The Paradox of Christ’s Permanence

‘*T saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel.” — REv. xiv. 6.

HERE is to my mind a strange paradox in these words. It lies in the seeming contradiction between the word “fly” and the word “everlasting.” That which is flying or fleeting is commonly reckoned the opposite of that which is everlasting or permanent. The act of flight suggests mutability — change of sphere, alteration of environment. The angel whom St. John sees in the midst of heaven is not a stationary form; he is in continual movement; he is “flying.” And yet, in his hand there is something which is not moving — something which is constant, changeless, invariable — the everlasting gospel. How are we to account for this strange conjunction of opposite things?

By an appeal to experience. The test of all permanence is the shifting character of the surrounding scene. If you could imagine a land where the wind never blew, where the floods never rose, where the wing of bird never fluttered, where the foot of man or beast never trod, there would be no wonder in hearing that a scroll of paper had remained there in the same spot for years. But if you were told that the scroll of paper had remained while the wind was boisterous, while inundations were prevalent, while feet many and rapid were scouring the way, you would deem it a great marvel. And why? Because it would be the changeless amid the mutable, the permanent amid the fleeting, the abiding force amid a transition scene. That is the everlastingness which St. John saw in the gospel; that is the everlastingness which you can see this day. The Buddhist is older than the Christian; but his angel is not “flying.” His angel has no wings. Men are all dead in the land of the Buddhist. The heavens are windless, the seas are waveless, the hearts are pulseless. But my Christ is on the wave, my Christ is amid the storm. He is out on the troubled waters and is not drowned; He is wrapped in the fiery furnace and is not hurt. Buddha survives in Asia; Jesus persists in Europe. Buddha watches the sleepers; Jesus endures the wakeful. Buddha keeps the trees of the garden; Jesus keeps the hearts of the wayward. Buddha rests on a lake; Jesus walks on the sea.

Jesus, let me come to Thee on the waters! The only permanence I value is permanence on the waters. I have heard of the wonderful duration of buried cities — of Pompeii, of Herculaneum, of Nineveh. I do not value that permanence; they endure because the air is excluded, because friction is excluded. But I want something that can last spite of air, spite of friction, spite of resistance — something which can get through when the doors are shut. I can get many to abide with me under a sky of changeless blue. But when fast falls the eventide, when the darkness deepens, when change and decay in all around I see, then gods and men alike flee away. Not so Thou, my Christ! Thou goest not down with my sun, Thou goest — not back with my tide. I can say to other masters, “Abide with me in the desert”; to Thee I say, “Abide with me in the city.” I want Thee for the place where the angel is jJlying — where events move rapidly. I want Thee for changes of the day — for vicissitudes of the hour. I want Thee for my fleeting moments, my shifting scenes, my varying fortunes. I want Thee for my weakness and my weariness, for my trifles and my troubles, for my searchings and my sighings, for my pains and my perils, for my tempests and my tears. I want Thee for life’s transitions — from Cana to Calvary, from Bethlehem to Bethany, from Galilee to Gethsemane. I want Thee for the path which the Buddhist cannot tread; ‘Bid me that I come to Thee on the waters!”