Mountains of Spices
“My Lord and King,” said Grace and Glory, “what is true love? How can it be recognized?”
“I am love,” said the King very clearly. “If you want to see the pattern of true love, look at me, for I am the expression of the law of love on which the universe is founded.”
Mountains of Spices
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Mountains of Spices
Copyright © 1977 by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Published with the permission of The Church’s Ministry Among the Jews (Olive Press), London, England.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 75-27144
ISBN 978-0-8423-4611-5, Living Books edition
Printed in the United States of America
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Make haste, my Beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.
Cant. 8:14
Contents
Preface to the Allegory
Chapter 1 Mrs. Dismal Forebodings
Chapter 2 Mountain of Pomegranates
(Love) The Law of Love
Chapter 3 Gloomy and Spiteful
Chapter 4 Mountain of Camphire (Joy)
The Victory of Love
Chapter 5 Bitterness and Murmuring
Chapter 6 Mountain of Spikenard (Peace)
The Atonement Made by Love
Chapter 7 To the Rescue of Self-Pity
Chapter 8 Mountain of Saffron (Longsuffering)
The Suffering of Love
Chapter 9 Death of Old Lord Fearing
Chapter 10 Mountain of Calamus (Gentleness)
The Terror of Love
Chapter 11 Umbrage and Resentment
Chapter 12 Mountain of Cinnamon (Goodness)
The Judgment of Love
Chapter 13 Craven Fear and Moody
Chapter 14 Mountain of Frankincense (Faith)
The Response of Faith to Love
Chapter 15 Pride and Superiority
Chapter 16 Mountain of Myrrh (Meekness)
Heaven Is the Kingdom of Love
Chapter 17 Mountain of Aloes (Self-Control)
Self-Controlled by Love
Chapter 18 Last Scene on the Mountains of Spices
Preface to the Allegory
Here are a few words of explanation to the reader about this book.
Years ago when I was starting out as a young missionary in Palestine I was struck one morning by a correspondence between the ninefold fruit of the Spirit in Gal. 5:22-23, and the nine spices mentioned in the description of the “garden enclosed” and the “orchard of pomegranates” in Canticles 4:13-14. During many happy “quiet times” I studied, with the help of Canon Tristram’s Flora of the Bible and another book called From Cedar to Hyssop, all the details I could discover about the trees and plants listed in these verses and the lessons to be learned by comparing them with “the fruit of the Spirit.”
When, years later, therefore, I came to write this sequel to Hinds’ Feet on High Places, the lessons of those dear earlier quiet times returned to my memory. As, however, the spice trees growing on the High Places of this book are allegorical and not literal, I have not hesitated to adapt, and in some instances to alter slightly, some of the details concerning the actual spices named. The descriptions, therefore, of the heavenly spices on the high places must not be taken as strictly accurate. I have allowed myself a little artistic license!
The characters in this story are, of course, personifications of the unhappy and tormenting attitudes of mind, heart, and temper whose names they bear. In Hinds’ Feet on High Places they were the enemies of Much-Afraid who sought to hinder her journey to “The High Places.” In this book I have tried to show as clearly as possible that the very characteristics and weaknesses of temperament with which we were born, which often seem to us to be the greatest of all hindrances to the Christian life, are, in reality, the very things which, when surrendered to the Savior, can be transformed into their exact opposites and can therefore produce in us the loveliest of all qualities.
I have described the transformation of the deformities of character which have been the greatest problems in my own life and about which, therefore, I can speak with the most authority. I was born with a fearful nature—a real slave of the Fearing Clan! But I have since made the glorious discovery that no one has such a perfect opportunity to practice and develop faith as do those who must learn constantly to turn fear into faith. One must either succumb to the fearing nature altogether and become a “Craven Coward” for the rest of one’s life; or by yielding that fearful nature wholly to the Lord and using each temptation to fear as an opportunity for practicing faith, be made at last into a radiant “Fearless Witness” to his love and power. There is no middle course.
In the same way a moody temper, a sharp, spiteful tongue, or a dismally anxious and foreboding habit of mind, as well as the other temperamental characteristics personified in this book, can all be gloriously transformed into their exact opposites. Love takes our defects and deformities, and out of them, as out of “crooked Jacob,” fashions princes and princesses of God.
It must not be supposed that in the conversations between the Shepherd King and Grace and Glory up on the Mountains of Spices, that I am “putting words into the Savior’s mouth,” which he never spoke and claiming for them the authority of inspired truth. The conversations are simply meant to suggest the natural and sincere communion possible between any loving soul and the Lord of Love, and the way in which we can learn of him by asking him to give us light on all the problems which perplex us, just as surely as we can be made aware of the personal guidance each one of us is to follow.
I have simply shared the way in which my own mind and understanding have been illumined as I have sought day by day to open them wide to the Savior’s love and teaching. I have no doubt whatsoever that my thoughts on these things are still so ridiculously inadequate that they fall far short of the real, unspeakably glorious, truth. But then, there are endless high places still to ascend, and one can only describe glimpses seen on the way up. Of course all the best and loveliest things must still lie ahead!
One word about the verses and songs in this book. I often find it personally helpful to try and sum up and express in verse the new lessons which I learn and the new light which I receive, thus enabling me to fix them in my memory in a form in which I can easily recall them. Possibly others also may find these verses a help in the same way. They were all written especially for this book, but most of them have also appeared in two of my other books, Unveiled Glory and The Heavenly Powers.
CHAPTER 1
Mrs. Dismal Forebodings
It was a perfect spring morning down in the Valley of Humiliation, and everything seemed to be rejoicing in the warm sunshine and the soft, fragrant air. The pastures were robed in freshest green; the fruit trees were wearing festal apparel of white and pink blossoms. In the breeze the wild flowers were dancing gaily while the asphodels, with the sun shining through their transparent white blooms, stood rank on the steep slopes above the blue lake like an army of wax torches.
In the pastures through which the river wound, the lambs frisked about their mothers and the kids played “catch-me-if-you-can” among the rocks. Birds of every size and description worked ardently at the business of nest building, and the air echoed with the sound of innumerable notes and calls and trills, while bees and crickets kept up a constant undertone of humming. Altogether it was a perfect day down there in the valley, with everything that had breath and moved out in the open to welcome spring.
In the shadow of some old, dark, twisted trees, however, standing back from the main road which ran through the village of Much-Trembling, was a garden, overgrown with weeds and sickly-looking cabbage plants. Moping in the middle of the garden was a most dilapidated cottage, the windows and doors of which were all tightly shut. Up from the chimney of this cottage rose a thin, furtive-looking spiral of smoke which crept up into the air as unostentatiously as possible, as though ashamed to show itself on such a perfect day as this. Inside the cottage, cowering over the smoky little fire, sat Mrs. Dismal Forebodings, wearing a dreary-hued dress and wrapped in a drearier grey shawl, while her face wore an expression of deepest misery and gloom.
There came a brisk rap on the door, and almost before Mrs. Dismal’s hesitating “Come in” could be heard, in marched her neighbor, Mrs. Valiant.
The contrast between the two women was as great as possible and everyone in Much-Trembling wondered at the friendship (if such a one-sided affair could be so named) which existed between them. But it dated back to their schooldays and Mrs. Valiant seemed to have a “queer notion,” as the neighbors called it, of not allowing the friendship to drop.
Mrs. Valiant marched into the room, stopped short, and uttered what sounded exactly like a little snort.
“Good gracious! Dismal,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing in here with all the windows shut on such a perfect day as this? That horrid little smoky stove is enough to suffocate you.”
“Please shut the door behind you at once, Valiant,” said Mrs. Dismal fretfully. “The draft is simply cruel and this dreadful east wind always increases my rheumatism unendurably.”
“East wind!” said Mrs. Valiant with another snort. “My dear Dismal, the air is as balmy as on a midsummer day, and what little breeze there is is coming directly from the south.”
“My weathercock never lies,” replied Mrs. Dismal firmly, “and when I looked at it this morning the wind was in the east. Besides, I feel it all over me, in every bone and joint of my body, and do not need even the confirmation of the weathercock.”
“At least,” urged Mrs. Valiant, “let me open the south window; and do, my dear Dismal, allow yourself to be persuaded to lay aside that dreadful shawl and to put on something cooler and prettier, and come out with me for a little while, for,” added she in a mysterious tone, “the most delightful and unexpected thing has happened, and I have come along on purpose to take you to my cottage so that you can share in the pleasure.”
Mrs. Dismal, however, refused to be either curious or interested. Instead, she poked the fire, causing a thick spiral of choking smoke to billow out into the room, and said with a shiver: “Please leave that window alone, Valiant. Even if it were the warmest of days I would not venture out of the cottage today, for my almanac tells me that it is a black day—a day of gloom and darkness and danger—and harm would most certainly befall me if I ventured outside. I have great faith in my almanac and never disregard its warnings.”
“What almanac is that?” cried Mrs. Valiant, walking up to the wall on which was pinned a large and hideous monstrosity. “Why, Dismal! Don’t tell me you’ve gone in for astrology! This is printed by a well-known firm of swindling frauds, who live by exploiting the fears of other people. It’s pure nonsense!”
Mrs. Dismal looked much affronted and answered tartly: “I have never known my valuable almanac to be mistaken. When it says that woe and calamity are approaching, woe and calamity of some sort always do follow, and I shall not be foolish enough to disregard its warnings today, but shall remain indoors.”
“I wish you would let me tear the horrid thing off the wall and throw it on the fire,” exclaimed Mrs. Valiant in exasperation, “and let me put up one of the red-letter calendars which I use myself. For today mine says, ‘This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will be glad and rejoice in it.’”
“Nothing will induce me to discard my valuable almanac,” said poor Mrs. Dismal. “Neither shall I venture to set foot outside the cottage today. As sure as my name is Dismal Forebodings, calamity is near.”
“If I had a name like that,” cried Mrs. Valiant, suddenly losing all patience, “I would certainly get rid of it and change to a better.”
Mrs. Dismal was deeply offended, but whenever her warmhearted, if rather quick-tempered, neighbor became impatient she always reacted with martyr-like resignation. So now she said in a tone of patient reproach: “It is a very ancient and honorable name, Valiant. It has been credibly demonstrated to date back to before the Flood. There have been Dismal Forebodings for longer than can be reckoned.”
Mrs. Valiant laughed heartily at her friend’s absurdity, though this was one of the times when she felt she would dearly like to shake a little sense into the poor silly creature before her. But she had an inner reason, known only to herself and the Chief Shepherd, for bearing long with her unhappy neighbor and learning to accept her lovingly just as she was. So now she answered cheerfully, but tactlessly: “Well, the antediluvian Dismal Forebodings must have become extinct anyhow, for there were none of them in the Ark. I wonder who was foolish enough to found the family name again!”
Mrs. Dismal was now too offended to reply. She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders, shivered, and appeared to be unconscious that there was anyone beside herself in the cottage.
Mrs. Valiant’s conscience smote her. It was really dreadful the way she let her tongue run away with her when she had come on purpose to try to help her friend. She hurried to apologize, saying penitently: “Forgive me, Dismal dear, I know I ought not to have said that, but oh! how I wish you would let me help you out of this unhappy condition into which you have fallen, and persuade you to put off the spirit of dreariness, and to put on the garment of praise.”
Mrs. Dismal burst into tears. “How can you talk like that, Valiant—you are absolutely heartless. I am sure I was always cheerful and contented enough before, but now that all this cruel trouble has come upon me what can you expect! A desolate widow woman all these years, working myself to death to provide for my three unfortunate children,” (this was a bit of invention, Mrs. Dismal’s husband having left her a small but adequate annuity) “and to bring them up respectably and prepare them for happier homes of their own than ever fell to my lot. And now what has happened? You know, Valiant—you know perfectly well—yet you are heartless enough to stand there rebuking me for being miserable.
“My daughter Gloomy, deserted by her graceless husband, her position lost, put to shame before all her relatives and obliged to come creeping home to her widowed mother, she the daughter-in-law of Lord Fearing himself, with no one prepared to lift a finger to help her get her rights! And then poor Spiteful—to find herself married to a drunkard who beats and abuses her shamefully, forced to live in a miserable little attic, a poor and despised relative in the house of her cousins. And Craven,” (here she sobbed convulsively) “my darling Craven, my only son, wrongfully condemned on a trumped-up charge of assault and disorderly behavior, actually put in prison!