IV.

Abraham's Tent.

WE experience natural pleasure in visiting spots celebrated in history. Though corn may wave, and fruit ripen over the scene of some celebrated battle, we cannot look with indifference on the scene where was once held a world-famous struggle for freedom. No modern palace would have the interest which would be attached to the ruin of one which had been trodden by famous monarchs of old. Were there buildings remaining of which it could be said, "here Alexander planned his conquests;" or "there Cyrus administered justice;" we should regard such buildings, however crumbling and defaced, as places gilded by memories which time could never destroy.

But no palace of monarch, no fortress of hero, could ever wake in us such feelings of reverence as a tent of black goat's hair, such as those which the nomade descendants of Abraham now pitch on the sands of Arabia, if it could be certified to us,—"here dwelt the father of the faithful; he who in Scripture is called the friend of God. In that doorway sat the venerable patriarch in the heat of the day, when, raising his eyes, he beheld three mysterious visitors from Heaven stand before him. Behind yon curtain Sarah listened with eager interest to the conversation between her lord and the angel, laughing to herself at tidings which she would not at first believe. There also, when time had rolled on, she laughed with joy over the babe, the promised gift of God; the child from whom should descend a race as the stars in the sky or the sands by the sea for number. It was there that Abraham first embraced his Isaac, and blessed God for the fulfilment of that promise which faith had grasped, when the aged man had 'against hope believed in hope.'"

Though the patriarch's tent was most unlike our own habitations, and though the dwelling of a wealthy sheik would contain fewer comforts than many an English cottage, we turn to it for lessons of what a home should be in all climates, and through all ages. Not that it can be altogether a model even as regards the conduct of its inmates; Sarah's chidings, Hagar's scorn, and Ishmael's mockings must not be forgotten; but in four respects, at least, the tent of Abraham offers a scene which we may contemplate with reverence and profit.

Firstly, it was the dwelling of faith. Wherever its stakes were driven in, its cords stretched, its curtains spread, there rose a habitation in which God was truly worshipped. The ground upon which it stood became in a manner holy. Could that tent speak, of what fervent prayers, what wrestling faith, what earnest adoration, could it tell, and that at a time when idolatry had spread over almost all the earth! In the midst of darkness a bright light shone from that tent; a light which has never been, and never will be, extinguished.

Are our homes thus centres of light? Is God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, thus constantly honoured in them? Could the word spoken of the patriarch be also spoken, reader, of thee? "I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment." Had thy walls a voice, what witness would they bear to earnest pleadings in secret, or humble devotion in family prayer?

Again,—Abraham's tent was the abode of conjugal, parental, and filial affection. Sarah, with all her faults, is held up to us as a model wife. Though, even in advanced life, celebrated for exquisite beauty, Sarah's adorning appears to have been no "outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; she obeyed Abraham, calling him lord," yielding loving reverence to her husband. Isaac was brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord; and his obedience to God, and submission to his aged parent, were alike shown when he suffered himself to be bound, an unresisting victim, on the altar of sacrifice.

In these days, when a spirit of lawless independence sometimes pervades even the nursery, and wives too often forget that they have vowed to honour and obey as well as to love, it is well that we should let our thoughts dwell awhile in the tent of Abraham, to see that a home should be as a monarchy, governed by laws of love, the husband and father a wise beneficent ruler, emphatically a power "ordained of God."

Again: Abraham's tent reminds us of the duty of hospitality—that hospitality without grudging, which alone is worthy of the title; not that interchange of worldly courtesies—that asking in order to be asked again—that ostentation which consumes at one luxurious meal what would suffice to feed starving multitudes. Never let the name of hospitality be profaned by being applied to such entertainments as these. But the hearty welcome given even to strangers, the readiness to spread the meal for the guest who may never be able to return the kindness, these we learn from the patriarch. Abraham "entertained angels unawares;" and the same may be said of many of those who exercise hospitality in a spirit like his. In one sense the Lord of angels visits the dwellings of those who welcome His servants for His sake. It is a privilege and an honour to entertain the humblest of His saints; for He hath said, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me."

Lastly, let us regard our dwellings, as Abraham did his, as a tabernacle rather than as a settled home. Here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. Let not our hearts cling too closely to an earthly habitation, as if it were to be ours for ever, but let us rather remember that, like the family of Abraham, we are strangers and pilgrims on the earth:

"Here in the body pent, Absent from Heaven we roam, But nightly pitch our wandering tent, A day's march nearer home."

Yes; for not only our dwellings, but even these our mortal bodies are but tabernacles, to be taken down and laid aside, to be exchanged for a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. In the meantime let us pray that they may be the abodes of peace and joy and love, and that the Holy Spirit may be our guest, not as one who tarries but awhile and departs, but as one who comes to abide with us always.

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