Psalms 74:9

We see not our signs.

Signs of life

This psalm is clearly not one written by David. Verses 6, 7 prove that; but it is one of the psalms of the Exile. The signs here meant, which the writer mourns that he did not see, were certain outward marks of God’s special favour. It is said that there were five signs in the first temple which the second had not--the ark of the covenant; the fire from heaven; the Shechinah; the Urim and Thummim; the spirit of prophecy, for that spirit ceased with Malachi, and did not reappear until John the Baptist. Now, on this groundwork we may build up a spiritual interpretation. We may not always do this, but only where there is, as here, a real groundwork for it, and where there is a response to it in the heart. The Church of to-day often has to lament that she sees not her signs. In considering this, note--

I. The nature of their signs. They are marks of God’s favour, and there appear to be two classes of them.

1. Those which, if removed, would not remove the thing itself which they signify. The crown of a monarch, you may take that away, but he remains a monarch still. Remove the milestones on a road, but you do not remove the distances which they indicate. Banknotes also. But--

2. There are other signs which are constituent parts of the thing itself, so that the taking away of the sign is a taking away of the thing. For example, the lengthening days are a sign of spring; but if there be not this sign there is no spring. Now, of this sort of sign are those which the text tells of. Not, however, entirely. For good works may be absent, partly and for a time, but the life of grace may yet be present. And when good works are present they are not infallible signs of grace.

3. But for the most part the sign and the thing it indicates go together. As, the fear of the Lord; the spirit of grace and of supplication; repentance; faith in Christ; love to the Lord’s people and to Christ; the witness of the Spirit; a life consistent with the Gospel.

II. The seeing of these signs. What does this mean? It is implied that there are times when the signs can be seen, as well as when they cannot. Now, what is requisite to see them? Those that travel along the heavenward way have certain landmarks--Ebenezers, stones of help. But in order to see them there must be light, that told of in Psalms 36:9; not the pale moonlight of speculation, nor the frosty northern light of cold doctrine, nor the meteor light--the “ignis fatuus “ of delusion; not the mere phosphoric light, which dimly gleams by rubbing together rotten evidences; not the sparks of their own kindling, elicited by the collision of flinty hearts and steeled consciences; we want no light such as we can make, but the Lord’s light.

III. Why it is that we see not our signs. Some people say they can always see them. This is not true, and the belief of it full of evil. But the causes of our not seeing them are various: the smoke of infidelity; the fogs of unbelief; the valley of trouble; the sun may go down by the Lord’s bidding. But all this will be a source of sorrow and lamentation, for such things are no signs of grace, though not inconsistent with it. But you must have seen the signs before you can lament that you see them not. (J. C. Philpot.)

The prospects of the age

If it were suggested that there could be any parallel between our own prosperous, progressive, enlightened age, and those melancholy days to which the psalm relates, the supposition might at once be scouted as absurdity. Yet I am not so sure but that in respect at least of the one particular referred to in the text--the dearth of the greater order of men--some degree of parallel might not very fairly be argued.

I. First, then, as to the fact--how far this description of the text answers to anything that exists in our own times. I have in view chiefly the bearings of this subject on religion, but it is not in religion only, but in all the spheres of our thought and life that I think this falling off of the greater order of minds can be detected. We had a series of great poets in the early part and middle of last century. Where is the poet of the present day whose works are likely to live like theirs? We have had a succession of great writers of fiction--their books are on every one’s shelves--but where is the writer of to-day whose books we would put in the same rank? We have had great musicians--Mozart, Handel, Beethoven, Haydn, and the like. Their compositions live. Who are producing pieces of the same grandeur? We have had a century of great statesmen. It is no disparagement of the men of the younger generation to say that they are not men of the calibre of those who have led the country for the last fifty or eighty years. We had a generation or two of great preachers--men like Chalmers, Guthrie, MacLeod. Once more the piety and teaching of the past generation gave us Christians, whose weight of religious character it was a pleasure to acknowledge--men reverent, sober-minded, deeply instructed in God’s Word, massive in Christian substance, matured and real in Christian experience; is the newer type of religious character--brighter and more attractive as it is in some of its aspects--characterized by anything like the same depth, solidity, and durableness?

II. THE causes of this apparent absence, in all spheres of life, of the greater order of men in our midst, and what are the possible remedies.

1. One thing which should give us hope is the fact that after every great and creative epoch in history, there comes necessarily a period of pause. The human mind cannot always be at its highest stretch. History does not flow on evenly, but in great ebbs and flows--in grand creative epochs, followed by long-breathing spaces, in times when the strongest call is made for great men, and they are drawn out and developed by the very magnitude of the crisis that calls for them, and quieter times, when people rejoice in the possessions they have won, and do not feel impelled to great efforts.

2. Again, it is to be remembered that after every great creative period which men live through, there comes a time when the results of that creative activity have to be gathered up; and this very process puts of necessity a check, for the time being, on further production. This, indeed, is how history proceeds--there is first a great burst of creative genius under the influence of some new idea or impulse; then, when the wealth of that new movement has been poured into the lap of the age, men have the new task laid upon them of sitting down and looking carefully into the nature of their treasure, taking stock of it, as it were, seeing what it really amounts to; getting to understand it, and working it out to its practical results. This is the labour of industry more than of creation, but it is equally essential to the world’s progress. There is another part of this task which is of great importance. With every great advance of thought or discovery--with every burst of new truth into the world--there is laid on those who receive it, the duty of adjusting it to the truth they already possess.

3. There are, however, special causes which do belong to the character of the present age which tend, I think, to explain more particularly the dearth of the greatest type of minds in our midst.

(1) It is obvious that from the very multiplicity of its possessions our age tends to diffusion rather than to concentration.

(2) Our age is critical rather than constructive.

(3) The bent of the present age has been to material ends rather than spiritual. (James Orr, D. D.)

Faith in signs and without them

The Israelites had formed a certain conception of God, and of His relation to them. They thought themselves to be His own peculiar people, and thought, therefore, that for them there would be a peculiar place among the nations of the earth. When they triumphed over their enemies, they regarded it as a sign of God’s presence with them. National supremacy was one of the signs of God. At the time of this psalm that sign was not to be seen. National supremacy there was none. What was the truth behind that dogma? What was it that was struggling for utterance in it? That truth, I believe, was this: that through them the world was to receive a universal religion. They mistook their true spiritual significance for a prophecy of national dominion over the world. And, therefore, they were looking for victories as signs of the Divine Presence. In times of defeat they had to say, “We see not our signs.” Again, they connected the Divine Presence specially with certain places. The sanctuaries were the peculiar dwelling-abodes of God--His places of revelation. But here are the enemies roaring in the midst of the congregation, and breaking down the carved work with axes and hammers; burning up all the synagogues of God in the land. No wonder they cry, “We see not our signs.” This disposition to fix upon certain signs of God is still with us, and it is the prolific source of religious despondency and of partial temporary eclipses of religious faith. Some, when their undertakings do not succeed, cry dolefully, “We see not our signs.” Others of us can maintain our spirit bravely enough until our sanctuaries are touched. One man’s sanctuary is the Church. Another man’s sanctuary is a theory about the Bible. The Bible is an infallible book, a Word of God indisputable. Question that theory, and they say they have no sign left, they can’t be sure of God. Now, what are we doing when we thus choose signs of God? We are creating for ourselves the possibility, often the certainty, of overwhelming disappointments. We are liable to come to crises where such signs will fail us. In reality we have been setting up a little god of our own make as truly as if we had made an image of wood or stone, and the idol may be destroyed. I am glad to think that there is a faith without signs, and a faith that persists when things are apparently against us. And it is this faith which lies deepest in the human soul. This, I think, is evident even in the history of those who have looked for signs. When the signs do not appear, they are disappointed, they cry bitterly; but even then, as a rule, they pray! Their eclipses are only temporary. Indeed, nothing is more remarkable than the way in which religious faith, that apparently rests on some supposed evidences, can still live when those evidences are taken from it. This shows that the real root of faith was not in such evidences at all, but deeper in the soul of man. The sense of God belongs to us. And like this psalm, even when we have been expecting signs, and cannot see them, we pray to a God above the clouds, whose face is light and whose favour is life. Like the man in the Gospels we say, “I believe, help Thou my unbelief.” We may doubt all the arguments for God’s existence, declare this unsatisfactory and that untenable, and when every argument fails we find we believe in God still. We feel and know that He is here. “Eternal Father, strong to save,” Thy child lives in Thee. (T. R. Williams.)