Expositions of Holy Scripture

A >> Alexander Maclaren >> Expositions of Holy Scripture

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He had been unconscious of the departure of his strength, but he seems
to have felt it rushing back into his muscles; so he grasps the two
pillars with his mighty hands; the crowd sees that the pause for breath
is over, and prepares to watch the new feats. Perhaps we may suppose
that his last words were shouted aloud, 'Let me die with the
Philistines!' and before they have been rightly taken in by the mob, he
sways himself backwards for a moment, and then, with one desperate
forward push, brings down the two supports, and the whole thing rushes
down to hideous ruin amid shrieks and curses and groans. But Samson
lies quiet below the ruins, satisfied to die in such a cause.

He 'counted not his life dear' unto himself, that he might be God's
instrument for God's terrible work. The last of the judges teaches us
that we too, in a nobler cause, and for men's life, not their
destruction, must be ready to hazard and give our lives for the great
Captain, who in His death has slain more of our foes than He did in His
life, and has laid it down as the law for all His army, 'He that loseth
his life for My sake shall find it.'

How beautifully the quiet close of the story follows the stormy scene
of the riotous assembly and the sudden destruction. The Philistines,
crushed by this last blow, let the dead hero's kindred search for his
body amid the chaos, and bear it reverently up from the plain to the
quiet grave among the hills of Dan, where Manoah his father slept.
There they lay that mighty frame to rest. It will be troubled no more
by fierce passions or degrading chains. Nothing in his life became him
like the leaving of it. The penitent heroism of its end makes us
lenient to the flaws in its course; and we leave the last of the judges
to sleep in his grave, recognising in him, with all his faults and
grossness, a true soldier of God, though in strange garb.

THE BOOK OF RUTH

A GENTLE HEROINE, A GENTILE CONVERT

'And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from
following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou
lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my
God: 17. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the
Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.
18. When she saw that she was stedfastly minded to go with her, then
she left speaking unto her. 19. So they two went until they came to
Beth-lehem. And it came to pass, when they were come to Beth-lehem,
that all the city was moved about them, and they said, Is this Naomi?
20. And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the
Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. 21. I went out full, And the
Lord hath brought me home again empty: why then call ye me Naomi,
seeing the Lord hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath
afflicted me? 22. So Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabitess, her
daughter in law, with her, which returned out of the country of Moab:
and they came to Beth-lehem in the beginning of barley harvest.'--RUTH
1 16-22.

The lovely idyl of _Ruth_ is in sharp contrast with the bloody and
turbulent annals of _Judges_. It completes, but does not contradict,
these, and happily reminds us of what we are apt to forget in reading
such pages, that no times are so wild but that in them are quiet
corners, green oases, all the greener for their surroundings,
where life glides on in peaceful isolation from the tumult. Men and
women love and work and weep and laugh, the gossips of Bethlehem talk
over Naomi's return ('they said,' in verse 19, is feminine), Boaz
stands among his corn, and no sounds of war disturb them. Thank God!
the blackest times were not so dismal in reality as they look in
history. There are clefts in the grim rock, and flowers blooming,
sheltered in the clefts. The peaceful pictures of this little book,
multiplied many thousand times, have to be set as a background to the
lurid pictures of the _Book of Judges_.

The text begins in the middle of Naomi's remonstrance with her two
daughters-in-law. We need not deal with the former part of the
conversation, nor follow Orpah as she goes back to her home and her
gods. She is the first in the sad series of those, 'not far from the
kingdom of God,' who needed but a little more resolution at the
critical moment, and, for want of it, shut themselves out from the
covenant, and sank back to a world which they had half renounced.

So these two lonely widows are left, each seeking to sacrifice herself
for the other. Who shall decide which was the more noble and truly
womanly in her self-forgetfulness,--the elder, sadder heart, which
strove to secure for the other some joy and fellowship at the price of
its own deepened solitude; or the younger, which steeled itself against
entreaties, and cast away friends and country for love's sweet sake? We
rightly praise Ruth's vow, but we should not forget Naomi's unselfish
pleading to be left to tread her weary path alone.

Ruth's passionate burst of tenderness is immortal. It has put into
fitting words for all generations the deepest thoughts of loving
hearts, and comes to us over all the centuries between, as warm and
living as when it welled up from that gentle, heroic soul. The two
strongest emotions of our nature are blended in it, and each gives a
portion of its fervour--love and religion. So closely are they
interwoven that it is difficult to allot to each its share in the
united stream; but, without trying to determine to which of them the
greater part of its volume and force is due, and while conscious of the
danger of spoiling such words by comments weaker than themselves, we
may seek to put into distinct form the impressions which they make.

We see in them the heroism of gentleness. Put the sweet figure of the
Moabitess beside the heroes of the _Book of Judges_, and we feel
the contrast. But is there anything in its pages more truly heroic than
her deed, as she turned her back on the blue hills of Moab, and chose
the joyless lot of the widowed companion of a widow aged and poor, in a
land of strangers, the enemies of her country and its gods? It is
easier far to rush on the spears of the foe, amid the whirl and
excitement of battle, than to choose with open eyes so dreary a
lifelong path. The gentleness of a true woman covers a courage of the
patient, silent sort, which, in its meek steadfastness, is nobler than
the contempt of personal danger, which is vulgarly called bravery. It
is harder to endure than to strike. The supreme type of heroic, as of
all, virtue is Jesus Christ, whose gentleness was the velvet glove on
the iron hand of an inflexible will. Of that best kind of heroes there
are few brighter examples, even in the annals of the Church which
numbers its virgin martyrs by the score, than this sweet figure of
Ruth, as the eager vow comes from her young lips, which had already
tasted sorrow, and were ready to drink its bitterest cup at the call of
duty. She may well teach us to rectify our judgments, and to recognise
the quiet heroism of many a modest life of uncomplaining suffering. Her
example has a special message to women, and exhorts them to see to it
that, in the cultivation of the so-called womanly excellence of
gentleness, they do not let it run into weakness, nor, on the other
hand, aim at strength, to the loss of meekness. The yielding birch-
tree, the 'lady of the woods,' bends in all its elastic branches and
tossing ringlets of foliage to the wind; but it stands upright after
storms that level oaks and pines. God's strength is gentle strength,
and ours is likest His when it is meek and lowly, like that of the
'strong Son of God.'

Ruth's great words may suggest, too, the surrender which is the natural
language of true love. Her story comes in among all these records of
bloodshed and hate, like a bit of calm blue sky among piles of ragged
thunder-clouds, or a breath of fresh air in the oppressive atmosphere
of a slaughter-house. Even in these wild times there was still a quiet
corner where love could spread his wings. The question has often been
asked, what the purpose of the _Book of Ruth_ is, and various
answers have been given. The genealogical table at the end, showing
David's descent from her, the example which it supplies of the
reception of a Gentile into Israel, and other reasons for its presence
in Scripture, have been alleged, and, no doubt, correctly. But the
Bible is a very human book, just because it is a divine one; and surely
it would be no unworthy object to enshrine in its pages a picture of
the noble working of that human love which makes so much of human life.
The hallowing of the family is a distinct purpose of the Old Testament,
and the beautiful example which this narrative gives of the elevating
influence of domestic affection entitles it to a place in the canon.
How many hearts, since Ruth spoke her vow, have found in it the words
that fitted their love best! How often they have been repeated by
quivering lips, and heard as music by loving ears! How solemn, and even
awful, is that perennial freshness of words which came hot and broken
by tears, from lips that have long ago mouldered into dust! What has
made them thus 'enduring for ever,' is that they express most purely
the self-sacrifice which is essential to all noble love. The very
inmost longing of love is to give itself away to the object beloved. It
is not so much a desire to acquire as to bestow, or, rather, the
antithesis of giving and receiving melts into one action which has a
twofold motion,--one outwards, to give; one inwards, to receive. To
love is to give one's self away, therefore all lesser givings are its
food and delight; and, when Ruth threw herself on Naomi's withered
breast, and sobbed out her passionate resolve, she was speaking the
eternal language of love, and claiming Naomi for her own, in the very
act of giving herself to Naomi, Human love should be the parent of all
self-sacrificing as of all heroic virtues; and in our homes we do not
live in love, as we ought, unless it leads us to the daily exercise of
self-suppression and surrender, which is not felt to be loss but the
natural expression of our love, which it would be a crime against it,
and a pain to ourselves, to withhold. If Ruth's temper lived in our
families, they would be true 'houses of God' and 'gates of heaven.'

We hear in Ruth's words also that forsaking of all things which is an
essential of all true religion. We have said that it was difficult to
separate, in the words, the effects of love to Naomi from those of
adoption of Naomi's faith. Apparently Ruth's adhesion to the worship of
Jehovah was originally due to her love for her mother-in-law. It is in
order to be one with her in all things that she says, 'Thy God shall be
my God.' And it was because Jehovah was Naomi's God that Ruth chose Him
for hers. But whatever the origin of her faith, it was genuine and
robust enough to bear the strain of casting Chemosh and the gods of
Moab behind her, and setting herself with full purpose of heart to seek
the Lord. Abandoning them was digging an impassable gulf between
herself and all her past, with its friendships, loves, and habits. She
is one of the first, and not the least noble, of the long series of
those who 'suffer the loss of all things, and count them but dung, that
they may win' God for their dearest treasure. We have seen how, in her,
human love wrought self-sacrifice. But it was not human love alone that
did it. The cord that drew her was twisted of two strands, and her love
to Naomi melted into her love of Naomi's God. Blessed they who are
drawn to the knowledge and love of the fountain of all love in heaven
by the sweetness of the characters of His representatives in their
homes, and who feel that they have learned to know God by seeing Him in
dear ones, whose tenderness has revealed His, and whose gracious words
have spoken of His grace! If Ruth teaches us that we must give up all,
in order truly to follow the Lord, the way by which she came to her
religion may teach us how great are the possibilities, and consequently
the duties, of Christians to the members of their own families. If we
had more elder women like Naomi, we should have more younger women like
Ruth.

The self-sacrifice which is possible and blessed, even to inferior
natures, at the bidding of love, is too precious to be squandered on
earthly objects. Men's capacities for it, at the call of dear ones
here, should be the rebuke of their grudging surrender to God. He gave
the capacity that it might find its true field of operation in our
relation to Him. But how much more ready we all are to give up
everything for the sake of our Naomis than for His sake: and how we may
be our own accusers, if the measure of our devotion to them be
contrasted with the measure of our devotion to God!

Finally, we may see, in Ruth's entrance into the religion of Israel, a
picture of what was intended to be the effect of Israel's relation with
the Gentile world.

The household of Elimelech emigrated to Moab in a famine, and, whether
that were right or wrong, they were there among heathens as Jehovah
worshippers. They were meant to be missionaries, and, in Ruth's case,
the purpose was fulfilled. She became the 'first-fruits of the
Gentiles'; and one aim of the book, no doubt, is to show how the
believing Gentile was to be incorporated into Israel. Boaz rejoices
over her, and especially over her conversion, and prays, 'A full reward
be given thee of Jehovah, the God of Israel, under whose wings thou art
come to trust.' She is married to him, and becomes the ancestress of
David, and, through him, of the Messiah. All this is a beautiful
completion to the other side of the picture which the fierce fighting
in Judges makes prominent, and teaches that Israel's relation to the
nations around was not to be one of mere antagonism, but that they had
another mission than destruction, and were set in their land, as the
candlestick in the Tabernacle, that light might stream out into the
darkness of the desert. The story of the Moabitess, whose blood flowed
in David's veins, was a standing protest against the later narrow
exclusiveness which called Gentiles 'dogs,' and prided itself on
outward connection with the nation, in the exact degree in which it
lost real union with the nation's God, and real understanding of the
nation's mission.

We have left ourselves no space to speak of the remainder of this
passage, which is of less importance. It gives us a lively picture of
the stir in the little town of Bethlehem, as the two way-worn women
came into it, in their strange attire, and attracting notice by
travelling alone. As we have observed, 'they said,' in verse 19, is
feminine. The women of the village buzzed round the strangers, as they
sat in silence, perhaps by that well at the gate, of which, long after,
David longed to drink. Wonder, curiosity, and possibly a spice of
malice, mingle in the question, 'Is _this_ Naomi?' It is heartless,
at any rate; it had been better to have found them food and shelter
than to have let them sit, the mark for sharp tongues. Naomi's bitter
words seem to be moved partly by a sense of the coldness of the
reception. She realises that she has indeed come back to a changed
world, where there will be little sympathy except such as Ruth can
give. It is with almost passion that she abjures her name 'Pleasant,'
as a satire on her woful lot, and bids them call her 'Bitter,' as truer
to fact now. The burst of sorrow is natural, as she finds herself again
where she had been a wife and mother, and 'remembers happier things.'
Her faith wavers, and her words almost reproach God. The exaggerations
in which memory is apt to indulge colour them. 'I went out full.' She
has forgotten that they 'went out' to seek for bread. She only
remembers that four went away, and three sleep in Moab. Possibly she
thinks of their emigration as a sin, and traces her dear ones' deaths
to God's displeasure on its account. His 'testifying' against her
probably means that His providence in bereaving her witnessed to His
disapprobation. But, whether that be so or not, her wild words are not
those of a patient sufferer, who bows to His will. But true faith may
sometimes break down, and Ruth's 'trusting under the wings of Jehovah'
is proof enough that, in the long years of lonely sorrow, Naomi's
example had shown how peaceful and safe was the shelter there.

THE FIRST BOOK OF SAMUEL

THE CHILD PROPHET

'And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli. And the word
of the Lord was precious in those days; there was no open vision. 2.
And it came to pass at that time, when Eli was laid down in his place,
and his eyes began to wax dim, that he could not see; 8. And ere the
lamp of God went out in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God
was, and Samuel was laid down to sleep; 4. That the Lord called Samuel:
and he answered, Here am I. 5. And he ran onto Eli, and said, Here am
I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again. And
he went and lay down. 6. And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And
Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call
me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again. 7. Now
Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet
revealed unto him. 8. And the Lord called Samuel again the third time.
And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call
me. And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child. 9. Therefore
Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if He call thee,
that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for Thy servant heareth. So Samuel
went and lay down in his place. 10. And the Lord came, and stood, and
called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak;
for Thy servant heareth. 11. And the Lord said to Samuel, Behold, I
will do a thing in Israel, at which both the ears of every one that
heareth it shall tingle. 12. In that day I will perform against Eli all
things which I have spoken concerning his house: when I begin, I will
also make an end. 13. For I have told him that I will judge his house
for ever for the iniquity which he knoweth; because his sons made
themselves vile, and he restrained them not. 14. And therefore I have
sworn unto the house of Eli, that the iniquity of Eli's house shall not
be purged with sacrifice nor offering for ever.'--1 SAMUEL ill. 1-14.

The opening words of this passage are substantially repeated from 1
Samuel ii. 11,18. They come as a kind of refrain, contrasting the
quiet, continuous growth and holy service of the child Samuel with the
black narrative of Eli's riotous sons. While the hereditary priests
were plunging into debauchery, and making men turn away from the
Tabernacle services, Hannah's son was ministering unto the Lord, and,
though no priest, was 'girt with an ephod.' This white flower blossomed
on a dunghill. The continuous growth of a character, from a child
serving God, and to old age walking in the same path, is the great
lesson which the story of Samuel teaches us. 'The child is father of
the man,' and all his long days are 'bound each to each' by true
religion. There are two types of experience among God's greatest
servants. Paul, made an Apostle from a persecutor, heads the one class.
Timothy in the New Testament and Samuel in the Old, represent the
other. An Augustine or a Bunyan is made the more earnest, humble, and
whole-hearted by the remembrance of a wasted youth and of God's
arresting mercy. But there are a serenity and continuity about a life
which has grown up in the fear of God that have their own charm and
blessing. It is well to have 'much transgression' forgiven, but it may
be better to have always been 'innocent' and ignorant of it. Pardon
cleanses sin, and even turns the memory of it into an ally of holiness;
but traces are left on character, and, at the best, years have been
squandered which do not return. Samuel is the pattern of child religion
and service, to which teachers should aim that their children may be
conformed. How beautifully his double obedience is expressed in the
simple words! His service was 'unto the Lord,' and it was 'before Eli';
that is to say, he learned his work from the old man, and in obeying
him he served God. The child's religion is largely obedience to human
guides, and he serves God best by doing what he is bid,--a lesson
needed in our days by both parents and children.

Samuel's peaceful service is contrasted, in the second half of the
first verse, with the sad cessation of divine revelations in that
dreary time of national laxity. A demoralised priesthood, an alienated
people, a silent God,--these are the outstanding features of the period
when this fair life of continuous worship unfolded itself. This flower
grew in a desert. The voice of God had become a tradition of the past,
not an experience of the present. 'Rare' conveys the idea better than
'precious.' The intention is not to tell the estimate in which the word
was held, but the infrequency of its utterance, as appears from the
following parallel clause. The fact is mentioned in order to complete
the picture of Samuel's 'environment' to fling into relief against that
background his service, and to prepare the way for the narrative of the
beginning of an epoch of divine speech. When priests are faithless and
people careless, God's voice will often sound from lowly childlike
lips. The man who is to be His instrument in carrying on His work will
often come from the very centre of the old order, into which he is to
breathe new life, and on which he is to impress a new stamp.

The artless description of the night in the Tabernacle is broken by the
more general notice of Eli's dim sight, which the Revised Version
rightly throws into a parenthesis. It is somewhat marred, too, by the
transposition which the Authorised Version, following some more ancient
ones, has made, in order to avoid saying, as the Hebrew plainly does,
that Samuel slept in the 'Temple of the Lord, where the ark was.' The
picture is much more vivid and tender, if we conceive of the dim-eyed
old man, lying somewhat apart; of the glimmering light, nearly extinct
but still faintly burning; and of the child laid to sleep in the
Tabernacle. Surely the picturesque contrast between the sanctity of the
ark and the innocent sleep of childhood is meant to strike us, and to
serve as connecting the place with the subsequent revelation. Childlike
hearts, which thus quietly rest in the 'secret place of the Most High,'
and day and night are near His ark, will not fail of hearing His voice.
He sleeps secure who sleeps 'beneath the shadow of the Almighty.' May
not these particulars, too, be meant to have some symbolic
significance? Night hung over the nation. The spiritual eye of the
priest was dim, and the order seemed growing old and decrepit, but the
lamp of God had not altogether gone out; and if Eli was growing blind,
Samuel was full of fresh young life. The darkest hour is that before
the dawn; and that silent sanctuary, with the slumbering old half-blind
priest and the expiring lamp, may stand for an emblem of the state of
Israel.

The thrice-repeated and misunderstood call may yield lessons of value.
We note the familiar form of the call. There is no vision, no symbol of
the divine glory, such as other prophets had, but an articulate voice,
so human-like that it is thought to be Eli's. Such a kind of call
fitted the child's stature best. We note the swift, cheery obedience to
what he supposes to be Eli's voice. He sprang up at once, and 'ran to
Eli,'--a pretty picture of cheerful service, grudging not his broken
sleep, which, no doubt, had often been similarly broken by similar
calls. Perhaps it was in order to wait on Eli, quite as much as to tend
the lamp or open the gates, that the singular arrangement was made of
his sleeping in the Temple; and the reason for the previous parenthesis
about Eli's blindness may have been to explain why Samuel slept near
him. Where were Eli's sons? They should have been their father's
attendants, and the watchers 'by night ... in the house of the Lord';
but they were away rioting, and the care of both Temple and priest was
left to a child.

The old man's heart evidently went out to the boy. How tenderly he bids
him lie down again! How affectionately he calls him 'my son,' as if he
was already beginning to feel that this was his true successor, and not
the blackguards that were breaking his heart! The two were a pair of
friends: on the one side were sedulous care and swift obedience by
night and by day; on the other were affection and a discernment of
coming greatness, made the clearer by the bitter contrast with his own
children's lives. The old and the young are good companions for one
another, and often understand each other better and help each other
more than either does his contemporaries.

Samuel mistook God's voice for Eli's, as we all often do. And not less
often we make the converse blunder, and mistake Eli's voice for God's.
It needs a very attentive ear, and a heart purged from selfishness and
self-will, and ready for obedience, to know when God speaks, though men
may be His mouthpieces, and when men speak, though they may call
themselves His messengers. The child's mistake was venial. It is less
pardonable and more dangerous when repeated by us. If we would be
guarded against it, we must be continually where Samuel was, and we
must not _sleep_ in the Temple, but 'watch and be sober.'