The Cure Which Was Only Partial

“The blind man looked up, and said, I see men as trees, walking. After that He put His hands upon his eyes; and he saw every man clearly.” — Mark viii. 24, 25.

And so Christ made an abortive effort! Surely this is a startling supposition! Whyshould the first experiment have failed of full success, have revealed only “men like trees, walking” I could understand a human operator falling short of perfection in his first attempt, but not Jesus. Why should not His mandate, “Let there be light!” have been followed by an instantaneous clearness of vision? Because an instantaneous clearness was not desirable. Christ’s imperfect cure was not a failure; it was part of the plan. If I could restore the sight of a blind man, I would, in his interest, do it at the evening time. I should fear the effect of an immediate transition from dense darkness to full light. Too much light may have the same effect as too little; it may unfit the eye for its environment. This restraint of revelation on Christ’s part was an exceeding kindness. Nowhere in this act did His love shine so conspicuously as in the moderation of His power. He felt that for this man the light must come at evening time. Daylight would appal him, overw’helm him, paralyse him — would undo the cure at the moment of its accomplishment. There must for him be a twilight experience. The angel of light must descend at the setting of the sun. Not in full-orbed splendour must the vision burst upon his view, but slowly, gently, step by step, till the eye has been trained to its surroundings, and the heart has been acclimatised to the new glory.

Even so, O Lord, Thou openest the eye of my spirit! Thou hast not granted me a revelation of the full-orbed glory. Thou hast unveiled my sight only at the setting sun; Thou hast said, “At the evening-time there shall be light!” I thank Thee for this first imperfect vision. The full day would be too much for me. Thou hast many things to tell me which I could not bear as yet. How many things which, in manhood, are my glory would, in youth, have been my sorrow! I bless Thee that Thou hast trained me by twilight. If I saw the sudden splendour of the meridian sun, I might cry out with horror. Thine ideal of heaven might not yet be mine. Mine may be still a Mohammedan paradise. I may not be ready to see the Cross in the midst of Thy streets of gold. I may not be ready to behold the Lamb of sacrifice in the midst of the sapphire throne. I may not be ready to accept the servant’s form as the climax of heavenly glory. Therefore I am glad that so softly Thou art lifting the veil. I am glad that to me the evening has come before the morning. I am glad that the first opening of the eyes has been so partial, so incomplete. I am glad that from the summit of my Pisgah I have not a full vision of the promised land. I thank Thee, O Lord, for the mist upon the hill.