S. THE WINGS OF THE SERAPHIM.

THE WINGS OF THE SERAPHIM.

Above it stood the seraphim. Each one had six wings; with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly. — Isaiah 6:2. In the majestic vision of Isaiah the Lord Jehovah sits upon His throne, and around Him as He sits there stand mighty figures such as do not appear in just the same guise anywhere else in Scripture. Isaiah calls them "the seraphim." They are not angels; they are rather the expressions of the forces of the universe waiting there beside the throne of God. They are titanic beings, in whom is embodied everything of strength and obedience which anywhere, in any of the worlds of God, is doing His will. Since man is the noblest type of obedient power, these majestic seraphim seem to be human in their shape; but, as if farther to express their meaning, there are added to each of them three pairs of wings, whose use and disposition are with particularity described.

It is from what is said about these wings of the seraphim that I want to take my subject for this morning. You can see what right we have to treat the seraphim themselves as types and specimens of strength offering itself obediently to God. And if the highest attitude of any man’s life is to stand waiting for what use God will choose to make of him, then we have a right to seek for something in the fullest life of consecrated manhood — of manhood standing by the throne of God — correspondent to each indication of temper and feeling which Isaiah shows us in the seraphim.

How shall man stand, then, in a world where God sits in the centre on His throne? This is the question for which I seem to find some answer in the picture of the mighty creatures, each with his six wings, — with two of which he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he did fly. We gather so many of our impressions of humanity from poor stunted human creatures — poor wingless things who strut or grovel in their insignificance — that it will surely be good if we can turn for once and see the noblest image of consecrated power, and say to ourselves, " This is what man is meant to be. This it is in me to be if I can use all my powers and let God’s presence bring out in me all that it really means to be a man."

Each of the three pairs of wings has its own suggestion. Let us look at them each in turn and see how they represent the three qualities which are the conditions of a complete, effective human life. With the first pair of wings, then, it is said that the living creature, standing before God, "covered his face." There was a glory which it was not his to see. There was a splendor and exuberance of life, a richness of radiance coming from the very central source of all existence which, although to keep close to it and to bathe his being in its abundance was his necessity and joy, he could not search and examine and understand. There was the incomprehensibleness of God!

We talk about God’s incomprehensibleness as if it were a sad necessity; as if, if we could understand God through and through, it would be happier and better for us. The intimation of Isaiah’s vision is something different from that. It is the glory of his seraphim that they stand in the presence of a God so great that they can never comprehend Him. His brightness overwhelms them; they cover their faces with their wings, and their hearts are filled with reverence, which is the first of the conditions of complete human life which they represent.

We have only to think of it a moment to become aware how universal a necessity of human life we are naming when we speak of reverence, — meaning by it that homage which we feel for what goes beyond both our imitation and our knowledge, and shrouds ’ itself in mystery. No man does anything well who does not feel the unknown surrounding and pressing upon the known, and who is not therefore aware all the time that what he does has deeper sources and more distant issues than he can comprehend. It is not only a pleasing sentiment, it is a necessary element of power, — this reverence which veils its eyes before something which it may not know. What would you give for the physician who believed that he had mastered all the truth concerning our human bodies and never stood in awe before the mystery of life, the mystery of death? What would you give for the statesman who had no reverence, who made the State a mere machine, and felt the presence in it of no deep principles too profound for him to understand? What is more dreadful than irreverent art which paints all that it sees because it sees almost nothing, and yet does not dream that there is more to see; which suggests nothing because it suspects nothing profounder than the flimsy tale it tells, and would fain make us all believe that there is no sacredness in woman, nor nobleness in man, nor secret in Nature, nor dignity in life. Irreverence everywhere is blindness and not sight. It is the stare which is bold because it believes in its heart that there is nothing which its insolent intelligence may not fathom, and so which finds only what it looks for, and makes the world as shallow as it ignorantly dreams the world to be. When I say this, I know, of course, how easily corruptible the faculty of reverence has always proved itself to be. The noblest and finest things are always most capable of corruption. I see the ghosts of all the superstitions rise before me. I see men standing with deliberately blinded eyes, hiding from their inspection things which they ought to examine, living in willfully chosen delusions which they prefer to the truth. I see all this in history; I see a vast amount of this to-day and yet all the more because of this, I am sure that we ought to assert the necessity of reverence and of the sense of mystery, and of the certainty of the unknown to every life. To make the sentiment of reverence universal would be the truest way to keep it healthy and pure. It must not seem to be the strange prerogative of saints or cranks; it must not seem to be the sign of exceptional weakness or exceptional strength; it must be the element in which all lives go on, and which has its own ministry for each. The child must have it, feeling his little actions touch the Infinite as his feet upon the beach delight in the waves out of the boundless sea that strike them. The mechanic must have it, feeling how his commonest tools are ministers of elemental forces, and raise currents in the air that run out instantly beyond his ken. The scientist needs it as he deals with the palpable and material which hangs in the impalpable and spiritual, and cannot be known without the knowledge of the mystery in which it floats. Every true scientist has it; Newton or Tyndal pauses a moment in his description of the intelligible, and some hymn of the unintelligible, some psalm of delight in the unknown, comes bursting from his scientific lips. Every man holds his best knowledge of himself bosomed on an ignorance about himself, — a perception of the mystery of his own life which gives it all its value. You can know nothing which you do not reverence! You can see nothing before which you do not veil your eyes! But now take one step farther. All of the mystery which surrounds life and pervades life is really one mystery. It is God. Called by His name, taken up into His being, it is filled with graciousness. It is no longer cold and hard; it is all warm and soft and palpitating. It is love. And of this personal mystery of love — of God — it is supremely true that only by reverence, only by the hiding of the eyes, can He be seen. He who thinks to look God full in the face and question Him about His existence, blinds himself thereby, and cannot see God. He sees something, but what he sees is not God but himself. In Christ Himself there is the perpetual intimation of His ignorance. There is the continual awe of a nature from the perfect knowledge of which the conditions of His human life excluded him. And if He could not know the Father perfectly, while He lived here in the flesh, shall we complain that we cannot? Shall we not rather rejoice in it? Shall it not be a joy to us to feel, around and through the familiar things which we seem perfectly to understand, the wealth and depth of Divinity, out-going all our comprehension?

Sometimes life grows so lonely. The strongest men crave a relationship to things more deep than ordinary intercourses involve. They want something profounder to rest upon, — something which they can reverence as well as love; and then comes God.

"Call ye life lonely’? Oh, the myriad sounds
Which haunt it, proving how its outer bounds
Join with eternity, where God abounds!"

Then the sense of something which they cannot know, of someone greater, infinitely greater than themselves surrounds their life, and there is strength and peace, as when the ocean takes the ship in its embrace, as when the rich warm atmosphere enfolds the earth. But I do not think that we have reached the fullness of Isaiah’s description of reverence as one of the great elements of life until we have looked more carefully at the image which he sets before us. He says of the seraphim not merely that their eyes were covered, but that they were covered with their wings. Now the wings represent the active powers. It is with them that movement is accomplished and change achieved and obedience rendered; so that it seems to me that what the whole image means is this, — that it is with the powers of action and obedience that the powers of insight and knowledge are veiled. The being who rightly approaches God, approaches Him with the powers of obedience held forward; and only through them does the sight of God come to the intelligence which lies behind. The mystery and awfulness of God is a conviction reached through serving Him. The more He is served the more the vastness of His nature is felt. The more obedience, the more reverence. That, I take it, is the meaning of Isaiah’s seraphim with their two wings covering their faces.

Behold, what a lofty idea of reverence is here! It is no palsied idleness. The figure which we see is not flung down upon the ground, despairing and dismayed. It stands upon its feet; it is alert and watchful; it is waiting for commandments; it is eager for work; but all the time its work makes it more beautifully, completely, devoutly reverent of Him for whom the work is done. The more work the more reverence. So man grows more mysterious and great to you, oh, servant of mankind, the longer that you work for him. Is it not so? So Nature grows more mysterious to you, oh, naturalist, the longer that you serve her. Is it not so? So God grows more sublime and awful as we labor for Him in the tasks which He has set us. Would you grow rich in reverence? Go work, work, work with all your strength; so let life deepen around you and display its greatness.

Poor is the age which has not reverence. Men say it sometimes of this age of ours. But just because it is an age of active over-running work, I cannot, I do not believe that it is really so. At least, I feel sure that it cannot be so in the end. Its work may make it at first arrogant and merely trustful of itself. A little work like a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. It may not easily and all at once submit to be obedient; but as it goes deeper and touches more mighty tasks it must come into the presence of the power which is behind all powers, and feel God. Until it does that it may trifle, it may grow profane; but all the time it is on the way to reverence, the highest reverence, — the reverence which comes not by idle contemplation, but by obedient work.

Poor is the soul which has not reverence! You may have many powers and gifts, but if you have not reverence there is a blight upon them all. Only be sure you seek for reverence aright. Not by shutting your eyes to God or any of His truth, but by spreading your wings before your eyes, by putting your active powers in the forefront of your life, by doing your work as deeply, in as true a sense of obedience to God, as possible, so shall you touch the Infinite, and live in a serene and cheerful awe. The veiling of intelligence with obedience shall give it light and not darkness. The reverence which comes in service shall be not paralysis, but strength.

Let us pass on to the second element in Isaiah’s image of a strong and consecrated life. With twain of his wings, he says, each of the seraphim "covered his feet." The covering of the feet represents the covering of the whole body. As the covering of the face means not seeing, the covering of the feet means not being seen. It signifies the hiding of oneself, the self-effacement which belongs to every effective act and every victorious life.

Here is a man entirely carried away by a great enthusiasm. He believes in it with all his soul. His heart and hands are full of it. What is the result? Is it not true that he entirely forgets himself? Whether he is doing himself credit or discredit, whether men are praising him or blaming him, whether the completion of the work will leave him far up the hill of fame or down in the dark valley of obscurity, he literally never thinks of that. He is obliterated. It is as if he did not exist, but the work did itself, and he was only a spirit to rejoice in its success. Some morning the work is done. It is successful; and he is famous and amazed. Another man’s work is all filled with self-consciousness. He never loses himself out of it for a moment. It may be a noble self-consciousness. He may be anxious all the time that the work he is doing should make him a better man; but the work is weak just in proportion as he thinks about himself. It is strong just in proportion to his self-forgetfulness. Is it not so? Consider your own lives. Have you not all had great moments in which you have forgotten yourselves, and do you not recognize in those moments a clearness and simplicity and strength which separates them from all the other moments of your life? There was a moment when you saw that a great truth was true and accepted it without asking what the consequences of its acceptance to your life might be. There was a moment when you saw a great wrong being done, and resisted it with an impulse which seemed to be born directly out of the heart of the eternal justice and had nothing to do with your personal dispositions, — hardly anything, even, with your personal will. There was a moment when you were in battle; and whether you lived or died was unimportant, but that the citadel should be taken was a necessity. Those are the great moments of your life. The man who forgets himself in his work has but one thing to think of, — namely, his work. The man who cannot forget himself has two things to think of, — his work and himself. There is the meaning of it all. There is the distraction and the waste. The energy cannot be concentrated and poured in directly on its one result. Who wants to see a governor, whose whole thought might be given to the welfare of the State, forever pulled aside to think how what he proposes to do will affect his popularity, his credit, his chance of being governor again? My friend comes and sits down beside me, and begins to give me his advice. I listen, and his words are wise. I am just catching glimpses of his meaning and seeing how there may be truth in what he tells, when suddenly there breaks out through his talk a lurid flash which spoils it all. The man is thinking of himself. He is trying to be wise. He is remembering how wise he is. He is trying to impress me with his wisdom; and so his power is gone. A student sits and seeks for truth, but mingled with his search for truth there is a seeking after fame or some position; and truth hides her deepest secrets from a man like him. So everywhere the noblest streams grow muddy with self-consciousness. Only here and there a stream refuses to be muddied; and then, whether it be great or small, a mighty torrent or a silver thread of quiet water, in its forgetfulness of self it flows on to its work, and makes men’s hearts joyous and strong. Efface yourselves, efface yourselves; and the only way to do it is to stand in the presence of God, and be so possessed with Him that there shall be no space or time left for the poor intrusion of your own little personality.

Here also, as before, it is possible to follow out the image of Isaiah. Here, as before, it may mean something to us that the feet are not merely covered, but covered with the wings. The wings, we saw, meant the active powers; and so the meaning is that the thought of oneself is to be hidden and lost behind the energy and faithfulness and joy of active work. I may determine that I will not be self-conscious, and my very determination is self-consciousness; but I become obedient to God, and try enthusiastically to do His will, and I forget myself entirely before I know it. It is not because men make so much of their work that their work makes them vain and fills itself with secondary thoughts of their own advantage; it is because they make so little of their work, because they do not lift themselves up to the thought of obedience to God. The effacement of self is not to come by sinking into sleep, but by being roused into intensest action at the call of God, — by a passionate desire that His will should be done, whether by us or by another. When that is in our soul, we shall do the part of His will which is ours to do, and in our eagerness for the doing of the work forget the worker. Here is the true death of personal ambition, into the higher life of desire for the attainment of results. "Pre Jandel is myself without the inconvenience of myself," said Lacordaire when his brother-monk was elevated above himself to the master-generalship of their order. Behind the wings the feet are growing always strong and beautiful. Within the obedience the obedient nature is growing vigorous and fair; but its own growth is not its purpose, and by and by when the obedience is complete, the soul itself most of all is surprised at the unguessed, unhoped-for life which has come to it in its voluntary death. This is the history of all self-sacrifice, of all the martyrdoms, of all the crosses. This is what is going on in the sick-rooms where souls are learning patience, and on battle-fields where brave young soldiers are fighting for the truth. This is what true life does for true men as the years go on. Work for God somewhere, in some form, takes gradual possession of a man until at last the thought of self, even in its highest interests, has passed away. It seems to be dead, and only wakens into conscious life again when the great salutation greets it at the end, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Thou hast been faithful. Enter into My joy." Then the wings part, and the uncovered feet walk by the river of the water of life.

One pair of wings remains. After the twain which hid the face of the seraph, and the twain which hid his feet, Isaiah says still, "And with twain did he fly." We have spoken of obedience as the method of reverence, and of obedience as the method of self-effacement; but here there comes the simpler and perhaps the healthier thought of obedience purely and solely for itself, — the absolute joy and privilege of the creature in doing the Creator’s will.

"His state is kingly.
Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er land and ocean without rest." So sang the poet of divinity. And though he goes on to turn his great truth into consolation of his own affliction, yet in the lines themselves we cannot help feeling a true and simple joy in the great glory of a universe all thrilled and beaten with the wings of hurrying obedience. To live in such a universe of obedient activity, to feel its movement, to be sensible of its gloriousness, and yet to make no active part of it would be dreadful. Milton felt this, and in his last great line was compelled to pierce down to the deepest truth about the matter, and assert that he too, even in his blindness, had share in the obedience of the untiring worlds.

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

Here is the deepest reason, here is the reasonable glory of that which is perpetually exalted and belauded in cheap and superficial ways, — the excellence of work, the glory of activity. Many of our familiar human instincts live and act by deeper powers than they know. That which is really the noble, the divine element in the perpetual activity of man is the sympathy of the obedient universe. The circling stars, the flowing rivers, the growing trees, the whirling atoms, the rushing winds, — all things are in obedient action, doing the will of God. It is the healthy impulse of any true man who finds himself in this active world to share in its activity. It is the healthy shame of any true man to find himself left out, having no part in that obedience which keeps all life alive. This is the power of the flying wings, — the simple glory of active obedience to God. Somewhere, in some sphere, to do some part of the Eternal Will, to bear some message, to fulfill some task, — no human being can be complete, no human being can be satisfied without that. You may have the face-covering wings and hide your eyes behind them, — that is, you may be full of reverence; you may feel most overwhelmingly the majesty of God; you may stand all day in the most sacred place, crying, "Holy, holy, holy," through the clouds of incense all day long. You may have the feet-covering wings; you may efface yourself; you may tear out the last roots of vanity from your life; you may mortify your pride; you may even deny facts in your eager depreciation of yourself; but reverence and self-effacement come to nothing unless the spirit of active obedience fills the life.

I think this appears to be ever more and more critically true. If a man wants to do God’s will, there can be no misbelief in him so dangerous as to be his ruin, there can be no prison of false sentiment or feeling in him that is not already being cast out. It is not that belief is unimportant. God forbid! Belief is of the very substance of the life. "As he thinketh in his heart, so is he." It is not that false feelings, pride, and self-consciousness are insignificant. They are the soul’s corruption and paralysis. But it is that through active service, through the will to do God’s will, belief is ever struggling to become true, and feeling is ever struggling to grow healthy. No man is fool enough to think that an active arm and a big muscle can be a substitute for a slow beating heart or a torpid brain. It is to set the dull brain thinking and the slow blood running that you take your exercise. Not as a substitute for doctrine or for love, but as a means of both, the Christian says, "Lord, what shall I do?" And so his act of service has in it all the richness of faith not yet believed, and love not yet kindled into consciousness.

There are two extremes of error. In the one, action is disparaged. The man says, "Not what I do but what I am is of significance. It is not action. It is character. "The result is that character itself fades away out of the inactive life. In the other extreme, action is made everything. The glory of mere work is sung in every sort of tune. Just to be busy seems the sufficient accomplishment of life. The result is that work loses its dignity, and the industrious man becomes a clattering machine. Is it not just here that the vision of the wings comes in? Activity in obedience to God. Work done for Him and His eternal purposes. Duty conscious of Him and forgetful of the doer’s self, and so enthusiastic, spontaneous, — there is the field where character is grown, there is at once the cultivation of the worker’s soul and the building of some comer of the Kingdom of God.

Oh, my young friends, listen to the great modern Gospel of Work which comes to you on every breeze, but do not let it be to you the shallow, superficial story that it is to many modern ears. Work is everything or work is nothing according to the lord we work for. Work for God. Let yourself do no work which you cannot hold up in His sight and say, "Lord, this is Thine!" and then your work indeed is noble. Then you are standing with your flying wings which will assuredly bear you into fuller light as they carry some work of God toward its fulfillment.

These then are the three, — reverence and self-forgetfulness and active obedience, — "With twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly." It is because of irreverence and self-conceit and idleness that our lives are weak. Go stand in the sight of God and these wings of salvation shall come and clothe your life. They perfectly clothed the life of Jesus. Reverence and self-sacrifice and obedience were perfect in Him. In the most overwhelmed moments of His life, — crushed in the garden, agonized upon the cross, — he was really standing, like the strong seraphim, at the right hand of God.

You want to be strong. Oh, be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might, — strong as He was by reverence and self-surrender and obedience. The opportunity for that strength is open to every man who bears a soul within him, and over whom is God, and around whom is the world all full of duty and need!