The Epistle to the Hebrews was written by the eternal Spirit
for the whole Church of God in all ages. It shows us on what
footing we are to stand before God as sinners; and in what way we
are to draw near as worshippers.
It assumes throughout, that the
present condition of the Church on earth is one continually
requiring the application of the great sacrifice for cleansing.
The theory of personal sinlessness has no place in it. Continual
evil, failure, imperfection, are assumed as the condition of God's
worshippers on earth, during this dispensation. Personal
imperfection on the one hand, and vicarious perfection on the
other, are the solemn truths which pervade the whole. There is no
day nor hour in which evil is not coming forth from us, and in
which the great bloodshedding is not needed to wash it away. This
epistle is manifestly meant for the whole life of the saint, and
for the whole history of the Church. God's purpose is that we
should never, while here, get beyond the need of expiation and
purging; and though vain man may think that he would better
glorify God by sinlessness, yet the Holy Spirit in this epistle
shows us that we are called to glorify God by our perpetual need
of the precious bloodshedding upon the cross. No need of washing,
may be the watchword of some; they are beyond all that! But they
who, whether conscious or unconscious of sin, will take this
epistle as the declaration of God's mind as to the imperfection
of the believing man on earth, will be constrained to acknowledge
that the bloodshedding must be in constant requisition, not (as
some say) to keep the believer in a sinless state, but to cleanse
him from his hourly sinfulness. [1]
Boldness to enter into the
holiest is a condition of the soul which can only be maintained
by continual recourse to the blood of sprinkling, alike for
conscious and for unconscious sin: the latter of these being by
far the most subtle and the most terrible,--that for which the
sin-offering required to be brought.
" If we say that we have no
sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." The
presence of sin in us is the only thing which makes such epistles
as that to the Hebrews at all intelligible. When, by some
instantaneous act of faith, we soar above sin, (as some think
they do) we also bid farewell to the no longer needed blood, and
to the no longer needed Epistle to the Hebrews.
" Through the veil, which
is His flesh," is our one access to God; not merely at first
when we believed, but day by day, to the last. The blood- dropped
pavement is that one which we tread, and the blood-stained mercy-seat
is that before which we bow. In letters of blood there is written
on that veil, and that mercy-seat, "I am the way, the truth,
and the life; no man cometh to the Father but by me": and,
again, "Through Him we have access, by one Spirit, unto the
Father."
Every thing connected with the
sanctuary, outer and inner, is, in God's sight, excellent and
precious. As of the altar, so of every other part of it, we may
say, "Whatsoever toucheth it shall be holy" (Exo 29:37).
Or, as the Apostle Peter puts it, "To you who believe this
preciousness belongs" (1 Peter 2:7, i.e., all the
preciousness of the "precious stone").
Men may ask, May we not be
allowed to differ in opinion from God about this preciousness?
Why should our estimate of the altar, or the blood, or the veil,
if not according to God's, be so fatal to us as to shut us out of
the kingdom? And why should our acceptance of God's estimate make
us heirs of salvation? I answer, such is the mind of God, and
such is the divine statute concerning admission and exclusion.
You may try the experiment of
differing from Him as to other things, but beware of differing
from Him as to this. Remember that He has said, "This is my
beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." Say what you like,
He is a jealous God, and will avenge all disparagement of His
sanctuary, or dishonour of His Son. Contend with Him, if you will
try the strife, about other things. It may not cost you your soul.
Dispute His estimate of the works of His hand in heaven and earth;
say that they are not altogether "good," and that you
could have improved them, had you been consulted. It may not
forfeit your crown. Tell Him that His light is not so glorious as
He thinks it is, nor His stars so brilliant as He declares they
are. He may bear with this thy underrating of His material
handiwork, and treat thee as a foolish child that speaks of what
he knows not.
But touch His great work, His
work of works,-- the person and propitiation of His only-begotten
Son, and He will bear with thee no more. Differ from Him in His
estimate of the great bloodshedding, and he will withstand thee
to the face. Tell Him that the blood of Golgotha could no more
expiate sin than the blood of bulls and of goats, and He will
resent it to the uttermost. Depreciate anything, everything that
He has made; He may smile at thy presumption. But depreciate not
the cross. Underrate not the sacrifice of the great altar. It
will cost thee thy soul. It will shut thee out of the kingdom. It
will darken thy eternity.
CONTENTS.
|
| 1. Open
Intercourse with God. |
7. Messiah within
the Veil. |
| 2. How There Came
to be a Veil. |
8. The Blood
within the Veil. |
| 3. The Symbolic
Veil. |
9. God Seeking
Worshippers. |
| 4. The True Veil. |
10. God Seeking Temples. |
| 5. The Rending of
the Veil. |
11. God Seeking Priests. |
6. The Removal of
the First Sacrifice and
the Establishment of the Second. |
12. God
Seeking Kings. |
It does not seem a
strange thing that the creature and the Creator should meet face
to face, and that they should hold intercourse without any
obstructing medium.
We may not
understand the mode of communication between the visible and the
invisible, but we can see this, at least, that He who made us can
communicate with us, by the ear or the eye or the touch. He can
speak and we can hear; and, again, we can speak and He can hear.
His being and ours can thus come together, to interchange thought
and affection: He giving, we receiving; He rejoicing in us, and
we rejoicing in Him: He loving us, and we loving Him. He can look
on us, and we can look on Him; He "guiding us with His eye"
(Psa 32:8), and we fixing our eye on His, as children on the eye
of a father, taking in all the love and tenderness which beam
from His paternal look, and sending up to Him our responding look
of filial confidence and love. Not that He has "eyes of
flesh, or seeth as man seeth" (Job 10:4); but He can fix His
gaze on us in ways of His own, and make us feel His gaze, as
really as when the eyes of friends look into each other's depths.
"He that formed the eye shall He not see" (Psa 94:9).
He who made the human eye to be "the light of the body"
(Matt 6:22),--that organ through which light enters the body,--in
order that He might pour into us the glory of His own sun and
moon and stars,--can He not, through some inner eye which we know
not, and for which we have no name, pour into us the radiance of
His own infinite glory, though He be the "King invisible"
(1 Tim 1:17),--He "whom no man hath seen nor can see" (1
Tim 6:16),--the "invisible God" (Col 1:15). He can
touch us; for in Him we live and move and have our being: [2] and we
can lay hold of Him, for He is not far from any one of us; He is
the nearest of all that is near, and the most palpable of all the
palpable. It would seem, then, that open and free and near
intercourse with the God who made us arose from His being what He
is, and from our being what we are: as if it were a necessity
both of His existence and of ours.
That He should be our Creator,
and yet be separated from us, seems an impossibility; that we
should be His creatures, and yet remain at a distance from Him,
seems the most unnatural and unlikely of all relations.
Intercourse, fellowship, mutual love, then, seem to flow from all
that He is to us, and from all that we are to Him.
We can conceive of no
obstruction, no difficulty in all this, so long as we remained
what He has made us. There could be nothing but the sympathy of
heart with heart; a flow and reflow of holy and unobstructed love.
Unhindered access to the God
who made us seems one of the necessary conditions of our nature;
and this not arising out of any merit or worthiness on the part
of the creature, but from the fitness of things; the adaptation
of the thing made to Him who made it; and the impossibility of
separation between that which was made and Him who made it. The
life above and the life below must draw together; heart cannot be
separated from heart, unless something come between to put
asunder that which had by the necessity of nature been joined
together. Distance from God does not belong to our creation, but
has come in as something unnatural, something alien to creative
love, something which contravenes the original and fundamental
law of our being.
The tree separated from its
root, the flower broken off from its stem, are the fittest
emblems of man disjoined from God. Such distance seems altogether
unnatural. The want of vital connection, in our original
constitution, or the absence of sympathy, would imply defect in
the workmanship, of the most serious kind,--and no less would it
indicate imperfection on the part of the Great Worker.
God made us for Himself; that
He might delight in us and we in Him; He to be our portion and we
His; He to be our treasure and we His.[3] He made us after His
own likeness; so that each part of our being has its resemblance
or counterpart in Himself: our affections, and sympathies, and
feelings being made after the model of His own. We are apt to
associate God only with what is cold and abstract and ideal;
ourselves with what is emotional and personal. Herein we greatly
err. We must reverse the picture if we would know the truth
concerning Him with whom is no coldness, no abstraction, no
impersonality. The reality pertaining to the nature of man, is as
nothing when compared with the reality belonging to the nature of
Him who created us after His own image. In so far as the infinite
exceeds the finite, in so far does that which we call reality
transcend in God all that is known by that term in man. We are
the shadows, He is the substance. Jehovah is the infinitely real
and true and personal: and it is with Him as such that we have to
do. The God of philosophy may be a cold abstraction, which no
mind can grasp, and by which no heart can be warmed; but the God
of Scripture, the God who created the heavens and the earth, the
God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, is a reality,--a reality
for both the mind and heart of man. It is the infinite Jehovah
that loves, and pities, and blesses; who bids us draw near to Him,
walk with Him, and have fellowship with Him. It is the infinite
Jehovah who fills the finite heart; for He made that heart for
the very purpose of its being filled with Himself. Our joy is to
be in Him; His joy is in us. Over us He resteth in His love, and
in Himself He bids us rest. Apart from Him creaturehood has
neither stability nor blessedness.
Free and open intercourse with
the God who made us, is one of the necessities of our being.
Acquaintanceship with Him, and delight in Him, are the very life
of our created existence. Better not to be than not to know Him,
in whom we live, and move, and have our being. Better to pass
away into unconsciousness or nothingness, than to cease to
delight in Him, or to be delighted in by Him.
The loss of God is the loss of
everything; and in having God we have everything. His overflowing
fulness is our inheritance; and in nearness to Him we enjoy that
fulness. He cannot speak to us, but something of that fulness
flows in. We cannot speak to Him without attracting His
excellency towards us. This mutual speech, or converse, is that
which forms the medium of communication between heaven and earth.
Man looketh up, and God looketh down: our eyes meet, and we are,
in the twinkling of an eye, made partakers of the divine
abundance. [4]
Man speaks out to God what He feels; God speaks out to man what
He feels. The finite and the infinite mind thus interchange their
sympathies; love meets love, mingling and rejoicing together; the
full pours itself into the empty, and the empty receiveth the
full.
The greatness of God is no
hindrance to this intercourse: for one special part of the divine
greatness is to be able to condescend to the littleness of
created beings, seeing that creaturehood must, from its very
nature, have this littleness; inasmuch as God must ever be God,
and man must ever be man: the ocean must ever be the ocean, the
drop must ever be the drop. The greatness of God compassing our
littleness about, as the heavens the earth, and fitting into it
on every side, as the air into all parts of the earth, is that
which makes the intercourse so complete and blessed. "In His
hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all
mankind" (Job 12:10). Such is His nearness to, such His
intimacy with, the works of His hands.
It is nearness, not distance,
that the name Creator implies; and the simple fact of His having
made us is the assurance of His desire to bless us and to hold
intercourse with us. Communication between the thing made and its
maker is involved in the very idea of creation. "Thy hands
have made me and fashioned me: give me understanding, that I may
learn Thy commandments" (Psa 119:73). "Faithful Creator"
is His name (1 Peter 4:19), and as such we appeal to Him, "Forsake
not the work of Thine own hands" (Psa 138:8).
Nothing that is worthless or
unloveable ever came from His hands; and as being His "workmanship,"
we may take the assurance of His interest in us, and His desire
for converse with us.[5]
He put no barrier between
Himself and us when He made us. If there be such a thing now, it
is we who have been its cause. Separation from Him must have come
upon our side. It was not the father who sent the younger son
away; it was that son who "gathered all together and took
his journey into the far country" (Luke 15:13), because he
had become tired of the father's house and the father's company.
The rupture between God and man
did not begin on the side of God. It was not heaven that withdrew
from earth, but earth that withdrew from heaven. It was not the
father that said to the younger son, Take your goods, pack up and
be gone; it was that son who said, "Father give me the
portion of goods that falleth to me," and who, "not
many days after, took his journey into the far country,"
turning his back on his father and his father's house.
" O Israel! thou hast
destroyed THYSELF" (Hosea 13:9). O man! thou hast cast off
God. It is not God who has cast off thee. Thou hast dislinked
thyself from the blessed Creator; thou hast broken the golden
chain that fastened thee to His throne, the silken cord that
bound thee to his heart.
Yet He wants thee back again;
nor will He rest till He has accomplished His gracious design,
and made thee once more the vessel of His love.
There was no veil
in Paradise between man and God. There were three places or
regions; the outer earth, Eden, and "the Garden of Eden,"
or Paradise; but there was no veil nor fence between, hindering
access from the one to the other. There was nothing to prevent
man from going in to speak with God, or God from coming out to
speak with man.
It was not till
after man had disobeyed that the veil was let down which
separated God from man, which made a distinction between the
dwellings of man and the habitation of God.
Before God had
spoken or done aught in the way of separation, man betrayed his
consciousness of his new standing, and of the necessity for a
covering or screen. He fled from God into the thick trees of the
garden, that their foliage might hide him from God and God from
him. In so doing he showed that he felt two things,--
1. That there must be a veil between him and God;
2. That, now, in his altered position, distance
from God (if such a thing could be) was his safety.
Even if God had
said "draw near," man could not have responded "let
us draw near," or felt "it is good for me to draw near
to God." For sin had now come between, and until that should
be dealt with in the way of pardon and removal, he could not
approach God, nor expect God to approach him.
There was a sense
of guilt upon his conscience, and he knew that there was
displeasure on the part of God; so that fellowship, in such
circumstances, was impossible. Any meeting, in this case, could
only be that of the criminal and the Judge; the one to tremble,
and the other to pronounce the righteous sentence.
God did come down
to man; but not to converse as before; not to commune in love as
if nothing had come in between them. He came to declare His
righteousness; and yet to reveal His grace. He came to condemn,
and He came to pardon. He came to show how utterly he abhorred
the sin, and yet how graciously he was minded toward the sinner.
Something then had
now come in between the Creator and the creature, which made it
no longer possible for the same intercourse to be maintained as
before. Man himself felt this, as soon as he had sinned; and God
declared that it was so.
How was that
"something" to be dealt with? It was of man's creation;
yet man had no power to deal with it.
Shall it be
removed, or shall it stand? If it stands, then man is lost to God
and to himself. For the sentence is explicit, "In the day
thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." [6] If it
is to be removed, the barrier swept away, and the distance
obliterated, God must do it, and He must do it immediately,
before the criminal is handed over to final execution, and He
must do it righteously, that there may be no uncertainty as to
the thing done, and no possibility of any future reversal of the
blessing or any replacement of the barrier.
God, in coming down to man,
said, "Thou hast sinned, and there is not now the same
relationship between us that there was: there is a barrier; but I
mean to remove it; not all at once; and yet completely at last."
Man was not to be lost to God, nor to himself. He was too
precious a part of God's possessions to be thrown away. He was
too dear to God to be destroyed. "God loved the world"
(John 3:16).
Yet there must be a shutting
out from God; and this was intimated from the beginning. God
shuts Himself out from man; and He shuts man out from himself:
for the way into the holiest for a sinner could not be prepared
all at once. Not man only, but the universe, must be taught long
lessons both in righteousness and in grace, before the new and
living way can be opened.
Law had said " The soul
that sinneth it shall die" (Eze 18:4); Grace had said "I
have no pleasure in the death of the wicked" (Eze 33:11);
Righteousness had said "The wicked shall be turned into hell"
(Psa 9:17); Mercy had said "How shall I deliver thee up?"
(Hosea 11:8). In what way are these things to be reconciled?
Condemnation is just: can pardon be also just? Exclusion from God's
presence was righteous, can admission into that presence be no
less so?
The solution of this question
must be given on judicial grounds, and must recognise all the
judicial or legal elements involved in the treatment of crime and
criminals. For law is law, and grace is grace. The two things
cannot be intermingled. What law demands it must have; and what
grace craves can only be given in accordance with unchanging law.
"The reign of grace" must be "the reign of law";
and the triumph of grace must be the triumph of law. The grace
which alone can reach the case of the sinner is the grace of the
LAWGIVER, the grace of the JUDGE.
These were truths which man
could not fully comprehend. They were new truths, or new ideas,
which could only be thoroughly understood by long training, by
ages of education. The method of instruction was peculiar, and
such as suited man's special state of imperfect knowledge. It was
twofold, consisting of a long line of revelations extending over
four thousand years; and a long series of symbols increasing and
becoming more expressive age after age.
That there was free love in God
for the sinner was a new truth altogether, and needed to be fully
revealed, "line upon line." Reasoning from God's
treatment of the angels, man would conclude that there was no
favour to be expected for the sinner; nothing but swift
retribution, "everlasting chains." God's first words to
man were those of grace; intimating that the divine treatment of
man was to be very different from that of the fallen angels: that
where sin had abounded grace was to abound much more. Forgiveness,
not condemnation, was the essence of the early promise.
But this was only one-half of
the great primal revelation. God having announced His purpose of
grace, proceeds to show how this was to be carried out with full
regard to the perfection of the law and the holiness of the
Lawgiver.
The unfolding of this latter
part of His purpose fills up the greater part of the Divine Word.
The announcement of God's free
love was made on the spot where the sin had been committed and
the transgressors arrested. But the unfolding of the plan,
whereby that free love was to reach the sinner in righteousness,
was commenced outside--at the gate of Paradise, where the first
altar was built, the first sacrifice was offered, and the first
sinner worshipped.
The blood-shedding was outside,
and Paradise was closed against the sinner:--Paradise the type of
that heavenly sanctuary from which man had shut himself out. No
blood was shed within; for the place was counted holy; and
besides, man, the sinner, was excluded from it now, and blood was
only needed in connection with him and his entrance to God.
To shut out man the sword of
fire was placed at the gate: teaching him not only that he was
prohibited from entering, but that it was death to attempt an
entrance. Paradise was not swept away; nay, man was allowed to
build his altar and to worship at its gate; but he must remain
outside in the meantime, till the great process had been
completed, by which his nearer approach was secured,--not only
without the dread of death, but with the assurance that there was
life within for him.
But the flaming sword said,
"Not now; not yet." Much must be done before man can be
allowed to go in. "The Holy Ghost this signified that the
way into the holiest was not yet made manifest."
In after ages there was no
flaming sword at the gate. But the veil of the tabernacle was
substituted instead of it. That veil said also, "Not now,
not yet." Wait a little longer, O man, and the gate shall be
thrown wide open. These sacrifices of yours have much to do in
connection with the opening of the gate. Without them it cannot
be opened; but even with them, a long time must elapse before
this can be done; man must be taught that only righteousness can
open that gate, and that this righteousness can only be unfolded
and carried out by the blood-shedding of a substitute.
Man had been driven out in one
hour; but he must wait ages before he can re-enter. In that
interval of patient waiting he must learn many a lesson, both
regarding God and himself; both regarding sin and righteousness;
both regarding the reason of his being excluded and the way of re-admission.
For man is slow to learn. He
cannot all at once take in new ideas as to God and His character.
He must be fully "educated" in these; and this
education must be one not of years but of ages.
God then began to teach man by
means of sacrifice. This method of teaching him concerning grace
and righteousness widened and filled up age after age. For this
fuller education the tabernacle was set up; and there God
commenced His school. By means of it He taught Israel, He taught
man. The text- book was a symbolic one, though not without
explanations and comments. It is contained in the Book of
Leviticus. Not till man, the sinner, should master the profound
and wondrous lessons contained in that book could the veil be
removed and access granted. Not till He had come, who was to be
the living personal exhibition or incarnation of all these
lessons, could the sinner draw nigh to God.
It seemed a long time to wait,
but it could not be otherwise. The lesson to be taught was a
lesson not for Israel merely, but for the world; not for a few
ages, but for eternity; not for earth only, but for heaven.
Every fresh sacrifice offered
outside the veil was a new knock for admission, and a new cry,
"How long, O Lord, how long." In patience the Old
Testament saints waited on; assured that sooner or later the veil
would rend or be swept away, and the way into the holiest be made
manifest; the right of entrance to the mercy-seat seemed to the
sinner for ever.
The veil of the
tabernacle was hung between the holy place and the holiest of all.
Inside of it were the Ark of the Covenant, the mercy-seat, and
the cherubim; outside were the golden altar of incense, the
golden candlestick, or lamp-stand, and the table of shew- bread
or "presence-bread," the twelve loaves that were placed
before Jehovah.
Properly there
were three veils or curtains for the tabernacle.
The outermost hung
at the entrance of the tabernacle; and was always drawn aside, or
might be so by any Israelite that wished to pass into the outer
court, where the brazen altar and brazen laver were. That veil
hindered no one, and concealed nothing. It was an ever-open door;
at which any Israelite might come in with his sacrifice. It was
at this door that the priest met the comer and examined his
sacrifice to see if it were without blemish; for no blemished
offering could pass the threshold; and the bringer of a blemished
sacrifice must go back unaccepted and unblest. The Priest
rejected him and his victim. He must go and get another bullock,
or else bear his own sin. [7]
The second veil hung at the
entrance of the holy place. It allowed any one to look in; but it
prohibited the entrance of all but Priests. "Now when these
things were thus ordained (arranged or set up) the priests went
always (were continually going) into the first tabernacle (what
we usually call the second), accomplishing the service of God"
(Heb 9:6). They fed at the royal table there; they kept the lamps
burning; they put incense on the golden altar. But they could
enter no farther. The way into the holiest was not yet opened;
the time had not yet come when the three places should be made
one; all veils removed; all exclusions cancelled; all sprinkled
with one blood; open freely to each coming one: altar, laver,
table, candlestick, incense-altar, ark, and mercy-seat no longer
separated, but brought together as being but parts of one
glorious whole; divided from each other for a season, for the
sake of distinct teaching and for the exhibition of sacrificial
truth in its different parts and aspects; but in the fulness of
time brought together; as being but one perfect picture of the
one perfect sacrifice, by means of which we have access to God
and re-entrance into the Paradise which we had lost.
The third veil hung before the
holy of holies: hiding, as it were, God from man and man from God,
and intimating that the day of full meeting and fellowship had
not yet come. It said to Israel, and it said to man (for all
these things had a world-wide meaning), God is within; but you
cannot enter now. The time is coming; but it is not yet.
In heathen temples there were
veils hiding their holy places. But these pointed to no coming
manifestation; no future unveiling of Him who was supposed to
dwell within. These veils were but parts of the idolatry and
darkness of the system; not proclamations of truth or promises of
light. It was not so in the tabernacle. The veil that hid the
glory was a promise of the revelation of that glory. In pagan
shrines it was a signal of distress and despair; man's
declaration that there was no hope of light; that the unknown
must always be the unknown; nay, that the unknown was also the
unknowable; and that the unapproached was also the unapproachable.
In Israel's shrine the veil was a thing of light, not of darkness;
it was a covering, no doubt, but it was also a revelation. It
told what God was; where God was, and how God could be approached.
That it was not a gate,--of
iron or brass, of silver or of gold,--said much; that it was a
veil of needlework, slight and moveable, said more. For it
intimated that the hindrance in the way of the worshipper's
nearer approach was slender and temporary. The nature of a tent
intimated among other things its removeableness: "mine age
is departed, and is removed from me as a shepherd's tent" (Isa
38:12). The nature of a veil in a tent intimates still greater
slightness and removeableness. It was a thing which could easily
be drawn aside, nay, which was, at the needed season, to be taken
away. It was no wall of obstruction, but simply of temporary
separation and exclusion, to be done away with in due time.
But while it was slight it was
very beautiful. It is thus described:-- "And thou shalt make
a veil of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine-twined linen,
of cunning work: with cherubims shall it be made: and thou shalt
hang it upon four pillars of shittim wood, overlaid with gold:
their hooks shall be of gold upon the four sockets of silver"
(Exo 26:31,32). Of the veil made by Solomon for the temple on
Moriah it is said, "He made the veil of blue, and purple,
and crimson, and fine linen, and wrought cherubims thereon"
(2 Chron 3:14).
The temple-veil seems to have
been thicker and of course larger every way, than that of the
tabernacle. It is said to have been about twenty feet in height,
and as much in width, strongly wrought and finely woven. It was
never drawn, or at least only so much of it was moved aside once
a-year as to admit the High Priest, when he approached the mercy-seat
with blood and incense. For ages it stretched across that awful
entrance, a more immoveable barrier than brass or iron: no Priest,
or Levite, or Israelite venturing within its folds. Torn down
again and again in different centuries, by the Babylonian,
Persian, Grecian, and Roman invader, it was often replaced, that
it might hang there, to teach its wondrous lessons, till God's
great purpose with it had been fulfilled.
To the Jew of old there must
have seemed something mysterious about that veil. It was not hung
up merely to conceal what was within, as if God grudged to man
the full vision of His glory, or had no desire to be approached.
Many things connected with its texture and place showed that this
was not the case. The unspiritual Jew of course was very likely
to misjudge its use and import; and the historian Josephus is a
specimen of that class. He seems to have had not the most distant
idea of its use. [8]
But the Israelite who had discernment in the things of God would
see something far higher and nobler than this, though he might
not understand it fully in connection with Messiah. Still he
would see in that veil something glorious; something which both
attracted and repelled; something which hid and revealed;
something which spoke of himself and of his Messiah; for he knew
that every thing pertaining to that tabernacle, and specially
these on which cherubim were wrought, had reference to Messiah
the Deliver, the seed of the woman, the man with the bruised heel.
All the curtains of the
tabernacle had more or less the same reference. For on all of
them the same devices were wrought. "Thou shalt make the
tabernacle with ten curtains of fine-twined linen, and blue, and
purple, and scarlet: with cherubims of cunning work shalt thou
make them" (Exo 26:1, 36:8). The cherubim- figure was to be
seen everywhere. That mysterious device which was first placed in
Paradise, and which for ages had disappeared, was now reproduced
in connection with the tabernacle. Since the garden of the Lord
had been swept away (probably at the flood), the cherubim had not
been seen; though doubtless tradition had handed down the memory
of their appearance, and to Israel they were not strangers. Moses
is now commanded to restore them. From Noah to Moses the Church
had been a wanderer, with no sanctuary, only an altar to worship
at. Yet, doubtless, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob knew well about the
cherubim; and when Moses was instructed to replace them he does
not require to have their nature explained. They are now to be
inwoven into the sanctuary,--that sanctuary which symbolised
nothing less than Messiah Himself; teaching us that (whatever
these cherubim might mean) the cherubim and Messiah were all
"of one." The Church is represented in the tabernacle
as one with Christ, "members of His body, of His flesh, and
of His bones." Israel was taught that "the Church in
the wilderness" (Acts 7:38) was as truly the body of Christ
as the Church at Pentecost.
But however vague might be the
ideas of the old Jew regarding the veil, it could not but be
viewed as very peculiar, something by itself; part of the
tabernacle furniture no doubt, yet a singular and unique part of
it; in texture, in position, and in use, quite peculiar:
exquisite as a piece of workmanship,--every colour and thread of
which it was composed being symbolic and vocal. But still it was
the frailest part of the fabric,--a strange contrast, in after
days when the temple was built, with the massive marble walls and
cedar beams, with which it was surrounded. For the temple was in
all respects magnificent,--even as a piece of architecture. Its
enormous foundations were let in to the solid rock; its vast
stones, each in itself a wall, rose tier above tier; its gates
were of solid brass, so weighty, that one of them required twenty
men to open and shut it. It thus presented a solid mass to view
more like a part of the mountain than a mere building upon it.
But the veil was a thing which
a child's hand could draw aside; and it was hung just where we
should have expected a gate of brass or a wall of granite,-- at
the entrance into the holiest of all,--to guard against the
possibility of intrusion. Its frail texture in the midst of so
much that was strong and massive, said that it was but a
temporary barrier,--a screen,--in due time to be removed. The
worshipper in the outer court, as he looked towards it from the
outer entrance of the holy place, would see something of its
workmanship, and might perhaps get some glimpses of the glory
within shining through its folds. He would learn this much, at
least, that the way into the holiest was not fully opened; yet it
was only stopped by a veil, no more. He would conclude within
himself, that though shut out now he would one day be allowed to
enter and worship at the mercy-seat, or at something better than
that mercy-seat, at the heavenly throne, in the true tabernacle
which the Lord pitched, and not man, when the High Priest of good
things to come should arrive, and as his forerunner, lead him
into the very presence of that Invisible Jehovah who was now by
symbols showing how He was to be approached and worshipped.
The veil! It hid God from man;
for till that should be done which would make "grace reign
through righteousness" (Rom 5:21), man could not be allowed
to see God face to face. It hid man from God; for till this
"righteousness" was established by the substitution of
the just for the unjust, God could not directly look upon man. It
hid the glory of God from man; it hid the shame of man from God.
It so veiled or shaded both the shame and the glory, that it was
possible for God to be near man, and yet not to repel him; and it
was possible for man to be near God and yet not to be consumed.
The veil! It was let down from
above, it did not spring up from below. It originated in God, and
not in man. It was not man hiding himself from God, but God
hiding Himself from man, as His holiness required, until it
should become a right for a holy God and unholy man to meet each
other in peace and love.
And it was sprinkled with blood!
For though the expression "before the veil" (Lev 4:6)
does not necessarily mean that it was sprinkled on the veil, yet
the likelihood is that this was done. "The seven times, (says
a commentator on Leviticus), throughout all Scripture, intimates
a complete and perfect action. The blood is to be thoroughly
exhibited before the Lord; life openly exhibited as taken, to
honour the law that had been violated. It is not at this time
taken within the veil; for that would require the priest to enter
the holy of holies, a thing permitted only once a year. But it is
taken very near the mercy- seat; it is taken 'before the veil,'
while the Lord that dwelt between the cherubim bent down to
listen to the cry that came up from the sin-atoning blood. Was
the blood sprinkled on the veil? Some say not; but only on the
floor close to the veil. The floor of the holy place was dyed
with blood; a threshold of blood was formed, over which the High
Priest must pass into on the day of judgment, when he entered
into the most holy, drawing aside the veil. It is blood that
opens our way into the presence of God; it is the voice of
atoning blood that prevails with Him who dwells within. Others,
however, with more probability, think that the blood was
sprinkled on the veil. It might intimate that atonement was yet
to rend that veil; and as that beautiful veil represented our
Saviour's holy humanity (Heb 10:20), oh, how expressive was the
continual repetition of the 'blood-sprinkling' seven times. As
often as the Priest offered a sin-offering, the veil was wet
again with blood, which dropped on the floor. Is this Christ
bathed in the blood of atonement? Yes, through that veil the veil
was opened to us, through the flesh of Jesus, through the body
that for us was drenched in the sweat of blood." [9]
We speak of the blood-sprinkled
mercy-seat, and the blood-sprinkled floor, on which that mercy-seat
stood; but let us not forget the blood-sprinkled pavement, the
"new and living way" into the holiest, and the blood-sprinkled
veil. For "almost all things under the law were purged with
blood, and without shedding of blood is no remission."
Nor let us forget Gethsemane,
where "His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling
down to the ground." At His circumcision, at Gethsemane, at
the cross, we see the blood-sprinkled veil. And all this for us;
that the blood which was thus required at His hands should not be
required of us.
All man's thoughts
regarding the true meaning of the veil have been set at rest by
that brief parenthesis of the Apostle Paul,-- "the veil,
that is to say, His flesh" (Heb 10:20). The Holy Spirit has
interpreted the symbol for us, and saved us a world of
speculation and uncertainty. We now know that the veil meant the
body of "Jesus." [10]
Thus Christ is seen in every
part of the tabernacle; and everywhere it is the riches of His
grace that we see. Here "Christ is all and in all." The
whole fabric is Christ. Each separate part is Christ. The altar
is Christ the sacrifice. The laver is Christ filled with the
Spirit for us. The curtains speak of Him. The entrances all speak
of Him. Candlestick, and table, and golden altar speak of Him.
The Ark of the Covenant, the mercy-seat, the glory, all embody
and reveal Him. Everything here says, "Behold the Lamb of
God who taketh away the sin of the world."
But the veil is "His flesh,"--His
body, His humanity. As the lamb was to be without blemish, and
without spot, in order to set forth His perfection; so the veil
was perfect in all its parts, finely wrought and beautiful to the
eye, to exhibit the excellency of Him who is fairer than the
children of men. As the veil was composed of the things of earth,
so was His body; not only bone of our bone and flesh of His flesh,
but nourished in all its parts by the things of earth, fed by the
things which grew out of the soil, as we are fed. Christ's flesh
was perfect, though earthly: without sin, though of the substance
of a sinful woman; unblemished in every part, yet sensitive to
all our sinless infirmities. Through the veil the glory shone, so
through the body of Christ the Godhead shone.
As in the holy of holies the
shekinah or symbol of Jehovah dwelt; so in the man Christ Jesus
dwelt "all the fulness of the Godhead BODILY" (Col 2:9).
He was "the Word made flesh" (John 1:14); "God
manifest in flesh" (1 Tim 3:16); "Immanuel," God
with us; Jehovah in very deed dwelling on earth, inhabiting a
temple made with hands; and that temple a human body such as ours.
For God became man that He might dwell with man, and that man
might dwell with Him. In Jesus of Nazareth Jehovah was manifested;
so that he who saw Him saw the Father, and he who heard Him heard
the Father, and he who knew Him knew the Father.
In Jesus of Nazareth was seen
the mighty God. In the son of the carpenter was seen the Creator
of heaven and earth. In the Man of sorrows was seen the Son of
the blessed. He who was born at Bethlehem was He whose days are
from eternity. He who died was the Prince of life, of whom it is
written, "In Him was life, and the life was the light of men."
Of these things the mysterious veil of the temple was the fair
symbol. He who could read the meaning of that veil could read
unutterable things concerning the coming Messiah,--the Redeemer
of His Israel, the Deliverer of man; divine yet human, heavenly
yet earthly, clothed with divine majesty, yet wearing the raiment
of our poor humanity.
In Him was manifested divine
strength, residing in and working through a feeble human arm such
as ours: divine wisdom, in its perfection, speaking through the
lips of a child of dust; divine majesty seated on a human brow;
divine benignity beaming from human eyes, and put forth in the
touch of a human hand; divine purposes working themselves out
through a human will; divine sovereignty embodied in each act and
motion of a human organism; divine grace coming forth in human
compassions and sympathies; and divine grief finding vent to
itself in human tears.
The perfection of His holy and
glorious, yet true manhood is seen in that mysterious veil. Its
materials, so choice, so fair, yet still earthly, spoke of Him
who, though fairer than the children of men, is still bone of our
bone and flesh of our flesh. Its well-wrought texture and
exquisite workmanship, of purple, and scarlet, and fine-twined
linen, spoke of His spotless yet thoroughly human body, prepared
by the Holy Ghost; while its embroidered or interwoven cherubim
spoke of the Church in Him,--part of Himself; one with Him as He
is one with them; for "both He that sanctifieth and they who
are sanctified are all of one."
The "flesh of Christ"
both revealed and hid the glory. It veiled and it unveiled
Godhead: it proclaimed the nearness of Jehovah to His worshippers,
and yet suggested some distance, some interposing medium, which
could only be taken out of the way by God Himself. For that which
had been placed there by God could not be removed by man. And yet
man, in a certain sense, had to do with the removal. In the type,
indeed, it was not so; but in the antitype it was. For no hand of
man rent the veil; yet it was man's hand that nailed the Son of
God to the cross; it was man that slew Him. And yet again, on the
other hand, it was God that smote Him,--just as it was the hand
of God that rent the veil from top to bottom. "It pleased
the Lord to bruise Him and to put Him to grief" (Isa 53:10).
The bruising of His heel was the doing of the serpent and his
seed, yet it was also the doing of the Lord.
There was the unbroken body,
and the broken body of the Lord. The veil pointed to the former.
It was the symbol of the unbroken body, the unwounded flesh of
the Surety. It was connected with incarnation, not with
crucifixion,--with life, not with death. We learn from it that
mere incarnation can do nothing for the sinner. He needs far more
than that,--something different from the mere assumption of our
humanity. The veil said, that body must be broken before the
sinner can come as a worshipper into the place where Jehovah
dwells. The Christ of God must not merely take flesh and blood;
He must take mortal flesh and die. Sacrifice alone can bring us
nigh to God, and keep us secure and blessed in His presence. We
are saved by a dying Christ.
The veil was, as we have said
before, to the holy of holies what the sword of fire was to the
garden of the Lord. Both of them kept watch at the gate of the
divine presence-chamber. The flaming sword turned every way; that
is, it threw around the garden a girdle or belt of divine fire
from the shekinah glory, threatening death to all who should seek
entrance into the holiest, and yet (by leaving Paradise unscathed
upon the earth) revealing God's gracious purpose of preserving it
for the re-entrance of banished man, or rather of preparing for
him a home more glorious than the Paradise which he had lost.
Both the veil and the flame
said, "We guard the palace of the Great King, that no sinner
may enter." Yet they said also, the King is within, He has
not forsaken man or man's world; you shall one day have
unhindered access to Him; but for wise and vast reasons, to be
shown in due time, you cannot enter yet. Something must be done
to make your entrance a safe thing for yourself and a righteous
thing for God.
That veil then, unrent as it
was, proclaimed the glad tidings; though it could not, so long as
it was unrent, reveal the whole grace, or at least the way in
which grace is to reach the sinner. That grace can flow out only
by means of death. It is death that opens the pent-up fulness of
love, and sends out the life contained in the "spring shut
up, the fountain sealed." It is the rod of the substitute,
the cross of the sin-bearer that smites the rock, that the waters
may gush forth.
The antitype of the unrent veil
might be said to have been held before Israel's eyes from the
time that the Son of God took our flesh. It is the unrent veil
that we find at Bethlehem; it is the unrent veil that we find at
Nazareth, and all the life long of the Christ of God. The
miracles of grace wrought during His ministry were like the
waving of the folds of that veil before men's eyes, and letting
some of the rays of the inner majesty shine through. So were His
words of grace from day to day. Men were compelled to look and to
admire. "They wondered at the gracious words proceeding out
of His mouth" (Luke 4:22, literally, "at the words of
the grace proceeding out of His mouth"); "Never man
spake like this man" (John 7:46); "He hath done all
things well" (Mark 7:37); what were these things but the
expressions of admiration at the unrent veil. It was so beautiful,
so perfect! Men gazed at it and wondered. It was marvellously
attractive; and it was meant to be so.
Hence many were drawn to the
person of Christ by His attractive grace without fully
understanding either His fulness or their own great need. What
they saw in a living Christ won their hearts; they acknowledged
Him as the Saviour without fully understanding how He was to be
such. The disciples would not admit any necessity for His dying.
The unrent veil seemed to them enough. "That be far from
Thee, Lord," were the words of Peter, repudiating the very
idea of His Lord's death. He was content with a living Saviour.
Death seemed altogether inconsistent with the character of
Messiah.
Let us mark the scene just
referred to, and understand its meaning. "From that time
forth began Jesus to show unto His disciples, how that He must go
to Jerusalem, and suffer many things of the elders and chief
priests and scribes, and be killed and be raised again the third
day" (Matt 16:21). It was as if standing in front of the
holy of holies, and pointing to the veil, He was saying to them,
That veil must be rent! "Then Peter took Him, and began to
rebuke him, saying, Be it far from Thee, Lord; this shall not be
unto Thee" (v 22). What was this but saying, Lord, that is
impossible; that veil must not and cannot be rent! "But He
turned and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan; thou art
an offence unto me; for thou savourest not the things that be of
God, but those that be of men" (v 23). It was as if He had
said, Peter, thou art speaking like Satan, and for Satan; he
knows that unless the heel of the woman's seed be bruised, his
head cannot be bruised; he knows that unless that veil be rent,
thou canst not go in to God; and he speaks through thee, if it
were possible, to prevent the rending; the veil must be rent; if
I die not, thou canst not live; if I die not, I need not have
come into the world at all. [11]
If one might, by a figure,
speak of the veil as living and sentient, might we not say that
it dreaded the rending. What was the meaning of Christ's words,
"Now is my soul sorrowful"? Was it not the expression
of dread as to the rending? And still more, what was the meaning
of the Gethsemane cry, "Father, if it be Thy will, let this
cup pass from me"? Was it not the same? And yet there was
the desire for its being rent, the longing for the consummation.
"I have a baptism to be baptized with, and how am I
straitened till it be accomplished" (Luke 12:50).
" A body hast thou prepared
me" (Heb 10:5). That body was truly human as we have seen,
and yet it was prepared by the Holy Ghost. "The Holy Ghost
shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall
overshadow thee; therefore also,[12] that holy thing which
shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God" (Luke
1:35). This body, thus divinely prepared out of human materials,
was altogether wonderful. There had been none like it from the
first: nor was there to be any such after it,--so perfect, yet so
thoroughly human; so stainless, yet so sensitive to all the
sinless infirmities of man. In this respect it differed from the
body of the first Adam, which was perfect, no doubt, but not in
sympathy with us. The kind of perfection in the first Adam
unfitted him to sympathise with us, or to be tempted like as we
are. The nature of Christ's perfection fitted Him most fully for
sympathising with us, and for being tempted, like as we are, yet
without sin.
The colour and texture of the
temple-veil seem all to have reference to the flesh or body; blue,
and purple, and scarlet, and fine-twined linen. Jeremiah's
description of the Nazarites may help us to see this: "Her
Nazarites were purer than snow, they were whiter than milk; they
were more ruddy in body than rubies; their polishing was of
sapphire" (Lam 4:7, or "their veining was the sapphire's,"
as Blayney renders it). The bride in the Song of Solomon thus
also speaks of the bridegroom, "My beloved is white and
ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand" (Song of Sol 5:10).
All this corporeal perfection
and beauty were produced by the Holy Ghost. Never had His hand
brought forth such material perfection as in the body of the
Christ of God. It was "without spot and blemish,"
worthy of Him out of whose eternal purpose it came forth; worthy
of Him who so cunningly had wrought it as the perfection of
divine workmanship; worthy of Him in whom dwelt all the fulness
of the Godhead bodily.[13]
The symbolic veil
was rent: and at the same moment the true veil was also rent. It
is this that we have now to consider.
The following are
the words of the evangelist: "Behold the veil of the temple
was rent in twain from the top to the bottom" (Matt 27:51).
In considering them we must endeavour to realise the scene of
which this is a part. The passage transports us to Jerusalem; it
sets us down upon Moriah; it takes us into the old temple at the
hour of evening sacrifice, when the sun, though far down the
heavens, is still sending its rays right over turret and pinnacle,
on to the grey slopes of Olivet, where thousands, gathered for
the great Paschal Sacrifice, are wandering; it shows us the holy
chambers with their varied furniture of marble and cedar and gold;
it brings us into the midst of the ministering priests, all robed
for service. Then suddenly, as through the opened sky, it lifts
us up and carries us from the earthly into the heavenly places,
from the mortal into the immortal Jerusalem, of which it is
written by one who had gazed upon them both, "I saw no
temple therein, for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the
temple of it."
For we must take
the earthly and the heavenly together, as body and soul. The
terrestrial sun and the sun of righteousness must mingle their
radiance, and each unfold the other. The waters of the nether and
the upper springs must flow together. The Church must be seen in
Israel, and Israel in the Church; Christ in the altar, and the
altar in Christ; Christ in the lamb, and the lamb in Christ;
Christ in the mercy-seat, and the mercy-seat in Christ; Christ in
the shekinah-glory, and the shekinah-glory in Him, who is the
brightness of Jehovah's glory. We must not separate the shadow
from the substance, the material from the spiritual, the visible
form the invisible glory. What God hath joined together, let no
man put asunder.
Even the old Jew,
if a believing man, like Simeon, saw these two things together,
though in a way and order and proportion considerably different
from what our faith now realises. To him there was the vision of
the heavenly through the earthly; to us there is the vision of
the earthly through the heavenly. He, standing on the outside,
saw the glory through the veil, as one in a valley sees the
sunshine through clouds; we, placed in the inside, see the veil
through the glory, as one far up the mountain sees the clouds
beneath through the sunshine. Formerly it was the earthly that
revealed the heavenly, now it is the heavenly that illuminates
the earthly. Standing beside the brazen serpent, Moses might see
afar off Messiah the Healer of the nations; standing, or rather I
should say sitting, by faith beside this same Messiah in the
heavenly places, we see the brazen serpent afar off. From the
rock of Horeb, the elders of Israel might look up and catch afar
off some glimpses of the water of life flowing from the rock of
ages; we, close by the heavenly fountain, proceeding out of the
throne of God and of the Lamb, look down and recognise the old
desert rock, with its gushing stream. Taking in his hand the
desert manna, Israel could look up to the true bread above; we,
taking into our hands the bread of God, look downward on the
desert manna, not needing now with Israel to ask, "What is
it?"
But let us look at
The rending of the
veil. This was a new thing in its history, and quite a thing
fitted to make Israel gaze and wonder, and ask, what meaneth this?
Is Jehovah about to forsake His dwelling?
1. It was rent,
not consumed by fire. For not its mere removal, still less its
entire destruction, was to be signified; but its being
transformed from being a barrier into a gate of entrance. Through
it the way into the holiest was to pass; the new and living way;
over a pavement sprinkled with blood.
2. It was rent
while the temple stood. Had the earthquake which rent the rocks
and opened graves, struck down the temple or shattered its walls,
men might have said that it was this that rent the veil. But now
was it made manifest that it was no earthly hand, nor natural
convulsion, that was thus throwing open the mercy-seat, and
making its long-barred chamber as entirely accessible as the wide
court without, which all might enter, and where all might worship.
3. It was rent in
twain. It did not fall to pieces, nor was it torn in pieces. The
rent was a clean and straight one, made by some invisible hand;
and the exact division into two parts might well figure the
separation of Christ's soul and body, while each part remained
connected with the temple, as both body and soul remained in
union with the Godhead; as well as resemble the throwing open of
the great folding door between earth and heaven, and the complete
restoration of the fellowship between God and man.
4. It was rent
from the top to the bottom. Not from side to side, nor from the
bottom to the top: which might have been man's doing; but from
the top to the bottom, showing that the power which rent it was
from above, not from beneath; that the rending was not of man but
of God. It was man, no doubt, that dealt the blow of death to the
Son of God, but, "it pleased the Lord to bruise him; He hath
put him to grief." Beginning with the roof and ending with
the floor, the rest was complete; for God, out of His own heaven,
had done it. And as from roof to floor there remained not one
fragment of the old veil; so from heaven to earth, from the
throne of God, down to the dwelling of man, there exists not one
remnant nor particle of a barrier between the sinner and God. He
who openeth and no man shutteth has, with His own hand, and in
His own boundless love, thrown wide open to the chief of sinners,
the innermost recesses of His own glorious heaven! Let us go in:
let us draw near.
5. It was rent in
the presence of the priests. They were in the holy place, outside
the veil, of course, officiating, lighting the lamps, or placing
incense on the golden altar, or ordering the shewbread on the
golden table. They saw the solemn rending of the veil, and were
no doubt overwhelmed with amazement; ready to flee out of the
place, or to cover their eyes lest they should see the hidden
glories of that awful chamber which only one was permitted to
behold. "Woe is me, for I am undone; I am a man of unclean
lips, and I dwell among a people of unclean lips; for mine eyes
have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts" (Isa 6:5). They were
witnesses of what was done. They had not done it themselves; they
felt that no mortal hand had done it; and what could they say but
that God Himself had thrown open His gates, that they might enter
in to precincts from which they had been so long debarred.
6. It was rent
that it might disclose the mercy- seat, and the cherubim, and the
glory. These were no longer to be hidden, and known only as the
mysterious occupants of a chamber from which they might not go
out, and into which no man might enter. It was no longer
profanity to handle the uncovered vessels of the inner shrine; to
gaze upon the golden floor and walls all stained with sacrificial
blood; nay, to go up to the mercy-seat and sit down beneath the
very shadow of the glory. Formerly it was blasphemy even to speak
of entering in; now the invitation seemed all at once to go forth,
"Let us come boldly to the throne of grace." The safest,
as well as the most blessed place, is beneath the shadow of the
glory.
7. It was rent at
the time of the evening sacrifice. About three o'clock, when the
sun began to go down, the lamb was slain, and laid upon the
brazen altar. Just at the moment when its blood was shed, and the
smoke arose from the fire that was consuming it, the veil was
rent in twain. There was an unseen link between the altar and the
veil, between the sacrifice and the rending, between the
bloodshedding and the removal of the barrier. It was blood that
had done the work. It was blood that had rent the veil and thrown
open the mercy-seat: the blood of "the Lamb, without blemish,
and without spot."
8. It was rent at
the moment when the Son of God died on the cross. His death, then,
had done it! Nay, more, that rending and that death were one
thing; the one a symbol, the other a reality; but both containing
one lesson, that LIFE was the screen which stood between us and
God, and death the removal of the screen; that it was His death
that made His incarnation available for sinners; that it was from
the cross of Golgotha that the cradle of Bethlehem derived all
its value and its virtue; that the rock of ages, like the rock of
Rephidim, must be smitten before it can become a fountain of
living waters. That death was like the touching of the electric
wire between Calvary and Moriah, setting loose suddenly the
divine power that for a thousand years had been lying in wait to
rend the veil and cast down the barrier. It was from the cross
that the power emanated which rent the veil. From that place of
weakness and shame and agony, came forth the omnipotent command,
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lifted up, ye
everlasting doors." The "It is finished" upon
Golgotha was the appointed signal, and the instantaneous response
was the rending of the veil. Little did the Jew think, when
nailing the Son of the carpenter to the tree, that it was these
pierced hands that were to rend the veil, and that it was their
being thus pierced that fitted them for this mysterious work.
Little did he suppose, when erecting a cross for the Nazarene,
that that cross was to be the lever by which both his temple and
city were to be razed to their foundations. Yet so it was. It was
the cross of Christ that rent the veil; overthrew the cold
statutes of symbolic service; consecrated the new and living way
into the holiest; supplanted the ritualistic with the real and
the true; and substituted for lifeless performances the living
worship of the living God.
9. When the veil
was rent, the cherubim which were embroidered on it were rent
with it. And as these cherubim symbolised the Church of the
redeemed, there was thus signified our identification with Christ
in His death. We were nailed with Him to the cross; we were
crucified with Him; with Him we died, and were buried, and rose
again. In that rent veil we have the temple-symbol of the apostle's
doctrine, concerning oneness with Christ in life and death,--
"I am crucified with Christ." And in realising the
cross and the veil, let us realise these words of solemn meaning,
"Ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God."
The broken body
and shed blood of the Lord had at length opened the sinner's way
into the holiest. And these were the tokens not merely of grace,
but of righteousness. That rending was no act either of mere
power or of mere grace. Righteousness had done it. Righteousness
had rolled away the stone. Righteousness had burst the gates of
brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron. It was a righteous
removal of the barrier; it was a righteous entrance that had been
secured for the unrighteous; it was a righteous welcome for the
chief of sinners that was now proclaimed.
Long had the blood
of bulls and goats striven to rend the veil, but in vain. Long
had they knocked at the awful gate, demanding entrance for the
sinner; long had they striven to quench the flaming sword, and
unclasp the fiery belt that girdled paradise; long had they
demanded entrance for the sinner, but in vain. But now the better
blood has come; it knocks but once, and the gate flies open; it
but once touches the sword of fire, and it is quenched. Not a
moment is lost. The fulness of the time has come. God delays not,
but unbars the door at once. He throws open His mercy-seat to the
sinner, and makes haste to receive the banished one; more glad
even than the wanderer himself that the distance, and the
exclusion, and the terror are at an end for ever.
O wondrous power
of the cross of Christ! To exalt the low, and to abase the high;
to cast down and to build up; to unlink and to link; to save and
to destroy; to kill and to make alive; to shut out and to let in;
to curse and to bless. O wondrous virtue of the saving cross,
which saves in crucifying, and crucifies in saving! For four
thousand years has paradise been closed, but Thou hast opened it.
For ages and generations the presence of God has been denied to
the sinner, but Thou hast given entrance,-- and that not timid,
and uncertain, and costly, and hazardous; but bold, and blessed,
and safe, and free.
The veil, then,
has been rent in twain from the top to the bottom. The way is
open, the blood is sprinkled, the mercy-seat is accessible to all,
and the voice of the High Priest, seated on that mercy- seat,
summons us to enter, and to enter without fear. Having, then,
boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus,--by a
new and living way which He hath consecrated for us, through the
veil, that is to say, His flesh, and having an High Priest over
the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart, in the full
assurance of faith. The message is, Go in, go in. Let us respond
to the message, and at once draw near. To stand afar off, or even
upon the threshhold, is to deny and dishonour the provision made
for our entrance, as well as to incur the awful peril of
remaining outside the one place of safety or blessedness. To
enter in is our only security and our only joy. But we must go in
in a spirit and attitude becoming the provision made for us. If
that provision has been insufficient, we must come hesitatingly,
doubtingly, as men who can only venture on an uncertain hope of
being welcomed. If the veil be not wholly rent, if the blood be
not thoroughly sprinkled, or be in itself insufficient, if the
mercy-seat be not wholly what its name implies,--a seat of mercy,
a throne of grace; if the High Priest be not sufficiently
compassionate and loving, or if there be not sufficient evidence
that these things are so, the sinner may come doubtingly and
uncertainly; but if the veil be fully rent, and the blood be of
divine value and potency, and the mercy-seat be really the place
of grace, and the High Priest full of love to the sinner, then
every shadow of a reason for doubt is swept utterly away. Not to
come with the boldness is the sin. Not to come in the full
assurance of faith is the presumption. To draw near with an
"evil conscience" is to declare our belief that the
blood of the Lamb is not of itself enough to give the sinner a
good conscience and a fearless access.
" May I then
draw near as I am, in virtue of the efficacy of the sprinkled
blood?" Most certainly. In what other way or character do
you propose to come? And may I be bold at once? Most certainly.
For if not at once, then when and how? Let boldness come when it
may, it will come to you from the sight of the blood upon the
floor and mercy-seat, and from nothing else. It is bold coming
that honours the blood. It is bold coming that glorifies the love
of God and the grace of His throne. "Come boldly!" this
is the message to the sinner. Come boldly now! Come in the full
assurance of faith, not supposing it possible that that God who
has provided such a mercy-seat can do anything but welcome you;
that such a mercy-seat can be anything to you but the place of
pardon, or that the gospel out of which every sinner that has
believed it has extracted peace, can contain anything but peace
to you.
The rent veil is
liberty of access. Will you linger still? The sprinkled blood is
boldness,-- boldness for the sinner, for any sinner, for every
sinner. Will you still hesitate, tampering and dallying with
uncertainty and doubt, and an evil conscience? Oh, take that
blood for what it is and gives, and go in. Take that rent veil
for what it indicates, and go in. This only will make you a
peaceful, happy, holy man. This only will enable you to work for
God on earth, unfettered and unburdened; all over joyful, all
over loving, and all over free. This will make your religion not
that of one who has everything yet to settle between himself and
God, and whose labours, and duties, and devotions are all
undergone for the purpose of working out that momentous
adjustment before life shall close, but the religion of one who,
having at the very outset, and simply in believing, settled every
question between himself and God over the blood of the Lamb, is
serving the blessed One who has loved him and bought him, with
all the undivided energy of his liberated and happy soul.
For every sinner,
without exception, that veil has a voice, that blood a voice,
that mercy-seat a voice. They say, "Come in." They say,
"Be reconciled to God." They say, "Draw near."
They say, "Seek the Lord while He may be found." To the
wandering prodigal, the lover of pleasure, the drinker of earth's
maddening cup, the dreamer of earth's vain dreams,--they say,
there is bread enough in your Father's house, and love enough in
your Father's heart, and to spare,--return, return. To each
banished child of Adam, exiles from the paradise which their
first father lost, these symbols, with united voice, proclaim the
extinction of the fiery sword, the re- opening of the long-barred
gate, with a free and abundant re-entrance, or rather, entrance
into a more glorious paradise, a paradise that was never lost.
But if all these
voices die away unheeded,--if you will not avail yourself, O man,
of that rent veil, that open gate,--what remains but the eternal
exclusion, the hopeless exile, the outer darkness, where there is
the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth? Instead of the
rent veil, there shall be drawn the dark curtain, never to be
removed or rent, which shall shut you out from God, and from
paradise, and from the New Jerusalem for ever. Instead of the
mercy- seat, there comes the throne of judgment; and instead of
the gracious High Priest, there comes the avenging Judge. Yes,
the Lord Jesus Christ is coming, and with His awful advent ends
all thy hope. He is coming; and He may be nearer than you think.
In an hour when you are not aware He will come. When you are
saying peace and safety, He will come. When you are dreaming of
earth's long, calm, summer days, He will come. Lose no time.
Trifle no more with eternity; it is too long and too great to be
trifled with. Make haste! Get these affections disengaged from a
present evil world. Get these sins of thine buried in the grave
of Christ. Get that soul of thine wrapped up, all over, in the
perfection of the perfect One, in the righteousness of the
righteous One. Then all is well, all is well. But till then thou
hast not so much as one true hope for eternity or for time.
The temple was not
overthrown till about forty years after the Son of God died on
the cross. The type was preserved for a season, that the antitype
might be more fully understood. The shadow and the substance were
thus for forty years exhibited together. The temple still, in its
rites, proclaimed what the apostles preached. Every part of it
spoke aloud and said, "Look on me, and look away from me;
look to Him of whom I have been bearing witness for these many
ages; behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the
world."
But in God's sight
the first sacrifice was finished when Jesus died. Then the
purpose for which the blood had been shed day by day was
accomplished.
Thus the apostle
writes, "He taketh away the first that He may establish the
second" (Heb 10:9).
To a Jew this
language must have sounded strange, if not profane; quite as much
so as did the words, "Destroy this temple, and in three days
I will raise it up." A first and second what? Does he
rightly hear the words?
Is it a second
temple, a second altar, a second priesthood; the first being set
aside? That cannot be! Israel's service is divine; it is one and
unchanging. Messiah, when He comes, will confirm, not destroy it.
Israel's service is a first without a second. A second is an
impossibility, a blasphemy.
Yet the apostle, a
Jew, writing to Jews, announces this incredible thing! He
announces it as an indisputable certainty; and he expects to be
believed. Had he announced a second sun or a second universe,
rising out of the extinction of the first, he would not have been
reckoned so outrageous in his statement as in declaring the
abolition of Israel's present service, and the substitution of
one more perfect, and no less divine.
1. But what is
this first? Speaking generally, it means the old temple and
tabernacle service; the old covenant made with Israel in the
desert, from Mount Sinai. But the special thing in this service
to which he points is the sacrifice or sacrifices; the blood of
bullocks and of goats, the morning and evening sacrifice of the
lamb for the daily burnt- offering, in which all the other
sacrifices were wrapt up,--which was the very heart and soul of
all the worship carried on in that sanctuary.
2. By whom was
this "first" taken away? By Him who set it up, and
upheld it for so many ages; "He taketh away the first."
He, the Lord God of Israel, the God of Abraham and Isaac and
Jacob. It was not man who destroyed it, even as it was not man
who established it. Long before the city was overthrown and the
temple perished, the sacrifice had come to an end, the temple
service had run its course.
3. When was it
taken away? On that afternoon of the passover when the Son of God
died upon the cross; that awful hour when the sun was darkened,
and the earth shook, and the rocks were rent. Then, at eventide,
at three o'clock, the last Jewish sacrifice was laid upon the
brazen altar. In God's reckoning that was really the last. No
doubt, for years after this sacrifices continued to be offered up;
but these could no longer be said to be of divine appointment.
The number of burnt-offerings according to God's purpose was now
complete; their end had been served; they passed away. From the
day that Solomon laid the first lamb on the temple altar; from
the day that Moses laid the first on the tabernacle altar; from
the day that Adam laid his first upon the altar at the gate of
Paradise, how many tens of thousands had been offered! But now
God's great purpose with them is served. All is done. The last of
the long series has been laid upon the altar.
4. How was this
first taken away? Simply by setting another in its place; making
it give way to something better. Not by violence, or fire, or the
sword of man. The altar sent up its last blaze that evening as
brightly as ever. The blaze sank down, and all has since been
dark. The great end was served; the great lesson taught; the
great truth written down for man. Then and thus the fire ceased
to burn, and the blood to flow. No more of such fire or such
blood was needed. The first was taken away without the noise of
axes or hammers, because its work was done.
5. For what end
did He take away the first? That He might establish the second.
The first seemed steadfast; Israel reckoned on it standing for
ever; it had stood for many an age. Yet it gives way, and another
comes: one meant to be more abiding than the first; one sacrifice,
once for all; yet that sacrifice eternal; the same in its results
on the worshipper as if it were offered up every day for ever;
the basis and seal of the everlasting covenant. It was to make
room for this glorious second that the first was taken away; this
glorious second through which eternal redemption was accomplished
for us.
Besides, it had
come to be necessary, on other grounds, that the first should be
taken away. It was beginning to defeat the very ends for which it
was set up. Men were getting to look upon it as a real thing in
itself; and to believe in it instead of believing in Him to whom
it pointed. It was becoming an object of worship and of trust, as
if it were the true propitiation; as if the blood of beasts could
pacify the conscience, or reconcile God, or put away sin. It was
becoming an idol; a substitute for the living God, and for His
Christ, instead of showing the way of true approach and
acceptable worship. As men in our day make an idol of their own
faith, and believe in it instead of believing in the Son of God,
so did the Jews of other days make the sacrifice their confidence,
their resting-place, their Messiah. And as Hezekiah broke in
pieces the brazen serpent when Israel began to worship it, so did
God abolish the sacrifice.
That sacrifice was
not in itself a real thing, nor did it accomplish anything real.
It was but a picture, a statue, a shadow, a messenger,--no more.
It was but the sketch or outline of the living thing that was to
come; and to mistake it for that living thing itself was to be
deluded with the subtlest of all errors, and the most perilous of
all idolatries. And what can be more dangerous for a soul than to
mistake the unreal for the real; to dote upon the picture, and
lose sight of the glorious Being represented? Ah, we do not thus
deceive ourselves in earthly things! No man mistakes the picture
of gold for gold itself, or the portrait of a loved face for the
very face itself. Yet do we daily see how men are content with
religious unrealities; the unrealities of a barren creed, or of a
hollow form; the unrealities of doubt and uncertainty in the
relationship between them and God. We find how many of those
called religious men are satisfied with something far short of a
living Christ, and a full assurance and a joyful hope.
Nay, they make
this unreality of theirs an idol, a god; not venturing to step
beyond it, not caring to part with it. They have become so
familiar with it, that though it does not fill their soul, it
soothes their uneasiness; it gratifies the religious element in
their natural man; it pleases their self- righteousness, for it
is something of their own; and it saves them from the dreaded
necessity of coming into direct contact with the real, the living
Christ, of being brought face to face with God Himself.
Thus it comes to
pass that a man's religion is often a barrier between his soul
and God; the unreal is the substitute for the real; so that a man,
having found the former, is content, and goes no farther; nay,
counts it presumption, profanity to do so. To be told that the
world, with its gay beauty and seducing smiles, comes between us
and God, surprises no man; but to learn that the temple with its
sacrifices, the Church with its religious services, does so, may
startle some, nay, may exasperate them, as it did the Jews, to be
told that their multiplied sacrifices and prayers were but
multiplied barriers between them and God: not channels of
communication, nor means of intercourse. The Jewish altar stood
between the Jew and God; and that which was simply set as the
ladder up to something higher became a resting-place. All the
more, because it looked so real to the eye; while that to which
it pointed was invisible, and therefore to sense unreal. But real
as it looked, it was cold and unsatisfying. It was a real lamb,
and a real altar of solid stone and brass; it was real blood and
fire and smoke; and to take away these might seem to take away
all that was substantial. But, after all, these were the
unrealities. They could accomplish nothing for the filling of the
heart, or the pacifying of the conscience, or the healing of the
soul's deep wounds. Yet they pointed to the real; and their very
unreality was meant to keep man from making them his home, or his
religion, or his god. Men might admire the holy symbols and
majestic ritual; but the true use of such admiration was to lead
them to reason thus, If the unreal be so attractive, what will
the real be; if the shadow thus soothes and pleases, what will
not the divine substance do; if the picture of Messiah, thus
sketched in these ceremonies, be so fair and goodly, how much
fairer and goodlier will be the living Christ Himself; if the
porch of the temple, or the steps leading to that temple, be so
excellent, what must the inner sanctuary be; and who would stand
ths, all a lifetime, shivering in the cold without, when the
whole interior, with all its warmth and splendour and life and
vastness was thrown open, and every man invited to enter and
partake the gladness?
Thus the "taking
away of the first" was not the mere removal of what had done
its work and become useless; but the abolition of that which had
become an idol; a barrier between the Jew and God; quite as much
as if the brazen altar had in the process of time become so
enlarged as to block up the entrance into the holy place or the
holiest of all. We read in Jewish history that once and again,
during the seventeen sieges of Jerusalem, the gate of the temple
was blocked up by the dead bodies of the worshippers. So did the
access into the true tabernacle, not made with hands, become
blocked up by the very sacrifices that were intended to point to
the open door; and so in our day (long after that altar has been
overturned and the fire quenched), is entrance into the holiest
blocked up by our dead prayers, our dead works, our dead praises,
our dead sacraments, our dead worship, our dead religion, quite
as effectually as by our total want of these. A lesson hard for
man to learn, especially in days when religion is fashionable and
forms are exalted above measure. Greatly is that text needed
amongst us, "If the blood of bulls and of goats and the
ashes of an heifer sprinkling the unclean, sanctifieth to the
purifying of the flesh, how much more shall the blood of Christ
purge your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?"
(Heb 9:14).
It is then through
the "second," not the "first," that the
conscience is purged and the man made an acceptable worshipper,
capable of doing good works and doing them in the spirit of
liberty and fearless gladness. It is with the second, not the
first, that the sinner has to do in drawing near to God; and it
is the second, not the first, that God has regard to in receiving
the sinner, and receiving him on the footing of one whose sins
and iniquities are remembered no more.
How wide the
difference, how great the contrast between the first and the
second! The first drew the veil and shut out the sinner from the
holiest; the second rent it and bid him enter. The first filled
the sinner's soul with dread, even in looking on the holiest of
all from without; the second emboldened him to draw near and go
up to the mercy-seat. The first made it death to cross the
threshold of that inner shrine, where the symbol of the glory
dwelt; the second made it life to go into the very presence of
God, and provided the new and living way. The first gave no
certainty of acceptance and laid the foundation for no permanent
assurance; the second said, "Let us draw near with a true
heart in the full assurance of faith"; "let us come
boldly to the throne of grace." The first was never finished,
even after many ages; the second was finished at once. The first
was earthly, the second heavenly. The first was temporal, the
second eternal. The first was unreal, the second real. The first
pacified no conscience; the second did this at once, purging it
effectually, so that the worshippers once purged had no more
conscience of sins. The first was but the blood of one of Israel's
lambs; the second the blood of the Lamb without blemish and
without spot,--the precious blood of Christ!
Still there was
much about that "first" to interest, to solemnise, to
gladden. It was old and venerable, a true relic of antiquity,
such as no modern Church can boast of. It was not one death, but
many thousand deaths; not one victim, but ten thousand victims;
each of them fulfilling a certain end, yet all of them unavailing
for the great end,--complete remission of sin and the providing
for the worshipper, a perfect conscience and reconciliation with
the Holy One of Israel.
And that last
Jewish sacrifice, at the hour of the crucifixion, which ended the
"first" and began the "second"; was there not
something specially solemn about it? Was there not something
peculiar about it as the last? Like the last cedar of Lebanon,
the last olive of Palestine, the last pillar of a falling temple
that has stood for ages, the last representative of an ancient
race, it could not but have something sacred, something noble
about it.
An unbelieving Jew,
worshipping in the temple, at the time would see nothing
remarkable about it, save the unaccountable darkness which had
for three hours covered Jerusalem, and the fearful earthquake,
and the mysterious rending of the veil, the tidings of which
would immediately spread both in the temple and the city. What
can all this mean, he might say; but he knew not what they meant;
nor that this was the last sacrifice, according to the purpose of
the God of Israel. Not connecting the first with the second, nor
the earthly with the heavenly, he would soon forget the darkness,
and the earthquake, and the torn veil, coming next morning at
nine o'clock to assist in the celebration of the morning-sacrifice.
For the great break in the sacrifices was an invisible thing to
him. To heaven it was visible, to angels it was visible, to faith
it was visible; but not to unbelief. And unbelief would go on
from day to day doting on the old sacrifice and admiring the old
altar; till the Roman torch set fire to the goodly cedar of the
holy places, and the Roman battle-axe shivered the altar in
pieces, and brought to the ground porch, and tower, and wall,- -gate
and bar, in one irrecoverable ruin; not one stone left upon
another.
But how would a
believing Jew view this last sacrifice? With mingled feelings in
many ways; for as yet his eyes were but half opened; and though
he might in a measure understand the first, he could not fully
see the second, nor the first in connection with the second. It
would still be to him sacred and venerable; though now he saw it,
like the picture of a dissolving view, passing away and being
replaced by another. Holy histories of his nation and precious
recollections of his own experience would come up into view. From
that sacrifice he had learned the way of forgiveness, perhaps
from childhood. Often had the sight of it poured in happy
thoughts and told him of the love of a redeeming God. Often had
he stood at that altar with his little ones, and taught them from
it the way of salvation through blood. Often had he seen the fire
blazing and the smoke ascending, and the blood flowing, and he
had mused over all these in connection with the first promise of
Messiah's bruised heel, and the later prophecies of His pouring
out His soul unto death. But now he was startled. That darkness,
that earthquake, that rent veil; and in connection with all this,
the scene in Golgotha now going on, seemed to say that sacrifice
has done its work and must pass away. That has come at last which
he had been long looking for; the better Lamb, the richer blood,
the more perfect sacrifice. Now he sees the full meaning of the
burnt-offering; now his faith lays its hand on the head of the
true sacrifice; now he knows what John meant when he said, "Behold
the Lamb of God"; and he can say with Simeon, "Lord,
now lettest Thou thy servant depart in peace; for mine eyes have
seen Thy salvation."
And with what
thoughts must the Son of God have seen from the cross the smoke
of that last burnt- offering ascending? For it was at the ninth
hour, our three o'clock, when the evening lamb was laid on the
altar, that Jesus "cried with a loud voice, Eloi, Eloi, lama
sabachthani?" Yes, when the Son of God, the true Sin-bearer,
was uttering these words, Israel's last sacrifice was offered. It
is finished, was the voice from the altar; it is finished was the
voice from the cross. Now the last type is done; and Jesus sees
it (for the altar-smoke would be quite visible from Golgotha);
Israel's long lesson of ages has been taught; the type and
Antitype have been brought face to face. How often had Jesus seen
the morning and evening lamb offered up; and in gazing on it
realised his own sin-bearing work. Now he sees all accomplished;
sin borne, peace made, God propitiated; and in testimony of this
the last burnt-sacrifice offered up. All is done. He sees of the
travail of His soul and is satisfied. He can now tell Jew and
Gentile that atonement has been made by the better blood. Life
has been given for life; a divine life for a human. He can say,
Look no longer on yon altar; its work is done. Look to me, of
whom it spoke during so many ages; look unto me and be ye saved,
all the ends of the earth.
And how does the
Father view that last sacrifice? For four thousand years it had
been the witness to the sin-bearing work of the coming Messiah.
The Father had set it there to bear testimony to the propitiation
of His Son. It said to Israel, and it said to the world before
the days of Israel, The seed of the woman is to be man's
deliverer. He is coming! He is coming to bear sin; to be wounded
for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; to take
the chastisement of our peace upon Him, and to heal us by His
stripes. For ages that was the voice that came from the altar. It
was the Father's voice foretelling the advent of His beloved Son.
And now that voice from the altar is to die away. The testimony
is to cease; for He to whom it was given is come. The ages of
delay are over; the day of expectation has come to an end. The
purpose of Jehovah is now consummated. The Father now delights in
the accomplishment of His eternal design. Now grace and
righteousness are one. So long as one burnt-offering remained
unpresented, there was something awanting; something unfinished.
But now the last of the long series has arrived. The type is
perfected, the last stone has been laid; the last touch has been
given to the picture; the last stroke of the chisel has fallen
upon the statue. The imperfect has ended in the perfect, the
unreal in the real; the first has become the last and the last
first. Now divine love can take its unimpeded way; no drag, no
uncertainty, no imperfection now. Grace and righteousness have
become one. The Father's testimony to the finished work of His
Son now goes forth to the ends of the earth. That last sacrifice
on Israel's altar was the signal for the forthgoing of the world-
wide message of pardon,--righteous pardon,--to the guiltiest, the
saddest and the neediest of the sons of men.
And how is this
last sacrifice viewed by the Church of God? Not with regret, nor
with disappointment at the thought that there is no such altar
now; but with rejoicing that the work has been at length
consummated, and that there is no necessity for the repetition of
the sacrifice. Whilst to a believing Jew there was satisfaction
in each recurring sacrifice day by day, there could not but be a
feeling of uneasiness at that very repetition. If the sacrifice
is sufficient, why repeat it? Or will the multiplication of
imperfections produce perfection? If insufficient, what is there
to look to for the pacification of the conscience? But the
termination of the series was an unspeakable relief. It was the
winding up of a work which had been going on for four thousand
years. Now, then, God is satisfied. Now there is the certainty of
remission. Now the conscience is purged. Now the soul is at rest.
And thus that last burnt-offering gave to the Church the
assurance that the reconciliation was accomplished. No more
offering for sin! No more blood! the foundation is now secure. On
it she stands, in it she rejoices. The "good conscience"
is now secured. Fear and shame in drawing near to God are at an
end for ever. There is nothing but boldness now; for by one
offering He hath perfected for ever them that are sanctified. Not
by the blood of goats and calves, but by His own blood, He hath
entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal
redemption for us. By this blood He hath reconciled us to Himself.
By this blood He daily cements the reconciliation, and keeps our
souls in peace. By this blood He washes off the ever-recurring
sins that would come between us and God, purging our consciences
from dead works to serve the living God (Heb 9:12,13).
Round the old
altar on Moriah one nation gathered, for the worship of Jehovah,
during a few earthly ages; but round the new altar is gathered
the great multitude that no man can number, out of every nation
and people; for we have an altar, whereof they have no right to
eat who serve the tabernacle. The first has been taken away, but
the second has been set up, to stand for ever. Here we worship
now; here shall be the eternal worship; the Lamb slain is the
centre of worship for the universe of God, whether on earth, or
in heaven, or throughout the wide regions which the creating Word
has filled with suns and stars. On this divine altar shall all
creaturehood lay its everlasting praise. From this altar shall
ascend the never-ending son. This altar shall be the great centre
of unity between the multitudinous parts or units of universal
being. Here heaven and earth shall meet; here redeemed men and
angels shall hold fellowship; here the principalities and powers
in heavenly places shall learn the wisdom of God; here shall be
found the stability, not of manhood only, but of creaturehood as
well, the divine security against a second fall, against any
future failure of creation, against any future curse, against the
possibility of evil or weakness or decay. He has taken away the
first, but He has established the second; and with that He has
linked the establishment of all that is good and holy and blessed
in His universe for evermore.
From this "second"
also there goes forth the message of reconciliation; the
announcement that peace has been made through the blood of the
cross; the entreaty on the part of God, that each distant one
would draw near, each wanderer re-enter his Father's house. To
every one that is afar off, this great propitiation speaks, and
says, RETURN! It bids you welcome, with all your worthlessness
and unfitness, pointing to the ever-open door, and assuring you
of reception, and pardon, and free love, without delay, without
condition, and without upbraiding. From this centre the good news
of God's free love to the unrighteous are going forth. In the
simple reception of these by the sinner there is everlasting life;
but in the non-reception of them there is eternal death; for that
blood condemns as well as justifies. It speaks peace, but it
speak trouble and anguish. It contains life, but it also contains
death. It introduces into heaven, but it casts down to hell. He
who receives it is washed, and sanctified, and justified; he who
rejects it is undone,--doomed to bear his own guilt, without
reprieve, for ever. For you, or against you, through eternity
that blood must be.
There has been a
first, there is a second, but there shall be no third! The first
could not suffice, either for salvation or for destruction; it
did not save those who used it, nor did it ruin those who used it
not, or who used it amiss. The second sufficed for both. It is
able to save and to destroy, to forgive and to condemn. No third
is needed, no third is possible. The second is established for
ever. It is eternal. It is an everlasting sacrifice. It is an
eternal ransom, an eternal redemption, an eternal salvation, an
everlasting covenant, and an everlasting gospel. Its
accompaniments and issues are everlasting life, everlasting
habitations, everlasting consolation, an everlasting kingdom, an
eternal inheritance, an eternal weight of glory, a house not made
with hands, eternal in the heavens. Yes; this second is
established, and shall stand for ever. He who accepts it becomes,
like it, established, and shall stand for ever; for it has the
power of imparting its stability to every one who receives God's
testimony concerning it. This is "the living stone,
disallowed indeed of men, but chosen of God, and precious; to
which coming we, as living stones, are built up a spiritual house,
an holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices acceptable
to God by Jesus Christ" (1 Peter 2:4,5).
There shall be no
third! This is the security and the joy of all who receive it. He
who has taken away the first has established the second. Heaven
and earth may pass away, but it must remain; and with it remains
our reconciliation, our sonship, our royalty, and our eternal
weight of glory. Were it possible that this second altar could be
overthrown, or crumble down through age; this second blood, and
second covenant, and second priesthood become inefficacious or
obsolete, then should our future be shaded with uncertainty. But
all these being divine are eternal; and in their eternity is
wrapt up that of every one who is now by faith partakers of them;
in their eternity is wrapt up that of the inheritance, the city,
and the kingdom, which become the possession of every one whom
the blood has washed and reconciled.
For the cross is
never old. The wood, and nails, and inscription have indeed
perished long ago; but the cross in which Paul gloried stands for
ever. That cross is the axle of the universe, and cannot snap
asunder. That cross is the foundation on which the universe rests,
and cannot give way. The cross of Golgotha is, in this sense,
everlasting; and each one who glories in it becomes partaker of
its immortality. In itself blood is the symbol of death; in
connection with the cross of Christ, it is the emblem and the
pledge of life. It is by blood that all that is feeble, and
corruptible, and unclean is purged out of creaturehood. It is by
blood that this race of ours is preserved against the possibility
of a second fall, and this earth against the contingency of a
second curse. It is by blood that the Church of God has won her
victory, and been made without spot, or wrinkle, or any such
thing. It is the blood that has given such resplendent glory to
the New Jerusalem, and made its light so pure, for "THE LAMB
is the light thereof."
And yet is it not
on this very blood that the spirit of the age is pouring its
contempt, as if it were the great disfiguration of Christianity,
requiring to be explained and spiritualised, before it can be
admitted to have any connection with a divine religion? Is it not
against this blood that the tide of modern progress is advancing,
to wash out every trace and stain of it? It is against the blood
that unbelief is now specially declaring war, little supposing,
in its blindness, what would be the consequences of success in
this warfare. Take away that blood, and the security of the
universe is gone. Take away the blood, and the gate of the
glorious city closes against the sinner; nay, that city itself,
with all its beauty, and purity, and splendour, passes away like
a vision of the night, each stone of it vanishing into
nothingness, and its light becoming darkness.
We spoke of
Messiah longing for the time when the veil should be rent, and
when, through Himself, there should be unobstructed access to the
innermost shrine of God. "How am I straitened till it be
accomplished." We spoke also of His dreading this rending,
this death,--so that "with strong crying and tears He prayed
to Him who was able to save Him from death" (Heb 5:7).
Let us now see Him
looking beyond the veil, surveying the glory, and anticipating
His own entrance into it, as our forerunner, the first fruits of
them that slept, the first-begotten of the dead. "For the
joy set before Him He endured the cross, despising the shame, and
is now set down at the right hand of God" (Heb 12:2). That
to which He looked forward was not so much the rending of the
veil, as the result of that rending,--both for Himself and for
His Church, His body, the redeemed from among men.
The veil was rent;
rent "once for all"; rent for ever. Yet there was a
sense in which it was to be restored, though after another
fashion than before. Messiah could not be "holden" by
death, because He was the Holy One, who could not see corruption.
Death must be annulled. The broken body must be made whole;
resurrection must come forth out of death; and that resurrection
was to be life, and glory, and blessedness. Through the rent veil
of His own flesh, He was (if we may so use the figure) to enter
into "glory and honour, and immortality." Thus He
speaks in the sixteenth Psalm:-- "Therefore my heart is glad,
Yea, my glory rejoiceth: My flesh also shall rest in hope.
For thou wilt not leave my soul in hell; Neither
wilt thou suffer thine Holy One to see corruption. Thou wilt show
me the path of life: In thy presence is fulness of joy; At thy
right hand are pleasures for evermore." Let us dwell upon
these verses in connection with Messiah's entrance within the
veil.
The speaker in
this Psalm is undoubtedly Christ. This we learn from Peter's
sermon at Jerusalem (Acts 2:25). He is speaking to the Father, as
His Father and our Father. He speaks as the lowly, dependent son
of man; as one who needed help and looked to the Father for it;
as one who trusted in the Lord and walked by faith, not by sight;
as one who realised the Father's love, anticipated the joy set
before Him, and had respect to the recompense of the reward.
He speaks,
moreover, as one who saw death before Him,-- "Thou wilt not
leave my soul in hell"; and looking into the dark grave, on
the edge of which He was standing, just about to plunge into it,
He casts His eye upwards and pleads, with strong crying and tears,
for resurrection, and joy, and glory,-- "Thou wilt show me
the path of life." For the words of the Psalm are the united
utterances of confidence, expectation, and prayer; not unlike
those of Paul, "I am now ready to be offered, and the time
of my departure is at hand; henceforth there is laid up for me a
crown of righteousness."
He speaks too as
one who was bearing our curse; as one who was made sin for us;
and to whom everything connected with sin and its penalty was
infinitely terrible; not the less terrible, but the more, because
the sin and the penalty were not His own, but ours. The death
which now confronted Him was one of the ingredients of the
fearful cup, against which He prayed in Gethsemane, "Let
this cup pass from me"; for we read that, "in the days
of His flesh He made supplication, with strong crying and tears,
unto Him that was able to save Him from death." In this
Psalm, indeed, we do not hear these strong cryings and tears,
which the valley of the Kedron then heard. All is calm; the
bitterness of death is past; the power of the king of terrors
seems broken; the gloom of the grave is lost in the anticipated
brightness of the resurrection light and glory. But still the
scene is similar; though in the Psalm the light predominates over
the darkness, and there is not the agony, nor the bloody sweat,
nor the exceeding sorrow. It is our Surety looking the king of
terrors in the face; contemplating the shadows of the three days
and nights in the heat of the earth; surveying Joseph's tomb, and
while accepting that as His prison-house for a season,
anticipating the deliverance by the Father's power, and rejoicing
in the prospect of the everlasting gladness.
The first thing
that occupies His thoughts is resurrection. The path of death is
before Him; and He asks that He may know the path of life;--the
way out of the tomb as well as the way into it. Death is to Him
an enemy; an enemy from which as the Prince of life His holy soul
would recoil even more than we. The grave is to Him a prison-house,
gloomy as Jeremiah's low dungeon or Joseph's pit, not the less
gloomy because He approaches it as a conqueror, as bringing life
and immortality to light, as the resurrection and the life. Into
that prison-house He must descend; for though rich He has stooped
to be poor; and this is the extremity of his poverty, the lowest
depth of His low estate,--even the surrender of that, for which
even the richest on earth will part with everything,--life itself.
But out of that dungeon He cries to be brought; and for this
rescue He puts Himself entirely into the Father's hands, "Thou
wilt show me the path of life."
Very blessed and
glorious did resurrection seem in the eyes of the Prince of life,
of Him who is the resurrection and the life. Infinitely hateful
did death and the grave appear to Him who was the Conqueror of
death, the Spoiler of the grave. He had undertaken to die, for as
the second Adam He came to undergo the penalty of the first,
"dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return"; yet
not the less bitter was the cup, not the less gloomy was the
valley of the shadow of death; not the less welcome was the
thought of resurrection.
The next thing
which fills His thoughts is the presence of God,--that glorious
presence which He had left when He "came down from heaven."
His thoughts are of the Father's face, the Father's house, the
Father's presence. Earth to Him was so different from heaven. He
had not yet come to the "Why hast Thou forsaken me?"
but He felt the difference between this earth and the heaven He
had quitted. There was no such "presence" here. All was
sin, evil, hatred, darkness; the presence of evil men and mocking
devils; not the presence of God. God seemed far away. This world
seemed empty and dreary. He called to mind the home, and the love,
and the holiness He had left; and He longed for a return to these.
"Thy presence!" What a meaning in these words, coming
from the lips of the lonely Son of God in His desolation and
friendlessness and exile here. "Thy presence!" How full
of recollection would they be to Him as He uttered them; and how
intensely would that recollection stimulate the anticipation and
the hope!
Of this same
Messiah, the speaker in the psalm, we read afterwards, "In
the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God; the same was in the beginning with God" (John
1:1); and elsewhere He speaks thus of Himself: "Jehovah
possessed me in the beginning of His way, before His works of old;
I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the
earth was...I was by Him, as one brought up with Him, and I was
daily His delight, rejoicing always before Him" (Prov 8:22,30);
and again, He, in the days of His flesh, thus prayed: "O
Father, glorify Thou me with Thine own self, with the glory which
I had with Thee before the world was" (John 17:5). Thus we
see that the "presence" or "face" of God had
been His special and eternal portion. His past eternity was
associated entirely with this glorious presence. No wonder then
that in the day of His deepest weakness,--when the last enemy
confronted Him with his hideous presence, He should recall the
Father's presence; anticipating the day of restoration to that
presence, and repossession of the glory which He had before the
world was.
" Thy presence,"
said the only-begotten of the Father looking up into the Father's
face! He speaks as the sin-bearer, on whom the chastisement of
our sins was laid, and between whom and heaven these sins had
drawn a veil; He speaks as an exile, far from home, weary,
troubled, exceeding sorrowful even unto death; He speaks as a Son
feeling the bitterness of separation from His Father's presence,
and of distance from His Father's house; He speaks as one longing
for home and kindred, and the unimpeded outflowings of paternal
love. "Thy presence," says the Man of sorrows looking
round on an evil world;--oh, that I were there! "Thy
presence," says the forsaken Son of man, for "lover and
friend hast Thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into
darkness";--oh, that I were there! "Thy presence,"
not this waste howling wilderness, this region of pain, and
disease, and sin, and death, and tombs. "Thy presence,"
not these temptations, these devils, these enemies, these false
friends; not this blasphemy, this reproach, this scorn, this
betrayal, this denial, this buffeting, this scourging, this
spitting, this mockery! "Thy presence,"--oh, that I
were there; nevertheless, not my will but Thine be done.
Only through death
can He reach life, for He is burdened with our sin and our death;
and death is to Him the path of life. He must go through the veil
to enter into the presence of God. Only through the grave,--the
stronghold of death, and of him who has the power of death,--can
He ascend into the presence of God; and therefore, when about to
enter the dark valley, He commits Himself to the Father's
guidance, to the keeping of Him who said, "Behold my servant
whom I uphold," the keeping of which He himself, by the
mouth of David, had spoken: "Yea, 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." Bethlehem,
Egypt, Nazareth, Capernaum, Gethsemane, Golgotha,--these were all
but stages in His way up to "the presence"--the
presence of the Father; and it is when approaching the last of
these, with the consciousness of His nearness to that presence,
only one more dark passage to wind through, that He gives
utterance to this psalm,--His psalm in prospect of resurrection
and glory,-- "I have set the Lord always before me; because
He is at my right hand, I shall not be moved: therefore my heart
is glad and my glory rejoiceth; my flesh also shall rest in hope;
for Thou wilt not leave my soul in hell, neither wilt Thou suffer
Thine holy One to see corruption; Thou wilt show me the path of
life: in Thy presence is fulness of joy; at Thy right hand there
are pleasures for evermore."
Connected with
this "presence," this glory within the veil, he speaks
of "fulness of joy." On earth, in the day of His
banishment here, He found want, not fulness. He was poor and
needy; no house, no table, no chamber, no pillow of His own. His
was the extremity of human poverty; though rich He had become
poor; he was hungry, thirsty, weary, with no place to lay His
head. Though He knew no sin, He tasted the sinner's portion of
want and sorrow. He was in the far country, the land of the
mighty famine; and looking upwards to the happy heaven which He
had left, He could say, "How many servants in my Father's
house have bread and to spare, and I perish with hunger."
Drinking also of the sinner's deep cup of wrath, He was the man
of sorrows and acquainted with grief. It was as such that He
looked up so often as we find Him in the Gospels doing, and as we
find Him in this Psalm, with wistful eye reminding Himself of the
joy He had left, and anticipating the augmented joy that was so
soon to be His when, having traversed this vale of tears, and
passed through the gates of death, He was to re-ascend to His
Father, and re-enter the courts of glory and joy. "Fulness
of joy" is His prospect; fulness of joy in the presence of
God. Concerning this going to the Father He spoke to His
disciples; and then added, "These things have I spoken unto
you that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be
full." It is of this same full joy that He speaks in our
psalm; a joy which was to be the fulness of all joy; a joy which
was to be His recompense for the earthly sorrow of His sin-bearing
life and death; a joy which He was to share with His redeemed,
and on which they too should enter, when they, like Him, had
triumphed over death, and been caught up into the clouds to meet
Him in the air; a joy which would be to them, in that wondrous
day, infinitely more than a compensation for earthly tribulation;
even as one of themselves has written, "Our present light
affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more
eceeding and eternal weight of glory."
This was "the
joy set before Him," because of which He endured the cross;
and here He calls it FULNESS OF JOY. That which He calls fulness
must be so; for He knows what joy is, and what its fulness is;
just as He knew what sorrow was and its fulness. The amount of
joy sufficient to fill a soul like His must be infinite; it must
be joy unspeakable and full of glory. The amount of joy reckoned
by the Father sufficient as the reward of the sorrow of such a
Son, must be infinite indeed. What then must that be which
Messiah reckons the fulness of joy. What a day was that for Him
when, death and sorrow ended, He entered on life and gladness!
And what a day will that be, yet in store for Him and for His
saints, when we, as His joint-heirs, shall enter on all that life
and gladness; the day of His glorious coming, when that shall be
fulfilled which is written, "Come forth, O ye daughters of
Jerusalem, and behold King Solomon with the crown wherewith his
mother crowned him, in the day of his espousals, and in the day
of the gladness of his heart."
Besides the "presence"
or "face" of God within the veil, Messiah sees the
right hand; the place of honour and power and favour,--the right
hand of the throne of the majesty in the heavens; and at that
right hand there are pleasures for evermore; eternal enjoyments,
such as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard. For all the things on
which Messiah's soul rests are everlasting; the life, the fulness,
the joy, the presence, the pleasures,--all eternal! No wonder,
then, that He who knows what eternity is,--an eternity of glory
and gladness,--should feel that "the sufferings of this
present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that
shall be revealed"; and should, when going up to the cross,
and down into the grave, say with calm but happy confidence,
"Thou wilt show me the path of life, in Thy presence is
fulness of joy, at Thy right hand are pleasures for evermore."
Most mysterious are such words as these from the lips of Him who
is the resurrection and the life; and yet it is just because they
come from Him,--from this Prince of Life,--that they are so
assuring, so comforting to us. His oneness with us, and our
oneness with Him, account for all the mystery. His oneness with
us, as our substitute and sinbearer, the endurer of our curse and
cross and death, accounts for all that is mysterious in this
Psalm. Our oneness with Him clears up all that is wonderful in
such words as "I am the resurrection and the life, he that
believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
Blessed, thrice-blessed oneness,--mutual oneness; He one with us,
we one with Him, in life, in death, in burial, in resurrection,
and in glory. Now we can take up His words as truly meant for us,
"Thou wilt show us the path of life"; for in believing
God's testimony to the Messiahship of Jesus of Nazareth, we have
become one with Him!
In all this we
have,
