Nain: The Interrupted Funeral
It was a summer day, and it was a lovely region. A long with His newly appointed attendants, the twelve Apostles, Christ had accomplished a considerable journey from Capernaum. They had reached the edge of that noble corn-field, the golden plain of Jezreel; and above them towered the copsy pyramid of Tabor — the leafiest hill in all the Holy Land. Jesus was well acquainted with the neighbourhood; for Narazeth was only a few miles distant, and perhaps He was even now renewing acquaintance with spots where, in the obscure bygone days, He had held blessed intercourse with His Father in heaven. The travellers had nearly reached a little hamlet, and were just making for the entrance, when they heard bitter cries, and knew at once that a funeral was approaching. Forthwith it issued from the gate. There was no coffin; but, wrapped in a linen shroud, all except the face, lay the body, and two bearers were carrying it along on a bier. The face was uncovered. It was the smooth forehead and sun-burnt countenance of a young man. The whole village came after. Some had torn their clothes, as a sign of their sorrow, and many were raising from time to time a melancholy wail: but by far the most affecting sight was the chief mourner. She was the dead man’s mother: and she was all alone in her sorrow. She had neither son, nor daughter, nor husband with her: for in yonder sepulchre she had already laid her husband, and on this bier now lay her only child. A pang of tenderness at once went through the Saviour’s bosom — a prophetic pang — for perhaps He thought of another widow who would feel like anguish at another funeral, when they would be burying “the only son” of His own mother. “When the Lord saw her he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.” And putting his hand on the bier, there was something in His aspect so majestic that the bearers instantly placed it on the ground; and as the procession was arrested and the shrieks of the mourners were suspended in astonishment, Jesus said — “Young man, I say unto thee, arise.” The word was as awakening as the archangel’s trumpet; for instantly he that was dead sat up: and like a man roused from a deep deep, and whose apartment has filled with visitors during his slumber, opening his eyes he began to ask where he was. But — as if to shew that the acknowledgment which He sought was a life of filial devotedness — Jesus delivered him to his mother; and, amazed at the miracle, the retinue of the Saviour and the villagers, no longer mourners, joined in exclaiming, “God hath visited his people: a great prophet is risen.”
1. Death is the great destroyer of happiness. It may have chanced to you to he visiting some beautiful domain, and when you had viewed the garden with its porticoes and terraces, and had lain for a while watching the antlered deer as they browsed beneath the oaks of the far-ctretching park, you could almost have envied the possessor of this paradise — when there broke on your ear the solitary toll of a church bell, and then another, and another: and looking up you saw issuing from the mansion and wending down the avenue a plumed and sable pomp, and you learned that the lord of the manor was carrying to the ancestral vault the coffin of his son and heir. Yes: it is all as beautiful as ever. You can see no cloud blot the sky. You perceive that the fountains still play, and the flowers still blossom, and the stag still crops the herbage: but if that chief mourner should notice them at all, they have lost all their lifesomeness and loveliness to him. He himself still lives, and he is still the lord of this domain: but to him the landscape has died — the glory has departed. There is crape upon the lawn; a sepulchral odour is wafted from the geraniums and roses; the knell from the steeple is repeated by the lark in the firmament and the cicada in the sod; the sunshine is cruel, and the sweet season is a mockery: and lie hates those Bteeds so jet and glossy, which pace along so proudly, and carry in the nodding hearse the hope of an ancient house, and the joy of the rich senator’s old age. So with this Hebrew matron. There was hardly a sweeter hamlet in all the Holy Land. There was no spot where the crops grew ranker or richer — none where more of peace and plenty smiled. And she fancied that she had once enjoyed it all; and what enjoyment she had was more than doubled by the society of another, whose kind word was ample compensation for many an hour’s hard toil — whose faintest smile would have made fair weather in the wildest winter day. But he had died, and he was buried: and what all besides was buried in his grave it is impossible to tell — so many pleasant schemes, so many fond domestic projects; yes, the fairest part of existence was buried there, for there was buried all the future. But something still was left; and coming back to her cottage she did not weep alone, for her boy, in his own childish way, would lay his head on her bosom and cry, because his father would come back no more. As she rose in the sleepless night, and in the moonlight bent over his cot, many a time she blessed God for her treasure, and prayed that he might live for e
And then as lie roughened into sturdier life, at his deeper tones she sometimes started as if at the return of a dear voice; and at his wayward speeches and wilful doings she was not utterly displeased, for they reminded her of his father’s ways. But that was all over now. There was no one to protect her from the people who devour widows’ houses — no one to say to the desolate mourner, “Weep not.” And so the cottage might be as comfortable as ever — the village might to-morrow put on its bright and busy face again — the balmy summer might float from the cool lake of Galilee to the ripe acres of Jezreel; but there was one heart which was likely to pass through the midst of it as dark as night, as dead as the sea-side stone.
And so to all of us death is the great damper. From many he has taken away the desire of their eyes, and though the world is still full of interesting objects, they feel as if they could never be enthusiastic any more. And others he fills with continual forebodings. When they are cheerful, and just beginning to be happy, they fetch a deep sigh and relapse into pensiveness; for they remember, that pleasant as this present is, by reason of death it cannot continue. And always suspecting a snake in the grass, poison in the cup; always, with bated breath and beating heart, listening to the rustle of the curtain, and expecting the assassin’s footstep on
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the floor, this king of terrors contrives to hold them in bondage all their days. And you are ready to regret the long measure meted to the old-world fathers. You say, If I may not live always, I wish I might live as long as Adam or Methuselah. I wish we had a thousand years to come and go upon. To have all our active, zestful, enjoyable existence condensed into twenty or thirty years; in less than that time to be left a widower or a widow; to follow to the grave the child who should have long survived us; to be scarcely ever out of mourning; and, what is even a pain more exquisite, to be hardly ever that you are not solicitous for some beloved object — tremulously watching the ebb and flow of strength, the flushing and the fading of the countenance; — what matters it that this little islet of existence has many a pleasant nook, when such a flood of sorrow on every side flows round it?
2. But if Death be the great destroyer of happiness, Jesus 13 the destroyer of Death. At His majestic movement the bearers instinctively stood still; but it was not in that procession only that a mysterious 1 Presence were recognised; the voice which said, “Young man, arise,” was heard as clearly in the invisible world as it was amidst that funeral company; and it was because a disembodied spirit heard that voice, and at once obeyed it, that where a dead corpse lay last moment there now leaped up a living
::i:in. To human observation it was only a common t; iveller who had arrived along the dusty road; but that traveller was “the Resurrection and the Life,” carrying at his girdle the keys of Death and Hades; and to Him it was as easy to recall to its forsaken tenement the departed soul, as it would have been to expel from that frame a disease or a demon. Obedient to His omnipotent behest, the spirit came again; the deep sob, the heaving chest, the expanding features, the disparting lips, the flashing eye, proclaimed the presence of the Prince of Life; and a transported mother and an awe-struck multitude announced the miracle complete.
How the dead will rise, and with what bodies they will come, we cannot tell; but this we know, that of all the souls which have passed away from their mortal shrines to the world of spirits, there is not one extinct, but that all in their own places are awaiting the hour when the voice of Jesus will again unite them to a materialism which each shall recognise as his corporeal companion, the former inlet of all his knowledge, and the familiar instrument of all his doings, good or evil. u All that are in their graves shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and shall come forth; they that have done good, to the resurrection of life; they that have done evil, to the resurrection of damnation.”
And in the meanwhile, there is a resurrection which
Jesus is effecting every day. Constantly does it happen that some soul dead in trespasses is quickened into a life of holy blessedness. There is a young man whose soul is dead. There is not in him one spark of the life of God. Like the young Galilean carried out by his sorrowing companions, he is “past feeling,” and incapable of all vital action. Like the sweet landscape which was utterly lost on those” sealed senses, all the precious promises, the beauties of holiness, the bright prospects of heaven, the fragrant name of Jesus, spread on every side; but this dead soul inhales nothing — this dead soul sees nothing. Like the grave-clothes that bound him, like the tomb with its stone portal which was soon to imprison him, this dead soul is tied and bound with the chain of sin, and is buried in the grave of its ungodliness; but it neither rebels at the fetters nor resents the weight of the tomb-stone. And like the unconscious clay which felt no sympathy with the weeping mother — which little surmised what sorrow its own deadness caused — and which needed to live again before it knew how much it was regretted, and how dearly it was loved — the soul dead in trespasses never dreams of that Father of spirits who bends over him a pitying eye, and who. were he now resuscitated, would exclaim, “Rejoice, for this, my son, dead, and is alive again!” But the Saviour tkfl the word. By some startling utterance or arresting Providence He stops the march of death —
He interrupts the sad journey to the gulf of souls. “Young man, I say unto thee, arise.” Yes, Jesus says it — Young man, rise. The soul is quickened. Sensation comes. Sin 13 felt. Its bond is burst. Perception comes. Holiness is seen to be beautiful exceedingly, and the character of God most majestic and most lovely. Vital action comes. Behold he prays. Behold he looks to Jesus. Hark, “he begins to speak!” He is confessing Christ before men. He is telling these young scholars about their Saviour and their souls. He is trying to prepossess for the gospel his companions and his kindred. He is ready to forsake his home, or to return and gladden it, precisely as Christ would have him do.
Where the soul is thus made living, death is effectually destroyed; for he who thus believes in Jesus shall never die. Like the r ‘mitive Church, who called the martyr’s first day in heaven his birthday, and always celebrated its return in bright apparel — if there were a family or a community, every member of which could shew his title u to a mansion in the skies” — how altered would be death’s aspect! — how softened the pang of parting! — how lightened the gloom of the funeral day! Then, instead of feeling ourselves like so many captives carried off by the inexorable corsair, and sent all apart to dissevered and far-distant shores, we should feel like exiles going home — like emigrants returning to their father-land; and though not permitted to return all in the same ship, yet well assured that, bound for the same port, vc shall, ere long, meet in the same Father’s house. 3. Observe how Jesus disposed of the resuscitated youth. It would have been natural to say, “Follow thou me.” It would have been fit and proper that Jesus should have carried in His retinue this trophy of His power; and that wherever He had gone He should have been attended by this living miracle. Nor could either the young man or his mother have grudged to their Benefactor such a sacrifice. But it was pity which prompted the interposition at first, and a generosity as graceful as it was gracious consummated this deed of mercy. “Moved with compassion,” Jesus had said, “Young man, arise;” and now that he who was dead had returned to life, Jesus u delivered him to his mother.” We can little doubt that both mother and son were henceforth grateful disciples; but the form in which the Saviour desired that the young man should exhibit his gratitude was dutiful devotedness to a widowed parent. And if he had been — as we may hope — an exemplary son before, surely now when he recalled the ministrations of his own last illness; n he recollected who it was that tended him so tally, and prepared each cordial so thoughtfully; n he remembered who it was that wiped his damp brow, and fanned the hot air, and kissed his parched lips so fondly, and, stifling her emotion, only let out the wildness of her grief when she fancied that it could no longer disturb his sealed senses; and when he thought of that recognition so resurrectionlike, and of the Saviour’s virtual charge, “Woman, behold thy son: Man, behold thy mother;” surely there would be a tenderness of attachment, and a minuteness of forethought, and a self-denial and self-sacrifice, in the home-life of that son, worthy of his wonderful history; and the man who, instead of preaching the Gospel, received it as a charge from his Saviour to cherish his mother, would surely be a paragon of filial piety.
There is no one in this world who has stronger claims on all that is holy in sympathy, and all that is delicate in kindne.-s, than one who is u a widow indeed;” and from the very fact, that till now she has had all the heavier cares carried, and all the rougher work done for her by another, she is often more helpless and forlorn than those who have fought life’s battle single-handed. And as the time when the stroke of God has fallen heaviest on the home — as that is the time which brings the vultures together — as it is the time when accounts already discharged are sent in to be paid a second time, when sleeping law-suits are revived, when demands the most exorbitant are made on one whose broken heart can offer no resistance, and whose very tears invite thorn to take all: oh! it is a noble sight when, foregoing the frivolities of youth, and exhibiting a wisdom and energy beyond his years, the boy becomes the man of business, and the father’s son steps forth as the mother’s champion, and drives off the ghouls who threatened to devour the widow’s house. Happy omen for the subsequent career of such high-hearted sons of youth, and for the comfort and honour of their own subsequent relations! Happy earnest that He who has annexed the first promise to the fifth command, and who, at Sarepta and at Nain, restored to life a widow’s only son, will not forget this work of filial love! Happy household where, as with “the mother of the Gracchi,” the family history includes a tale of filial heroism and maternal recompense!
Perhaps there may fall on these pages the eye of some youthful reader who has lately learned to love the Saviour; and you arc asking, What shall I render? What is there I can do to shew my gratitude to Him who gave Himself for me? And ibly you have thought of some great or arduous thing — the ministiy, a mission, the visitation of a district, the inauguration of a ragged school. Perhaps it may be His will that you should eventually embark in this; but, in the meanwhile, whether as a preparation for ulterior work, or as your life’s entire bestowment, it is His will that you “shew piety at home.” You love your parents; let them know it.
Give them your confidence; give them your society. Think occasionally of these two things — of what they have already done for you, and of what yon now may do for them. You sometimes make them little presents. Good; but remember what the gift is for which a parent’s soul most yearns: “My son, give me thine heart.” However much you may be taken up with more youthful associates, let them feel that every day, as your understanding expands, and your character confirms, you love them more and more. And should the shewing of that love involve some self-denial; should depression of spirits, should peculiarities of temper, should dim sight or dull hearing, should manifold infirmities or protracted feebleness impart a task-like complexion to the labour of love — behold in this a gauge of principle, a test of loyalty to your Lord in heaven. Here is your present mission; here is your immediate ministry; here is the best preparation for ulterior service, should such await you; nor need regrets surround the closing hour though life should end without a higher calling.
Dead, dead! that arm which steer’d the skiff
Through Galilee’s white surf; Lead, lead! that foot which chased the d«er
O’er Tabor’s bounding turf.
Beneath the rock the shepherd sings,
The turtle ’s in the tree;
Bat neither song cor summer greets
The silent land and thee.
March, march! the pale procession s*ingfc
With measur’d tramp and tread;
Wo, wo! yon gaping sepulchre
Is calling for the dead.
And bitter is the wail that weeps
The widow’s only joy,
And vows to lean her broken heart
Beside her gallant boy.
Halt, halt! a hand is on the bier,
And life stirs in the shroud;
Rise, rise! and view the Man Divine
Who wakes thee ‘midst the crowd.
And as the mother clasps her son
In awe-struck ec3tacy,
Turn thou thine eyes to Him whose word
Is immortality.
Home, home! to make that mother glad,
And recompense her tears;
Home, home! to give that Saviour-God
This second lease of years.
And when amidst a greater crowd
Thou hear’st that voice again
May rising saints see Jesus in
The widow’s son of Nain.