Spiritual Vision

“Open thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy law.” — PSALM cxix. 18.

‘INHERE is a baronial castle in our country lost in the bosom of a hoary wood, that stands, in its lonely desertion, a picture of the family whose arms are still seen on its mouldering walls, and whose fortunes have fallen into a like decay. Many a wild legend is told about this old pile by the country people around their hearths on the long nights of winter. They say that strange sounds, now cries of violence, and now peals of laughter, are still heard in these dismantled halls, and that belated travellers have seen a female form, in antique attire, walking in the moon light on the mossy lawn, or gazing out of these empty windows — one whose crimes deny her poor bones the rest of the grave.

Among other strange things, they tell an incident which is not only credible, but true. It befell one generation of the family that, to the inexpressible disappointment and grief of his parents, the eldest child, their son and heir, was born deaf; sadder still, so was the next; the third, also — one deaf mute succeeding another, till the cradle, where no lullaby was sung, and the nursery, where no merry laughter mingled with the pattering of little feet, were like the hand of an avenging Providence. The story goes that, after this, at the birth of each succeeding child, the father, devoured by anxiety, and impatient to know the best or worst, was wont to enter the natal chamber, and, while he turned a look of dread on his infant, to discharge fire-arms close by its ear. He sought to know, by its stillness or sudden start, whether the curse still hung over his house. Unhappy man! Yet still more unhappy father, all whose children are born blind! Unless to see them all lying around in their shrouds, a more touching sight you cannot fancy than a whole family stone-blind, from the eldest to the infant that sits prattling on a mother’s knee — as unconscious of its misfortune as one that, brought to receive a mother’s last embrace, smiles in her face, or one that laughs as she presses it to her bosom when their ship, taking the last lurch, is going down into the deep. Keenly alive as we are to the evils of a bodily infirmity, and ready, like the woman in the Gospel, who spent all that she had to be healed, to pay any money to cure a child’s blindness, or to suffer any operation to remove our own — such a sight would sadden us. And it is sad to think, leaving the regions pf fancy for facts, that there are a million of our fellow-creatures blind, many of whom never saw the sun, nor saw a father’s face, nor were ever cheered by a mother’s smile. Yet, were we as sensible to spiritual as to natural evils, we should feel that a far greater calamity lies on us, and on our children. It may give us no trouble. Blind ourselves, we may be as insensible to their wants as to our own. Still, there is no parent who may not say of his child what they said to whose son our Saviour had imparted sight — “We know that he was born blind.” Blindness to the things of the spiritual world lies by nature on us all. Hav ing eyes, we see not, and ears, we hear not; therefore, unless we would miss the way to heaven, and go stumbling over into hell, what need have we to go to Jesus with this prayer, Open thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy law.

I. We are all born spiritually blind.

When Samson, too confident in himself, ventured on temptation, he fell into the snare of the Philistines. As if ignorant, that, to use the words of Solomon, “A whore is- a deep ditch, and a strange woman is a narrow pit,” he trusted his paramour; and disclosing the secret of his mighty strength, was shorn of his locks. She sold him; and he had nothing else to expect at such hands. The loss of vigour follows loss of virtue; and he, like others from whom the Lord has departed, became an easy prey to his enemies. With no pity for fallen greatness, they triumphed over their once dreaded foe, heaping insults on his head. But his locks might grow again, and strength return to the broad shoulders over which they fell like a lion’s mane? In that case he may escape; and once free, burning with rage and breathing vengeance, woe to Delilah, to her house and people! They took effectual means to prevent this. They put out his eyes — with these quenching their own fears and their prisoner’s hopes. And see the strong man now! poor, blind, helpless; once the terror of men, and now the laughing-stock of women; as a drudge, a slave, sunk to the meanest condition; bound in fetters, he grinds his masters’ corn — his associates the lowest felons, his home a common prison, and his lot made more bitter by self-reproach, by remorse, by the memory of former greatness, of happiness and honour exchanged for exile and captivity..

What a picture of misery! and further, what a picture of man! a mirror where unconverted men, had they eyes to see, might behold, not Samson, but themselves in Samson. Was he taken captive of the Philistines? — so are they of their vices. Did he pass his days in the service of his enemies 1 — slaves of Satan, they serve one who, in the words of David, hates them with cruel hatred. Was he bound in fetters of brass? — what are fetters of brass or iron to the chains of the drunkard, of the licentious, of the miser, of the lover of this world 1 Was he blinded as well as bound? — so are they. “Eyes have they, but they see not;” “the god of this world,” as St Paul ’ says, “hath blinded the minds of them which believe not;” they are insensible to their state. But here fails the parallel. Samson felt his degradation keenly; longed for liberty; poured many a tear from those sightless eyes; strained at his chain; groped about to find a door of escape; cursed his folly; hated the thought of Delilah, and would, I believe, have struck her down had she come within his reach. How different the poor sinner! He hugs his chain, and delights in the vices that enslave him; to Christ’s cry, Behold, I have set before thee an open door, he does not leap up, but turns away his ear; and, as if he had lost his sense as well as his sight, in prison, in captivity, in misery, awaiting a dreadful doom, he says, “I am rich, and increased with goods, and have need of nothing,” at the very time God is saying, “Thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked.”

When man lost his innocence, he lost also his sight. Blindness is the effect of sin. Hence the appropriateness of the figure, so common in Scripture, which compares sin to leprosy — that foulest and deadliest of diseases. At its first appearance but a small spot on the brow, it spreads betimes over all the body; covering its victim with a universal sore, and eating its way at length into the very seat of life. Isaiah’s picture of a man or nation sunk in sin was no fancy sketch. A leper stood for this portrait; “the whole head is sjck, and the whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness in it; but wounds, and bruises, and putrefying sores.” As this hideous malady extends its ravages, the fingers and toes and limbs rot off, till little else remains but a mutilated trunk; within which, the eyes also eaten out, the miserable victim drags on a wretched existence in total, hopeless blindness. Even so sin affects the whole man, and destroys the image of God, as a cancer does the beauty of the sweetest face and finest form — making us as loathsome as once we were lovely in the sight of God and holy angels. Proud man may revolt from the portrait; but that does not prove it to be exaggerated. It is not untrue, because it is abhorrent. Abhorrent? who ever got their eyes opened to see themselves but they abhorred themselves — saying, with one who was no profligate or prodigal, but the best and most upright of men, even Job himself: “I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eye seeth thee: wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.”

II. Leaving now the cause, let us consider some of the characteristics of this blindness.

Blindness deprives its subjects of many pleasures which God’s goodness lavishes on us, and, through our eyes, pours into our hearts. To them the sun has no brightness; the meadow no gay flowers; the great vault of heaven no stars; and, worst of all, the faces that are beaming love on them are blank, without expression. In heaven the saints have no night, but on earth the blind have no day; only darkness; night unchanging, endless night.

Blindness makes the condition of its subjects one of painful dependence. Without his eyes, Samson was more helpless than the child who, holding his big hand, led him forward to make sport in the crowded theatre. We cannot but pity the helpless blind j yet how often is our pity misplaced? Touched by his sorrows, the women of Jerusalem wept for Jesus j yet had more cause to weep for themselves. Our blood boiling with indignation at the story of his cruel wrongs, we demand freedom for the slave; and yet may be greater slaves ourselves than one whose limbs are manacled, but whose soul is free. And on some who regard them with gentle pity, the blind, enjoying heaven’s light within, might turn their sightless balls to say with Jesus, Weep not for me, but weep for yourselves. Oh, what blindness so deep, so dark, so incurable, so miserable, so fatal, as that of sin 1 as yours, unless you have been brought from death to life — out of darkness into marvellous light 1 And yet so general is spiritual blindness, that” darkness covereth the earth, and gross darkness the people.’5

Blindness exposes its subjects to deception. Look into that tent where, with head silvered and eyes dimmed through age, an old man sits, as with trem bling hands he bestows the blessing on a son who eyes him with cunnjng look, and to his suspicious touch offers neck and arms masked with a borrowed skin.

190 Spirittial Vision.

The voice is Jacob’s, but the hands are Esau’s; and so, lulling Isaac’s suspicions, and passing for the elder brother, the younger takes cruel advantage of the old man’s blindness, to steal a brother’s birthright and a father’s blessing. A case of theft, the basest, and most cruel, that crime dogged the good man’s heels through life, onward to his grave! Yet, in its direful consequences this foul trick is not to be mentioned with the deceptions which the devil practises on men. Taking advantage of their blindness, their cruel enemy passes himself off as a friend — forsooth the friend of sinners. Believe the smiling fiend, and he would not hurt you, but rather minister to your happiness; you shall not surely die; life has time to sin now and repent afterwards; nor is God the just, righteous, and exacting judge your fears and your ministers represent. And thus Satan makes thousands believe that all is right, that the path they tread is one of safety, when all the while, step by step, down, but gently down, he conducts his blind, deluded, singing, dancing, joyous victims on to the brink of ruin, and to that last, fatal step which plunges them into hell.

Again, blindness exposes us to danger. Provided the monster does not growl, a blind man will walk right into a lion’s den. Though scared by the flood whose hoarse and angry roar warns him back, he will step into a dark and silent pool. He will linger on the sands around which the tide is stealing, till the waters wash his feet; and, all retreat cut off by deep lagoons, he has no answer to the friendly voices of the shore but the words of one who died in despair, Too late, too late! Shew a child a flower of brightest hues, heedless as childhood is, he plucks it not, but starts back in horror — his eyes have met those of a serpent, gleaming from out its painted leaves. But, tempted by its fragrance, the blind man stoops to pluck, and stung, he dies — he scented the odour, but saw not the serpent. A blind man will starve with bread within his reach; parched and perishing with thirst, he will pass the well that invites his lips to drink; drowning, with a rope thrown within his grasp, and the cries of eager voices in his ear, Lay hold of life! he will sink into a watery grave — lost, when he might have been saved. Such is the case of the unconverted! Who so blind as sinners 1 May God open their eyes! Oh, if they saw the hatefulness of sin and the beauty of Jesus, the danger of their souls and their great need of salvation, if they were other than blind, stone-blind, how would they pause in their career; and like one who, the mist suddenly opening to reveal his true position, starts with horror to see his feet on the dreadful brink, the very edge of a precipice, how would sinners, with eyes open to the greatness of their jeopardy, turn at the cry God is now sounding in all our ears, Turn ye, turn ye from your evil ways; for why will ye die, O house of Israel!

III. The eyes of the blind being opened, they behold wondrous things out of the law of God.

There was an eminent philosopher who had devoted a lifetime to the pursuits of science, and not, as he thought, in vain. She had crowned his brow with laurels, and inscribed his name in the temple of fame. In the evening of his days, at the eleventh hour, God was pleased to call him, open his eyes, convert him; and now, he who was deeply read in science and conversant with its loftiest speculations, as he bent his gray head over the Bible, (the law spoken of in the text,) declared that, if he had his life to live over again, he would spend it in the study of the Word of God. He felt like a miner, who, after toiling long and to little purpose in search of gold, writh one stroke of his pick-axe lays open a vein of the precious metal and becomes rich at once — the owner of a vein that grows the richer the deeper the mine is driven. Such a treasure the Bible offers to those whose eyes God has opened to its wonders of grace and glory. It is inexhaustible. The further, leaving the shore with its sounding beach and shallow waters, you go out to sea, the deeper it grows; the higher you climb a hill, the wider grows the prospect of rolling land, and liquid plain; the deeper, at least in some instances, the shaft is sunk into the bowels of the earth, richer minerals reward your labour. Even so, the further and the longer we pursue our investigations into divine truth, and study the Bible, the more it grows in interest and in value. The devout Christian discovers new beauties eveiy day. We never tire of its pages; at every new reading we make new discoveries, and its truths are always as fresh as new-blown roses which nobody ever tires smelling, as each morning brings them out blushing red and bathed in dew. Only let a man’s eyes be opened, and such wondrous things will be seen in the Bible that he would part with all his books rather than with that, esteeming it better not only than any, but than all of them, and deeming those his best hours of study which were spent in exploring the mysteries and mercies of redeeming love. Some may regard this as little better than raving. With Bibles, to use Whitfield’s words, on whose dust you might write damnation, put aside for the newspaper or the novel, they have no sympathy with this. How can they have 1 In the words of the prophet, They seeing, see not; and hearing, they hear not; neither do they understand. The ancients tell of one who played such exquisite music, that his skill drew the birds from the sky, even serpents from their holes; and gathered round him in strange companionship and silent wonder the wild beasts of the field and forest. Suppose this were no fable, and that, lyre in hand, Orpheus were to walk our streets; stopping the rushing tide of men and business, as the waters were stayed in Jordan’s bed. These notes fall on the ears of the deaf as on those of the dead; the mute passes by, let the charmer charm never so wisely — his only wonder what arrests the gaping crowd, or what they see to admire in these ringers that run up and N

down the strings. He thinks, as people with no musical ear are inclined to do, on seeing an assembly thrown into raptures by some grand melody, that, as Felix said of Paul, and the world is apt to say of sincere and ardent Christians, they are mad — beside themselves.

Now, as the deaf have no sympathy with those that hear, the blind have none with those that see. On the wall of a church, for example, in a foreign town, there hangs a wonderful painting of Christ’s last hours on the cross; with a countenance full of love, of the deepest awe, and greatest sorrow, John is gazing on the spectacle, while our Lord’s mother, supported by Mary Magdalene, lies fainting at his feet. On the curtain being rolled up that covers it, you cannot speak; you cannot take off your eyes; you forget the painter in the painting; and some such emotions of awe, pity, and wonder take possession of you as seized on the centurion, who feeling the earth quake, and hearing the cry of Calvary, declared as he left the scene, Truly this was the Son of God. Yet take one of the blind mendicants who, cap in hand, beg by that old cathedral door, and set him before the picture; unveil its wonders before his sightless eyeballs; and he stands as unmoved as the cold, hard, stony pillar on which the canvas hangs. Or, from the works of man, take the blind out to those of God. Guide him by the shore when the ocean shines like a silver mirror, or long white lines of breakers curl and foam on the sands, or the billows, swelling as they roll and bursting with the roar of thunder, fling themselves in sheets of snow on the rugged cliffs; or lead him forth on a winter night, when a thousand stars are sparkling in the frosty sky; or take him on a summer day to the meadow carpeted with flowers of every form and the richest hues: he sees no wonders; not he! He only marvels at your admiration, and is disposed, as the world deals with those whose delight is in the word and service of God, to set you down for a hypocrite or a fanatic, a liar or a fool. You are neither. There are stars in heaven and flowers on earth. The man does not see them, because he is blind; and so are we, if we have no relish for the Word of God, nor see any gracious and glorious wonders there.

Open a blind man’s eyes. With what amazement, admiration, happiness, overflowing joy will he gaze, nor tire gazing, on all above and around him, from the sun blazing in heaven to the tiniest flower that springs in beauty at his feet! And let God open a sinner’s eyes, the Bible will seem to him a new book, and he seem to himself a new creature. Wonders! He will see his heart, and wonder at its wickedness. He will see the Saviour, and wonder at his love. He will see how God has spared him, and wonder at his long-suffering. He will see sin in its true colours, and wonder he could love a thing so vile and so detestable. He will see his own righteousness as treacherous sand, and wonder that he could have trusted to anything so bad. He will set salvation as the one thing needful, and wonder he could have taken a night’s rest, ventured to close his eyes in sleep, till he had found peace with God. He will see the King in his transcendent beauty, and wonder, as he throws himself at Jesus’s feet, that all the world does not do so — that all men do not go after him, saying, as he does, Jesus, thou art all my desire. Whom have I in heaven but thee 1 and there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee. Thou art chiefest among ten thousand,[and altogether lovely!

IV. God only can open our eyes.

We need sight as well as light. Unless our eyes are opened, the Bible is of no more use to us than a lantern to a blind man in a dark night, and on a dangerous road — of no more use to us than a guide book in Russian, Chinese, Arabic, or any other to us incomprehensible tongue — of no more use to us than the way-post, with painted finger pointing out the path to that blind beggar, who, with head erect and careful steps, comes on in the leading of a dog. To shew the pass, we raise cairns of weathered stones on our Highland hills, and when the way was lost, and hope with strength was sinking, as they caught sight of the rude pile looming through the mist, or rising black above the levelled snows, many have blessed the hands that raised the cairn; they owe their life to it. Abroad, among the Alps, Christianity there, modifying a custom older than itself, they substitute crosses for cairns; and where the road, leaving the gay and smiling valley, climbs into the realms of eternal win ter, or is cut out of the face of precipices, down which one false step hurls the traveller into a gorge where the foaming torrent seems but a silver thread, tall crosses stand. And so, when the path is buried in the drift that spreads a treacherous crust over yawning crevice and deadly crag, he, by keeping the line of crosses, braves the tempest, and walks safely where otherwise it were death to venture. But set a blind man on such a road, and he never reaches home; the earth his bed and the snow his shroud, he sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. Now, there is a cross that points out man’s way to heaven. But unless the eyes that sin sealed are open — have been opened by God to see it, and all the way-marks that mercy has set up to that happy home — our feet shall “stumble upon the dark mountains,” and we shall perish for ever.

God only can do this. Hence to him David directs the prayer of my text; and also this — Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death. Men use instruments to restore sight, and nowhere does surgery achieve a nobler triumph, or bestow greater blessings on mankind, than in yonder theatre, where skill and a steady hand, cut into the sightless balls; and man, opening a way for the light of heaven, imitates Christ in his divine works of might and mercy — pouring light into the blind man’s eyes, and joy into the blind man’s heart. God also uses instruments — his instrument the word, his agent the Holy Spirit. By these, working faith in men, and renewing them in the spirit of their minds, he has often answered, and is now ready to answer the prayer, Open thou mine eyes.

Let me illustrate the effect of this by three examples —

First, Look at Balaam. He is urging forward a restive and unwilling steed, as unconscious of danger as many who, in the pursuit of money or pleasure, are driving headlong on ruin. Wincing under its rider’s blows, why will the beast not go forward? Why does she back and plunge 1 Balaam sees no danger ahead, nothing on the dusty path, but the flickering sun beams, or the shadows of the vines that trail along the walls. What makes the obstinate, unruly brute run his limb against the wall, and bring down on its own head a shower of angry blows? Nothing that Balaam sees, till the Lord, as the Bible says, opened his eyes; and then and there, right in front of him, bestriding the narrow path, stands an angel, a sword glittering in his hand. And let God open a sinner’s eyes, and how he would stare and tremble to see a sight more terrible — Justice, armed with the terrors of the law, barring his way to heaven. Learning, then, that by the deeds of the law no man living shall be justified, the poor soul gladly welcomes a despised, rejected Saviour, and falls at his feet, to cry, Lord, save me, I perish.

Secondly, Take a second case of divine illumination. A poor outcast, a wanderer in the thirsty desert, Hagar, whose sins have brought this misery on her head, has laid Ishmael down behind a bush to die. She can submit to her own death, but not see his; nor hear the cry, Water, mother, water! that comes faintly from his blackened lips. With nothing over her but a burning sun, nothing around her but glowing sands, and with the wind of that desert on her cheek like the breath of a fiery furnace, she retires out of earshot of Ishmael’s moans, and sits down to die. In that hour of her extremity, of dark and deep despair, there comes a voice. She lifts her head, and, listening, hears it say, “What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is. Arise, lift up the lad!” — and at the same moment there falls on her ear the blessed sound of bubbling water. God opens her eyes; and there a spring, inviting her to drink, is welling up from the burning sands. And let God open the eyes of any one who, amid terrors of conscience, feels ready to perish, and in the gospel, which before seemed so barren of pleasures, at the foot of the cross, and within his own soul, he will find “a well of water springing up into everlasting life.”

Take another example. Alas, my master! how shall we do? is the cry of Elisha’s servant, as he rushes into the house with pale terror in his face The Syrian host, by a forced night-march, has reached their city, encompassing it like a wall; and he has seen the morning sun glitter on swords, and spears, and the terrible array of war. Calm and self-possessed, his master answers, Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them. With us! the servant might ask, — who are with us? Where are they 1 The prophet prays, and in answer to his prayer, the Lord opens his servant’s eyes. Now, as if they had started from the bowels of the earth, or every bush and every tree had suddenly changed into a flaming, celestial form, Behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha! And when memory has called up a believer’s sins, and a sense of guilt has been darkening into despair, and Satan and his hosts, issuing from the pit, and drawn out in battle array, seem to have cut him off from escape, and he has been ready to cry, with Elisha’s servant, Alas, my master, how shall I do? how has the Spirit of God flown to his help; and with eyes opened on the fulness, grace, mercy, pardon, and power we have in Jesus, how has he felt that, with God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit on his side, They that are with him are greater than all that can be against him.