"Yea, though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me."
In all Scripture there is no verse more familiar than this. No Bible figure has made a more lasting or indelible
impression. This picture of the close of our lives, with a dark valley at the end of their sunny pathway, was hung
up long ago in the halls of memory, as we first learned to lisp these venerable words; and though much has happened
since then, it holds its place, and will while memory endures. In millions of cases these have been the last words
uttered by dying saints; and it is in the highest degree probable that they will be gently uttered by many of those
who read these words, as the spirit passes the borderland into "its ain countrie;" unless the Lord come
first, and we miss the passage of the valley, being caught up to meet Him in the air.
Methinks I see that valley now. The Shepherd is conducting His flock towards their fold in luxuriant pastures,
and in quiet resting-places. But suddenly the path turns downward, and begins to wind towards the ravine below.
On the one side is a precipice, yawning in sheer descent to the steep river-bed, where the water foams and roars,
torn by jagged rocks. On the other side the mountain-firs cast a sombre shadow in the deepening twilight. The path
still plunges downward, until it passes into a deep and narrow gorge, overhung by the frowning battlements of rock,
which almost touch overhead; while the trees join hands, bough enclasping bough. It would be dark there in the
most brilliant noon. To linger there after sundown would be to court the ague. All along its course are the lairs
and haunts of ravenous beasts. Such is the valley of the shadow of death, through which the Great Shepherd once
went alone, and by which He now conducts all His flock to their home. The foremost ranks have long ago emerged
into the sunshine; others are now passing through its dark shadows; and ere long we, too, may be beneath them.
This figure gives us some comforting thoughts about death. It is not a state, an enduring condition, or an abiding-place.
It is a passage, a transition, a valley through which we walk. The valley may be darksome and lonely, and infested
with evil things; but we do not pitch our tent there; we pass through it to our rest. In death the spirit leaves
the body and passes out, just as an artisan will leave the workshop at the evening hour, shutting blinds and doors
as he passes out to his home, and leaves it deserted and still; but his voice is to be heard in his home circle,
as he makes glad the Wistful hearts that had waited for him, and whose joy had been incomplete till he came.
In Damascus there is a long, dark, narrow lane, ending in a tunnel. It has been there for ages. The traveller descends
and passes through; but on the other side he emerges into the courtyard of an Oriental palace, flashing with colour
and sunlight. This is a figure of a believer's death.' Christ is called the first-born from the dead. Dying is
being born out of the confinement and darkness of earth into the glorious light and liberty of the heavenly life.
It is a physical act which affects the body, but does not touch the faculties or acquirements of the individual
soul. "Absent from the body, present with the Lord." No staying in a state of unconsciousness; but an
exodus, a passage, a walking through a brief valley, sunshine on this side, sunshine on that, and just a moment,
a parenthesis, a hand-breadth of gloom.
Death is the gate to life. Our beloved are not dead; they are the living, who have passed through death into the
presence of the King. And whensoever we stand beside our dear ones, called to this exodus, of which the Apostle
Peter speaks (2 Peter 1:155 (exodus). The word occurs in one other instance in the New Testament (Luk 9:31).) we
may address them with words of comfort and of hope:" Go forth, O Christian soul, from this world, in the name
of God Almighty, who created thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered for thee;
in the name of the Holy Ghost, who was poured out for thee!"
Yet the valley is dark. The pain of the body often depresses the spirit and overcasts it with a gloom, which is
often erroneously attributed to spiritual causes. It is hard to part without sadness from those who have been the
beloved fellow pilgrims of the march. There is, moreover, a sense of loneliness; for though it is peopled with
pilgrims, three thousand each hour, yet each goes alone. "re mourrai seul." Nor are elements of darkness
wanting through the machinations of our direst foe, who delights in the moment of mortal weakness to accumulate
objects of dread before our failing sight.
At the best it is a solemn thing to die. The hardened desperado may meet his end without a shudder. "There
are no bands in his death: his strength is firm." But in proportion to the nurture of the spirit in all refined
and tender feeling it is impossible to quit the receding shore, and make for the sea, darkling under the clouds
of night, without a sense of seriousness and sobriety.
The befitting pace is aptly described as a walk: "Yea, though I walk."
But at the worst, death is only a shadow. It is "the valley of the shadow of death." Christ met the substance,
we encounter but the shadow. The monster is deprived of teeth and claws. Our Theseus has destroyed him who had
the power of death, that is, the devil; and has delivered them who through fear of death were all their lifetime
subject to bondage. He has abolished death. And we who belong to Him may boldly cry, "O death, where is thy
sting?" Ah, the wasp stung the Good Shepherd to death, and has left his sting fixed in that cross where He
died.
A shadow is the exact counterpart of its substance. But it is not in itself harmful. The shadow of a dog cannot
bite; of a giant cannot kill; of death cannot destroy. The prophet says that death is a veil cast over the face
of all nations; but a veil is harmless enough. Besides, you cannot have a shadow unless there be a bright light
shining somewhere. The shadow is temporary, the light eternal; for ,,God is light, and in Him is no darkness at
all."
But this imagery may stand for other experiences besides dying. We have often to pass through dark valleys on our
way home. The road to the heavenly Jerusalem lies through the valleys of Baca, where eyes wax red with weeping,
and tears brim into pools. The great dreamer, in his description of the Pilgrim's Progress, places the passage
of the valley of the shadow in the middle of his course. Between the House Beautiful and Vanity Fair there lies
such a description of this valley as could only have been written by one who had passed through its ravines.
"Now morning being come, he looked back, not out of any desire to return, but to see, by the light of the
day, what hazards he had gone through in the dark. So he saw more perfectly the ditch that was on the one hand,
and the quag that was on the other; also how narrow the way was which lay betwixt them both; also now he saw the
hobgoblins and satyrs and dragons of the pit, but all afar off (for after the break of day they came not nigh);
yet they were discovered to him, according to that which is written: "He discovereth deep things out of darkness,
and bringeth out to light the shadow of death."
We pass through many a valley of shadow ere we reach THE valley. And whenever we feel our souls overcast we should
stay to consider if there be a cause arising from our neglect or sin. If there be, a moment's confession will bring
us out again into the light. But if there be none, so far as we can tell, then let us be brave to plod on. Every
step has been measured out for us, even as it has been trodden before us. And God is testing us to see whether
we can trust Him in the dark as well as in the light, and whether we can be as true to Him when all pleasurable
emotions have faded off our hearts as when we walked with Him in the light.
There is a good purpose in all these shadowed valleys. They test the quality of the soul. They reveal our weak
places. They unveil the stars that peer down through the interspaces of rock and tree. They make us follow the
Shepherd closely, lest we lose Him. They teach us to value, as never before, the rod and staff. Blessed are those
that do not see, but who yet believe; and who are content to be stripped of all joy and comfort and ecstasy, if
it be the Shepherd's will, so long as there is left to them the sound of His voice, and the knowledge that He is
near.
Listen to the courageous declaration of the saintly soul, boasting of its fearlessness : "I will fear no evil."
There is no fear in love. Perfect love casteth out fear. Nothing else can do it. You may argue against fear. You
may deride it. You may try and shame it. But all will be in vain. If you would master it you must expel it by the
trust which is born of love. A man comes home faint and famished, his nature craves for food; but as he enters
into his house he learns that his child, suddenly stricken with fever, is lying at the point of death; and in a
moment he has forgotten his hunger in the paroxysm of love and grief with which he bends over the tiny feverish
form, and hastens to moisten the dry lips. Thus the lower passions are subdued in the soul by the higher. And so
it happens that the most timid spirit which is conscious of the presence of the Good Shepherd can sing as it passes
onward through the gloom, and its notes vibrate with the buoyancy of a courage which cannot flinch or falter. "Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." "God is our refuge and
strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear."
It is very well to say, "What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee;" but it is still better to say,
"I will trust, and not be afraid."
Sorrow and dying make Christ's presence real. Have you ever noticed the change in the pronoun? Hitherto the psalmist
has spoken of the Lord in the third person; but now, as he moves down into the dark, he draws' closer to the divine
Leader and Guide, speaking to Him in a whisper, and saying Thou. In the green pastures it was enough to speak of
"He;" but now there is need for the closer, tender address. When things are going well with us we may
content ourselves with talking about the Lord; but when the sky darkens we hasten to deal with Him and talk to
Him directly. The child which had been playing about the room will run to your knee and cling closely to your bosom
as soon as the thunder-clouds gather, and the wind moans through the house. In this way death-chambers become presence-chambers.
The darkness is sometimes too dense for us to be able to see Christ. But faith can always be sure that He is there;
not because of the evidence of sense or feeling, but because He has said, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake
thee." He cannot break His word. He has not left us alone. He is looking down on us with unabated tenderness.
The depths may sever Him from the apprehension of our love; but neither death nor life, nor height nor depth, can
separate us from the strong grasp of His faithful and unchanging affection. Yea, "the mountains may depart,
and the hills be removed; but His kindness will not depart from thee, neither will the covenant of His peace be
removed."
"The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee," O Christ, who didst tread the dense darkness of
Gethsemane and Calvary, alone, desolate, and forsaken of Thy Father. But Thou knowest the way, since Thou has trodden
it. Thou art as near to us as when we can see and feel Thee near. And Thou wast lonely that we might never be lonely;
Thou wast forsaken that we might never 'be forsaken; Thou didst tread the wine-press alone that each poor timid
child of Thine in all future ages might be able to sing the words of undying comfort: "I will fear no evil:
for Thou art with me."