CHAPTER XXIII
A BATTERED EAGLE
Has God on thee conferred
A bodily presence mean as Paul’s,
Yet made thee bearer of a word
Which sleepy nations as with trumpet calls?
O noble heart, accept
With equal thanks the talent and disgrace;
The marble town unwept
Nourish thy virtue in a private place.
Think not that unattended
By heavenly powers thou steal’st to Solitude,
Nor yet on earth all unbefriended.
* * * * * * * *
Emerson.
“Behold we draw nigh to our journey’s end,” said the elder of two young men to his companion. “The dark red summits of Sinai lift themselves in the distance before us, and to-morrow’s sun, peradventure, will find us in the shadow of a great rock!”
“The God of Israel be praised!” replied his companion. “The shelter of the mountains will gladden our hearts, and we may find water-brooks. It is a land of promise, and rest and peace will be ours when we leave behind this weary desert, thrice heated by the rays of the Arabian sun!”
The first speaker aroused himself a little, and seemed to gather new strength at the prospect. His pale face, dark sunken eyes, trembling nerves, and evident weakness of body and limb, spoke eloquently of extreme feebleness. Yet, as he gazed forward, a new light came into his eyes, as if a strong soul would spur on its frame, and command it to live. It was Saulus!9 He was mounted upon a well-laden camel, while his companion walked by his side. Hardly able to keep his hold against the swaying motion of the animal, he clung as with the grasp of desperation.
A shallow stream may easily be turned in a new direction, but to change the course of one whose flashing current is deep and swift is a herculean transaction. It must tear away much material—rock, soil, vegetation, and even trees by the roots, transforming them into washed and swept débris—before it can adjust itself to new banks, and scour another channel. So a great soul of vehement force is an impetuous psychological river, the reversal of which, if it be sudden, produces a spiritual cataclysm.
If an eagle of powerful and sweeping wing be met in his swift course, and drenched and battered by an opposing storm of irresistible force, he must needs alight a while upon solid ground, and through some quiet recuperation plume his spent and drooping pinions before again soaring aloft.
The world has witnessed few greater transactions than the transformation of Saulus. No material conquest, and no physical change in the face of nature, can be compared with the reversal and resurrection of a great mind. Well may it be called a “miracle,” if the old illogical but common definition of the term be superseded by one that is orderly and rational. Miracles are lawful, not lawless. They are circles, of which an important arc is above the limited range of the ordinary observer. They are supernatural, in the sense of being above the material and sensuous comprehension, but not violations or suspensions of the universal Divine Order. The Author of all things is never disorderly in his methods.
In the psychological realm, as in the physical, while there is a conservation of energy, there are also alternations of action and reaction. When a great soul has “passed through fire and water,” a condition of passivity and silence naturally follows. When the black clouds that have been rolled together by a great tempest have dissolved, the torrents ceased, and the thunder died away, then is sunlit nature unwontedly calm and peaceful, even though the marks and scars of the storm remain.
Saulus, sick at heart and wrenched in body, yearned for solitude. It was an imperative necessity. As a stricken deer by positive instinct leaves the herd, so he must step out from the surrounding human current. Rest, quiet, stillness! at any sacrifice! He was like a tree which had been pulled up by the roots. His wounds must have time to heal, and the torn fibres and tendrils be soothed, refreshed, and readjusted. If the foundations of a lifetime have been swept away, there must be new excavation and bed-rock replacement. The life of Saulus had been a tempestuous current of destruction to the “Nazarenes.” Now he was a “Nazarene”!
He, who had been so exceeding jealous for the doctrine of Moses, would now be counted as the enemy of Mosaism. But Moses, to his view, was transformed. No longer the man of doctrine and ceremony, he was now the man of God.
Saulus was tossed and buffeted by restless waves, though he now discerned solid land before him. He must grasp the Immovable! He would discover God! As Moses had been impelled to retire to the “land of Midian,” where the bush glowed with a flame that did not consume, and where he had communings with the Most High, so Saulus must follow the same path.
During the process of the evolution of the human individual, every one, sooner or later, must go to his “land of Midian.” When the foundations of time and sense begin to totter, the smaller unit must discover its place in the Greater! Man will never find real contentment in a far-away or theoretical Deity, but he must grasp the Living God. He is most readily known and felt, not among the busy haunts of men, but in the wild solitudes of nature. Amid such an environment, light may stream forth, mysteries be resolved, wounds healed, shelter found, and nourishment assimilated. In the SILENCE is the fitting place for the human to bathe and refresh itself in the Divine. At such seasons man may,—
“Sit on the desert stone
Like Elijah at Horeb’s cave alone;
And a gentle voice comes through the wild,
Like a father consoling his fretful child,
That banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,
Saying, ‘Man is distant, but God is near.’”
Among all the attendants who had accompanied Saulus to Damascus, but one remained faithful to him. Some of them thought him suddenly mad, and others were minded to take him back to Jerusalem under arrest. Their counsels were confused and came to naught. But Amoz, the companion of his former disturbed nights in the Holy City, though having but little appreciation of his great change, remained personally loyal, and was willing to go with him for a time, even in the wilderness. He sympathized with his infirmities, and was tender in ministration.
It was well along in the afternoon, after the midday rest, during the terrible heat of the desert air, that the two travellers started on the last stage of their wearisome journey. A great arid sand-waste stretched away on both sides of the narrow trail, with here and there a few hardy shrubs and wiry yellow grasses which were stirred by the fitful summer air. As they advanced towards the foothills of the mountain range, the landscape became more broken by the numerous wadies which were worn by the torrential mountain streams of the rainy season, and there was an increased luxuriance of vegetation.
The Sinaitic peninsula is interesting both on account of its topographical peculiarities, and historically in its association with the giving of the Law, and other events which are recorded of the wanderings of the Children of Israel in the Wilderness. Between the gulfs of Suez and Akaba, this bold mass of mountains, lying south of the great desert of Ettyh Paran, projects itself well into the Red Sea.
It was thoroughly apart from all the world’s highways, cities, and towns—a veritable corner of the earth, surrounded by sea and desert. Its lofty reddish-brown frowning peaks looked down upon a vast solitude. They were generally precipitous, having many fissures, hollows and caves around their bases, forming a shelter from the heat of the sun, and convenient even for dwelling-places most of the year. Amid these mountains, hermits anchorites and pilgrims found a lonely resort fitted to their desires.
As the travellers went on, the ground was more broken, the valleys deeper, and the tangled reeds and grasses greener and more varied. The trail led into a wide, shallow wady, the bed of which was still soft from recent rains, and as they toiled along the slow ascent the verdure thickened. An occasional oleander in bloom, tangles of climbing vines, scattered mulberry-trees, with here and there a palm, now gladdened their sight, in marked contrast to the barren wilderness which they had left behind. They soon found themselves among low bluffs and cliffs, with here and there a tiny stream of clear water springing from the cracks of the fissured rocks.
The whistle of quail and the whir of partridges, with the song of the lark and rock-sparrow, greeted their ears, and other birds of various hues uttered their notes and flew away as they were startled from their reedy coverts. Anon a sly fox or frightened jackal was seen galloping in the distance. They had emerged from heat, bareness, and deadness into the region of living things. The sun was declining, and the cooler air, with a great change in the face of nature, gave Saulus some increase of strength and hope.
At length a beseeching moan from the patient dromedary reminded them that the end of day was near, and that the hour for encampment and rest had come. Soon a gentle decline of dry, grassy ground was at hand. Amoz gave the camel the signal to kneel, and then carefully supported Saulus in his arms as he dismounted. He had little strength left, but yet his eyes, which had been fixed and dreamy during the day, kindled at the new and more inspiring surroundings, and the prospect of much-needed repose. Amoz deftly spread a soft carpet upon the grass, and tenderly placed Saulus upon it, where he could recline while the preparations for the night’s encampment were being made.
As the ship is to the sea, so is the camel to the desert, and his noiseless stepping and rhythmical careening make the likeness a striking one. The full load and equipment of the awkward brute embraced all the endless variety of necessities for nomadic life. Boxes and bundles were hung over his broad back and secured by straps and girths, so that everything was snug and convenient. The harness included some color and embellishment, the bridle being trimmed with scarlet fringe, and upon the throat-strap was hung a row of tiny tinkling bells, besides other trappings, knots, and variegated ties, which made up a picturesque combination. Pride, care, and even affection are lavished upon the faithful beast, without whose aid life and travel in the desert would be well-nigh impossible.
From among the paraphernalia which formed the dromedary cargo, Amoz drew a large circular camel’s-hair cloth, with a bundle of rods and a light strong pole. The frame was joined and the pole planted, and with the cloth fastened over them, a tent, small, but ample for a person to stand upright in, was soon constructed. This, with the grassy carpet beneath and other accessories, formed a nomadic home quite complete for the air of Arabia.
From pouches and willow baskets Amoz brought forth materials for a meal. There were dried and smoked meats, dates, pomegranates, wheaten wafers, honey, cheese made from goat’s milk, and wine in skin gurglets. These, with fresh water from a near-by spring in the cliff, made a comfortable repast. The camel was groomed, and given a store of water, of which, for three days past, the desert had not afforded a drop.
The moist freshness of the air and neighboring animal and vegetal life, with the fact that he was near his journey’s end, stirred some new life in the veins of the sore and bruised Saulus, and for the first time in years there seemed to be nourishment and rejoicing in his immediate environment.
The sun was slowly sinking in the western horizon, his parting beams brilliantly lighting up the deep-red and purplish summits and cliffs of Sinai, which were now in near and full view. As Saulus gazed upon them they seemed almost instinct with life and weird mystery. Especially the towering heights of Horeb were eloquent with ancient sacred story. The great cluster of lesser peaks stood up like gigantic living witnesses of distant events, and brought them near. When in times gone by Saulus had read the records of the scenes which here had transpired, they seemed dead and formal, but now they teemed with life.
Darkness drew on, and with crowns newly silvered by the rising moon, these great silent sentinels told anew their mute story. Was “I am” here? He who had led the Children through this land, who handed down the Law to them, whose thunderings made them tremble and whose lightnings terrified them? The Past is a part of the Present. If “I am that I am” dwelt here of old, he is not less present now. And those great souls, Moses and Elijah, who aforetime trod these solitudes, gazed upon these cliffs, and tabernacled in Horeb—do they, unseen by the eye of sense, ever revisit these scenes?
Do the generations which follow each other in quick succession repeat in endless round the same experiences, again suffer the same trials and meet the same obstacles, or do they learn new lessons, make fresh advances, and dwell upon higher levels? Is the ancient code of stern legality, the close mechanical limitations of “Thou shalt not,” to be gradually set aside by the true ideal of a positive spiritual freedom, faith, love, and good works?
As the shades of evening thickly gathered, Saulus looked up towards the shining firmament which testified to the infinite and unchangeable perfection of the Divine. Surely, God and his ways can neither improve nor grow old; but the seeming alteration in his dealings with the children of men must be in their own varying moods and short range of vision. Here his meditation was suddenly interrupted.
He was seized with his nightly trembling fit, with its usual accompaniment of direful fears, forebodings, and tragic visions of the past. Every evening brought a recurrence of these nervous spasms, which rudely broke in upon him at the same hour, regardless of how he might be occupied. His agony was fearful to behold. With loud groans he cried out to the living God for forgiveness and release.
“O God, spare me! Cleanse me from this awful blood-guiltiness! O Jesus of Nazareth, have mercy!”
There trooped in terrible procession before his mind the forms and faces of many innocent ones whom he had scourged and tortured. In the chill of a cold perspiration he cried out and implored that his eyes might be closed against a repetition of the scenes of the Holy City, but nothing could shut them out. With contortion of face, shaking of limb, and agony of soul, at length he sank, from thorough exhaustion into enforced quietude. After gradually reviving and recovering, he remained free, until the next evening again ushered in the same terrible experience.
“A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beck’ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men’s names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.”
Amoz faithfully ministered to the necessities of Saulus, tenderly soothing him with brotherly sympathy, until long-sought quietude settled upon the little tent for the night.
The deep scars of sin and crime only can be healed by slow growth. The well-worn thought-channels of a mind which has done violence to laws of its own divine being cannot be filled and levelled by any sudden change of belief or doctrinal transformation. Well would it be for the world, if once it could be convinced that cause and effect can no more be severed upon the psychical and spiritual planes than in the material realm. There is no short cut or evasion in the moral economy. Nothing on earth can put away a state of consciousness in man but the growth of a different one, which only may gradually and lawfully displace it. It cannot be driven out forcibly or quickly. Character is formed of thought-habits, and their exercise and dominance give them ever increasing rigidity. A renewing of the mind consists of its activity projected into a higher realm. When the leading trend of a soul is discordant with the divine order and primal love, the outcome is sure to be a moral wrench difficult to repair.
The early morning sun again gilded the brown and deep-red peaks of Sinai, and Amoz was up betimes to prepare the simple morning meal, and make ready for the remaining short journey.
The high ground upon which they had encamped afforded a wide view to the eastward, and the sweet and moist morning air and dewy freshness made the broad expanse seem like a newly discovered paradise. In the distance the broad blue Gulf of Akaba reflected the golden beams of the rising orb of day, gleaming like a great opalescent sea of pearl, while in the dim purple distance beyond arose the misty Arabian peaks which skirt its farther shore. The morning was a benediction, and the world seemed peaceful and good. Nature glowed with life and cheer, and the early lights and shadows capriciously chased each other up and down the mountain-slopes in unending procession. The cloud-forms which gracefully floated over the grim summits seemed to correspond, in their fleeting evanescence, to the passing generations of men which these silent rock-ribbed witnesses had looked down upon, as if they had been a slow-moving but endless caravan.
Is anything in the universe fixed and enduring? Yea, the immortal life of man! He whose material existence is like the flitting cloud-shadows possesses a real selfhood that will expand and develop when yonder solid peaks shall have dissolved to dust and found their lowest level.
Saulus felt new strength and inspiration from the breath and fragrance of Nature that smiled upon him. The beautiful surroundings, or rather the great exuberant Life which pulsated through them, seemed to warm his soul, and cause a bursting forth of the inmost springs of his nature. The hard, formal religiosity, which like an unyielding shell had long encased him, was beginning to soften and gradually disintegrate before the force of the new spiritual current in his soul.
After the morning meal was finished, and the camel had been fed, groomed, and harnessed, the light tent was struck, and it, with the other paraphernalia, loaded upon him, they started, Saulus riding in his place, and Amoz walking, as was his wont. Two or three hours more and they would be at the foot of Horeb,—their journey’s end. Why were they going there? Amoz had often put this question to Saulus, but no response had been offered. He did not refuse to answer from any unwillingness, but was unable to divine any definite plan even to himself. Something seemed to draw him. Was it blind fate? Nay! he was guided by a spiritual instinct, strong but gentle, soft though unerring. He could not fathom it.
From the time of leaving Damascus, through all the weary days in the terrible desert, there had been no wavering nor uncertainty. Unseen guidance shaped the pilgrimage in every detail, mysterious even to its chief actor. A path opened before him, and he felt drawn to follow its devious winding. While he had a general purpose, he felt that its definite unfoldment was provided for by that which was superior to himself. He desired to go for a season beyond the haunts of men, and to breathe the pure air of heaven, but the particulars were plainly none of his. Could it be a divine guidance? He had always believed that the orderings of Jehovah came through outward signs, thunderings and miracles. An earthquake or a tempest might have been interpreted. But what of this still, gentle influence within him? What could move a soul which had been the noisy arena of warring forces and tumults? But this seemed to well up from the very depths of his being. Could it be God?
Had a line been stretched all the way from Damascus for him to follow he would have gone no more unerringly, but yet, mystery though it were, he felt subject to no pressure.
How many souls have vainly sought the world over to find the Infinite,—the Universal Good,—and have finally discovered him in their inmost nature! They have delved through history, roamed over continents, visited holy places, searched through creeds, scanned philosophies, sounded the depths of ecclesiasticism, traversed the circumference of systems and institutions, and bowed to the authority of priest and ritual, only to discover at last the divinity of the real selfhood,—that inner light which is set for the teaching of “every man, coming into the world.” How many have looked high and low, and cried, “Lo here” and “Lo there,” who needed only thorough self-interpretation! How many inmost and potential “sons of God,” through the misdirection of the imaging or creative faculty of soul, have unwittingly cast their own shadows as sons of Belial, and thereby accepted the dominance of evil! How many, through the glamour of a formal and institutional plan of salvation, have unconsciously covered the hidden and normal divinity of humanity! How many, through an artificial and abnormal humility, have rated themselves as “poor miserable sinners,” and as a natural consequence been subtly drawn, through a moral pessimism, toward the outline of their own specification!
Two hours of early morning travel brought Saulus and Amoz to the rock-ribbed base of Mount Horeb. The cooling shade of trees and shrubs, the fresh fragrant air, and the grand outlook as they came upon the still more elevated ground at the foot of the great cliff, gave Saulus a strange sense of detachment from the earth. He felt an unwonted spiritual upliftment and exhilaration which was a revelation. The surrounding sweetness, the silence, broken only by the song and twitter of an occasional bird, descended like a healing balm upon the stained and scarred soul of the erstwhile inquisitor.
“No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.”
The great “Mount of God,” firm and unchangeable, looked down with mystical and compassionate dignity, as if to bear witness to the touch of things eternal; to invest the soul of the observer with a divine awe, perchance again to unroll for the instruction of Saulus the great Drama of the Chosen People.
The narrow trail which had been followed the day before had gradually faded out or lost itself in various disused paths which branched in different directions, and now the twain found themselves close against the precipitous side of the mountain.
“Verily we must turn to the right or the left,” said Amoz, “for we can go no farther. But here is a cool and shady thicket. Let us go beneath its shelter and rest a while.”
Guiding the camel skilfully, they threaded their way into the clump of blossoming oleanders and mulberry-trees, soon coming to a mass of clinging vines which concealed the face of the great overhanging cliff in front. Amoz helped Saulus to alight, and the faithful beast uttered a cry of joy as he awkwardly kneeled for the removal of his load. The equipments were soon unladen, and there was a feeling that the long, wearisome journey was at an end. In the midst of such verdure and freshness the toilsome days in the desert seemed only like a troublesome dream which had almost faded out. The face of Saulus brightened, the dark rings around his eyes were less heavy, and he felt some increase of strength.
“The mysterious Voice which speaks within me still commands, ‘Go forward!’ ” said Saulus.
“But, O my brother, we are close against the Mount! How can we go farther?”
“I know not! But still its tone is clear, ‘Go forward!’ ”
Amoz left Saulus for a moment, and carefully made his way through the tangle, to spy out, if possible, the immediate foreground. He brushed aside the climbing vines, and found himself face to face with the solid rock. He was just about to turn back, when his eyes rested upon something which had the general form of ancient Hebrew text. The lapse of ages, with the moist atmosphere, had well nigh covered it with a luxurious growth of velvety mosses, but he could not be mistaken.
“The hand of man hath wrought this!” he exclaimed to himself; and without waiting to make any further examination he hurried to inform Saulus.
“Behold, O Saulus! the cliff hath been graven by the hand of man!”
“I will go with thee, and peradventure we may give it interpretation!”
As it was close at hand, Saulus, with the assistance of his companion, found no difficulty in working his way through the vines to the impenetrable barrier of stone. Amoz quickly cleared away the tangle, and then stripping off the mossy hangings, an inscription stood before them in bold, deeply engraved Hebrew characters,—
“GOD IS HERE.”
Saulus and Amoz instinctively removed their sandals, and bowed their faces to the ground. They felt a Presence surrounding them. The place was holy ground. The very trees, vines, and leaves seemed to breathe forth a fragrant benediction. To the inner eye they glowed with brightness and were not consumed. After a season of silent adoration they arose and reverently made further examination. They found other carvings and symbols, mystical in form, which they were unable to interpret.
“Of a surety, the Voice which guided us hither is none other than the Voice of God!” said Saulus. “In the fulness of time it will make everything plain!” he continued with confidence.
“Yea, I also am persuaded that thy footsteps have been divinely led to the Holy Mount. Here we will tabernacle until thou hast recovered thy strength.”
“I am already stronger! The Voice will guide and help me! Behold, I have found God!”
His eye kindled with a new light, and his features were suffused with an unwonted vigor and life. He trembled, not with the fulness of fear, as in the nightly spasms, but with a thrill of joy.
O wondrous mountain! O wondrous world that pulsates with the breath of God! O mystery of mysteries! God meets men face to face!
Reverently brushing back more of the tangle, and carefully removing the velvety covering, they beheld another inscription,—
“GOD IS ETERNAL LOVE AND LIFE.”
Saulus was lifted to the supremacy and sublimity of a new, triumphant faith. He felt the sweet certainty of something nobler and purer than he had ever conceived; a gladness that nestled in his heart, making it warm and tranquil. He had no favor to ask or petition to make of the Divinity which embraced him, for his soul was filled—satisfied. There was no lack. Enswathed in the Eternal Presence, he could crave no more.
Every branch and twig and leaf seemed to be tipped with a lambent, gleaming light which shone upon him. The whole Vision smiled, and the Voice gave him a welcome, until with bated breath and throbbing heart he had a sense of leaving the body, and rising and being encircled by a golden aureole.
With eyes upturned, the bodily form of Saulus sank quietly back until he lay stretched upon the soft, mossy couch beneath him. The seen world faded out amidst the uprearing of a transcendent ecstasy.
* * * * * * * * * *
Amoz sat by his side, wondering at the experiences of the great soul which he had seen so variously possessed. A smile played upon the upturned face of Saulus as he lay, calm and unconscious, in the cooling shade. Was there a prophetic gleam of future power and glory? Was there some dim foretaste of an Apostolic energy, which should reach, not merely one race, but possess a moulding influence upon the world? Had he been carried up in a Chariot of Fire to an altitude where he could look out over the Future, and rapturously behold the activity of unseen forces and intelligences, through whose final triumph the kingdom of universal love and harmony—that at-one-ment of the Divine and Human—is to be ushered in?
* * * * * * * * * *
At length Saulus opened his eyes and sat upright. He said nothing of the Vision, for it was unspeakable.
Hand in hand Saulus and Amoz stood up and drew nearer to the great rocky Breast, which reached almost perpendicularly far up beyond the range of their vision. Again they essayed to decipher and interpret the mysterious signs and symbols which were clustered about the plain sentences already read, but in vain.
Then they noticed a peculiar series of small characters, which extended to the right, behind the tangle. Following its lead, and carefully clearing away the vines and leaves which covered its farther course, there was soon revealed a great cleft in the rock. It seemed to lead directly into the heart of mighty Horeb, and was broad enough to admit a laden camel. A light, cool breeze was issuing from within, and the entrance was smooth, dry, and inviting.
With an eager and expectant air the two young Hebrews entered side by side, and were soon beyond the light of the outer world.