The Unexpected Door of Revelation

A voice came out of the cloud.’” — Marx ix. 7,

OF you had been standing on the Mount of Transfiguration you would have said, “Here

at last I shali have a revelation from the silent heaven.” You would have felt in looking round that there was hardly a single door through which that revelation might not come. You would have expected it from the glittering garments. You would have looked for it from the shining face. You would have anticipated it from the two celestial visitors. You would have been prepared to receive it from the audible words of communion between the two worlds. You would have said, “There is only one little corner where I expect a shut door; I see a tiny cloud covering a bit of the blue.” Now, what is

the real state of the case? In the whole of that mountain scene there was only one object which became the avenue for revelation — it was the tiny cloud! None of the likely things became a medium. The white garments said nothing. The shining countenance revealed nothing. The celestial visitors brought nothing. The converse of heaven and earth explained nothing. But the cloud — the despised cloud — the rejected cloud — the cloud that seemed to throw a damper on the scene — that was the thing which spoke, that was the thing which revealed the glory of the Son of Man! Nobody would now deny that it is the cloud which has revealed Christ’s glory; our watchword is not the shining of His countenance, but the shadow of His Cross. Yet not of Christ alone has the symbol proved true; the voice to you and me has come from the cloud. What reveals our higher birth? Is it the shining garment of our mountain moments — the triumphs of reason, the discoveries of science, the achievements of art, the advances of music? Not these. Is it the increase in the power of human converse — the marvels of steam and electricity? Not these. Is it the possession of tabernacles of gold — the trappings of wealth, the homes of luxury, the gardens of pleasure? Not these. It is our cloud that reveals our origin. It is our wants that prove our birth. It is our thirst that betrays our aristocracy,

It is the rent in our garment that shows how we in the body are not at home. We have torn our garb because it is too small for us; our cloud has made our parentage clear.

I thank Thee, O Lord, for the void places in my heart; they reveal more than does the furniture. I see Thee nearest where I am not filled; it is the empty air that gives me wings. All my treasures have come from the shadow. My faith needs the fog. My prayer needs the precipice. My trust needs the tempest. My sympathy needs the sacrifice. My mercy needs the miserable. My truth needs temptation. My pity needs painfulness. My peace needs powers opposing. My spotlessness needs contact with a stain. How could I hope if there were no haze! — hope would be lost in certainty. How could I be patient if there were no perils ! — patience would melt in fruition. How could I be charitable if there were no cheerless ! — charity would fade in wastefulness. How could I feel immortal if there were no insufficiency ! — earth would be then my fitting rest. It is on the wings of weakness I fly to Thee. It is in the days of darkness I cry to Thee. It is in the sense of sinfulness I sigh to Thee. My gem lies in my conscious degeneracy; I discern my origin when I recognise the dust. The ring and the robe may welcome me back, the music and the dancing may greet my return; but it is the famine that tells me I am wandered, it is the sense of the swine-husks that brings me home.