View source for The Blessedness of Not Knowing

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<p>Some people say they wish they could <em>know their future</em>. They are sincere enough; they wish they could. But this would not be a blessing. It is better that we should not know. It would shadow and sadden our lives—if we knew from the beginning all the trials and sorrows we shall have. This was one of the peculiar elements of the life of Christ; he knew what lay before him. The cross cast the shadow over the manger where he slept his first sleep. This foreknowledge made his life sadder, than if he had gone on unaware of what was awaiting him.<br><br>
It is one of the mercies of our life—that we do not know what shall come to us. In the unopened years there may be waiting for us trials, disappointments, and losses. None of us know what chapters of sorrow will yet be written before our life-story is finished. Would it be a blessing if the veil were lifted today, showing us all, down to the close, what will be painful or sad?<br><br>
There are old people now well through life's journey. They have had many cares and trials. Friends have failed them. Children have been taken away. They have had struggles and hardship. They have endured sicknesses and losses. They have not found what they hoped to find in life. Supposing they had known all this, seen it all from some lofty spot when they set out in sunny youth; would it have been a blessing to them? Would it have made their life a happier, richer, better one? No—it would have cast a tinge of sadness over it. It would have taken out of it much of that zest and interest, which have been such inspiration to them through all their years.<br><br>
If a man had known, for example, that after all his toil, pain, struggle, and self-denial, that a certain great undertaking would fail, he would not have begun it. Yet perhaps that very labor of years, though it proved in vain at last, has been the richest blessing of his life. It drew out his soul's energies. It developed his strength. It taught him lessons of diligence, patience, courage, and hope. It built up in him a splendid manhood. The mere earthly result of our work in this world—is but means to a higher, nobler end, and is of small importance in comparison with what our work does <em>in </em>us. But if a man had known in advance that nothing permanent would come out of all his toil, economy, and self-denial, he would have said,"I may as well take an easy path. What is the use of working like a slave for forty or fifty years, and having only weariness and emptiness of hand at last?" Not knowing, however, that his efforts would fail in the end, hoping that they would succeed—he lived earnestly, laboriously, putting his whole soul into them. His <em>work </em>failed—but <em>he </em>did not fail. There is no material result to show others of any achievement—but there are imperishable results <em>in </em>the man himself—in life, in character, in manhood—results far nobler than the noblest he could have achieved in mere material forms. It was better that he did not know that all would fail, for if he had known it—he would have missed all this good.<br><br>
People say sometimes, in hours of great sorrow, that they wish they had never known the friend that they have now lost. The friendship was deep, rich, and tender. It absorbed the whole life. It brought sweetest joy. It filled the heart during precious years. It was faithful to the end. There was no stain upon its memory. No falseness ever marred its nobleness. But just because the friendship had been so pure, so rich, so tender, so unselfish, so satisfying, its loss at last was such an overwhelming sorrow that it seemed as if it would have been better never to have had it at all.<br><br>
Our deepest joys and our bitterest griefs—grow on the same stalk. To love—always involves suffering, sooner or later, for one or other of the friends, for there <em>must </em>some time be separation. One must be taken and the other left. One must go on alone from a new-made grave, with the head bowed, and the heart frozen numb.<br><br>
If we know that ours must be this deep anguish and loneliness some time, we might be tempted to say, "It is better to go through the years unblessed by tender love—than to take into my life this joy—only to lose it yonder—and then walk on without it, all the lonelier and more desolate for having had it so long."<br><br>
But to do this would be to miss rich blessing and good. It might indeed be easier in a sense, for us never to have any friends. It might spare us the pain and sense of loss, when they are taken away from us. But we would miss meanwhile all that which rich, pure friendships bring into our life. Love blesses us with unspeakable blessings. It saves us from ourselves. It inspires us for noble living. It transforms our dull nature and transfigures it. No depth of sorrow that can possibly follow the loss of the companionship, could overbalance the blessing of a holy friendship given to us even for a few years. Tennyson says most truly,<br><br>
"Tis better to have loved and lost<br>
                      Than never to have loved at all."<br><br>
To have known of the sorrow and loneliness, and to have shut one's heart against the friendship in dread of its loss, would have been to rob one's life of its best blessing. Even <em>grief </em>is not too great a price to pay for love. Love's blessing stays in the beloved one is gone. Its influence is permanent. The work it does is on the soul's very substance abides forever. Its impression is ineffaceable. Tennyson says again,<br><br>
"God gives us love; something to love<br>
                      He leads us; but when love is grown<br>
                      To ripeness, that on which it throve<br>
                      Falls off, and love is left alone."<br><br>
So it is better that we do not know the <em>end </em>of friendship's stories, from the <em>beginning</em>, lest we might rob ourselves of love's blessing and good.<br><br>
It is better, too, that we should not know the time of our <em>death</em>. If we knew it, it would take out of our life one of the strongest motives for earnest and noble living.<br><br>
If a young man knew, for example, that he would live to be eighty years old, he would be strongly tempted —human nature being what it is—to live leisurely, not to be in haste to begin his life-work, to postpone important duties, even to delay his preparation of death. The fact that he does not know how long he will live, that he may die even tomorrow, that he really has but <em>today</em>, and that he must put into the swift passing hours, the best that he can do—acts as a constant pressure upon him in all duty. He dare not loiter, or something will be omitted that ought to be done, and the end may find him with his tasks unfinished.<br><br>
If, on the other hand, a young man would die at thirty, while it would make him intensely earnest, if he were a true-hearted man and eager to crowd his brief days with noble living, it would tend to keep out of his life-plan all such things as he could not hope to finish before the end. Not knowing, however, how many years he may live, that possibly he may have until old age to work—he begins many things, which will require scores of years to complete. He does not finish them—but he starts them. He plants trees, which will bear fruit, long after he is gone to his grave.<br><br>
And, after all, none of us really finish anything in our short life. We only begin things, and then leave them for others to take up and carry on. It is better, therefore, that we should work; as for the longest life, though our days are but few. Hence it is better we should not know the time we are to live. It keeps in our heart all the while—the element of expectation and hope, for we <em>may </em>live to reach fourscore. At the same time it holds upon us perpetually the pressure of urgency and haste—for <em>any day may be our last</em>.<br><br>
Not knowing what is before us teaches us <em>trust in God</em>. If we could see all our paths open in advance and knew just what is coming, what temptations, what rough places to be gone over, what heavy burdens to be carried, what enemies to be encountered, what duties to be done—we would grow self-confident, would try to direct our own life—and would not feel the need of God's guidance, help, shelter, and wisdom. One of the <em>blessings of not knowing—</em>is that we must walk by faith; and nothing could be better than this.<em> Self-confidence is the bane of Christian life. </em>It is by faith that we are saved—and by faith that we must walk.<br><br>
A young mother holds in her own, her baby's little hands. She knows that folded up in them—is the tangled skein of life's destiny. She knows that she must teach those hands to do life's duties. A deep sense of responsibility and fear fills her heart as she holds these little hands in hers and prints passionate kisses upon them.<br><br>
"How will they build, these little hands?<br>
                      Upon the treacherous, shifting sands,<br>
                      Or where the rock eternal stands?<br>
                      And will they fashion strong and true<br>
                      The work that they shall find to do?<br>
                      Dear little hands, if but I knew!<br>
                      Could I but see the veiled fate?<br>
                      Behind your barred and hidden gate!"<br><br>
Thus the mother's heart longs and cries as she holds her child's little hands in hers. But it is better that she should not know what her child's life will be. It is better that this should lie wholly in God's hands.<br><br>
Her part is only to be faithful in the training of her child. She must lead its young feet in true and holy paths. She must fill its mind with pure thoughts and desires, and awake in its soul all heavenward longings. All the rest she must commit to God and leave with him. That is better than if she could know all, and herself be her child's guide. God is better than even the best, wisest, and most loving human mother is.<br><br>
In personal life also, as well as in work for others, it is better that we should trust God. The walk of faith is always the safest and the best of all earth's paths. If we knew what the day would bring to us—we could not pray in the morning as trustingly, as when we know only that our times are in God's hands, not knowing what they shall be. Not only is there safety in thus leaving all in the divine hands; there is also an element of interest in moving ever amid surprises, new scenes, new experiences, and new circumstances. We can say,<br><br>
"It may be that he keeps waiting<br>
                      Until the coming of my feet<br>
                      Some gift of such rare blessedness,<br>
                      Some joy so strangely sweet<br>
                      That my lips can only tremble<br>
                      With the thanks they cannot speak.<br><br>
So on I go, not knowing;<br>
                      I would not if I might;<br>
                      I would rather walk in the dark with God<br>
                      Than go alone in the light;<br>
                      I would rather walk with him by faith<br>
                      Than walk alone by sight.<br><br>
My heart shrinks back from trials<br>
                      Which the future may disclose;<br>
                      Yet I never had a sorrow<br>
                      But what the dear Lord chose;<br>
                      So I send the coming tears back<br>
                      With the whispered word, 'He knows!'"<br><br>
Thus all along our earthly life, we are shut in with God, as it were, in little places. We must live<em> a day at a time</em>. The mornings are little hilltops from which we can look down into the narrow valley of one little day. What lies over the next hill—we cannot tell. Perhaps when we come to it, it may reveal to us a lovely garden through which our path shall go on. Or it may show us a valley of shadows, or a path amid briers. It does not matter—we have but the one little valley of the day now in sight. Evening is our horizon. Here in this one little day's enclosure, we can rest as in a refuge. <em>Tomorrow's </em>storms and cares cannot touch us.<br><br>
We should be thankful that life comes to us in such little bits. We can live one day well enough. We can do one day's duties. We can endure one day's sorrows. It is a blessing that this is all God ever gives us. We should be thankful for the nights which cut off from our view our tomorrows, so that we cannot even see them until the dawn. The little days, nestling between the nights, like quiet valleys between the hills, seem so safe and peaceful.<br><br>
"I thank you, Lord, that you do lay<br>
                      These near horizons on my way.<br>
                      If I could all my journey see,<br>
                      There were no chances of mystery,<br>
                      No veiled grief, no changes sweet,<br>
                      No restful sense of tasks complete.<br>
                      I thank you for the hills, the night,<br>
                      For every barrier to my sight,<br>
                      For every turn that blinds my eyes<br>
                      To coming pain or glad surprise;<br>
                      For every bound you set nigh<br>
                      To make me look more near, more high;<br>
                      For mysteries too great to know,<br>
                      For everything you do <em>not </em>show;<br>
                      Upon my limits rests my heart;<br>
                      Its safe horizon—Lord, you art."<br><br>
I am glad I do not have to know the future. I am glad I do not have to understand things. It is such a restful experience to be able to <em>leave all in God's hands</em>.<br><br>
There may come times, when it will seem to us that that if we could have known a little of the future, it would have saved us much trouble. If we had known that this <em>business </em>would turn out so badly, we would not have gone into it. But the experience has done us good, and we could not have had the lesson without the experience. If we had known that this<em>person </em>was so dishonorable, we would not have taken him as our friend. But one of Christ's lessons was learned through a betrayal; and this brings us into fellowship with him at a new point. If we had known that a certain <em>journey </em>would have made us ill, we would have not taken it. But our sickness has been a blessing to us. If we had known that we would never see our friend again, we would not have parted from him in angry or impatient mood. But we have learned gentleness and thoughtfulness through our pain, and will never forget the lesson. No doubt in all such cases, there is some reason why it is better that we did not know.<br><br>
We have no responsibility for <em>results</em>. It is ours only to be <em>faithful </em>to our duty—the results belong to God. The engineer down in the heart of the great steamer does not know where the force he sets free will propel the vessel. It is not his place to know. It is his only to obey every signal, to start his engine, to quicken, or slow, or reverse it, as he is directed. He has nothing whatever to do with the vessel's course. He sees not an inch of the sea.<br><br>
It is not our part to guide our life in this world, amid its tangled circumstances. It is ours just to do our duty. Our Master's hand is on the helm. He knows all—he pilots us.<br><br>
We may thank God that we cannot know the future, and that we do not have to know it. Christ knows; and it is better to go in the dark with him—than to go alone in the light, choosing our own way.
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