We may now meditate for a few moments on the deeply interesting theme of Christ’s sympathy with His people, so touchingly illustrated in His dealings with the beloved family of Bethany. He allowed them to go through the exercise, to wade through the deep waters, to be thoroughly tested, in order that “the trial of their faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise, and honor, and glory.” Looked at from nature’s standpoint, it might seem as though all hope was gone, and every ray of light faded away from the horizon. Lazarus was dead and buried. All was over. And yet the Lord had said, “This sickness is not unto death.” How was this? What could He mean?
Thus nature might reason; but we must not listen to the reasonings of nature, which are sure to carry us down into the regions of the shadow of death. We must listen to the voice of Jesus; we must hearken to His living, cheering, strengthening, encouraging accents. In this way we shall be able to vindicate and glorify God, not only at the sick-bed, but in the chamber of death, and at the very grave itself. Death is not death if Christ be there. The grave itself is but the sphere in which the glory of God shines out in all its luster. It is when all that belongs to the creature is gone from the scene—when the platform is thoroughly cleared of all that is merely of man—it is then, and not until then, that the beams of the divine glory can be seen in all their brightness. It is when all is gone, or seems to be, that Christ can come in and fill the scene.
This is a grand point for the soul to get hold of and understand. It is only faith that can really enter into it. We are all so terribly prone to lean on some creature prop, to sit beside some creature stream, to trust in an arm of flesh, to cling to what we can see, to rest in the palpable and the tangible. “The things that are seen and temporal” have ofttimes more weight with us than “the things which are unseen and eternal.” Hence it is that our ever faithful Lord sees it right and good to sweep away our creature props, and dry up our creature streams, in order that we may lean on Himself, the eternal Rock of our salvation, and find all our springs in Himself, the living and exhaustless Fountain of all blessing. He is jealous of our love and confidence, and He will clear the scene of everything that might divide our hearts with Himself. He knows it is for our soul’s full blessing to be wholly cast upon Himself, and hence He seeks to purify our hearts from every hateful idol.
And should we not praise Him for all this? Yes, truly; and not only so, but we should welcome whatever means He is pleased to use for the accomplishment of His wise and gracious end, even though, to nature’s view, it may seem harsh and severe. He may often have to say to us, as He said to Peter, “What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter.”
Yes, beloved reader, by-and-by we shall know and appreciate all His dealings. We shall look back upon the whole course, from the light of His own blessed presence, and see and own that “the very heaviest stroke of His hand was the very strongest expression of His love at the time.” Martha and Mary might wonder why death had been allowed to enter their dwelling. Doubtless they looked, day after day, hour after hour, moment after moment, for their beloved Friend to enter; but instead of that He kept away, and death entered, and all seemed gone.
“Why was this? Let Himself reply. “These things said he; and after that he saith unto them, our friend Lazarus sleepeth.” What touching affection! What gracious intimacy! What a tender linking of Himself with the family of Bethany, on the one hand, and His disciples, on the other! “Our friend Lazarus sleepeth.” It was but a gentle sleep. Death is not death in the presence of the Prince of life. The grave is but a sleeping-place. “I go that I may awake him out of sleep.” Such words could not have been uttered had Lazarus been raised from a sick bed. “Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity;” and we can see without difficulty that the grave afforded God a far better opportunity than a sick-bed.
This, then, was the reason why Jesus kept away from His beloved friends. He waited for the fitting moment, and that moment was when Lazarus had lain in the grave four days already; when every human hope had vanished; when all human agency was powerless and valueless. “I go”—not to raise him from a sick-bed, but “that I may awake him out of sleep.” The platform was cleared of the creature, in order that the glory of God might shine out in all its brightness.
And is it not well to have the scene thus cleared of the creature? Is it not a mercy—not in disguise, as some people say, but—a plain, positive, palpable mercy—to have every human prop gone, every human hope vanished? Faith says, “Yes”—says it unhesitatingly and emphatically. Nature says, “No!” The poor heart craves something of the creature, something that the eye can see. But faith—that most precious, priceless, divinely-wrought principle, positively delights in being called to lean absolutely and abidingly upon the living God.
But it must be a real thing. It is of little use talking about faith if the heart be a stranger to its power. Mere profession is perfectly worthless. God deals in moral realities. “What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he have faith?” He does not say, “What doth it profit though a man have faith?” Blessed be God, those who, through grace, have it, know that it profits much every way. It glorifies God as nothing else can do it. It lifts the soul above the depressing influences of things seen and temporal. It tranquillizes the spirit in a most blessed manner. It enlarges the heart, by leading us out of our own narrow circle of personal interests, sympathies, cares, and burdens, and connecting us livingly with the eternal, exhaustless spring of goodness. It works by love, and draws us out, in gracious activity, towards every object of need, but specially toward those who are of the household of faith.
It is faith alone that can move along the path where Jesus leads. To mere nature that path is dreadful. It is rough, dark, and lonely. Even those who surrounded our blessed Lord on the occasion of the death of Lazarus seemed wholly unable to comprehend His thoughts, or follow intelligently His footsteps. When He said, “Let us go into Judea again,” they could think only of the Jews’ stoning Him. When He said, “I go, that I may awake him out of sleep,” they replied, “If he sleep he shall do well.” When He spake of his death, they thought that He had spoken of taking of rest in sleep. When “He said unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead; and I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe;” poor unbelieving nature, speaking through the lips of Thomas Didymus, said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”
In a word, we see total inability to take in the true bearing of the case, as viewed from a divine standpoint. Nature sees nothing but death and darkness, where faith basks in the sunlight of the divine presence. “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Alas! alas! was this all that even a disciple had to say? How absurd are the conclusions of unbelief! Let us go with the Prince of life, that—what? “we may die with him!” What folly! What a gross contradiction! What should Thomas have said? “Let us go, that we may behold His glory;” that we may see His marvelous doings in the very region of the shadow of death; that we may share in His triumphs; that we may shout, at the very gates of the grave, our hallelujahs to His deathless name!
(To be continued, if the Lord will.)