A Gospel Parable

Picture to yourselves a man of lofty stature and beaming countenance, one of the noblest specimens of the human race — strong, dignified, majestic. Think of his sitting at the door of his dwelling as the summer sun is glowing in the far west, having around him a group of loving children who delight to call him father, and vie with each other in many playful attempts to rouse him from an unusual fit of silence. They have never feared him; his approach has always added to their joy; they have ever hung upon him with undoubting trust and love. They had good reason to do so. Probably he had no superior in the country of which he was the pride. When strangers passed him they turned to admire his towering stature and kingly carriage. Nor was there one sign of repelling haughtiness upon his noble face; at the sight of a little child it would expand into a luminous smile, and a tender concern would sadden it when in presence of tottering old age or incurable pain. It was no act of constrained courtesy or pretentious condescension on his part to pick a wayside flower for an unknown child, or to guard infirm travellers from the dangers of the busy thoroughfare. What he did, he did with charming naturalness; what he said, he said with manly simplicity. No honest man ever had occasion to fear him; no unjust person could feel quite easy in his presence. A kind of spiritual sunlight seemed to accompany him, which not only caused his own character to stand out with perfect distinctness, but gave unexpected revelations of the character of others. His domestic life was a scene of happiness: adored by the wife of his youth, loved with all the love of his children’s hearts, he was at rest in his house, as a man without a suspicion or a fear, so strong yet so tender; so mighty to defend, so gentle to console; courtly enough for the society of princes, simple enough for the plainest of his neighbours; his very presence was an inspiration; weak people felt that his strength was their own, young men set him before them as their ideal of manhood. One look would convince the observer that to physical advantages of the highest rank he added intellectual powers of no mean order; the form of his head, the steadiness and lustre of his piercing eye, the lines upon his face, showed that he was no stranger to careful and exciting thought. He had, indeed, long been accustomed to the kind of thinking that always brings suffering in its train; not cold speculation, but study that troubles the heart with many a bold assault upon its most valued trusts. There is a style of so-called thinking which is merely a mental amusement, there is also a thinking which strains the heart to the point of agony. The rugged lines cut into that solemn yet glowing face showed how much the heart had been engaged in this man’s thinking. In many a lonely wandering in the deep ravine and over the rocks which lay within easy distance of the splendid metropolis in which he resided, he had watched as if for an angel which should tell him divine secrets, and had prayed to be saved from the delirium which comes of intellectual trespass upon the sacred provinces of God. Death had visited his house and twice turned the cradle into a coffin, and he had not forgiven death for that great sorrow. The problem of Providence — the government which turns into a tormenting enigma the course of everyday affairs — he vainly attempted to solve, for he did but find in every answer another and deeper question. These experiences left their mark upon him; they ennobled, yet saddened, the expression of his countenance, and threw into his voice a chastened and pathetic tone. On the evening referred to, he had been sitting at his door for most of an hour in a silence which the mirth of his little

children could not thoroughly break; whilst looking at his little ones he seemed to be looking far beyond them; in answering their questions he seemed to be listening to unseen interrogators; and when his hand was put out to them it seemed as if an invisible power was pulling it in another direction. Only the sunset before he had sat in the same place, calm, and even joyful — to-night he is as one hovering on the brink of a troubled world, through whose shadows he can see nothing of light.

I.

Having this morning sanctified his house by praise and prayer addressed to the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, he proceeded to engage in his customary work. Tender was his adieu to his household — not, perhaps, in reality tenderer than usual, certainly not intentionally so, yet, in the gloomy days which soon came upon her, his wife recalled with mournful satisfaction the pathos of his farewell. She knew that he had spent many hours in painful and fruitless endeavour to understand the ways of God amongst the children of men; and now and then, with all the skill of that blessed love which speaks from a distance, that softens its tone to the ear of pain, she had sought to remind him of the manifold practical blessings with which human life had been enriched, and which should protect the mind from the insidiois temptation which comes from the side of mystery. His recognition of these blessings was most grateful and emphatic; yet he turned from the light with anxious desire to dispel every shadow which lingered on the way of God. This morning his prayer was hardly free from implied reflection upon the government of the

world, especially upon the permission of death to destroy the life of children. Still there was nothing in his tone to indicate an unusual state of mind, or to excite uneasiness or apprehension. The mystery of the world had been to him so long a burden that those who knew him best had ceased to wonder at the melancholy which shadowed his worship. On his way to the confines of the city where awaited him the engagements of this particular day, a mighty wind suddenly arose; now it wailed as if in pain, and then it roared as if in defiance or triumph; for a moment it became subdued, and instantly it rushed in shattering shocks, and tore the trees which clothed the deep ravine as if the very spirit of vengeance had been let loose upon them. No other traveller was in sight, yet a Voice distinctly addressed the lonely man.

“Bitter, infinitely bitter,” said the Voice, in a whisper which chilled him. He paused: he looked, but there was no sign of a presence; he turned his eyes to the cloud which had just thrown a shadow over him, but no figure gave it shape or meaning —

“Yes,” continued the unearthly Voice, drawing, if possible, still nearer the astounded man; “accursed be his power — may his throne fall, and his sceptre rot — amen, amen,” it groaned in a stifled manner.

The man, though brave and fearless in all the ordinary relations of life, was stricken with horror. Hot drops started from his brow, to be followed quickly by a chill which made him shiver. With parched and reluctant lips, he could only say —

“Who — what?”

And as he spake it seemed as if heavy wings were softly flapping in the now quieter wind.

“Sitting there,” continued the ghostly voice, in the same sad tone — “sitting there with his feet upon the humbled world, seeing men perish and devils suffer, yet never spending a thought of mercy upon them; pleasing his vanity by making suns and blowing them out; keeping up a treacherous peace in his stately halls by driving away the noble angels that ask a question or suggest a doubt. Oh! Oh! would I could strike off the pillars of his proud throne, and bring him for one hour into the lake of fire.”

The Voice seemed to be nearer still, speaking not only in the ear, but in the very soul. “Poor men — poor men — praying to a God who never hears them.”

The lonely listener was bound to the spot, though anxious to move; he was under a spell which he had no power to break — the Voice was mightier than an arm.

“Man,” said the Voice, with fuller emphasis, “speak freely to me and thou shalt be safe; I will comfort thee at least with such poor comfort as we can have so long as he drops the poison of his sovereignty into the fountains of the universe — I will watch thee, I will comfort thee, I will show thee where alone thou canst have a moment’s rest — I will lead thee to a spot on which he seldom deigns to look, and which is therefore blest; tell me, O man, though thou art strong in body, hast thou not had sorrows which darken and weaken the soul?”

The listener was dumb: self-control was utterly lost.

“Yes,” continued the Voice, “thy silence is right; we know thee well; thou hast had sorrow upon sorrow even to the breaking of thy heart; thou hast no fool’s brain, yet often has it been on the point of madness when thinking upon his crooked and unequal ways.”

Suddenly there was a sound in the air as of much subdued yet mocking laughter, and in unconsciously turning as if to see whence the sound proceeded, the eye of the traveller descried the dim outline of a procession moving towards the tombs.

“Again — again — and every hour,” the Voice continued;” see yonder,

0 man; knowest thou those who mourn? knowest thou what they carry? It is their only child — their idol — and he allowed the little life to perish whilst he was occupied in receiving the applauding hallelujahs of a servile host that would slay him if they could. We saw the child die; we counted the bitter tears of those who loved him; we pitied but could not help the sufferers, and there they now go to lay on the banqueting table of death the very treasure of their hearts.” And as the Voice so said, the fiendish laughter was repeated.

“Thou rememberest, O man, when thine own little girl died?”

The listener fell to the ground as if smitten by an irresistible arm.

“Thou dost; thy love hath an imperishable memory. That same night

1 was near thee; I saw thee again and again fall upon thy knees in a secret chamber, and I heard thy sobbing prayer to him thou callest God; it was a useless prayer; he was making suns, and banishing angels, and raining fire into the bottomless pit, and doing other mighty things that better become a God than drying human tears. He could have spared thy little girl; she might have been with thee to-day,” Again the air was shaken by a mocking sound, and the poor man clung to the dust as if in fear he should be borne away.

“And thy brightest boy, too, I remember, when he died I was there: I saw thee smile at the child to comfort him, when thy manly heart was breaking with grief. I saw thee retire to wring thy helpless hands in mortal agony, and then come back to smile at the child. I knew how much that smile cost thee — I saw all the wonderful display of thine innocent hypocrisy, and I blessed thee for it; he, too, saw it, but he came not to thy help; he looked coldly down through the courses of the stars, and allowed thee to suffer on through all the dreary hours; he was playing with the lightnings, he was marshalling the timid angels in eccentric order, he was showing his craven idolaters how grand a thing it is to be a God.”

But this time there seemed to be a great number of invisible presences in the yet wailing though less tempestuous wind. The voice continued as if its complaint would never end —

“They who know nothing of him call him Father; I say it is a lie; he can see men lose their property, lose their children, lose their reason, and spend their days in drivelling idiocy or raging madness, and never cease his star-making, his angel-taming, and his comet-driving; could I pluck yonder key of hell from his shining girdle —” [here the legions shook in concert with helpless rage or rekindled ambition] — “O could I, could I escape that hateful eye that follows me everywhere — did he but sleep one hour in a hundred years — I would steal upon him in his slumber and he should be God no more, — I would sit upon his throne, and men should be blessed, little children should never die, no orphan should be found in all the earth, for tears there should be delight and peace — would that I were a God!”

“Shall we dwell with thee, O man?” said the Voice after a momentary pause; “we will guard thee; we will share thy griefs, and take nothing from thy little joy; we will help thy thinking, and guide thee to right conclusions.”

******

Suddenly, in the very fulness of his strength, his countenance glowing with unnatural animation, the lonely man stood erect, and with frantic energy demanded —

“Who speaks to me of my girl in heaven, of my dear boy with God?”

But there was no change in the low, dull tone of the Voice. “Heaven,” it said, “there is none for thy children, poor man, deluded by the hope that has mocked all ages; they die, and are as the glittering insects that perish; thou thinkest of them as winged angels rejoicing in the unclouded light; alas! thy thought is but a dream; thy children are in yonder tombs, they are not in heaven.”

“Lie, lie, cruel lie,” screamed the frantic man; “what I hear is a lie! My Rachel is in heaven: my Benjamin is in heaven: they are as angels in God’s house!”

“Oh, man deluded,” said the Voice, “I tell thee, tell thee sadly, thou livest in a mocking dream; we pity thee, yet we teach. thee truth; thy little children, dear for ever to the memory of thy love, are as lights blown out: thou couldest not find them in all the chambers of his blazing creation. Hear us, O man, hear us, and be wise. We know him better than he can be known by the creatures of yesterday, who call themselves men. Ten thousand thousand years have we watched him from afar: he is a great God, making worlds that he may crush them, creating hearts that he may break them, kindling fires that he may torture all whom he dislikes; we have watched his ways through unnumbered ages; for unnumbered ages we have shivered at his footstool as unwilling suppliants; for unnumbered ages we have felt the weight of his ponderous foot; it is only for want of equal strength that we have so suffered; our Spirit is yet untamed, we hate his presence, we resent his rule, and though he makes our hell intolerable, we delight to curse him to his face. Seest thou yonder pool which men call a sea? It is but a drop, compared with the mighty waters with which we are acquainted. Oh to have seen what our pitying eyes have beheld on those stormy deeps — husbands and wives, parents and children, crying through the tempest that he might come and help them, and just as their thrilling prayer reached the point of agony, a thundering billow has dashed the vessel into ruin, and the Voice of Prayer was heard no more; this is God — this is Father!”

The wind ceased, and as it subsided another voice said — “We will return to thee, and comfort thee at the time of the setting of the sun.”

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