Or, by the time the letter you are now penning is closed and sealed and posted, and the sinful assent, or the compromising proposal, or the resolute refusal is written, the Lord Jesus will have said, “I know thy works, that thou hast a name that thou livest and art dead"; or, “I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot"; or, “I know thy works; behold I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it; for thou hast a little strength, and hast kept my word, and hast not denied my name. I also will keep thee.” In such fiery trials of love and fidelity, there is nothing so sure to overcome as the recollected presence of “Lo! I am with you.” And oh! it is sweeter, like the three holy children, to pace up and down beneath the furnace's flaming vault, arm in arm with the Son of man, than to tread the green pastures of an earthly promotion or a carnal tranquility purchased by the denial of Jesus, and so win the wrath of the Lamb.
3. Comforting. You have noticed the difference in traveling the same road solitary and in pleasant company. “What! we are not here already! It takes three hours to do it, and we have not been half that time. Well, I could not have believed it; but then I never before traveled it with you.” No doubt Cleopas and his comrade used to think the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus long enough, and were very glad when they reached the fiftieth furlong. But that evening when the stranger from Jerusalem joined them, they grudged every way—mark which they passed; and as in the progress of his expositions Moses and all the prophets beamed with light from heaven, and their own hearts glowed warmer and warmer, they would fain have counted the mile-stones back again. “How vexing! This is Emmaus; but you must not go on. 'Abide with us, for the day is far spent.'“ Any road which you travel solitary is long enough, and any stage of life's journey where no one is with you, will be dreary and desolate. But you need have no such companionless stages no such cheerless journeys. If you be a disciple, the Lord Jesus always is with you. And whether they be the silent weeks which you spend in search of health in some far away and stranger-looking place, or the long voyage in the sea-roaming ship, or the shorter journey in the rattling stage or railway car—if, in reading, or musing, or lifting up your heart, you can realize that Savior's presence, who is about your path and compasses all your ways, you will be almost sorry when such a journey is ended, and when such a solitude is exchanged for more wonted society. I can almost believe that John Bunyan left Bedford jail with a sort of trembling, fearing that he might never find again such a Bethel as he had found in that narrow cell for the last twelve years; and I can understand how Samuel Rutherford wrote from his place of banishment, “Christ hath met me in Aberdeen, and my adversaries have sent me here to be feasted with His love. I would not have believed that there was so much in Jesus as there is. But 'Come and see,' maketh Christ to be known in his excellency and glory.”
The presence of Christ can turn a dark night into a night much to be remembered. Perhaps it is time to be sleeping, but the November wind is out, and as it riots over the misty hills, alit dashes the rain-drift on the rattling casement, and howls like a spirit distracted in the fireless chimney, it has awakened the young sleeper in the upper room. And when his mother enters, she finds him sobbing out his infant fears, or with beating heart hiding from the noisy danger in the, depths of his downy pillow. But she puts the candle on the table, and sits down beside the bed; and as he hears her assuring voice, and espies the gay comfort in her smiling face, and as she puts her hand over his, the tear stands still upon his cheek, till it gets time to dry, and the smoothing down of the panic furrows on his brow, and the brightening of his eye announce that he is ready for whatever a mother has got to tell. And as she goes on to explain the mysterious sources of his terror—That hoarse loud roaring is the brook tumbling over the stones; for the long pouring rains have filled it to the very brim. It is up on the green to-night, and had the cowslips been in blossom they would all have been drowned. Yes—and that thump on the window, it is the old cedar at the corner of the house, and as the wind tosses his stiff branches they bounce and scratch on the panes of glass, and if they were not very small they would be broken to pieces.' And then she goes on to tell how this very night there are people out in the pelting blast, whilst her little boy lies warm in his crib, inside of his curtains; and how ships may he upset on the deep sea, or dashed to pieces on rocks so steep that the drowning sailors cannot climb them. And then perhaps she ends it all with breathing a mother's prayer, or he drops asleep beneath the cradle-hymn.
And why describe all this? Because there is so much practical divinity in it. In the history of a child, a night like this is an important night, for it has done three things. It has explained some things which, unexplained, would have been a source of constant alarm—perhaps the germ of superstition or insanity. It has taught some precious lessons—sympathy for sufferers, gratitude for mercies, and perhaps some pleasant thought of Him who is the hiding-place from the storm and the covert from the tempest. And then it has deepened in that tender bosom the foundations of filial piety, and helped to give that parent such hold and purchase on a filial heart as few wise mothers have ever failed to win, and no manly son has ever blushed to own.
Then for the parallel. “As one whom his mother comforteth, so the Lord comforteth his people.” It is in the dark and boisterous night of sorrow or apprehension that the Savior reveals Himself nigh. And one of the first things He does is to explain the subject matter of the grief, to show its real nature and amount. “It is but a light affliction. It lasts but for a moment. It is a false alarm. It is only the raindrift on the window-wait till the day dawns and shadows flee away. Wait till morning and you will see the whole extent of it.” And then the next thing He does is to teach some useful lesson. And during these quiet hours, when the heart is soft, the Savior's lessons sink deep. And last of all, besides consolation under the trials and peaceful fruits that follow it, by this comforter-visit, the Savior unspeakably endears Himself to that soul. Paul and Silas never knew Christ so well nor loved Him so much as after that night which He and they passed together in the Macedonian prison. And the souls on which the Lord Jesus has taken the deepest hold are those whose great tribulations have thrown them most frequently and most entirely into His own society.
But we hasten to a close. We have seen the meaning of the words so far— “Lo, I am with you alway"; I am with you to succor in temptation, to strengthen in duty, to guide in perplexity, to comfort in sorrow. From the instant you become a disciple I am with you all along. I am with you every day. All your life I am with you—and at death? —at death you are with Me. That's the difference. At present I am always with you, but you are not always with Me. At present Jesus is constantly near His own, but His own do not constantly desire to be near Him. Here it is only by faith that believers enjoy His presence. There they shall see Him as He is. Now the Lord Jesus follows His own whithersoever they go, but they do not always follow Him. Then it will be different, for they will follow the Lamb whithersoever He goeth. And all that is wanting to complete the promise is what death's twinkling may introduce, what the Savior's coming for His own shall fully supply. Now it is, “Lo, I am with you alway,” and then it is, “And so shall we be ever with the Lord.”
“Ever with the Lord.” At once and forever! At once—for absent from the body, we are present with Him. So near is Jesus now, that, like the infant waking from its dream, it looks up, and lo! she sits beside it—waking up from this life-dream, the first sight is Jesus as He is. At once-no flight through immensity-no pilgrimage of the spheres—for the everlasting arms are the first resting-place of the disembodied soul—it will be in the bosom of Immanuel that the emancipated spirit will inquire, “Where am I?” and read in the face of Jesus the answer, “Forever with the Lord.” Forever—To be with him for a few years, as one way with another John and Peter were—to be with Him one Lord's day as the beloved disciple subsequently was to be with Him a few moments, as Paul caught up into the third heaven was—how blessed? But to be ever with the Lord—not only to-day, but to-morrow—nay neither to-day nor to-morrow, but now, now, one everlasting now!
“Forever with the Lord!
Amen! so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word-
'Tis immortality.”
J.H.
(Concluded)