THE HAUNTED GARDEN

Otago Daily Times, Issue 21390, 18 July 1931, Page 19

THE HAUNTED GARDEN

Written for the Otago Daily Times. By the Rev. D, Gardner Miller. The story of the expulsion from the Garden of Eden, in the third chaptei of Genesis, lias a deep signilicance for our own day and generation. The unknown genius who penned it must be classed as one of the greatest writers of all time. Nothing can dim the beauty of the language or take away its artlessness. It is a vivid picture of God and man that nothing in literature has surpassed or even equalled. Its value lies not in its alleged historicity but in its divine insight) Neither science nor historical criticism has discredits! tins story, for it deals with a fact that is beyond science and criticism —that fact that you pay the price when you don't “ play the game.” The story is profound in its simplicity The garden from which the man was driven becomes haunted. For ever he longs to get back. For ever be longs to undo the past. It has become

A GARDEN OF GHOSTS. It is here that the inspired writer be comes timeless in his insight; here that be begins to write the story of every man There is a haunted garden in every human life. To some it is a garden haunted by the ghost of a lost innocence. Many of us look back lingeringly to the time when the flowers in our garden nodded their heads in the sunshine; now. alas! they lie crushed and broken. Innocence is a delicate soul-plant; it is easily withered by a blast of passion. Others have a haunted garden scorched by bitter memories. If we could undo the past, how happy wo would be in respect of certain memories! One need not believe in actual ghosts to realise that “ ghosts ” is the only word wo can use that adequately sums up the sense of having a shut-in place in our lives that is haunted by something we would give worlds to quieten for ever.

Once we have been driven out of trie garden, we always find that the way back is hard, and, even if we have managed to get to the old gate, we find it barred. The writer of the Genesis story gives us something more than a figure, of speech when lie says that the Garden is guarded by a whirling sword of flame. That sword scorches at touch. It depicts the remorse that burns and cuts. Sometimes remorse is pictured as ■ HELL-HOUNDS.

Dr Whyte, of Edinburgh, once electrified his audience by dramatically picturing the hell-hounds of remorse in pursuit of a man who had come to see the horror of his sin. At night he could not sleep for the baying of the hounds of vengeance, nor could he ever shake them off as long as he lived. And what of life end? “You may be saved.” the preacher exclaimed, “ but they will pursue you up to the very gates of Heaven, and leave the bloody slaver of their jaws upon the Golden Bars.” Wonderful as that picturisation is, it comes far short of the Genesis description. A whirling blade of flame guarding the haunted garden is a til emblem of the value that men have iO,->t and an indication of the price of restoi ntion.

But even that does not complete tne picture, so skilfully drawn, of man’s defeat. With piercing insight the writer indicates that the haunted garden encloses a Presence in the cool of the dayevening time, when man has leisure to think and brood —a Presence, realised not by a form but by a Voice. The Voice speaks and man hides. Everywhere, out of Eden, man hears this Voice. It is the voice of God. calling him to repentance. We may speak of it as the voice of conbut it is more than that—it is God using the conscience. Death cannot stifle that voice, for God never lets a man go. What a picture! The haunted garden is the garden of defeat, and man is left with an ache that not even success can satisfy. , Is it always to be like this? Will no one ever shatter that whirling blade? Is there no one able to open the garden gate and let men come back to peace? Surely! There must be, there is, restoration. If I did not believe that man can have his lost Paradise changed into Paradise regained I would vacate the mil nit for ever. The ghosts that haunt the garden cannot be laid by mere desire. The only message that the church has a right to proclaim is the message that THE PRICE IS PAID.

It is paid by, Christ. Any message less than that is utterly useless for sinful men. It is old-fashioned gospel, I know: but it is more than that; it is true. Only love can lay the ghosts. Love pays the price so that man can be restored. Love opens the garden gate. Love makes the flowers grow in the Harden of the human heart. The very essence of the Christian gospel is that Christ did something for man that man could not do for himself. A master of English prose once wrote a story that is deathless in its appeal and understanding of the length to which love will go to grant the heart’s desire. A student sought a red rose to give to hia lady—but, alas, there was up rose in the garden and he was desolated. A little brown nightingale heard his lament and flew over to a rose tree and said, “ Give me a red rose, and I will sing you my sweetest song.” “My roses are red,” said the tree, but the winter has chilled my veins and I shall have no roses at all this year.” “ One rose is all I want,” said the nightingale, “ Is there no way by which I can get it? ” “There is a way,” answered the tree; “but I dare not tell it to you.” “ Tell it to me,” said the nightingale, “I am not afraid.” “If you want a rose,” said the tree, “ you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.” “ Death is a great price to pay,” cried the nightingale, “but I will do it.” And when the moon shone in the heavens the nightingale flew to the rose tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang and the thorn went deeper into her breast. She sang of the birth of love on the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the rose tree there blossomed a rose—but it was as pale as the feet of the morning. “ Press closer, little nightingale,” cried the tree, “or the day will come before the rose is finished.” So she pressed closer and louder grew her song, for she sang of the love in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, but the heart of it remained white. “ Press closer, little nightingale,” cried the tree, “ press closer.” So the little brown bird pressed closer, and the thorn touched her heart. Wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the rose became crimson. Fainter and fainter grew her song. “ Look, look!” cried the tree, “the rose is finished now; ” but the nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass with the thorn in her heart.

I want to say that it is a love that willingly bears the thorns, and suffers death, by which Jesus paid the price for man’s restoration. The way is clear; the sword of flame is removed, the gate is open, and the Voice of God calls and calls for us all to come back to the Eden of His Presence. The past is never undone. but its sting is removed. Forgiveness and peace await the man who will accept them from Him Who is the propitiation of our sings.