Grosey's Messages

The Bow in the Cloud

by

Dr. F. W. Boreham

Memory is the soul's best minister. Sydney Carton found it so. On the greatest night of his life – the night on which he resolved to lay down his life for his friend – a text swept suddenly into his mind, and, from that moment, it seemed to be written everywhere.

The story occurs, of course, in the Tale of Two Cities. The book lies on the grass beside me as I lounge upon this Australian lawn on a perfect autumn evening. It may be that the bronze and saffron tints upon the foliage around me, and the wrestling of the fallen leaves at my feet, have suggested pensive thoughts. However that may be, I allowed the book to slip from my hand a minute ago, whilst my truant fancy wandered away to all the stricken and bereaved homes that, in the course of my long ministry, I have been privileged to visit. If only I could hurry back to them and bind up the broken hearts that they sheltered with the thoughts that had come thronging through my mind since dropping this masterpiece of Dickens on the lawn!

Everybody knows the story. Sydney Carton was in Paris; the French Revolution was at his height; sixty–three shuddering victims have been borne that very day to the guillotine; each day's toll was heavier than that of the day before; no man's life was safe. Among the prisoners, awaiting death in the Conciergerie was Charles Darnay, the husband of her whom Sydney himself had loved with so much devotion, but so little hope.

"O Miss Manette," he had said, on the only occasion on which he had revealed his passion, "when, in the days to come, you see your own bright beauty, springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you!"

And now that hour had come. It happened that Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton were in form and feature, extraordinarily alike. Darnay was doomed to die on the guillotine; Carton was free. For the first time in his wayward life, Sydney saw his course clearly before him. His years had been spent aimlessly, but now he set his face like a flint towards a definite goal. He stepped out into the moonlight, not recklessly or negligently, but "with the settled manner of a tired man who had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road and saw its end." He would find some way of taking Darnay's place in the gloomy prison; he would, by his substitution, restore her husband to Lucy's side; he would make his life sublime at its close. His career should resemble a day that, fitful and overcast, ends at length in a glorious sunset. He would save his life by losing it!

It was at that great moment that memory exercised its sacred ministry upon the soul of Sidney Carton. As he paced the silent streets, dark with heavy shadows, the moon and the clouds sailing high above him, he suddenly recalled the solemn and beautiful words which, falling from the lips of the Savior at Bethany, he had heard read at his father's grave: "I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die." Sydney did not ask himself why the words rushed upon him, although, as Dickens says, the reason was not far to seek. But he kept repeating them. And, when he stopped, the air seemed full of them. The words addressed to Martha concerning her brother Lazarus were written across the houses on either side of him; he looked up, and they were inscribed across the dark clouds in the clear sky; the very echo of his footsteps reiterated them. When the sun rose, it seemed to strike those words – the burden of the night – straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays. Night and day were both saying the same thing. He heard it everywhere: he saw it in everything –

"I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."

For Sydney Carton that great text throbbed with vital significance. What was that significance? What did it mean to him? What does it mean to us? What would it have meant to those sorrowing parishioners of mine?

We do not see the stars in the daytime. They are there at noon just as much as at night, but the dazzling splendor of the sun shames them into invisibility. Something very similar occurs in the touching narrative of the sorrow at Bethany. It is the only story of a personal bereavement, told with vivid domestic detail, that the New Testament gives us. It closes sensationally with the raising of Lazarus. Sometimes I wish that it did not. That stupendous miracle has engrossed all our attention to the detriment of several exquisitely beautiful things that occur elsewhere in the story. The sun has blotted out the stars. I am going to forget for a few minutes the dramatic close of the story. I am going to read it again, just as I would read any other record of domestic grief. And, reading it thus, I feel like one who, looking upward, gazes upon a sky, overspread with grey and gloomy clouds, yet who sees here and there the most glorious rifts of blue. Those rifts of blue are openings into immensity, peeps into infinity, windows that open upon the everlasting. Let me point to one or two.

I

In the course of that two–mile walk from the city to the stricken home, Jesus said a very striking thing. "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." Each word deserves to be examined under a microscope. To begin with, is it not intensely suggestive that, with Jesus, Lazarus is still Lazarus? He speaks of him, still by the fond, familiar name, and by that name, in the thrilling climax, again addresses him. "Lazarus, come forth!" And to that name, Lazarus responds.

"Where were thou, brother, those four days?

There lives no record of reply,

Which, telling what it is to die,

Has surely added praise to praise."[i]

We do not know. But wherever he was, he was still Lazarus. Death had done nothing to impair his essential identity. He was still Lazarus in the thought of Jesus. He was still Lazarus in his own consciousness. By the old name, Jesus called him. To the old name, he answered. The grave robbed him of nothing that was really worth preserving.

II

Lazarus is still Lazarus; the old identity is unimpaired. Lazarus is still our friendLazarus; the sweet old relationships are undisturbed. And, best of all, Lazarus is still ours. "Our friend Lazarus." If that means anything, it means that those whom we have loved long since and lost awhile are still our own. "Our friend sleepeth." God does not toy with our holiest affections, giving us one day those whom He would have us love, and the next day, snatching them from us. Our own are our own forever. Lazarus, though dead, is still our Lazarus.

The same idea occurs in the Old Testament. In the first chapter of the Book of Job, which Carlyle considered the greatest drama ever written, we are told how Job, by one fell stroke of dire calamity, lost all that he had. And then, in the last chapter, we are told that "the Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before." And in each case there is an inventory. Job lost seven thousand sheep; at the end he possesses fourteen thousand – twice as many. He lost three thousand camels; six thousand are at last given him – twice as many. He loses five hundred yoke of oxen; in the last chapter he owns one thousand – twice as many. He loses seven sons and three daughters; in the last chapter seven sons and three daughters are born to him. Why are the numbers of sheep, camels and oxen doubled, whilst the number of sons and daughters remains the same? And since the number of sons and daughters remains the same, how can it be said that he had twice as many as before? The reply is obvious. He had lost his sheep and camels and oxen forever. The sons and daughters who had passed from his sight, together with the sons and daughters around his knees, gave him twice as many as he had before. It means that Lazarus is still our Lazarus. That is Wordsworth's idea in "We are Seven."

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven and all," she said,

And, wondering, looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

It appeared to her questioner that there was matter here for subtraction, but the curly-headed little maiden would not hear of it.

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

The little maiden did reply,

"O master! We are seven."

"But they are dead; those are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"[ii]

She clung to her conviction that Lazarus is still our Lazarus, and she had the divine authority for her simple faith.

Or, turning our faces in a fresh direction, let us peer through another rift in this leaden sky into the clear heavens beyond. Is it not very singular that on His arrival at the home in Bethany – His home at Bethany – He wept? In our bereavement, we attempt to stifle sorrow by the thought of their happiness whom we have lost. Jesus knew intimately the perfect felicity of Lazarus, and yet He wept! He knew, too, that, in an hour, the joy of Mary and of Martha would be complete, and yet He wept! Do these tears need explanation?

It is, at any rate, a comfort that He wept. By weeping, He at least assured us that there is nothing faithless, nothing wicked in our tears. And it would be like Him to sympathize with us in our sorrow, however, needless that sorrow might be. Sorrow is sorrow, even though there be no sufficient cause for grief; and, just because the anguish was there, He shared His bitterness. There is a lovely letter written by Mrs. Carlyle to that rugged old husband of hers, in the course of which she tells him how, during a recent illness, she was greatly comforted by her maid. The girl only came into the room and rubbed her cheek against her mistress's; but it strangely soothed her. "And sometimes," adds Mrs. Carlyle, "I could tell that her cheek was wet, and her tears meant much to me." I like to think of poor Jane Carlyle's letter when I read the story of those tears at Bethany.

And was there not an element of pity in them? Pity for the sisters, since they were unable to see all that He had seen – the glory upon which, with unveiled face, Lazarus was gazing. And pity for Lazarus, too. He himself knew what it was to leave that brighter world for this less radiant one, and He felt for Lazarus in having to make the same great sacrifice.

Professor David Smith, in writing on the epistles of Isadore, the Greek scholar and saint, quotes from a letter which Isadore wrote to Theodosius the Presbyter, on this very matter. Isadore, says the Professor, was a gentle and gracious soul who had quitted the city of Alexandria and sought a life of retirement in order that he might give himself to devotion and study. He had no aptitude for ecclesiastical activities and contentions, and his name never appears in the bitter and futile controversies which mark the ecclesiastical history of that period; yet he exercised in his seclusion, a rare ministry of rich and far-reaching beneficence. He was a scholar, and he was gifted with an understanding heart and a sympathetic spirit. Troubled folk turned to him in their perplexities, and they found him a wise counsellor. He wrote letters near and far, and over two thousand of these have survived.

In one he deals with this question as to why our Lord wept by the grave of Lazarus. "Why," he asks, "did Jesus weep for Lazarus, knowing that He would raise him from the dead?" Isadore answers his own question. "It was precisely on that account," he says, "that Jesus wept. Lazarus had entered into his felicity, and Jesus wept at having to recall him. The miracle was necessary in order to convince the unbelieving Jews of his divine title; but in His eyes, knowing as He did the eternal realities, it was a cruel necessity. The storm-tossed mariner had reached the haven, and He must call him back to the billows; the warrior had won his crown, and He must call him back to the conflict. And so He wept – not because Lazarus had passed into the joy unspeakable, but because he must return to this poor troubled life."

From any point of view, then, the silent tears are wondrously, and divinely significant.

IV

Just one more rift in those grey skies. We have walked with Jesus along the Bethany Road; we have sat with Him in the house of sorrow; let us, without waiting to witness the actual miracle, go with Him to the tomb. "And he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth!" Why, with a loud voice, since Lazarus lay at His feet? Old Matthew Henry, with rare insight, declares that He cried with a loud voice to show that He was not addressing the dead body at all. Had He spoken softly, it might have been supposed that the living soul and the dead body were in inextricably intermingled. He looked away from the dead body, and cried with a loud voice that it might be seen that He was addressing a living soul at a distance, and not a dead man close at hand.

And why was it needful to call upon Lazarus by name? There were no others lying in that grave. Would it not have been sufficient had He simply cried, "Come forth!"? "He singles out Lazarus by name," says Augustine, finely, "lest all the hosts of the dead should hear His voice and come forth together!" The time had not yet come for that. Someday He will say, "Come forth!" and the dead will rise from land and sea at His sublime behest. But, on that day at Bethany, He only wanted one. He named His man, and, from out the world invisible, Lazarus instantly came at His call.

V

Peering through these rifts of blue, I clearly see two things. I see that, wherever those old companions are whom I have loved long since and lost awhile, they are within His care and at Hiscall. At any moment, He has but to speak their names, and they instantly rise to greet Him. And the other thing is this. He calls Lazarus and Lazarus alone. Why only Lazarus? If it is in His power to summon our dear ones from their graves and restore them to their old, familiar places, why does He not do it? The fact that He calls Lazarus, and Lazarus alone, proves indisputably that the others are better where they are. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.

[i] Alfred, Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam A.H.H., first published in 1850, is a long elegy mourning the death of his close friend Arthur Henry Hallam, tracing Tennyson's deep grief and gradual emotional healing. The poem explores themes of faith, doubt, and the search for meaning, ultimately moving toward a sense of spiritual reconciliation and hope. The verses quoted by FWB refer specifically to the biblical story of Lazarus (John 11), questioning what Lazarus experienced during the four days he was dead before being raised by Jesus.

[ii] William Wordsworth's We Are Seven(1798) depicts a conversation between an adult and a young girl who insists that she has seven siblings, even though two have died. Through her innocent perspective, the poem highlights a child's unwavering sense of connective faith between the seen and unseen, and challenges the adult's logical view of death and familial separation.

"We had another scolding, as usual!" We will

not repeat more, save to say that if people

should not talk publicly in that way, nei

ther should we preachers provide the temp

tation for them to do so.

It is true that the man of God must "re

prove, rebuke, exhort," but that is only

part of the apostolic admonition. These

things are to be done "with all longsuffer-

ing and doctrine" (2 Tim. 4:2). In the

R.S.V. the words are rendered "be unfail

ing in patience and in teaching."

"Not a Throne"

The pulpit is not a place from which

the minister dispenses orders and inces

santly reproves both the faithful and the

unfaithful. If he would fill his sermons

with the "teaching ("didache")" of Christ,

the reproof would go silently home to the

heart of the hearer through the compell

ing power of truth. Cracking the whip,

haranguing the people, denunciatory

speech aimed at everything and everybody,

cheapens the pulpit and disgusts the peo

ple. It is a poverty-stricken pulpit where

the preacher's only weapon is a whip.

These habits can be cured if a man will

think, study, and preach the great and posi

tive themes of the Word of God, of which

the Lord Jesus Christ is the beginning and

the end.

Thomas Chalmers (1780-1847), Scottish

preacher and theologian, was the brilliant

pastor of a Scottish church when he was

only twenty-three. His small congregation

loved him, but could not understand why,

after a hard week's work, they came to

church only to hear the marvelous young

preacher thundering away against all kinds

of sins as though the members had spent

the week in open shame. This went on

from 1803 to 1811, when a sudden change

came.

Chalmers ceased to thunder against the grosser

crimes and against the iniquities of Napoleon, but

every day he had something fresh to say about the

love of God, about the cross o£ Christ, and about

the way o£ salvation.1

Chalmers' explanation was that in 1811

he was converted after eight years of what

has been called "whiplash preaching." He

carried with him into a wider ministry of

preaching, teaching, and writing the les

sons thus learned among the humble Scot

tish cottagers, where the last four years of

his preaching produced many a trophy of

redeeming grace.

John Bunyan (1628-1688) was once a

"whiplash" preacher, and says:

THE MINISTRYI went for the space of two years crying out against

men's sins and their fearful state because of them.

After which the Lord came in upon my own soul

with peace and comfort through Christ. He gave me

many sweet discoveries of blessed grace through

Him. Wherefore now I altered my preaching and

did much labour to hold forth Christ in all His of

fices, relations and' benefits unto the world. After

this God led me into something of the mystery of

the union with Christ.2

We have long had before us such ad

monition as the following:

It is natural for some to be sharp and dictatorial,

to lord it over God's heritage; and because of the

manifestation of these attributes, precious souls

have been lost to the cause.3

Perhaps some of us need to drop the

whip, and, abasing ourselves at the foot of

the cross, learn anew that love is Christ's

most potent weapon, that truth as it is in

Him is the great sanctifier of the soul,* and

the Holy Spirit the greatest corrector of

wrong 5 and the one guide into all truth.6

No! The pulpit is "not a throne"!

There is no denying that some pages in

Christian history reveal certain preachers as

setting themselves up as the last word on

every question under the sun even those

that have no legitimate place in God's pul

pit.

"Not a Judgment Bar"

The pulpit is not a judgment bar before

which any and every question of human

controversy can be decided. Failure to

grasp this will find the preacher in deep

water. He does not know everything and

is not expected to. His textbook, the Bible,

does not answer all human problems. It is

a textbook of the science of salvation, and

not a vade mecum to every question under

the sun.

How often preachers have allowed them

selves to be drawn into political contro

versy to the detriment of their success as

pastors and evangelists! Christian workers

of all classes should not be drawn "into

debate or controversy on political or other

questions." 7 To counsel and advise on

great moral issues before the public is one

thing; to press a certain solution dogmat

ically and publicly is quite another.

The pulpit must of necessity be a place

where controversial issues are dealt with.

In a certain sense the main issues of Chris

tianity are controversial. Sin, atonement,

redemption, the deity and nature of Christ,

the inspiration of Scripture, the eschatology

NOVEMBER, 1961

of Scripture these are all issues from

which we must not, dare not, shrink. Here

is a warning word from the famous W. H.

Griffith Thomas:

We have to take care that we are not mere con

troversialists, for this type of man is one of the

most unlovely, unspiritual, and objectionable of

beings. We must not wage war for the love of it, but

if we find it necessary to wage it, we must do so in

love.8

In the very nature of our position Ad-

ventist preachers, with an unpopular mes

sage, can easily become denunciatory, con

troversial, and condemnatory. So many

things contrary to God's Word have to be

opposed, and the faith once for all

delivered to the saints must be defended

and commended. We have to preach so

that the arrows of the Word reach human

hearts, and it must be done after the divine

pattern in Christ:

Every time He addressed the people, whether His

audience was large or small, His words took saving

effect upon the soul o£ some one. No message that

fell from His lips was lost. Every word He spoke

placed a new responsibility upon those who heard.

And to-day the ministers who in sincerity are giv

ing the last message of mercy to the world, rely

ing on God for strength, need not fear that their ef

forts will be in vain.8

It is possible to make God's pulpit heav

en's trysting place with needy sinners, and

not a judgment bar that metes out nought

but condemnation.

"Not a Theatrical Stage"

Under the pressure of filling the church,

preachers have sometimes resorted to novel

expedients. The preacher who advertised

"How a Man Sinned by Having His Hair

Cut" had a novel title by which to intro

duce Samson; but was it dignified? Did it

add to the attractiveness of the church?

Did it draw others than the curious?

No one likes to listen to the preacher

who stands unmoved and lifeless as a

statue while he preaches. How can men

be on fire with a message impregnated with

life-and-death issues and be statuesque, un

emotional, unmoved, and unmoving? But

when emotion and sensationalism run

riot, then the pulpit degenerates into a

theater.

Surely the House of God is not a Theatre, or a

Concert-Hall, or a Circus, where it becomes the

great object of the proprietor to fill the building,

and make it pay.10

In this age of extravagance and outward show,

when men think it necessary to make a display inorder to gain success, God's chosen messengers are

to show the fallacy of spending means needlessly for

effect. As they labor with simplicity, humility, and

graceful dignity, avoiding everything of a theatrical

nature, their work will make a lasting impression

for good.11

"A Table for Hungry Souls"

One of the great failures in pulpit min

istry today is seen in the quality of its

sermons. In too many cases they cry out to

heaven that preachers Adventist and

non-Adventist alike are not studying the

life-giving Word. Just as surely as this con

tinues the enemy will come in like a dev

astating flood and sweep away the faith

of many. Many persons who remain in

churches served mainly by non-Biblical

preaching become weak in the faith and

are often easy prey for un-Biblical teach

ing. We must "feed the flock of God" 1S or

it will languish.

The table the Lord has prepared for His

people is His will revealed in Holy Writ.

There are only two ways in which God's

people can feast on that Word they study

in private or they listen in public. A small

number do both. Every preacher knows

that private Bible study is almost nonex

istent. In a group of Christian college stu

dents 73 per cent recently admitted they

have never prayed with either one of their

parents, and it is almost certain that the

same confession applies to Bible study.

It therefore remains for the preacher to

help by his sermons, studies, and inter

views to try to fill this terrifying vacuum

in the lives of his people.

The minds of men must be called to the Scrip

tures as the most effective agency in the salvation

of souls, and the ministry of the word is the great

educational force to produce this result.13

The pulpit must become the Lord's

table around which the hungry church

family gathers, and it must here be fed,

inspired, and built up in the "most holy

faith." " Here the Holy Word must be dis

pensed and the holy Christ exalted.

The whole Bible is a manifestation of Christ, and

the Saviour desired to fix the faith of His followers

on the word.35

Preachers who make the sermon hour a

feast of good scriptural things for the hun

gry soul can make the pulpit a dispensary

of redeeming grace for hungry souls, and

a place from which the Redeemer's wel

come voice can be heard from week to

week.

Father of mercies, in Thy Word

What endless glory shines!

For ever be Thy name adored,

For these celestial lines.

Here the Redeemer's welcome voice

Spreads heavenly peace around;

And life and everlasting joys

Attend the blissful sound.

ANNE STEELE