1881: O love, that wilt not let me go

For many admirers, one hymn is enough. This feature to mark the century since Dr George Matheson's death might be called 'The rainbow through the rain'. The love that will not let us go (Romans 8, John 10) came during an eighteen-year ministry in the Church of Scotland's Clydeside parish of Innellan. His own account is sometimes embellished with romantic fiction. He was alone in the Manse on 6 June 1882; one sister was just married; other relatives were away in Glasgow. 'Something had happened to me which was known only to myself, and which caused me the most severe mental suffering. The hymn was the fruit of that suffering.’

Matheson felt the words 'dictated to me by some inward voice'; it took five minutes - 'the quickest bit of work I ever did in my life.’ No other verse came with similar immediacy or equal fervour. Only one word was changed. He wrote 'I climb the rainbow...'; the hymnal committee questioned 'climb', so he offered 'trace' instead.

They accepted the poetry of the rest - but poetry does not always attract hymn-book editors. In 1980 a revised text clarified the meaning, but something was lost and those who love the hymn did not love the changes. So what does it mean? There lies the beauty and the difficulty! To dissect every line would be self-defeating; they are rich in Biblical resonance, but is this an ideal post-modern hymn, when every singer brings an individual understanding to the words? We cannot blame Dr Matheson; he had not sat down in order to write a hymn! Should it be restricted to collections of personal verse? Millions of Christians judge otherwise, and love its Victorian tune.

1890: ‘Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free’

If the rainbow poetry is too allusive for some but irresistible to many, the Reformed theology of this hymn is plain. Some hear the watch ticking (the spring, the chain, the wind?); even without it, these paradoxes of faith have New Testament roots. Here is the creed of one raised in the new Sandyford Church two miles west of the city centre – George's father helped select its first minister - and still holding the faith today. He wrote the hymn much later and several hymn-books feature both texts. But what comes here?

1890: ‘Gather us in, thou love that fillest all’

Evangelical books avoid such universalism. Are latter-day liberals reading more into it than Matheson meant? The author consistently defined his doctrinal position as 'broad', distinct from the evangelicalism which nurtured him. If post-moderns enjoy one rainbow, today's interfaith enthusiasts appreciate this one. But they don't sing 'Each sees one colour of thy rainbow-light' at Sandyford!

Nor would it be top favourite in the nearby mosque or temple. 'Gather our rival faiths within thy fold. Rend each man's temple veil.. .In many ships we seek one spirit-land'? 'O no we don't!' cry the deeply offended Muslim and his Indian or Burmese neighbours. Matheson certainly sees the lordship and love of Christ as the supreme unifying force; but he flies far beyond Ephesians 1:10, the text given as his starting-point.

In 1925 the maverick editor Percy Dearmer put it in Songs of Praise ('full of originality', he said); but not even the United Reformed Church gave it space in 1991. Academics sometimes commend its excursion into multi-faithism and humanitarian hymnody, a prophetic voice before its time. But it is usually quoted as a curiosity rather than acclaimed by congregations. Should we read the first two hymns from the perspective of this third?

So who was this two-sided man?

Born of a godly business family living in one of Glasgow's solid stone- fronted terrace houses, George Matheson was educated in that city, a sociable and high-flying student who loved songs, laughter and God. He graduated BA in 1861, BD in 1866. After one probationary year he was ordained in 1868 as Innellan's minister. Hegel became his intellectual hero, and Aids to the Study of German Theology, the first of his many books, proved a landmark in interpreting positively the work of continental theologians. He was not immune from doubt or depression.

In1886 he moved to St Bernard's, Edinburgh. His preaching and personality drew large crowds, but he also conducted a thoroughgoing pastoral ministry. Contemporaries would be amazed to find him remembered mainly for his hymns. They loved the flowery language which sometimes embarrasses us. He retired from parish work in 1899, dying at North Berwick in 1906.

Among his mature themes were sacrifice as an inbuilt principle of creation, the cross being its summit; and human brotherhood in one united race. 'They take thee to be the gardener; hasten the time when they shall take the gardener to be thee.’ His writing, preaching and praying leaned towards poetry and paradox; he was a master of the sparkling phrase capturing an original thought. 'I thank thee, Lord, for the void places in my heart; they reveal more than does the furniture.’ 'Ye who torture the beast of the field, have you considered the ground of your authority?' He could rely on brief allusions which his biblically-literate public would instantly grasp: the ring and the robe; Patmos and Ararat; Nebo and Carmel.

Evangelicals often regard him as 'one of us'; liberals, more justifiably, as theirs. We cannot excuse him from labels; he used them carefully himself. He was uneasy with Scripture's 'verbal inspiration'; keen on more colourful church ritual. He expounded a re-interpreted evolution; later he was to renounce Darwinism and 'Drummondism', but much of that mindset coloured his best-selling volumes. 'Broad' remained a favourite word, sometimes challengingly; the church survives 'not by the narrow-minded who force others out of it for conscience' sake, but by the broad-minded who determine to stay in it for the same reason'.

One more thing: 2006

Canny readers may wonder why I leave until last what most would put first. George Matheson was blind. On discovering his striking verbal images of scenery, colour and shape, we remember two things; he had seen almost nothing since he was eighteen, but he had once seen and therefore could remember. Perhaps only such writers as John Milton and Emma Turl can use Biblical images of God in cloud, darkness and shadow so effectively.

His challenge for today? Patience in our disabilities, not to use them as excuses (he never did). For preachers, to handle illustration and paradox under Gospel discipline; clarity on reconciliation without marginalising repentance (he sometimes did). For Bible teachers, never to stray too far from the context in search of originality. For those who pray publicly, to avoid both tired cliche and startling novelty.

However we assess him, what of the self-effacing devotion of his elder sister? Biographies omit the Christian name of the 'Miss Matheson' who was his constant companion, helper and eyes. Wives, mothers and daughters of famous men often receive a condescending nod; such women, including this rare sister, deserve better. Without her, brother George could hardly have traced the rainbow at all, let alone climbed it. Who knows what she renounced in order make his ministry possible? Her name, I think, was Jane.

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