IT was barley harvest at Bethlehem. The reapers were at work. The sharp sickles were wielded by youthful hands, and the binding up of the sheaves followed quickly the cutting of the corn. What a cheerful time is harvest! Abroad among the reapers, or at home preparing for their reception at the close of their daily toil, how suited is the occasion to wake up emotions of delight! and if the heart only knows the blessed Source and Giver of all our mercies, how impossible to avoid praising him for his goodness. There were such hearts at Bethlehem, at the beginning of barley harvest, above three thousand years ago.
But see, what is it that has taken place? The whole city seems in trouble. Mothers stand with their babes at their cottage doors, and groups are gathered here and there, talking with hushed voices and in tender tones, or silently dropping a tear, and pointing out to each other, when they have passed, two females, whose entrance into the city has thus moved the hearts of all. One is aged, and the other not yet past her youthful prime. But the weeds worn by both tell the tale of woe. “Is this Naomi?” is the exclamation on all hands. Naomi means pleasantness: but the aged and desolate one replies, “Call me not Naomi; call me Mara (signifying bitterness), for the Almighty hath dealt bitterly with me. I went out full, and the Lord hath brought me home again empty; why then call ye me Naomi, seeing the Lord hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted me?”
Naomi’s early days seem to have been spent at Bethlehem. There she became the wife of Elimelech, and the mother of two sons, Mahlon and Chilion. Prosperity may have smiled on both husband and wife until their marriage, and for a little while afterward; but the names given to their sons would indicate that some dark cloud of adversity had shrouded them, ere even the first was born. Mahlon means sick, and Chilion a pining and we are not surprised that the lads should receive such names, when we read that “there was a famine in the land.” Ah, dear reader, if you have never known the want of food, you can little conceive what famine is. There are thousands in England now who are bitterly tasting what it means. There are tens of thousands, a short time ago as well off as the generality of my young readers and their friends, who are now having a bare subsistence supplied by the hand of charity. Will not my Christian readers pray for these afflicted ones? Shall we not deny ourselves to aid in furnishing them with the necessaries of life? Oh! that God may overrule their present distress to lead numbers to Jesus, the Friend of the destitute, the Helper of the helpless, the Saviour of all who are willing he should be such to them!
England is not to us what the land of promise was to one of Israel’s race. If any of the sufferers in Lancashire could obtain employment and wages in some other county, or even in some other land, there is no Scripture principle to forbid it. But Canaan was Jehovah’s land, and the gift of his love to his earthly people. Had they been obedient, there would always have been abundance in that pleasant land, flowing with milk and honey. But even when visited for their sins with scarcity, their place was to remain in the land, and repent, and cry to the Lord. It was still the Lord’s land, and by his gift theirs; and better far remain in it, and wait on the Lord, than at once forsake him and the inheritance of their fathers.
Elimelech could not trust God to keep him alive in famine, and so he went to sojourn in the country of Moab. There he died. His sons grew up and married there. Far from Shiloh and the tabernacle, and all its solemn services; far from the Lord, from his land, and from his people, Naomi is left among idolaters, and her sons marry into Moabitish families. But it is as though God’s chastening hand pursued them. “Mahlon and Chilion died also, both of them; and the woman was left of her two sons and her husband.” Stripped thus of all she held dear on earth, Naomi’s thoughts turned back to the land of her fathers, and she arose, with her daughters-in-law, that she might return from the country of Moab. “She had heard there how the Lord had visited his people in giving them bread,” and, accompanied at the beginning by both her widowed daughters-in-law, she sets out for her native land.
“But there was only one younger person in her company on entering Bethlehem, How was this?” Ah! dear reader, this is a question which brings us to the very point of our narrative. The two widows Orpah and Ruth, set out with their widowed mother: but the journey was hers, and on arriving at the borders of the two countries, “Naomi said unto her two daughters-in-law, Go, return each to her mother’s house: the Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me.” What exquisite tenderness you often find produced by the presence of death! In what softened, gentle tones the bereaved ones speak to each other! How touching these words of Naomi to Orpah and Ruth: “Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voice and wept.” Nature must have its gush of grief at such a moment as had now arrived. It seems to them impossible to say farewell to their aged kinswoman. “Surely we will return with thee unto thy people,” is the joint utterance of their affections. They cannot bear to part. Naomi reasons with them, expostulates, pleads; closing with the words, “Nay, my daughters; for it grieveth me much for your sakes that the hand of the Lord is gone out against me.” This aggravates their grief. “And they lifted up their voice and wept again.”
Do they, after this fresh outburst, resume their journey, and go forward to the land of Israel? Alas! no. A crisis had arrived—a moment of decision. Is it too much to say that on the decision of that moment the present and eternal state of those two sisters-in-law, in all probability, hinged? It was not merely a question between the land of Israel and the land of Moab—their own mothers or their widowed mother-in-law. Had this been all, they might have decided either way without affecting their eternal prospects. But there was a deeper question. Unfaithful as the exiles had been in voluntarily exchanging the land of Israel for the land of Moab, they had carried with them to the latter the knowledge of Jehovah, and the question now for these young women to decide was between the true God, the God of Israel, and the idols of Moab. Down to this point they had journeyed together, spoken together, wept together, and had together clung, in their affection to Naomi, their mother. But now they were about to separate. “And Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth slave unto her.”
My dear young friends, what an unspeakably solemn moment is that in which the subject of the soul, eternity, God, Christ, his person, his work, the value of his blood, the power of his resurrection, his sufficiency as a Saviour, his readiness to receive you, having been distinctly brought before you, your attention having been awakened, your feelings moved, your affections deeply touched, the question has to be met—the vital, solemn, all-important question of Christ or the world! heaven or hell!
When Orpah had departed, Naomi uses the fact of her return as a new argument with Ruth. “Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her people, and unto her gods; return thou after thy sister-in-law.” This is the first mention of what was the real point on which the question hinged. Orpah had gone back, not to her people only, but to her gods. Would not Ruth go after her? What a moment! With the defection of her sister before her eyes, the endless destiny of this young woman appears still to tremble in the balance. Thank God, it is but for a moment. Not even for one moment is there any wavering on Ruth’s part. “And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, AND THY GOD MY GOD; where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.” Thanks to the God of all grace, who inspired this young woman with this blessed resolve. May it be, as to the vital part of it, the instant, solemn, unalterable resolve, through grace, of every one who reads these words.
That I am not overstating the import of Ruth’s resolve, is evident from the words of Boaz in the next chapter. He speaks to her of “the Lord. God of Israel, under whose wings,” says he, “thou art come to trust.” This was the meaning of her words “thy God” shall be “my God.” From the lips either of her departed husband and father, or of her widowed mother-in-law, she had heard of the Lord God of Israel. Perhaps she had read of his wondrous works, his glorious titles, his mysterious name, his holy law. In one way or other, she had learned that it was to him, and not to the senseless idols of her country, that she owed her life, and breath, and all things. And who can say that she had not also heard of Israel’s hope—of the promised Seed—of the Prophet and Deliverer, to whose coming the godly in Israel were always looking forward? At all events, when she had put her trust under the shadow of Jehovah’s wings, on her was bestowed the rare blessedness of being in the direct line from which, according to the flesh, he sprang. Not only was she great-grandmother to “the man after God’s heart,” but she was thus a progenitor of David’s Son and Lord; and she has the honor of being one of the four women mentioned in the genealogy of our Lord at the beginning of the New Testament.
And now, dear reader, is Ruth’s choice to be yours from the day this meets your eye? It is not as God of Israel, but as God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, that he would encourage you to trust in him, and own him as your God. The privileges of this Moabitish damsel were as nothing compared with yours. A great part of the Old Testament was not written in her day, and she had no New Testament to tell her of Bethlehem and its manger, of Calvary and its cross. Little did she suppose, as she entered Bethlehem by the side of the stricken and downcast mother, that she would herself be the mother of him whom unnumbered millions will adore eternally as their Saviour—Son of God, as well as Son of man. Bethlehem is associated inseparably with the mystery of the Incarnation. The echoes of the angels’ song will never die away, “Glory to God in the highest: on earth peace, good will to men.” Are you, my reader, to bear a part in this song, as it swells through heaven and earth, when time shall be no more? or are you throughout eternity to bewail your folly and unbelief in those dread words, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved”?
I may at this moment be addressing some whose case somewhat resembles that of the two Moabitish damsels. When religious awakenings are so common, it is likely enough that some dear companion of yours, some bosom friend, some near relation, has been led to Jesus, and enabled, through grace, to say with Ruth, “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” You have not been brought to this point yet.
What a line your friend has crossed, leaving you behind! Perhaps a brother, or a sister, has thus been converted and made happy in Jesus. You have sat together at the same table, trod together the same paths, read the same books, and in everything been the sharers of each other’s joys. Ah! you have had to weep together, too! You have watched by the same bed of sickness, received together that last fond look, that last farewell, which seemed to leave you desolate indeed, with nothing upon earth but one another; and together, locked in an agonizing embrace, you have stood by the open grave of a parent whose form you might not again behold, whose voice you might not again hear. How the events of that day are imprinted on both your minds! The empty chair, the deserted chamber, the fresh burst of grief! And then the opened Bible, the chapter that neither of you could read, the attempt to pray, when no utterance could be found for aught but sobs, and sighs, and groans. Perhaps it was that evening that your sister’s heart was drawn to the Saviour, that she trusted her soul to his blessed hands, and confided in his all-atoning blood. Perhaps it was not till afterward. And, for some time, you seemed as deeply impressed as she was. You read together, you knelt together; you attended the same meetings, sat under the same ministry, and bade fair to embrace the same Saviour, and be fitted for the same home in the Father’s house with him.
And is it not so? Alas, no. And are you the Orpah, who has turned again to her people and her gods? The tears of bereaved affection are not the tears of a contrite heart, broken on account of sin. The yearnings and melting’s of natural sympathy are not the passing from death unto life. The one may assume a hopeful appearance for a time: but the world resumes its hold; sin begins again to look pleasant and inviting; what has only been endured as a duty, or as an indispensable means of safety, becomes a yoke too heavy to wear; and the heart shows, alas! its preference for anything to Christ. Not so with your companion. She has come to Jesus. He has welcomed her as he does all who come to him, and as he would yet welcome you. But, oh! think of the contrast between her and you. She has God for her God; your god is the world, or its prince, a mare fearful idolatry than that of the Moabitess of old. She is a child of God; you are yet among the children of wrath. Her sins are forgiven; yours are yet recorded against you. She can say truly, “Jesus is mine; you are yet Christless in the world. She is on her way to heaven; you are on the broad road that leads down to death. May God awaken you. May his love attract you. May Jesus become precious to you. May your sins become loathsome to your heart, as having wounded and crucified the Saviour. Constrained by his love, may you from the hour of reading this be able from your heart to say, “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”