Unspoken Sermons

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Reader to whom my words seem those of inflation and foolish excitement,
it can be nothing to thee to be told that I seem to myself to speak
only the words of truth and soberness; but what if the cause why they
seem other to thy mind be--not merely that thou art not whole, but that
thy being nowise thirsts after harmony, that thou art not of the truth,
that thou hast not yet begun to live? How should the reveller, issuing
worn and wasted from the haunts where the violent seize joy by force to
find her perish in their arms--how should such reveller, I say, break
forth and sing with the sons of the morning, when the ocean of light
bursts from the fountain of the east? As little canst thou, with thy
mind full of petty cares, or still more petty ambitions, understand the
groaning and travailing of the creation. It may indeed be that thou art
honestly desirous of saving thy own wretched soul, but as yet thou
canst know but little of thy need of him who is _the first and the last
and the living one_.

THE FEAR OF GOD.

_'And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as one dead. And he
laid his right hand upon me, saying, Fear not; I am the first
and the last and the Living one.'_--Rev. i. 17, 18.

It is not alone the first beginnings of religion that are full of fear.
So long as love is imperfect, there is room for torment. That lore only
which fills the heart--and nothing but love can fill any heart--is able
to cast out fear, leaving no room for its presence. What we find in the
beginnings of religion, will hold in varying degree, until the
religion, that is the love, be perfected.

The thing that is unknown, yet known to be, will always be more or less
formidable. When it is known as immeasurably greater than we, and as
having claims and making demands upon us, the more vaguely these are
apprehended, the more room is there for anxiety; and when the
conscience is not clear, this anxiety may well mount to terror.
According to the nature of the mind which occupies itself with the idea
of the Supreme, whether regarded as maker or ruler, will be the kind
and degree of the terror. To this terror need belong no exalted ideas
of God; those fear him most who most imagine him like their own evil
selves, only beyond them in power, easily able to work his arbitrary
will with them. That they hold him but a little higher than themselves,
tends nowise to unity with him: who so far apart as those on the same
level of hate and distrust? Power without love, dependence where is no
righteousness, wake a worship without devotion, a loathliness of
servile flattery. Neither, where the notion of God is better, but the
conscience is troubled, will his goodness do much to exclude
apprehension. The same consciousness of evil and of offence which gave
rise to the bloody sacrifice, is still at work in the minds of most who
call themselves Christians. Naturally the first emotion of man towards
the being he calls God, but of whom he knows so little, is fear.

Where it is possible that fear should exist, it is well it should
exist, cause continual uneasiness, and be cast out by nothing less than
love. In him who does not know God, and must be anything but satisfied
with himself, fear towards God is as reasonable as it is natural, and
serves powerfully towards the development of his true humanity. Neither
the savage, nor the self-sufficient sage, is rightly human. It matters
nothing whether we regard the one or the other as degenerate or as
undeveloped--neither I say is human; the humanity is there, but has to
be born in each, and for this birth everything natural must do its
part; fear is natural, and has a part to perform nothing but itself
could perform in the birth of the true humanity. Until love, which is
the truth towards God, is able to cast out fear, it is well that fear
should hold; it is a bond, however poor, between that which is and that
which creates--a bond that must be broken, but a bond that can be
broken only by the tightening of an infinitely closer bond. Verily, God
must be terrible to those that are far from him; for they fear he will
do, yea, he is doing with them what they do not, cannot desire, and can
ill endure. Such as many men are, such as all without God would become,
they must prefer a devil, because of his supreme selfishness, to a God
who will die for his creatures, and insists upon giving himself to
them, insists upon their being unselfish and blessed like himself. That
which is the power and worth of life they must be, or die; and the
vague consciousness of this makes them afraid. They love their poor
existence as it is; God loves it as it must be--and they fear him.

The false notions of men of low, undeveloped nature both with regard to
what is good and what the Power requires of them, are such that they
cannot but fear, and devotion is lost in the sacrifices of
ingratiation: God takes them where they are, accepts whatever they
honestly offer, and so helps them to outgrow themselves, preparing them
to offer the true offering, and to know him whom they ignorantly
worship. He will not abolish their fear except with the truth of his
own being. Till they apprehend that, and in order that they may come to
apprehend it, he receives their sacrifices of blood, the invention of
their sore need, only influencing for the time the modes of them. He
will destroy the lie that is not all a lie only by the truth which is
all true. Although he loves them utterly, he does not tell them there
is nothing in him to make them afraid. That would be to drive them from
him for ever. While they are such as they are, there is much in him
that cannot but affright them; they ought, they do well to fear him. It
is, while they remain what they are, the only true relation between
them. To remove that fear from their hearts, save by letting them know
his love with its purifying fire, a love which for ages, it may be,
they cannot know, would be to give them up utterly to the power of
evil. Persuade men that fear is a vile thing, that it is an insult to
God, that he will none of it--while yet they are in love with their own
will, and slaves to every movement of passionate impulse, and what will
the consequence be? That they will insult God as a discarded idol, a
superstition, a falsehood, as a thing under whose evil influence they
have too long groaned, a thing to be cast out and spit upon. After that
how much will they learn of him? Nor would it be long ere the old fear
would return--with this difference, perhaps, that instead of trembling
before a live energy, they would tremble before powers which formerly
they regarded as inanimate, and have now endowed with souls after the
imagination of their fears. Then would spiritual chaos with all its
monsters be come again. God being what he is, a God who loves
righteousness; a God who, rather than do an unfair thing, would lay
down his Godhead, and assert himself in ceasing to be; a God who, that
his creature might not die of ignorance, died as much as a God could
die, and that is divinely more than man can die, to give him himself;
such a God, I say, may well look fearful from afar to the creature who
recognizes in himself no imperative good; who fears only suffering, and
has no aspiration--only wretched ambition! But in proportion as such a
creature comes nearer, grows towards him in and for whose likeness he
was begun; in proportion, that is, as the eternal right begins to
disclose itself to him; in proportion as he becomes capable of the idea
that his kind belongs to him as he could never belong to himself;
approaches the capacity of seeing and understanding that his
individuality can be perfected only in the love of his neighbour, and
that his being can find its end only in oneness with the source from
which it came; in proportion, I do not say as he sees these things, but
as he nears the possibility of seeing them, will his terror at the God
of his life abate; though far indeed from surmising the bliss that
awaits him, he is drawing more nigh to the goal of his nature, the
central secret joy of sonship to a God who loves righteousness and
hates iniquity, does nothing he would not permit in his creature,
demands nothing of his creature he would not do himself.

The fire of God, which is his essential being, his love, his creative
power, is a fire unlike its earthly symbol in this, that it is only at
a distance it burns--that the farther from him, it burns the worse, and
that when we turn and begin to approach him, the burning begins to
change to comfort, which comfort will grow to such bliss that the heart
at length cries out with a gladness no other gladness can reach, 'Whom
have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire
besides thee!' The glory of being, the essence of life and its joy,
shining upon the corrupt and deathly, must needs, like the sun, consume
the dead, and send corruption down to the dust; that which it burns in
the soul is not of the soul, yea, is at utter variance with it; yet so
close to the soul is the foul fungous growth sprung from and subsisting
upon it, that the burning of it is felt through every spiritual nerve:
when the evil parasites are consumed away, that is when the man yields
his self and all that self's low world, and returns to his lord and
God, then that which, before, he was aware of only as burning, he will
feel as love, comfort, strength--an eternal, ever-growing life in him.
For now he lives, and life cannot hurt life; it can only hurt death,
which needs and ought to be destroyed. God is life essential, eternal,
and death cannot live in his sight; for death is corruption, and has no
existence in itself, living only in the decay of the things of life. If
then any child of the father finds that he is afraid before him, that
the thought of God is a discomfort to him, or even a terror, let him
make haste--let him not linger to put on any garment, but rush at once
in his nakedness, a true child, for shelter from his own evil and God's
terror, into the salvation of the Father's arms, the home whence he was
sent that he might learn that it was home. What father being evil would
it not win to see the child with whom he was vexed running to his
embrace? how much more will not the Father of our spirits, who seeks
nothing but his children themselves, receive him with open arms!

Self, accepted as the law of self, is the one demon-enemy of life; God
is the only Saviour from it, and from all that is not God, for God is
life, and all that is not God is death. Life is the destruction of
death, of all that kills, of all that is of death's kind.

When John saw the glory of the Son of Man, he fell at his feet as one
dead. In what way John saw him, whether in what we vaguely call a
vision, or in as human a way as when he leaned back on his bosom and
looked up in his face, I do not now care to ask: it would take all
glorious shapes of humanity to reveal Jesus, and he knew the right way
to show himself to John. It seems to me that such words as were spoken
can have come from the mouth of no mere vision, can have been allowed
to enter no merely tranced ear, that the mouth of the very Lord himself
spoke them, and that none but the living present Jesus could have
spoken or may be supposed to speak them; while plainly John received
and felt them as a message he had to give again. There are also,
strangely as the whole may affect us, various points in his description
of the Lord's appearance which commend themselves even to our ignorance
by their grandeur and fitness. Why then was John overcome with terror?
We recall the fact that something akin to terror overwhelmed the minds
of the three disciples who saw his glory on the mount; but since then
John had leaned on the bosom of his Lord, had followed him to the
judgment seat and had not denied his name, had borne witness to his
resurrection and suffered for his sake--and was now 'in the isle that
is called Patmos, for the word of God and the testimony of Jesus:' why,
I say, was he, why should he be afraid? No glory even of God _should_
breed terror; when a child of God is afraid, it is a sign that the word
_Father_ is not yet freely fashioned by the child's spiritual mouth.
The glory can breed terror only in him who is capable of being
terrified by it; while he is such it is well the terror should be bred
and maintained, until the man seek refuge from it in the only place
where it is not--in the bosom of the glory.

There is one point not distinguishable in the Greek: whether is meant,
'one like unto _the_ Son of Man,' or, 'one like unto _a_ son of Man:'
the authorized version has the former, the revised prefers the latter.
I incline to the former, and think that John saw him like the man he
had known so well, and that it was the too much glory, dimming his
vision, that made him unsure, not any perceived unlikeness mingling
with the likeness. Nothing blinds so much as light, and their very
glory might well render him unable to distinguish plainly the familiar
features of _The_ Son of Man.

But the appearance of The Son of Man was not intended to breed terror
in the son of man to whom he came. Why then was John afraid? why did
the servant of the Lord fall at his feet as one dead? Joy to us that he
did, for the words that follow--surely no phantasmic outcome of
uncertain vision or blinding terror! They bear best sign of their
source: however given to his ears, they must be from the heart of our
great Brother, the one Man, Christ Jesus, divinely human!

It was still and only the imperfection of the disciple, unfinished in
faith, so unfinished in everything a man needs, that was the cause of
his terror. This is surely implied in the words the Lord said to him
when he fell! The thing that made John afraid, he speaks of as the
thing that ought to have taken from him all fear. For the glory that he
saw, the head and hair pouring from it such a radiance of light that
they were white as white wool--snow-white, as his garments on mount
Hermon; in the midst of the radiance his eyes like a flame of fire, and
his countenance as the sun shineth in his strength; the darker glow of
the feet, yet as of fine brass burning in a furnace--as if they, in
memory of the twilight of his humiliation, touching the earth took a
humbler glory than his head high in the empyrean of undisturbed
perfection; the girdle under his breast, golden between the snow and
the brass;--what were they all but the effulgence of his glory who was
himself the effulgence of the Father's, the poor expression of the
unutterable verity which was itself the reason why John ought not to be
afraid?--'He laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I
am the first and the last, and the living one.'

Endless must be our terror, until we come heart to heart with the fire-
core of the universe, the first and the last and the living one!

But oh, the joy to be told, by Power himself, the first and the last,
the living one--told what we can indeed then see _must_ be true, but
which we are so slow to believe--that the cure for trembling is the
presence of Power; that fear cannot stand before Strength; that the
visible God is the destruction of death; that the one and only safety
in the universe, is the perfect nearness of the Living One! God is
being; death is nowhere! What a thing to be taught by the very mouth of
him who knows! He told his servant Paul that strength is made perfect
in weakness; here he instructs his servant John that the thing to be
afraid of is weakness, not strength. All appearances of strength, such
as might rightly move terror, are but false appearances; the true
Strong is the _One_, even as the true Good is the _One_. The Living One
has the power of life; the Evil One but the power of death--whose very
nature is a self-necessity for being destroyed.

But the glory of the mildest show of the Living One is such, that even
the dearest of his apostles, the best of the children of men, is cowed
at the sight. He has not yet learned that glory itself is a part of his
inheritance, yea is of the natural condition of his being; that there
is nothing in the man made in the image of God alien from the most
glorious of heavenly shows: he has not learned this yet, and falls as
dead before it--when lo, the voice of him that was and is and is for
evermore, telling him not to be afraid--for the very reason, the one
only reason, that he is the first and the last, the living one! For
what shall be the joy, the peace, the completion of him that lives, but
closest contact with his Life?--a contact close as ere he issued from
that Life, only in infinitely higher kind, inasmuch as it is now willed
on _both_ sides. He who has had a beginning, needs the indwelling power
of that beginning to make his being complete--not merely complete to
his consciousness, but complete in itself--justified, rounded, ended
where it began--with an 'endless ending.' Then is it complete even as
God's is complete, for it is one with the self-existent, blossoming in
the air of that world wherein it is rooted, wherein it lives and grows.
Far indeed from trembling because he on whose bosom he had leaned when
the light of his love was all but shut in now stands with the glory of
that love streaming forth, John Boanerges ought to have felt the more
joyful and safe as the strength of the living one was more manifested.
It was never because Jesus was clothed in the weakness of the flesh
that he was fit to be trusted, but because he was strong with a
strength able to take the weakness of the flesh for the garment wherein
it could best work its work: that strength was now shining out with its
own light, so lately pent within the revealing veil. Had John been as
close in spirit to the Son of Man as he had been in bodily presence, he
would have indeed fallen at his feet, but not as one dead--as one too
full of joy to stand before the life that was feeding his; he would
have fallen, but not to lie there senseless with awe the most holy; he
would have fallen to embrace and kiss the feet of him who had now a
second time, as with a resurrection from above, arisen before him, in
yet heavenlier plenitude of glory.

It is the man of evil, the man of self-seeking design, not he who would
fain do right, not he who, even in his worst time, would at once submit
to the word of the Master, who is reasonably afraid of power. When God
is no longer the ruler of the world, and there is a stronger than he;
when there is might inherent in evil, and making-energy in that whose
nature is destruction; then will be the time to stand in dread of
power. But even then the bad man would have no security against the
chance of crossing some scheme of the lawless moment, where
disintegration is the sole unity of plan, and being ground up and
destroyed for some no-idea of the Power of darkness. And then would be
the time for the good--no, not to tremble, but to resolve with the Lord
of light to endure all, to let every billow of evil dash and break upon
him, nor do the smallest ill, tell the whitest lie for God--knowing
that any territory so gained could belong to no kingdom of heaven,
could be but a province of the kingdom of darkness. If there were two
powers, the one of evil, the other of good, as men have not unnaturally
in ignorance imagined, his sense of duty would reveal the being born of
the good power, while he born of the evil could have no choice but be
evil. But Good only can create; and if Evil were ever so much the
stronger, the duty of men would remain the same--to hold by the Living
One, and defy Power to its worst--like Prometheus on his rock, defying
Jove, and for ever dying--thus for ever foiling the Evil. For Evil can
destroy only itself and its own; it could destroy no enemy--could at
worst but cause a succession of deaths, from each of which the defiant
soul would rise to loftier defiance, to more victorious endurance--
until at length it laughed Evil in the face, and the demon-god shrunk
withered before it. In those then who believe that good is the one
power, and that evil exists only because for a time it subserves,
cannot help subserving the good, what place can there be for fear? The
strong and the good are one; and if our hope coincides with that of
God, if it is rooted in his will, what should we do but rejoice in the
effulgent glory of the First and the Last?

The First and the Last is the inclosing defence of the castle of our
being; the Master is before and behind; he began, he will see that it
be endless. He garrisons the place; he is the living, the live-making
one.

The reason then for not fearing before God is, that he is all-glorious,
all-perfect. Our being needs the all-glorious, all-perfect God. The
children can do with nothing less than the Father; they need the
infinite one. Beyond all wherein the poor intellect can descry order;
beyond all that the rich imagination can devise; beyond all that
hungriest heart could long, fullest heart thank for--beyond all these,
as the heavens are higher than the earth, rise the thought, the
creation, the love of the God who is in Christ, his God and our God,
his Father and our Father.

Ages before the birth of Jesus, while, or at least where yet even Moses
and his law were unknown, the suffering heart of humanity saw and was
persuaded that nowhere else lay its peace than with the first, the
last, the living one:--

_O that thou woudest hide me in the grave,... and remember me!...
Thou shalt call, and I will answer thee: thou wilt have a desire to
the work of thine hands_.

THE VOICE OF JOB.

'_O that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep
me secret, until thy wrath be past, that thou wouldest appoint me a set
time, and remember me! If a man die, shall he live again? all the days
of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come. Thou shalt call,
and I will answer thee: thou wilt have a desire to the work of thine
hands_.'--Job xiv. 13-15.

The book of Job seems to me the most daring of poems: from a position
of the most vantageless realism, it assaults the very citadel of the
ideal! Its hero is a man seated among the ashes, covered with loathsome
boils from head to foot, scraping himself with a potsherd. Sore in
body, sore in mind, sore in heart, sore in spirit, he is the instance-
type of humanity in the depths of its misery--all the waves and billows
of a world of adverse circumstance rolling free over its head. I would
not be supposed to use the word _humanity_ either in the abstract, or
of the mass concrete; I mean the humanity of the individual endlessly
repeated: Job, I say, is _the human being_--a centre to the sickening
assaults of pain, the ghastly invasions of fear: these, one time or
another, I presume, threaten to overwhelm every man, reveal him to
himself as enslaved to the external, and stir him up to find some way
out into the infinite, where alone he can rejoice in the liberty that
belongs to his nature. Seated in the heart of a leaden despair, Job
cries aloud to the Might unseen, scarce known, which yet he regards as
the God of his life. But no more that of a slave is his cry, than the
defiance of Prometheus hurled at Jupiter from his rock. He is more
overwhelmed than the Titan, for he is in infinite perplexity as well as
pain; but no more than in that of Prometheus is there a trace of the
cowardly in his cry. Before the Judge he asserts his innocence, and
will not grovel--knowing indeed that to bear himself so would be to
insult the holy. He feels he has not deserved such suffering, and will
neither tell nor listen to lies for God.

Prometheus is more stonily patient than Job. Job is nothing of a Stoic,
but bemoans himself like a child--a brave child who seems to himself to
suffer wrong, and recoils with horror-struck bewilderment from the
unreason of the thing. Prometheus has to do with a tyrant whom he
despises, before whom therefore he endures with unbewailing
unsubmission, upheld by the consciousness that he is fighting the
battle of humanity against an all but all-powerful Selfishness:
endurance is the only availing weapon against him, and he will endure
to the ever-delayed end! Job, on the other hand, is the more troubled
because it is He who is at the head and the heart, who is the beginning
and the end of things, that has laid his hand upon him with such a
heavy torture that he takes his flesh in his teeth for pain. He cannot,
will not believe _him_ a tyrant; but, while he pleads against his
dealing with himself, loves him, and looks to him as the source of
life, the power and gladness of being. He dares not think God unjust,
but not therefore can he allow that he has done anything to merit the
treatment he is receiving at his hands. Hence is he of necessity in
profoundest perplexity, for how can the two things be reconciled? The
thought has not yet come to him that that which it would be unfair to
lay upon him as punishment, may yet be laid upon him as favour--by a
love supreme which would give him blessing beyond all possible prayer--
blessing he would not dare to ask if he saw the means necessary to its
giving, but blessing for which, once known and understood, he would be
willing to endure yet again all that he had undergone. Therefore is he
so sorely divided in himself. While he must not think of God as having
mistaken him, the discrepancy that looks like mistake forces itself
upon him through every channel of thought and feeling. He had nowise
relaxed his endeavour after a godly life, yet is the hand of the God he
had acknowledged in all his ways uplifted against him, as rarely
against any transgressor!--nor against him alone, for his sons and
daughters have been swept away like a generation of vipers! The
possessions, which made him the greatest of all the men of the east,
have been taken from him by fire and wind and the hand of the enemy! He
is poor as the poorest, diseased as the vilest, bereft of the children
which were his pride and his strength! The worst of all with which fear
could have dismayed him is come upon him; and worse now than all, death
is denied him! His prayer that, as he came naked from the womb, so he
may return naked and sore to the bosom of the earth, is not heard; he
is left to linger in self-loathing, to encounter at every turn of
agonized thought the awful suggestion that God has cast him off! He
does not deny that there is evil in him; for--'Dost thou open thine
eyes upon such an one,' he pleads, 'and bringest _me_ into judgment
with _thee_?' but he does deny that he has been a wicked man, a doer of
the thing he knew to be evil: he does deny that there is any guile in
him. And who, because he knows and laments the guile in himself, will
dare deny that there was once a Nathanael in the world? Had Job been
Calvinist or Lutheran, the book of Job would have been very different.
His perplexity would then have been--how God being just, could require
of a man more than he could do, and punish him as if his sin were that
of a perfect being who chose to do the evil of which he knew all the
enormity. For me, I will call no one Master but Christ--and from him I
learn that his quarrel with us is that we will not do what we know,
will not come to him that we may have life. How endlessly more powerful
with men would be expostulation grounded, not on what they have done,
but on what they will not do!

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