God’s Opportunities by J. S. Washburn

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D.C. · Jan 6, 1916

God’s Opportunities

By J. S. Washburn

J. S. WASHBURN

WHEN human hope is dead, when all earthly help has failed, when the bitter struggle ends in failure,—then is God’s opportunity; then he works.

When the precious life slipped from the worn watchers’ hands; when the loving sisters’ anxious vigil closed with the death of their brother; yes, even when the loved form was fast moldering back to dust,—then Christ displayed his divine power; then the Author of life called Lazarus from the darkness of death to the light of life.

The raising of Lazarus from the dead is the seventh miracle recorded in the Gospel of John. Those recorded before seem to ascend step by step to this culminating point; for this crowning miracle is the most positive evidence during his earthly ministry of Christ’s divine power as life-giver.

The cases of three persons whom Christ raised from the dead during his earthly ministry are given in detail: (1) The daughter of Jairus, immediately after her death, while still warm with life just departed. Luke 8:49-56; (2) the son of the widow of Nain, while those who were bearing him to his grave stood still in amazement. Luke 7:11-17; and (3) Lazarus, who had already lain four days in the grave. John 11:17.

For safety Jesus had gone to Bethabara, nearly sixty miles northeast of Bethany, where was the home of Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha. “Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus;” and yet when he heard that he was sick, “he abode two days still in the same place where he was.” Sending back to the pleading sisters the assurance, “This sickness is not unto death,” apparently without any effort to help, he who had the power to preserve from dying, left Lazarus to grapple alone with his grim enemy death, and Mary and Martha to watch with straining, sleepless eyes the conflict that ended in the terrible quiet of the dreamless sleep.

How often during their brother’s illness had the sisters said to each other, “Oh, when will he come? Surely he will not slight our call. He alone can save the one who is so dear to us and to him.” But the Great Physician comes not. “Too late now! How could he permit us to suffer this deepest sorrow which he could so easily have prevented? Does he really love us, as until now we had firmly believed?” With breaking hearts they follow their beloved brother to the tomb. The door stone closes upon him who sleeps cold and still. “Farewell, till the morning breaks, till the day dawns, till the shadows flee away.”

During the dark days that follow, the home is occupied by professional mourners whose constant wailings and doleful, empty cries grate harshly on the ears of those whose sorrow is so terribly deep and real. Four days have passed. Christ appears in Bethany; Martha hastens to meet him, leaving Mary still in the house.

Her first pathetic words, “Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died,” seem almost to reproach Christ for his delay in coming. When Mary heard that the Master had come and called for her, these were her first words also. Many times, yes, constantly, during those dark days had these words been in the sisters’ minds and on their lips.

Why come at all when his appearance brought to them only the painful memories of the “hope deferred” that had made the heart sick, the fatal delay that seemed so causeless and cruel. “Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?” Why should he weep in apparent sorrow and sympathy over this death that he might have prevented? Words of worldly wisdom, cold, critical unbelief! Have you ever heard this sentiment? have you ever expressed it yourself?

“Take ye away the stone.”

Hastily Martha protests: “Lord, four days he has been dead. By this time he is decaying, offensive. Oh, when you could have saved him from dying, why expose the one we loved, to become an object of curiosity and of loathing? Why open the tomb that so mercifully guards from the eyes of the living the return of his dust to the common dust of earth?”

“Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?”

Jesus lifts up his eyes to his Father, who is love and life. Divinity flashes forth. “Lazarus, come forth.” The resurrection trump, the word which is itself spirit and life, pierces the cold ear of the unconscious dead. There is a rustle, a stir in the dark cavern. With amazement, almost horror, all eyes are fixed upon the white form that now rises, ghastly in its graveclothes, and comes forth into the light.

“Loose him, and let him go.”

With joy Lazarus feels the mighty thrill of new life that flows, that throbs, in every fiber of his being. He who once was dead turns from the dark tomb toward the light of a new life, his face glowing with the flush of perfect health, of victory over death and the grave. Oh, then there were greetings and joy unutterable!

Infinitely better and more glorious this marvelous victory over death than the sisters’ wish that their brother should be healed. God’s way, God’s time, is best.

Weary, tempted soul, fear not; trust to the end; say with Job, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.” Every moment he seems to tarry will but make all the more glorious his revelation at the last. “Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.” Believe, and thou, too, shalt “see the glory of God.”