THE BURIAL AT NAIN.
IT was in the spring of the year — a time that speaks of life out of death — when the Lord Jesus a third time left Capernaum. That city had previously been the scene of His mighty works; there had He cast out the demon, rebuked the burning fever,and wrought other miracles not particularly mentioned.During a later visit, He had healed the palsied man, and now, in the second year of His ministry, He had wrought a great work; by the simple utterance of His word He had healed the centurion’s servant, though he was at a distance lying sick. The “next day,” however — that upon which He took His departure to Nain — was to see a still greater work. Never, since the days of Elijah and Elisha, had such a thing been known as the raising of a dead man to life. Such a marvel was this day to happen.
Accompanying the Lord was a “great multitude of people.” They were probably drawn to Him by the miracles He had wrought, as at another time “a great multitude followed Him, because they saw His miracles which He did on them that were diseased.” Was the question suggested to the minds of these, “Is this He that should come, the Christ, the Messiah?” Their hope seemed to run high, for all through the long twenty-five miles from Capernaum to Nain the people had kept Him company. Thus it must have been evening — the time of burial — when they reached the gate of the little city Nain, that is, “Pleasant.” And very pleasant doubtless it was in those days, so much so that the Rabbis saw in it the fulfillment of the promise to Issachar: “He saw the land that it was pleasant.” But now, we are told, “a few houses of mud and stone with low doorways, scattered among heaps of stones and traces of walls, is all that remains of what even these ruins show to have been once a city, with walls and gates. These rich gardens are no more, the fruit trees cut down, and there is a painful sense of desolation about the place, as if the breath of judgment had swept over it.”
About ten minutes’ walk to the east of Nain is still to be found an unfenced burying ground, and thither on that spring evening was journeying another multitude, and the two processions met.
In a few words — simple, but, as it were, full of tears — the evangelist describes this second procession. “Behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow; and much people of the city was with her.” Thus they met — death on the one hand, Life on the other — the Prince of Life. What would be the result?
Before answering this, we must speak of some of the Jewish thoughts and customs rating to death. As we should suppose, to a people brought up in the knowledge and fear of the true God, death was an intensely solemn thing, though that right solemnity which springs from the knowledge of the connection between sin and death was clouded and overlaid by many a superstition. They never made light of it, however, and the history of good King Hezekiah shows how, to a truly godly Jew, the news of death was sad and fearful. “The grave cannot praise Thee, death cannot celebrate Thee: they that go down into the pit cannot hope for Thy truth.” And with such a prospect before him, can we wonder that the pious king “wept sore”?
As death was regarded as the punishment of sin no wonder that every means were taken to ward it off; for to die under fifty years of age was “to be cut off,” and “premature death was likened to the falling of unripe fruit, or the extinction of a candle.” What grief, then, must it have been to the widow’s heart to lose her only son by (as men would suppose) the judgment of God “cut off in the midst of his days.”
During sickness the neighbors would be frequent in their visits of sympathy, for that was a religious duty urged by the Rabbis, and it was believed that “whoever visits the sick takes away the sixtieth part of his sufferings.” Moreover, a blessing would surely fall upon the visitors, for was not the Shechinah — the glory of God — verily present, though unseen, above the sick man’s bed? While, still further, the prayers of the pious would be sought; the remedies — real or magical — of the physicians would be applied, but in vain; and by-and-by the blast of a horn told the neighbors that “the angel of death” had entered the sick house. It was now the house of mourning — mourning keener and more bitter to a Jew than we can associate with even so heavy a stroke. “Make thee mourning,” says Jeremiah, “as for an only son, most bitter lamentation.” “I will make it as the mourning of an only son,” says Jehovah by His prophet Amos. And even more significant is the prophecy of the future sorrow of Israel over their rejected Messiah: “They shall look upon Me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for Him, as one mourneth for his only son.”
Let us step, as it were, into this house of grief at the little town of Nain. The mother, standing up, rends her garments; the dead body is washed, anointed, and robed in the best that the mother could procure, and perhaps (though it may be a later custom) is covered with metal, glass, or salt, and laid upon earth and salt.
And now the poor mother has to submit to customs and observances, which we can well imagine added to the grief of her already desolate heart. What can be more distressing than a routine of mourning? But in matters of death and burial, as in all others, the Rabbis showed themselves adepts at inventing “burdens grievous to be borne.” She must sit on the floor, and neither eat meat nor drink wine. No one may wash nor anoint himself, nor engage in any business during the first seven days. Study must be banished from the house; the phylacteries are put away; the scanty necessary food must be prepared outside the house, and eaten, if possible, not in the presence of the dead, and, at least, with the back to the body.
Kind and pious friends assist in the preparations for the funeral — considerately forbidden by the Rabbis to torment the mourners by much talking — and the flute-players and mourning-women attend with doleful music and chants. “Alas, the lion! alas, the hero!” or some such formula, is the burden of their lamentations.
As soon as possible the burial takes place. As the procession starts, chairs and couches are reversed, and the mourners who are left at home sit upon the ground or low stools. Before the bier goes, first of all, a funeral orator, extolling the good deeds of the dead, and crying “Weep with them, all ye who are bitter of heart!” Then come (in Galilee, but not in Judæa) the women, for the reason that by woman death came into the world, and she ought therefore to lead in the funeral. Among them would be the mother, so quickly seen by the Lord’s compassionate eye. Following them, the body, not coffined as we are accustomed to see, but lying upon a bier, or open coffin, called Mittah, or, if of wickerwork, Keliba. The common practice was to leave the face uncovered; the hands were folded upon the breast, and if the dead had been unmarried or childless, something distinctive was put into the coffin, as a pen and ink or a key. An additional solemnity was given by the common supposition that the disembodied spirit hovered above the coffin. From the bier project handles borne by friends and neighbors — unshod — in different parties, relieving each other frequently, so that the greatest number possible may share in so good a work, and in the pauses during such changes, orations are delivered and laminations are made. Following the coffin come the mourners and musicians, the friends, and “the multitude,” of whom many may be strangers.
How came they to follow? it might be asked. The Rabbis taught as to the words, “Ye shall walk after the Lord your God,” that they refer to the imitation of His doings. And as He clothed the naked, so should we; as He visited the sick and comforted the mourners, so also should we; and as He buried the dead,we should imitate Him in that action, and it was expected that as diligent observance would be given to the last as to any of the former acts of mercy. Not to do so was said to be mocking one’s Maker; work, study, everything, must be given up for it, or if that was absolutely impossible, reverence must be shown by rising up before the dead. Thus the sad procession to “the field of weepers,” or as others called it, “the house of eternity” (Beth Olam), would gradually increase in numbers by every fresh accession of passers-by. Jr.