Part 2

Again: Abraham's tent reminds us of the duty of hospitality—that hospitality without grudging, which alone is worthy of the title; not that interchange of worldly courtesies—that asking in order to be asked again—that ostentation which consumes at one luxurious meal what would suffice to feed starving multitudes. Never let the name of hospitality be profaned by being applied to such entertainments as these. But the hearty welcome given even to strangers, the readiness to spread the meal for the guest who may never be able to return the kindness, these we learn from the patriarch. Abraham "entertained angels unawares;" and the same may be said of many of those who exercise hospitality in a spirit like his. In one sense the Lord of angels visits the dwellings of those who welcome His servants for His sake. It is a privilege and an honour to entertain the humblest of His saints; for He hath said, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me."

Lastly, let us regard our dwellings, as Abraham did his, as a tabernacle rather than as a settled home. Here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. Let not our hearts cling too closely to an earthly habitation, as if it were to be ours for ever, but let us rather remember that, like the family of Abraham, we are strangers and pilgrims on the earth:

"Here in the body pent, Absent from Heaven we roam, But nightly pitch our wandering tent, A day's march nearer home."

Yes; for not only our dwellings, but even these our mortal bodies are but tabernacles, to be taken down and laid aside, to be exchanged for a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. In the meantime let us pray that they may be the abodes of peace and joy and love, and that the Holy Spirit may be our guest, not as one who tarries but awhile and departs, but as one who comes to abide with us always.

V.

Hagar's Bottle.

AN empty skin-bottle is before us, such as is used by Orientals to the present day to carry what they emphatically term "the gift of God;" a title to which our Saviour appears to have alluded when He said to the woman of whom He had asked water, "If thou knewest the gift of God;" seeking to raise her thoughts from the earthly well to the heavenly Fountain.

Of the value of water in the wilderness, we, in our moist climate, can scarcely form an adequate conception. Let me briefly quote from a description of travelling in an Arabian desert, given by a graphic author: * "On either hand extended one weary plain in a black monotony of lifelessness . . . A dreary land of death, in which even the face of an enemy were almost a relief amid such utter solitude . . . Day after day found us urging our camels to their utmost pace, for fifteen or sixteen hours together out of the twenty-four, under a well-nigh vertical sun . . . Then an insufficient halt for rest or sleep, at most of two or three hours, soon interrupted by the often repeated admonition, 'If we linger here we all die of thirst.'"

* Palgrave.

But the scene which rises before us, the wilderness of Beersheba, is not peopled with pilgrims and travellers urging on their weary camels; there are but two figures in it—an exhausted, grief-stricken woman, and the fainting lad at her side. That skin-bottle is in her hands—empty. She has watched it shrinking as the precious fluid within was gradually used, or wasted by evaporation; dry and parched as is her own tongue, she has feared to relieve her burning thirst lest she should too soon exhaust the priceless treasure. With a sickening feeling of fear Hagar has given the last draught to her Ishmael; and then, with faint hope, squeezed the skin hard with her feverish hands, trying to press out one more drop—but in vain. She looks anxiously around her, but can see no means of refilling that empty bottle.

Then, in anguish, Hagar turns from the parched shrub under which she has cast her son; she wanders away—but let the account be given in the touching words of Scripture: "She went and sat her down over against him a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept."

While Hagar was weeping, her son appears to have been praying; for it is written, "God heard the voice of the lad." Ishmael's cry was answered: "The angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is. And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink." When the cool bubbling liquid filled out the swelling skin-bottle in the hand of the rejoicing, thankful mother, as she bent eagerly over the well, far more emphatically than the first supply was it to her—the gift of God.

There are times when life appears to us as the wilderness of Beersheba did to Hagar and Ishmael. Our troubles may have been of our own making; like the proud youth who had mocked at his brother, we may, perhaps, be able to trace our sorrows to their source in our sin; but whether it be so or not, we stand in a dry, thirsty land, where no water is; we seem to have drained our last drop of earthly enjoyment—our lips are parched—our bottle is empty—we feel that we can but lie down and die!

Few pass the meridian of life, perhaps few reach it, without knowing something of this desolation of heart, this emptiness of all joy. Blessed to Ishmael was the trouble which made him cry unto the Lord; blessed to us these disappointments which dry up our cherished supplies, if in our baffled thirst for happiness we turn to our Saviour in prayer. The same God who gave to Hagar a well in the desert has also a message of mercy for us: "Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price." Would we seek more specific direction to the Fountain that bursts forth in the desert, to change that desert to an Eden, and supply our deep thirst for peace and joy? The Saviour Himself repeats the invitation; "If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink."

What do we need, dear brethren in affliction, to make us come unto Him in whom the weary find refreshment, and the broken-hearted peace? We need that by the Spirit "our eyes should be opened." The Fountain is near us, but we see it not until then. We view the bare waste around us, the withered hopes that strew it; we vainly try to press out one more drop of pleasure from the earthly vessel which once held it, and find the bottle utterly empty and dry. In such moments of dreariness, O Thou who art the Comforter indeed, Thou who canst fill up the empty void, and satisfy the aching soul with abundance, come to us, speak to us, open our eyes to behold the depths of Thy lovingkindness; lead us beside the still waters, and let the promise of our Redeemer be graciously fulfilled unto us: "He that cometh unto Me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst."

VI.

Jacob's Pillow.

LET us linger before this ancient stone, used first by the benighted patriarch as a resting-place for his head; then raised and anointed by his hands in the morning, as a solemn memorial of a night to be much remembered by him through all his mortal life, and beyond it. If we may judge of the previous spiritual state of Jacob by his conduct towards his father and brother, we shall be inclined to date his conversion to God, the new birth of his soul, to that midnight hour when the wanderer dreamed his glorious dream.

Some of the ideas suggested by Jacob's pillow have been embodied in a beautiful hymn.

"If, in my wanderings, My sun go down, Darkness encompass me, My rest a stone,— Still in my dreams I'll be Nearer, my God, to Thee— Nearer to Thee!

"Then let my ways appear Steps unto heaven; All that Thou sendest me, In mercy given; Angels to beckon me, Nearer, my God, to Thee— Nearer to Thee!

"Then, with my waking thoughts Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethels I'll raise; Still by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee— Nearer to Thee!"

But a yet deeper meaning seems to be given to the sacred dream by the words of our Saviour, if it be indeed to Jacob's ladder that they allude as type. "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man." What the patriarch beheld in a dream, faith views as a glorious reality. Christ, by His incarnation, linked heaven with earth; by His ascension, joined earth to heaven. He formed a pathway of light, by which the angels ascend and descend. Wherever we receive first into our hearts this glorious truth—first look unto the Saviour as the Way, the Truth, and the Life—that place becomes to us as memory's holy ground, and we can say, as the patriarch said, "This is none other but the house of God—this is the gate of heaven."

Jacob's pillow and his mysterious dream naturally suggest to us meditation on the ministry of angels, of which glimpses are given to us ever and anon in Holy Writ. The bright tenants of a world unseen may be hovering near us, when we have little thought of their presence.

How wondrous was the scene that opened on the servant of Elisha, when, at a time of imminent peril, the prophet's prayer, "Lord, open his eyes, that he may see," was granted! With chariots and horses the fierce enemy was encompassing the city; but lo! Above, a defence, before invisible, was seen to girdle round the prophet: horses and chariots of fire, the legions of Heaven, guarded the servant of God, and no puny arm of flesh had power to hurt one hair of his head. Were our eyes thus enabled to behold the spirits of light, we might see bright winged visitors entering, as familiar guests, the lowly cottage, the attic, the cellar—abodes which proud, luxurious sons of dust would not stoop to enter; we might see angels still encouraging a Peter in prison, refreshing a weary Elisha, rejoicing over a repentant sinner, or bending with celestial smiles over a dying Lazarus, waiting for the signal to welcome a seraph new-born to the skies. But on whatever missions of love these bright beings may come to our earth, we owe their ministry to the Lord of angels: they are "descending upon the Son of man."

And we have our "ascending" angels too—those whose upward flight we fain would follow—blest ones, whom we dare not even wish to detain, as they mount:

"Onward to the glory, Upward to the prize, Homeward to the mansions Far beyond the skies!"

Our eyes are dim with tears, as in vain we try to track their course, lost in a haze of glory; but this we own, with thankful hearts—they owe their exaltation to the King of saints alone: angels are "ascending," as well as "descending, upon the Son of man."

In the dark, bitter gloom of bereavement, we rest our aching heads on the tombstone which covers the relics of one most dear, peacefully sleeping in Jesus. Like Jacob, we feel benighted and alone. But if, in the midnight of sorrow, God reveal Himself to us as He revealed Himself to the patriarch, even that stone will become to us as a Bethel. Does it bear the dear name of our dead—no, rather a name that is written, we trust, in God's Book of Life! Above the stone rises the ladder of light; its foot may rest in the grave, but its summit is hidden in the radiance of Heaven.

VII.

The Coat of Many Colours.

A MOURNFUL relic this, all torn and stained, defiled with dust, and blood, and tears! We seem to hear the wail of the miserable father, as with anguish he gazed upon the once goodly garment. "It is my son's coat; an evil beast hath devoured him! Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces!"

In the excess of his grief, "Jacob rent his clothes, and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days."

In vain they who had inflicted the deep wound in a parent's heart, hypocritically attempted to heal it. His traitor sons "rose up to comfort him;" but Israel refused to be comforted. "And he said, For I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning. Thus his father wept for him."

How bitterly the marred garment of many colours recalled to the mind of Jacob the joy and pride with which he had placed it on his favourite son—the son of his old age, whom he loved more than all his children! Joseph, beauteous in person, gifted in mind, virtuous in character, was well fitted to be the pride and delight of his parent. We marvel not that the son of the beloved Rachel—he who inherited his mother's outward attractions, with the piety of his father—should have been to the heart of Jacob peculiarly dear.

And yet, perhaps, the first thought which this part of Joseph's history suggests to the mind is, how great an evil is partiality shown by a parent! How it draws upon its object many dangers!—Envy, enmity from without, with the yet greater peril arising from fostered vanity and pride within. Had Joseph remained with his doting father, wearing the distinctive garment with which partial affection had robed him, his noble character might have been utterly marred. Presumption, self-righteousness, and vanity, might, and probably would, have sorely tempted his soul. Joseph's Heavenly Father loved him as tenderly as did his earthly father, but with a far wiser love. God gave the bitter antidote to the sweet poison bestowed by a parent's hand. Oh, that those whose blind and cruel partiality is sowing the seed of discord in their families, and that of pride in the hearts of their best beloved, would earnestly consider the history of Jacob and Joseph! How terrible were the trials which the old patriarch's partiality drew upon his boy! His weak affection tended to injure its object: God knew that, and divided—for how many long and bitter years divided—the father from the son!

Again, in yonder torn and bloody garment we see a terrible comment on the inspired declaration, "he that hateth his brother is a murderer." How many thoughts of envy, how many glances of malice, how many bitter words, must there have been in the family of Jacob, before hatred in Joseph's brethren ripened into the horrible crime which deprived a brother of his freedom, almost of his life, and nearly brought the gray hairs of a father with sorrow to the grave! Was there not a time when, if it could have been foretold to the elder sons of Jacob that they would sell their own brother into slavery, and then, by an acted lie of the most cruel kind, try to conceal their guilt by almost breaking their parent's heart—could this have been foretold to them, would not each have exclaimed, in the language of Hazael, "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?"

Let us be watchful against the appearance of envy, even in its least startling form. If we see the crocodile's egg, let us crush it; nor let the destroyer come forth and gain strength, so that it get the mastery over us. The slightest stirring of ill-will towards one more favoured than ourselves, should place us at once on the watch. The humility that is content with a lowly place—the love that rejoices in the exaltation of a brother—these are the guardians of the soul against envy; and, where these are wanting, can the Spirit of God be said to dwell?

Once more, by Joseph's coat of many colours, rent and blood-stained, we are reminded of the marvellous way in which God's providence brings good out of evil, and makes the darkest events in His servants' lives links in a chain of mercies. The beautiful garment given by paternal love, and worn perhaps with some pride, was torn indeed from the persecuted Joseph—first to be replaced by the scanty apparel of a slave, then afterwards by the garb of a criminal in prison; but it was from wearing the dress of humiliation that Joseph was raised to power and honour. It was not the garment made by his father that he put off, in order to assume robes of high office in the court of King Pharaoh. Had Joseph remained in his home at Hebron, unharmed by malice, untouched by persecution, he would never have been the ruler in Egypt, the benefactor of a nation, the friend of a king, the earthly preserver of all Israel's race. It has been said that "evil is good in the making;" so, even from the malice of Joseph's brethren, the grief of his father, and his own anguish when "the iron entered into his soul," God brought forth blessings unnumbered to the man who feared and obeyed Him.

We cannot leave the stained vestment of the ancient patriarch without turning our thoughts to Him of whom it is written, that "He was clothed in a vesture dipped in blood: and His name is called The Word of God." In Joseph we see a remarkable type of our blessed Redeemer, sent by His Father to visit man, as Joseph was sent to his brethren in Shechem. "He came unto His own, and His own received Him not." For envy, the chief priests delivered Christ into the hands of the Gentiles; and the betrayer received money for Him whom the children of Israel did value, even as their fathers sold Joseph for twenty pieces of silver.

But it is in his subsequent exaltation to be a prince and deliverer—it is in his exercise of boundless liberality and free pardoning grace—that Joseph is especially a type of our Lord. "God sent me before you to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance," said the patriarch to his penitent brethren, who owed preservation from famine to him. And it was to those whom He deigned to call brethren that Christ addressed the gracious assurance, "I go to prepare a place for you."

To Him the sun, and the moon, and the stars pay homage; to Him all the world shall bow down; in His hands is the bread of life; and His word is still, "Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth." Once sinners parted Christ's garments amongst them, and upon His vesture did they cast lots; but the hour is approaching when they shall look upon Him whom they pierced, and behold His glory,—

"Whose native vesture bright, Is the unapproached light, The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane!"

VIII.

The Ark of Bulrushes.

A FRAIL bark, indeed, this cradle of woven bulrushes, to bear so precious a freight! We read of the boat which carried Cæsar and his fortunes; if we measure human greatness by the extent and durability of a man's influence over his kind, the mighty Roman is dwarfed beside Moses, and his "fortunes" appear comparatively a thing of a day. Many ages have passed since Cæsar exercised sway in the world; all that remains of him is a mighty name: Moses, who lived some fourteen hundred years before him, is still a living power on earth. The nation which Moses was the instrument of delivering reverence his laws to this day, while myriads of Christians, yea, all who to the latest time will study the Word of God, will honour Moses as a prophet, obey him as a teacher, and drink in wisdom from his inspired writings.

Cæsar raised a Babel structure of grandeur, cemented not with slime but with blood, and it has not left even a ruin behind it. The work of Moses, heaven-guided as he was, resembled more one of the everlasting hills which the Almighty Himself hath planted and made firm, from which flow, and to the end of time will flow, pure streams to fertilize earth, and which from age to age remain unchanged in their calm majestic beauty. Cæsar was a great conqueror. Moses stands before us in dignity of a loftier kind; so glorious as deliverer, lawgiver, prophet, that we almost forget that he was a mighty conqueror also. Cæsar climbed up to a point where a halo of fame shone around him. Moses soared high above it; the glory which beamed from his countenance was glory derived directly from God.

Did the hopes of Jochebed venture to picture anything like this, as she laboured at forming this little ark, twining in and out every green bulrush with a prayer for her helpless babe? A scene of touching domestic interest rises before the imagination as we think of the home of Amram the Levite, near the bank of the Nile, in these old, old days which the Scripture narratives bring so freshly before us. There is Jochebed, in a retired part of her dwelling, anxiously pursuing her labour of love, working and weeping, and praying as she works, trembling lest a cry from her hidden infant should betray the secret of his existence to any Egyptian ear. Perhaps little Aaron disturbs her ever and anon with innocent prattle, lisping in his childish simplicity dangerous questions which the mother knows not how to answer; while Miriam, the future prophetess, of an age to share her parent's anxieties and guard their secret, watches to give notice of the approach of any stranger, her child-face already stamped with the impress of care too natural to one brought up in the house of bondage.

The story of Jochebed and her little ark of bulrushes seems to be one especially recorded for the comfort of mothers. Though in our peaceful land such perils as those which surrounded the cradle of Moses are unknown, yet every parent who watches by a baby boy may learn a lesson from the Israelite mother who, strong in faith, twined that green nest for her little darling. For every infant born into this world of danger and trouble an ark should be woven of many prayers. In two points of view we may regard every such infant as in a position not unlike that of Jochebed's babe, when found by Pharaoh's daughter in his little floating cradle.

The child has been born to danger, and under the doom of death; he is redeemed, adopted, and may be destined to great usefulness and exalted honour. Should a mother's eye rest on these pages, let her follow out with me a subject which can scarcely fail to be one of deep interest to her heart.

Your child, my Christian sister, has, like Moses, "been born to danger, and under the doom of death." You have transmitted to him a fallen nature; he has first opened his eyes to the light in a world of which Satan is the prince—that Pharaoh whose wages is death, that tyrant who seeks to destroy the babe whom you so tenderly love. You cannot keep your little one from all the perils and temptations which, if he live to manhood, will certainly surround him. You cannot prevent his being exposed to trials as perilous to his soul as the waters of the Nile were to the body of the infant Moses. What can you do to guard your child from dangers in which so many have perished? Like Jochebed, strong in faith, make him a little ark of your prayers.

And to turn to the brighter side of the subject—if you have to share Jochebed's fears, may you not inherit her hopes also? It is no earthly princess, but the gracious Saviour Himself who has raised your child from his low estate, reversed his doom, adopted him as His own, and placed him as a little Christian in your arms, with the words, "Take this child away, and nurse it for Me, and I will give thee thy wages."