A Handful of Stars Part 12

_Do justly_, that is to say, extinguish self; _love mercy_, cut utterly away all the pride and wrath and all the cupidity that make this fair world a wilderness; _walk humbly with thy G.o.d_, take his will and set it in the place where thine own was wont to rule. Pluck down the tyrant from his place; set up the true Master on His lawful throne.' In the text--the _worst_ text in the Bible; the _best_ text in the Bible--Mr.

Gladstone and Professor Huxley find a trysting-place. We may therefore leave the argument at that point.

IV

The words with which Huxley fell in love were addressed by the prophet to a desperate man--and that man a king--who was prepared to pay any price and make any sacrifice if only, by so doing, he might win for himself the favor of the Most High. '_Wherewith shall I come before the Lord and bow myself before the high G.o.d?' he cries. 'Shall I come before Him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams or with ten thousands of rivers of oil?

Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?_'

'_My firstborn!_'--we have just witnessed a father's anguish on the death of his firstborn. But Balak, King of Moab, is prepared to lead his firstborn to the sacrificial altar if, by so doing, he can secure the favor of the Highest.

And the answer of the prophet is that the love of G.o.d is not for sale.

And, if it _were_ for sale, it could not be purchased by an act of immolation in which heaven could find no pleasure at all. F. D. Maurice points out, in one of his letters to R. H. Hutton, that the world has cherished two ideas of sacrifice. When a man discovers that his life is out of harmony with the divine Will, he may make a sacrifice by which he brings his conduct into line with the heavenly ideal. That is the one view. The other is Balak's. Balak hopes, by offering his child upon the altar, to bring the divine pleasure into line with his unaltered life.

'All light is in the one idea of sacrifice,' says Maurice, 'and all darkness in the other. The idea of sacrifice, not as an act of obedience to the divine will, but as a means of changing that will, is the germ of every dark superst.i.tion.'

Heaven is not to be bought, the prophet told the king. '_He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of thee but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with thy G.o.d?_'

_Equity! Charity! Piety!_

_Do something! Love something! Be something!_

_Do justly! Love mercy! Walk humbly with thy G.o.d!_

These, and these alone, are the offerings in which heaven finds delight.

V

I cannot help feeling sorry for the lady in the Scottish church. She thinks that Balaam's brave reply to Balak is the worst text in the Bible. And she is not alone. For, in his _Literature and Dogma_, Matthew Arnold shows that she is the representative of a numerous and powerful cla.s.s. 'In our railway stations are hung up,' Matthew Arnold says, 'sheets of Bible texts to catch the eye of the pa.s.ser-by. And very profitable admonitions to him they generally are. One, particularly, we have all seen. It asks the prophet Micah's question: _Wherewith shall I come before the Lord and bow myself before the high G.o.d?_ And it answers that question with one short quotation from the New Testament: _With the precious blood of Christ._' Matthew Arnold maintains that this is not honest. By casting aside the prophet's answer, and subst.i.tuting another, the people who arranged the placard ally themselves with the lady in the Scottish church. They evidently think Balaam's reply to Balak _the worst text in the Bible_. But is it? Is it good, is it fair, is it honest to strike out the real answer and to insert in its place an adopted one? I wish to ask the lady in the Scottish church--and the people who prepared the placard--two pertinent questions.

My _first_ question is this. Is the deleted text--the worst text in the Bible--true? That is extremely important. _Does_ G.o.d require that man should do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with Himself? Is it not a fact that heaven _does_ insist on equity and charity and piety? Can there, indeed, be any true religion without these things? Do they not represent the irreducible minimum? If this be so, is it not as well for that Scottish minister to preach on that terrible text, after all? And, if this be so, would not the original answer to the question be the best answer for the placard?

My _second_ question is this. Even from the standpoint of 'a stern lady who is provokingly evangelical,' is it not well for the minister to preach on that objectionable text? The lady is anxious, and commendably anxious, that the pulpit of her church should sound forth the magnificent verities of the Christian evangel. But will a man desire the salvation which the New Testament reveals unless he has first recognized his inability to meet heaven's just demands? In a notable fragment of autobiography, Paul declares that, but for the law, he would never have known the meaning of sin. It was when he heard how much he owed to the divine justice that he discovered the hopelessness of his bankruptcy. It was when he listened to the _Thou shalts_ and the _Thou shalt nots_ that he cried, 'O wretched man that I am: who shall deliver me?' It was Sinai that drove him to Calvary. The law, with its stern, imperative demands, was, he says, the schoolmaster that led him to Christ. The best way of showing that a stick is crooked is to lay a straight one beside it. This being so, the lady in the Scottish church, and the compilers of Matthew Arnold's placard, must consider whether, in the interests of that very evangelism for which they are so justly jealous, they can afford to supersede the stately pa.s.sages that make men feel their desperate need of a Saviour.

This, at any rate, is the way in which Micah used the story of the conversation between Balak and Balaam. By means of it he sought to reduce the people to despair. And then, when they had fallen upon their faces and covered themselves with sackcloth, he made one of the n.o.blest evangelical p.r.o.nouncements that the Old Testament contains: '_He pardoneth iniquity because He delighteth in mercy: Thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea_.' But the people would never have listened hungrily to that glad golden word unless they had first realized the sublimity of the divine demand and the incalculable extent of their shortcoming.

VI

We each have a blind spot. We see truth fragmentarily. If only the excellent lady in the Scottish church could have seen, in the minister's text, what Huxley saw in it! But she didn't; and, because she was blind to its beauty, she called it '_the worst text in the Bible!_' And if only Huxley could have grasped those precious truths that were so dear to her! But he never did. He could only shake his fine head sadly and say, 'I do not know!' 'I would give my right hand,' he exclaims, 'if I could believe that!' Mr. Clodd adorns the t.i.tle-page of his _Life of Huxley_ with the words of Matthew Arnold: 'He saw life steadily and saw it whole.' That sad shake of the head, and that pa.s.sionate but melancholy exclamation about giving his right hand, prove that the tribute is not quite true. Huxley, as he himself more than half suspected, missed the best.

When Sir George Adam Smith, in his _Book of the Twelve Prophets_, comes to this great pa.s.sage in Micah, he prints it in italics right across the page:

_What doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with thy G.o.d?_

This, says Sir George, is the greatest saying of the Old Testament; and there is only one other in the New which excels it:

_Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest._

Huxley had eyes for the _first_, but none for the _second_; the Scottish lady had eyes for the _second_, but none for the _first_; but they who 'see life steadily and see it whole' will stand up to salute the majesty of both.

VII

It is customary for the Presidents of the United States to select the pa.s.sage which they shall kiss in taking the oath on a.s.suming the responsibilities of their great office. President Harding had no hesitation in making his choice. He turned to this great saying of Micah. '_What doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with thy G.o.d?_' The lady in the Scottish church would frown and shake her head, but the President felt that, of all the texts in the Bible, _that was the best_.

XII

WALTER PETHERICK'S TEXT

I

He was born at Islington on the day on which Sir Walter Raleigh was executed; and his father named him after the gallant knight whom he himself was so proud of having served. That was forty-seven years ago.

He is now a prosperous London merchant, living, at ordinary times, over his warehouse, and delighting in the society of his four motherless children. At ordinary times! But these are not ordinary times. The plague is in the city! It appeared for the first time about two months ago and has gradually increased in virulence ever since. Mr. Petherick has therefore withdrawn with his two boys and his two girls to Twickenham. This morning--the morning of July 16, 1665--they all go together to the Parish Church. The riverside is in all its summer glory.

The brilliant sunshine seems to mock both the wretchedness so near at hand and the heavy anxiety that weighs upon their hearts. During the week a solemn fast-day has been observed, and to-day, services of humiliation and intercession are to be held in all the churches. Several times, during the past week or two, Mr. Petherick has visited the city.

It was a melancholy experience. Most of the shops were shut; poor creatures who claimed that they themselves or their relatives were infected by the pestilence cried for alms at every corner; and he had pa.s.sed many houses on whose doors a red cross had been marked, and, underneath, the words, 'Lord, have mercy upon us!' To-day that pathetic entreaty is to be offered in every sanctuary. All through the country, men and women are pleading that the awful visitation may be stayed. At Twickenham the church soon fills, and the fervently murmured responses give evidence of the depth and intensity of the universal emotion. Mr.

Petherick never forgot the sermon that was preached in the old church that July morning. At least, he never forgot the text. '_Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls; yet I will rejoice in the Lord and I will joy in the G.o.d of my salvation!_'

_The fields barren! The stalls empty! The vineyards bare!_

_I will rejoice! I will joy! I will joy! I will rejoice!_

The text reminded the Pethericks of the dazzling sunshine that, as they came along, had seemed so unsympathetic. For here was a radiance equally incongruous! Here was faith shining like a solitary star on a dark night! Here was joy, singing her song, like the nightingale, amidst the deepest gloom! It was as though a merry peal of bells was being rung on a day of public lamentation.

II

'The words took hold upon me mightily!' wrote Walter Petherick to a friend in 1682. I do not wonder. Quite apart from their singular application to his own case, they are full of n.o.bility and grandeur.

When, in 1782--exactly a century later--Benjamin Franklin was appointed American Plenipotentiary at Paris, some of the brilliant French wits of that period twitted him on his admiration for the Bible. He determined to test their knowledge of the Volume they professed to scorn. Entering their company one evening, he told them that he had been reading an ancient poem, and that its stately beauty had greatly impressed him. At their request he took from his pocket a ma.n.u.script and proceeded to read it. It was received with exclamations of extravagant admiration.

'Superb!' they cried. 'Who was the author? Where did Franklin discover it? How could copies be obtained?' He informed them, to their astonishment, that it was the third chapter of the prophecy of Habakkuk--the pa.s.sage to which Mr. Petherick and his children listened that sad but sunny morning at Twickenham.

The Petherick incident belongs to the _seventeenth_ century; the Franklin incident belongs to the _eighteenth_; and they remind me of one that belongs to the _nineteenth_. Daniel Webster was one morning discussing with a number of eminent artists the subjects commonly chosen for portrayal upon canvas. 'I have often wondered,' he said, 'that no painter has yet thought it worth his while to draw his inspiration from one of the most sublime pa.s.sages in any literature.' 'And what is that?'

they asked. 'Well,' he replied, 'what finer conception for a masterpiece could any artist desire than the picture of the prophet Habakkuk sitting in the midst of utter ruin and desolation, singing, in spite of everything, faith's joyous and triumphant song?'

III

_Suppose!_

It is a _Song of Suppositions_!

'_Suppose_ the fig tree shall not blossom!'

'_Suppose_ the vine shall bear no fruit!'