353. A Bright Evening

A Bright Evening

Zec_14:7 : ’93At evening time it shall be light.’94

While ’93night’94 in all languages, is the symbol for gloom and suffering, it is often really cheerful, bright, and impressive. I speak not of such nights as come down with no star pouring light from above or silvered wave tossing up light from beneath’97murky, hurtling, portentous; but such as you often see when the pomp and significance of heaven turn out on night-parade; and it seems as though the song which the morning stars began so long ago were chiming yet among the constellations, and the sons of God were shouting for joy. Such nights the sailor blesses in the forecastle, and the trapper on the vast prairie, and the belated traveler by the roadside, and the soldier from the tent, earthly hosts gazing upon heavenly, and shepherds guarding their flock afield, while angel hands above them set the silver bells a-ringing: ’93Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’94

What a solemn and glorious thing is night in the wilderness! Night among the mountains! Night on the ocean! Fragrant night among tropical groves! Flashing night amid arctic severities! Calm night on Roman Campagna! Awful night among the Cordilleras! Glorious night ’91mid sea after a tempest! Thank God for the night! The moon and the stars which rule it are lighthouses on the coast toward which I hope we all are sailing; and blind mariners we are if, with so many beaming, burning, flaming glories to guide us, we cannot find our way into the harbor.

My text may well suggest that, as the natural evening is often luminous, so it shall be light in the evening of our sorrows’97of old age’97of the world’92s history’97of the Christian life. ’93At evening time it shall be light.’94

This prophecy will be fulfilled in the evening of Christian sorrow. For a long time it is broad daylight. The sun rises high. Innumerable activities go ahead with a thousand feet and work with a thousand arms, and the pickax struck a mine, and the battery made a discovery, and the investment yielded its twenty per cent., and the book came to its twentieth edition, and the farm quadrupled in value, and sudden fortune hoisted to high position, and children were praised, and friends without number swarmed into the family hive, and prosperity sang in the music and stepped in the dance and glowed in the wine and ate at the banquet, and all the gods of music and ease and gratification gathered around this Jupiter holding in his hands so many thunderbolts of power. But every sun must set, and the brightest day must have its twilight. Suddenly the sky was overcast. The fountain dried up. The song hushed. The wolf broke into the family fold and carried off the best lamb. A deep howl of woe came crashing down through the joyous symphonies. At one rough twang of the hand of disaster the harp-strings all broke. Down went the strong business firm! Away went long-established credit! Up flew a flock of calumnies! The new book would not sell. A patent could not be secured for the invention. Stocks sank like lead. The insurance company exploded. ’93How much,’94 says the sheriff, ’93will you bid for this piano?’94 ’93How much for this library?’94 ’93How much for this family picture?’94 ’93How much? Will you let it go at less than half price? Going’97going’97gone!’94

Will the grace of God hold one up in such circumstances? What has become of the great multitude of God’92s children who have been pounded of the flail, and crushed under the wheel, and trampled under the hoof? Did they lie down in the dust, weeping, wailing, and gnashing their teeth? Did they, like Job, curse the day of their birth, and want to die because they had boils? When the rod of fatherly chastisement struck them, did they strike back? Because they found one bitter cup on the table of God’92s supply, did they upset the whole table? Did they kneel down at their empty money-vault and say, ’93All my treasures are gone?’94 Did they stand by the grave of their dead, saying, ’93There never will be a resurrection?’94 Did they bemoan their thwarted plans and say, ’93The stocks are down’97would God I were dead?’94 Did the night of their disaster come upon them moonless, starless, dark, and howling; smothering and choking their life out? No, no! At eventime it was light. The swift promises overtook them. The eternal constellations, from their circuit about God’92s throne, poured down an infinite luster. Under their shining the billows of trouble took on crests and plumes of gold and jasper and amethyst and flame. All the trees of life rustled in the midsummer air of God’92s love. The night-blooming assurances of Christ’92s sympathy filled all the atmosphere with heaven. The soul at every step seemed to start up from its feet bright-winged joys, warbling heavenward. ’93It is good that I have been afflicted,’94 cries David. ’93The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,’94 exclaims Job. ’93Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,’94 says St. Paul. ’93And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,’94 exclaims John in apocalyptic vision. At eventime it was light. Light from the Cross! Light from the promises! Light from the throne! Streaming, joyous, outgushing, everlasting light!

The text shall find fulfilment in the time of old age. It is a grand thing to be young’97to have the sight clear, and the hearing acute, and the step elastic, and all our pulses marching on to the drumming of a stout heart. Mid-life and old age will be denied many of us, but youth’97we all know what that is. Those wrinkles were not always on your brow. That snow was not always on your head. That brawny muscle did not always bunch your arm. You have not always worn spectacles. Grave and dignified as you now are, you once went coasting down the hillside, or threw off your hat for the race, or sent the ball flying sky-high. But youth will not always last. It stays only long enough to give us exuberant spirits, and broad shoulders for burden-carrying, and an arm with which to battle our way through difficulties. Life’92s path, if you follow it long enough, will come under frowning crag and across trembling causeway. Blessed old age, if you let it come naturally. You cannot hide it. You may try to cover the wrinkles, but you cannot cover the wrinkles. If the time has come for you to be old, be not ashamed to be old. The grandest things in all the universe are old. Old mountains; old rivers; old seas; old stars, and an old eternity. Then do not be ashamed to be old, unless you are older than the mountains, and older than the stars.

Glorious old age, if found in the way of righteousness! How beautiful the old age of Jacob, leaning on the top of his staff; of John Quincy Adams, falling with the harness on; of Washington Irving, sitting, pen in hand, amid the scenes himself had made classical; of John Angell James, to the last proclaiming the Gospel to the masses of Birmingham; of Theodore Frelinghuysen, down to feebleness and emaciation devoting his illustrious faculties to the kingdom of God! At eventime it was light!

See that you do honor to the aged. A philosopher stood at the corner of the street day after day, saying to the passers-by, ’93You will be an old man; you will be an old man.’94 ’93You will be an old woman; you will be an old woman.’94 People thought that he was crazy. I do not think that he was. Smooth the way for that mother’92s feet; they have not many more steps to take. Steady those tottering limbs; they will soon be at rest. Plow not up that face with any more wrinkles; trouble and care have marked it full enough. Thrust no thorn into that old heart; it will soon cease to beat. ’93The eye that mocketh its father, and refuseth to obey its mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.’94 The bright morning and hot noonday of life have passed with many. It is four o’92clock! five o’92clock! six o’92clock! The shadows fall longer and thicker and faster. Seven o’92clock! eight o’92clock! The sun has dipped below the horizon; the warmth has gone out of the air. Nine o’92clock! ten o’92clock! The heavy dews are falling; the activities of life’92s day are all hushed; it is time to go to bed. Eleven o’92clock! twelve o’92clock! The patriarch sleeps the blessed sleep, the cool sleep, the long sleep. Heaven’92s messengers of light have kindled bonfires of victory all over the heavens. At eventime it is light! light!

My text shall find fulfilment in the latter day of the Church. Only a few missionaries, a few churches, a few good men, compared with the institutions leprous and putrefied. It is early yet in the history of everything good. Civilization and Christianity are just getting out of the cradle. The light of martyr-stakes, flashed up and down the sky, is but the flaming of the morning; but when the evening of the world shall come, glory to God’92s conquering truth, it shall be light. War’92s sword clanging back in the scabbard; intemperance buried under ten thousand broken decanters; the world’92s impurity turning its brow heavenward for the benediction, ’93Blessed are the pure in heart’94; the last vestige of selfishness submerged in heaven-descending charities; all China worshiping Dr. Abeel’92s Saviour; all India believing in Henry Martyn’92s Bible; aboriginal superstition acknowledging David Brainerd’92s piety; human bondage delivered through Thomas Clarkson’92s Christianity; vagrancy coming back from its pollution at the call of Elizabeth Fry’92s Redeemer; the mountains coming down; the valleys going up; ’93holiness’94 inscribed on horse’92s bell and silkworm’92s thread and brown-thrasher’92s wing and shell’92s tinge and manufacturer’92s shuttle and chemist’92s laboratory and king’92s scepter and nation’92s Magna Charta. Not a hospital, for there are no wounds; not an asylum, for there are no orphans; not a prison, for there are no criminals; not an almshouse, for there are no paupers; not a tear, for there are no sorrows. The long dirge of earth’92s lamentation has ended in the triumphal march of redeemed empires, the forests harping it on vine-strung branches, the waters chanting it among the gorges, the thunders drumming it among the hills, the ocean giving it forth with its organs, trade-winds touching the keys, and Euroclydon’92s foot on the pedal. I want to see John Howard when the last prisoner is reformed; I want to see Florence Nightingale when the last saber wound has stopped hurting; I want to see William Penn when the last Indian has been civilized; I want to see John Huss when the last flame of persecution has been extinguished; I want to see John Bunyan after the last pilgrim has come to the gate of the celestial city; above all, I want to see Jesus after the last saint has his throne, and has begun to sing Hallelujah!

You have watched the calmness and the glory of the evening hour. The laborers have come from the field. The heavens are glowing with an indescribable effulgence, as though the sun in departing had forgotten to shut the gate after it. All the beauty of cloud and leaf swim in the lake. For a star in the sky, a star in the water; heaven above, and heaven beneath. Not a leaf rustling or a bee humming or a grasshopper chirping. Silence in the meadows; silence in the orchard; silence among the hills. Thus bright and beautiful shall be the evening of the world. The heats of earthly conflict are cooled. The glory of heaven fills all the scene with love and joy and peace. At eventime it is light! light!

Finally, my text shall find fulfilment at the end of the Christian’92s life. You know how short a winter’92s day is, and how little work you can do. Now, life is a short winter’92s day. The sun rises at eight and sets at four. The birth-angel and the death-angel fly only a little way apart. Baptism and burial are near together. With one hand the mother rocks the cradle, and with the other she touches a grave. I went into the house of one of my parishioners on a Thanksgiving Day. The little child of the household was bright and glad, and with it I bounded up and down the hall. Christmas Day came, and the light of that household had perished. We stood, with black book, reading over the grave, ’93Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’94 But I hurl away this darkness. I cannot have you weep. Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory, at eventime it shall be light!

I have seen many Christians die. I never saw any of them die in darkness. What if the billows of death do rise above our girdle, who does not love to bathe? What though other lights do go out in the blast, what do we want of them when all the gates of glory swing open before us, and from a myriad voices, a myriad harps, a myriad thrones, a myriad palaces, there dash upon us ’93Hosanna! Hosanna!’94 You can see Paul putting on robes and wings of ascension as he exclaims, ’93I have fought the good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith.’94 Hugh McKail went to one side of the scaffold of martyrdom and cried, ’93Farewell sun, moon, and stars! farewell all earthly delights!’94 Then went to the other side of the scaffold and cried, ’93Welcome, God and Father! Welcome, sweet Jesus Christ, the Mediator of the covenant! Welcome, death! Welcome, glory!’94 A minister of Christ in Philadelphia, dying, said, in his last moments, ’93I move into the light.’94 They did not go down doubting and fearing and shivering, but their battle-cry rang through all the caverns of the sepulcher, and was echoed back from all the thrones of heaven, ’93O death! where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’94 Sing, my soul, of joys to come!

I saw a beautiful being wandering up and down the earth. She touched the aged, and they became young. She touched the poor, and they became rich. I said, ’93Who is this beautiful being, wandering up and down the earth?’94 They told me that her name was Death. What a strange thrill of joy when the palsied Christian begins to use his arm again! When the blind Christian begins to see again! When the deaf Christian begins to hear again! When the poor pilgrim puts his feet on such pavement, and joins in such company, and has a free seat in such a great temple! Hungry men no more to hunger; thirsty men no more to thirst; weeping men no more to weep; dying men no more to die. Gather up all the sweet words, all jubilant expressions, all rapturous exclamations; bring them to me, and I will pour them upon this stupendous theme of the soul’92s disenthralment! Oh! the joy of the spirit as it shall mount up toward the throne of God, shouting Free! Free! Your eye has gazed upon the garniture of earth and heaven; but eye hath not seen it. Your ear has caught harmonies uncounted and indescribable’97caught them from harp’92s thrill and bird’92s carol and waterfall’92s dash and ocean’92s doxology; but the ear hath not heard it. How did those blessed ones get up into the light? What hammer knocked off their chains? What loom wove their robes of light? Who gave them wings? Ah, eternity is not long enough to tell it; seraphim have not capacity enough to realize it’97the marvels of redeeming love! Let the palms wave; let the crowns glitter; let the anthems ascend; let the trees of Lebanon clap their hands’97they cannot tell the half of it. Archangel before the throne, thou failest! Sing on, praise on, ye hosts of the glorified; and if with your scepters you cannot reach it, and with your songs you cannot express it, then let all the myriads of the saved unite in the exclamation, ’93Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!’94

There will be a password at the gate of heaven. A great multitude come up and knock at the gate. The gatekeeper says, ’93The password.’94 They say, ’93We have no password. We were great on earth, and now we come up to be great in heaven.’94 A voice from within answers, ’93I never knew you.’94 Another group come up to the gate of heaven and knock. The gatekeeper says, ’93The password.’94 They say, ’93We have no password. We did a great many noble things on earth. We endowed colleges, and took care of the poor.’94 The voice from within says, ’93I never knew you.’94 Another group come up to the gate of heaven and knock. The gatekeeper says, ’93The password.’94 They answer, ’93We were wanderers from God, and deserved to die; but we heard the voice of Jesus’97’94 ’93Ay! ay!’94 says the gatekeeper, ’93that is the password! Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates, and let these people come in.’94 They go in and surround the throne, jubilant forever!

Do you wonder that the last hours of the Christian on earth are illuminated by thoughts of the coming glory? Light in the evening. The medicines may be bitter. The pain may be sharp. The parting may be heartrending. Yet, light in the evening. As all the stars of this night sink their anchors of pearl in lake and river and sea, so the waves of Jordan shall be illuminated with the down-flashing of the glory to come. The dying soul looks up at the constellations. ’93The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?’94 ’93The Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall lead them to living fountains of water, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.’94 Close the eyes of the departed one: earth would seem tame to its enchanted vision. Fold the hands; life’92s work is ended. Veil the face; it has been transfigured. Thank God for light in the evening!

Autor: T. De Witt Talmage