Verses 14-22
Divine Impulses
THERE was a time when Joab was captain of the whole host of Israel. He, under David and along with the king, had wrought great desolation in the land of Edom. For six months Joab had been using his cruel sword in that country. The end of it was that not a man was left in Edom, not a male could be found within all the limits of the land. That was the bloody purpose of the cruel soldier, and he carried it out with but too complete effect. The king of Edom had a little boy whose name was Hadad, and this little boy ran away in company with some of his father's servants. They took charge of the little exile, and they and he landed in Egypt and sought the protection of Pharaoh. Like to like the royal Pharaoh took to the royal Hadad; was fond of the boy, and gave him a place in his own house and amongst his own sons. Growing years brought growing favour, and at length Hadad married the sister of Tahpenes, queen of Egypt. A happy ending. A son was born unto Hadad and Genubath, lived in Pharaoh's house, and enjoyed all the privileges of royal offspring.
But one day, to the infinite surprise of Pharaoh, Hadad said to him, "I want to go back to Edom." "Back to Edom?" said the king, "hast thou lacked anything since thou hast been in Egypt?" Hadad said, "Nothing: howbeit, let me go, in any wise." Pharaoh, like a just and honourable man, went back through the years of his recollection, to find out if he could discover what reason Hadad could have for leaving a hospitable country, a land that had been an asylum to him in the time of his distress and orphanage and helplessness. Hadad soon relieved the king's mind upon all these points: he said, "I have lacked nothing: bread and water, venison and wine, patronage and security all things have I had in this land of Egypt that heart could desire; howbeit, let me go, in any wise."
Is this an old story that has in it no modern pith or music, or is it our own life anticipated and set in strange lights? Does it require but very little and hardly any skilful handling to put it into relation that we shall ourselves recognise as having a very distinct and instructive bearing upon the development of our own life? Does it not throw some light upon the unexplained restlessness which now and again comes over the spirit of perhaps the quietest man? What is that tugs at the heart and that says, "Come this way?" We are not sitting upon barren rocks, nor are we ploughing inhospitable and unresponding sand: we are in paradise: we have but to touch the ground and it blooms with flowers or teems with luscious fruit. And yet that same invisible hand keeps tugging at the heart, that same weird voice sustains its appeal in the reluctant, wonderstruck and unwilling ear "Leave the gilded roof, leave the marble floor, leave the loaded table, leave the streams of ruddy or foaming wine; come away, come away." What is it that will not let us alone? I said, "I will die in my nest," and lo, it was torn to pieces. I said, "Now I will find a place on which I can build tabernacles, whereupon I can rest," and lo, in the morning when I came to dig my foundations, I found that I had mistaken bog for rock, and there was no foundation to be dug. "This is all," I have said "it is more than enough: no longer shall I know the plague of discontent, or feel the urgency of an importunate voice, luring and persuading me almost up to the point of compulsion in this or that direction. My address is fixed, my home is settled, you will always find me here," and lo, in three days men seek for me and I cannot be found, I have been already three days at sea how is this?
"Wherefore didst thou call me?" said the little priest-boy to the old priest of Israel; and the old priest said, "My child, this is a delusion: I did not call thee: go and lie down again." "Wherefore didst thou call me?" a second time the question is asked. "My child, I did not call thee what is the matter with thee, what ails thy mind? Go and lie down again and sleep till the morning, dear one." "Thou didst call me wherefore?" Then Eli perceived that the Lord had spoken to the child. At last. The religious thought is always the last that occurs to pachydermous insensate brains. O that we were wise, that we were more morally sensitive, that we answered the divine touch more easily and kindly! But we have a knocking, and another knocking, and a third appeal, and then we perceive that this is the Lord's doing. If our minds were in the right mood and temper, the very first idea that would occur to us under extraordinary circumstances would be, Perhaps God is in this.
Take another instance. A surly brother a younger brother, and this colloquy ensues. "With whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I know the pride and naughtiness of thine heart. For to see the fight art thou come down." And David answered and said, "What have I now done? Is there not a cause an unexplained mysterious cause?" David himself did not know the reason of his being there, in full, but he was wise enough to know that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in any man's philosophy. He always had one side of his life open heavenward. The daily factors that busied themselves in making up his daily life he knew full well their name, weight, velocity, power of action, relativity, "but," said he, "there is more in life than all this." More than the boy that takes down my shutters in the morning, and the man who keeps my books, and writes my letters: more than debtors and creditors, and customers and clients and appellants of every name all this I know, but there is something more. The wise man keeps himself open in the direction of that something more. Call it divinity, call it providence, call it mystery, call it fate, call it the immeasurable and the impalpable, or the unknowable, or the inscrutable what you may there it is, and until you have got into right relation with that, your life is a mere muddle, a more or less successful trick, but not a planet, centred, poised, immovable. You cannot escape the religious element in life; you may shut your eyes, you may close your ears, you may learn the language of earth and the worse language of the pit, and you may exclude all outward religious ministries and appeals, but now and again there is a shaking in the life, a whisper in the ear, a strange quiver in the air, a face at the window, a quantity you cannot name.
Then again, this incident shows us how impossible it is, sometimes, to give reasons for our action. Persons say to the Hadads who come round them, "Why do you leave Egypt?" and Hadad says, "I do not know." O foolish man, are you going back to Edom, the memory of cruelty, shame and agony, without knowing why you are going back?" And poor Hadad can only answer, "Yes." And to the men who can give a reason for everything, Hadad's answer is a reply of insanity. Oh, happy is the man who has never to leave the paved pathway, who knows nothing of the pains of inspiration, the pangs of a high calling, the surprises of a divine election! Yet not so happy, measured by the higher and larger scale; if he misses much pain, he misses much high delight; if he is commonplace on the one side, he is commonplace all through. Is it not better sometimes to be mad with inspiration, though afterwards there be collapse and suffering, than never to feel the divine afflatus, and never to respond to the call of God? Hadad, you must have some reason for going from Egypt what is it? If you do not give us some reason, we will give you one. You have been behaving badly do not conceal it you are going away because of some concealed crime don't you try to make a good thing out of a bad one; if you do not find reasons, we will find them for you. Poor Hadad can only say, "I cannot tell why I am going but I must go."
In the fourteenth verse of the chapter in which the narrative is recorded the whole secret is given. The Lord had stirred up the heart of Hadad against wicked Solomon. It was a divine stirring, it was an impulse from heaven, it was the sound of a rushing mighty wind from the skies, a song without words, a ministry without articulation, a movement of the soul. Have you ever been in that case in any degree? I have, and persons have said to me, "Surely you can give us some reasons for going?" I have said, "Really, I cannot." "Well, but a sensible man always bases his conduct upon reason. Think of it and tell us what your reasons are, and they will relieve our minds, for our anxiety is very painful," and I have only had to say, "I cannot tell you anything more about it, but I must go."
It was a divine stirring. And we often do things in the face of reason. Hadad not only had no reason for going, but he had many reasons for staying, and the action of Hadad, viewed from a strictly human and social point of view, was the action of a madman. It is marvellous how God snubs and rebukes our reason that we are so proud of. We say, "It stands to reason," and God turns our reason upside down. We say, "We must be reasonable," and God does all the greatest actions of the world along a plane that reason never traversed. Why, everything in life seems to contradict reason. Tell me that this earth on which I stand is round it contradicts my reason. Tell me the earth on which I stand goes round Goes round? If it went round we should fall off. Tell me that this earth is hung upon nothing go and tell that in a lunatic asylum, but do not tell it to men whose heads are strong and clear. The whole universe is a mockery of what we call reason. We must enlarge the term; it is not reason that must be despised, but rightly defined, and reason rightly defined has two wings, hope, faith now loose her and let her go, and she seeks the gate of the sun. You have ill-used your reason, you have starved the angel, you have shut her up within iron cages and bars, and have drawn your rod across those iron staves and mocked the poor prisoner. Only give your reason fair play, right enlargement, just application, and you will find that reason is the earthly name, and faith the heavenly.
This narrative suggests the inquiry, How am I to know when I am stirred by divine impulses? Some say, "I know that I do feel the stirring, and I want to go and march and to fight, and to conquer how am I to know when the impulse is divine, and when it is a mere motion of my own will?" I will tell you yet not I, but the story itself will answer. When the impulse moves you in the direction of loss, pain, and sacrifice, the probability is that the impulse is divine. Now where is your stirring? Gone. I thought it would go. I have frightened many birds in the same way, and they have flown from the trees on which they had alighted, in chaffering crowds. I will repeat. When the impulse leads you in the direction of self-sacrifice, self-mortification, pain and loss, as it did in the case of Hadad, the probability is that the impulse is divine; but if the impulse moves you in the direction of a fuller cup, a weightier table, a softer bed, a more velvety footing, the probability is that the impulse is not an inspiration of God, but a suggestion of the lower powers. Moses is called to what? To hardship and difficulty, and much pain, and long provocation in the wilderness. Before him Abraham is called to what? To a pilgrimage that has a beginning only that he can ascertain: what the explanation and conclusion of it will be he knoweth not: the impulse was divine. Peter was called: "Follow me:" to what? To leave the ship, to leave the nets, to leave friends and kindred, to leave usual avocations and enjoyments, and the call was from God. If we were called to more influential positions, the very first notion that would occur to us would be that the call was a good one. If we were called to a humbler position, and to meaner surroundings, to hardships and pains and difficulties, the devil would say, "Do you suppose God is going to call any man in a direction like that? Nothing of the sort. Stop where you are."
We hear what we want to hear, in the ear. The young woman says, "I feel as if I ought to do it." Do what? You are going to marry a man because he is clever, rich, fine, high, gay, and you a Christian girl? It is no call of God. Resist the devil and he will flee from thee. The young man says, "I feel as if this might be a providential opening." Let me hear what it is and I will tell you at once. "Call to a good position in the city, ten times my present income, position of influence and respectability." What is it to do? "Well, that is that is the difficulty." Well, I say, what is it to do? "Why, I hardly like to tell you what it is to do." Then don't go; don't go. "But it is ten times the income." Are you sure of that? What is ten times the income? and will not the gold so-called turn to dross as you put it in your purse? Is it not blood money? "Well, if you like to put it in that way I do not know perhaps it may be." I do put it in that way: is it not to live on human misery, on broken hearts? "Well, if you like to put it in that sort of way, why, I dare say it would admit of being so stated." I do state it so: an honest pound a week, an honourable crust, a few odd things in the garret you have paid for, and every one of which will make a place to kneel at for your evening prayer that, rather than all the riches of Egypt, if you have to forswear one honourable oath, revoke one solemn testimony, or insult one sacred memory.
Then I hear a dear old father-friend: now, what says he? Listen. "Howbeit, let me go, in any wise." Where to, dear father? "To the other country." What other country? "I have a desire to depart." What, to leave the old house at home, with all your children and grandchildren, and the garden, and the library, and the church you have not a desire to depart, have you? "Yes. O that I had wings like a dove, for then I would flee away and be at rest. My Lord calls me, I must meet him in the promised land." Ay, God sends that homesickness over the heart when he wants to take us up. We begin to say, "I am much obliged to you for all your kindness; you have bestowed favours and honours upon me. God bless you, but I want to go, to go home, to be at rest; I want to see God's heaven let me go.
It is a divine stirring: it is the beginning of immortality.
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