048. Sprinkled and Cleansed

Sprinkled and Cleansed

Leviticus 14:5-7 : “And the priest shall command that one of the birds be killed in an earthen vessel, over running water. As for the Jiving bird, he shall take it, and the cedar-wood, and the scarlet, and the hyssop, and shall dip them and the living bird in the blood of the bird that was killed over the running water; and he shall sprinkle upon him that is to be cleansed from the leprosy seven times, and shall pronounce him clean, and shall let the living bird loose into the open field.” The Old Testament, to very many people, is a great slaughter-house strewn with the blood and bones and horns and hoofs of butchered animals. It offends their sight; it disgusts their taste; it actually nauseates the stomach. But to the intelligent Christian the Old Testament is a magnificent corridor through which Jesus advances. As he appears at the other end of the corridor, we can only see the outlines of his character; coming nearer, we can descry the features. But when, at last, he steps upon the platform of the New Testament, amid the torches of evangelists and apostles, the orchestras of heaven announce him with a blast of minstrelsy that wakes up Bethlehem at midnight.

There were a great many cages of birds brought down to Jerusalem for sacrifice—sparrows and pigeons and turtle-doves. I can hear them now, whistling, caroling, and singing all around about the Temple. When a leper was to be cured of his leprosy, in order to his cleansing two of these birds were taken; one of them was slain over an earthen vessel of running water—that is, clear, fresh water, and then the bird was killed. Another bird was then taken, tied to a hyssop branch, and plunged by the priest into the blood of the first bird; and then, with this hyssop branch, bird-tipped, the priest would sprinkle the leper seven times, then untie the bird from the hyssop branch and it would go soaring into the heavens. Now open your eyes, my brethren, and see that that first bird meant Jesus and that that second bird means your own soul.

There is nothing more suggestive than a caged bird. In the down of its breast you can see the glow of southern climes; in the sparkle of its eye you can see the flash of distant seas; in its voice you can hear the song it learned in the wildwood. It is a child of the sky in captivity. Now the dead bird of my text, captured from the air, suggests the Lord Jesus, who came down from the realms of light and glory. He once stood in the sunlight of heaven. He was the favorite of the land. He was the King’s son. Whenever a victory was gained or a throne set up, he was the first to hear it. He could not walk incognito along the streets, for all heaven knew him. For eternal ages he had dwelt amid the mighty populations of heaven. No holiday had ever dawned on the city when he was absent. He was not like an earthly prince, occasionally issuing from a palace heralded by a troop of clanking horse-guards. No; he was greeted everywhere as a brother, and all heaven was perfectly at home with him. But one day there came word to the palace that an insignificant island was in rebellion and was cutting itself to pieces with anarchy. I hear an angel say: “Let it perish. The King’s realm is vast enough without the island. The tributes to the King are large enough without that. We can spare it.” “Not so,” said the prince, the King’s son; and I see him push out one day, under the protest of a great company. He starts straight for the rebellious island. He lands amid the execrations of the inhabitants, that grow in violence until the malice of earth has smitten him and the spirits of the lost world put their black wings over his dying head and shut the sun out. The hawks and vultures swooped upon this dove of the text, until head and breast and feet ran blood—until, under the flocks and beaks of darkness, the poor thing perished. No wonder it was a bird that was taken and slain over an earthen vessel of running water. It was a child of the skies. It typified him who came down from heaven in agony and blood to save our souls. Blessed be his glorious name forever!

I notice, also, in my text, that the bird that was slain was a clean bird. The text demanded that it should be. The raven was never sacrificed nor the cormorant nor the vulture. It must be a clean bird, says the text; and it suggests the pure Jesus—the holy Jesus. Although he spent his boyhood in a corrupt village, although blasphemies were poured into his ear enough to have poisoned anyone else, he stands before the world a perfect Christ. Herod was cruel; Henry VIII was unclean; but point out a fault of our King. Answer me, ye boys who knew him on the streets of Nazareth. Answer me, ye miscreants who saw him die. The sceptical tailors have tried for eighteen hundred years to find out one hole in this seamless garment, but they have not found it. The most ingenious and eloquent infidel of this day, in the last line of his book, all of which denounces Christ, says: “All ages must proclaim that among the sons of men there is none greater than Jesus.” So let this bird of the text be clean—its feet fragrant with the dew that it pressed, its beak carrying sprigs of thyme and frankincense, its feathers washed in summer showers. O thou spotless Son of God, impress us with thy innocence!

Thou lovely source of true delight, Whom I, unseen, adore, Unveil thy beauties to my sight, That I may love thee more.

I remark, also, in regard to this first bird, mentioned in the text, that it was a defenseless bird. When the eagle is assaulted, with its iron beak it strikes like a bolt against its adversary. This was a dove or a sparrow; we do not know just which. Take a dove or pigeon in your hand and the pecking of its beak on your hand makes you laugh at the feebleness of its assault. The reindeer, after it is down, may fell you with its antlers. The ox, after you think it is dead, may break your leg in its death struggle. The harpooned whale, in its last agony, may crush you in the coil of the unwinding rope. But this was a dove or a sparrow—perfectly harmless, perfectly defenseless—type of him who said: “I have trod the wine-press alone, and there was none to help.” None to help! The murderers have it all their own way. Where was the soldier in the Roman regiment who swung his sword in the defense of the Divine Martyr? Did they put one drop of oil on his gashed feet? Was there one, in all that crowd, manly and generous enough to stand up for him? Were the miscreants at the cross any more interfered with in their work of spiking him fast than the carpenter in his shop driving a nail through a pine board? The women cried, but there was no balm in their tears. None to help! none to help! O my Lord Jesus, none to help! The wave of anguish came up to the arch of his feet—came up to his knee— floated to his waist—rose to his chin—swept to his temples, yet none to help! Ten thousand times ten thousand angels in the sky, ready at command to plunge into the bloody affray and strike back the hosts of darkness, yet none to help! none to help! Oh, this dove of the text, in its last moment, clutched not with angry talons. It plunged not a savage beak. It was a dove—helpless, defenseless. None to help! none to help!

As, after a severe storm in the morning, you go out and find birds dead on the snow, so this dead bird of the text makes me think of that awful storm that swept the earth on Crucifixion day, when the wrath of God and the malice of man and the fury of devils wrestled beneath the three crosses. As we sang just now:

Well might the sun in darkness hide, And shut his glories in, When Christ, the mighty Maker, died For man, the creature’s sin. But I come now to speak of this second bird of the text. We must not let that fly away until we have examined it. The priest took the second bird, tied it to the hyssop branch, and then plunged it in the blood of the first bird. Ah! that is my soul, plunged for cleansing in the Saviour’s blood. There is not enough water in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans to wash away our smallest sin. Sin is such an outrage on God’s universe that nothing but blood can atone for it. You know the life is in the blood, and as the life had been forfeited, nothing could buy it back but blood. What was it that was sprinkled on the door-posts when the destroying angel went through the land? Blood. What was it that went streaming from the altar of ancient sacrifice? Blood. What was it that the priest carried into the Holy of Holies, making intercession for the people? Blood. What was it that Jesus sweated in the garden of Gethsemane? Great drops of blood. What does the wine in the sacramental cup symbolize? Blood. What makes the robes of the righteous in heaven so fair? They are washed in the blood of the Lamb. What is it that cleanses all our pollution? The blood of Jesus Christ, that cleanseth from all sin.

I hear somebody saying: “I do not like such a sanguinary religion as that.” Do you think it is very wise for the patient to tell the doctor: “I don’t like the medicine you have given me”? If he wants to be cured, he had better take the medicine. My Lord God has offered us a balm, and it is very foolish for us to say: “I don’t like that balm.” We had better take it, and be saved. But you do not oppose the shedding of blood in other directions and for other ends. If a hundred thousand men go out to battle for their country, and have to lay down their lives for free institutions, is there anything ignoble about that? No, you say; “glorious sacrifice rather.” And is there anything ignoble in the idea that the Lord Jesus Christ, by the shedding of his blood, delivered not only one land, but all lands and all ages, from bondage, introducing men by millions and millions into the liberty of the sons of God! Is there anything ignoble about that? As this second bird of the text was plunged in the blood of the first bird, so we must be washed in the blood of Christ, or go polluted forever.

Let the water and the blood, From thy side a healing flood, Be of sin the double cure, Save from sin, and make me pure.

I notice now that as soon as this second bird was dipped in the blood of the first bird, the priest unloosened it and it was free—free of wing and free of foot. It could whet its beak on any tree-branch it chose. It could peck the grapes of any vineyard it chose. It was free: a type of our souls after we have washed in the blood of the Lamb. We can go where we will. We can do what we will. You say: “Had you not better qualify that?” No; for I remember that in conversion the will is changed, and the man will not will that which is wrong. There is no strait-jacket in our religion. A state of sin is a state of slavery. A state of pardon is a state of emancipation. The hammer of God’s grace knocks the hopples from the feet, knocks the handcuffs from the wrist, opens the door into a landscape all ashimmer with fountains and abloom with gardens. It is freedom.

If a man has become a Christian, he is no more afraid of Sinai. The thunders of Sinai do not frighten him. You have, on some August day, seen two thunder showers meet. One cloud from this mountain and another cloud from that mountain, coming nearer and nearer together, and responding to each other, crash to crash, thunder to thunder, boom! boom! And then the clouds break and the torrents pour, and they are emptied perhaps into the very same stream that comes down so red at your feet, that it seems as if all the carnage of the storm-battle has been emptied into it. So in this Bible I see two storms gather, one above Sinai, the other above Calvary, and they respond one to the other—flash to flash, thunder to thunder, boom! boom! Sinai thunders: “The soul that sinneth, it shall die;” Calvary responds: “Save them from going down to the pit, for I have found a ransom.” Sinai says: “Woe! woe!” Calvary answers: “Mercy! mercy!” and then the clouds burst and empty their treasures into one torrent and it comes flowing to our feet, red with the carnage of our Lord—in which, if thy soul be plunged, like the bird in the text, it shall go forth free—free! Oh, I wish all people to understand this: that when a man becomes a Christian he does not become a slave, but that he becomes a free man; that he has larger liberty after he becomes a child of God than before he became a child of God. General Fisk said that he once stood at a slave-block where an old Christian minister was being sold. The auctioneer said of him: “What bid do I hear for this man? He is a very good kind of a man; he is a minister.” Somebody said, “Twenty dollars” (he was very old and not worth much); somebody else “twenty-five”—”thirty”—”thirty-five”—”forty.” The aged Christian minister began to tremble; he had expected to be able to buy his own freedom, and he had just seventy dollars and expected with the seventy dollars to get free. As the bids ran up the old man trembled more and more. “Forty”—”forty-five”—”fifty”—”fifty-five”—”sixty”—”sixty-five.” The old man cried out, “Seventy.” He was afraid they would outbid him. The men around were transfixed. Nobody dared bid; and the auctioneer struck him down to himself—done—done! But by reason of sin we are poorer than that African. We cannot buy our own deliverance. The voices of death are bidding for us and they bid us in and they bid us down. But the Lord Jesus Christ comes and says: “I will buy that man; I bid for him my Bethlehem manger; I bid for him my hunger on the mountain; I bid for him my aching head; I bid for him my fainting heart; I bid for him all my wounds.” A voice from the throne of God says: “It is enough! Jesus has bought him.” Bought with a price. The purchase complete. It is done. The great transaction’s done;

I am my Lord’s, and he is mine.

He drew me, and I followed on, Charmed to confess the voice divine.

Why, is not a man free when he gets rid of his sins? The sins of the tongue gone; the sins of action gone; the sins of the mind gone. All the transgressions of thirty, forty, fifty, seventy years gone—no more in the soul than the malaria that floated in the atmosphere a thousand years ago; for when my Lord Jesus pardons a man he pardons him, and there is no half-way work about it.

Here I see a beggar going along the turnpike road. He is worn out with disease. He is stiff in the joints. He is ulcered all over. He has rheum in his eyes. He is sick and wasted. He is in rags. Every time he puts down his swollen feet, he cries, “Oh, the pain!” He sees a fountain by the roadside under a tree, and he crawls up to that fountain and says, “I must wash.” Here I may cool my ulcers. Here I may get rested.” He stoops down and scoops up in the palm of his hands enough water to slake his thirst; and that is all gone. Then he stoops down and begins to wash his eyes, and the rheum is all gone. Then he puts in his swollen feet, and the swelling is gone. Then, willing no longer to be only half cured, he plunges in, and his whole body is laved in the stream, and he gets out upon the bank well. Meantime the owner of the mansion up yonder comes down, walking through the ravine with his only son and he sees the bundle of rags and asks, “Whose rags are these?” A voice from the fountain says, “Those are my rags.” Then says the master to his son, “Go up to the house and get the best new suit you can find and bring it down.” And he brings down the clothes and the beggar is clothed in them and he looks around and says, “I was filthy, but now I am clean. I was ragged, but now I am robed. I was blind, but now I see. Glory be to the owner of that mansion; and glory be to that son who brought me that new suit of clothes; and glory be to this fountain, where I have washed and where all who will may wash and be clean!” Where sin abounded, grace doth much more abound. The bird has been dipped, now let it fly away. The next thing I notice about this bird, when it was loosened (and this is the main idea), is, that it flew away. Which way did it go? When you let a bird loose from your grasp, which way does it fly? Up. What are wings for? To fly with. Is there anything in the suggestion of the direction taken by that bird to indicate which way we ought to go?

Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, Thy better portion trace;

Rise from transitory things To heaven, thy native place.

We should be going heavenward. That is the suggestion. But I know that we have a great many drawbacks. You had them this morning, perhaps. You had them yesterday or the day before; and although you want to be going heavenward, you are constantly discouraged. But I suppose when that bird went out of the priest’s hands it went by inflections—something stooping, as is the motion of a bird. So the soul soars toward God, rising up in love and sometimes depressed by trial. It does not always go in the direction it would like to go. But the main course is right. There is one passage in the Bible which I quote oftener to myself than any other: “He knoweth our frame and he remembereth that we are dust.”

There is a legend which says that when Jesus was a boy, playing with his comrades one Sabbath day, he made birds of clay; and as these birds of clay were standing upon the ground, an old Sadducee came along and he was disgusted at the sport and dashed the birds to pieces; but the legend says that Jesus waved his hand above the broken birds and they took wing and went singing heavenward. Of course, that is a fable; but it is not a fable that we are dust, and that, the hand of divine grace waved over us once, we go singing toward the skies.

I wish, my friends, that we could live in a higher atmosphere. If a man’s whole life object is to make dollars, he will be running against those who are making dollars. If his whole object is to get applause, he will run against those who are seeking applause. But if he rises higher than that, he will not be interrupted in his flight heavenward. Why does that flock of birds, floating up against the blue sky so high that you can hardly see them, not change its course for spire or tower? They are above all obstructions. So we would not have so often to change our Christian course if we lived in a higher atmosphere, nearer Christ, nearer the throne of God.

Oh, ye who have been washed in the blood of Christ—ye who have been loosed from the hyssop branch—start heavenward. It may be to some of you a long flight. Temptations may dispute your way; storms of bereavement and trouble may strike your soul; but God will see you through. Build not on the earth. Set your affections on things in heaven, not on things on earth. This is a perishing world. Its flowers fade. Its fountains dry up. Its promises cheat. Set your affections upon Christ and heaven. I rejoice that the flight will, after a while, be ended. Not always beaten of the storm. Not always going on weary wings. There is a warm dovecote of eternal rest where we shall find a place of comfort, to the everlasting joy of our souls. Oh, they are going up all the time—going up from this church—going up from all the families and from all the churches of the land—the weary doves seeking rest in a dovecot.

Oh, that in that good land we may all meet when our trials are over. We cannot get into the glorious presence of our departed ones unless we have been cleansed in the same blood that washed their sins away. I know this is true of all who have gone in, that they were plunged in the blood, that they were unloosed from the hyssop branch. Then they went singing into glory. See that ye refuse not him that speaketh, for if they escaped not who refuse him that spake on earth, how much more shall not we escape if we turn away from him that speaketh from heaven?