The Lord knows, as we know not, what preparation we need in order that we may be brought into union with himself. He refuses, delays, disappoints,—all in wise love, that he may bring the seeker’s heart up to such a glow of desire as will suffice to unite it permanently with his own.
A father, when his son asks bread, does not give him a stone: when he asks a fish, does not give him a serpent. Thus, our Father in heaven gives good things to them that ask him. “The giving God” (του διδοντος Θεου James i. 5), is one of his attributes. Why, then, do not all his children get whatever they ask, and when they ask it? One reason, doubtless, is, that the child, ignorant and short-sighted, often asks a stone or a serpent because they seem beautiful,—not knowing that the one is destitute of nourishment, and that the other will sting—and then frets when things are given to him wholly different from those which he desired and expected. Hannah asked a son; in that case God saw that the request was wise: the child asked bread, and the Father, after the needful trial of faith, bestowed it freely. Some have asked a son, not knowing that in their case the gift would have been a serpent. All their days they have wondered why the boon was denied, and have learned, perhaps, in the light of the great white throne when their days on earth were done, that He who cared for them shielded their bosoms more tenderly and effectually than themselves could have done, from one of the sharpest stings that pierce the flesh of living men. Abraham believed God, and every step of his life-journey was thereby made plain: some great mountains that stood in the path of the patriarch were obliged to get quickly out of the way as he approached. To him that believeth, all things are possible.
At midnight, in the parable, the cry for help came, and prevailed. It is never out of season to pray, until you be out of life. He that keeps Israel slumbers not nor sleeps. Come we early, he is awake; come we late, he has not retired to rest. In prayer, the shamefacedness (αναιδεια) that shrinks from giving trouble should have absolutely no place. We trouble God by our sins, but not by our prayers. Is the sun burdened by the weight of the planets that hang on him as they run their course? Is he exhausted by the necessity of supplying them with the light in which they shine? Would you relieve him by covering some of them up, or blotting them out of being? The infinite God is not wearied by the weight of all the worlds he has made: the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is not exhausted by giving a portion to each of his regenerated children of human kind. Ten lepers were healed by the word of Jesus, and of them one came back to give him praise. That man in his eagerness pushed aside every obstruction, and pressed through the crowd that encircled the great Teacher, demanding and engaging his attention. Did the interruption trouble the Lord? No. Who troubled him? Not the one who came, but the nine who remained at a distance. With a sigh the Lord said, “Where are the nine?” He grieved because they did not come back with praise: therefore he would have rejoiced if they had come. But if they who come to Christ to give thanks please him much, they who come to him asking gifts please him more; for in his own experience, and according to his own testimony, it is more blessed to give than to receive.
Some additional light is thrown backward on the parable by the discourse that immediately follows. It was with the view of bringing out and pressing home the lesson from his own picture, that the Lord, in continuation of his teaching, said, “And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you,” &c. Two things here are most wonderful;—one is, that needy men should require so many reasonings to induce them to ask good things from God; and the other is, that God should condescend to employ so many reasonings for that end.
One who knew only the pertinacity with which the prodigal held to his hunger, and cold, and nakedness in a foreign land, would be apt to suppose that this son had been harshly treated in his father’s house, and that nothing but punishment awaited him on his return. But if such an observer had been able to witness the actual meeting of father and son when the exile returned at last, he would have learned from the fond reception which the yearning father gave to his erring child, that the son had all along grievously misjudged and misrepresented his father.
Suppose, now, the angels, who desire to look into the provisions of the covenant of grace, should have discovered only these two things, the need of men, and the mercy of God, they would expect that all the fallen would flock back to his presence, like doves to their windows when the tempest comes on: but herein they would find themselves mistaken. That complaint which our Redeemer uttered describes in one stroke the essential characteristic of the lost,—“Ye will not come unto me, that ye might have life” (John v. 40).
The Lord, who loves to bestow the blessing, reasons with us from our own experience. Children trust a father, and are not disappointed; why will you not confide in the Father of your spirits, and live?
In the close of his lesson, he indicates that the best gift of God is the Holy Spirit, and that this gift he is most willing to bestow. More ready than a father is to give bread to a hungry child when it cries, is our Father to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him.
Let us put him to the proof. Let us come at Christ’s bidding, and in Christ’s name: let us come boldly to the throne of grace. He who reigneth over all has sent for us, and bidden us come—bidden us ask. He will not dishonour his own promise: treat him as a father, and see whether he will not make you his dear child.
In some respects these two,—this and the unjust judge,—are the most wonderful and most precious of all the parables. The rest present such views of divine grace as may be shadowed forth by the ordinary manifestations of human character and action,—such as a shepherd bringing back his sheep, or a sower casting his seed into the ground: but these two go sheer down through all that lies on the surface of human history—down through all the upper and more ordinary grades of human experience, and penetrate into the lower, darker, meaner things at the bottom, in order to find a longer line wherewith to measure out greater lengths and breadths of God’s compassion; as the shadow in the lake must needs be deepest where the heavens which it represents are highest.