The Reticence of the Bible

“It doth not yet appear what we shall be.” — I John

III. 2.

What singular modesty on the part of an inspired man — of a man who lay on the very bosom of the Lord! “It doth not yet appear.” I should have expected such a man to say: “It all appears to me very clearly; I have a revelation from the Holy One which is denied to common m.en.” Mohammed said that; he gave a detailed description of heaven. Hundreds of visionaries have said that; they have seen the curtain lifted and the mysteries of God revealed. But the man who was nearer than all others to the Source of eternal life is content to say, “It doth not yet appear what we shall be “! I think this is a typical silence — typical of the whole Bible. Men often say that the evidence of the Bible is the things it tells us. Doubtless that is one evidence. But I have often thought there is another — the things it does not tell us. The speech of the Bible may be golden, but its silence is at least silver. Many a book professing to bring tidings from God would have mistaken imaginings for realities, would have published the dreams of the heart as the very descriptions of heaven. The Bible commits no such mistake. Its reticence is sublime — as sublime as that of the starry sky. Enoch speaks not in his translation moment. Elijah speaks not in his chariot of fire. Lazarus speaks not in his hour of resurrection. The child of Jairus speaks not on her bed of revival. The youth of Nain speaks not from his arrested bier. Moses alone does speak from beyond the grave; but it is not of the things beyond; it is of the things “to be accomplished at Jerusalem.*’

I thank Thee, O my Father, that the glory beyond does not appear. If it did I do not see how I could remain here, and live. I think a sight of Thy glory would paralyse me for earthly work. If my earthly work were done I should desire, I should require, a sight of Thy glory. But it is not done; I have my task to finish. And, having my task to finish, I am afraid of any message that would divert me from my task. I am afraid to get a sight of the streets paved with gold. I am afraid to catch a strain of the harps on the glassy sea. I am afraid to receive a breath of that air which brings no hunger, no cold, no oppression, no dying. I am afraid to get a sense of the littleness of time, of the smallness of the things for which men fret and strive. For I have still to transact these little things — still to frequent the exchange, still to seek the market-place, still to apply for the appointment, still to agitate for, the movement of the hour. I should not like these things to be too much overshadowed; I should not like to see their nothingness in the light of the world to come. Therefore, my Father, I bless Thee for the cloud; I praise Thee for the mist on the hill; I thank Thee that what I shall be does not yet appear.