let separate cases be in turn surveyed; and troubled ones be helped to understand their own distress.
1. Sickness.
Many are sick. Disease and languor touch most frames. The outward tenement decays, and the afflicted inmate groans. This case is not more sad than common. Where is the home long free from this invasion? The marvel is, that these frail bodies know long respite. Think of the marvellously constructed framework. The component parts are almost countless, and most delicate and curious. Each part may be the door of malady. Each nerve may be the inlet of distress. Contagion, too, floats in the surrounding air, and walks beside us in all the ways of daily life. Hence ailment is our frequent lot. Bethesda pictures our earth. In it there lies a great company of impotent folk, the prey of suffering in every form. In sickness, then, there is no aggravating fear that it is peculiar hardship. Through all the families of earth, what multitudes are drinking the like cup! Who, then, can expect exemption? Who will repine, because as man he has the fellow-suffering of man? To all in the flesh the liabilities of flesh are due. Such reasoning checks all murmuring complaint.
But, when this commonness is clearly seen, there may be the fear that sickness is an indication of divine displeasure. It may be asked, if love is smiling, why does not love avert this suffering? At Bethany the reply is sweetly given. It is stated of a family in that little town—”Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus” (John xi. 5). But Lazarus, thus loved, is sick; so sorely sick that life expires. The love of Jesus, then, is consistent with disease. Sickness is no evidence of His displeasure; suffering hours are no messengers of His wrath. Rather may not the hope be cherished that these visitations are mercifully sent? The hand of love may pluck the twigs that constitute this rod. This page of chastening, then, when read correctly by the eye of faith, may truly tell of gracious dealings. Surely this thought extracts the bitterness of the cup, and makes the Marah sweet. Welcome all pains which heavenly love inflicts!
Our Lord’s conduct during His abode on earth should be a constant study. By this key we enter the secret chambers of His heart. This is the portrait of His character. In this survey special compassion for the sick is conspicuous. He sought Jerusalem at a stated feast. Apparently His feet first turned to the crowded home of malady. Out of the multitude He selected a sufferer of thirty and eight years. He spake, and health returned. May not he who has counted long years of ailment embrace the happy thought—the eyes which rested so tenderly on the infirm man of Bethesda, may now be resting tenderly on me?
In every town the sick were brought to Him. In every place they clustered round Him. Did any frown repel? Did any denial disappoint? As many as touched Him were made perfectly whole. What teaching is there in the scene: “When the sun was settling, all they that had any sick with divers diseases brought them unto Him, and He laid His hands on everyone of them and healed them”? (Luke iv. 40). Sometimes pity yearned where no request was made. We read—”There was a woman which had a spirit of infirmity eighteen years, and was bowed together, and could in no wise lift up herself. And when Jesus saw her, He called her to Him, and said unto her, Woman, thou art loosed from thy infirmity; and He laid His hands on her, and immediately she was made straight, and glorified God” (Luke xiii. 11-13). Thus, sickness was Christ’s chosen sphere of mercy when on earth; and “He is the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever” (Heb. xiii. 8).
A multitude of precious words are property of the sick alone. No music charms the deaf; no prospect captivates the blind. Without appropriating sense there can be no enjoyment. Thus, without malady, how many promises become a blank! But sickness gives interest in many sweet sayings. Thus to the healthful the word is pointless—”I am the Lord that healeth thee” (Exod. xv). But it is a staff to the crippled limb; a pillow to the aching head; a cordial to the fainting nerves. It tells of Jehovah’s presence, omnipotent to heal. It brings to the lips the wrestling plea, “Do as Thou hast said.” The soul of religion is experience. Happy they who have tasted and have found! The restored can say, “Now know we that the Lord is faithful”; not by the hearing of the ear, not by the assurance of another’s lips, but by personal perception. In the high tide of bodily strength, the word seems like a foreign tale—belonging to some other race: “The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of languishing. Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness” (Psa. xli. 3). But when the hour of languishing has come, and underneath the everlasting arms have given support, and weakness has felt the power of heavenly help, how precious is the realisation, no word of God has failed, nor ever can fail!
If sickness is unknown, then recovery must be unknown too. And then, how many songs must be unsung! The inexperienced spread no thanksgiving wings. They joy not in the promise fulfilled—”Behold, I will bring health and cure; and I will cure them, and will reveal unto them the abundance of peace and truth” (Jer. xxxiii. 6). But is it rapture to exclaim, “The health is come, the cure is given; the peace, the truth in rich abundance will now surely follow.” Paul had gained much by his distress when he testified—”We had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God, which raiseth the dead: who hath delivered us from so great a death, and doth deliver: in whom we trust that He will yet deliver us” (II Cor. i. 9, 10). The past rescue, the present calm, gave earnest of a blissful future. Sickness comes with no terror to the man who has feasted on the word, “Who forgiveth all thine iniquities: who healeth all thy diseases” (Psa. ciii. 3).
It may not be denied that active service for the Lord is happiness in full bloom. The work of each day well done is cheerful exercise. But employ engrosses time, and chains the mind to passing matters. The busy man oft knows the sigh, “Mine own vineyard is not kept. I desire the sincere milk of the Word that I may grow thereby, but I have no leisure to suck large supplies.” Thus flowers unwatered droop the head, and weeds spring up in the neglected soil. The polish becomes dim when not well rubbed. But if sickness comes, it severs from the all-occupying toil. Seclusion from bustle is now enforced. The intruder’s steps is now forbidden. Tranquil hours are now a necessity. This is a season to yield rich fruits. Meditation may now have full scope. The past days may be calmly reviewed. Alas, what sins, what negligences, what miscarriages will appear! These will awake contrite shame, and impel us to bury each transgression in the deep grave of the Redeemer’s wounds. Here is the opportunity to tell our miseries to His all gracious ears, and to sue out His perfect pardon. Self-examination now may find ample space. The weak parts of the soul’s fortress may be discerned. The dangers of the way may become more visible. The need of foresight and of help may be felt more vividly. All this is gain.
Now, too, is the time to study Christ more quietly. Oh, the blessedness of such still exercise! All His goodness may now leisurely pass before the wondering eye. It is a long train. Eternity is short to comprehend it. But sick hours give space to read the volumes of His love, His grace, His goodness, His unfailing care, His long-suffering pitifulness, His unfailing truth, His work accomplished, His coming reign. His everlasting glory. Happy the sickness rich in such meditations! When health is in its prime many matters press Scripture-search into brief space. But now no jostling claimants take the Bible’s place. It sits a companion without rival. Now the heart may joyfully exclaim, “Oh, how love I thy law: it is my meditation all the day” (Psa. exix. 97). “Thy words were found, and I did eat them: they are the very joy and the rejoicing of my heart” (Jer. xv. 16). To tell the varied charms of Scripture is a boundless theme. But its grand glory is the revelation of God’s love in Christ. Now is the time to feast on this delight, to bathe in this refreshing stream, to roam in this demesne of joy, and to obey the Saviour’s voice exhorting, “Eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved” (Sol’s Song. v. 1).
It may be that languor has no strength for long perusal. Doubtless, there is much grandeur in extensive prospects. The eye is charmed with a vast expanse. But when such vision is denied, is it not joy to scrutinize the tiniest flower, and mark the skill in its minutest parts? Thus a brief sentence of the Word may be repast for languid hours; a few monosyllables from heaven may spread a board of richest dainties for the weak.
There are seasons when the flesh is found a burden and a pain. Anguish clogs the spirit’s upward flight. It is happy then to think that the period of escape draws near. When death puts forth its hand, the body bids farewell to suffering. Power now invests the word, “There shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying: neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away” (Rev. xxi. 4). In this distress how precious is the thought “Yet a little while, and He that shall come will come and will not tarry” (Heb. x. 37); and, “He shall change our vile body that it may be fashioned like unto His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even to subdue all things unto Himself” (Phil. iii. 21). These pains proclaim that dissolution will not linger. But unless the earthly house of this tabernacle be dissolved, how can we have the building of God—the house not made with hands—eternal in the heavens? (II Cor. v. 1). Thus sickness comes with many cordials. It is not unalloyed adversity. It brings many a reviving song. True is the repeated testimony, that in our hospitals the sweetest peace and truest joys are often found.
(To be continued.)
Faith overcomes both the allurements of the world, on the one hand, and the terrors of the world, on the other, by mortifying the heart and affections to all earthly things.—Flavel.