The Christian Revelation of Providence

Revelation iii. 8

“I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it” are the words in which St. John describes the providential government which man is to look for in the new order. It is not a promise; it is the revelation of a fact already accomplished. Let me remark at the outset how singularly appropriate is the symbol in which the message comes. The words are addressed to Christianity’s youth. What youth wants before all other things is an opening. 1 he expression has become almost proverbial. Every young man wants an entrance into life. You will observe, it is an entrance that he desires. It is not a door of escape which is sought; it is a door of usefulness. 1 he idea is not that of a

35 captive, desirous to get out; it is that of a free man, eager to get in — to get utilised for some service. That was the position of Christianity’s youth, as of all youth. Its first days were not days of bondage, but of irksome liberty — days when it was simply ignored as a cipher, as a nobody. The original cross which Christianity had to bear was not persecution, but neglect Its primitive penalty was to be left alone, to be left outside. It saw others enter into the kingdom — the Roman kingdom; it envied them in ceasing to be free. Its pain was its long holiday — the fact that no man had hired it. It longed to have a work to do for the kingdom, to be sharer in the common chain. St. John’s misery in Patmos was not the fact that the sea shut him in, but that the sea shut him out. He could have borne the mill bravely if it had not been a tread-mill — a mill that ground nothing for anybody. His hardships were not greater than those of any Roman soldier; but they were less productive. That was their sting, that was their victory. The sea of Patmos was the symbol of that difficulty which besets all youth — the barrier to an entrance into the real world.

Now, under these apparently gloomy circumstances, observe the extremely scientific character of St John’s theory of Divine Providence. He never for a moment evokes the aid of supernatural interference. It is not even to a second advent that he looks for the putting of things right. This would have been after the manner of his countrymen; the Jew hoped all things from the direct interference of God. But St. John’s view is that, so far as Christianity is concerned, there is no need of such interference. To his eye, the seeming dead lock is a delusion. To all appearance there is a solid wall blocking the way; but in reality there is a breach in it. If you could only get near enough, St. John says you would find that instead of being continuous it has a break in the middle. The idea suggests the feeling one experiences in sailing up some of our Scottish lochs. We often see before us what seems to be the end of the journey — the necessary end. In front of us stretches an apparently unbroken line of hills, right in the face of future progress. “The vessel will have to turn,” we say. But as we approach the barrier there breaks upon us a wondrous revelation. The solid mass seems to part asunder. In reality it was never united. That which in the distance appeared continuous, reveals a pass between; and, in the very spot which once seemed to present an interposed barrier, there is stretched a channel of communication with regions far away. The vessel is not arrested, is not diverted from its goal. It finds an exit at the very point where it expected to meet a terminus, and the scene of its threatened extremity becomes the place of its emergence.

One could almost imagine that a simile analogous to this was floating before the eyes of the seer of Patmos when he proclaimed to the old world his doctrine of Divine superintendence. Proclaimed as it was to the old world, perhaps the first thing which impresses us about it is its intense modernness. There is not a trace of anything ancient in the utterance. Brief as the words are, they are wonderfully comprehensive. They are full of demarcation lines. They mark off St. John’s theory from all other theories on the subject. It seems to me that they specially distinguish it from three other views which are apt to enter into our computation of the universe — the fatalistic, the unnatural, and the accidental. Let us glance at each of these.

And first, I would observe that St. John’s view of Providence is distinct from fatalism. This is brought out, I think, by the designed indefiniteness of the revelation. The door which is opened is not revealed. What is really said is: “There is an opening for you somewhere — a door.” It is not intended that the Christian should fold his hands in the hope of a coming destiny. The motive of the statement is precisely the reverse. What St. John says is: “You do not know at what particular point or angle your opportunity is coming. You see in advance of you no aperture by which you can make your entrance into the world. None the less, the aperture is there. It is your distance that prevents you from seeing it. You will never see it till you go near. It is situated some¬ where in the very middle of the seemingly continuous wall. Do not be arrested in your march by the sight of that wall. Do not ask a revelation of the aperture in advance. You are not promised to-day your bread for to-morrow. The question for the hour is, not whether you have sight enough to see the aperture in the wall, but whether you have strength enough to approach the aperture without seeing it. You are distressed about your capabilities for to-morrow: have you the capability to reach to-morrow? Have you strength to take the intervening steps between you and your barrier? Have you strength for the one day that divides you from it, for the one hour that divides you from it, for the last five minutes that divide you from it? Have you strength to take the one remaining step that intervenes between you and your seeming interruption? Then, in God’s name, let that step be taken. Go up to the obstacle; put out your hand and touch it. And lo! it will recede before your touch. It will reveal in the middle an ivory gate and golden. And the gate will prove to be unlocked, unshut; it will swing back upon its hinges, and you will enter in — will find pasture in the very spot where you thought to be confronted with barren ground.”

All this is the extreme opposite of fatalism. Fatalism is the passiveness of the mind in the presence of destiny; this is the passive¬ ness of destiny in the presence of the mind. Fatalism says, “There is a door open for me; I need not work;” this says, “There is a door open for me; I must work to find what it is.” Fatalism is the reverence for an unknown event which is to happen some¬ where, somehow; this is the reverence for every event of the world. You will see how it must be so. I am to find my door by seeking; for all I know, any spot may be the spot. I am bound to walk with un¬ covered head through the universe. It is to me as to Abraham In the days of his first journeying. He sought a land of promise, but he had no idea where it was. What did he do under these circumstances? He put up an altar wherever he went. He did not know where the consecrated spot might be; accordingly he consecrated every spot, on the chance of its being the favoured one. In point of fact he proved right; he was in the promised land all the time. But had it been otherwise, it would still have been his only course, as it is yours and mine. We must build our altars, not to an unknown God, but to an unknown place. We must impute to every scene our possible destiny. We must feel the solemnity of a street-cross¬ ing, of a chance visit, of an evening party. We must accept our call to commonplace, yea, to irksome duty, as a possible call to the ivory gate. We must bow to the unseen issues of the exchange, the counting-house, the workshop. We must remember that every stroke of life’s oar is carrying us farther than we dream of, and therefore we must allow each stroke to alternate with a prayer. All this is the reverse of fatalism.

The second view of the universe to which St. John’s message forms a sharp antithesis is what I have called the unnatural, by which I mean the theory which favours an interruption in the ordinary course of nature. The point in which St. John’s message diverges from this view lies in the words, “I have set before thee a door which is opened.” This is the most direct translation, and it is suggestive. It implies that there is no need of interposition in the working of the machine The course of nature, which here means the course of human history, already holds upon its line of rail the very opening Christianity requires. It is not even implied that origin¬ ally this door was opened for a Christian purpose. Rather the contrary. The strong point in the passage is not the opening, but the setting — the placing on the line where the opening happened to be. In point of fact, Christianity has been helped by what Mr. Gibbon calls secondary causes, what St. John calls previously open doors. The one means exactly the same as the other. Both signify that when Christianity came into the world it found already laid a certain line of transport — laid by human hands for secular ends, the product of selfish ambition, and the result of worldly conquest — but none the less the help of a life of whose coming it did not know, and the accelerator of a progress whose nature it did not contemplate.

Let me try to make my meaning clear. I have often been struck with the fact that every period of Christian development has been preceded by a period of gravitation towards a common centre. In other words, the most prosaic study of history will, I think, lead one to the conclusion that each special age of Christian outpouring has had for its forerunner a time of political unity — a time in which the earth has been drawn together as by a belt of contact. Of course no one will dispute that, when the Christian outpouring occurs at such a time, it receives from it a great advantage — an open door. But the remarkable thing is that it should occur at such a time — that I should throw the ball just when a common road is made. The striking feature about it, I should say the beautiful feature about it, is that it has all happened quite naturally — in fact, rather carnally. The common road has been made without any reference to Christianity. It has been made for human motives, in obedience to mechanical requirements, with a view often to sordid interests. It has no more connection with its goal, so far as man is concerned, than the selling of Joseph by his brethren had with his future good fortune; yet in the sequel it proves to be an open door. One or two illustrations will make this plain.

The empire of Alexander the Great conquered Judea, and united for a time the two most opposite nations in the world — the Greeks and the Jews. Then came the Romans, and conquered the empire of Alexander — Greeks and Jews alike. And now, the three great nations of the world were one nation — the Roman, the Jew, and the Greek. At that hour

Christ came. It was the fulness of the time for Him. Had He come a hundred years earlier, there would have been no common road. Had He come five centuries later, there would have been no common road. He stood before the tree just when the tree was ripe. Yet it was ripened by earthly suns, tended by human hands, cultivated by worldly motives. If to be natural is to be unprovidential, then a man might look at the spectacle and deny Providence, for it all happened quite naturally.

Again. At the beginning of the fourth century the world was very divided. Six emperors ruled the Roman State — rivals, mutual enemies. One of them conquered all the others. He conquered by purely physical weapons and for purely material gain. He was the only one of the six who had a leaning towards Christianity; but he kept the secret in his heart. There was no reason on the ground of Christianity why he of all the six should have united the world once more. But he did. The handle of the door was turned by earthly fingers. It opened in the ordinary course of history. None the less, it opened into Christ The physical conqueror of to-day was to be the avowed Christian of to-qiorrow He did not know it; humanly speaking, he did not win by it But when he did win, he became the example, not to a section of the community, but to a united empire. The man was Constantine.

Once more. In the first quarter of the sixteenth century Europe was almost dominated by the life of a single man — Charles the Fifth of Germany. His empire was vast in extent, greater still in influence. It comprehended, fully in theory and almost in fact, the greater part of the Continent. It reigned over Austria, the German principalities, the kingdom of Spain, the Italian States, the Netherlands; it had prostrated the power of France; it was in alliance with the policy of England. Never since the days of Constantine had the common road extended so far. Like Constantine’s road, it had all been constructed quite naturally. It had been cut by human subtlety, cleared by human ambition, smoothed by human craft. Yet it was to prove a medium of transmission for a very different force — a power whose motives and workings were intensely spiritual and supremely unworldly. It was on this road that Luther rose. The man came just at the hour. An hour earlier would have been too soon; an hour after would have been too late; the one would have found the road unmade, the other would have found it destroyed. As it was, that ball called The Reformation was thrown just at the right time. It struck the road when it was level, when it was continuous; and when it began to roll it rolled on. There had been set, before it an open door. The door had been opened for another purpose. When Abraham looked round he saw a ram behind him. It had not been created for the purpose of sacrifice. It had come into the thicket for its own sake, not for Abraham’s sake. It had been in search of its own bread for the day, not of Abraham’s nourishment for to-morrow. Yet it became Abraham’s door. Even thus naturally did the united Germar Empire of the year 1525 become the door of the Lutheran Reformation.

The third view of the universe which the message of St. John controverts is what I have named the accidental — the belief that things happen fortuitously. The antithesis to this opinion appears in the words “no man can shut it.” “Man” is here used in contrast to God — the opener of the door; he stands as the symbol for all external opposition. The idea is that no adverse movement from without can shut a door which God has opened. I say “from without.” All the writers of the Bible would have held very firmly that a man’s adverse will can shut his own door — the door God meant for him. “/ would, but ye would not” is the requiem on Jerusalem. The same thought appears again, I think, in that strange epitaph of the third evangelist: “Judas went to his own place.” He means that he chose his own door — not God’s door for him. God had opened a door for Judas — the entrance into an apostolic mission; he was elect according to the desire of heaven. But his own will was

4 towards another aperture. Our authorised version says he “fell by transgression”; and the English word singularly suits the fact. He stepped over the path; he crossed the street to avoid his opening; he went to his own place.

But, while a man’s own will may shut his door, St. John says that another man’s will cannot. This is also a favourite doctrine of the third evangelist Nay, he puts it even stronger. With him, every outside attempt to shut God’s door helps to open it wider. The finest illustration I know of his bent of mind is the remarkable passage Acts iv. 27: “Of

a truth against Thy holy servant Jesus, both Herod, and Pontius Pilate,... were gathered together, to do whatsoever Thy hand and Thy counsel determined before to be done.” Herod and Pilate, he says, came to shut the door, to close it effectually and for ever. What could close it so effectually as death? They said “Let Him die — this proposer of a new civilisation.” At that moment, St. Luke says, they opened the door to its widest. They sent Him the one gift which was to make Him, crown Him. They did the only thing which has made Him the Messiah. If they had proposed to enrol Him among the gods of Palatine they would, without meaning it, have, struck an adverse blow; when they sent Him to the cross, they prepared for Him His chariot “From this time forth shall ye see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.” “From this time forth” — from the hour of His humiliation, from the day of His death, from the night of His silence in the tomb. It is a mere matter of history, and would not be denied, even by an atheist, that the glory of Jesus has dated from His sufferings — from the attempt to shut His door. “He emptied Himself,” cries St. Paul, “therefore God has highly exalted Him, and given Him a name that is above every name.” Pilate and Herod meant to bury a body; unconsciously to themselves, they were planting a flower.

I have emphasised this point, not because it is illustrative, but because it is typical. Alike in the Old Testament and in the New the goal of Divine Providence is the advance¬ ment of the kingdom of Christ. If that goal has been achieved, not only in spite of, but by reason of, the things which were meant to interrupt it, it becomes more than an illustration, it is a vindication, of St. John’s message. Perhaps, too, from another quarter the verdict of modern life will be with St. John. It is the doctrine of scientific evolution that the world has reached its present attitude by reason of all the steps of the past — the waste as well as the fulness, the losses alike with the gains. Whatever height we have attained is the result of all the forces that have gone before. If I stand on a hill higher than the animal, it is because every circumstance of the past has made for that goal — the advances, the retardings, the going back, the standing still; the evening and the morning have alike contributed to make the one day. Such is the doctrine of modern science, even of the most negative science. And what does it amount to? To nothing less than the old aphorism of St. John, that no circumstance can shut a man’s door. There has been a struggle for survival, and thousands have fallen in the fight; but by the struggle, not in spite of it, I am what I am. There have been moments of regress; many have turned back, and the ranks have been greatly thinned; but by the thinning of the ranks I am what I am. Through devious roads, through contrary roads, through ways I never should have chosen, through paths I should have rejected beforehand, I have reached my open door. The key which has opened it is not all of gold. Like the image of Nebuchadnezzar’s vision, part of it was of gold, part of silver, part of brass, and part of clay. The clay might be called the adversary of the gold; yet the open door on whose threshold I stand to-day has been unlocked equally by every side of the key. I have come into my kingdom as much by the way of the thorns as by the way of the roses; the desert has contributed to make my promised land. That is the doctrine of modern science; that is the message of the seer of Patmos.