In the Father's Hands

Here is infinite comfort in the triitli of the divine Fatherhood. The name Father carries in it a whole theology of joy and peace. If we accept it as a true revealing of the heart of God, we need not go farther in our quest after a definition of the divine Being, and an explanation of his relation to us and his interest in us. If he is indeed our Father, that is all we need to know. We require no proof that God loves us — if he is our Father that suffices. We need not ask for reasons when he seems to be dealing strangely with us — whatever the form of the providences may be, we know that love is the guiding principle and the great motive of all that he does. If he is our Father we do not need to be disturbed by life’s events, however

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they may break into our plans and seem to work us hurt.

It was Jesus Christ who revealed this truth of the divine Fatherhood. If he had taught the world nothing else, this alone would have made him the most wonderful Teacher that ever spoke from God to man. When he taught us to say “Our Father,” he brought God down close to us and opened the way for us to his heart of infinite love.

Life has its strange experiences for all of us some time. There come days when human reason can find nothing beautiful or good in what we are passing through. Everything seems destructive. We can see no love in the dark enigma. In such hours it gives us unmeasurable comfort to be able to say: “It is my Father, and he loves me and is making no mistake.” It was this confidence that sustained Christ himself in his darkest moments on the cross. In the inexplicable mystery of his suffering, when he could not see the face of his Father and felt as if he were even forsaken by him, his faith found assurance in what he knew of [216]

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the divine love. It was still “My God, my God.” The anchor held, and in a few moments more it was light again, and he said: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

The Master gives us the lesson for ourselves when he assures us that his Father has in his hands the care of our lives. “My Father is the husbandman,” he said to his disciples. The husbandman has entire charge of the vines. He understands them and knows how to care for them. He plants them where they will grow the best, looks after their culture, prunes them, and does for them whatever needs to be done. They are not left to grow without intelligent care.

When Jesus said “My Father is the husbandman,” he meant to tell his disciples that the care of their lives is in the hands of God, whose name is love. It is not intrusted to a being of only limited intelligence and only finite power and love. Still less is it chance that directs the events and shapes the circumstances of our days. That is what Atheism would have us [217]

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believe. “There is no God,” it says to us. “Things happen. There is no one at the centre of all things who thinks about you. There is no hand but the iron hand of law working in human affairs. There is no love, no heart, anywhere in the vast spaces, feeling, caring; no mind, planning good. The great machine of the universe grinds on, with resistless, relentless power, and what comes into your life comes as the result of this inflexible, undirected, loveless grinding.”

There is small comfort in this teaching. It never can give confidence and peace to any heart in the time of trouble. It suggests no comfort when all things appear to be against us.

But that is not what Jesus Christ teaches. The theory of the universe which he gives us is that this is our Father’s world. Not only did he create it, adorning it with beauty and fitting it to be the home of his children, but he cares for it with constant, tender care. He has not left the world he made to get along as best it may without any thought from him. Re- [218]

3!n tl)c jfatljct’si ianDjSfcrring to the affairs of providence, Jesus says: “My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.” There is no chance — all things are under control of intelligence and love. The universe is no mere loveless machine which grinds out our destiny for us. There is a great Heart of everlasting love at the centre of all things. We have nothing to do with the vast machinery — it is ours only to do God’s will and fill our little place. We are not required to make all things work out for good. We do not have to bring about the beneficent results. Our part is simply to learn what God’s will for us is, what our duty is, and then do that with cheerful heart. This is our Father’s world, and if we do our own little part faithfully and well, we need give no thought to the outcome. “My Father is the husbandman.” That is, when we are taken up and transplanted, it is the Father who does it. When the pruning-knife cuts away beautiful things that we so much wanted to keep, the Father does it. It is not chance that sometimes uproots our life [219]

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so ruthlessly. Nor is it cruelty that brings suffering and pain to us. “How can I believe that God loves me, while he is afflicting me so?” people sometimes say. The answer to the question is, “My Father is the husbandman.”

In one of Ralph Connor’s books* he tells the story of Gwen, a wild, undisciplined girl, who had been brought up in the free ranch life of the far West. She was motherless. She was unable to read, and knew nothing of God. She had an imperious will which brooked no restraint. By a terrible accident she was lamed for life. The missionary among the cowboys had visited her before her accident and had made a little opening into her heart for God. After the accident he visited her again. Very gently he answered her questions and led her on until she saw that God had allowed her to be hurt, because he loved her and wanted to do her good. The story of Gwen’s canyon is a fine parable

*The Sky Pilot. By Ralph Connor. The Fleming H. Revell Company, N. Y.

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of spiritual teaching. Gwen loved this canyon and called it her canyon — the great, deep, wild gorge which she knew so well, so glorious with its life. The minister said to her, in his parable, that at first there were no canyons — only broad, open prairie. The master of the prairie missed his favorite flowers, which would not grow on the wind-swept plain. Then he called for the lightning and the prairie was cleft to its heart and groaned in agony over its great, gaping wound. But a stream ran through the cleft and carried down black mould, and the birds brought seeds and strewed them in the gorge. By and by the rough rocks were decked out with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the nooks were hung with clematis and columbine, and everywhere the violets and wind-flower and maiden-hair grew and bloomed until the canyon became the master’s place for rest and peace and joy. With this parable the minister taught his lesson. Gwen’s canyon was a parable of Gwen’s life. The rending of the level prairie by the terrific lightning seemed to be the utter ruin [221 ]

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of the land. The great, unsightly cleft, with its dark chasm and bare, jagged rocks, gave small promise of anything lovely. But in the end the yawning gorge became a place of marvellous beauty. It was the same with the girl’s life. With magnificent powers there was only untamable wilfulness. She would yield to neither God nor man. The lovely flowers of the Spirit would not grow in her life. Then came the terrible accident which crushed her and broke her strength and shut her away from all activity. Then the Master came, and good seeds were sown in the clefts, and the dark canyon bloomed with the flowers of the Spirit.

We should never forget, when we are called to suffer, that it is always in love our Father causes us pain. The name Father is the key to the meaning of the discipline. We may not understand — we need not understand. It is enough that it is our Father who has the care of our lives.

We should remember, too, that there are blessings which can come to us only in sorrow, les- [ 222 ]

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sons which can be learned only in pain and suffering. Even of Jesus it is said that he was made perfect through suffering. There were qualities in him which could not reach their best save in the school of pain. There are in all of us possibilities of spiritual loveliness and strength and love and helpfulness which never can come to their highest development save in suffering. If we cannot endure suffering we cannot grow to our best. A gentleman said: “When my new gardener came to me he said he would have nothing to do with these vines unless he could cut them down clean to the stalk; and we had no grapes for two years. But this is the result,” pointing to great clusters of luscious grapes weighing down the vines.

This is a parable of Christian life. It is not required that we shall pray to be permitted to suffer. But we may pray to reach the highest possibilities of Christlikeness and the largest measure of usefulness of which we are capable. Then when we find ourselves face to face with pain or suffering which we must ac-Cie l.mon of Loi)c

cept if our prayer is to be answered, we must not shrink from the experience. It is thus, alone, in suffering, that we can be made perfect.

Only upon some cross of pain or woe God’s son may lie; Each soul redeemed from self and sin must know Its Calvary.

‘* Yet we must crave neither for joy or grief

Qod chooses best; He only knows our sick souVs best relief And gives us rest.^’

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‘Is not this day enough for all our powers If its exactions tvere but fully met, If not one unpaid debt Were left to haunt the peace of future hours, And sting us with regret?”