“Compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.”
“The music of the ransomed,
I thought how sweet ‘twould sound,
How all the halls of glory
With joy would echo round.
But ala I more sweet and charming
Than songs or music rare
Is this heart-thrilling sentence,
The one I love is there.”
I DON’T want anybody to suppose from what I have said that the present is more important than the future―it is not. Time is short, it runs on swift feet. Forty, fifty, sixty, perhaps eighty years, and a man bids “good-bye” to this life and enters eternity, and eternity is long: it never ends; and no question can rival in importance that which we sometimes ask, Where will you spend eternity?
I remember years ago seeing a village in Ireland in ruins. All the cottages in it were roofless and uninhabited. It was a melancholy sight. I was told that the people who once lived in those cottages had refused to pay the rent and had been evicted. The village was a parable to me. We dwell in “this earthly house of our tabernacle”―you and I―and we have received “notice to quit.” Why? Because we have not paid the rent. God is the landlord, He is the designer and builder of our bodies. It is He that “giveth to us life, breath and all things” as the Bible tells us; consequently He has claims upon us, and we have not met those claims, nor desired to. We were all alike in this respect, until some of us―but that is another matter that we shall come to soon—we did not pay the rent, we were determined not to; “we turned every one to his own way”; and that is why notice to quit has been served on us. We are awaiting eviction―some of us have “a better hope,” but again that is another matter. The truth is, “It is appointed unto men once to die.” The grim bailiff DEATH has his work to do, and when the time comes, he will do it effectually, regardless of our wishes or feelings. To some he comes suddenly, and without warning evicts them from this earthly dwelling; but however and whenever he comes, the long-cherished and tenderly-cared-for tabernacle will fall into ruins; nothing can save it; and surely the greatest question to the man involved is, What of the one who dwelt in it?
Who can tell us? A well-known scientist has said that the soul of a man is like the flame of a candle; when it is snuffed out it is gone and done with forever. I wonder if he really believes that. You do not, and neither do I. He would reduce us to the level of the beasts, from which he says we have sprung; but we know better than that. God breathed into man’s nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living soul; and he is greater than sun, moon and stars, for he will live forever and be conscious of his existence when they have ceased to be. You and I will live forever. But who can tell us about that? The agnostic cannot―the man who parades his ignorance and boasts in it. Robert Ingersoll was a clever man; he laughed at the Bible and lectured in crowded halls on “The Mistakes of Moses”; had he any comfort or assurance to give us about eternity? Hear what he said about it:
“Is there beyond the silent night
An endless day?
Is death a door that leads to light?
We cannot say.
The tongueless secret locked in fate
We do not know. We hope and wait.”
Suppose the landlord of those defaulting Irish folk had sent a message to them of this sort, “You have failed in your obligations, and in justice I must have you evicted from the cottages in which you have lived and disregarded my claims; but when the time comes for you to be turned out, I will open the doors of my mansion and welcome you to my home. It will be my pleasure to have your company.” Suppose that! Never such a landlord existed among men; if there had been such an one, his fame would have spread to the ends of the earth, and his deed would have been the subject of many a story book. It is my business and joy to tell you that such a landlord God is. He has thrown open the doors of His home, and there are many mansions there―there is room for all. And in the gospel―in this very parable, God is telling men that though they have got notice to quit, for death has passed upon all men for that all have sinned, yet He will welcome to His home whosoever will accept His invitation when the time of their eviction comes. It is a surprising offer, and puts God in a different light to that in which men generally view Him, and it is the more surprising because it is made to those who are enemies and alienated from Him by wicked works.
Now in contrast to the hopeless wail of the agnostic the Christian speaks with confidence as he looks into the future. He can say, “We know that if this earthly house of our tabernacle were dissolved we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” 2 Corinthians 5. And though with many, if not all, there is a natural shrinking from death, the Christian may face it without fear, for the death of Christ has taken the sting out of it, by dying He has robbed the devil of the power of it, to deliver those who through fear of it were all their lifetime subject to bondage. As we read the Scriptures we realize that the saved man or woman, those who rely wholly upon the Saviour, have no need to have a single tremor in the presence of death. We are very familiar with Paul’s words, “To depart to be with Christ which is far better,” and, “To die is gain.” But others also have spoken when dying. John Fletcher said, “I’m like a bird escaping from its cage.” Melanchthon said, “Nothing now but heaven.” J. G. Bellett cried out with joy at the thought of being with the “Man of Sychar’s well,” and “the Man of Calvary.” I heard of a young girl in her late teens, who when they thought she was gone and said so, whispered, “I’m just passing into glory,” and I will give you in way of contrast to Ingersoll’s gloomy outlook the words of a contemporary of his, D. L. Moody, who spoke to more people than any man of his day. It is said that he addressed audiences aggregating one hundred millions, and his subject was always Christ the Saviour. He was dying at 62, his strong physical frame worn out by excessive labors. Here in his son’s own words is the account of his going. “Suddenly he was heard speaking in slow and measured words. He was saying, ‘Earth recedes; heaven opens before me.’ The first impulse was to try to arouse him from what appeared to be a dream. ‘No, this is no dream, Will,’ he replied, ‘It is beautiful. It is like a trance. If this is death, it is sweet. There is no valley here. God is calling me, and I must go.’”
A gifted poet has sung a poor, sad dirge:
“Nothing begins and nothing ends
That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in others’ pain
And perish in our own.”
But we may thank God, that such a hopeless outlook has no place in Christian hymnary.
I am anxious that you should not be deceived by the lie that God has nothing for you now, that you must wait for His blessing “ayont the grave,” but I am equally anxious that you should inquire as to the future.
The gospel that tells us of present joy and peace, of the feast that is now ready, tells us also of future glory and a home in heaven forever. God has said, “My house shall be full,” and His invitation to men covers the present and the future; there is a feast and a home for all who respond―a satisfying feast and an eternal home.