SUNDAY READING.

Taranaki Daily News, 27 August 1921, Page 9

SUNDAY READING.

“LUX IM' TENEBRIS.” though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me: Thy Rod and Thy Staff they comfort me."—Psalm xxiii. 4. Sermons are sometimes painted, not preached; they issue from the studio of tlie artist and not from the study of the preacher. (Quite the noblest exposition of this text which I have ever been is Sir Noel Patou’s picture “Lux in Tenebris.” It is more than thirty years since I had opportunity of close inspection of the canvas, but the im'pression abides. It is a work of consummate beauty and strength. The dark valley through which the spirit passes is represented as a churchyard, rained and neglected. The path that must be traversed issues from pitchy dark, and lies across a worn and broken pavement of tombstones. A cold, creeping mist hangs over the ground. ft is night and a place of loneliness and terror. Every accessory tells the same tale of death. Leaves litter the ground—some withered, some sere, some green. The chape-less skull that is at the foot of a simple headstone, moss-stained ar.d neglected, is that of a king. The jewels of his crown are stained with dust, and the pure gold has become dim. Even the fallen gravestone, which has sunk into the earth, is cracked with age, and crumbling to decay, for death brings kings and commoners to one level, and now another victim has come to the dark valley: The damp Jews are on her brow. Her pale bloodless lips reveal rows of white teeth. Her fair brown hair is tossing wildly in the night wind, and the exquisitely painted drapery hovers spirit-like about her form. Though death has fixed his dart, the feet of the dying girl arc planted firmly on the path she must tread. One hand grasps the right hand of her Saviour, and the other rests gently on it. Her full round eyes rest in perfect trust on the face of the elder brother, who’ Jias been through the val-, ley alone. There are suggestions of distraction and dread, which come to a gentle and shrinking nature, in presence of pain and mystery, but the mortal a?ony has been mastered. The figure

of the Saviour is very striking. The face is grave and sweet and tender — almost womanly—yet it is firm and steadfast, and sure, with no trace of weakness. His left hand grasps the shepherd’s crook, and the foot, which is seen from under the seamless robe, bears the print of the nails. A crown of brambles circles His brow. His face is intensely, almost passionately, human. But the most wonderful feature is the eye that looks with com pass ion* ate response to the appeal of the dying girl; and as the eye of the saint and her Saviour meet, as the mortal hand gra.-p$ the immortal and rests with perfect trust, you feel the artist has solved! the problem attempted. Faith has triumphed over the terrors of the grave,} and you are prepared to read the inscription on which the loot of the Saviour rests: “Oh! grave, where is thy victory t” It is a great, a wonderful pirfturel one of the greatest in the realm of /acred art. Sir Noel has followed the generally accepted rf-ading of the text, and yet it may he questioned if David was thinking of . physical dissolution. The valley gi tlie shadow may be descriptive oi liiio.' -Sometimes the hour of the spirit ,1 flight is the hour of Lie spirit's viccßry: the hour of sunshir.e, not gloom.jiThe soul “.Jubilate,” not its “Afiseretfe.” The blow that shatters the pitcher at the fountain is the hand of a friend, like the Angel that opened the prison gate t?> Peter and led him out to freedom and enlargement, in ancient Damascus there is said to be a Tine in a tunnel. It has been there for ages. Travellers descend ar.d : ass through and emerge at the other end iu a courtyard attached to an oriental palace, aglow with sunlight and color. i “The gorge of gloom” is not a cul de I sac shut in with frowning precipices. It opens out on the shining table-lands and the greener pastures. Death is a thoroughfare, not a terminus. The soul passes out of confinement into freedom; out- of gloom into glory; out of death into life. Death ia a physical act which touches the body, but has no power over, the soul.

My point, is this: “The valley of the shadow of death” may stand for other experiences than physical decay. John Bunyan put the valley between “the palace beautiful” and “vanity fair.” The river scene camo later. For example: There is doubt. You read yourselves into a fog, or what of tenor happens, you won’t read: you catch opinions as you catch a cold, and the result is easy to forecast. A starved mind ends in u soured heart. Mephistophiles looks over your .shoulder with horrid leer, which make your blood run cold. It is “the valley of the shadow of death” —the death of religious faith. There is sorrow. Blow after blow falls; friend after friend departs; messengers like those who came to Job follow iu -.vift succession, each one the bearer ! of evil tidings, until life seems a windI swept field, and the heart is tortured in--1 ro furrows in which no friendly hand drops seeds of comfort. It is the valley of the shadow of death—the death f hope. There is remorse. 1 don’t mean Teontance. That is a different thing. >ut remorse—Aho memory of misspent cars and powers. The thought of what might have been. You may make ;ight of, if you have not experienced it. You may say it is the preachers' bogey; ; the exaltations of a diseased imagination; the fruit of too much brooding on the past. But if God let loose these haunting spectres of the mind you would be scared, and it would be “the valley of the shadow of death” —the death of peace.

Now what shall we say to aB this? Well, at any rate, let us avoid unreality and face the facts. Some expositors attempt to explain away the grim side of all fhiis. They underscore the word “shadow” and make light of it. They say that a shadow cannot hurt. The shadow of a dog cannot bite; the shadow of a. Lee cannot sting; the Shadow of a sword cannot slay; and that because Jesus Christ met death as a substance, therefore we need not fear to meet the shadow. I know that those who say these things mean well, but their words are dry “chaff, well meant for grain.” It is a shallow optimism playing on a platitude. Shadows do hurt; shadows sometimes slay. A,sk the children who walk in the shadow oi their father’s crime, if the shadow hurts! Ask the crowd of those who have failed if the shadow of defeat hurts! Ask the multitude who waU ttie shadowed aisles of hopeless poverty if the shadow of want hurts! JJh; ’ J tel! you shadows do bui t and shadows

sometimes slay. And just (because the Bible is an honest book it never denys the fact of death and. sorrow; and whether the valley of the shadow be interpreted to mean life or death it is a dark and painful experience.

What the Bible docs is to assure us we are not alone. Moreover, the Bible reveals “the moral use of dark things,” to use Horace Bushnell’s phrase. A modern naturali t describes a curious wasps’ nest. These insects make their nest of paper woven out of the fabric of their own body. But in this case they had found a piece of human made paper, and built- it into their nest. On looking closer he found, to his surprise, that it was a leaf torn from the New Testament, and ou it was written the text: “God is love.” Strange that such a gracious message should be built into a nest of stinging poison. Yet is it strange, after all? If we had eyes to see, we might discover that “God is love” is written across all the experiences of life, even the most painful. I heard one of the great masters of the organ on one occasion. He sat down at the king of instruments, and called up spirits from j the vast deep. There was a storm amongst i the mountains. You hoard it coming with the tramp, tramp, tramp of a conquerer. The wind came in gusts; the big raindrops splashed. There came a crash of thunder which made the building shake. But across the storm came the sweet voices of women, and the sweeter treble of children—clear, liquid, triumphant—till at last the voice of the thunder died away iu heavenly peace, and the voices of the children sang on. This psalm is a storm piece. The thunder, the blackness, the shuddering fear are present, but clear and sweet are voices singing, “I will fear no evil.” It is the doxology sung by a choir of Angels standing on a sea of glas.?. “Thou art with me” makes magic music, and expresses calmness in the eye of the. storm. Nor is safety in the glen all. “Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.” The “rod” is the shepherd’s crook; the “staff” is the shepherd’s goad. With one He recovers the Straying; with the other He quickens the pace of the laggards. “Thy rod and Thy staff they coinfort me.” Comfort seems hardly the word, for we use it as soothing, but the meaning of the word is not that.

“Comfort” means strengthening. It is the root whence we get “fortress’* —• “com”, together; “fort.is”, strong. God’s leadings are His corrections and His strengthenings. The disciplines' of our mortal years are for the perfecting of human character. I cannot pledge my v, ord that it is true, but I have read somewhere of a Scottish shepherd who was sorely tried by the frequent misadventures of a wild lamb that gave him more trouble than all the flock. U seemed incorrigible. One day the shepherd took the flighty tiling and broke its leg. Brutal? No; for having broken the limb, he carefully set it again, bound it up, and carried it on his shoulder, until the fracture was healed, and when the healing was complete the lamb was set on its feet and wandered never more, which thing is a parable. iSo then we may take up this old, sweet song anew. Millions have sung it in the long past. Millions unborn will sing it yet, and we, without bravado, or make-believe, ia sunny confidence and quiet trust may sing—

Through death’s dark vale,. I fear no ill, With Thee dear Lord beside me; Thy rod and staff they comfort stilL Thy cross before to guide me.