03 - No Night in Heaven

No Night in Heaven!

"And there shall be no night there!"Revelation 22:6 This is another of those striking and comprehensive utterances, by which John endeavors to describe what is indescribable, and to aid us in conceiving what is inconceivable. All attempts to comprehend the nature and blessedness of the heavenly state, are as ineffectual as an effort to measure with the eye the height of a mountain whose summit is enveloped and lost in the clouds — or to traverse, with our present organization, the distances that separate us from the fixed stars. Yet, as the astronomer, by careful study and the use of artificial aids, is enabled to enlarge his conceptions of the physical universe, and to gaze upon suns and systems that are invisible to the naked eye — so the Christian, with the assistance of the telescopic power of the Bible, may extend his views of the heavenly world, and discover new beauties and glories in the moral firmament above him. The terms darkness and light are often used in the Scriptures as emblems of spiritual objects. As descriptive of the prevalence of sin, darkness is said to cover the earth, and gross darkness the people. It is synonymous with ignorance, sorrow, wretchedness and the divine judgments. The day of the Lord coming in terror, is "a day of darkness and gloominess — a day of clouds and of thick darkness." For the finally impenitent there "is reserved the blackness of darkness forever." On the other hand, light is emblematic of loveliness, beauty, truth and happiness. Pouring forth from its center, it . . .
chases away the darkness,
renders visible the material universe,
decks a thousand objects with beauty, and
clothes the works of the great Architect with a drapery of richest luster and variegated splendor!

Light is to the eye, what truth is to the mind — the medium of communication with realities — the source of the highest stimulus and the most exquisite delight. The apostle declares that "God is light." He not only shines through his works, and pours his effulgence through suns and stars — but he is in himself light. Christ is exhibited to us as rising upon the world as "the Sun of righteousness, with healing in his wings." Christians are denominated "the light of the world;" and they are commanded to let their light so shine before men, that others, seeing their good works, may glorify their Father who is in Heaven. This image runs through the whole Christian economy, and furnishes, perhaps, the nearest approximation that we have to spiritual objects. Light’s . . .
purity,
its ethereal nature,
its reviving, cheering influence,
its power to call the earth from the tomb of night, to the life and blessedness of day,
its capability of resting upon the world without participating in its corruptions, of entering every abode without feeling the contagion from their sinful inhabitants — render it a fit emblem of the unseen and spiritual.

Perhaps we may regard light as the connecting link between the material and the immaterial — as the element that will survive, in some form, the general wreck of all that is visible. It may not be altogether a suggestion of the imagination, that in the hour of the Christian’s dissolution, while the body descends into darkness — the darkness of the grave — the spirit rises into light — the light of an eternal day. It may float away into higher regions, clothed in a robe of dazzling splendor, and radiant with all the colors of the rainbow! In our present sphere, God shines upon us through external mediums. He has suspended in the great temple of nature, a bright orb, through which he pours his effulgence upon the earth by day, and stars that relieve the darkness by night. He shines, too, through all his works . . .
through mountains, valleys and verdure,
through every tree, plant and flower,
through the plumage of every bird,
the mechanism of every insect,
through the organization of the human frame,
and through the workings of the intellect of man. But in that higher, nobler, purer state, towards which every earnest Christian is making progress, there will be no need of this external apparatus. It will be all swept away, and the redeemed will be admitted into the presence-chamber of the Infinite One. They will gaze, with an unclouded vision, upon the full effulgence of the Deity, and experience the blessedness of being where "light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart."

"There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign forever and ever!" Revelation 22:5 From this declaration, we learn, in the first place, that there will be, in that heavenly world, no need of rest. The absence of night, with our present constitution, and under the present economy of things, would be far from a blessing. After the toils of the day, we need repose. The gardener needs it, as he returns from his labors in the field. The tradesman, the artificer, the scholar — all, as the shades of night fall upon the earth, crave rest. Without it, the physical, and even the mental system, soon becomes exhausted — the muscles and sinews lose their strength; the machinery of mind and body is broken up. The most profound studies, the most interesting investigations, the most satisfying enjoyments, can be pursued only for a short period. A sense of weariness soon indicates our frailty, and the darkness of night comes to tell us of our weakness. The most intellectual philosophers, the proudest monarchs, the mightiest armies, must sleep.

How great, then, the change, in our physical and mental constitution, that will fit us for a world in which there is no night — where no fatigue will occasion the slightest suspension of our duties, or interruption of our joys! To what a height in the scale of existence does the conception lift us, to imagine ourselves possessed of bodies capable of an unceasing activity, and minds proof against the influence of fatigue!

It cannot but deepen our impressions of the blessedness of the heavenly state, to know that there, the discipline of the mind may be carried to the highest perfection — that the most profound, elaborate and important truths may be investigated without fatigue or interruption — that we may go from one height to another, in the scale of intellectual advancement, and yet, all the while, feel the freshness of the morning, and the vigor of youth.

It is difficult, nay, impossible, to conceive how rapidly the faculties will develop and powers expand in such a state. The ability of the mind . . .
to know and to worship God,
to admire his character,
to fathom the mysteries of his being,
to comprehend his providence,
to study his works —
will increase in a ratio that no present calculation can reach. The saint will become more intensely conscious of his likeness to Him, who, it is affirmed, "never slumbers or sleeps." Freed from the incumbrance of a material and perishable body, fired with the thought that even the rolling ages of eternity can bring with them no weariness or interruption, rejoicing in the evidence that every increase in knowledge is accession of strength — the glorified saint will be continually tracing out, with increasing distinctness, the lineaments of the divine image in which he was created.

But, besides affording a season for rest, night is necessary, in the present world, as an instructor. Had we perpetual sunshine on earth, our views of the power of the Deity, the extent of his authority, and the magnificence of the universe — would still be comparatively limited. We would suppose this earth to comprise by far the greater portion of the Creator’s dominions, and we would be inclined to assign to ourselves a position of high importance in the scale of intelligences. But, as the sun sinks below the horizon, the great map of the universe is unrolled to our view. The myriads of lights that everywhere blaze over the canopy of Heaven tell us of other worlds, more vast and important, perhaps, than our own. They tell us of immensities that even the imagination of man cannot traverse. They tell us — O, wondrous discovery! — that we are surrounded with receptacles of life and happiness that in number defy all arithmetical calculation — that, for anything we know, are as numerous as the sands upon the sea-shore! And how many interesting conjectures does this discovery start up in the mind, as to the mission of these myriads of worlds — as to their size, shape, accompanying rings and satellites; the number, character and destiny, of their inhabitants; as to the probability that the work of creation is constantly going on, and the boundaries of the material universe enlarging, as one age follows another!

Yet, the fact that we need the darkness of night to open to us the wonders of creation, is itself evidence of the imperfections of our present organs of vision. The veil of night must fall, before we can even know of the existence of other systems. The sun must withdraw its brightness — to enable us to discern these distant orbs. And still, what we behold of them, compared with what is invisible, is to us what the beacon-lights along an extensive coast are to the mariner. He sees these faint glimmerings dotting the horizon, while the vast continent, with its peopled cities, its mountains, plains, rivers and forests, are totally invisible.

We are accustomed to speak of our wonderful powers of vision; and properly so, when we consider how extensive a panorama the eye is capable of surveying, and with what delicacy and accuracy a thousand objects may, at the same instant, be painted upon the retina. Yet, a moment’s reflection will show us, that it is only a narrow stratum, comparatively, of even material objects, that is visible to us, while above and below, there are vast tracts that are only discernible by the aid of artificial means — such as the telescope and microscope. With the assistance of telescopic power we are able to go above, and view myriads of worlds, the existence of which could never have been discovered by the naked eye. With the microscope we can go below, and become acquainted with orders of existences, which display, equally with our own physical organization, the skill, wisdom and power, of the Creator. And, even with these aids, we know not how limited our incursions are into these foreign regions.

But, in another sphere, when this corruption shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal, immortality, we shall need no artificial aids to help us to discern surrounding objects. We shall need no veil of night to enable us to gaze upon the wonders and splendors of creation. With superior organs, with more refined senses, with enlarged faculties — we shall view the brilliant scenes around us, rejoicing in the dawnings of an eternal day — dawnings that will throw their luster upon turrets, palaces, cities and kingdoms, over which the mantle of night shall never be thrown!

There shall be no night of sorrow in Heaven. Darkness is the fit emblem of wretchedness. The afflicted spirit is under a cloud — is the victim of night-tempests, the gloom and fury of which can only be fully known by experience. The bereaved walk in a valley of tears, with crushed hearts, blighted hopes, agonizing thoughts. I need not tell the reader that this poor world is a world of sorrows, of disappointments, of calamities, that rend asunder the very heart-strings. I need not tell you of your liability to lose, with the suddenness of the lightning’s flash, the dearest objects of your affections. I need not point you to the wrecks that are strewed along the coast of human life.

It is true that afflictions often come on a mission of benevolence. It is true that, with many of the children of sorrow, it is necessary that their sun of prosperity set, and a night of gloom shut down upon them — in order to render visible the stars of heavenly hopes. By no other means can they be induced to look upward, and cast their anchor of hope within the veil. By no other means can they be led to inquire, "Where is God, my Maker, who gives songs in the night?"

We allow, with a beautiful writer, "that in the deepest moral darkness there can be music — music which sounds softer and sweeter than by day; and that when the instruments of human melody are broken, there is a hand which can sweep the heart-strings, and wake the notes of praise."

Yet upon all, the sorrows of earth come with a crushing weight. "No chastisement for the present seems to be joyous — but grievous."

Ask the mother who is sitting by the side of her pale, cold child — a beloved form, silent, motionless, unconscious, the pulsations of life stopped, the spirit fled to return no more — ask her, if there is not a keenness in affliction!

Ask the youthful widow, whose bridal robes have been soon exchanged for the habiliments of mourning — whose bright visions of earthly happiness have all faded — whose beloved companion sleeps in the damp, silent, cruel grave — if earth’s trials do not pierce the heart!

Enter the family where death has preceded you, and how suddenly has the voice of gaiety, and the music of mirth, been hushed! How changed is every countenance, every movement, every heart! The spirit of melancholy broods over the scene! The very rooms and furniture seem to share in the gloom. The very air seems to whisper, "Tread softly, for a dread, mysterious messenger has visited this family, and laid its hopes in ashes!" Bleeding hearts are here, to which mere words of comfort sound formal and cold. Sorrows are here, that nothing on earth can heal.

Visit the dying man, and learn lessons of affliction from . . .
his prostrate, emaciated form,
his wasted countenance,
his baffled plans,
his pains and groans,
his mysterious dread of that dark pathway into which he must soon go down! Nor can we, while in this world, escape these nights of sadness. We are frail, and disease may arrest us. We are mortal, and death may seize us. Our friends, children, companions, are merely lent to us, and the great Proprietor of all may take them back to himself.

We are sinners, and at any moment the calamitous results of our wickedness may be sprung upon us. The fruits of years of transgression may be compressed within a few short, fatal days.

We are surrounded with iniquity, in its various intense and destructive forms; and this keeps the fountain of sorrow open — the deep, wide, rushing tide, ever in motion. And night, especially, is the season of the triumphs of evil. Then crime stalks abroad; then villainy, under its cloak of darkness, executes its base and wicked designs; then the unwary are ensnared, the tempted fall, the innocent are sacrificed.

O, is it not a blessed announcement, that there is a world in which "there shall be no night!" — no night of crime, deceit, treachery or temptation — no night of pain, sickness or death!

O, tell it to the penitent, who is straggling against the evil habits and depraved inclinations of a wicked heart — who, on life’s fierce battle-field, is striving to win an immortal crown!

Tell it to the dying man, who, restless upon his couch, through long, wearisome nights, is trying to learn the lessons of submission, and faith, and moral discipline, which his sufferings are teaching — who longs for light to break through the dark clouds that are gathering about him!

Hasten with the tidings to the bereaved family, and assure them that there is a world where these griefs shall be lifted from their oppressed spirits, and their present afflictions, if rightly improved, shall work out for them "a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory!" For where God is, there can be no night. Where bright, holy angels throng, there can be no sorrow. Where celestial music rolls through the galleries and arches of temples filled with the effulgence of the Deity, there can be no sighing. Where Jesus reigns in his majesty and glory, God will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away!" Revelation 21:4 No night in Heaven! Then . . .
no sad partings are experienced there,
no funeral processions move there,
no death-knell is heard there,
no graves are opened there,
no mysterious providences will there perplex us there,
no dark calamities will shake our faith there —
but we shall walk the golden streets of the eternal city, surrounded with perpetual brightness, breathing an atmosphere of heavenly purity, and free to enter the palaces of our King, or climb to heights over which no shadow ever passes!

If such, indeed, be the glory of Heaven, why should we desire to hold our friends and the objects of our affections to earth? Why keep them in a world of darkness and sorrow, when God calls them to the light and blessedness of an eternal day? The following sweet poetic dialog cannot fail to awaken the tenderest emotions in a mother’s heart. It is entitled, "The Mother and Her Dying Boy."

BOY.
My mother, my mother! O, let me depart!
Your tears and your pleadings are swords to my heart.
I hear gentle voices, that chide my delay;
I see lovely visions, that woo me away.
My prison is broken, my trials are o’er!
O mother, my mother, detain me no more!

MOTHER.
And will you, then, leave us, my brightest, my best?
And will you run nestling no more to my breast?
The summer is coming to sky and to bower;
The tree that you planted will soon be in flower;
You loved the soft season of song and of bloom;
O, shall it return, and find you in your tomb?’

BOY.
Yes, mother, I loved in the sunshine to play,
And talk with the birds and the blossoms all day;
But sweeter the songs of the spirits on high,
And brighter the glories round God in the sky!
I see them, I hear them, they pull at my heart;
My mother, my mother, O, let me depart!

MOTHER.
O, do not desert us! Our hearts will be drear,
Our home will be lonely, when you are not here;
Your brother will sigh ’mid his playthings, and say,
I wonder dear William so long can delay.
That foot, like the wild wind — that glance, like a star,
O, what will this world be when they are afar?

BOY.
This world, dearest mother! — O, live not for this!
No, press on with me to the fullness of bliss!
And trust me, whatever bright fields I may roam,
My heart will not wander from you and from home.
Believe me still near you, on pinions of love;
Expect me to hail you, when soaring above.

MOTHER.
Well, go, my beloved! the conflict is o’er;
My pleas are all selfish — I urge them no more.
Why chain your bright spirit down here to the clod,
So thirsting for freedom, so ripe for its God?
Farewell, then, farewell, ’til we meet at the throne,
Where love fears no parting, and tears are unknown!

BOY.
O, glory! O, glory! what music! what light!
What wonders break in on my heart, on my sight!
I come, blessed spirits! I hear you from high.
O, frail, faithless nature! can this be to die?
So near! what, so near to my Savior and King?
O, help me, you angels, His glories to sing!

There will be no night of ignorance in Heaven. Here on earth, our highest attainment in knowledge is comparative ignorance. Our clearest conceptions of truth are confused and indistinct. Even the little knowledge that we do possess, costs us a vast amount of toil, protracted study and conflicts, with wandering thoughts and perplexing doubts. We can learn of God, the greatest and best of beings, only through dim shadows, and faint types, and material representations. Our views of his moral government, obtained through his providential dealings here, are crude and unsatisfactory. When we are enjoying the bright sunlight, and all nature is clothed with richness and beauty — when we walk amid the mountains and majestic forests, God’s earthly palaces, and breathe the fragrance of flowers, and tread beneath our feet the soft verdure, and see above us the crimsoned clouds and mild blue vault, and, amid all, drink of the cup of pleasure — then we are ready to exclaim, with the Psalmist, "The Lord is good, and his tender mercies are over all his works!" But let the scene be changed. Let the midnight tempest arise, and our habitations quiver under the fury of the storm; let the earth tremble under the successive peals and crashes of the thunder, and the heavens seem on fire from the incessant flashes of lightning; let the shrieks of bereaved friends tell where the fatal waters have struck — and amid the wild terror of the scene, doubts will throng the mind as to the infinitude of the divine love, as to the purely benevolent design of God’s moral administration. These checkered scenes will perplex us, and we are led to exclaim, with the apostle, "How unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out." Even with the aid of Scripture, how little we absolutely know of the Deity — his designs, plans and works; how little of the mysteries of the future life — of the wonders of that state to which time is so rapidly bearing us! "Now we see through a glass darkly." "Now I know in part." In the departments of human learning, too, the same obscurity and uncertainty perplex us. Upon the most important principles in science, philosophy and ethics, we find that the wisest men are divided. Rival schools are contending for directly opposite systems of thought. The principles of one age are supplanted by the fruits of the superior intelligence and more profound investigations of that which follows it. How different is the science of astronomy, for example, from what it was a century ago! A single modern discovery of a gifted astronomer has effected a complete revolution in the ideas, calculations and studies, of the world, upon this science; and what new changes and discoveries await it, the future alone can reveal! In mental philosophy, how little satisfactory progress has been made! Nothing, in fact, has been accomplished here, worthy of the name of science. No principles are permanently settled. Human language, in its present state, at least, seems to be too gross a medium through which to communicate, with accuracy and precision, a knowledge of the elements and interior workings of the intellect of man. But in Heaven there will be no night of ignorance. There, with unfettered powers — with a clear, discriminating reason; with a keen, spiritual vision — we shall see and know all truth. We shall . . .
be liable to no mistakes,
be exposed to no errors,
be perplexed with no mysteries.

We shall no longer need to pass through the tedious processes of study and investigation. We shall no longer be baffled, in our attempts to ascend the heights of knowledge, by a shattered memory, a perverted judgment, and powers weakened by sin. We shall see as we are seen, and know as we are known. As the elements and essence of our own being lie exposed to the eye of the Infinite Intelligence — so the elements and essence of all other beings and objects will be clearly seen by us. We shall have a view of the power, majesty, excellence and splendor, of the Deity, of which we can now form no conception. God will, as it were, enter into the mind of the saint, take possession of it as his own temple, and fill it with the luster of his own being, with the purity of his own nature, with the blessedness and perfection of his own character. And the very act of beholding God will strengthen the powers and enlarge the capacities of the mind. It will develop faculties that now lie slumbering in the intellect, the opening of which will afford the most exquisite delight, and be as the dawnings of a new creation upon the soul — dawnings that will pour their effulgence through all the chambers of the memory, and all the faculties of the soul.

And, as we extend our view to other beings and objects, we shall comprehend and realize the meaning of the language, "They shall need no candle, neither light of the sun — for the Lord God gives them light." The candle of human instrumentalities is no longer needed. The sun itself is quenched; for God, the author of light, shines in its stead. That splendid orb that had lighted the pathways of so many generations — that had poured its golden beams upon so many mountain-tops, and painted so many flowers with beauty — whose rays had sparkled in a thousand gems, and sported upon numberless ocean waves — is forever quenched.

Under the intense effulgence of God’s glory, all clouds will be dissipated, all mysteries solved. The attributes of the Deity will shine in unclouded splendor, illuminating the whole heavens with their rich and variegated coruscations, and revealing the fact that the universe is one vast temple, whose arches echo the music of the spheres, and the adoring accents of thronging worshipers.

"There shall be no night there" — for it is eternal day. Every object is brilliant with an effulgence more intense than the sun-light. The tree of life casts no shadows indicative of a setting sun. The sparkling of the crystal river is never dimmed by the mantle of darkness. The white-robed multitude continually go in and out of the glittering city, their brows irradiated by that shining light, which shines more and more unto the perfect day!