THE CHURCH NOT IN DARKNESS.
By H. L. Hastings
[Continued from No. 18.]
In further illustration and proof of the main proposition before us, namely: That the people of God are not and should not be "in darkness" concerning the coming of that day, we may cite the recorded occurrences of ages past, as "written for our learning" in the Book of God. Reasoning from analogy, we conclude that God will be just, because he has been in time past; that he will be merciful, because he has been in days gone by; that he will hear the cry of sincere penitence, because he has always done so; that he will care for the interests of his people, because his care for them has marked with many a monument the track of ages past. And so in the present argument, if we look to the dealings of God with his church and with the world, we shall find that in every dispensation of mercy and judgment which has proceeded from the Almighty in days gone by, the same principle has been attended to and acted upon by the Most High, the Unchangeable God. We go back, then, and witness the consequences of primeval transgression, as exemplified in the first universal and total revolt of rebellious humanity from their allegiance to the God of heaven. Go, stand with me upon the yet undeluged world. Gaze upon the Eden-like beauty of the wide-spreading landscape. Paradise has been closed and the curse has fallen, but still the earth retains its primitive form, and to a great extent its pristine glory. Earth, though cursed, still is glorious beyond description. In that healthful climate, old age comes slowly on, and numerous centuries are the measure of human existence. But wickedness abounds—defilement prevails—violence fills the earth. Men's hearts in all their purposes are at war with the Almighty. Muttered blasphemies and outspoken words of defiant impiety are heard on every hand. The altar fires have ceased to burn, and with a single exception, houses and families of prayer seem to be unknown. One voice amid all this transgression is raised in reproof. One venerable patriarch learns, from lips that cannot lie, that this world-wide iniquity cannot166long remain unpunished. To him is revealed the solemn fact that earth's probation is limited, and that within the space of one hundred and twenty years man must repent or perish. That patriarch raises his voice in warning and expostulation. To the gathering multitudes around him, who have hitherto known him as a "just man," he becomes "a preacher of righteousness." The world are thus shut up—"spirits in prison"—"prisoners of hope" if penitent, of despair, if they will not repent. Time rolls on, the Spirit strives; by it Christ, through the instrumentality of Noah faithfully admonishes a sinful race, but it is in vain: they heed not the warning, they despise the entreaty, they mock the reproof. And now Noah's heart is sad. There is no hope of the world's repentance, and the fear of its ruin broods heavily on his soul. "Moved with" this "fear," he seeks to escape. Looking round on his wife and the children that gathered by his side, he "prepared an ark for the saving of himself and house." Exposed to fresh insults by his obedience to God, he commences and continues to rear the mighty structure. Bearing their jeers, enduring their scoffs, submitting to all their mockery, beneath his assiduous hand the future ark arose and approached completion. By faith he prepared it. Faith in God, "in things not seen as yet," in things disbelieved and unheeded by the world, this was the spring of action. Faith hewed each timber, faith laid each plank, faith fastened each bolt, faith finished with pitch the mighty structure, and then sat down to calmly wait the issue. Behold the edifice! The world denominate it "Noah's folly;" the fruit of insensate and blind fanaticism; the work of an idiot, a lunatic; the strange hobby of a croaking fool; the result and end of all his paltry religion, his fanatical preaching and praying. But faith calls it Noah's ARK prepared "for the saving of himself and house." How the world mocked and scoffed and sneered at that ark I cannot tell. How oft they tried to raise a smile upon the melancholy countenance of that sad old man, I know not—and how sadly, yet eloquently, he besought them to seek with him a refuge from impending destruction, I cannot determine. This much I know, they heeded it not. The last week of human probation commenced. The beasts of earth and the fowls of heaven had found their way into the ark, but the sinners passed heedlessly by. And now the day of destruction has dawned. They eat, they drink, they buy, they sell, they fear no evil. Noah is within the ark. The hand of God has shut the door. He is safe. And now earth rests and rocks with mighty throes, floods burst forth from the pent up caverns of the depths beneath, and above, one sheet of lurid flame lightens the angry clouds, the thunders mutter and swell, and roll, and lo! all the floodgates from on high are opened on a ruined world. O! what a wail goes up from the impious host of the enemies of God. The distant horizon is one mass of rushing waves—onward and still onward the surging waters sweep; the ark sways heavily above the swelling tide; the waves rush on—they sweep away the fleeing enemies of God; descending torrents flood the loftiest hills, and drench each sinner there. Night comes on. The darkness is thick, and still the dread roar of heaven's artillery is heard; still the awful clouds ride madly o'er the boiling deep; still the vivid lightning plays and dashes along the darkened sky, or hisses amid the swelling waves. The morning dawns, but no sunbeam gilds the scene of despair; still descending and ascending waters meet, and borne upon their heaving bosom, the ark glides safely away. Thus for forty days did these rains descend, and for forty nights did those waters accumulate, till the last man upon the topmost summit of the highest mountain had met his fate—the race was destroyed—earth was one shoreless ocean—and the light that faintly gleamed from the window of that storm-tost, heaven-guarded ark, was the only token of hope to a sinful and ruined race. The sun shines once more. The angry clouds once more disappear in the distant horizon. The waters assuage. The swelling waves sleep silently beneath the sky. The ark grates on the towering summit of Ararat, and its tossings and its swayings cease. The "dove" and the "olive leaf" tell the tale of God's returning favor, and are consecrated for ever as the emblems of peace. The patriarch leads forth his family upon the surface of the emerging earth—the altar is erected—the sacrifice smokes thereon, the rainbow spans the heavens with its arch of glory—God's covenant is made once more with man, and a new probation is granted to the fallen race. In this transaction we observe these prominent facts. FIRST: Noah was previously warned of the approaching danger. SECOND: He faithfully warned the world around him, giving them as favorable an opportunity as he himself had, to know and escape the danger. THIRD: The world did not and would not know the truth. FOURTH: Noah was ready—was "not in darkness, that it should come upon him as a thief," and he was saved. FIFTH: "They knew not till the flood came," found them unprepared, "and took them all away." To this type we find all the subsequent judgments of God conform. Destruction cometh not undeserved. Mercy's warnings and expostulations are expended without stint. Those who heed them anticipate and escape the foretold destruction, while others pass on and perish in their willful ignorance, their blind stupidity, their obdurate impiety, and their invincible unbelief. From the base of Ararat we pass on—we leave the unfinished Babel, the monument of human pride and folly, and the token of returning ungodliness, and we pass to the fertile valley of Jordan. Beauteous as the garden of God, it seems to carry us back for a moment to the time when Eden was the abode of the happy and the blest. Lured by the fertility of the soil, and the genial beauty of the landscape, Lot, the kinsman of Abraham, had chosen it as his residence, unmindful of the fact that the "men of Sodom were sinners exceedingly," and forgetting that great blessings are great curses in the hands of wicked men. The current of sin rolled on apace. Pride, gluttony, idleness, especially among her daughters, cruelty to the poor, haughtiness and untold abominations, the reeking slime and filth of the lowest depths of polluting licentiousness—these with steadfast refusal to obey the Almighty, and with unflinching determination to maintain the wrong and deny the right, were the sins that rolled heavenward a cry which reached the listening ear of God, and awoke to judgment the wrath of him whose mercy was thus abused. It was a sultry summer day when Abraham arose from the shelter of his tent to welcome the wayfaring angels, and give them entertainment. And as they turned to go towards the vale of Siddim in the accomplishment of the purpose of their journey, the question arose, "Shall I hide from Abraham that thing which I do?" Another moment and we find Abraham informed of the meditated judgment, and standing up to plead in behalf of those guilty cities. The promise is given that "for ten righteous men" the city shall be spared and Abraham proceeds to his place. Onward pass those mysterious strangers towards the cities of the plain. Lot, in the performance of the duties of hospitality, entertains "angels unawares;" and in the wild and beastly brawl before his door the strangers find enough to indicate the character of the place. The warning is given, and the father trembling with fear goes out to apprise his children and their families. How startling his admonition, "Up! get you out of this place! for the Lord will destroy this city." Thus did the old man plead with the children of his love, but he plead in vain. And as the daylight reddened the eastern sky, Lot was bidden to depart. Led forth and quickened in his tardy course by angelic kindness, as the sun arises he enters Zoar. But how is Sodom now? Hark! the shouts of the revellers that have arisen through the weary night, are still rising drowsily upon the morning air. Wickedness is bold and brazen as before. They eat, they drink, they buy, they sell—they dream on. But see! ah, see that awful lurid cloud, as it gathers o'er that city! How it veils for ever the pride and sin of the cities of the plain from the sunshine of heaven. O, hark, that bursting thunder! and see! see! storms of fire—torrents of burning brimstone—floods of hot, hissing, roaring flame fall from above—while earth beneath reels and quakes and kindles with the wrath of God. The last note of music—the last sound of mirth—the last terrific blasphemy—the last song of the drunkard—the last jeer of lust—the last scoff of brutalized and impious humanity is lost and swallowed up amid the mighty roar of sulphurous flame. Early in the morning, the anxious eyes of Abraham were turned towards the cities of the plain; and lo! the fertile valley was one vast furnace, and from the seething lake of fire arose a cloud of smoke that covered all the adjacent country, and ascended slowly toward the skies. Sodom is overthrown, and now let us go and sit upon that encrusted shore, and gaze upon the boding waves of the Dead Sea that roll sluggishly there. Let us interrogate them and learn wisdom from their solemn flow. We find here, as in the case of the deluge, FIRST: Lot (and Abraham also) was previously warned of the danger in season to make his escape. SECOND: Those around were warned by him that they might also escape. THIRD: They did not and would not give heed to the admonition. FOURTH: Lot was "not in darkness that that day should overtake him as a thief," and he was saved. FIFTH: They knew not till the fiery tempest burst upon them—found them unprepared, and they perished, "and are set forth as an example to them that should afterwards live ungodly, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire." Throughout this whole transaction we see the same principles of reasonable justice prevailing. First, warnings and deliverance for those who heed the admonitions. Second, punishments for those who disregard them. Similar in character were the dealings of God with the kingdom of Babylon. Warnings had been given, and they were understood by the people of God. During the last scene of impious and insulting revelry and sacrilege, when the vessels of Jehovah's Temple were made the instruments of riotous intoxication—at that hour, the mysterious hand traced in characters legible and intelligible to the anointed eye of the Hebrew Seer, the last warning of Babylon's overthrow. That night, the glory of that kingdom passed away; and those who had long refused to listen to the warning providences of God, were overwhelmed in irretrievable ruin. While on the other hand, those who wept at the remembrance of their much-loved Zion, while they hanged their harps upon the willows of Babel's streams, found in that overthrow of their oppressors, the pledge of deliverance, liberty and restoration, for which they had so long and patiently waited. We might notice other instances, but the time would fail us to relate them all. One more may be adduced. We pass onward in earth's story of sin and rebellion, until we notice the people of God, the Jewish nation, filling to the brim their cup of iniquities and abominations. The appointed time of their foretold overthrow approaches. They are about to consummate their blackest crime in the crucifixion of their King. A solemn weeper overlooks the city of Jerusalem from an adjacent height. "How oft would I have gathered you—but ye would not. * Your house is left unto you desolate." These are the pathetic utterances that issue amid tears and sighs,167which speak the anguish of an affectionate heart. A warning too is spoken in the ears of those disciples that gather around him. "When ye see Jerusalem compassed with armies, then flee!" Years passed away ere that sight was beheld. But at length they saw it. The Roman eagles glittered in the surrounding valleys, and destruction seemed inevitable. Suddenly that army withdrew itself, and then with all haste the followers of Christ fled from that devoted city. The village of Pella afforded them a resting place. But the Jews were heedless. Notwithstanding the command of Jesus, that those who were in the adjacent countries should not enter into the city, they continued to come. The appointed feast congregated the multitudes of that hypocritical nation, and again a Roman force environed the city of blood and violence. The horrors of that fearful siege no tongue can tell. The violence that reigned—the sedition that prevailed—the intestine divisions that consumed their strength—the determined energy of those assaults, and the wild fury of that resistance—the wasting famine—the loathsome pestilence—the intolerable hunger, compelling women to devour even their infant children—the nauseous stench of the unburied dead—the awful warning, "Woe, woe to Jerusalem," that was uttered by that haggard man who trod the ramparts of the city until slain himself—the fierce and final struggle—the burning of the temple—the overthrow of the charred and tottering walls—the tortures and sufferings of the captives—the cruelty of the captors—the passing of the ploughshare of destruction over the very ground on which that city stood—all these and other circumstances of unmitigated suffering, stand too full upon the page of history, to require a repetition. But the important fact is that not one Christian perished there. ELEVEN HUNDRED THOUSAND JEWs were destroyed in the siege. NINETY-SEVEN THOUSAND were carried away captive, and not one Christian among them all. Why was all this? It was because the church of God were apprised of the predetermined desolation, and made their escape. Here we find the same principles of justice and reason that we have observed before in the dealings of God with those who incurred his displeasure. FIRST: The church of God were forewarned. SECOND: They communicated the warning to others that they might escape. THIRD: The wicked did not and would not heed the admonition given. FOURTH: The Christians 'were not in darkness,' and were not overtaken unawares. FIFTH: The wicked knew not the danger, and were overwhelmed in ruin. Destruction vast, inevitable and indescribable came down upon them as the tempest bursts in fury upon some careless and unwatchful sailor, and sinks his bark beneath the yawning wave.