07.02. The Dark Cloud

2. The Dark Cloud

There are lights and shadows in the fairest landscape. Thus are there days of sorrow — as of gladness in the happiest home.

Seldom, perhaps, has there been more true, solid happiness, than in the home of Bethany. The bond of Divine grace knit all together in genuine Christian affection.

Each eye was fixed on the same blessed hope,
each ear hearkened to the voice of the Good Shepherd,
each heart beat with love to the same gracious Friend.
Yes, and with unchangeable, everlasting love, did that merciful Savior regard every member of the household. "Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus."

Oh, that there were among us more of this union in Christ, more family religion, more love to the Savior, and love to each other in Him! But how shall it be? I know but one way. If there is one in a home to whom the Redeemer’s name is dear, let that one feel a deep responsibility for the souls of the rest. You, perhaps, dear reader, may be that one. If you are, take heed that you leave no stone unturned to bring all who live with you to Jesus’ feet. Offer daily prayer on their behalf, that your Father would bestow on them His quickening Spirit. Manifest toward them perpetually, true, self-denying kindness. Never lose an opportunity of doing anything, small or great, that may show how you desire their welfare. Be gentle, forbearing, forgiving. Let there be a quiet consistency of life that speaks louder than many words. And then watch for occasions to speak a word in season that may win them to Christ. Let parents deal tenderly with the young ones; not only praying for them, but praying with them, and especially when some fault or sin has been yielded to. In this way you may hope and expect true piety to increase in your home; and that such as are still wanderers from the path of life, may be brought into the household of faith. But even in the brightest, happiest home — a home where Christ is sincerely loved — dark days come. Thus was it at Bethany. Sickness comes, and with it distress and anxiety and fear. Lazarus is laid low, and the sisters watch by his sick-bed with sorrowful, trembling hearts. He is the stay of their home, their guardian, their protector, perhaps their provider also. And so they send a message to the Savior. They tell Him of their trouble. They think it enough to leave it in His hands. Doubtless He will come to support them in their hour of sorrow, as He has cheered and instructed them in happier seasons. The message brings no surprise to Christ. He has known it all long before. He calmly replies that all would be well. It shall not be unto death, but for His glory, and that of the Father: "This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified thereby."

There seems something strange, at first sight, in this close bringing together of grace and love and sickness, in these few verses of John 11:1-57. Here is Mary loving Christ — and Christ loving Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. And yet side by side with it we read of the brother being sick, and great sorrow coming to the home, in spite of Christ’s love.

Yet, after all, is it not Love’s accustomed way? Divine love works, not so much for the present comfort of its object — as for the joy that lasts eternally. It strikes heavy blows, sends trials of various kinds, commands the storm and tempest, kindles the furnace, brings down the flail of threshing, cuts to the quick with the sharp pruning-knife — and all because it is love, and because the purposes of love must be fulfilled.

True, sickness has a side of judgment. Looking at it in one aspect, we see that it comes as a part of the curse, as one of the bitter fruits of sin. It comes as a reminder that if God is Love, He is also Righteous. It comes as a forerunner of eternal woe to those who refuse to listen to its teachings. But I would rather look at it on its side of mercy and love. Since we are sinners living in a world of evil, I cannot but reckon it a wise and merciful ordinance of Him who knows what is in man — to send us pain, suffering, disease. It is a visitor we never like to see enter our homes — yet not seldom does she leave behind blessings for which we are thankful to our latest day. "The Lord does not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men." "Whom the Lord loves, He corrects — even as a father the son in whom he delights."

Sickness often shows to men, the realities of life. With too many life passes by as in a dream. For the present everything, is pleasant and fairly comfortable. Business prospers, and there is an average amount of comfort. So days and weeks and months roll on. Life speeds away like the express train. One milestone on life’s journey after another is left behind. And all the while, the great object of life is left out of sight.

There is a long, long life that follows when this short life is over. This present life is our sowing time — and that the reaping.

Every day the soul is receiving a stamp, an impression, that will never be lost.

All around there are elements of untold evil or good to us, according as we use them.

All this is hardly thought of, or forgotten perhaps altogether — when times are good. But God sends a sickness, a fever, an attack of some painful disorder, a broken limb, a severe accident of some kind. "Go, sickness, smite that man, lay him low on a bed of languishing, of suffering, of pain! Show him . . .
how frail he is,
how uncertain is life,
how soon he may be carried to his long home!

Bid him recall . . .
the days that are past,
the sins he has committed,
the mercies he has received,
the ingratitude he has shown to One who has watched over him and blessed him from his youth!"

Then, it is, by the grace of the Spirit, a man begins oftentimes to turn to God.
His sins stand out clear before him;
he thinks of the judgment to come;
he looks into the grave and sees how utterly unprepared he is;
he brings to mind messages he has heard from the lips of Christ’s ministers;
he talks with himself,
"What have I been doing?
Where am I going?
Where is my hope and confidence?"

Then, perhaps, the light tale or novel is laid aside, the newspaper is less cared for, the dusty Bible is brought out. The cry arises, "What must I do to be saved?" A few years ago, a young man was laid low with a dangerous illness. He had hitherto neglected the Savior, and felt wholly unfit for eternity. As he lay upon that sick-bed, the Scripture lessons he had learned at grade school seemed written up before him on the walls of his room. He remembered the earnest words of counsel spoken to him by the clergyman in the Bible lessons he had given in the school, and he determined that if he recovered he would endeavor to practice them. His resolution was not in vain; but for years to come, he walked in the way of life and holiness. In this way, sickness leads many to the feet of Jesus. Pride and self-confidence are cast down. As a man turns over and over on his couch, he sees how completely he is in the hand of God.

He has wounded — will He heal?

He has smitten — will He restore?

He sees, too, how unable he is by any goodness or righteousness of his own to reconcile himself to God. Thus is he humbled and brought low, and ready to accept the helping hand and the forgiving mercy of the Friend of sinners. When Jesus was on earth, many by sickness were brought to His footstool. The palsied man had been led to feel his sinfulness, and joyfully heard the word of mercy, "Son, be of good cheer, your sins are forgiven!" The nobleman of Capernaum was led to Jesus by the fever which threatened the life of his son; and thus, we are told, the whole family were taught to believe in Him.

Yes, at such times as these men need solid ground beneath their feet, and it is well if they seek for it and find it. Some, even then, are content with uncertain and delusive hopes. Bunyan tells us that Ignorance was ferried over the river of death by Vain Hope. Many a guilty, unpardoned soul dies with a lie in his right hand!

Dear reader, it is not unlikely you have had such seasons of sickness; and if you have, will you ask yourself, "What fruit have they borne?" What blessing have they left behind? Have they brought you near to God? Have they taught you to cast your sins on your Savior, and to choose Him as your Refuge and Portion forever? Or, has it been just the reverse? Have you been hardened in sin when the danger was past? Has the world regained its old power? Has the voice of the rod been disregarded?

Another thought here. A sick-bed without Christ is an awful thing, and not seldom leads to a hopeless grave — but health spent without Christ is the road to both. Remember, you may never have a sick-bed. The thread of life may be snapped asunder in a moment. We know not what a day may bring forth. There may be but "a step between us and death."

Oh, the perilous snare of delay! It is a crafty foe — it is a serpent by the way that bites the heel, and a man falls into the pit which the enemy has prepared! But sickness also often becomes a means of much spiritual profit to the children of God. The sickness of Lazarus had a very blessed outcome. It brought glory to Christ. It led the way to one of His very greatest works. It manifested His Divine power. It gave the sisters a deeper view into the tender love of His heart. It tried, and thereby strengthened, their own faith. It was no doubt also of profit to Lazarus himself. He would hereafter be drawn still nearer to the Savior.

It is ever thus, that God sanctifies His people in the school of affliction. The quiet graces of the Christian character are especially drawn forth at such times. Patience and experience and simple trust in God’s love, a firmer reliance on the promises of Holy Scripture — all these are often the direct and evident fruits of suffering and pain.

Never have I seen a more lovely Christian character than in a lowly cottage in a village near Cambridge. Truly, her face "shone like that of an angel," so full was she of faith and hope and heavenly light and love. And it was the result of the Spirit’s work wrought in her through twenty-seven years of disease. She had, when I knew her, a strange complication of suffering. She was totally blind, she had an affliction of the spine and of the heart, a cancer in the throat, and other maladies beside — and yet never was there a Christian more abounding in joy and peace in believing.

Let not the Christian, then, be weary of this trial of sickness, or of others which the Father may appoint. Despair not if trials seem almost beyond endurance. At the end you will see that the Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.

Some years ago I heard an allegory which I have never forgotten. It often comes back to me when I think of the way in which the Lord leads His people. The fable runs — that a few ears of wheat were growing in the corner of a field, and it was promised to this wheat that it would one day be brought before the Queen. But by-and-by the mower came with his sharp scythe and cut the wheat, and feeling the sharpness of the scythe, it said, "I shall never stand before the Queen!" Presently it was laid in the wagon, and pressed and borne down by the other sheaves, and again arose the cry of distress and despair. But, more than this, it was laid on the threshing-floor, and the heavy flail came down upon it. It was taken to the mill, and cut and cut and cut; then it was kneaded into bread; and at last it was placed in the hot burning oven. Again and again was heard the cry of utter, hopeless despair. But at length the promise was fulfilled, and the bread was placed on the Queen’s table!

There is a great truth beneath the fable. Christians are God’s wheat, sprung from the incorruptible seed of His Word, and from the precious seed of the crucified, buried body of our Lord — and He purposes that one day they shall stand before Him! But there needs much preparation. There comes the sharp scythe of bereavement — the loss of child or parent or spouse. There comes the oppressive burden of care. There comes the severe tribulation (the very word signifies threshing), seasons of adversity and disappointment. There comes the mill, the trial that utterly breaks us down, and fills the whole spirit with distress; there comes the hot furnace of agonizing pain or fear; and all these are doing their appointed work, stirring up faith and prayer, humbling to the very dust — and yet lifting up the Christian, by leading him nearer to God, and enabling him at length to say, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted."

Christian, take courage, keep hold of the promise, wait on God, and all shall end well.

"In patience, you the path of duty run;
God never does, nor suffers to be done,
But that which you would do, if you could see
The end of all events, as well as He."

We must add a few words as to the Christian’s resource in days of sorrow and anxiety. The sisters turned at once to Christ. In one brief sentence they reveal to Him the story of their present distress: "Lord, behold, he whom You love is sick."

Thus must we ever act. Faith casts itself upon Incarnate Love. Faith rolls its burden on One who alone is able to remove it. Faith tells its sorrow into the ear of the Savior — and with Him leaves the result.

Learn, here, that the repose of the Christian must ever be Christ’s love to him — and not his love to Christ. We read not, "Behold, Lazarus, who loves You, is sick;" but "Behold, he whom You love is sick." True, there was in the heart of the sick brother real true love to the Savior — and yet but a feeble spark compared to the love of Christ toward him.

Ah, do not measure Christ’s love to you — by your love to Christ! I know full well that the constant questioning of the heart is, Do I love Christ as I ought? And the answer invariably is the same. There is too much coldness, too much forgetfulness toward Him whom yet we desire to love above all things. What is to be done? Go to Him as a sinner, though you feel you have never loved Him at all, and trust His mercy and grace. Then lay your heart before Him, and beseech Him to warm that cold, dead heart with the bright beams of His love. Sure I am, the more you believe Christ’s love and trust in Him, the more will there be a response within, and the reflection of His love will be felt in your own heart.

Learn, moreover, to unfold to Christ all your sorrows, and leave them confidently in His hand. Let neither the insignificance of any matter, nor its overwhelming pressure, prevent you from taking it to Him. He sees the end from the beginning. He may not respond as you desire, but He will act wisely and kindly.

He is your Shepherd — therefore will He lead you in the right way.

He is your Physician — therefore will He appoint the best medicine.

He is your High Priest — therefore will He never forget you, but will bear your name on His breastplate of love perpetually.

"It is enough, my gracious Lord,
Your tender sympathy;
That sorrow cannot be too deep,
Which I may bring to Thee."