THE EXPOSITOR'S BIBLE
EDITED BY THE REV.
SIR W. ROBERTSON NICOLL, M.A., LL.D.
Editor of "The Expositor," etc.
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. LUKE
BY THE REV.
HENRY BURTON, M.A., D.D.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON PUBLISHERS LONDON
CHAPTER I.
THE GENESIS OF THE GOSPEL.
The four walls and the twelve gates of the Seer
looked in different directions, but together they
guarded, and opened into, one City of God. So the
four Gospels look in different directions; each has its own
peculiar aspect and inscription; but together they lead
towards, and unveil, one Christ, "which is, and which
was, and which is to come, the Almighty." They are the
successive quarterings of the one Light. We call them
"four" Gospels, though in reality they form but one,
just as the seven arches of colour weave one bow; and
that there should be four, and not three or five, was
the purpose and design of the Mind which is above all
minds. There are "diversities of operations" even in
making Testaments, New or Old; but it is one Spirit
who is "over all, and in all;" and back of all diversity
is a heavenly unity—a unity that is not broken, but
rather beautified, by the variety of its component parts.
Turning to the third Gospel, its opening sentences
strike a key-note unlike the tone of the other three.
Matthew, the Levite Apostle, schooled in the receipt
of custom—where parleying and preambling were not
allowed—goes to his subject with sharp abruptness,
beginning his story with a "genesis," "the book of the
generation of Jesus Christ." Mark, too, and John,
without staying for any prelude, proceed at once to
their portrayals of the Divine Life, each starting
with the same word "beginning"—though between the
"beginning" of St. Mark and that of St. John there is
room for an eternity. St. Luke, on the other hand,
stays to give to his Gospel a somewhat lengthy preface,
a kind of vestibule, where we become acquainted
with the presence and personality of the verger, before
passing within the temple proper.
It is true the Evangelist does not here inscribe his
name; it is true that after inserting these lines of
explanation, he loses sight of himself completely, with
a "sublime repressing of himself" such as John did
not know; but that he here throws the shadow of himself
upon the page of Scripture, calling the attention of
all people and ages to the "me also," shows clearly
that the personal element cannot be eliminated from the
question of inspiration. Light is the same in its nature;
it moves only in straight lines; it is governed by fixed
laws; but in its reflections it is infinitely varied, turning
to purple, blue, or gold, according to the nature of
the medium and reflecting substance. And what, indeed,
is beauty, what the harmony of colours, but the visible
music as the same light plays upon the diverse keys?
Exactly the same law rules in inspiration. As the
Divine Love needed an incarnation, an enshrining in
human flesh, that the Divine Word might be vocal, so
the Divine Light needs its incarnation too. Indeed, we
can scarcely conceive of any revelation of the Divine
Mind but as coming through a human mind. It needs
the human element to analyze and to throw it forward,
just as the electric spark needs the dull carbon-point to
make it visible. Heaven and earth are here, as elsewhere,
"threads of the same loom," and if we take out
one, even the earthly woof of the humanities, we leave
only a tangle; and if it is true of works of art that "to
know them we must know the man who produced them,"
it is equally important, if we would know the Scripture,
that we have some knowledge of the scribe. And
especially important is it here, for there are few books
of Scripture on which the writer's own personality is
more deeply impressed than on the Gospel of St. Luke.
The "me also" is only legible in the third verse, but
we may read it, between the lines, through the whole
Gospel.
Concerning the life of St. Luke the facts are few.
It has been thought by some that he was one of the
"certain Greeks" who came to Jerusalem to worship;
while others, again, suppose him to be the nameless one
of the two Emmaus travellers. But both these suppositions
are set aside by the fact that the Evangelist
carefully separates himself from those who were "eye-witnesses,"
which he could not well have done had he
taken part in those closing scenes of the Lord's life, or
had he been honoured with that "infallible proof" of the
Lord's resurrection. That he was a Gentile is evident;
his speech bewrayeth him; for he speaks with a Grecian
accent, while Greek idioms are sprinkled over his pages.
Indeed, St. Paul speaks of him as not being of the
"circumcision" (Col. iv. 11, 14), and he himself, in
Acts i. 19, speaks of the dwellers at Jerusalem, and
the Aceldama of "their" proper tongue. Tradition,
with unanimous voice, represents him as a native of
Antioch, in Syria.
Responding to the Divine Voice that bids him
"write," St. Luke brings to the task new and special
qualifications. Familiar with the Old Testament
Scriptures—at least in their Septuagint form, as his
many quotations show—intimately acquainted with the
Hebrew faith and ritual, he yet brings to his work a
mind unwarped by its traditions. He knows nothing
of that narrowness of spirit that Hebraism unconsciously
engendered, with its insulation from the great
outer world. His mount of vision was not Mount Zion,
but a new Pisgah, lying outside the sacred borders,
and showing him "all the kingdoms of the world," as
the Divine thought of humanity took possession of him.
And not only so, we must remember that his connection
with Christianity has been mainly through St. Paul,
who was the Apostle of the "uncircumcision." For
months, if not for years, he has been his close companion,
reading his innermost thoughts; and so long
and so close together have they been, their two hearts
have learned to beat in a perfect synchronism. Besides,
we must not forget that the Gentile question—their
status in the new kingdom, and the conditions demanded
of them—had been the burning question of the early
Church, and that it was at this same Antioch it had
reached its height. It was at Antioch the Apostle Peter
had "dissembled," so soon forgetting the lessons of
the Cæsarean Pentecost, holding himself aloof from the
Gentile converts until Paul felt constrained to rebuke
him publicly; and it was to Antioch came the decree
of the Jerusalem Council, that Magna Charta which
recognized and enfranchised manhood, giving the
privileges of the new kingdom to Gentiles, without
imposing upon them the Judaic anachronism of circumcision.
We can therefore well understand the bent
of St. Luke's mind and the drift of his sympathies;
and we may expect that his pen—though it is a reed
shaken with the breath of a higher inspiration—will
at the same time move in the direction of these
sympathies.
And it is exactly this—its "gentility," if we may be
allowed to give a new accent and a new meaning to an
old word—that is a prominent feature of the third
Gospel. Not, however, that St. Luke decries Judaism,
or that he denies the "advantage" the Jews have; he
cannot do this without erasing Scripture and silencing
history; but what he does is to lift up the Son of man
in front of their tabernacle of witness. He does not
level down Judaism; he levels up Christianity, letting
humanity absorb nationality. And so the Gospel of
St. Luke is the Gospel of the world, greeting "all
nations, and kindreds, and peoples, and tongues" with
its "peace on earth." St. Matthew traces the genealogy
of Christ back to Abraham; St. Luke goes farther back,
to the fountain-head, where all the divergent streams
meet and mingle, as he traces the descent to Adam, the
Son of God. Matthew shows us the "wise men," lost
in Jerusalem, and inquiring, "Where is He that is born
King of the Jews?" But St. Luke gives, instead, the
"good tidings" to "all people;" and then he repeats
the angel song, which is the key-note of his Gospel,
"Glory to God in the highest, ... goodwill toward
men." It is St. Luke only who records the first
discourse at Nazareth, showing how in ancient times,
even, the mercy of God flowed out towards a Gentile
widow and a Gentile leper. St. Luke alone mentions
the mission of the Seventy, whose very number was a
prophecy of a world-wide Gospel, seventy being the
recognized symbol of the Gentile world, as twelve
stood for the Hebrew people. St. Luke alone gives
us the parable of the Good Samaritan, showing that
all the virtues did not reside in Israel, but that there
was more of humanity, and so more of Divinity, in the
compassionate Samaritan than in their priest and
Levite. St. Luke alone records the call of Zacchæus,
the Gentile publican, telling how Jesus cancelled their
laws of heredity, passing him up among the sons of
Abraham. St. Luke alone gives us the twin parables
of the lost coin and the lost man, showing how Jesus
had come to seek and to save that which was lost,
which was humanity, here, and there, and everywhere.
And so there breathes all through this Gospel a
catholic spirit, more pronounced than in the rest, a
spirit whose rhythm and deep meaning have been
caught in the lines—
"There's a wideness in God's mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea."
The only other fact of the Evangelist's life we will
here notice is that of his profession; and we notice
this simply because it enters as a factor into his work,
reappearing there frequently. He was a physician;
and from this fact some have supposed that he was a
freedman, since many of the Roman physicians were
of that class. But this by no means follows. All physicians
were not freedmen; while the language and style
of St. Luke show him to be an educated man, one, too,
who walked in the upper classes of society. Where he
speaks natively, as here in the introduction, he uses
a pure Greek, somewhat rounded and ornate, in which
there is a total absence of those rusticisms common
in St. Mark. That he followed his calling at Troas,
where he first joined St. Paul, is probable; but that he
practised it on board one of the large corn-ships of the
Mediterranean is a pure conjecture, for which even his
nautical language affords no presumption; for one
cannot be at sea for a few weeks—especially with an
observant eye and attentive ear, as St. Luke's were—without
falling naturally into nautical language. One's
speech soon tastes of salt.
The calling of a physician naturally develops certain
powers of analysis and synthesis. It is the art of
putting things together. From the seen or felt symptoms
he traces out the unseen cause. Setting down
the known quantities, by processes of comparison or of
elimination he finds the unknown quantity, which is
the disease, its nature and its seat. And so on the
pages of the third Gospel we frequently find the
shadow of the physician. It appears even in his brief
preface; for as he sits down with ample materials
before him—on one side the first-hand testimony of
"eye-witnesses," and on the other the many and somewhat
garbled narratives of anonymous scribes—we see
the physician-Evangelist exercising a judicious selection,
and thus compounding or distilling his pure
elixir. Then, too, a skilled and educated physician
would find easy access into the higher circles of
society, his very calling furnishing him with letters
of introduction. And so, indeed, we find it. Our
physician dedicates his Gospel, and also the "Acts,"
to, not the "most excellent," but the "most noble"
Theophilus, giving to him the same title that he afterwards
gave to Felix and to Festus. Perhaps its English
equivalent would be "the honourable." At any rate
it shows that this Theophilus was no mere myth, a
locution for any "friend of God," but that he was a
person of rank and influence, possibly a Roman governor.
Then, too, St. Luke's mention of certain names
omitted by the other Evangelists, such as Chuza and
Manaen, would suggest that probably he had some
personal acquaintance with the members of Herod's
household. Be this as it may, we recognize the
"physician" in St. Luke's habits of observation, his
attention to detail, his fondness for grouping together
resemblances and contrasts, his fuller reference to
miracles of healing, and his psychological observations.
We find in him a student of the humanities. Even in
his portrayal of the Christ it is the human side of the
Divine nature that he emphasizes; while all through his
Gospel, his thought of humanity, like a wide-reaching
sky, overlooks and embraces all such earthly distinctions
as position, sex, or race.
With a somewhat high-sounding word "Forasmuch,"
which here makes its solitary appearance in the pages
of Scripture—a word, too, which, like its English
equivalent, is a treble compound—the Evangelist calls
our attention to his work, and states his reasons for
undertaking it. It is impossible for us to fix either
the date or the place where this Gospel was written,
but probably it was some time between A.D. 58-60.
Now, what was the position of the Church at that
date, thirty-five years after the Crucifixion? The fiery
tongues of Pentecost had flashed far and wide, and
from their heliogram even distant nations had read the
message of peace and love. Philip had witnessed the
wonderful revival in "the (a) city of Samaria." Antioch,
Cæsarea, Damascus, Lystra, Philippi, Athens, Rome—these
names indicate, but do not attempt to measure,
the wide and ever-widening circle of light. In nearly
every town of any size there is the nucleus of a Church;
while Apostles, Evangelists, and Christian merchants
are proclaiming the new kingdom and the new laws
everywhere. And since the visits of the Apostles would
be necessarily brief, it would only be a natural and
general wish that some permanent record should be
made of their narratives and teaching. In other places,
which lay beyond the line of Apostles' travel, the story
would reach them, passed from mouth to mouth, with
all the additions of rumour, and exaggerations of Eastern
loquacity. It is to these ephemeral Gospels the Evangelist
now refers; and distinguishing, as he does, the
"many" from the "eye-witnesses" and "ministers of
the word," he shows that he does not refer to the
Gospels of St. Matthew and St. Mark—which probably
he has not seen—for one was an Apostle, and both
were "eye-witnesses." There is no censure implied
in these words, nor does the expression "taken in
hand" in itself imply failure; but evidently, to St.
Luke's mind, these manifold narratives were incomplete
and unsatisfactory. They contain some of the truth,
but not all that the world should know. Some are put
together by unskilled hands, and some have more or
less of fable blended with them. They need sifting,
winnowing, that the chaff may be blown away, and the
seed tares separated from the wheat. Such is the
physician's reason for now assuming the rôle of an
Evangelist. The "forasmuch," before being entered
on the pages of his Scriptures, had struck upon the
Evangelist's soul, setting it vibrating like a bell, and
moving mind and hand alike in sympathy.
And so we see how, in ways simple and purely
natural, Scripture grows. St. Luke was not conscious
of any special influence resting upon him. He did not
pose as an oracle or as the mouthpiece of an oracle,
though he was all that, and vastly more. He does not
even know that he is doing any great work; and who
ever does? A generous, unselfish thought takes possession
of him. He will sacrifice leisure and ease, that
he may throw forward to others the light that has
fallen upon his own heart and life. He will be a truth-seeker,
and a light-bearer for others. Here, then, we
see how a human mind falls into gear with the Divine
mind, and human thought gets into the rhythm and
swing of the higher thought. Simply natural, purely
human are all his processes of reasoning, comparing,
and planning, and the whole Gospel is but the perfect
bloom of this seed-thought. But whence came this
thought? That is the question. Did it not grow out
of these manifold narratives? and did not the narratives
themselves grow out of the wonderful Life, the
Life which was itself but a Divine Thought and Word
incarnate? And so we cannot separate heaven from
earth, we cannot eliminate the Divine from even our
little lives; and though St. Luke did not recognize it
as such—he was an ordinary man, doing an ordinary
thing—yet we, standing a few centuries back, and
seeing how the Church has hidden in her ark the omer
of manna that he gathered, to be carried on and down
till time itself shall be no more, we see another
Apocalyptic vision, and we hear a Voice Divine that
commands him "write." When St. Luke wrote, "It
seemed good to me also," he doubtless wrote the pronoun
small; for it was the "me" of his obscure, retiring
self; but high above the human thought we see the
Divine purpose, and as we watch, the smaller "me"
grows into the ME, which is a shadow of the great
I AM. And so while the "many" treatises, those
which were purely human, have passed out of sight,
buried deep in their unknown sepulchres, this Gospel
has survived and become immortal—immortal because
God was behind it, and God was in it.
So in the mind of St. Luke the thought ripens into
a purpose. Since others "have taken in hand" to
draw up a narrative concerning those matters which
have been "fulfilled among us," he himself will do the
same; for has he not a special fitness for the task, and
peculiar advantages? He has long been intimately
associated with those who from the very first were
"eye-witnesses and ministers of the Word," the chosen
companion of one Apostle, and doubtless, owing to his
visit to Jerusalem and to his prolonged residence at
Cæsarea, personally acquainted with the rest. His
shall not be a Gospel of surmise or of rumour; it shall
only contain the record of facts—facts which he himself
has investigated, and for the truth of which he gives
his guarantee. The clause "having traced the course
of all things accurately from the first"—which is a
more exact rendering than that of the Authorized
Version, "having had perfect understanding of all things
from the very first"—shows us the keen, searching
eye of the physician. He looks into things. He
distinguishes between the To seem and the To be, the
actual and the apparent. He takes nothing for granted,
but proves all things. He investigates his facts before
he endorses them, sounding them, as it were, and
reading not only their outer voice, which may be assumed,
and so untrue, but with his stethoscope of
patient research listening for the unconscious voices
that speak within, and so finding out the reality. He
himself is committed to nothing. He is not anxious
to make up a story. Himself a searcher after truth,
his one concern is to know, and then to tell, the truth,
naturally, simply, with no fictitious adornment or
dressing up of his own. And having submitted the
facts of the Divine Life to a close scrutiny, and satisfied
himself of their absolute truth, and having thrown
aside the many guesses and fables which somehow
have woven themselves around the wonderful Name,
he will write down, in historical order as far as may be,
the story, so that his friend Theophilus may know
the "certainty of the things" in which he has been
"instructed," or orally catechized, as the word would
mean.
Where, then, it may be asked, is there room for
inspiration? If the genesis of the Gospel is so purely
human, where is there room for the touch of the
Divine? Why should the Gospel of St. Luke be
canonized, incorporated into Holy Scripture, while the
writings of others are thrown back into an Apocrypha,
or still farther back into oblivion? The very questions
will suggest an answer. That touch of the Divine
which we call inspiration is not always an equal
touch. Now it is a pressure from above that is overwhelming.
The writer is carried out of himself,
borne up into regions where Sight and Reason in
their loftiest flights cannot come, as the prophet foretells
events no human mind could foresee, much less
describe. In the case of St. Luke there was no need
for this abnormal pressure, or for these prophetic
ecstasies. He was to record, for the most part, facts
of recent occurrence, facts that had been witnessed,
and could now be attested, by persons still living;
and a fact is a fact, whether it is inspired or no.
Inspiration may record a fact, while others are omitted,
showing that this fact has a certain value above others;
but if it is true, inspiration itself cannot make it more
true. Nevertheless, there is the touch of the Divine
even here. What is the meaning of this new departure?
for it is a new and a wide departure. Why
does not Thomas write a Gospel? or Philip, or Paul?
Why should the Evangelist-mantle be carried outside
the bounds of the sacred land, to be thrown around
a Gentile, who cannot speak the sacred tongue except
with a foreign Shibboleth? Ah, we see here the
movings of the Holy Ghost! selecting the separate
agents for the separate tasks, and dividing to "every
man severally as He will." And not only does the
Holy Spirit summon him to the work, He qualifies
him for it, furnishing him with materials, and guiding
his mind as to what shall be omitted and what retained.
It is the same Spirit, who moved "holy men of old"
to speak and write the things of God, who now touches
the mind and heart of the four Evangelists, enabling
them to give the four versions of the one Story, in
different language, and with sundry differences of
detail, but with no contradiction of thought, each
being, in a sense, the complement of the rest, the four
quarters making one rounded and perfect whole.
Perhaps at first sight our subject may not seem to
have any reference to our smaller lives; for who of
us can be Evangelists or Apostles, in the highest
meaning of the words? And yet it has, if we look
into it, a very practical bearing upon our lives, even
the commonplace, every-day life. Whence come our
gifts? Who makes these gifts to differ? Who gives
us the differing taste and nature? for we are not
consulted as to our nature any more than as to our
nativities. The fact is, our "human" is touched by
the Divine at every point. What are the chequered
scenes of our lives but the black or the white squares
to which the Unseen Hand moves us at will? Earth's
problem is but Heaven's purpose. And are not we,
too, writing scriptures? putting God's thoughts into
words and deeds, so that men may read them and
know them? Verily we are; and our writing is for
eternity. In the volume of our book are no omissions
or erasures. Listen, then, to the heavenly call. Be
obedient to your heavenly vision. Leave mind and
heart open to the play of the Divine Spirit. Keep
self out of sight. Delight in God's will, and do it.
So will you make your lowlier life another Testament,
written ever with Gospels and Epistles, and closing at
last with an Apocalypse.
CHAPTER II.
THE MUTE PRIEST.
Luke i. 5-25, 57-80.
After his personal prelude, our Evangelist goes
on to give in detail the pre-Advent revelations,
so connecting the thread of his narrative with the
broken-off thread of the Old Testament. His language,
however, suddenly changes its character and accent;
and its frequent Hebraisms show plainly that he is no
longer giving his own words, but that he is simply
recording the narratives as they were told him, possibly
by some member of the Holy Family.
"There was in the days of Herod, king of Judæa."
Even the surface-reader of Scripture will observe how
little is made in its pages of the time-element. There
is a purposed vagueness in its chronology, which
scarcely accords with our Western ideas of accuracy
and precision. We observe times and seasons. We
strike off the years with the clang of bells or the
hush of solemn services. Each day with us is lifted
up into prominence, having a personality and history
all its own, and as we write its history, we keep it
clear of all its to-morrows and its yesterdays. And
so the day grows naturally into a date, and dates combine
into chronologies, where everything is sharp, exact.
Not so, however, was it, or indeed is it, in the Eastern
world. Time there, if we may speak temporally, was
of little moment. To that slow-moving and slow-thinking
world one day was a trifle, something atomic;
it took a number of them to make an appreciable
quantity. And so they divided their time, in ordinary
speech, not minutely as we do, due into larger periods,
measuring its distances by the shadows of their striking
events. Why is it that we have four Gospels, and
in fact a whole New Testament, without a date? for
it cannot possibly be a chance omission. Is the time-element
so subdued and set back, lest the "things
temporal" should lead off our minds from the "things
spiritual and eternal"? For what is time, after all,
but a negative quantity? an empty space, in itself
all silent and dead, until our thoughts and deeds strike
against it and make it vocal? Nay, even in the
heavenly life we see the same losing of the time-element,
for we read, "There should be time no
longer." Not that it will then disappear, swallowed
up in that infinite duration we call eternity. That
would make heaven a confusion; for to finite minds
eternity itself must come in measured beats, striking,
like the waves along the shore, in rhythmic intervals.
But our time will be no longer. It must needs be
transfigured, ceasing to be earthly, that it may become
heavenly in its measurement and in its speech. And
so in the Bible, which is a Divine-human book,
written for the ages, God has purposely veiled the
times, at any rate the "days" of earthly reckoning.
Even the day of our Lord's birth, and the day of His
death, our chronologies cannot determine: we measure,
we guess, but it is randomly, like the blinded men
of Sodom, who wearied themselves to find the door.
In Heaven's reckoning deeds are more than days.
Time-beats by themselves are only broken silences,
but put a soul among them, and you make songs,
anthems, and all kinds of music. "In those days" may
be a common Hebraism, but may it not be something
more? may it not be an idiom of celestial speech,
the heavenly way of referring to earthly things? At
any rate we know this, that while Heaven is careful
to give us the purpose, the promise, and the fulfilment,
the Divine Spirit does not care to give us the exact
moment when the promise became a realization.
And that it is so shows that it is best it should be
so. Silence sometimes may be better than speech.
But in saying all this we do not say that Heaven
is unobservant of earthly times and seasons. They
are a part of the Divine order, stamped on all lives,
on all worlds. Our days and nights keep their alternate
step; our seasons observe their processional order,
singing in antiphonal responses; while our world,
geared in with other worlds, strikes off our earthly
years and days with an absolute precision. So, now,
the time of the Advent has been Divinely chosen,
for whole millenniums unalterably fixed; nor have the
cries of Israel's impatient hopes been allowed to hurry
forward the Divine purpose, so making it premature.
But why should the Advent be so long delayed? In
our off-handed way of thinking we might have supposed
the Redeemer would have come directly after
the Fall; and as far as Heaven was concerned, there
was no reason why the Incarnation and the Redemption
should not be effected immediately. The Divine Son
was even then prepared to lay aside His glories, and
to become incarnate. He might have been born of the
Virgin of Eden, as well as of the Virgin of Galilee;
and even then He might have offered unto God that
perfect obedience by which the "many are made
righteous." Why, then, this strange delay, as the
months lengthen into years, and the years into centuries?
The Patriarchs come and go, and only see the
promise "afar off." Then come centuries of oppression,
as Canaan is completely eclipsed by the dark
shadow of Egypt; then the Exodus, the wanderings,
the conquest. The Judges administer a rough-handed
justice; Kings play with their little crowns; Prophets
rebuke and prophesy, telling of the "Wonderful" who
shall be; but still the Messiah delays His coming.
Why this strange postponement of the world's hopes,
as if prophecy dealt in illusions only? We find the
answer in St. Paul's Epistle to the Galatians (chap.
iv. 4). The "fulness of the time" was not yet come.
The time was maturing, but was not yet ripe. Heaven
was long ago prepared for an Incarnation, but Earth
was not; and had the Advent occurred at an earlier
stage of the world's history, it would have been an
anachronism the age would have misunderstood. There
must be a leading up to God's gifts, or His blessings
cease to be blessings. The world must be prepared
for the Christ, or virtually He is no Christ, no Saviour
to them. The Christ must come into the world's mind
as a familiar thought, He must come into the world's
heart as a deep-felt need, before He can come as the
Word Incarnate.
And when is this "fulness of the time"? "In the
days of Herod, king of Judæa." Such is the phrase
that now strikes the Divine hour, and leads in the
dawn of a new dispensation. And what dark days
were those to the Hebrew people, when on the throne
of their David sat that Idumean shadow of the dread
Cæsar! Their land swarms with Gentile hordes, and
on the soil devoted to Jehovah rise stately, splendid
temples, dedicated to strange gods. It is one irruption
of Paganism, as if the Roman Pantheon had emptied
itself upon the Holy Land. Nay, it seemed as if the
Hebrew faith itself would become extinct, strangled
by heathen fables, or at any rate that she would
survive, only the ghost of her other self, walking like
an apparition, with veiled face and sealed lips, amid the
scenes of her former glories. "The days of Herod"
were the Hebrew midnight, but they give us the Bright
and Morning Star. And so upon this dial-plate of
Scripture the great Herod, with all his royalties, is
nothing more than the dark, empty shadow which
marks a Divine hour, "the fulness of the time."
Israel's corporate life began with four centuries of
silence and oppression, when Egypt gave them the
doubled task, and Heaven grew strangely still, giving
them neither voice nor vision. Is it but one of the
chance repetitions of history that Israel's national life
should end, too, with four hundred years of silence?
for such is the coincidence, if, indeed, we may not call
it something more. It is, however, just such a coincidence
as the Hebrew mind, quick to trace resemblances
and to discern signs, would grasp firmly and eagerly.
It would revive their long-deferred and dying hopes,
overlaying the near future with its gold. Possibly it
was this very coincidence that now transformed their
hope into expectation, and set their hearts listening
for the advent of the Messiah. Did not Moses come
when the task was doubled? And was not the four
hundred years' silence broken by the thunders of the
Exodus, as the I AM, once again asserting Himself,
"sent redemption to His people"? And so, counting
back their silent years since Heaven's last voice came
to them through their prophet Malachi, they caught
in its very silences a sound of hope, the footfall of
the forerunner, and the voice of the coming Lord.
But where, and how, shall the long silence be broken?
We must go for our answer—and here, again, we see
a correspondence between the new Exodus and the
old—to the tribe of Levi, and to the house of Amram
and Jochebed.
Residing in one of the priestly cities of the hill-country
of Judæa—though not in Hebron, as is commonly
supposed, for it is most unlikely that a name so familiar
and sacred in the Old Testament would here be omitted
in the New—was "a certain priest named Zacharias."
Himself a descendant of Aaron, his wife, too, was of
the same lineage; and besides being "of the daughters
of Aaron," she bore the name of their ancestral mother,
"Elisabeth." Like Abraham and Sarah, they were both
well advanced in years, and childless. But if they were
not allowed to have any lien upon posterity, throwing
themselves forward into future generations, they made
up the lack of earthly relationships by cultivating the
heavenly. Forbidden, as they thought, to look forward
down the lines of earthly hopes, they could and did look
heavenward; for we read that they were both "righteous"—a
word implying a Mosaic perfection—"walking
in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord
blameless." We may not be able, perhaps, to give
the precise distinction between "commandments" and
"ordinances," for they were sometimes used interchangeably;
but if, as the general use of the words
allows us, we refer the "commandments" to the moral,
and the "ordinances" to the ceremonial law, we see
how wide is the ground they cover, embracing, as they
do, the (then) "whole duty of man." Rarely, if ever,
do the Scriptures speak in such eulogistic terms; and
that they should here be applied to Zacharias and
Elisabeth shows that they were advanced in saintliness,
as well as in years. Possibly St. Luke had
another object in view in giving us the portraits of
these two pre-Advent Christians, completing in the
next chapter the quarternion, by his mention of Simeon
and Anna. It is somewhat strange, to say the least,
that the Gentile Evangelist should be the one to give
us this remarkable group—the four aged Templars, who,
"when it was yet dark," rose to chant their matins and
to anticipate the dawn. Whether the Evangelist intended
it or not, his narrative salutes the Old, while
it heralds the New dispensation, paying to that Old
a high though unconscious tribute. It shows us that
Hebraism was not yet dead; for if on its central stem,
within the limited area of its Temple courts, such a
cluster of beautiful lives could be found, who will tell
the harvest of its outlying branches? Judaism was not
altogether a piece of mechanism, elaborate and exact,
with a soulless, metallic click of rites and ceremonies.
It was an organism, living and sentient. It had nerves
and blood. Possessed of a heart itself, it touched the
hearts of its children. It gave them aspirations and
inspirations without number; and even its shadows
were the interpreters, as they were the creations, of the
heavenly light. And if now it is doomed to pass away,
outdated and superseded, it is not because it is bad,
worthless; for it was a Divine conception, the "good"
thing, preparing for and proclaiming God's "better
thing." Judaism was the "glorious angel, keeping
the gates of light;" and now, behold, she swings back
the gates, welcomes the Morning, and herself then
disappears.
It is the autumn service for the course of Abia—which
is the eighth of the twenty-four courses into
which the priesthood was divided—and Zacharias proceeds
to Jerusalem, to perform whatever part of the
service the lot may assign to him. It is probably the
evening of the Sabbath—the presence of the multitude
would almost imply that—and this evening the lot gives
to Zacharias the coveted distinction—-which could only
come once in a lifetime—of burning incense in the Holy
Place. At a given signal, between the slaying and the
offering of the lamb, Zacharias, barefooted and robed in
white, passes up the steps, accompanied by two assistants,
one bearing a golden censer containing half a
pound of the sweet-smelling incense, the other bearing
a golden vessel of burning coals taken from the altar.
Slowly and reverently they pass within the Holy Place,
which none but Levites are permitted to enter; and
having arranged the incense, and spread the live coals
upon the altar, the assistants retire, leaving Zacharias
alone—alone in the dim light of the seven-branched
candlestick, alone beside that veil he may not uplift,
and which hides from his sight the Holy of Holies,
where God dwells "in the thick darkness." Such is
the place, and such the supreme moment, when Heaven
breaks the silence of four hundred years.
It is no concern of ours to explain the phenomenon that
followed, or to tone down its supernatural elements.
Given an Incarnation, and then the supernatural becomes
not only probable, but necessary. Indeed, we
could not well conceive of any new revelation without
it; and instead of its being a weakness, a blemish on
the page of Scripture, it is rather a proof of its heavenliness,
a hall-mark that stamps its Divinity. Nor is
there any need, believing as we do in the existence of
intelligences other and higher than ourselves, that we
apologize for the appearance of angels, here and elsewhere,
in the story; such deference to Sadducean doubts
is not required.
Suddenly, as Zacharias stands with uplifted hands,
joining in the prayers offered by the silent "multitude"
without, an angel appears. He stands "on the right
side of the altar of incense," half-veiled by the fragrant
smoke, which curling upwards, filled the place. No
wonder that the lone priest is filled with "fear," and
that he is "troubled"—a word implying an outward
tremor, as if the very body shook with the unwonted
agitation of the soul. The angel does not at first
announce his name, but seeks rather to calm the heart
of the priest, stilling its tumult with a "Fear not," as
Jesus stilled the waters with His "Peace." Then he
makes known his message, speaking in language most
homely and most human: "Thy prayer is heard."
Perhaps a more exact rendering would be, "Thy
request was granted," for the substantive implies a
specific prayer, while the verb indicates a "hearing"
that becomes an "assenting." What the prayer was
we may gather from the angel's words; for the whole
message, both in its promise and its prophecy, is but
an amplification of its first clause. To the Jew, childlessness
was the worst of all bereavements. It implied,
at least they thought so, the Divine displeasure; while
it effectually cut them off from any personal share in
those cherished Messianic hopes. To the Hebrew
heart the message, "Unto you a son is born," was
the music of a lower Gospel. It marked an epoch in
their life-history; it brought the fulfilment of their
desires, and a wealth of added dignities. And Zacharias
had prayed, earnestly and long, that a son might be
born to them; but the bright hope, with the years, had
grown distant and dim, until at last it had dropped
down beyond the horizon of their thoughts, and become
an impossibility. But those prayers were heard, yea,
and granted, too, in the Divine purpose; and if the
answer has been delayed, it was that it might come
freighted with a larger blessing.
But in saying that this was the specific prayer of
Zacharias we do not wish to disparage his motives,
confining his thoughts and aspirations within a circle
so narrow and selfish. This lesser hope of offspring,
like a satellite, revolved around the larger hope of a
Messiah, and indeed grew out of it. It drew all its
brightness and all its beauty from that larger hope, the
hope that lighted up the dark Hebrew sky with the
auroras of a new and fadeless dawn. When mariners
"take the sun," as they call it, reading from its disc
their longitudes, they bring it down to their horizon-level.
They get the higher in the lower vision, and
the real direction of their looks is not the apparent
direction. And if Zacharias' thoughts and prayers
seem to have an earthward drift, his soul looks higher
than his speech; and if he looks along the horizon-level
of earthly hopes, it is that he may read the
heavenly promise. It is not a son that he is looking
for, but the Son, the "Seed" in whom "all the families
of the earth shall be blessed." And so, when the
silent tongue regains its powers of speech, it gives its
first and highest doxologies for that other Child, who
is Himself the promised "redemption" and a "horn
of salvation;" his own child he sets back, far back in
the shadow (or rather the light) of Him whom he calls
the "Lord." It is the near realization of both these
hopes that the angel now announces.
A son shall be born to them, even in their advanced
years, and they shall call his name "John," which
means "The Lord is gracious." "Many will rejoice
with them at his birth," for that birth will be the
awakening of new hopes, the first hour of a new day.
"Great in the sight of the Lord," he must be a Nazarite,
abstaining wholly from "wine and strong drink"—the
two Greek words including all intoxicants, however
made. "Filled with the Holy Ghost from his mother's
womb"—that original bias or propensity to evil, if not
obliterated, yet more than neutralized—he shall be the
Elijah (in spirit and in power) of Malachi's prophecy,
turning many of Israel's children "to the Lord their
God." "Going before Him"—and the antecedent of
"Him" must be "the Lord their God" of the preceding
verse, so early is the purple of Divinity thrown around
the Christ—he "shall turn the hearts of fathers to their
children," restoring peace and order to domestic life,
and the "disobedient" he shall incline "to walk in the
wisdom of the just" (R.V.), bringing back the feet that
have erred and slipped to "the paths of uprightness,"
which are the "ways of wisdom." In short, he shall
be the herald, making ready a people prepared for the
Lord, running before the royal chariot, proclaiming the
coming One, and preparing His way, then leaving his
own little footprints to disappear, thrown up in the
chariot-dust of Him who was greater and mightier
than he.
We can easily understand, even if we may not
apologize for, the incredulity of Zacharias. There are
crises in our life when, under profound emotion,
Reason herself seems bewildered, and Faith loses her
steadiness of vision. The storm of feeling throws the
reflective powers into confusion, and thought becomes
blurred and indistinct, and speech incoherent and wild.
And such a crisis was it now, but intensified to the
mind of Zacharias by all these additions of the supernatural.
The vision, with its accessories of place and
time, the message, so startling, even though so welcome,
must necessarily produce a strange pertubation of soul;
and what surprise need there be that when the priest
does speak it is in the lisping accents of unbelief?
Could it well have been otherwise? Peter "wist not
that it was true which was done by the angel, but thought
he saw a vision;" and though Zacharias has none of
these doubts of unreality—it is to him no dream of the
moment's ecstasy—still he is not yet aware of the rank
and dignity of his angel-visitant, while he is perplexed
at the message, which so directly contravenes both
reason and experience. He does not doubt the Divine
power, let it be observed, but he does seek for a sign
that the angel speaks with Divine authority. "Whereby
shall I know this?" he asks, reminding us by his
question of Jacob's "Tell me thy name." The angel
replies, in substance, "You ask whereby you may know
this; that is, you wish to know by whose authority
I declare this message to you. Well, I am Gabriel,
that stand in the presence of God; and I was sent to
speak unto you, and to bring you these good tidings.
And since you ask for a sign, an endorsement of my
message, you shall have one. I put the seal of silence
upon your lips, and you shall not be able to speak
until the day when these things shall come to pass,
because you believed not my words." Then the vision
ends; Gabriel returns to the songs and anthems of the
skies, leaving Zacharias to carry, in awful stillness of
soul, this new "secret of the Lord."
This infliction of dumbness upon Zacharias has
generally been regarded as a rebuke and punishment
for his unbelief; but if we refer to the parallel cases of
Abraham and of Gideon, such is not Heaven's wonted
answer to the request for a sign. We must understand
it rather as the proof Zacharias sought, something at
once supernatural and significant, that should help his
stumbling faith. Such a sign, and a most effective one,
it was. Unlike Gideon's dew, that would soon evaporate,
leaving nothing but a memory, this was ever
present, ever felt, at least until faith was exchanged
for sight. Nor was it dumbness simply, for the word
(ver. 22) rendered "speechless" implies inability to
hear as well as inability to speak; and this, coupled
with the fact mentioned in ver. 62, that "they made
signs to him"—which they would scarcely have done
could he have heard their voices—compels us to suppose
that Zacharias had suddenly become deaf as well
as dumb. Heaven put the seal of silence upon his lips
and ears, that so its own voice might be more clear and
loud; and so the profound silences of Zacharias' soul
were but the blank spaces on which Heaven s sweet
music was written.
How long the interview with the angel lasted we
cannot tell. It must, however, have been brief; for at
a given signal, the stroke of the Magrephah, the attendant
priest would re-enter the Holy Place, to light the
two lamps that had been left unlighted. And here we
must look for the "tarrying" that so perplexed the
multitude, who were waiting outside, in silence, for the
benediction of the incensing priest. Re-entering the
Holy Place, the attendant finds Zacharias smitten as by
a sudden paralysis—speechless, deaf, and overcome by
emotion. What wonder that the strange excitement
makes them oblivious of time, and, for the moment,
all-forgetful of their Temple duties! The priests are
in their places, grouped together on the steps leading
up to the Holy Place; the sacrificing priest has ascended
the great brazen altar; ready to cast the pieces of the
slain lamb upon the sacred fire; the Levites stand
ready with their trumpets and their psalms—all waiting
for the priests who linger so long in the Holy Place.
At length they appear, taking up their position on the
top of the steps, above the rows of priests, and above
the silent multitude. But Zacharias cannot pronounce
the usual benediction to-day. The "Jehovah bless
thee and keep thee" is unsaid; the priest can only
"beckon" to them, perhaps laying his finger on the
silent lips, and then pointing to the silent heavens—to
them indeed silent, but to himself all vocal now.
And so the mute priest, after the days of his ministration
are completed, returns to his home in the hill-country,
to wait the fulfilment of the promises, and out
of his deep silences to weave a song that should be
immortal; for the Benedictus, whose music girdles the
world to-day, before it struck upon the world's ear and
heart, had, through those quiet months, filled the hushed
temple of his soul, lifting up the priest and the prophet
among the poets, and passing down the name of
Zacharias as one of the first sweet singers of the new
Israel.
And so the Old meets, and merges into the New;
and at the marriage it is the speaking hands of the
mute priest that join together the two Dispensations, as
each gives itself to the other, never more to be put
asunder, but to be "no longer twain, but one," one
Purpose, one Plan, one Divine Thought, one Divine
Word.
CHAPTER III.
THE GOSPEL PSALMS.
Unlike modern church builders, St. Luke sets his
chancel by the porch. No sooner have we
passed through the vestibule of his Gospel than we
find ourselves within a circle of harmonies. On the
one side are Zacharias and Simeon, the one chanting
his Benedictus, and the other his Nunc Dimittis.
Facing them, as if in antiphon, are Elisabeth and
Mary, the one singing her Beatitude, and the other her
Magnificat; while overhead, in the frescoed and star-lighted
sky, are vast multitudes of the heavenly host
enriching the Advent music with their Glorias. What
means this grand irruption of song? and why is
St. Luke, the Gentile Evangelist, the only one who repeats
to us these Hebrew psalms? At first it would
seem as if their natural place would be as a prelude
to St. Matthew's Gospel, which is the Gospel of the Hebrews.
But strangely enough, St. Matthew passes them
by in silence, just as he omits the two angelic visions.
St. Matthew is evidently intent on one thing. Beginning
a New Testament, as he is, he seems especially anxious
that there shall be no rent or even seam between the
Old and the New; and so, in his first pages, after giving
us the genealogy, running the line of descent up to
Abraham, he laces up the threads of his narrative with
the broken-off threads of the old prophecies, so that the
written Word may be a vestment of the Incarnate
Word, which shall be "without seam, woven from the
top throughout." And so really the Advent hymns
would not have suited St. Matthew's purpose. Their
ring would not have been in accord with the tone of
his story; and had we found them in his first chapters,
we should instinctively have felt that they were out
of place, as if we saw a rose blossoming on a widespread
oak.
St. Luke, however, is portraying the Son of man.
Coming to redeem humanity, he shows how He was
first born into that humanity, making His advent in a
purely human fashion. And so the two conceptions
form a fit beginning for his Gospel; while over the
Divine Birth and Childhood he lingers reverently and
long, paying it however, only the homage Heaven had
paid it before. Then, too, was there not a touch of
poetry about our Evangelist? Tradition has been
almost unanimous in saying that he was a painter; and
certainly in the grouping of his figures, and his careful
play upon the lights and shadows, we can discover
traces of his artistic skill, in word-painting at any rate.
His was evidently a soul attuned to harmonies, quick
to discern any accordant or discordant strains. Nor
must we forget that St. Luke's mind is open to certain
occult influences, whose presence we may indeed detect,
but whose power we are not able to gauge. As we
have already seen, it was the manifold narratives of
anonymous writers that first moved him to take up the
pen of the historian; and to those narratives we doubtless
owe something of the peculiar cast and colouring of
St. Luke's story. It is with the Nativity that tradition
would be most likely to take liberties. The facts of
the Advent, strange enough in themselves, would at
the hands of rumour undergo a process of developing,
like the magnified and somewhat grotesque shadows of
himself the traveller casts on Alpine mists. It was
doubtless owing to these enlargements and distortions
of tradition that St. Luke was led to speak of the
Advent so fully, going into the minutiæ of detail, and
inserting, as is probable, from the Hebrew tone of
these first two chapters, the account as given orally,
or written, by some members of the Holy Family.
It must be admitted that to some inquiring and
honest minds these Advent psalms have been a difficulty,
an enigma, if not a stumbling-block. As the
bells that summon to worship half-deafen the ear of
the worshipper on a too near approach, or they become
merely a confused and unmeaning noise if he climbs
up into the belfry and watches the swing of their
brazen lips, so this burst of music in our third
Gospel has been too loud for certain sensitive ears.
It has shaken somewhat the foundations of their faith.
They think it gives an unreality, a certain mythical
flavour, to the story, that these four pious people, who
have always led a quiet, prosaic kind of life, should
now suddenly break out into impromptu songs, and
when these are ended lapse again into complete silence,
like the century plant, which throws out a solitary
blossom in the course of a hundred years. And so
they come to regard these Hebrew psalms as an interpolation,
an afterthought, thrown into the story for
effect. But let us not forget that we are dealing now
with Eastern mind, which is naturally vivacious,
imaginative, and highly poetical. Even our colder
tongue, in this glacial period of nineteenth-century
civilization, is full of poetry. The language of common
every-day life—to those who have ears to hear—is full
of tropes, metaphors, and parables. Take up the
commonest words of daily speech, and put them to
your ear, and they will sing like shells from the sea.
There are whole poems in them—epics, idylls, of every
sort; and let our colder speech get among the sweet
influences of religion, and like the iceberg adrift in the
Gulf Stream, it loses its rigidity and frigidity at once,
melting in liquid, rhythmic measures, throwing itself
away in hymns and jubilates. The fact is, the world is
full of music. As the Sage of Chelsea said, "See deep
enough, and you see musically, the heart of Nature
being everywhere music if you can only reach it."
And it is so. You can touch nothing but there are
harmonies slumbering within it, or itself is a stray note
of some grander song. Dead wood from the forest,
dead ore from the mine, dead tusks of the beast—these
are the "base things" that strike our music; and only
put a mind within them, and a living soul with a living
touch before them, and you have songs and anthems
without number.
But to Eastern minds poetry was a sort of native
language. Its inspiration was in the air. Their ordinary
speech was ornate and efflorescent, throwing
itself out in simile and hyperbole. It only needed
some small excitement, and they fell naturally into the
couplet form of utterance. Even to-day the children
swing under the mulberry-trees to songs and choruses;
hucksters extol their wares in measured verse; and the
Bethany fruit-girl sings in the market, "O lady, take
of our fruit, without money and without price: it is
yours; take all that you will"! And so it need not
surprise us, much less trouble us, that Simeon and
Elisabeth, Zacharias and Mary, should each speak in
measured cadences. Their speech blossomed with
flowers of rhetoric, just as naturally as their hills were
ablaze with daisies and anemones. Besides, they were
now under the direct inspiration of the Holy Spirit.
We read, "Elisabeth was filled with the Holy Ghost;"
and again, Zacharias was "filled with the Holy Ghost;"
Simeon "came in the Spirit into the Temple;" while
Mary now seemed to live in one conscious, constant
inspiration. It is said that "a poet is born, not made;"
and if he be not thus "free-born" no "great sum,"
either of gold or toil, will ever pass him up within the
favoured circle. And the same is true of the poet's
creations. Sacred hymns are not the product of the
unaided intellect. They do not come at the bidding of
any human will. They are inspirations. There is the
overshadowing of the Holy Spirit in their conception.
The human mind, heart, and lips are but the instrument,
a kind of Æolian lyre, played upon by the Higher
Breath, which comes and goes—how, the singer himself
can never tell; for
"In the song
The singer has been lost."
It was when "filled with the Spirit" that Bezaleel put
into his gold and silver the thoughts of God; it was when
the Spirit of God came upon him that Balaam took up
his parable, putting into stately numbers Israel's forward
march and endless victories. And so the sacred
psalm is the highest type of inspiration; it is a voice
from no earthly Parnassus, but from the Mount of God
itself—the nearest approach to the celestial harmonies,
the harmonies of that city whose very walls are
poetry, and whose gates are praise.
And so, after all, it was but fitting and perfectly
natural that the Gospel that Heaven had been so long time
preparing should break upon the world amid the harmonies
of music. Instead of apologizing for its presence,
as if it were but an interlude improvised for the occasion,
we should have noted and mourned its absence,
as when one mourns for "the sound of a voice that is
still." When the ark of God was brought up from
Baale Judah it was encircled with one wide wreath of
music, a travelling orchestra of harps and psalteries,
castanets and cymbals; and as now that Ark of all the
promises is borne across from the Old to the New Dispensation,
as the promise becomes a fulfilment, and
the hope a realization, shall there not be the voice of
song and gladness? Our sense of the fitness of things
expects it; Heaven's law of the harmonies demands
it; and had there not been this burst of praise and
song, we should have listened for the very stones to
cry out, rebuking the strange silence. But the voice
was not silent. The singers were there, in their places;
and they sang, not because they would, but because
they must. A heavenly pressure, a sweet constraint,
was upon them. If Wealth lays down her tribute of
gold, with frankincense and myrrh, Poetry weaves for
the Holy Child her beautiful songs, and crowns Him
with her fadeless amaranth; and so around the earthly
cradle of the Lord, as around His heavenly throne,
we have angelic songs, and "the voices of harpers,
harping with their harps."
Turning now to the four Gospel-psalmists—not,
however, to analyze, but to listen to their song—we
meet first with Elisabeth. This aged daughter of
Aaron, and wife of Zacharias, as we have seen, resided
somewhere in the hill-country of Judæa, in their quiet,
childless home. Righteous, blameless, and devout,
religion to her was no mere form; it was her life.
The Temple services, with which she was closely
associated, were to her no cold clatter of dead rites;
they were realities, full of life and full of music, as
her heart had caught their deeper meaning. But the
Temple, while it attracted her thoughts and hopes, did
not enclose them; its songs and services were to her
but so many needles, swinging round on their marble
pivot, and pointing beyond to the Living God, the God
who dwelt not in temples made with hands, but who,
then as now, inhabits the purified temple of the heart.
Long past the time when motherly hopes were possible,
the fretting had subsided, and her spirit had become,
first acquiescent, then quiescent. But these hopes had
been miraculously rekindled, as she slowly read the
vision of the Temple from the writing-table of her
dumb husband. The shadow of her dial had gone
backward; and instead of its being evening, with
gathering shadows and ever-lessening light, she found
herself back in the glow of the morning, her whole life
lifted to a higher level. She was to be the mother, if
not of the Christ, yet of His forerunner. And so the
Christ was near at hand, this was certain, and she had
the secret prophecy and promise of His advent. And
Elisabeth finds herself exalted—borne up, as it were,
into Paradise, among visions and such swells of
hosannas that she cannot utter them; they are too
sweet and too deep for her shallow words. Was it not
this, the storm of inward commotion, that drove her to
hide herself for the five months? Heaven has come so
near to her, such thoughts and visions fill her mind,
that she cannot bear the intrusions and jars of earthly
speech; and Elisabeth passes into a voluntary seclusion
and silence, keeping strange company with the dumb and
deaf Zacharias.
At length the silence is broken by the unexpected
appearance of her Nazareth relative. Mary, fresh from
her hasty journey, "entered into the house of Zacharias
and saluted Elisabeth." It is a singular expression, and
evidently denotes that the visit of the Virgin was altogether
unlooked for. There is no going out to meet
the expected guest, as was common in Eastern hospitalities;
there was even no welcome by the gate; but
like an apparition, Mary passes within, and salutes the
surprised Elisabeth, who returns the salutation, not,
however, in any of the prescribed forms, but in a
benediction of measured verse:—
"Blessed art thou among women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb!
And whence is this to me,
That the mother of my Lord should come unto me?
For, behold, when the voice of thy salutation came into mine ears
The babe leaped in my womb for joy.
And blessed is she that believed,
For there shall be a fulfilment of the things which have been spoken to her from the Lord."
The whole canticle—and it is Hebrew poetry, as its
parallelisms and strophes plainly show—is one apostrophe
to the Virgin. Striking the key-note in its
"Blessed art thou," the "thou" moves on, distinct
and clear, amid all variations, to the end, reaching its
climax in its central phrase, "The mother of my Lord."
As one hails the morning star, not so much for its own
light as for its promise of the greater light, the dayspring
that is behind it, so Elisabeth salutes the morning
star of the new dawn, at the same time paying homage
to the Sun, whose near approach the star heralds. And
why is Mary so blessed among women? Why should
Elisabeth, forgetting the dignity of years, bow so deferentially
before her youthful relative, crowning her
with a song? Who has informed her of the later
revelation at Nazareth? It is not necessary to suppose
that Elisabeth, in her seclusion, had received any
corroborative vision, or even that she had been supernaturally
enlightened. Had she not the message the
angel delivered to Zacharias? and was not that enough?
Her son was to be the Christ's forerunner, going, as the
angel said, before the face of "the Lord." Three times
had the angel designated the Coming One as "the
Lord," and this was the word she had carried with her
into her seclusion. What it meant she did not fully
understand; but she knew this, that it was He of whom
Moses and the prophets had written, the Shiloh, the
Wonderful; and as she put together the detached
Scriptures, adding, doubtless, some guesses of her own,
the Christ grew as a conception of her mind and the
desire of her heart into such colossal proportions that
even her own offspring was dwarfed in comparison,
and the thoughts of her own maternity became, in the
rush of greater thoughts, only as the stray eddies of the
stream. That such was the drift of her thoughts during
the five quiet months is evident; for now, taught of the
Holy Ghost that her kinswoman is to be the mother of
the expected One, she greets the unborn Christ with her
lesser Benedictus. Like the old painters, she puts her
aureole of song around the mother's head, but it is easy
to see that the mother's honours are but the far-off
reflections from the Child. Is Mary blessed among
women? it is not because of any wealth of native
grace, but because of the fruit of her womb. Does
Elisabeth throw herself right back in the shade, asking
almost abjectly, "Whence is this to me?" it is because,
like the centurion, she feels herself unworthy that even
the unborn "Lord" should come under her roof. And
so, while this song is really an ode to the Virgin, it is
virtually Elisabeth's salute of the Christ who is to be,
a salute in which her own offspring takes part, for she
speaks of his "leaping" in her womb, as if he were a
participant in her joy, interpreting its movements as
a sort of "Hail, Master!" The canticle thus becomes
invested with a higher significance. Its words say
much, but suggest more. It carries our thought out
from the seen to the unseen, from the mother to the
Holy Child, and Elisabeth's song thus becomes the
earliest "Hosannah to the Son of David," the first
prelude to the unceasing anthems that are to follow.
It will be observed that in the last line the song
drops out of the first and the second personals into
the third. It is no longer the frequent "thy," "thou,"
"my," but "she:" "Happy is she that believed."
Why is this change? Why does she not end as she
began—"Happy art thou who hast believed"? Simply
because she is no longer speaking of Mary alone. She
puts herself as well within this beatitude, and at the
same time states a general law, how faith ripens into a
harvest of blessedness. The last line thus becomes
the "Amen" of the song. It reaches up among the
eternal "Verilies," and sets them ringing. It speaks
of the Divine faithfulness, out of which and within
which human faith grows as an acorn within its cup.
And who could have better right to sing of the blessedness
of faith, and to introduce this New Testament
grace—not unknown in the Old Testament, but unnamed—as
she who was herself such an exemplification
of her theme? How calmly her own heart reposed on
the Divine word! How before her far-seeing and
foreseeing vision valleys were exalted, mountains and
hills made low, that the way of the Lord might appear!
Elisabeth sees the unseen Christ, lays before Him the
tribute of her song, the treasures of her affection and
devotion; even before the Magi had saluted the Child-King,
Elisabeth's heart had gone out to meet Him with
her hosannas, and her lips had greeted Him "My
Lord." Elisabeth is thus the first singer of the New
Dispensation; and though her song is more a bud of
poetry than the ripe, blossomed flower, enfolding rather
than unfolding its hidden beauties, it pours out a
fragrance sweeter than spikenard on the feet of the
Coming One, while it throws around Him the purple of
new royalties.
Turning now to the song of Mary, our Magnificat,
we come to poetry of a higher order. Elisabeth's
introit was evidently spoken under intense feeling; it
was the music of the storm; for "she lifted up her
voice with a loud cry." Mary's song, on the other
hand, is calm, the hymn of the "quiet resting-place."
There is no unnatural excitement now, no inward
perturbation, half mental and half physical. Mary was
perfectly self-possessed, as if the spell of some Divine
"peace" were upon her soul; and as Elisabeth's "loud
cry" ceased, Mary "said"—so it reads—her response.
But if the voice was lower, the thought was higher,
more majestic in its sweep. Elisabeth's song was on
the lower heights. "The mother of my Lord," this
was its starting-place, and the centre around which its
circles were described; and though its wings beat now
and again against the infinities, it does not attempt to
explore them, but returns timidly to its nest. But
Elisabeth's loftiest reach is Mary's starting-point; her
song begins where the song of Elisabeth ends. Striking
her key-note in the first line, "The Lord," this is
her one thought, the Alpha and Omega of her psalm.
We call it the Magnificat; it is a Te Deum, full of suggested
doxologies. Beginning with the personal, as she
is almost compelled to do by the intense personality of
Elizabeth's song, Mary hastes to gather up the eulogies
bestowed upon herself, and to bear them forward to
Him who merits all praise, as He is the Source of all
blessing. Her soul "magnifies the Lord," not that she,
by any weak words of hers, can add to His greatness,
which is infinite, but even she may give the Lord a
wider place within her thoughts and heart; and whoever
is silent, her song shall make "the voice of His
praise to be heard." Her spirit "hath rejoiced in God
her Saviour," and why? Has He not looked down on
her low estate, and done great things for her? "The
bondmaid of the Lord," as she a second time calls
herself, glorying in her bonds, such is her promotion
and exaltation that all generations shall call her blessed.
Then, with a beautiful effacement of self, which henceforth
is not even to be a mote playing in the sunshine,
she sings of Jehovah—His holiness, His might, His
mercy, His faithfulness.
Mary's song, both in its tone and language, belongs
to the Old Dispensation. Thoroughly Hebraic, and all
inlaid with Old Testament quotations, it is the swan-song
of Hebraism. There is not a single phrase,
perhaps not a single word, that bears a distinctive
Christian stamp; for the "Saviour" of the first strophe
is the "Saviour" of the Old Testament, and not of the
New, with a national rather than an evangelical meaning.
The heart of the singer is turned to the past
rather than to the future. Indeed, with the solitary
exception, how all generations shall call her blessed,
there is no passing glimpse into the future. Instead of
speaking of the Expected One, and blessing "the fruit
of her womb," her song does not even mention Him.
She tells how the Lord hath done great things for her,
but what those "great things" are she does not say;
she might, as far as her own song tells us, be simply
a later Miriam, singing of some family or personal
deliverance, a salvation which was one of a thousand.
A true daughter of Israel, she dwells among her own
people, and her very broadest vision sees in her offspring
no world-wide blessing, only a Deliverer for
Israel, His servant. Does she speak of mercy? it is
not that wider mercy that like a sea laves every shore,
bearing on its still bosom a redeemed humanity; it is
the narrower mercy "toward Abraham and his seed for
ever." Mary recognizes the unity of the Godhead, but
she does not recognize the unity, the brotherhood of
man. Her thought goes back to "our fathers," but
there it halts; the shrunken sinew of Hebrew thought
could not cross the prior centuries, to find the world's
common father in Paradise. But in saying this we do
not depreciate Mary's song. It is, and ever will be, the
Magnificat, great in its theme, and great in its conception.
Following the flight of Hannah's song, and making
use of its wings at times, it soars far above, and
sweeps far beyond its original. Not even David sings
of Jehovah in more exalted strains. The holiness of
God, the might supreme above all powers, the faithfulness
that cannot forget, and that never fails to fulfil,
the Divine choice and exaltation of the lowly—these
four chief chords of the Hebrew Psalter Mary strikes
with a touch that is sweet as it is clear.
Mary sang of God; she did not sing of the Christ.
Indeed, how could she? The Christ to be was part of
her own life, part of herself; how could she sing His
praise without an appearance of egotism and self-gratulation?
There are times when silence is more eloquent
than speech; and Mary's silence about the Christ was
but the silence of the winged cherubim, as they bend
over the ark, beholding and feeling a mystery they can
neither know nor tell. It was the hush inspired by
a near and glorious presence. And so the Magnificat,
while it tells us nothing of the Christ, swings our
thoughts around towards Him, sets us listening for
His advent; and Mary's silence is but the setting for
the Incarnate WORD.
The song of Zacharias follows that of Mary, not
only in the order of time, but also in its sequence of
thought. It forms a natural postlude to the Magnificat,
while both are but different parts of one song, this
earliest "Messiah." It is something remarkable that
our first three Christian hymns should have their birth
in the same nameless city of Judah, in the same house,
and probably in the same chamber; for the room,
which now is filled with the priest's relatives, and
where Zacharias breaks the long silence with his prophetic
Benedictus, is doubtless the same room where
Elisabeth chanted her greeting, and Mary sang her
Magnificat. The song of Mary circled about the
throne of Jehovah, nor could she leave that throne,
even to tell the great things the Lord had done for
her. Zacharias, coming down from his mount of vision
and of silence, gives us a wider outlook into the
Divine purpose. He sings of the "salvation" of the
Lord; and salvation, as it is the key-note of the heavenly
song, is the key-note of the Benedictus. Does he bless
the Lord, the God of Israel? it is because He has
"visited" (or looked upon) "His people, and wrought
redemption for" them; it is because He has provided
an abundant salvation, or a "horn of salvation," as
he calls it. Has God remembered His covenant, "the
oath He sware unto Abraham"? has He "shown
mercy towards their fathers"? that mercy and faithfulness
are seen in this wonderful salvation—a salvation
"from their enemies," and "from the hand of all that
hate" them. Is his child to be "the prophet of the
Most High," going "before the face of the Lord," and
making "ready His ways"? it is that he may "give
knowledge of" this "salvation," in "the remission of
sins." Then the psalm ends, falling back on its key-note;
for who are they who "sit in darkness and the
shadow of death," but a people lost? And who is the
Day-spring who visits them from on high, who shines
upon their darkness, turning it into day, and guiding
their lost feet into the way of peace, but the Redeemer,
the Saviour, whose name is "Wonderful"? And so
the Benedictus, while retaining the form and the very
language of the Old, breathes the spirit of the New
Dispensation. It is a fragrant breeze, blowing off from
the shores of a new, and now near world, a world
already seen and possessed by Zacharias in the anticipations
of faith. The Saviour whose advent the
inspired priest proclaims is no mere national deliverer,
driving back those eagles of Rome, and rebuilding the
throne of his father David. He might be all that—for
even prophetic vision had not sweep of the whole
horizon; it only saw the little segment of the circle
that was Divinely illumined—but to Zacharias He was
more, a great deal more. He was a Redeemer as well
as Deliverer; and a "redemption"—for it was a
Temple word—meant a price laid down, something
given. The salvation of which Zacharias speaks is not
simply a deliverance from our political enemies, and
from the hand of all that hate us. It was a salvation
higher, broader, deeper than that, a "salvation" that
reached to the profound depths of the human soul, and
that sounded its jubilee there, in the remission of sin
and deliverance from sin. Sin was the enemy to be
vanquished and destroyed, and the shadow of death
was but the shadow of sin. And Zacharias sings
of this great redemption that leads to salvation, while
the salvation leads into the Divine peace, to "holiness
and righteousness," and a service that is "without
fear."
The ark of Israel was borne by four of the sons of
Kohath; and here this ark of song and prophecy is
borne of four sweet singers, the sexes dividing the
honours equally. We have listened to the songs of
three, and have seen how they follow each other in
a regular, rhythmic succession, the thought moving
forward and outward in ever-widening circles. Where
is the fourth? and what is the burden of his song?
It is heard within the precincts of the Temple, as the
parents bring the Child Jesus, to introduce Him to
the visible sanctities of religion, and to consecrate Him
to the Lord. It is the Nunc Dimittis of the aged
Simeon. He too sings of "salvation," "Thy salvation"
as he calls it. It is the "consolation of Israel" he
has looked for so ardently and so long, and which the
Holy Ghost had assured him he should behold before
his promotion to the higher temple. But the vision
of Simeon was wider than that of Zacharias, as that
in turn was wider and clearer than the vision of Mary.
Zacharias saw the spiritual nature of this near salvation,
and he described it in words singularly deep and
accurate; but its breadth he did not seem to realize.
The theocracy was the atmosphere in which he lived
and moved; and even his vision was theocratic, and
so somewhat narrow. His Benedictus was for the "God
of Israel," and the "redemption" he sang was "for
His people." The "horn of salvation" is "for us;"
and all through his psalm these first personal pronouns
are frequent and emphatic, as if he would still insulate
this favoured people, and give them a monopoly even
of "redemption." The aged Simeon, however, stands
on a higher Pisgah. His is the nearer and the clearer
vision. Standing as he does in the Court of the
Gentiles, and holding in his arms the Infant Christ,
"the Lord's Christ," he sees in Him a Saviour for
humanity, "the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin
of the world." Still, as ever, "the glory of God's
people Israel," but likewise "a light for the unveiling
of the Gentiles." Like the sentry who keeps watch
through the night till the sunrise, Simeon has been
watching and longing for the Day-spring from on high,
reading from the stars of promise the wearing of the
night, and with the music of fond hopes "keeping
his heart awake till dawn of morn." Now at length
the consummation, which is the consolation, comes.
Simeon sees in the Child Jesus the world's hope and
Light, a salvation "prepared before the face of all
people." And seeing this, he sees all he desires.
Earth can give no brighter vision, no deeper joy, and
all his request is—
"Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart, O Lord,
According to Thy word, in peace;
For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation."
And so the four psalms of the Gospels form in
reality but one song, the notes rising higher and still
higher, until they reach the very pinnacle of the new
temple—God's purpose and plan of redemption; that
temple whose altar is a cross, and whose Victim is "the
Lamb slain from the foundation of the world;" that
temple where courts and dividing-lines all disappear;
where the Holiest of all lies open to a redeemed
humanity, and Jews and Gentiles, bond and free, old
and young, are alike "kings and priests unto God."
And so the Gospel psalms throw back, as it were, in a
thousand echoes, the Glorias of the Advent angels, as
they sing—
"Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace."
And what is this but earth's prelude or rehearsal for
the heavenly song, as all nations, and kindreds, and
peoples, and tongues, falling down before the Lamb in
the midst of the throne, sing, "Salvation unto our
God, which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb"?
CHAPTER IV.
THE VIRGIN MOTHER.
The Beautiful Gate of the Jewish Temple opened
into the "Court of the Women"—so named from
the fact that they were not allowed any nearer approach
towards the Holy Place. And as we open the gate of
the third Gospel we enter the Court of the Women;
for more than any other Evangelist, St. Luke records
their loving and varied ministries. Perhaps this is
owing to his profession, which naturally would bring
him into more frequent contact with feminine life. Or
perhaps it is a little Philippian colour thrown into his
Gospel; for we must not forget that St. Luke had been
left by the Apostle Paul at Philippi, to superintend the
Church that had been cradled in the prayers of the
"river-side" women. It may be a tinge of Lydia's
purple; or to speak more broadly and more literally,
it may be the subtle, unconscious influences of that
Philippian circle that have given a certain feminity to
our third Gospel. St. Luke alone gives us the psalms
of the three women, Anna, Elisabeth, and Mary; he
alone gives us the names of Susanna and Joanna, who
ministered to Christ of their substance; he alone gives
us that Galilean idyll, where the nameless "woman"
bathes His feet with tears, and at the same time rains
a hot rebuke on the cold civilities of the Pharisee,
Simon; he alone tells of the widow of Zarephath, who
welcomed and saved a prophet men were seeking to
slay; he alone tells us of the widow of Nain, of the
woman bent with infirmity, and of the woman grieving
over her lost piece of silver. And as St. Luke opens
his Gospel with woman's tribute of song, so in his last
chapter he paints for us that group of women, constant
amid man's inconstancies, coming ere the break of day,
to wrap around the body of the dead Christ the precious
and fragrant offering of devotion. So, in this Paradise
Restored, do Eve's daughters roll back the reproach of
their mother. But ever first and foremost among the
women of the Gospels we must place the Virgin
Mother, whose character and position in the Gospel
story we are now to consider.
We need not stay to discuss the question—perhaps
we ought not to stay even to give it a passing notice—whether
there might have been an Incarnation even
had there been no sin. It is not an impossible, it is
not an improbable supposition, that the Christ would
have come into the world even had man kept his first
estate of innocence and bliss. But then it would have
been the "Christ" simply, and not Jesus Christ. He
would have come into the world, not as its Redeemer,
but as the Son and Heir, laying tribute on all its
harvests; He would have come as the flower and
crown of a perfected humanity, to show the possibilities
of that humanity, its absolute perfections. But leaving
the "might-have-beens," in whose tenuous spaces there
is room for the nebulæ of fancies and of guesses without
number, let us narrow our vision within the horizon
of the real, the actual.
Given the necessity for an Incarnation, there are two
modes in which that Incarnation may be brought about—by
creation, or by birth. The first Adam came into
the world by the creative act of God. Without the
intervention of second causes, or any waiting for the
slow lapse of time, God spake, and it was done. Will
Scripture repeat itself here, in the new Genesis? and
will the second Adam, coming into the world to repair
the ruin wrought by the first, come as did the first?
We can easily conceive such an advent to be possible;
and if we regarded simply the analogies of the case,
we might even suppose it to be probable. But how
different a Christ it would have been! He might still
have been bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh; He
might have spoken the same truths, in the same speech
and tone; but He must have lived apart from the world.
It would not be our humanity that He wore; it would
only be its shadow, its semblance, playing before our
minds like an illusion. No, the Messiah must not be
simply a second Adam; He must be the Son of man,
and He cannot become Humanity's Son except by a
human birth. Any other advent, even though it had
satisfied the claims of reason, would have failed to
satisfy those deeper voices of the heart. And so, on
the first pages of Scripture, before Eden's gate is shut
and locked by bolts of flame, Heaven signifies its
intention and decision. The coming One, who shall
bruise the serpent's head, shall be the woman's "Seed"—the
Son of woman, that so He may become more
truly the Son of man; while later a strange expression
finds its way into the sacred prophecy, how "a
Virgin shall conceive, and bear a son." It is true
these words primarily might have a local meaning and
fulfilment—though what that narrower meaning was
no one can tell with any approach to certainty; but
looking at the singularity of the expression, and coupling
it with the story of the Advent, we can but see in it
a deeper meaning and a wider purpose. Evidently it
was that the virgin-conception might strike upon the
world's ear and become a familiar thought, and that
it might throw backwards across the pages of the Old
Testament the shadow of the Virgin Mother. We have
already seen how the thought of a Messianic motherhood
had dropped deep within the heart of the Hebrew
people, awaking hopes, and prayers, and all sorts of
beautiful dreams—dreams, alas! that vanished with the
years, and hopes that blossomed but to fade. But now
the hour is coming, that supreme hour for which the
centuries have all been waiting. The forerunner is
already announced, and in twelve short weeks he who
loved to call himself a Voice will break the strange
silence of that Judæan home. Whence will come his
Lord, who shall be "greater than he"? Where shall
we find the Mother-elect, for whom such honours have
been reserved—honours such as no mortal has ever
yet borne, and as none will ever bear again? St.
Luke tells us, "Now in the sixth month the angel
Gabriel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee,
named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose
name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the
virgin's name was Mary" (R.V.). And so the Mother-designate
takes her place in this firmament of Scripture,
silently and serenely as a morning star, which
indeed she is; for she shines in a borrowed splendour,
taking her glories all from Him around whom she
revolves, from Him who was both her Son and her
Sun.
It will be seen in the above verse how particular the
Evangelist is in his topographical reference, putting a
kind of emphasis upon the name which now appears
for the first time upon the pages of Scripture. When
we remember how Nazareth was honoured by the
angel visit; how it was, not the chance, but the chosen
home of the Christ for thirty years; how it watched and
guarded the Divine Infancy, throwing into that life its
powerful though unconscious influences, even as the
dead soil throws itself forward and upward into each
separate flower and farthest leaf; when we remember
how it linked its own name with the Name of Jesus,
becoming almost a part of it; how it wrote its name
upon the cross, then handing it down to the ages as
the name and watchword of a sect that should conquer
the world, we must admit that Nazareth is by no means
"the least among the cities" of Israel. And yet we
search in vain through the Old Testament for the name
of Nazareth. History, poetry, and prophecy alike pass
it by in silence. And so the Hebrew mind, while
rightly linking the expected One with Bethlehem, never
associated the Christ with Nazareth. Indeed, its moralities
had become so questionable and proverbial
that while the whole of Galilee was too dry a ground
to grow a prophet, Nazareth was thought incapable of
producing "any good thing." Was, then, the Nazareth
chapter of the Christ-life an afterthought of the Divine
Mind, like the marginal reading of an author's proof,
put in to fill up a blank or to be a substitute for some
erasure? Not so. It had been in the Divine Mind
from the beginning; yea, it had been in the authorized
text, though men had not read it plainly. It is
St. Matthew who first calls our attention to it. Writing,
as he does, mainly for Hebrew readers, he is constantly
looping up his story with the Old Testament prophecies;
and speaking of the return from Egypt, he says they
"came and dwelt in a city called Nazareth: that it
might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophets,
that He should be called a Nazarene." We said just
now that the name of Nazareth was not found in the
Old Testament. But if we do not find the proper
name, we find the word which is identical with the
name. It is now regarded by competent authorities as
proved that the Hebrew name for Nazareth was Netser.
Taking now this word in our mind, and turning to
Isaiah xi. 1, we read, "And there shall come forth a
shoot out of the stock of Jesse, and a branch [Netser]
out of his roots shall bear fruit: and the Spirit of the
Lord shall rest upon Him." Here, then, evidently,
is the prophetic voice to which St. Matthew refers;
and one little word—the name of Nazareth—becomes
the golden link binding in one the Prophecies and the
Gospels.
Returning to our main subject, it is to this secluded,
and somewhat despised city of Nazareth the angel
Gabriel is now sent, to announce the approaching birth
of Christ. St. Luke, in his nominative way of speaking,
says he came "to a Virgin betrothed to a man whose
name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the
Virgin's name was Mary." It is difficult for us to form
an unbiassed estimate of the character before us, as
our minds are feeling the inevitable recoil from Roman
assumptions. We are confused with the childish prattle
of their Ave Marias; we are amused at their dogmas of
Immaculate Conceptions and Ever Virginities; we are
surprised and shocked at their apotheosis of the Virgin,
as they lift her to a throne practically higher than that
of her Son, worshipped in devouter homage, supplicated
with more earnest and more frequent prayers,
and at the blasphemies of their Mariolatry, which
make her supreme on earth and supreme in heaven.
This undue exaltation of the Virgin Mother, which
becomes an adoration pure and simple, sends our Protestant
thought with a violent swing to the extreme of the
other side, considerably over the line of the "golden
mean." And so we find it hard to dissociate in our
minds the Virgin Mother from these Marian assumptions
and divinations; for which, however, she herself is in
no way responsible, and against which she would be
the first to protest. Seen only through these Romish
haloes, and atmospheres highly incensed, her very name
has been distorted, and her features, spoiled of all grace
and sweet serenity, have ceased to be attractive. But
this is not just. If Rome weights one scale with crowns,
and sceptres, and piles of imperial purple, we need not
load down the other with our prejudices, satires, and
negations. Two wrongs will not make a right. It is
neither on the crest of the wave, nor yet in the deep
trough of the billows, that we shall find the mean sea-level,
from which we can measure all heights, running
out our lines even among the stars. Can we not find
that mean sea-level now, hushing alike the voices of
adulation and of depreciation? Laying aside the traditions
of antiquity and the legends of scribulous monks,
laying aside, too, the coloured glasses of our prejudice,
with which we have been wont to protect our eyes from
the glare of Roman suns, may we not get a true portraiture
of the Virgin Mother, in all the native naturalness
of Scripture? We think we can.
She comes upon us silently and suddenly, emerging
from an obscurity whose secrets we cannot read. No
mention is made of her parents; tradition only has
supplied us with their names—Joachim and Anna. But
whether Joachim or not, it is certain that her father
was of the tribe of Judah, and of the house of David.
Having this fact to guide us, and also another fact,
that Mary was closely related to Elisabeth—though not
necessarily her cousin—who was of the tribe of Levi
and a daughter of Aaron, then it becomes probable, at
least, that the unnamed mother of the Virgin was of
the tribe of Levi, and so the connecting link between
the houses of Levi and Judah—a probability which
receives an indirect but strong confirmation in the fact
that Nazareth was intimately connected with Jerusalem
and the Temple, one of the cities selected as a residence
of the priests. May we not, then, suppose that this
unnamed mother of the Virgin was a daughter of one
of the priests then residing at Nazareth, and that Mary's
relatives on the mother's side—some of them—were
also priests, going up at stated times to Jerusalem, to
perform their "course" of Temple services? It is certainly
a most natural supposition, and one, too, that
will help to remove some subsequent difficulties in the
story; as, for instance, the journey of Mary to Judæa.
Some honest minds have stumbled at that long journey
of a hundred miles, while others have grown pathetic
in their descriptions of that lonely pilgrimage of the
Galilean Virgin. But it is neither necessary nor likely
that Mary should take the journey alone. Her connection
with the priesthood, if our supposition be correct,
would find her an escort, even among her own relatives,
as least as far as Jerusalem; and since the priestly
courses were half-yearly in their service, it would be
just the time the "course of Abijah," in which Zacharias
served, would be returning once again to their Judæan
homes. It is only a supposition, it is true, but it is a
supposition that is extremely natural and more than
probable; and if we look through it, taking "Levi"
and "Judah" as our binocular lenses, it carries a
thread of light through otherwise dark places; while
throwing our sight forward, it brings distant Nazareth
in line with Jerusalem and the "hill-country of Judæa."
Betrothed to Joseph, who was of the royal line, and
as some think, the legal heir to David's throne, Mary
was probably not more than twenty years of age.
Whether an orphan or not we cannot tell, though the
silence of Scripture would almost lead us to suppose
that she was. Papias, however, who was a disciple
of St. John, states that she had two sisters—Mary the
wife of Cleophas, and Mary Salome the wife of Zebedee.
If this be so—and there is no reason why we should
discredit the statement—then Mary the Virgin Mother
would probably be the eldest of the three sisters, the
house-mother in the Nazareth home. Where it was
that the angel appeared to her we cannot tell. Tradition,
with one of its random guesses, has fixed the spot
in the suburbs, beside the fountain. But there is something
incongruous and absurd in the selection of such
a place for an angelic appearance—the public resort and
lounge, where the clatter of feminine gossip was about
as constant as the flow and sparkle of its waters. Indeed,
the very form of the participle disposes of that
tradition, for we read, "He came in unto her," implying
that it was within her holy place of home the angel
found her. Nor is there any need to suppose, as some
do, that it was in her quiet chamber of devotion, where
she was observing the stated hours of prayer. Celestials
do not draw that broad line of distinction between
so-called secular and sacred duties. To them "work"
is but another form of "worship," and all duties to them
are sacred, even when they lie among life's temporal,
and so-called secular things. Indeed, Heaven reserves
its highest visions, not for those quiet moments of still
devotion, but for the hours of busy toil, when mind and
body are given to the "trivial rounds" and the "common
tasks" of every-day life. Moses is at his shepherding
when the bush calls him aside, with its tongues of fire;
Gideon is threshing out his wheat when God's angel
greets him and summons him to the higher task; and
Zacharias is performing the routine service of his
priestly office when Gabriel salutes him with the first
voice of a New Dispensation. And so all the analogies
would lead us to suppose that the Virgin was quietly
engaged in her domestic duties, offering the sacrifice of
her daily task, as Zacharias offered his incense of stacte
and onycha, when Gabriel addressed her, "Hail, thou
that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee" (R.V.).
The Romanists, eager to accord Divine honours to the
Virgin Mother as the dispenser of blessing and of grace,
interpret the phrase, "Thou that art full of grace." It
is, perhaps, not an inapt rendering of the word, and is
certainly more euphonious than our marginal reading
"much graced;" but when they make the "grace" an
inherent, and not a derived grace, their doctrine slants
off from all Scripture, and is opposed to all reason.
That the word itself gives no countenance to such an
enthronement of Mary, is evident, for St. Paul makes
use of the same word when speaking of himself and
the Ephesian Christians (Eph. i. 6), where we render it
"His grace, which He freely bestowed on us in the
Beloved." But criticism apart, never before had an
angel so addressed a mortal, for even Daniel's "greatly
beloved" falls below this Nazareth greeting. When
Gabriel came to Zacharias there was not even a "Hail;"
it was simply a "Fear not," and then the message; but
now he gives to Mary a "Hail" and two beatitudes
besides: "Thou art highly favoured;" "the Lord is with
thee." And do these words mean nothing? Are they
but a few heavenly courtesies whose only meaning is
in their sound? Heaven does not speak thus with
random, unmeaning words. Its voices are true, and
deep as they are true, never meaning less, but often
more than they say. That the angel should so address
her is certain proof that the Virgin possessed a peculiar
fitness for the Divine honours she was now to receive—honours
which had been so long held back, as if in
reserve for herself alone. It is only they who look
heavenward who see heavenly things. There must be a
heart aflame before the bush burns; and when the bush
is alight it is only "he who sees takes off his shoes."
The glimpses we get of the Virgin are few and
brief; she is soon eclipsed—if we may be allowed that
shadowy word—by the greater glories of her Son;
but why should she be selected as the mother of the
human Christ? why should her life nourish His? why
should the thirty years be spent in her daily presence,
her face being the first vision of awaking consciousness,
as it was in the last earthward look from the cross?—why
all this, except that there was a wealth of beauty
and of grace about her nature, a certain tinge of
heavenliness that made it fitting the Messiah should
be born of her rather than of any woman else? As
we have seen, the royal and the priestly lines meet in
her, and Mary unites in herself all the dignity of the
one with the sanctity of the other. With what delicacy
and grace she receives the angel's message! "Greatly
troubled" at first—not, however, like Zacharias, at the
sight of the messenger, but at his message—she soon
recovers herself, and "casts in her mind what manner
of salutation this might be." This sentence just describes
one prominent feature of her character, her
reflective, reasoning mind. Sparing of words, except
when under the inspiration of some Magnificat, she
lived much within herself. She loved the companionship
of her own thoughts, finding a certain music in
their still monologue. When the shepherds made known
the saying of the angel about this child, repeating the
angelic song, perhaps, with sundry variations of their
own, Mary is neither elated nor astonished. Whatever
her feelings—and they must have been profoundly
moved—she carefully conceals them. Instead of telling
out her own deep secrets, letting herself drift out on the
ecstasies of the moment, Mary is silent, serenely quiet,
unwilling that even a shadow of herself should dim the
brightness of His rising. "She kept," so we read, "all
these sayings, pondering them in her heart;" or putting
them together, as the Greek word means, and so forming,
as in a mental mosaic, her picture of the Christ who was
to be. And so, in later years, we read (ii. 51) how "His
mother kept all these sayings in her heart," gathering
up the fragmentary sentences of the Divine Childhood
and Youth, and hiding them, as a treasure peculiarly
her own, in the deep, still chambers of her soul. And
what those still chambers of her soul were, how heavenly
the atmosphere that enswathed them, how hallowed by
the Divine Presence, her Magnificat will show; for that
inspired psalm is but an opened window, letting the
music pass without, as it throws the light within,
showing us the temple of a quiet, devout, and thoughtful
soul.
With what complacency and with what little surprise
she received the angel's message! The Incarnation
does not come upon her as a new thought, a thought
for which her mind cannot possibly find room, and
human speech can weave no fitting dress. It disturbs
neither her reason nor her faith. Versed in Scripture
as she is, it comes rather as a familiar thought—a
heavenly dove, it is true, but gliding down within her
mind in a perfect, because a heavenly naturalness.
And when the angel announces that the "Son of the
Most High," whose name shall be called Jesus, and
who shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever,
shall be born of herself, there is no exclamation of
astonishment, no word of incredulity as to whether
this can be, but simply a question as to the manner
of its accomplishment: "How shall this be, seeing that
I know not a man?" The Christ had evidently been
conceived in her mind, and cradled in her heart, even
before He became a conception of her womb.
And what an absolute self-surrender to the Divine
purpose! No sooner has the angel told her that the
Holy Ghost shall come upon her, and the power of
the Most High overshadow her, than she bows to the
Supreme Will in a lowly, reverential acquiescence:
"Behold, the handmaid [bondmaid] of the Lord; be
it unto me according to thy word." So do the human
and the Divine wills meet and mingle. Heaven
touches earth, comes down into it, that earth may
evermore touch heaven, and indeed form part of it.
The angel departs, leaving her alone with her great
secret; and little by little it dawns upon her, as it
could not have done at first, what this secret means
for her. A great honour it is, a great joy it will be;
but Mary finds, as we all find, the path to heaven's
glories lies through suffering; the way into the wealthy
place is "through the fire." How can she carry this
great secret herself? and yet how can she tell it?
Who will believe her report? Will not these Nazarenes
laugh at her story of the vision, except that
the matter would be too grave for a smile? It is her
own secret yet, but it cannot be a secret long; and
then—who can defend her, and ward off the inevitable
shame? Where can she find shelter from the venomed
shafts that will be hurled from every side—where, save
in her consciousness of unsullied purity, and in the
"shadow of the Highest"? Was it thoughts like
these that now agitated her mind, deciding her to
make the hasty visit to Elisabeth? or was it that
she might find sympathy and counsel in communion
with a kindred soul, one that age had made wise, and
grace made beautiful? Probably it was both; but in
this journey we will not follow her now, except to see
how her faith in God never once wavered. We have
already listened to her sweet song; but what a sublime
faith it shows, that she can sing in face of this gathering
storm, a storm of suspicion and of shame, when
Joseph himself will seek to put her away, lest his
character should suffer too! But Mary believed, even
though she felt and smarted. She endured "as seeing
Him who is invisible." Could she not safely leave
her character to Him? Would not the Lord avenge
His own elect? Would not Divine Wisdom justify
her child? Faith and hope said "Yes;" and Mary's
soul, like a nightingale, trilled out her Magnificat when
earth's light was disappearing, and the shadows were
falling thick and fast on every side.
It is on her return to Nazareth, after her three
months' absence, that the episode occurs narrated by
St. Matthew. It is thrown into the story almost by
way of parenthesis, but it casts a vivid light on the
painful experience through which she was now called
to pass. Her prolonged absence, most unusual for
one betrothed, was in itself puzzling; but she returns
to find only a scant welcome. She finds herself
suspected of shame and sin, "the white flower of
her blameless life" dashed and stained with black
aspersions. Even Joseph's confidence in her is shaken,
so shaken that he must put her away and have the
betrothal cancelled. And so the clouds darken about
the Virgin; she is left almost alone in the sharp
travail of her soul, charged with sin, even when she
is preparing for the world a Saviour, and likely, unless
Heaven speedily interpose, to become an outcast,
if not a martyr, thrown outside the circle of human
courtesies and sympathies as a social leper. Like
another heir of all the promises, she too is led as
a lamb to the slaughter, a victim bound, and all but
sacrificed, upon the altar of the public conscience. But
Heaven did intervene, even as it stayed the knife of
Abraham. An angel appears to Joseph, throwing
around the suspected one the mantle of unsullied
innocence, and assuring him that her explanation,
though passing strange, was truth itself. And so the
Lord did avenge His own elect, stilling the babble
of unfriendly tongues, restoring to her all the lost
confidences, together with a wealth of added hopes
and prospective honours.
Not, however, out of Galilee must the Shiloh come,
but out of Judah; and not Nazareth, but Bethlehem
Ephratah is the designated place of His coming forth
who shall be the Governor and Shepherd of "My people
Israel." What means, then, this apparent divergence
of the Providence from the Prophecy, the whole drift
of the one being northward, while the other points
steadily to the south? It is only a seeming divergence,
the backward flash of the wheel that all the time
is moving steadily, swiftly forward. The Prophecy
and the Providence are but the two staves of the ark,
moving in different but parallel lines, and bearing
between them the Divine purpose. Already the line
is laid that links Nazareth with Bethlehem, the line of
descent we call lineage; and now we see Providence
setting in motion another force, the Imperial Will, which,
moving along this line, makes the purpose a realization.
Nor was it the Imperial Will only; it was the Imperial
Will acting through Jewish prejudices. These two
forces, antagonistic, if not opposite, were the centrifugal
and centripetal forces that kept the Divine Purpose
moving in its appointed round and keeping Divine
hours. Had the registration decreed by Cæsar been
conducted after the Roman manner, Joseph and Mary
would not have been required to go up to Bethlehem;
but when, out of deference to Jewish prejudice, the
registration was made in the Hebrew mode, this compelled
them, both being descendants of David, to go
up to their ancestral city. It has been thought by
some that Mary possessed some inherited property in
Bethlehem; and the narrative would suggest that there
were other links that bound them to the city; for
evidently they intended to make Bethlehem henceforth
their place of residence, and they would have done so
had not a Divine monition broken in upon their purpose
(Matt. ii. 23).
And so they move southward, obeying the mandate
of Cæsar, who now is simply the executor of the
higher Will, the Will that moves silently but surely,
back of all thrones, principalities, and powers. We
will not attempt to gild the gold, by enlarging upon
the story of the Nativity, and so robbing it of its sweet
simplicity. The toilsome journey; its inhospitable
ending; the stable and the manger; the angelic symphonies
in the distance; the adoration of the shepherds—all
form one sweet idyll, no word of which we can
spare; and as the Church chants her Te Deum
all down the ages this will not be one of its lowest
strains:—
"When Thou tookest upon Thee to deliver man
Thou didst not abhor the Virgin's womb."
And so the Virgin becomes the Virgin Mother,
graduating into motherhood amid the acclamations of
the sky, and borne on to her exalted honours in the
sweep of Imperial decrees.
After the Nativity she sinks back into a second—a
far-off second—place, "for the greater glory doth
dim the less;" and twice only does her voice break
the silence of the thirty years. We hear it first in the
Temple, as, in tones tremulous with anxiety and sorrow,
she asks, "Son, why hast Thou thus dealt with us?
Behold, Thy father and I sought Thee sorrowing."
The whole incident is perplexing, and if we read it
superficially, not staying to read between the lines, it
certainly places the mother in anything but a favourable
light. Let us observe, however, that there was no necessity
that the mother should have made this pilgrimage,
and evidently she had made it so that she might be near
her precious charge. But now she strangely loses
sight of Him, and goes even a day's journey without
discovering her loss. How is this? Has she suddenly
grown careless? or does she lose both herself and her
charge in the excitements of the return journey?
Thoughtfulness, as we have seen, was a characteristic
feature of her life. Hers was the "harvest of the
quiet eye," and her thoughts centred not on herself,
but on her Divine Son; He was her Alpha and Omega,
her first, her last, her only thought. It is altogether
outside the range of possibilities that she now could
be so negligent of her maternal duties, and so we are
compelled to seek for our explanation elsewhere. May
we not find it in this? The parents had left Jerusalem
earlier in the day, arranging for the child Jesus to
follow with another part of the same company, which,
leaving later, would overtake them at their first camp.
But Jesus not appearing when the second company
starts, they imagine that He has gone on with the
first company, and so proceed without Him. This
seems the only probable solution of the difficulty; at
any rate it makes plain and perfectly natural what
else is most obscure and perplexing. Mary's mistake,
however—and it was not her fault—opens to us a page
in the sealed volume of the Divine Boyhood, letting us
hear its solitary voice—"Wist ye not that I must be
in My Father's house?"
We see the mother again at Cana, where she is an
invited and honoured guest at the marriage, moving
about among the servants with a certain quiet authority,
and telling her Divine Son of the breakdown in the
hospitalities: "They have no wine." We cannot now
go into details, but evidently there was no distancing
reserve between the mother and her Son. She goes
to Him naturally; she speaks to Him freely and
frankly, as any widow would speak to the son on
whom she leaned. Nay, she seems to know, as by a
sort of intuition, of the superhuman powers that are
lying dormant in that quiet Son of hers, and she so
correctly reads the horoscope of Heaven as to expect
this will be the hour and the place of their manifestation.
Perhaps her mind did not grasp the true Divinity
of her Son—indeed, it could not have done so before
the Resurrection—but that He is the Messiah she has
no doubt, and so, strong in her confidence, she says to
the servants, "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it."
And her faith must have been great indeed, when it
required a "whatsoever" to measure it. Some have
thought they could detect a tinge of impatience and a
tone of rebuke in the reply of Jesus; and doubtless
there is a little sharpness in our English rendering of
it. It does sound to our ears somewhat unfilial and
harsh. But to the Greeks the address "Woman" was
both courteous and respectful, and Jesus Himself uses
it in that last tender salute from the cross. Certainly,
she did not take it as a rebuke, for one harsh word,
like the touch on the sensitive plant, would have thrown
her back into silence; whereas she goes off directly to
the servants with her "whatsoever."
We get one more brief glimpse of her at Capernaum,
as she and her other sons come out to Jesus to urge
Him to desist from His long speaking. It is but a
simple narrative, but it serves to throw a side-light on
that home-life now removed to Capernaum. It shows
us the thoughtful, loving mother, as, forgetful of herself
and full of solicitude for Him, who, she fears, will tax
Himself beyond His strength, she comes out to persuade
Him home. But what is the meaning of that
strange answer, and the significant gesture? "Mother,"
"brethren"? It is as if Jesus did not understand the
words. They are something He has now outgrown,
something He must now lay aside, as He gives Himself
to the world at large. As there comes a time in the
life of each when the mother is forsaken—left, that he
may follow a higher call, and be himself a man—so
Jesus now steps out into a world where Mary's heart,
indeed, may still follow, but a world her mind may not
enter. The earthly relation is henceforth to be overshadowed
by the heavenly. The Son of Mary grows
into the Son of man, belonging now to no special one,
but to humanity at large, finding in all, even in us,
who do the will of the Father in heaven, a brother, a
sister, a mother. Not that Jesus forgets her. Oh, no!
Even amid the agonies of the cross He thinks of her;
He singles her out among the crowd, bespeaking for
her a place—the place He Himself has filled—in the
heart of His nearest earthly friend; and amid the
prayer for His murderers, and the "Eloi, Eloi" of a
terrible forsaking, He says to the Apostle of love,
"Behold thy mother," and to her, "Behold thy son."
And so the Virgin Mother takes her place in the
focal point of all the histories. Through no choice,
no conceit or forwardness of her own, but by the grace
of God and by an inherent fitness, she becomes
the connecting-link between earth and heaven. And
throwing, as she does, her unconscious shadow back
within the Paradise Lost, and forward through the
Gospels to the Paradise Regained, shall we not "magnify
the Lord" with her? shall we not "magnify the
Lord" for her, as, with all the generations, we "call
her blessed"?
CHAPTER V.
THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS.
Luke ii. 8-21.
The Gospel of St. Mark omits entirely the Nativity,
passing at once to the words and miracles of His
public ministry. St. John, too, dismisses the Advent
and the earlier years of the Divine Life with one
solitary phrase, how the Word, which in the beginning
was with God and was God, "became flesh and dwelt
among us" (i. 14). St. Luke, however, whose Gospel
is the Gospel of the Humanity, lingers reverently over
the Nativity, throwing a variety of side-lights upon the
cradle of the Holy Child. Already has he shown how
the Roman State prepared the cradle of the Infancy,
and how Cæsar Augustus unconsciously wrought out
the purpose of God, the breath of his imperial decree
being but part of a higher inspiration; and now he
proceeds to show how the shepherds of Judæa bring the
greetings of the Hebrew world, the wave-sheaf of the
ripening harvests of homage which yet will be laid, by
Jew and Gentile alike, at the feet of Him who was Son
of David and Son of man.
It is generally supposed that these anonymous
shepherds were residents of Bethlehem, and tradition
has fixed the exact spot where they were favoured with
this Advent apocalypse, about a thousand paces from
the modern village. It is a historic fact that there was
a tower near that site, called Eder, or "the Tower of
the Flock," around which were pastured the flocks
destined for the Temple sacrifice; but the topography
of ver. 8 is purposely vague. The expression "in that
same country," written by one who both in years and
in distance was far removed from the events recorded,
would describe any circle within the radius of a few
miles from Bethlehem as its centre, and the very
vagueness of the expression seems to push back the
scene of the Advent music to a farther distance than
a thousand paces. And this view is confirmed by the
language of the shepherds themselves, who, when the
vision has faded, say one to another, "Let us now go
even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to
pass;" for they scarcely would have needed, or used,
the adverbial "even" were they keeping their flocks so
close up to the walls of the city. We may therefore
infer, with some amount of probability, that whether
the shepherds were residents of Bethlehem or not,
when they kept watch over their flocks, it was not on
the traditional site, but farther away over the hills.
Indeed, it is difficult, and very often impossible, for us
to fix the precise locality of these sacred scenes, these
bright points of intersection, where Heaven's glories
flash out against the dull carbon-points of earth; and
the voices of tradition are at best but doubtful guesses.
It would almost seem as if God Himself had wiped out
these memories, hiding them away, as He hid the
sepulchre of Moses, lest the world should pay them too
great a homage, and lest we might think that one
place lay nearer to heaven than another, when all
places are equally distant, or rather equally near. It
is enough to know that somewhere on these lonely hills
came the vision of the angels, perhaps on the very
spot where David was minding his sheep when
Heaven summoned him to a higher task, passing him
up among the kings.
While the shepherds were "watching the watches of
the night over their flock," as the Evangelist expresses
it, referring to the pastoral custom of dividing the night
into watches, and keeping watch by turns, suddenly
"an angel of the Lord stood by them, and the glory of
the Lord shone round about them." When the angel
appeared to Zacharias, and when Gabriel brought to
Mary her evangel, we do not read of any supernatural
portent, any celestial glory, attending them. Possibly
because their appearances were in the broad daylight,
when the glory would be masked, invisible; but now,
in the dead of night, the angelic form is bright and
luminous, throwing all around them a sort of heavenly
halo, in which even the lustrous Syrian stars grow
dim. Dazzled by the sudden burst of glory, the
shepherds were awed by the vision, and stricken with
a great fear, until the angel, borrowing the tones and
accents of their own speech, addressed to them his
message, the message he had been commissioned to
bring: "Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good
tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people: for
there is born to you this day in the city of David a
Saviour, which is Christ the Lord." And then he gave
them a sign by which they might recognize the Saviour
Lord: "Ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling
clothes, and lying in a manger."
From the indefinite wording of the narrative we
should infer that the angel who brought the message to
the shepherds was not Gabriel, who had before brought
the good tidings to Mary. But whether or not the
messenger was the same, the two messages are almost
identical in structure and in thought, the only difference
being the personal element of the equation, and the
shifting of the time from the future to the present tense.
Both strike the same key-note, the "Fear not" with
which they seek to still the vibrations of the heart, that
the Virgin and the shepherds may not have their vision
blurred and tremulous through the agitation of the mind.
Both make mention of the name of David, which name
was the key-word which unlocked all Messianic hopes.
Both speak of the Child as a Saviour—though Gabriel
wraps up the title within the name, "Thou shalt call
His name Jesus;" for, as St. Matthew explains it, "it
is He that shall save His people from their sins." Both,
too, speak of Him as the Messiah; for when the angel
now calls Him the "Christ" it was the same "Anointed"
one who, as Gabriel had said, "should reign over the
house of Jacob for ever;" while in the last august title
now given by the angel, "Lord," we may recognize the
higher Divinity—that He is, in some unique, and to us
incomprehensible sense, "the Son of the Most High"
(i. 32). Such, then, is the triple crown the angel now
bears to the cradle of the Holy Child. What He will
be to the world is still but a prophecy; but as He, the
Firstborn, is now brought into the world, God commands
all the angels to worship Him (Heb. i. 6); and with
united voice—though the antiphon sings back over a
nine months silence—they salute the Child of Bethlehem
as Saviour, Messiah, Lord. The one title sets up His
throne facing the lower world, commanding the powers
of darkness, and looking at the moral conditions of men;
the second throws the shadow of His throne over the
political relations of men, making it dominate all thrones;
while the third title sets up His throne facing the
heavens themselves, vesting Him with a supreme, a
Divine authority.
No sooner was the message ended than suddenly
there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly
host, praising God and saying—
"Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace among men in whom He is well pleased."
The Revised Version lacks the rhythmic qualities of
the Authorized Version; and the wordy clause "among
men in whom He is well pleased" seems but a poor
substitute for the terse and clear "good-will toward
men," which is an expression easy of utterance, and
which seemed to have earned a prescriptive right to a
place in our Advent music. The revised rendering,
however, is certainly more in accord with the grammatical
construction of the original, whose idiomatic
form can scarcely be put into English, except in a way
somewhat circuitous and involved. In both expressions
the underlying thought is the same, representing man
as the object of the Divine good-pleasure, that Divine
"benevolence"—using the word in its etymological
sense—which enfolds, in the germ, the Divine favour,
compassion, mercy, and love. There is thus a triple
parallelism running through the song, the "Glory to
God in the highest" finding its corresponding terms in
the "peace among (or to) men in whom He is well
pleased on earth;" while altogether it forms one complete
circle of praise, the "good-pleasure to man," the
"peace on earth," the "glory to God" marking off its
three segments. And so the song harmonizes with the
message; indeed, it is that message in an altered shape;
no longer walking in common prosaic ways, but winged
now, it moves in its higher circles with measured beat,
leaving a path from the cradle of the Infancy to the
highest heavens all strewn with Glorias. And what is
the triplicity of the song but another rendering of the
three august titles of the message—Saviour, Messiah,
Lord? the "Saviour" being the expression of the Divine
good-pleasure; the "Messiah" telling of His reign upon
earth who is Himself the Prince of peace; while the
"Lord," which, as we have seen, corresponds with
"the Son of the Most High," leads us up directly to
the "heavenlies," to Him who commands and who
deserves all doxologies.
But is this song only a song in some far-distant sky—a
sweet memory indeed, but no experience? Is it not
rather the original from which copies may be struck for
our individual lives? There is for each of us an advent,
if we will accept it; for what is regeneration but the
beginning of the Divine life within our life, the advent
of the Christ Himself? And let but that supreme hour
come to us when place and room are made for Him
who is at once the expression of the Divine favour and
the incarnation of the Divine love, and the new era
dawns, the reign of peace, the "peace of God," because
the "peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ."
Then will the heart throw off its Glorias, not in one
burst of song, which subsides quickly into silence, but
in one perpetual anthem, which ever becomes more loud
and sweet as the day of its perfected redemption draweth
nigh; for when the Divine displeasure is turned away,
and a Divine peace or comfort takes its place, who can
but say, "O Lord, I will praise Thee"?
Directly the angel-song had ceased, and the singers
had disappeared in the deep silence whence they came,
the shepherds, garnering up their scattered thoughts,
said one to another (as if their hearts were speaking all
at once and all in unison), "Let us now go even unto
Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to pass
which the Lord hath made known unto us." The
response was immediate. They do not shut out this
heavenly truth by doubt and vain questioning; they
do not keep it at a distance from them, as if it only
indirectly and distantly concerned themselves, but yield
themselves up to it entirely; and as they go hastily to
Bethlehem, in the quick step and in the rapid beating
of their heart, we can trace the vibrations of the angel-song.
And why is this? Why is it that the message
does not come upon them as a surprise? Why are
these men ready with such a perfect acquiescence,
their hearts leaping forward to meet and embrace this
Gospel of the angels? We shall probably find our
answer in the character of the men themselves. They
pass into history unnamed; and after playing their
brief part, they disappear, lost in the incense-cloud of
their own praises. But evidently these shepherds were
no mean, no common men. They were Hebrews, possibly
of the royal line; at any rate they were Davids
in their loftiness of thought, of hope and aspiration.
They were devout, God-fearing men. Like their father
Jacob, they too were citizens of two worlds; they
could lead their flocks into green pastures, and mend
the fold; or they could turn aside from flock and fold
to wrestle with God's angels, and prevail. Heaven's
revelations come to noble minds, as the loftiest peaks
are always the first to hail the dawn. And can we
suppose that Heaven would so honour them, lighting
up the sky with an aureole of glory for their sole
benefit, sending this multitude to sing to them a sweet
chorale, if the men themselves had nothing heavenly
about them, if their selfish, sordid mind could soar no
higher than their flocks, and have no wider range than
the markets for their wool?
"Let but a flute
Play 'neath the fine-mixed metal,
Then shall the huge bell tremble, then the mass
With myriad waves concurrent shall respond
In low, soft unison."
But there must be the music hidden within, or there
is no unison. And we may be sure of this, that the
angel-song had passed by them as a cold night-wind,
had not their hearts been tuned up by intense desire,
until they struck responsive to the angel-voice. Though
they knew it not, they had led their flock to the mount
of God; and up the steps of sacred hopes and lofty
aspirations they had climbed, until their lives had got
within the circle of heavenly harmonies, and they were
worthy to be the first apostles of the New Dispensation.
In our earthly modes of thinking we push the sacred
and the secular far apart, as if they were two different
worlds, or, at any rate, as opposite hemispheres of the
same world, with but few points of contact between
them. It is not so. The secular is the sacred on its
under, its earthward side. It is a part of that great
whole we call duty, and in our earthly callings, if they
are but pure and honest, we may hear the echoes of a
heavenly call. The temple of Worship and the temple
of Work are not separated by indefinable spaces; they
are contiguous, leaning upon each other, while they
both front the same Divine purpose. Nor can it be
simply a coincidence that Heaven's revelations should
nearly always come to man in the moments of earthly
toil, rather than in the hours of leisure or of so-called
worship. It was from his shepherding the burning
bush beckoned Moses aside; while Heaven's messenger
found Gideon on the threshing-floor, and Elisha in the
furrow. In the New Testament, too, in all the cases
whose circumstances are recorded, the Divine call
reached the disciples when engaged in their every-day
task, sitting at the receipt of custom, and casting or
mending their nets. The fact is significant. In the
estimate of Heaven, instead of a discount being put upon
the common tasks of life, those tasks are dignified and
ennobled. They look towards heaven, and if the heart
be only set in that direction they lead too up towards
heaven. Our weeks are not unlike the sheet of Peter's
vision; we take care to tie up the two ends, attaching
them to heaven, and then we leave what we call the
"week-days" bulging down earthward in purely secular
fashion. But would not our weeks, and our whole life,
swing on a higher and holier level, could we but recognize
the fact that all days are the Lord's days, and
did we but attach each day and each deed to heaven?
Such is the truest, noblest life, that takes the "trivial
rounds" as a part of its sacred duties, doing them all
as unto the Lord. So, as we sanctify life's common
things, they cease to be common, and the earthly
becomes less earthly as we learn to see more of heaven
in it. In the weaving of our life some of its threads
stretch earthward, and some heavenward; but they
cross and interlace, and together they form the warp
and woof of one fabric, which should be, like the garment
of the Master, without seam, woven from the top
throughout. Happy is that life which, keeping an open
eye over the flock, keeps too a heart open towards
heaven, ready to listen to the angelic music, and ready
to transfer its rhythm to their own hastening feet or
their praising lips.
Our Evangelist tells us that they "came in haste"
in search of the young Child, and we may almost detect
that haste in the very accents of their speech. It is,
"Let us now go across even to Bethlehem," allowing
the prefix its proper meaning; as if their eager hearts
could not stay to go round by the ordinary road, but
like bees scenting a held of clover, they too must make
their cross-country way to Bethlehem. Though the
angel had not given explicit directions, the city of
David was not so large but that they could easily discover
the object of their search—the Child, as had been
told them, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in
a manager. It has been thought by some that the
"inn" is a mistranslation, and that it really was the
"guest-chamber" of some friend. It is true the word
is rendered "guest-chamber" on the other two occasions
of its use (Mark xiv. 14; Luke xxii. 11), but it also
signified a public guest-house, as well as a private
guest-chamber; and such evidently is its meaning here,
for private hospitality, even had its "guest-chamber"
been preoccupied, would certainly, under the circumstances,
have offered something more human than a
stable. That would not have been its only alternative.
It is an interesting coincidence, and one serving to
link together the Old and the New Testament, that
Jeremiah speaks of a certain geruth, or inn, as it may
read, "which is by Beth-lehem" (Jer. xli. 17). How
it came into the possession of Chimham, who was a
Gileadite, we are not told; but we are told that because
of the kindness shown to David in his exile by
Barzillai, his son Chimham received special marks of
the royal favour, and was, in fact, treated almost as an
adopted son (1 Kings ii. 7). What is certain is that
the khan of Bethlehem bore, for successive generations,
the name of Chimham; which fact is in itself
evidence that Chimham was its builder, as the well of
Jacob retained, through all the changes of inheritance,
the name of the patriarch whose thought and gift it
was. In all probability, therefore, the "inn" was built
by Chimham, on that part of the paternal estate which
David inherited; and as the khans of the East cling
with remarkable tenacity to their original sites, it is
probable, to say the least, that the "inn of Chimham"
and the inn of Bethlehem, in which there was no room
for the two late-comers from Nazareth, were, if not
identical, at any rate related structures—so strangely
does the cycle of history complete itself, and the Old
merge into the New. And so, while Prophecy sings
audibly and sweetly of the place which yet shall give
birth to the Governor who shall rule over Israel,
History puts up her silent hand, and salutes Beth-lehem
Ephratah as by no means the least among the cities of
Judah.
But not in the inn do the shepherds find the happy
parents—the spring-tide of the unusual immigration
had completely flooded that, leaving no standing-place
for the son and daughter of David—but they find
them in a stable, probably in some adjoining cave,
the swaddled Child, as the angels had foretold, lying
in the manger. Art has lingered reverently and long
over this stable scene, hiding with exquisite draperies
its baldness and meanness, and lighting up its darkness
with wreaths of golden glory; but these splendours
are apocryphal, existing only in the mind of the beholder;
they are the luminous mist of an adoring
love. What the shepherds do find is an extemporized
apartment, mean in the extreme; two strangers fresh
from Nazareth, both young and both poor; and a
new-born infant asleep in the manger, with a group
of sympathizing spectators, who have brought, in the
emergency, all kinds of proffered helps. It seems a
strange ending for an angel-song, a far drop from the
superhuman to the subhuman. Will it shake the faith
of these apostle-shepherds? Will it shatter their
bright hope? And chagrined that their auroral dream
should have so poor a realization, will they return to
their flocks with heavy hearts and sad? Not they.
They prostrate themselves before the Infant Presence,
repeating over and over the heavenly words the angels
had spoken unto them concerning the Child, and while
Mary announces the name as "Jesus," they salute
Him, as the angels had greeted Him before, as Saviour,
Messiah, Lord; thus putting on the head of the Child
Jesus that triple crown, symbol of a supremacy which
knows no limit either in space or time. It was the
Te Deum of a redeemed humanity, which succeeding
years have only made more deep, more full, and which
in ever-rising tones will yet grow into the Alleluias
of the heavens. Saviour, Messiah, Lord! these titles
struck upon Mary's ear not with surprise, for she has
grown accustomed to surprises now, but with a thrill
of wonder. She could not yet spell out all their
deep meaning, and so she pondered "them in her
heart," hiding them away in her maternal soul, that
their deep secrets might ripen and blossom in the
summer of the after-years.
The shepherds appear no more in the Gospel story.
We see them returning to their task "glorifying and
praising God for all the things that they had heard
and seen," and then the mantle of a deep silence falls
upon them. As a lark, rising heavenward, loses itself
from our sight, becoming a sweet song in the sky, so
these anonymous shepherds, these first disciples of
the Lord, having laid their tribute at His feet—in the
name of humanity saluting the Christ who was to
be—now pass out of our sight, leaving for us the
example of their heavenward look and their simple
faith, and leaving, too, their Glorias, which in multiplied
reverberations fill all lands and all times, the
earthly prelude of the New, the eternal Song.
CHAPTER VI.
THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS.
When the Old Testament closed, prophecy had
thrown upon the screen of the future the
shadows of two persons, cast in heavenly light.
Sketched in outline rather than in detail, still their
personalities were sufficiently distinct as to attract the
gaze and hopes of the intervening centuries; while
their differing, though related missions were clearly
recognized. One was the Coming One, who should
bring the "consolation" of Israel, and who should
Himself be that Consolation; and gathering into one
august title all such glittering epithets as Star, Shiloh,
and Emmanuel, prophecy reverently saluted Him as
"the Lord," paying Him prospective homage and
adoration. The other was to be the herald of another
Dispensation, proclaiming the new kingdom and the
new King, running before the royal chariot, even as
Elijah ran before Ahab to the ivory palace at Jezreel,
his voice then dying away in silence, as he himself
passes out of sight behind the throne. Such were
the two figures that prophecy, in a series of dissolving
views, had thrown forward from the Old into the New
Testament; and such was the signal honour accorded
to the Baptist, that while many of the Old Testament
characters appear as reflections in the New, his is
the only human shadow thrown back from the New
into the Old.
The forerunner thus had a virtual existence long
before the time of the Advent. Known by his
synonym of Elias, the prophesied, he became as a real
presence, moving here and there among their thoughts
and dreams, and lighting up their long night with
the beacon-fires of new and bright hopes. His voice
seemed familiar, even though it came to them in far-distant
echoes, and the listening centuries had caught
exactly both its accent and its message. And so the
preparer of the way found his own path prepared;
for John's path and "the way of the Lord" were the
same; it was the way of obedience and of sacrifice.
The two lives were thus thrown into conjunction from
the first, the lesser light revolving around the Greater,
as they fulfil their separate courses—separate indeed,
as far as the human must ever be separated from the
Divine, yet most closely related.
Living thus through the pre-Advent centuries, both
in the Divine purpose and in the thoughts and hopes
of men, so early designated to his heraldic office,
"My messenger," in a singular sense, as no other of
mortals could ever be, it is no matter of apology, or
even of surprise, that his birth should be attended by
so much of the supernatural. The Divine designation
seems to imply, almost to demand, a Divine declaration;
and in the birth-story of the Baptist the flashes of the
supernatural, such as the angelic announcement and
the miraculous conception, come with a simple naturalness.
The prelude is in perfect symphony with the
song. St. Luke is the only Evangelist who gives us
the birth-story. The other three speak only of his
mission, introducing him to us abruptly, as, like
another Moses, he comes down from his new Sinai
with the tables of the law in his hands and the strange
light upon his face. St. Luke takes us back to the
infancy, that we may see the beginnings of things,
the Divine purpose enwrapped in swaddling clothes,
as it once was set adrift in a rush-plaited ark. Before
the message he puts the man, and before the man
he puts the child—for is not the child a prophecy or
invoice of the man?—while all around the child he puts
the environment of home, showing us the subtle, powerful
influences that touched and shaped the young
prophet-life. As a plant carries up into its outmost
leaves the ingredients of the rock around which its
fibres cling, so each upspringing life—even the life of
a prophet—carries into its farthest reaches the unconscious
influence of its home associations. And so
St. Luke sketches for us that quiet home in the hill-country,
whose windows opened and whose doors
turned toward Jerusalem, the "city of the great" and
invisible "King." He shows us Zacharias and Elisabeth,
true saints of God, devout of heart and blameless
of life, down into whose placid lives an angel came,
rippling them with the excitements of new promises
and hopes. Where could the first meridian of the New
Dispensation run better than through the home of
these seers of things unseen, these watchers for the
dawn? Where could be so fitting a receptacle for the
Divine purpose, where it could so soon and so well
ripen? Had not God elected them to this high honour,
and Himself prepared them for it? Had He not
purposely kept back all earlier, lower shoots, that their
whole growth should be upward, one reaching out
towards heaven, like the palm, its fruit clustering
around its outmost branches? We can easily imagine
what intense emotion the message of the angel would
produce, and that Zacharias would not so much miss
the intercourse of human speech now that God's
thoughts were audible in his soul. What loving preparation
would Elisabeth make for this child of hers,
who was to be "great in the sight of the Lord"!
what music she would strike out from its name,
"John" (the Grace of Jehovah), the name which was
both the sesame and symbol of the New Dispensation!
How her eager heart would outrun the slow months,
as she threw herself forward in anticipation among the
joys of maternity, a motherhood so exalted! And why
did she hide herself for the five months, but that she
might prepare herself for her great mission? that in
her seclusion she might hear more distinctly the voices
that spake to her from above, or that in the silence
she might hear her own heart sing?
But neither the eagerness of Elisabeth nor the dumbness
of Zacharias is allowed to hasten the Divine
purpose. That purpose, like the cloud of old, accommodates
itself to human conditions, the slow processions
of the humanities; and not until the time is "full"
does the hope become a realization, and the infant
voice utter its first cry. And now is gathered the first
congregation of the new era. It is but a family gathering,
as the neighbours and relatives come together for
the circumcising of the child—which rite was always
performed on the corresponding day of the week after
its birth; but it is significant as being the first of those
ever-widening circles that moving outwards from its
central impulse, spread rapidly over the land, as they
are now rapidly spreading over all lands. Zacharias,
of course, was present; but mute and deaf, he could
only sit apart, a silent spectator. Elisabeth, as we may
gather from various references and hints, was of modest
and retiring disposition, fond of putting herself in the
shade, of standing behind; and so now the conduct of
the ceremony seems to have fallen into the hands of
some of the relatives. Presuming that the general
custom will be observed, that the first-born child will
take the name of the father, they proceed to name it
"Zacharias." This, however, Elisabeth cannot allow,
and with an emphatic negative, she says, "Not so; but
he shall be called John." Persistent still in their own
course, and not satisfied with the mother's affirmation,
the friends turn to the aged and mute priest, and by
signs ask how they shall name the child (and had
Zacharias heard the conversation, he certainly would
not have waited for their question, but would have
spoken or written at once); and Zacharias, calling for
the writing-table, which doubtless had been his close
companion, giving him his only touch of the outer
world for the still nine months, wrote, "His name is
John." Ah, they are too late! the child was named even
long before its birth, named, too, within the Holy Place
of the Temple, and by an angel of God. "John" and
"Jesus," those two names, since the visit of the Virgin,
have been like two bells of gold, throwing waves of
music across heart and home, ringing their welcome to
"the Christ who is to be," the Christ who is now so
near. "His name is John;" and with that brief stroke
of his pen Zacharias half rebukes these intrusions and
interferences of the relatives, and at the same time
makes avowal of his own faith. And as he wrote the
name "John," his present obedience making atonement
for a past unbelief, instantly the paralyzed tongue was
loosed, and he spake, blessing God, throwing the name
of his child into a psalm; for what is the Benedictus of
Zacharias but "John" written large and full, one sweet
and loud magnifying of "the Grace and Favour of
Jehovah"?
It is only a natural supposition that when the inspiration
of the song had passed away, Zacharias' speech
would begin just where it was broken off, and that he
would narrate to the guests the strange vision of the
Temple, with the angel's prophecy concerning the child.
And as the guests depart to their own homes, each one
carries the story of this new apocalypse, as he goes to
spread the evangel, and to wake among the neighbouring
hills the echoes of Zacharias' song. No wonder that
fear came upon all that dwelt round about, and that
they who pondered these things in their hearts should
ask, "What then shall this child be?"
And here the narrative of the childhood suddenly
ends, for with two brief sentences our Evangelist dismisses
the thirty succeeding years. He tells us that
"the hand of the Lord was with the child," doubtless
arranging its circumstances, giving it opportunities,
preparing it for the rugged manhood and the rugged
mission which should follow in due course; and that
"the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit," the very
same expression he afterwards uses in reference to the
Holy Child, an expression we can best interpret by the
angel's prophecy, "He shall be filled with the Holy
Ghost even from his mother's womb." His native
strength of spirit was made doubly strong by the touch
of the Divine Spirit, as the iron, coming from its
baptism of fire, is hardened and tempered into steel.
And so we see that in the Divine economy even a consecrated
childhood is a possible experience; and that it is
comparatively infrequent is owing rather to our warped
views, which possibly may need some readjustment,
than to the Divine purpose and provision. Is the child
born into the Divine displeasure, branded from its birth
with the mark of Cain? Is it not rather born into
the Divine mercy, and all enswathed in the abundance
of Divine love? True, it is born of a sinful race, with
tendencies to self-will which may lead it astray; but it
is just as true that it is born within the covenant of
grace; that around its earliest and most helpless years is
thrown the ægis of Christ's atonement; and that these
innate tendencies are held in check and neutralized by
what is called "prevenient grace." In the struggle for
that child-life are the powers of darkness the first in
the field, outmarching and out-manœuvring the powers
of light? Why, the very thought is half-libellous.
Heaven's touch is upon the child from the first. Ignore
it as we may, deny it as some will, yet back in life's
earliest dawn the Divine Spirit is brooding over the
unformed world, parting its firmaments of right and
wrong, and fashioning a new Paradise. Is evil the
inevitable? Must each life taste the forbidden fruit
before it can attain to a knowledge of the good? In
other words, is sin a great though dire necessity? If
a necessity, then it is no longer sin, and we must seek
for another and more appropriate name. No; childhood
is Christ's purchased and peculiar possession; and the
best type of religious experience is that which is marked
by no rapid transitions, which breaks upon the soul
softly and sweetly as a dawn, its beginnings imperceptible,
and so unremembered. So not without meaning
is it that right at the gate of the New Dispensation we
find the cradle of a consecrated childhood. Placed
there by the gate, so that all may see it, and placed in
the light, so that all may read it, the childhood of the
Baptist tells us what our childhood might oftener be,
if only its earthly guardians—whose hands are so
powerful to impress and mould the plastic soul—were,
like Zacharias and Elisabeth, themselves prayerful,
blameless, and devout.
Now the scene shifts; for we read he "was in the
deserts till the day of his showing unto Israel." From
the fact that this clause is intimately connected with
the preceding, "and the child grew and waxed strong
in spirit"—the two clauses having but one subject—some
have supposed that John was but a child when he
turned away from the parental roof and sought the
wilderness. But this does not follow. The two parts
of the sentence are only separated by a comma, but
that pause may bridge over a chasm wide enough for
the flow of numerous years, and between the childhood
and the wilderness the narrative would almost
compel us to put a considerable space. As his physical
development was, in mode and proportion, purely
human, with no hint of anything unnatural or even
supernatural, so we may suppose was his mental
and spiritual development. The voice must become
articulate; it must play upon the alphabet, and turn
sound into speech. It must learn, that it may think;
it must study, that it may know. And so the human
teacher is indispensable. Children reared of wolves
may learn to bark, but, in spite of mythology, they will
not build cities and found empires. And where could
the child find better instructors than in his own parents,
whose quiet lives had been passed in an atmosphere of
prayer, and to whom the very jots and tittles of the law
were familiar and dear? Indeed, we can scarcely suppose
that after having prepared Zacharias and Elisabeth
for their great mission, working what is something like
a miracle, that she and no one else shall be the mother
of the forerunner, the child should then be torn away
from its natural guardians before the processes of its
education are complete. It is true they were both
"well stricken in years," but that phrase would cover
any period from threescore years and upwards, and to
that threescore the usual longevity of the Temple ministrants
would easily allow another twenty years to be
added. May we not, then, suppose that the child-Baptist
studied and played under the parental roof, the bright
focus to which their hopes, and thoughts, and prayers
converged; that here, too, he spent his boyhood and
youth, preparing for that priestly office to which his
lineage entitled and designated him? for why should
not the "messenger of the Lord" be priest as well?
We have no further mention of Zacharias and Elisabeth,
but it is not improbable that their death was the
occasion of John's retirement to the deserts, now a
young man, perhaps, of twenty years.
According to custom, John now should have been
introduced and consecrated to the priesthood, twenty
years being the general age of the initiates; but in
obedience to a higher call, John renounces the priesthood,
and breaks with the Temple at once and for
ever. Retiring to the deserts, which, wild and gloomy,
stretch westward from the Dead Sea, and assuming the
old prophet garb—a loose dress of camel's hair, bound
with a thong of leather—the student becomes the recluse.
Inhabiting some mountain cave, tasting only the coarse
fare that nature offered—locusts and wild honey—the
new Elias has come and has found his Cherith; and
here, withdrawn far from "the madding crowd" and
the incessant babble of human talk, with no companions
save the wild beasts and the bright constellations of
that Syrian sky, as they wheel round in their nightly
dance, the lonely man opens his heart to God's great
thoughts and purposes, and by constant prayer keeps
his clear, trumpet voice in drill. Evidently, John had
seen enough of so-called "society," with its cold conventionalities
and hypocrisies; his keen eye had seen
only too easily the hollowness and corruption that lay
beneath the outer gloss and varnish—the thin veneer
that but half concealed the worminess and rottenness
that lay beneath. John goes out into the desert like
another scapegoat, bearing deep within his heart the
sins of his nation—sins, alas, which are yet unrepented
of and unforgiven! It was doubtless thoughts like these,
and the constant brooding upon them, which gave to
the Baptist the touch of melancholy that we can detect
both in his features and his speech. Austere in
person, with a wail in his voice like the sighing of
the wind, or charged at times with suppressed thunders,
the Baptist reminds us of the Peri, who
"At the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate."
Sin had become to John an awful fact. He could see
nothing else. The fragments of the law's broken
tables strewed the land, even the courts of the Temple
itself, and men were everywhere tripping against them
and falling. But John did see something else; it was
the day of the Lord, now very near, the day that
should come scathing and burning "as a furnace,"
unless, meanwhile, Israel should repent. So the prophet
mused, and as he mused the fire burned within
his soul, even the fire of the Refiner, the fire of God.
Our Evangelist characterizes the opening of John's
ministry with an official word. He calls it a "showing,"
a "manifestation," putting upon the very word
the stamp and sanction of a Divine appointment. He
is careful, too, to mark the time, so giving the Gospel
story its place among the chronologies of the world;
which he does in a most elaborate way. He first reads
the time on the horoscope of the Empire, whose
swinging pendulum was a rising or a falling throne;
and he states that it was "the fifteenth year of the
reign of Tiberius Cæsar," counting the two years of
his joint rule with Augustus. Then, as if that were
not enough, he notes the hour as indicated on the four
quarters of the Hebrew commonwealth, the hour when
Pilate, Herod, Philip, and Lysanias were in conjunction,
ruling in their divided heavens. Then, as if that
even were not enough, he marks the ecclesiastical hour
as indicated by the marble time-piece of the Temple;
it was when Annas and Caiaphas held jointly the high
priesthood. What is the meaning of this elaborate
mechanism, wheels within wheels? Is it because the
hour is so important, that it needs the hands of an
emperor, a governor, three tetrarchs, and two high
priests to point it? Ewald is doubtless right in saying
that St. Luke, as the historian, wished "to frame the
Gospel history into the great history of the world" by
giving precise dates; but if that were the Evangelist's
main reason, such an accumulation of time-evidence
were scarcely necessary; for what do the subsequent
statements add to the precision of the first—"In the
fifteenth year of Tiberius"? We must, then, seek for
the Evangelist's meaning elsewhere. Among the oldest
of the Hebrew prophecies concerning the Messiah was
that of Jacob. Closing his life, as Moses did afterwards,
with a wonderful vision, he looked down on the
far-off years, and speaking of the coming "Seed," he
said, "The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor a
lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come"
(Gen. xlix. 10). Might not this prophecy have been in
the thought of the Evangelist when he stayed so much
longer than his wont to note times and seasons?
Why does he mention Herod and Pilate, Philip and
Lysanias, but to show how the sceptre has, alas,
departed from Judah, and the lawgiver from between
his feet, and how the chosen land is torn to pieces by
the Roman eagles? And why does he name Annas
and Caiaphas, but to show how the same disintegrating
forces are at work even within the Temple, when the
rightful high priest can be set aside and superseded by
the nominee of a foreign and a Pagan power? Verily
"the glory has departed from Israel;" and if St. Luke
introduces foreign emperors, tetrarchs, and governors,
it is that they may ring a muffled peal over the grave
of a dead nation, a funeral knell, which, however, shall
be the signal for the coming of the Shiloh, and the
gathering of the people unto Him.
Such were the times—times of disorganization, disorder,
and almost despair—when the word of God came
unto John in the wilderness. It came "upon" him,
as it literally reads, probably in one of those wonderful
theophanies, as when God spake to Moses from the
flaming bush, or as when He appeared to Elijah upon
Horeb, sending him back to an unfinished task. John
obeyed. Emerging from his wilderness retreat, clad
in his strange attire, spare in build, his features sharp
and worn with fasting, his long, dishevelled hair telling
of his Nazarite vow, he moves down to the Jordan
like an apparition. His appearance is everywhere
hailed with mingled curiosity and delight. Crowds
come in ever-increasing numbers, not one class only,
but all classes—priests, soldiers, officials, people—until
it seemed as if the cities had emptied themselves into
the Jordan valley. And what went they "out for to
see"? "A reed shaken with the wind"? A prophesier
of smooth things? A preacher of revolt against
tyranny? Nay; John was no wind-shaken reed,
he was rather the heavenly wind itself, swaying the
multitudes at will, and bending hearts and consciences
into penitence and prayer. John was no preacher of
revolt against the powers that be; in his mind, Israel
had revolted more and more, and he must bring them
back to their allegiance, or himself die in the attempt.
John was no preacher of smooth things; there was
not even the charm of variety about his speech. The
one burden of his message was, "Repent: for the
kingdom of heaven is at hand." But the effect was
marvellous. The lone voice from the wilderness swept
over the land like the breath of God. Borne forwards
on a thousand lips, it echoed through the cities and
penetrated into remotest places. Judæa, Samaria, and
even distant Galilee felt the quiver of the strange
voice, and even from the shore of the Northern Sea
men came to sit at the feet of the new teacher, and
to call themselves John's disciples. So widespread
and so deep was the movement, it sent its ripples even
within the royal palace, awaking the curiosity, and
perhaps the conscience, of Herod himself. It was a
genuine revival of religion, such as Judæa had not
witnessed since the days of Ezra, the awaking of the
national conscience and of the national hope.
Perhaps it would be difficult, by any analysis of
ours, to discover or to define the secret of John's
success. It was the resultant, not of one force, but
of many. For instance, the hour was favourable. It
was the Sabbatic year, when field-work was in the
main suspended, and men everywhere had leisure
mind and hand lying, as it were, fallow. Then, too,
the very dress of the Baptist would not be without its
influence, especially on a mind so sensitive to form
and colour as the Hebrew mind was. Dress to them
was a form of duty. They were accustomed to weave
into their tassels sacred symbols, so making the external
speak of the eternal. Their hands played on the parti-coloured
threads most faithfully and sacredly; for
were not these the chords of Divine harmonies? But
here is one who discards both the priestly and the
civilian dress, and who wears, instead, the rough camel's
hair robe of the old prophets. The very dress would
thus appeal most powerfully to their imagination,
carrying back their thoughts to the time of the Theocracy,
when Jehovah was not silent as now, and when
Heaven was so near, speaking by some Samuel or
Elijah. Are those days returning? they would ask. Is
this the Elias who was to come and restore all things?
Surely it must be. And in the rustle of the Baptist's
robe they heard the rustle of Elijah's mantle, dropping
a second time by these Jordan banks. Then, too,
there was the personal charm of the man. John was
young, if years are our reckoning, for he counted but
thirty; but in his case the verve and energy of youth
were blended with the discretion and saintliness of age.
What was the world to him, its fame, its luxury and
wealth? They were only the dust he shook from his
feet, as his spirit sighed for and soared after Heaven's
better things. He asks nothing of earth but her
plainest fare, a couch of grass, and by-and-by a grave.
Then, too, there was a positiveness about the man,
that would naturally attract, in a drifting, shifting,
vacillating age. The strong will is magnetic; the
weaker wills follow and cluster round it, as swarming
bees cluster around their queen. And John was
intensely positive. His speech was clear-cut and
incisive, with a tremendous earnestness in it, as if
a "Thus saith the Lord" were at his heart. John's
mood was not the subjunctive, where his words could
eddy among the "mays" and "mights;" it was plainly
the indicative, or better still, the imperative. He spoke
as one who believed, and who intensely felt what he
believed. Then, too, there was a certain nobleness
about his courage. He knew no rank, no party; he
was superior to all. He feared God too much to have
any fear of man. He spake no word for the sake of
pleasing, and he kept back no word—even the hot
rebuke—for fear of offending. Truth to him was
more than titles, and right was the only royalty. How
he painted the Pharisees—those shiny, slimy men,
with creeping, sinuous ways—with that dark epithet
"brood of vipers"! With what a fearless courage he
denounced the incest of Herod! He will not level
down Sinai, accommodating it to royal passions! Not
he. "It is not lawful for thee to have her"—such
were his words, that rolled in upon Herod's conscience
like a peal of Sinai's thunder, telling him that law was
law, that right was more than might, and purity more
than power. Then, too, there was something about
his message that was attractive. That word "the
kingdom of heaven" struck upon the national heart
like a bell, and set it vibrating with new hopes, and
awaking all kinds of beautiful dreams of recovered
pre-eminence and power.
But while all these were auxiliaries, factors, and
co-efficients in the problem of the Baptist's success,
they are not sufficient in themselves to account for
that success. It is not difficult for a man of superior
mental attainment, and of strong individuality, to attract
a following, especially if that following be in the direction
of self-interest. The emotions and passions of
humanity lie near the surface; they can be easily
swept into a storm by the strong or by the pathetic
voice. But to reach the conscience, to lift up the veil,
and to pass within to that Most Holy of the human
soul is what man, unaided, cannot do. Only the
Divine Voice can break those deep silences of the heart;
or if the human voice is used the power is not in the
words of human speech—those words, even the best,
are but the dead wires along which the Divine Voice
moves—it is the power of God.
"Some men live near to God, as my right arm
Is near to me; and then they walk about
Mailed in full proof of faith, and bear a charm
That mocks at fear, and bars the door on doubt,
And dares the impossible."
Just such a man was the Baptist. He was a "man
of God." He lived, and moved, and had his being in
God. Self to him was an extinct passion. Envy,
pride, ambition, jealousy, these were unknown tongues;
his pure soul understood not their meaning. Like his
great prototype, "the Spirit of the Lord God" was
upon him. His life was one conscious inspiration;
and John himself had been baptized with the baptism
of which he spoke, but which he himself could not
give, the baptism of the Holy Ghost and of fire. This
only will account for the wonderful effects produced
by his preaching. John, in his own experience, had
antedated Pentecost, receiving the "power from on
high," and as he spoke it was with a tongue of fire,
a voice in whose accent and tone the people could
detect the deeper Voice of God.
But if John could not baptize with the higher baptism,
usurping the functions of the One coming after,
he could, and he did, institute a lower, symbolic baptism
of water, that thus the visible might lead up to the
invisible. In what mode John's baptism was administered
we cannot tell, nor is it material that we should
know. We do know, however, that the baptism of the
Spirit—and in John's mind the two were closely related—was
constantly referred to in Scripture as an effusion,
a "pouring out," a sprinkling, and never once as an
immersion. And what was the "baptism of fire" to
the mind of John? Was it not that which the prophet
Isaiah had experienced, when the angel touched his
lips with the live coal taken from the altar, pronouncing
over him the great absolution, "Lo, this hath
touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and
thy sin purged" (Isa. vi. 7)? At best, the baptism of
water is but a shadow of the better thing, the outward
symbol of an inward grace. We need not quarrel
about modes and forms. Scripture has purposely left
them indeterminate, so that we need not wrangle about
them. There is no need that we exalt the shadow,
levelling it up to the substance; and still less should
we level it down, turning it into a playground for the
schools.
Thus far the lives of Jesus and John have lain apart.
One growing up in the hill-country of Galilee, the
other in the hill-country of Judæa, and then in the
isolation of the wilderness, they have never looked
in each other's face, though they have doubtless heard
often of each other's mission. They meet at last.
John had been constantly telling of One who was
coming after—"after," indeed, in order of time, but "before,"
infinitely before, in pre-eminence and authority.
Mightier than he, He was the Lord. John would deem
it an honour to kneel down before so august a Master,
to untie and bear away His shoes; for in such a
Presence servility was both becoming and ennobling.
With such words as these the crier in the wilderness
had been transferring the people's thought from himself,
and setting their hearts listening for the Coming
One, so preparing and broadening His way. Suddenly,
in one of the pauses of his ministrations, a Stranger
presents Himself, and asks that the rite of baptism may
be administered to Him. There is nothing peculiar
about His dress; He is younger than the Baptist—much
younger, apparently, for the rough, ascetic life
has prematurely aged him—but such is the grace and
dignity of His person, such the mingled "strength and
beauty" of His manhood, that even John, who never
quailed in the presence of mortal before, is awed and
abashed now. Discerning the innate royalty of the
Stranger, and receiving a monition from the Higher
World, with which he kept up close correspondence,
the Baptist is assured that it is He, the Lord and
Christ. Immediately his whole manner changes. The
voice that has swept over the land like a whirlwind,
now is hushed, subdued, speaking softly, deferentially,
reverentially. Here is a Presence in which his imperatives
all melt away and disappear, a Will that is
infinitely higher than his own, a Person for whom
his baptism is out of place. John is perplexed; he
hesitates, he demurs. "I have need to be baptized of
Thee, and comest Thou to me?" and John, Elias-like,
would fain have wrapped his mantle around his face,
burying out of sight his little "me," in the presence of
the Lord. But Jesus said, "Suffer it now: for thus
it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness" (Matt. iii. 15).
The baptism of Jesus was evidently a new kind of
baptism, one in which the usual formulas were
strangely out of place; and the question naturally
arises, Why should Jesus submit to, and even ask
for, a baptism that was so associated with repentance
and sin? Could there be any place for repentance,
any room for confession, in the Sinless One? John
felt the anomaly, and so shrank from administering the
rite, till the reply of Jesus put His baptism on different
ground—ground altogether clear of any personal
demerit. Jesus asked for baptism, not for the washing
away of sin, but that He might "fulfil all righteousness."
He was baptized, not for His own sake, but
for the world's sake. Coming to redeem humanity,
He would identify Himself with that humanity, even
the sinful humanity that it was. Son of God, He
would become a true Son of man, that through His
redemption all other sons of men might become true
sons of God. Bearing the sins of many, taking away
the sin of the world, that heavy burden lay at His
heart from the first; He could not lay it down until
He left it nailed to His cross. Himself knowing no
sin, He yet becomes the Sin-offering, and is "numbered
among the transgressors." And as Jesus went to the
cross and into the grave mediatorially, as Humanity's
Son, so Jesus now passes into the baptismal waters
mediatorially, repenting for that world whose heart is
still hard, and whose eyes are dry of godly tears, and
confessing the sin which He in love has made His own,
the "sin of the world," the sin He has come to make
atonement for and to bear away.
Such is the meaning of the Jordan baptism, in
which Jesus puts the stamp of Divinity upon John's
mission, while John bears witness to the sinlessness of
Jesus. But a Higher Witness came than even that of
John; for no sooner was the rite administered, and the
river-bank regained, than the heavens were opened,
and the Spirit of God, in the form of a fiery dove,
descended and alighted on the head of Jesus; while
a Voice out of the Unseen proclaimed, "This is My
beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." And so the
Son of man receives the heavenly, as well as the
earthly baptism. Baptized with water, He is now
baptized with the Holy Ghost and with fire, anointed
with the unction of the Holy One. But why should
the Holy Spirit descend upon Jesus in the form of a
dove, and afterwards upon the disciples in the form of
cloven tongues of fire? We can understand the
symbolism of the cloven tongues; for was not their
mission to preach and teach, spreading and establishing
the kingdom by a consecrated speech—the Divine
word carried forward by the human voice? What,
then, is the meaning of the dove-form? Does it refer
to the dove of the Old Dispensation, which bearing the
olive-leaf in its mouth, preached its Gospel to the
dwellers in the ark, telling of the abatement of the
angry waters, and of a salvation that was near? And
was not Jesus a heavenly Dove, bearing to the world
the olive-branch of reconciliation and of peace, proclaiming
the fuller, wider Gospel of mercy and of love?
The supposition, at any rate, is a possible one, while the
words of Jesus would almost make it a probable one;
for speaking of this same baptism of the Spirit, He
says—and in His words we can hear the beat and
whir of dove-wings—"He anointed me to preach
good tidings to the poor: He hath sent me to proclaim
release to the captives, ... to set at liberty them that
are bruised" (iv. 18).
The interview between Jesus and John was but
brief, and in all probability final. They spend the
following night near to each other, but apart. The day
after, John sees Jesus walking, but the narrative would
imply that they did not meet. John only points to Him
and says, "Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away
the sin of the world;" and they part, each to follow his
separate path, and to accomplish his separate mission.
"The Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the
world." Such was John's testimony to Jesus, in the
moment of his clearest illumination. He saw in Jesus,
not as one learned writer would have us suppose,
the sheep of David's pastoral, its life encircled with
green pastures and still waters—not this, but a lamb,
"the Lamb of God," the Paschal Lamb, led all uncomplaining
to the slaughter, and by its death bearing
away sin—not either the sin of a year or the sin of a
race, but "the sin of the world." Never had prophet
so prophesied before; never had mortal eye seen so
clearly and so deeply into God's great mystery of
mercy. How, then, can we explain that mood of disappointment
and of doubt which afterwards fell upon
John? What does it mean that from his prison he
should send two of his disciples to Jesus with the
strange question, "Art Thou He that cometh, or look
we for another?" (vii. 19). John is evidently disappointed—yes,
and dejected too; and the Elias still,
Herod's prison is to him the juniper of the desert. He
thought the Christ would be one like unto himself,
crying in the wilderness, but with a louder voice and
more penetrating accent. He would be some ardent
Reformer, with axe in hand, or fan, and with baptism
of fire. But lo, Jesus comes so different from his thought—with
no axe in hand that he can see, with no baptism
of fire that he can hear of, a Sower rather than a
Winnower, scattering thoughts, principles, beatitudes,
and parables, telling not so much of "the wrath to
come" as of the love that is already come, if men will
but repent and receive it—that John is fairly perplexed,
and actually sends to Jesus for some word that shall be
a solvent for his doubts. It only shows how this Elias,
too, was a man of like passions with ourselves, and
that even prophets' eyes were sometimes dim, reading
God's purposes with a blurred vision. Jesus returns
a singular answer. He says neither Yes nor No; but
He goes out and works His accustomed miracles, and
then dismisses the two disciples with the message, "Go
your way, and tell John what things ye have seen and
heard; how that the blind see, the lame walk, the
lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised,
to the poor the Gospel is preached. And blessed is
he, whosoever shall not be offended in Me." These
words are in part a quotation from John's favourite
prophet, Isaiah, who emphasized as no other prophet
did the evangelistic character of Christ's mission—which
characteristic John seems to have overlooked.
In his thought the Christ was Judge, the great Refiner,
sifting the base from the pure, and casting it into some
Gehenna of burnings. But Jesus reminds John that
mercy is before and above judgment; that He has
come, "not to condemn the world," but to save it, and
to save it, not by reiterations of the law, but by a
manifestation of love. Ebal and Sinai have had their
word; now Gerizim and Calvary must speak.
And so this greatest of the prophets was but human,
and therefore fallible. He saw the Christ, no longer
afar off, but near—yea, present; but he saw in part, and
he prophesied in part. He did not see the whole
Christ, or grasp the full purport of His mission. He
stood on the threshold of the kingdom; but the least
of those who should pass within that kingdom should
stand on a higher vantage-ground, and so be greater
than he. Indeed, it seems scarcely possible that John
could have fully understood Jesus; the two were so
entirely different. In dress, in address, in mode of
life, in thought the two were exact opposites. John
occupies the border-region between the Old and the
New; and though his life appears in the New, he
himself belongs rather to the Old Dispensation. His
accent is Mosaic, his message a tritonomy, a third
giving of the law. When asked the all-important
question, "What shall we do?" John laid stress on
works of charity, and by his metaphor of the two coats
he showed that men should endeavour to equalize their
mercies. And when publicans and soldiers ask the
same question John gives a sort of transcript of the
old tables, striking the negatives of duty: "Extort no
more than that which is appointed you;" "Do violence
to no man." Jesus would have answered in the simple
positive that covered all classes and all cases alike:
"Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." But such
was the difference between the Old and the New: the
one said, "Do, and thou shalt live;" the other said,
"Live, and thou shalt do." The voice of John awoke
the conscience, but he could not give it rest. He was
the preparer of the way; Jesus was the Way, as He
was the Truth and the Life. John was the Voice;
Jesus was the Word. John must "decrease" and
disappear; Jesus must "increase," filling all times and
all climes with His glorious, abiding presence.
But the mission of John is drawing to a close, and
dark clouds are gathering in the west. The popular
idol still, a hostile current has set against him. The
Pharisees, unforgetting and unforgiving, are deadly
bitter, creeping across his path, and hissing out their
"Devil;" while Herod, who in his better moods had
invited the Baptist to his palace, now casts him into
prison. He will silence the voice he has failed to
bribe, the voice that beat against the chambers of his
revelry, like a strange midnight gust, and that set him
trembling like an aspen. We need not linger over
the last sad tragedy—how the royal birthday was
kept, with a banquet to the State officials; how the
courtesan daughter of Herodias came in and danced
before the guests; and how the half-drunken Herod
swore a rash oath, that he would give her anything she
might ask, up to the half of his kingdom. Herodias
knew well what wine and passion would do for Herod.
She even guessed his promise beforehand, and had given
full directions to her daughter; and soon as the rash
oath had fallen from his lips—before he could recall or
change his words—sharp and quick the request is made,
"Give me here John Baptist's head in a charger." There
is a momentary conflict, and Herod gives the fearful
word. The head of John is brought into the banquet-hall
before the assembled guests—the long flowing locks,
the eyes that even in death seemed to sparkle with the
fire of God; the lips sacred to purity and truth, the lips
that could not gloss a sin, even the sin of a Herod. Yes;
it is there, the head of John the Baptist. The courtiers
see it, and smile; Herod sees it, but does not smile.
That face haunts him; he never forgets it. The dead
prophet lives still, and becomes to Herod another
conscience.
"And she brought it to her mother. And his disciples
came, and took up the corpse, and buried him; and they
went and told Jesus" (Matt. xiv. 11, 12). Such is the
finis to a consecrated life, and such the work achieved by
one man, in a ministry that was only counted by months.
Shall not this be his epitaph, recording his faithfulness
and zeal, and at the same time rebuking our aimlessness
and sloth?—
"He liveth long who liveth well;
All other life is short and vain:
He liveth longest who can tell
Of living most for heavenly gain."
CHAPTER VII.
THE TEMPTATION.
The waters of the Jordan do not more effectually
divide the Holy Land than they bisect the Holy
Life. The thirty years of Nazareth were quiet enough,
amid the seclusions of nature and the attractions of
home; but the double baptism by the Jordan now
remits that sweet idyll to the past. The I AM of the
New Testament moves forward from the passive to
the active voice; the long peace is exchanged for
the conflict whose consummation will be the Divine
Passion.
The subject of our Lord's temptation is mysterious,
and therefore difficult. Lying in part within the domain
of human consciousness and experience, it stretches far
beyond our sight, throwing its dark projections into the
realm of spirit, that realm, "dusk with horrid shade,"
which Reason may not traverse, and which Revelation
itself has not illumined, save by occasional lines of light,
thrown into, rather than across it. We cannot, perhaps,
hope to have a perfect understanding of it, for in a
subject so wide and deep there is room for the play
of many hypotheses; but inspiration would not have
recorded the event so minutely had it not a direct
bearing upon the whole of the Divine Life, and were it
not full of pregnant lessons for all times. To Him who
suffered within it, it was a wilderness indeed; but to us
"the wilderness and the solitary place" have become
"glad, and the desert ... blossoms as the rose." Let us,
then, seek the wilderness reverently yet hopefully, and
in doing so let us carry in our minds these two guiding
thoughts—they will prove a silken thread for the labyrinth—first,
that Jesus was tempted as man; and
second, that Jesus was tempted as the Son of man.
Jesus was tempted as man. It is true that in His
Person the human and the Divine natures were in some
mysterious way united; that in His flesh was the great
mystery, the manifestation of God; but now we must
regard Him as divested of these dignities and Divinities.
They are laid aside, with all other pre-mundane glories;
and whatever His miraculous power, for the present it is
as if it were not. Jesus takes with Him into the wilderness
our manhood, a perfect humanity of flesh and blood,
of bone and nerve; no Docetic shadow, but a real body,
"made in all things like unto His brethren;" and He
goes into the wilderness, to be tempted, not in some
unearthly way, as one spirit might be tempted of
another, but to be "tempted in all points like as we
are," in a fashion perfectly human. Then, too, Jesus
was tempted as the Son of man, not only as the perfect
Man, but as the representative Man. As the first Adam,
by disobedience, fell, and fallen, was driven forth into the
wilderness, so the second Adam comes to take the place
of the first. Tracking the steps of the first Adam, He
too goes out into the wilderness, that He may spoil the
spoiler, and that by His perfect obedience He may lead
a fallen but redeemed humanity back again to Paradise,
reversing the whole drift of the Fall, and turning it into
a "rising again for many." And so Jesus goes, as the
Representative Man, to do battle for humanity, and to
receive in His own Person, not one form of temptation,
as the first Adam did, but every form that malignant
Evil can devise, or that humanity can know. Bearing
these two facts in mind, we will consider—(1) the
circumstances of the Temptation, and (2) the nature of
the temptation.
1. The circumstances of the Temptation. "And
Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan,
and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness." The
Temptation, then, occurred immediately after the twofold
baptism; or, as St. Mark expresses it, using his characteristic
word, "And straightway the Spirit driveth Him
forth into the wilderness" (Mark i. 12). Evidently
there is some connection between the Jordan and the
wilderness, and there were Divine reasons why the
test should be placed directly after the baptism. Those
Jordan waters were the inauguration for His mission—a
kind of Beautiful Gate, leading up to the different courts
and courses of His public ministry, and then up to the
altar of sacrifice. The baptism of the Spirit was His
anointing for that ministry, and borrowing our light
from the after Pentecostal days, His enduement of
power for that ministry. The Divine purpose, which
had been gradually shaping itself to His mind, now
opens in one vivid revelation. The veil of mist in
which that purpose had been enwrapped is swept away
by the Spirit's breath, disclosing to His view the path
redeeming Love must take, even the way of the cross.
It is probable, too, that He received at the same time,
if not the enduement, at least the consciousness of
miraculous power; for St. John, with one stroke of his
pen, brushes away those glossy webs that later tradition
has spun, the miracles of the Childhood. The
Scriptures do not represent Jesus as any prodigy. His
childhood, youth, and manhood were like the corresponding
phases of other lives; and the Gospels certainly
put no aureole about His head—that was the
afterglow of traditional fancy. Now, however, as He
leaves the wilderness, He goes to open His mission at
Cana, where He works His first miracle, turning, by a
look, the water into wine. The whole Temptation, as
we shall see, was one prolonged attack upon His
miraculous power, seeking to divert it into unlawful
channels; which makes it more than probable that this
power was first consciously received at the baptism—the
second baptism of fire; it was a part of the anointing
of the Lord He then experienced.
We read that Jesus now was "full of the Holy
Spirit." It is an expression not infrequent in the
pages of the New Testament, for we have already met
with it in connection with Zacharias and Elisabeth;
and St. Luke makes use of it several times in his later
treatise on the "Acts." In these cases, however, it
generally marked some special and sudden illumination
or inspiration, which was more or less temporary, the
inspiration passing away when its purpose was served.
But whether this "filling of the Spirit" was temporary,
or permanent, as in the case of Stephen and Barnabas,
the expression always marked the highest elevation of
human life, when the human spirit was in entire subordination
to the Divine. To Jesus, now, the Holy
Spirit is given without measure; and we, who in our
far-off experiences can recall moments of Divine baptisms,
when our spirits seemed for the time to be
caught up into Paradise, hearing voices and beholding
visions we might not utter, even we may understand in
part—though but in part—what must have been the
emotions and ecstasies of that memorable hour by the
Jordan. How much the opened heavens would mean
to Him, to whom they had been so long and strangely
closed! How the Voice that declared His heavenly
Sonship, "This is My beloved Son," must have sent
its vibrations quivering through soul and spirit, almost
causing the tabernacle of His flesh to tremble with the
new excitements! Mysterious though it may seem to
us, who ask impotently, How can these things be? yet
unless we strip the heavenly baptism of all reality,
reducing it to a mere play of words, we must suppose
that Jesus, who now becomes Jesus Christ, was henceforth
more directly and completely than before under
the conscious inspiration of the Holy Spirit. What
was an atmosphere enswathing the young life, bringing
to that life its treasures of grace, beauty, and strength,
now becomes a breath, or rather a rushing wind, of
God, carrying that life forward upon its mission and
upward to its goal. And so we read, He "was led
by the Spirit in the wilderness." The verb generally
implies pressure, constraint; it is the enforced leading
of the weaker by the stronger. In this case, however,
the pressure was not upon a resisting, but a yielding
medium. The will of Jesus swung round instantly
and easily, moving like a vane only in the direction of
the Higher Will. The narrative would imply that His
own thought and purpose had been to return to Galilee;
but the Divine Spirit moves upon Him with such
clearness and force—"driveth" is St. Mark's expressive
word—that He yields Himself up to the higher
impulse, and allows Himself to be carried, not exactly
as the heath is swept before the wind, but in a passive-active
way, into the wilderness. The wilderness was
thus a Divine interjection, thrown across the path of
the Son of God and Son of man.
Where it was is a point of no great moment. That
it was in the Desert of Sinai, as some suppose, is most
unlikely. Jesus did not so venerate places; nor was
it like Him to make distant excursions to put Himself
in the track of Moses or Elijah. He beckons them to
Him. He does not go to them, not even to make
historical repetitions. There is no reason why we may
not accept the traditional site of the Quarantania, the
wild, mountainous region, intersected by deep, dark
gorges, that sweeps westward from Jericho. It is
enough to know that it was a wilderness indeed, a
wildness, unsoftened by the touch of human strength
or skill; a still, vacant solitude, where only the "wild
beasts," preying upon each other, or prowling outward
to the fringe of civilization, could survive.
In the narrative of the Transfiguration we read that
Moses and Elias appeared on the holy mount "talking
with Jesus;" and that these two only, of all departed
saints, should be allowed that privilege—the one representing
the Law, and the other the Prophets—shows
that there was some intimate connection between their
several missions. At any rate, we know that the
emancipator and the regenerator of Israel were specially
commissioned to bear Heaven's salutation to the
Redeemer. It would be an interesting study, did it
lie within the scope of our subject, to trace out the
many resemblances between the three. We may, however,
notice how in the three lives the same prolonged
fast occurs, in each case covering the same period of
forty days; for though the expression of St. Matthew
would not of necessity imply a total abstention from
food, the more concise statement of St. Luke removes
all doubt, for we read, "He did eat nothing in those
days." Why there should be this fast is more difficult
to answer, and our so-called reasons can be only
guesses. We know, however, that the flesh and the
spirit, though closely associated, have but few things
in common. Like the centripetal and the centrifugal
forces in nature, their tendencies and propulsions are
in different and opposite directions. The one looks
earthward, the other heavenward. Let the flesh prevail,
and the life gravitates downwards, the sensual takes
the place of the spiritual. Let the flesh be placed
under restraint and control, taught its subordinate
position, and there is a general uplift to the life, the
untrammelled spirit moving upwards toward heaven
and God. And so in the Scriptures we find the duty
of fasting prescribed; and though the Rabbis have
treated it in an ad absurdum fashion, bringing it into
disrepute, still the duty has not ceased, though the
practice may be well-nigh obsolete. And so we find
in Apostolic days that prayer was often joined to fasting,
especially when a question of importance was under
consideration. The hours of fasting, too, as we may
learn from the cases of the centurion and of Peter,
were the perihelion of the Christian life, when it swung
up in its nearest approaches to heaven, getting amid
the circles of the angels and of celestial visions.
Possibly in the case before us there was such an
absorption of spirit, such rapture (using the word in its
etymological, rather than in its derived meaning), that
the claims of the body were utterly forgotten, and its
ordinary functions were temporarily suspended; for
to the spirit caught up into Paradise it matters little
whether in the body or out of it.
Then, too, the fast was closely related to the temptation;
it was the preparation for it. If Jesus is tempted
as the Son of man, it must be our humanity, not at
its strongest, but at its weakest. It must be under
conditions so hard, no other man could have them
harder. As an athlete, before the contest, trains up his
body, bringing each muscle and nerve to its very best,
so Jesus, before meeting the great adversary in single
combat, trains down His body, reducing its physical
strength, until it touches the lowest point of human
weakness. And so, fighting the battle of humanity,
He gives the adversary every advantage. He allows
him choice of place, of time, of weapons and conditions,
so that His victory may be more complete. Alone in
the wild, dreary solitude, cut off from all human
sympathies, weak and emaciated with the long fast,
the Second Adam waits the attack of the tempter, who
found the first Adam too easy a prey.
2. The nature of the Temptation. In what form the
tempter came to Him, or whether he came in any form
at all, we cannot tell. Scripture observes a prudent
silence, a silence which has been made the occasion of
much speculative and random speech on the part of
its would-be interpreters. It will serve no good purpose
even to enumerate the different forms the tempter is
said to have assumed; for what need can there be for
any incarnation of the evil spirit? and why clamour
for the supernatural when the natural will suffice? If
Jesus was tempted "as we are," will not our experiences
throw the truest light on His? We see no shape.
The evil one confronts us; he presents thoughts to
our minds; he injects some proud or evil imagination;
but he himself is masked, unseen, even when we are
distinctly conscious of his presence. Just so we may
suppose the tempter came to Him. Recalling the
declaration made at the baptism, the announcement of
His Divine Sonship, the devil says, "If" (or rather
"Since," for the tempter is too wary to suggest a
doubt as to His relationship with God) "Thou art the
Son of God, command this stone that it become bread."
It is as if he said, "You are a-hungered, exhausted,
Your strength worn away by Your long fast. This
desert, as You see, is wild and sterile; it can offer You
nothing with which to supply Your physical wants;
but You have the remedy in Your own hands. The
heavenly Voice proclaimed You as God's Son—nay, His
beloved Son. You were invested, too, not simply with
Divine dignities, but with Divine powers, with authority,
supreme and absolute, over all creatures. Make use
now of this newly given power. Speak in these newly
learned tones of Divine authority, and command this
stone that it become bread." Such was the thought
suddenly suggested to the mind of Jesus, and which
would have found a ready response from the shrinking
flesh, had it been allowed to speak. And was not the
thought fair and reasonable, to our thinking, all innocent
of wrong? Suppose Jesus should command the stone
into bread, is it any more marvellous than commanding
the water into wine? Is not all bread stone, dead
earth transformed by the touch of life? If Jesus can
make use of His miraculous power for the benefit of
others, why should He not use it in the emergencies
of His own life? The thought seemed reasonable and
specious enough; and at first glance we do not see
how the wings of this dove are tipped, not with silver,
but with soot from the "pots." But stop. What does
this thought of Satan mean? Is it as guileless and
guiltless as it seems? Not quite; for it means that
Jesus shall be no longer the Son of man. Hitherto
His life has been a purely human life. "Made in all
things like unto His brethren," from His helpless
infancy, through the gleefulness of childhood, the discipline
of youth, and the toil of manhood, His life
has been nourished from purely human sources. His
"brooks in the way" have been no secret springs,
flowing for Himself alone; they have been the common
brooks, open and free to all, and where any other child
of man might drink. But now Satan tempts Him to
break with the past, to throw up His Son-of-manhood,
and to fall back upon His miraculous power in this,
and so in every other emergency of life. Had Satan
succeeded, and had Jesus wrought this miracle for
Himself, putting around His human nature the shield
of His Divinity, then Jesus would have ceased to be
man. He would have forsaken the plane of human
life for celestial altitudes, with a wide gulf—and oh, how
wide!—between Himself and those He had come to
redeem. And let the perfect humanity go, and the
redemption goes with it; for if Jesus, just by an appeal
to His miraculous power, can surmount every difficulty,
escape any danger, then you leave no room for the
Passion, and no ground on which the cross may rest.
Again, the suggestion of Satan was a temptation to
distrust. The emphasis lay upon the title, "Son of
God." "The Voice proclaimed You, in a peculiar
sense, the beloved Son of God; but where have been
the marks of that special love? Where are the honours,
the heritage of joy, the Son should have? Instead of
that, He gives You a wilderness of solitude and privation;
and He who rained manna upon Israel, and who
sent an angel to prepare a cake for Elias, leaves You to
pine and hunger. Why wait longer for help which
has already tarried too long? Act now for Yourself.
Your resources are ample; use them in commanding
this stone into bread." Such was the drift of the
tempter's words; it was to make Jesus doubt the
Father's love and care, to lead Him to act, not in
opposition to, but independently of, the Father's will.
It was an artful endeavour to throw the will of Jesus
out of gear with the Higher Will, and to set it revolving
around its own self-centre. It was, in reality, the same
temptation, in a slightly altered form, which had been
only too successful with the first Adam.
The thought, however, was no sooner suggested than
it was rejected; for Jesus had a wonderful power of
reading thought, of looking into its very heart; and
He meets the evil suggestion, not with an answer of
His own, but with a singularly apt quotation from the
Old Testament: "It is written, Man shall not live by
bread alone." The reference is to a parallel experience
in the history of Israel, a narrative from which doubtless
Jesus had drawn both strength and solace during
His prolonged desert fast. Had not the Divine Voice
adopted Israel to a special relationship and privilege,
announcing within the palace of Pharaoh, "Israel is My
Son, My firstborn"? (Exod. iv. 22). And yet had not
God led Israel for forty years through the desert,
suffering him to hunger, that He might humble and
prove him, and show him that men are
"Better than sheep and goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain;"
that man has a nature, a life, that cannot live on bread,
but—as St. Matthew completes the quotation—"by
every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God"?
Some have supposed that by "bread alone" Jesus
refers to the manifold provision God has made for man's
physical sustenance; that He is not limited to one
course, but that He can just as easily supply flesh, or
manna, or a thousand things besides. But evidently
such is not the meaning of Jesus. It was not His
wont to speak in such literal, commonplace ways. His
thought moved in higher circles than His speech, and
we must look upward through the letter to find the
higher spirit. "I have meat to eat that ye know not
of," said Jesus to His disciples; and when He caught
the undertone of their literalistic questions He explained
His meaning in words that will interpret His answer to
the tempter: "My meat is to do the will of Him that
sent Me." So now it is as if He said, "The Will of
God is My meat. That Will brought Me hither; that
Will detains Me here. Nay, that Will commands Me to
fast and hunger, and so abstinence from food is itself
My food. I do not fear. This wilderness is but the
stone-paved court of My Father's house, whose many
chambers are filled with treasures, 'bread enough and
to spare,' and can I perish with hunger? I wait His
time; I accept His will; nor will I taste of bread that is
not of His sending."
The tempter was foiled. The specious temptation
fell upon the mind of Jesus like a spark in the sea, to
be quenched, instantly and utterly; and though Satan
found a powerful lever in the pinch of the terrible
hunger—one of the sorest pains our human nature can
feel—yet even then he could not wrench the will of
Jesus from the will of God. The first Adam doubted,
and then disobeyed; the Second Adam rests in God's
will and word; and like the limpet on the rocks, washed
by angry waves, the pressure of the outward storm only
unites His will more firmly to the Father's; nor does it
for one moment break in upon that rest of soul. And
Jesus never did make use of His miraculous power
solely for His own benefit. He would live as a man
among men, feeling—probably more intensely than we
do—all the weaknesses and pains of humanity, that He
might be more truly the Son of man, the sympathizing
High Priest, the perfect Saviour. He became in all
points—sin excepted—one with us, so that we might
become one with Him, sharing with Him the Father's
love on earth, and then sharing His heavenly joys.
Baffled, but not confessing himself beaten, the tempter
returns to the charge. St. Luke here inverts the
order of St. Matthew, giving as the second temptation
what St. Matthew places last. We prefer the
order of St. Luke, not only because in general he is
more observant of chronology, but because there is in
the three temptations what we might call a certain
seriality, which demands the second place for the
mountain temptation. It is not necessary that we put
a literal stress upon the narrative, supposing that Jesus
was transported bodily to the "exceeding high mountain."
Not only has such a supposition an air of the
incredulous about it, but it is set aside by the terms of
the narrative itself; for the expression he "showed
Him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of
time" cannot be forced into a literalistic mould. It
is easier and more natural to suppose that this and
the succeeding temptation were presented only to the
spirit of Jesus, without any physical accessories; for
after all, it is not the eye that sees, but the soul. The
bodily eye had not seen the "great sheet let down from
heaven," but it was a real vision, nevertheless, leading
to very practical results—the readjustment of Peter's
views of duty, and the opening of the door of grace and
privilege to the Gentiles. It was but a mental picture,
as the "man of Macedonia" appeared to Paul, but
the vision was intensely real—more real, if that were
possible, than the leagues of intervening sea; and
louder to him than all the voices of the deep—of winds,
and waves, and storm—was the voice, "Come over and
help us," the cry which only the ear of the soul had
heard. It was in a similar manner, probably, that the
second temptation was presented to Jesus.
He finds Himself upon a lofty eminence, when
suddenly, "in a moment of time," as St. Luke expresses
it, the world lies unveiled at His feet. Here
are fields white with ripened harvests, vineyards red
with clustering grapes, groves of olives shimmering in
the sunlight like frosted silver, rivers threading their
way through a sea of green; here are cities on cities
innumerable, quivering with the tread of uncounted
millions, streets set with statues, and adorned with
temples, palaces, and parks; here are the flagged Roman
roads, all pointing to the world's great centre, thronged
with chariots and horsemen, the legions of war, and
the caravans of trade. Beyond are seas where a thousand
ships are skimming over the blue; while still
beyond, all environed with temples, is the palace of
the Cæsars, the marble pivot around which the world
revolves.
Such was the splendid scene set before the mind of
Jesus. "All this is mine," said Satan, speaking a half-truth
which is often but a whole lie; for he was indeed
the "prince of the power of the air," ruling, however,
not in absolute kingship, but as a pretender, a usurper;
"and I give it to whom I will. Only worship me (or
rather, 'do homage to me as Your superior'), and all
shall be thine." Amplified, the temptation was this:
"You are the Son of God, the Messiah-King, but a
King without a retinue, without a throne. I know well
all the devious, somewhat slippery ways to royalty; and
if You will but assent to my plan, and work on my lines,
I can assure You of a throne that is higher, and of a
realm that is vaster, than that of Cæsar. To begin
with: You have powers not given to other mortals,
miraculous powers. You can command nature as easily
as You can obey her. Trade with these at first, freely.
Startle men with prodigies, and so create a name and
gain a following. Then when that is sufficiently large
set up the standard of revolt. The priesthood and the
people will flock to it; Pharisees and Sadducees, giving
up their paper-chases after phantoms, shadows, will
forget their strife in the peace of a common war, and
before a united people. Rome's legions must retire.
Then, pushing out Your borders, and avoiding reverse
and disaster by a continual appeal to Your miraculous
powers, one after another You will make the neighbouring
nations dependent and tributary. So, little by
little, You will hem in the might of Rome, until by one
desperate struggle You will vanquish the Empire. The
lines of history will then be all reversed. Jerusalem
will become the mistress, the capital of the world;
along all these roads swift messengers shall carry Your
decrees; Your word shall be law, and Your will over
all human wills shall be supreme."
Such was the meaning of the second temptation.
It was the chord of ambition Satan sought to strike,
a chord whose vibrations are so powerful in the human
heart, often drowning or deafening other and sweeter
voices. He put before Jesus the highest possible goal,
that of universal empire, and showed how that goal
was comparatively easy of attainment, if Jesus would
only follow his directions and work on his plans. The
objective point at which the tempter aimed was, as
in the first temptation, to shift Jesus from the Divine
purpose, to detach His will from the Father's will,
and to induce Him to set up a sort of independence.
The life of Jesus, instead of moving on steadily around
its Divine centre, striking in with absolute precision
to the beat of the Divine purpose, should revolve only
around the centre of its narrower self, exchanging
its grander, heavenlier sweep for certain intermittent,
eccentric motions of its own. If Satan could not prevent
the founding of "the kingdom," he would, if it
were possible, change its character. It should not be
the kingdom of heaven, but a kingdom of earth, pure
and simple, under earthly conditions and earthly laws.
Might should take the place of right, and force the
place of love. He would set Jesus after gaining the
whole world, that so He might forget that His mission
was to save it. Instead of a Saviour, they should
have a Sovereign, decked with this world's glory and
the pomps of earthly empire.
It is easy to see that if Jesus had been merely man
the temptation would have been most subtle and most
powerful; for how many of the sons of men, alas,
have been led astray from the Divine purpose with a
far less bait than a whole world! A momentary
pleasure, a handful of glittering dust the more, some
dream of place or fame—these are more than enough
to tempt men to break with God. But while Jesus was
man, the Perfect Man, He was more. The Holy Spirit
was now given to Him without measure. From the
beginning His will had been subordinate to the Father's,
growing up within it and configuring itself to it, even
as the ductile metal receives the shape of the mould.
The Divine purpose, too, had now been revealed to
Him in the vivid enlightenment of the Baptism; for the
shadow of the cross was thrown back over His life,
at any rate as far as the Jordan. And so the second
temptation fell harmless as the first. The chord of
ambition Satan sought to strike was not found in
the pure soul of Jesus, and all these visions of victory
and empire awoke no response in His heart, any more
than the flower-wreaths laid upon the breast of the
dead can quicken the beat of the now silent heart.
The answer of Jesus was prompt and decisive. Not
deigning to use any words of His own, or to hold any
parley, even the shortest, He meets the word of the
tempter with a Divine word: "It is written, Thou
shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt
thou serve." The tempting thought is something
foreign to the mind of Jesus, something unwelcome,
repulsive, and it is rejected instantly. Instead of
allowing Himself to be diverted from the Divine
purpose, His will detached from the Father's will, He
turns to that will and word at once. It is His refuge,
His home. The thought of Jesus cannot pass beyond
the circle of that will, any more than a dove can pass
beyond the over-arching sky. He sees the Throne
that is above all thrones, and gazing upon that, worshipping
only the Great King, who is over all and in all,
the thrones and crowns of earthly dominion are but as
motes of the air. The victory was complete. Quickly
as it came, the splendid vision conjured up by the
tempter disappeared, and Jesus turned away from the
path of earthly glory, where power without measure
and honours without number awaited Him, to tread
the solitary, lowly path of submission and of sacrifice,
the path that had a crucifixion, and not a coronation,
as its goal.
Twice baffled, the enemy comes once again to the
charge, completing the series with the pinnacle temptation,
to which St. Luke naturally, and as we think
rightly, gives the third place. It follows the other
two in orderly sequence, and it cannot well be placed
second, as in St. Matthew, without a certain overlapping
of thought. If we must adhere to the literalistic
interpretation, and suppose Jesus led up to
Jerusalem bodily, then, perhaps, St. Matthew's order
would be more natural, as that would not necessitate
a return to the wilderness. But that is an interpretation
to which we are not bound. Neither the words
of the narrative nor the conditions of the temptation
require it; and when art represents Jesus as flying
with the tempter through the air it is a representation
both grotesque and gratuitous. Thus far, in his temptations,
Satan has been foiled by the faith of Jesus, the
implicit trust He reposed in the Father; but if he
cannot break in upon that trust, causing it to doubt
or disobey, may he not push the virtue too far, goading
Him "to sin in loving virtue"? If the mind and
heart of Jesus are so grooved in with the lines of the
Divine will that he cannot throw them off the metals,
or make them reverse their wheels, perhaps he may
push them forward so fast and so far as to bring about
the collision he seeks—the clash of the two wills. It
is the only chance left him, a forlorn hope, it is true,
but still a hope, and Satan moves forward, if perchance
he may realize it.
As in the second temptation, the wilderness fades
out of sight. Suddenly Jesus finds Himself standing
on the pinnacle of the Temple, probably the eastern
corner of the royal portico. On the one side, deep
below, were the Temple courts, crowded with throngs
of worshippers; on the other lay the gorge of the
Kedron, a giddy depth, which made the eye of the
down looker to swim, and the brain to reel. "If (or
rather 'Since') said Satan, Thou art the Son of God,
cast Thyself down from hence; for it is written, He
shall give His angels charge concerning Thee, to guard
Thee; on their hands they shall bear Thee up, lest
haply Thou dash Thy foot against a stone." It is as
if he said, "You are the Son of God, in a special,
favoured sense. You are set in title and authority
above the angels; they are Your ministering servants;
and You reciprocate the trust Heaven reposes in You.
The will of God is more to You than life itself; the
word of God outweighs with You thrones and empires.
And You do well. Continue thus, and no harm can
overtake You. And just to show how absolute is Your
faith in God, cast Yourself down from this height. You
need not fear, for You will but throw Yourself upon
the word of God; and You have only to speak, and
unseen angels will crowd the air, bearing You up in
their hands. Cast Yourself down, and so test and
attest Your faith in God; and doing so You will give
to these multitudes indubitable proof of Your Sonship
and Messiahship." Such was the argument, specious,
but fallacious, of the tempter. Misquoting Scripture by
omitting its qualifying clause, distorting the truth into
a dangerous error, he sought to impale his Victim on
the horn of a dilemma. But Jesus was on the alert.
He recognized at once the seductive thought, though,
Jacob-like, it had come robed in the assumed dress of
Scripture. Is not obedience as sacred as trust? Is
not obedience the life, the soul of trust, without which
the trust itself is but a semblance, a decaying, corrupt
thing? But Satan asks Him to disobey, to set Himself
above the laws by which the world is governed.
Instead of His will being entirely subordinate, conforming
itself in all things to the Divine will, if He should
cast Himself down from this pinnacle it would be
putting pressure upon that Divine will, forcing it to
repeal its own physical laws, or at any rate to suspend
their action for a time. And what would that be but
insubordination, no longer faith, due presumption, a
tempting, and not a trusting God? The Divine
promises are not cheques made payable to "bearer,"
regardless of character, place, or time, and to be realized
by any one who may happen to possess himself of them,
anywhere. They are cheques drawn out to "order,"
crossed cheques, too, negotiated only as the conditions
of character and time are fulfilled. The Divine protection
and guardianship are indeed assured to every child
of God, but only as he "dwelleth in the secret place
of the Most High, as he abides under the shadow of
the Almighty;" in other words, so long as "thy ways"
are "His ways." Step out from that pavilion of the
Most High, and you step from under the bright bow
of promise. Put yourself above, or put yourself out
of, the Divine order of things, and the very promise
becomes a threatening, and the cloud that else would
protect and guide becomes a cloud full of suppressed
thunders, and flashing in vivid lightnings its thousand
swords of flame. Faith and fidelity are thus inseparable.
The one is the calyx, the other the involved
corolla; and as they open outwards into the perfect
flower they turn towards the Divine will, configuring
themselves in all things to that will.
A third time Jesus replied to the tempter in
words of Old Testament Scripture, and a third time,
too, from the same book of Deuteronomy. It will be
observed, however, that the terms of His reply are
slightly altered. He no longer uses the "It is written,"
since Satan himself has borrowed that word, but substitutes
another: "It is said, Thou shalt not tempt the
Lord thy God." It has been thought by some that
Jesus used the quotation in an accommodated sense,
referring the "Thou" to the tempter himself, and so
making "the Lord thy God" an attestation of His own
Divinity. But such an interpretation is forced and
unnatural. Jesus would not be likely to hide the deep
secret from His own disciples, and announce it for the
first time to the ears of the seducer. It is an impossible
supposition. Besides, too, it was as man that
Jesus was tempted. Only on the side of His humanity
could the enemy approach Him, and for Jesus now to
take refuge in His Divinity would strip the temptation
of all its meaning, making it a mere acting. But Jesus
does not so throw up humanity, or which is the same
thing, take Himself out of it, and when He says,
"Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God" He includes
Himself in the "thou." Son though He is, He must
put Himself under the law that prescribes the relations
of man towards God. He must learn obedience as
other sons of men. He must submit, that He may
serve, not seeking to impose His will upon the Father's
will, even by way of suggestion, much less by way of
demand, but waiting upon that will in an absolute
self-surrender and instant acquiescence. Moses must
not command the cloud; all that he is permitted to
do is to observe it and follow. To go before God is
to go without God, and to go without Him is to go
against Him; and as to the angels bearing Him up in
their hands, that depends altogether upon the path and
the errand. Let it be the Divinely ordered path, and
the unseen convoys of heaven will attend, a sleepless,
invincible guard; but let it be some self-chosen path,
some forbidden way, and the angel's sword will flash
its warning, and send the foot of the unfaithful servant
crushing against the wall.
And so the third temptation failed, as did the other
two. With but a little tension, Satan had made the will
of the first Adam to strike a discordant note, throwing
it out of all harmony with the Higher Will; but by no
pressure, no enticements, can he influence the Second
Adam. His will vibrates in a perfect consonance with
the Father's, even under the terrible pressure of
hunger, and the more terrible pressure, the fearful
impact of evil.
So Satan completed, and so Jesus resisted, "every
temptation"—that is, every form of temptation. In
the first, Jesus was tempted on the side of His physical
nature; in the second the attack was on the side of
His intellectual nature, looking out on His political
life; while in the third the assault was on the side of
His spiritual life. In the first He is tempted as the
Man, in the second as the Messiah, and in the third as
the Divine Son. In the first temptation He is asked
to make use of His newly received miraculous power
over nature—passive, unthinking nature; in the second
He is asked to throw it over the "world", which in
this case is a synonym for humankind; while in the
third He is asked to widen the realm of His authority,
and to command the angels, nay, God Himself. So
the three temptations are really one, though the fields
of battle lie in three several planes. And the aim was
one. It was to create a divergence between the two
wills, and to set the Son in a sort of antagonism to the
Father, which would have been another Absalom revolt,
a Divine mutiny it is impossible for us even to
conceive.
St. Luke omits in his narrative the ministry of
angels mentioned by the other two Synoptists, a sweet
postlude we should have missed much, had it been
wanting; but he gives us instead the retreat of the
adversary: "He departed from Him for a season."
How long a season it was we do not know, but a
brief one it must have been, for again and again in
the story of the Gospels we see the dark shadow of
the evil one; while in Gethsemane the "prince of
this world" cometh, but to find "nothing in Me."
And what was the horror of great darkness, that
strange eclipse of soul Jesus suffered upon Calvary,
but the same fearful presence, intercepting for a time
even the Father's smile, and throwing upon the pure
and patient Sufferer a strip of the outer darkness itself?
The test was over. Tried in the fires of a persistent
assault, the faith and obedience of Jesus were found
perfect. The shafts of the tempter had recoiled upon
himself, leaving all stainless and scatheless the pure
soul of Jesus. The Son of man had conquered, that
all other sons of men may learn the secret of constant
and complete victory; how faith overcomes, putting to
flight "the armies of the aliens," and making even the
weakest child of God "more than conqueror." And
from the wilderness, where innocence has ripened into
virtue, Jesus passes up, like another Moses, "in the
power of the Spirit," to challenge the world's magicians,
to baffle their sleight of hand and skill of speech,
and to proclaim to redeemed humanity a new Exodus,
a life-long Jubilee.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GOSPEL OF THE JUBILEE.
Immediately after the Temptation Jesus returned,
"in the power of the Spirit," and with all the
added strength of His recent victories, to Galilee. Into
what parts of Galilee He came, our Evangelist does
not say; but omitting the visit to Cana, and dismissing
the first Galilean tour with a sentence—how "He
taught in their synagogues, being glorified of all"—St.
Luke goes on to record in detail the visit of Jesus
to Nazareth, and His rejection by His townsmen. In
putting this narrative in the forefront of his Gospel is
St. Luke committing a chronological error? or is he,
as some suppose, purposely antedating the Nazareth
story, that it may stand as a frontispiece to his Gospel,
or that it may serve as a key for the after-music?
This is the view held by most of our expositors and
harmonists, but, as it appears to us, on insufficient
grounds; the balance of probability is against it. It
is true that St. Matthew and St. Mark record a visit to
Nazareth which evidently occurred at a later period of
His ministry. It is true also that between their narratives
and this of St. Luke there are some striking
resemblances, such as the teaching in the synagogue
the astonishment of His hearers, their reference to His
parentage, and then the reply of Jesus as to a prophet
receiving scant honour in his own country—resemblances
which would seem to indicate that the two
narratives were in reality one. But still it is possible
to push these resemblances too far, reading out from
them what we have first read into them. Let us for
the moment suppose that Jesus made two visits to
Nazareth; and is not such a supposition both reasonable
and natural? It is not necessary that the first rejection
should be a final rejection, for did not the Jews seek
again and again to kill Him, before the cross saw their
dire purpose realized? Remaining for so long in
Galilee, would it not be a most natural wish on the
part of Jesus to see the home of His boyhood once
again, and to give to His townspeople one parting word
before taking His farewell of Galilee? And suppose
He did, what then? Would He not naturally go to
the synagogue—as was His custom in every place—and
speak? And would they not listen with the same
astonishment, and then harp on the very same questions
as to His parentage and brotherhood—questions that
would have their readiest and fittest answer in the
same familiar proverb? Instead, then, of these resemblances
identifying the two narratives, and proving that
St. Luke's story is but an amplification of the narratives
of the other Synoptists, the resemblances themselves
are what we might naturally expect in our supposition
of a second visit. But if there are certain coincidences
between the two narratives, there are marked differences,
which make it extremely improbable that the
Synoptists are recording one event. In the visit recorded
by St. Luke there were no miracles wrought;
while St. Matthew and St. Mark tell us that He could
not do many mighty works there, because of their
unbelief, but that He "laid His hands on a few sick
folk, and healed them." In the narrative by St. Mark
we read that His disciples were with Him while St.
Luke makes no mention of His disciples; but St. Luke
does mention the tragic ending of the visit, the attempt
of the men of Nazareth to hurl Him down from a lofty
cliff, an incident St. Matthew and St. Mark omit altogether.
But can we suppose the men of Nazareth
would have attempted this, had the strong body-guard
of disciples been with Jesus? Would they be likely
to stand by, timidly acquiescent? Would not Peter's
sword have flashed instantly from its scabbard, in
defence of Him whom he served and dearly loved?
That St. Matthew and St. Mark should make no reference
to this scene of violence, had it occurred at the
visit they record, is strange and unaccountable; and
the omission is certainly an indication, if not a proof,
that the Synoptists are describing two separate visits
to Nazareth—the one, as narrated by St. Luke, at the
commencement of His ministry; and the other at a later
date, probably towards its close. And with this view
the substance of the Nazareth address perfectly accords.
The whole address has the ring of an inaugural message;
it is the voice of an opening spring, and not of a
waning summer. "This day is this Scripture fulfilled
in your ears" is the blast of the silver trumpet
announcing the beginning of the Messianic year, the
year of a truer, wider Jubilee.
It seems to us, therefore, that the chronology of St.
Luke is perfectly correct, as he places in the forefront
of his Gospel the earlier visit to Nazareth, and the
violent treatment Jesus there received. At the second
visit there was still a widespread unbelief, which caused
Jesus to marvel; but there was no attempt at violence,
for His disciples were with Him now, while the report
of His Judæan ministry, which had gone before Him,
and the miracles He wrought in their presence, had
softened down even Nazareth prejudices and asperities.
The events of the first Galilean tour were probably in
the following order. Jesus, with His five disciples,
goes to Cana, invited guests at the marriage, and here
He opens His miraculous commission, by turning the
water into wine. From Cana they proceed to Capernaum,
where they remain for a short time, Jesus
preaching in their synagogue, and probably continuing
His miraculous works. Leaving His disciples behind
at Capernaum—for between the preliminary call by
the Jordan and the final call by the lake the fisher-disciples
get back to their old occupations for a while—Jesus
goes up to Nazareth, with His mother and
His brethren. Thence, after His violent rejection, He
returns to Capernaum, where He calls His disciples
from their boats and receipt of custom, probably completing
the sacred number before setting out on His
journey southward to Jerusalem. If this harmony be
correct—and the weight of probability seems to be in
its favour—then the address at Nazareth, which is the
subject for our consideration now, would be the first
recorded utterance of Jesus; for thus far Cana gives
us one startling miracle, while in Capernaum we find
the report of His acts, rather than the echoes of His
words. And that St. Luke alone should give us this
incident, recording it in such a graphic manner, would
almost imply that he had received the account from an
eye-witness, probably—if we may gather anything from
the Nazarene tone of St. Luke's earlier pages—from
some member of the Holy Family.
Jesus has now fairly embarked upon His Messianic
mission, and He begins that mission, as prophecy had
long foretold He should, in Galilee of the Gentiles.
The rumour of His wonderful deeds at Cana and
Capernaum had already preceded Him thither, when
Jesus came once again to the home of His childhood
and youth. Going, as had been His custom from
boyhood, into the synagogue on the Sabbath day
(St. Luke is writing for Gentiles who are unversed
in Jewish customs), Jesus stood up to read. "The
Megilloth," or Book of the Prophets, having been
handed to Him, He unrolled the book, and read the
passage in Isaiah (lxi. 1) to which His mind had been
Divinely directed, or which He had purposely chosen:—
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He anointed Me to preach good tidings to the poor,
He hath sent Me to proclaim release to the captives,
And recovering of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty them that are bruised,
To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord."
Then closing, or rolling up, the book, and handing
it back to the attendant, Jesus sat down, and began
His discourse. The Evangelist does not record any of
the former part of the discourse, but simply gives us
the effect produced, in the riveted gaze and the rising
astonishment of His auditors, as they caught up eagerly
His sweet and gracious words. Doubtless, He would
explain the words of the prophet, first in their literal,
and then in their prophetic sense; and so far He
carried the hearts of His hearers with Him, for who
could speak of their Messianic hopes without awaking
sweet music in the Hebrew heart? But directly Jesus
applies the passage to Himself, and says, "This day
is this Scripture fulfilled in your ears," the fashion
of their countenance alters; the Divine emphasis He
puts upon the Me curdles in their heart, turning their
pleasure and wonder into incredulity, envy, and a
perfect frenzy of rage. The primary reference of the
prophecy seems to have been to the return of Israel
from captivity. It was a political Jubilee he proclaimed,
when Zion should have a "garland for ashes,"
when the captive should be free, and aliens should be
their servants. But the flowers of Scripture are mostly
double; its pictures and parables have often a nearer
meaning, and another more remote, or a spiritual,
involved in the literal sense. That it was so here is
evident, for Jesus takes this Scripture—which we
might call a Babylonish garment, woven out of the Exile—and
wraps it around Himself, as if it belonged to
Himself alone, and were so intended from the very first.
His touch thus invests it with a new significance; and
making this Scripture a vestment for Himself, Jesus,
so to speak, shakes out its narrower folds, and gives it
a wider, an eternal meaning. But why should Jesus
select this passage above all others? Were not the
Old Testament Scriptures full of types, and shadows,
and prophecies which testified of Him, any one of
which He might have appropriated now? Yes, but
no other passage so completely answered His design,
no other was so clearly and fully declarative of His
earthly mission. And so Jesus selected this picture of
Isaiah, which was at once a prophecy and an epitome
of His own Gospel, as His inaugural message, His
manifesto.
The Mosaic Code, in its play upon the temporal
octaves, had made provision, not only for a weekly
Sabbath, and for a Sabbath year, but it completed its
cycle of festivals by setting apart each fiftieth year as
a year of special grace and gladness. It was the year
of redemption and restoration, when all debts were
remitted, when the family inheritance, which by the
pressure of the times had been alienated, reverted to its
original owner, and when those who had mortgaged
their personal liberty regained their freedom. The
"Jubilee" year, as they called it—putting into its name
the play of the priestly trumpets which ushered it in—was
thus the Divine safeguard against monopolies, a
Divine provision for a periodic redistribution of the
wealth and privileges of the theocracy; while at the same
time it served to keep intact the separate threads of
family life, running its lines of lineage down through the
centuries, and across into the New Testament. Seizing
upon this, the gladdest festival of Hebrew life, Jesus
likens Himself to one of the priests, who with trumpet
of silver proclaims "the acceptable year of the Lord."
He finds in that Jubilee a type of His Messianic year,
a year that shall bring, not to one chosen race alone,
but to a world of debtors and captives, remissions and
manumissions without number, ushering in an era of
liberty and gladness. And so in these words, adapted
and adopted from Isaiah, Jesus announces Himself as
the world's Evangelist, and Healer, and Emancipator;
or separating the general message into its prismatic
colours, we have the three characteristics of Christ's
Gospel—(1) as the Gospel of Love; (2) the Gospel of
Light; and (3) the Gospel of Liberty.
1. The Gospel of Jesus was the Gospel of Love.
"He anointed Me to preach good tidings to the poor."
That there is a Gospel even in the Old Testament no
one will attempt to deny, and able writers have delighted
in tracing out the evangelism that, like hidden veins
of gold, runs here and there, now embedded deep in historical
strata, and now cropping out in the current of
prophetical speech. Still, an ear but little trained to harmonies
can detect a marvellous difference between the
tone of the Old and the tone of the New Dispensation.
"Evangelists" is scarcely the name we should give
to the prophets and preachers of the Old Testament,
if we except that prophet of the dawn, Isaiah. They
came, not as the bearers of glad tidings, but with the
pressure, the burden of a terrible "woe" upon them.
With a voice of threat and doom they recall Israel
back to the ways of fidelity and purity, and with the
caustic of biting words they seek to burn out the
cancer of national corruption. They were no doves,
those old-time prophets, building their nests in the
blossoming olives, in soft accents telling of a winter
past and a summer near; they were storm-birds rather,
beating with swift, sad wings on the crest of sullen
waves, or whirling about among the torn shrouds.
Even the eremite Baptist brought no evangel. He was
a sad man, with a sad message, telling, not of the right
which men should do, but of the wrong they should
not do, his ministry, like that of the law, being a
ministry of condemnation. Jesus, however, announces
Himself as the world's Evangelist. He declares that
He is anointed and commissioned to be the bearer of
good, glad tidings to man. At once the Morning Star
and Sun, He comes to herald a new day; nay, He
comes to make that day. And so it was. We cannot
listen to the words of Jesus without noticing the high
and heavenly pitch to which their music is set. Beginning
with the Beatitudes, they move on in the higher
spaces, striking the notes of courage, hope, and faith,
and at last, in the guest-chamber, dropping down to
their key-note, as they close with an eirenicon and a
benediction. How little Jesus played upon men's
fears! how, instead, He sought to inspire them with
new hopes, telling of the possibilities of goodness, the
perfections which were within reach of even the human
endeavour! How seldom you catch the tone of despondency
in His words! As He summons men to
a life of purity, unselfishness, and faith, His are not the
voice and mien of one who commands to a forlorn hope.
There is the ring of courage, conviction, certainty about
His tone, a hopefulness that was itself half a victory.
Jesus was no Pessimist, reading over the grave of
departed glories His "ashes to ashes;" He who knew
our human nature best had most hopes of it, for He
saw the Deity that was around it and within it.
And just here we touch what we may call the fundamental
chord in the Gospel of Jesus, the Fatherhood
of God; for though we can detect other strains running
through the music of the Gospel, such as the Love of
God, the Grace of God, and the Kingdom of God, yet
these are but the consonant notes completing the harmonic
scale, or the variations that play about the Divine
Fatherhood. To the Hebrew conception of God this
was an element altogether new. To their mind Jehovah
is the Lord of hosts, an invisible, absolute Power,
inhabiting the thick darkness, and speaking in the fire.
Sinai thus throws its shadow across the Old Testament
Scriptures, and men inhale an atmosphere of law
rather than of love.
But what a transformation was wrought in the world's
thought and life as Jesus unfolded the Divine Fatherhood!
It altered the whole aspect of man's relation to
God, with a change as marked and glorious as when
our earth turns its face more directly to the sun, to find
its summer. The Great King, whose will commanded
all forces, became the Great Father, in whose compassionate
heart the toiling children of men might find
refuge and rest. The "Everlasting Arms" were none
the less strong and omnipotent; but as Jesus uncovered
them they seemed less distant, less rigid; they became
so near and so gentle, the weakest child of earth might
not fear to lay its tired heart upon them. Law was
none the less mighty, none the less majestic, but it was
now a transfigured law, all lighted up and suffused with
love. No longer was life one round of servile tasks,
demanded by an inexorable, invisible Pharaoh; no
longer was it a trampled playground, where all the
flowers are crushed, as Fate and Chance take their
alternate innings. No; life was ennobled, adorned with
new and rare beauties; and when Jesus opened the
gate of the Divine Fatherhood the light that was
beyond, and that "never was on sea or land," shone
through, putting a heavenliness upon the earthly, and
a Divineness upon the human life. What better, gladder
tidings could the poor (whether in spirit or in life) hear
than this—that heaven was no longer a distant dream,
but a present and most precious reality, touching at
every point, and enfolding their little lives; that God
was no longer hostile, or even indifferent to them, but
that He cared for them with an infinite care, and loved
them with an infinite love? Thus did Jesus proclaim
the "good tidings;" for love, grace, redemption, and
heaven itself are all found within the compass of the
Fatherhood. And He who gave to His disciples, in
the Paternoster, a golden key for heaven's audience-chamber,
speaks that sacred name "Father" even amid
the agonies of the cross, putting the silver trumpet to
His parched and quivering lips, so that earth may hear
once again the music of its new and more glorious
Jubilee.
2. The Gospel of Jesus was a Gospel of Light.
"And recovering of sight to the blind," which is the
Septuagint rendering of the Hebrew passage in Isaiah,
"the opening of the prison to them that are bound."
At first sight this appears to be a break in the Jubilee
idea; for physical cures, such as the healing of the
blind, did not come within the scope of Jubilatic mercies.
The original expression, however, contains a blending
of figures, which together preserve the unity of the
prophetic picture. Literally it reads, "The opening of
the eyes to them that are bound;" the figure being
that of a captive, whose long captivity in the darkness
has filmed his vision, and who now passes through the
opened door of his prison into the light of day.
In what way shall we interpret these words? Are
they to be taken literally, or spiritually? or are both
methods equally legitimate? Evidently they are both
intended, for Jesus was the Light-bringer in more senses
than one. That the Messiah should signalize His
advent by performing wonders and signs, and by working
physical cures, was certainly the teaching of prophecy,
as it was a fixed and prominent hope in the
expectation of the Jews. And so, when the despondent
Baptist sent two of his disciples to ask "Art Thou He
that should come?" Jesus gave no direct answer, but
turning from His questioners to the multitude of sick
who pressed around Him, He healed their sick, and
gave sight to many that were blind. Then returning
to the surprised strangers, He bids them carry back to
their master these visible proofs of His Messiahship—how
that "lepers are cleansed, and the blind receive
their sight." Jesus Himself had a wonderful power of
vision. His eyes were divinely bright, for they carried
their own light. Not only had He the gift of prescience,
the forward-looking eye; He had what for
want of a word we may call the gift of perscience, the
eye that looked within, that saw the heart and soul of
things. What a strange fascination there was in His
very look! how it flashed like a subtle lightning,
striking and scathing with its holy indignation the half-veiled
meanness and hypocrisy! and how again, like
a beam of light, it fell upon Peter's soul, thawing the
chilled heart, and opening the closed fountain of his
tears, as an Alpine summer falls on the rigid glacier,
and sends it rippling and singing through the lower
vales. And had not Jesus an especial sympathy for
cases of ophthalmic distress, paying to the blind a
peculiar attention? How quickly He responded to
Bartimæus—"What is it that I shall do for thee?"—as
if Bartimæus were conferring the benefit by making
his request. Where on the pages of the four Gospels
do we find a picture more full of beauty and sublimity
than when we read of Jesus taking the blind man by
the hand, and leading him out of the town? What
moral grandeur and what touching pathos are there!
and how that stoop of gentleness makes Him great!
No other case is there of such prolonged and tender
sympathy, where He not only opens the gates of day
for the benighted, but leads the benighted one up to
the gates. And why does Jesus make this difference
in His miracles, that while other cures are wrought
instantly, even the raising of the dead, with nothing
more than a look, a word, or a touch, in healing the
blind He should work the cure, as it were, in parts, or
by using such intermediaries as clay, saliva, or the
water of Siloam's pool? Must it not have been intentional?
It would seem so, though what the purpose
might be we can only guess. Was it so gradual an
inletting of the light, because a glare too bright and
sudden would only confuse and blind? or did Jesus
linger over the cure with the pleasure of one who loves
to watch the dawn, as it paints the east with vermilion
and gold? or did Jesus make use of the saliva and
clay, that like crystal lenses, they might magnify His
power, and show how His will was supreme, that
He had a thousand ways of restoring sight, and that
He had only to command even unlikely things, and
light, or rather sight, should be? We do not know
the purpose, but we do know that physical sight was
somehow a favourite gift of the Lord Jesus, one that
He handed to men carefully and tenderly. Nay, He
Himself said that the man of Jerusalem had been born
blind "that the works of God should be manifest in
him;" that is, his firmament had been for forty years
darkened that his age, and all coming ages, might see
shining within it the constellations of Divine Pity and
Divine Power.
But while Jesus knew well the anatomy of the
natural eye, and could and did heal it of its disorders,
putting within the sunken socket the rounded ball, or
restoring to the optic nerve its lost powers, this was
not the only sight He brought. To the companion
clauses of this prophecy, where Jesus proclaims deliverance
to the captives, and sets at liberty them that are
bruised, we are compelled to give a spiritual interpretation;
and so "the recovering of sight to the blind"
demands a far wider horizon than the literalistic sense
offers. It speaks of the true Light which lighteth
every man, that spiritual photosphere that environs
and enswathes the soul, and of the opening and adjusting
of the spiritual sense; for as sight without light is
darkness, so light without sight is darkness still. The
two facts are thus related, each useless apart from the
other, but together producing what we call vision.
The recovering of sight to the blind is thus the universal
miracle. It is the "Let light be" of the new
Genesis, or, as we prefer to call it, the "regeneration."
It is the dawn, which, breaking over the soul, broadens
unto the perfect day, the heavenly, the eternal noon.
Jesus Himself recognized this binoculism, this double
vision. He says (John xvi. 16), "A little while, and
ye behold Me no more; and again a little while, and ye
shall see Me," using two altogether different words—the
one speaking of the vision of the sense, the other
of the deeper vision of the soul. And it was so. The
disciples' vision of the Christ, at least so long as
the bodily presence was with them, was the earthly,
physical vision. The spiritual Christ was, in a sense,
lost, masked in the corporeal. The veil of His flesh
hung dense and heavy before their eyes, and not until
it was uplifted on the cross, not until it was rent in
twain, did they see the mysterious Holy Presence that
dwelt within the veil. Nor was the clearer vision given
them even now. The dust of the sepulchre was in
their eyes, blurring, and for a time half-blinding them—the
anointing with the clay. The emptied grave,
the Resurrection, was their "pool of Siloam," washing
away the blinding clay, the dust of their gross, materialistic
thoughts. Henceforth they saw Christ, not, as
before, ever coming and going, but as the ever-present,
the abiding One. In the fuller light of the Pentecostal
flames the unseen Christ became more near and more
real than the seen Christ ever was. Seeing Him as visible,
their minds were holden, somewhat perplexed; they
could neither accomplish much nor endure much; but
seeing Him who had become invisible, they were a company
of invincibles. They could do and they could endure
anything; for was not the I AM with them always?
Now, even in the physical vision there is a wonderful
correspondence between the sight and the soul, the
prospect and introspect. As men read the outward
world they see pretty much the shadow of themselves,
their thoughts, feelings, and ideas. In the German
fable the travelled stork had nothing to say about the
beauty of the fields and wonders of the cities over
which it passed, but it could discourse at length about
the delicious frogs it had found in a certain ditch.
Exactly the same law rules up in the higher vision.
Men see what they themselves love and are; the sight
is but a sort of projection of the soul. As St. Paul
says, "The natural man receiveth not the things of
God;" the things which God hath prepared for them
that love Him are "things which eye saw not, and ear
heard not." And so Jesus gives sight by renewing the
soul; He creates around us a new heaven and a new
earth, by creating a new, a clean heart within us.
Within every soul there are the possibilities of a
Paradise, but these possibilities are dormant. The
natural heart is a chaos of confusion and darkness,
until it turns towards Jesus as its Saviour and its
Sun, and henceforth revolves around Him in its ever-narrowing
circles.
3. The Gospel of Jesus was a Gospel of Liberty.
"He hath sent Me to proclaim release to the captives,"
"to set at liberty them that are bruised." The
latter clause is not in the original prophecy, but is a
rough adaptation of another passage in Isaiah (lviii. 6).
Probably it was quoted by Jesus in His address, and so
was inserted by the Evangelist with the passages read;
for in the New Testament the quotations from the Old
are grouped together by affinities of spirit, rather than
by the law of textual continuity. The two passages
are one in their proclamation and promise of liberty,
but they by no means cover the same ground. The
former speaks of the liberation of captives, those whom
the exigencies of war or some change of fortune have
thrown into prison; the latter speaks of deliverance to
the oppressed, those whose personal liberties may not
be impawned, but whose lives are made hard and bitter
under severe exactions, and whose spirits are broken,
crushed beneath a weight of accumulated ills. Speaking
generally, we should call the one an amnesty, and
the other an enfranchisement; for one is the offer of
freedom to the captive, the other of freedom to the
slave; while together they form an act of emancipation
for humanity, enfranchising and ennobling each individual
son of man, and giving to him, even the poorest,
the freedom of God's world.
In what sense, then, is Jesus the great Emancipator?
It would be easy to show that Jesus, personally, was a
lover of freedom. He could not brook restraints.
Antiquity, conventionalism, had no charms for Him.
Keenly in touch with the present, He did not care to
take the cold, clammy hand of a dead Past, or allow it to
prescribe His actions. Between the right and the wrong,
the good and the evil, He put a wall of adamant, God's
eternal "No;" but within the sphere of the right, the
good, He left room for largest liberties. He observed
forms—occasionally, at least—but formalism He could
not endure. And so Jesus was constantly coming into
collision with the Pharisaic school of thought, the
school of routinists, casuists, whose religion was a
glossary of terms, a volume of formulas and negations.
To the Pharisee religion was a cold, dead thing, a
mummy, all enswathed in the cerecloths of tradition;
to Jesus it was a living soul within a living form, an
angel of grace and beauty, whose wings would bear
her aloft to higher, heavenlier spheres, and whose feet
and hands fitted her just as well for the common walks
of life, in a beautiful, every-day ministry of blessing.
And how Jesus loved to give personal liberty to man—to
remove the restrictions disease had put around
their activities, and to leave them physically, mentally
free! And what were His miracles of healing but proclamations
of liberty, in the lowest sense of that word?
He found the human body enfeebled, enslaved; here it
was an arm, there an eye, so held in the grip of disease
that it was as if dead. But Jesus said to Disease,
"Loose that half-strangled life and let it go," and in an
instant it was free to act and feel, finding its lesser
jubilee. Jesus saw the human mind led into captivity.
Reason was dethroned and immured in the dungeon,
while the feet of lawless passions were trampling overhead.
But when Jesus healed the demoniac, the imbecile,
the lunatic, what was it but a mental jubilee,
as He gives peace to a distracted soul, and leads
banished Reason back to her Jerusalem?
But these deliverances and liberties, glorious as they
are, are but figures of the true, which is the enfranchisement
of the soul. The disciples were perplexed
and sorely disappointed that Jesus should die
without having wrought any "redemption" for Israel.
This was their one dream, that the Messiah should
break in pieces the hated Roman yoke, and effect a
political deliverance. But they see Him moving
steadily to His goal, taking no note of their aspirations,
or noticing them only to rebuke them, and scarce
giving a passing glance to these Roman eagles, which
darken the sky, and cast their ominous shadows over
the homes and fields of Israel. But Jesus had not
come into the world to effect any local, political redemption;
another Moses could have done that. He had
come to lead captive the captivity of Sin, as Zacharias
had foretold, "that being delivered out of the hand of
our (spiritual) enemies, we might serve Him without
fear, in holiness and righteousness all the days of our
life." The sphere of His mission was where His
kingdom should be, in the great interior of the heart.
A Prophet like unto Moses, but infinitely greater
than he, He too leaves the palace, of the Eternal, laying
aside, not the robes of a prospective royalty, but
the glories He possessed with the Father; He too
assumes the dress, the speech, nay, the very nature,
of the race He has come to redeem. And when no
other ransom was sufficient He "offered Himself without
spot to God," "our Passover, sacrificed for us," so
sprinkling the doorway of the new Exodus with His
own blood. But here we stand on the threshold of
a great mystery; for if angels bend over the mercyseat,
desiring, but in vain, to read the secret of redemption,
how can our finite minds grasp the great thought
and purpose of God? We do know this, however, for
it is the oft-repeated truth of Scripture, that the life,
or, as St. Peter puts it, "the precious blood of Christ,"
was, in a certain sense, our ransom, the price of our
redemption. We say "in a certain sense," for the
figure breaks down if we press it unduly, as if Heaven
had held a parley with the power that had enslaved
man, and, at a stipulated price, had bought him off.
That certainly was no part of the Divine purpose and
fact of redemption. But an atonement was needed in
order to make salvation possible; for how could God,
infinitely holy and just, remit the penalty due to sin
with no expression of His abhorrence of sin, without
destroying the dignity of law, and reducing justice to
a mere name? But the obedience and death of Christ
were a satisfaction of infinite worth. They upheld the
majesty of law, and at the same time made way for the
interventions of Divine Love. The cross of Jesus
was thus the place where Mercy and Truth met together,
and Righteousness and Peace kissed each
other. It was at once the visible expression of God's
deep hatred of sin, and of His deep love to the sinner.
And so, not virtually simply, in some far-off sense, but
in truest reality, Jesus "died for our sins," Himself
tasting death that we might have life, even the life
"more abundant," the life everlasting; suffering Himself
to be led captive by the powers of sin, bound to
the cross and imprisoned in a grave, that men might
be free in all the glorious liberty of the children of
God.
But this deliverance from sin, the pardon for past
offences, is but one part of the salvation Jesus provides
and proclaims. Heaven's angel may light up the
dungeon of the imprisoned soul; he may strike off its
fetters, and lead it forth into light and liberty; but if
Satan can reverse all this, and fling back the soul into
captivity, what is that but a partial, intermittent salvation,
so unlike Him whose name is Wonderful? The
angel said, "He shall save His people," not from the
effects of their sin, from its guilt and condemnation
alone, but "from their sins." That is, He shall give
to the pardoned soul power over sin; it shall no longer
have dominion over him; captivity itself shall be led
captive; for
"His grace, His love, His care
Are wider than our utmost need,
And higher than our prayer."
Yes, verily; and the life that is hid with Christ in
God, that, with no side-glances at self, is set apart
utterly to do the Divine will, that abandons itself to
the perfect keeping of the perfect Saviour, will find on
earth the "acceptable year of the Lord," its years,
henceforth, years of liberty and victory, a prolonged
Jubilee.
CHAPTER IX.
A SABBATH IN GALILEE.
We should naturally expect that our physician-Evangelist
would have a peculiar interest in
Christ's connection with human suffering and disease,
and in this we are not mistaken.
It is almost a superfluous task to consider what our
Gospels would have been had there been no miracles
of healing to record; but we may safely say that such
a blank would be inexplicable, if not impossible. Even
had prophecy been utterly silent on the subject, should
we not look for the Christ to signalize His advent and
reign upon earth by manifestations of His Divine
power? A Man amongst men, human yet superhuman,
how can He manifest the Divinity that is within, except
by the flashings forth of His supernatural power?
Speech, however eloquent, however true, could not do
this. There must be a background of deeds, visible
credentials of authority and power, or else the words
are weak and vain—but the play of a borealis in the
sky, beautiful and bright indeed, but distant, inoperative,
and cold. If the prophets of old, who were but
acolytes swinging their lamps and singing their songs
before the coming Christ, were allowed to attest their
commission by occasional enduements of miraculous
power, must not the Christ Himself prove His super-humanity
by fuller measures and exhibitions of the
same power? And where can He manifest this so
well as in connection with the world's suffering, need,
and pain? Here is a background prepared, and all
dark enough in sooth; where can He write so well
that men may read His messages of good-will, love, and
peace? Where can He put His sign manual, His
Divine autograph, better than on this firmament of
human sorrow, disease, and woe? And so the miracles
of healing fall naturally into the story; they are the
natural and necessary accompaniments of the Divine
life upon earth.
The first miracle that Jesus wrought was in the
home at Cana; His first miracle of healing was in the
synagogue. He thus placed Himself in the two pivotal
centres of our earthly life; for that life, with its
heavenward and earthward aspects, revolves about the
synagogue and the home. He touches our human life
alike on its temporal and its spiritual side. To a
nature like that of Jesus, which had an intense love
for what was real and true, and as intense a scorn for
what was superficial and unreal, it would seem as if
a Hebrew synagogue would offer but few attractions.
True, it served as the visible symbol of religion; it was
the shrine where the Law and the Prophets spoke;
what spiritual life there was circled and eddied around
its door; while its walls, pointing to Jerusalem, kept
the scattered populations in touch with the Temple,
that marbled dream of Hebraism; but in saying this
we say nearly all. The tides of worldliness and
formality, which, sweeping through the Temple gates,
had left a scum of mire even upon the sacred courts,
chilling devotion and almost extinguishing faith, had
swept over the threshold of the synagogue. There the
scribes had usurped Moses' seat, exalting Tradition
as a sort of essence of Scripture, and deadening the
majestic voices of the law in the jargon of their vain
repetitions. But Jesus does not absent Himself from
the service of the synagogue because the fires upon its
altars are dulled and quenched by the down-draught of
the times. To Him it is the house of God, and if
others see it not, He sees a ladder of light, with ascending
and descending angels. If others hear but the
voices of man, all broken and confused, He hears the
Diviner voice, still and small; He hears the music
of the heavenly host, throwing down their Glorias upon
earth. The pure in heart can find and see God anywhere.
He who worships truly carries his Holy of
holies within him. He who takes his own fire need
never complain of the cold, and with wood and fire all
prepared, he can find or he can build an altar upon
any mount. Happy is the soul that has learned to
lean upon God, who can say, amid all the distractions
and interventions of man, "My soul, wait thou only
upon God." To such a one, whose soul is athirst for
God, the Valley of Baca becomes a well, while the hot
rock pours out its streams of blessing. The art of
worship avails nothing if the heart of worship is gone;
but if that remain, subtle attractions will ever draw it
to the place where "His name is recorded, and where
His honour dwelleth."
In his earlier chapters St. Luke is careful to light
his Sabbath lamp, telling that such and such miracles
were wrought on that day, because the Sabbath question
was one on which Jesus soon came into collision
with the Pharisees. By their traditions, and the withs
of dry and sharp legalities, they had strangled the
Sabbath, until life was well-nigh extinct. They had
made rigorous and exacting what God had made
bright and restful, fencing it around with negations,
and burdening it with penalties. Jesus broke the withs
that bound her, let the freer air play upon her face,
and then led her back to the sweet liberties of her
earlier years. How He does it the sequel will show.
The Sabbath morning finds Jesus repairing to the
synagogue at Capernaum, a sanctuary built by a
Gentile centurion, and presided over by Jairus, both of
whom are yet to be brought into close personal relationship
with Christ. From the silence of the narrative
we should infer that the courtesy offered at Nazareth
was not repeated at Capernaum—that of being invited
to read the lesson from the Book of the Prophets. But
whether so or not, He was allowed to address the congregation,
a privilege which was often accorded to any
eminent stranger who might be present. Of the subject
of the discourse we know nothing. Possibly it was
suggested by some passing scene or incident, as the
sculptured pot of manna, in this same synagogue, called
forth the remarkable address about the earthly and the
heavenly bread (John vi. 31). But if the substance of
the discourse is lost to us, its effect is not. It awoke
the same feeling of surprise at Capernaum as it had
done before among the more rustic minds of Nazareth.
There, however, it was the graciousness of His words,
their mingled "sweetness and light," which so caused
them to wonder; here at Capernaum it was the "authority"
with which He spoke that so astonished them,
so different from the speech of the scribes, which, for the
most part, was but an iteration of quibbles and trivialities,
with just as much of originality as the "old clo'"
cries of our modern streets. The speech of Jesus came
as a breath from the upper air; it was the intense
language of One who possessed the truth, and who
was Himself possessed by the truth. He dealt in
principles, not platitudes; in eternal facts, and not in the
fancies of gossamer that tradition so delighted to spin.
Others might speak with the hesitancy of doubt; Jesus
spoke in "verilys" and verities, the very essences of
truth. And so His word fell upon the ears of men with
the tones of an oracle; they felt themselves addressed
by the unseen Deity who was behind; they had not
learned, as we have, that the Deity of their oracle was
within. No wonder that they are astonished at His
authority—an authority so perfectly free from any
assumptions; they will wonder still more when they
find that demons, too, recognize this authority, and
obey it.
While Jesus was still speaking—the tense of the
verb implies an unfinished discourse—suddenly He was
interrupted by a loud, wild shout: "Ah, what have we
to do with Thee, Thou Jesus of Nazareth? Art Thou
come to destroy us? I know Thee, who Thou art, the
Holy One of God." It was the cry of a man who, as
our Evangelist expresses it, "had a spirit of an unclean
devil." The phrase is a singular one, in fact unique,
and savours a little of tautology; for St. Luke uses
the words "spirit" and "devil" as synonyms (ix. 39).
Later in his Gospel he would simply have said "he
had an unclean devil;" why, then, does he here amplify
the phrase, and say he had "a spirit of an unclean
devil"? We can, of course, only conjecture, but might
it not be because to the Gentile mind—to which he is
writing—the powers of evil were represented as personifications,
having a corporeal existence? And so
in his first reference to demoniacal possession he pauses
to explain that these demons are evil "spirits," with
existences altogether separate from the diseased humanity
which temporarily they were allowed to inhabit
and to rule. Neither can we determine with certainty
the meaning of the phrase "an unclean devil," though
probably it was so called because it drove its victim to
haunt unclean places, like the Gadarene, who had his
dwelling among the tombs.
The whole subject of demonology has been called in
question by certain modern critics. They aver that it
is simply an after-growth of Paganism, the seeds of
worn-out mythologies which had been blown over into
the Christian mind; and eliminating from them all that
is supernatural, they reduce the so-called "possessions"
to the natural effects of purely natural causes,
physical and mental. It is confessedly a subject difficult
as it is mysterious; but we are not inclined, at
the bidding of rationalistic clamour, so to strike out
the supernatural. Indeed, we cannot, without impaling
ourselves upon this dilemma, that Jesus, knowingly or
unknowingly, taught as the truth what was not true.
That Jesus lent the weight of His testimony to the
popular belief is evident; never once, in all His allusions,
does He call it in question, nor hint that He is
speaking now only in an accommodated sense, borrowing
the accents of current speech. To Him the existence
and presence of evil spirits was just as patent and as
solemn a fact as was the existence of the arch-spirit,
even Satan himself. And granting the existence of
evil spirits, who will show us the line of limitation, the
"Hitherto, but no farther," where their influence is
stayed? Have we not seen, in mesmerism, cases of
real possession, where the weaker human will has been
completely overpowered by the stronger will? when
the subject was no longer himself, but his thoughts,
words, and acts were those of another? And are there
not, in the experiences of all medical men, and of
ministers of religion, cases of depravity so utterly foul
and loathsome that they cannot be explained except
by the Jewish taunt, "He hath a devil"? According
to the teaching of Scripture, the evil spirit possessed
the man in the entirety of his being, commanding his
own spirit, ruling both body and mind. Now it touched
the tongue with a certain glibness of speech, becoming
a "spirit of divination," and now it touched it with
dumbness, putting upon the life the spell of an awful
silence. Not that the obscurity of the eclipse was
always the same. There were more lucid moments,
the penumbras of brightness, when, for a brief interval,
the consciousness seemed to awake, and the human
will seemed struggling to assert itself; as is seen in the
occasional dualism of its speech, when the "I" emerges
from the "we," only, however, to be drawn back again,
to have its identity swallowed up as before.
Such is the character who, leaving the graves of the
dead for the abodes of the living, now breaks through
the ceremonial ban, and enters the synagogue. Rushing
wildly within—for we can scarcely suppose him
to be a quiet worshipper; the rules of the synagogue
would not have allowed that—and approaching Jesus,
he abruptly breaks in upon the discourse of Jesus with
his cry of mingled fear and passion. Of the cry itself
we need not speak, except to notice its question and
its confession. "Art Thou come to destroy us?" he
asks, as if, somehow, the secret of the Redeemer's
mission had been told to these powers of darkness.
Did they know that He had come to "destroy" the
works of the devil, and ultimately to destroy, with an
everlasting destruction, him who had the power of
death, that is, the devil? Possibly they did, for, citizens
of two worlds, the visible and the invisible, should not
their horizon be wider than our own? At any rate,
their knowledge, in some points, was in advance of the
nascent faith of the disciples. They knew and confessed
the Divinity of Christ's mission, and the Divinity
of His Person, crying, "I know Thee, who Thou art,
the Holy One of God;" "Thou art the Son of God"
(iv. 41), when as yet the faith of the disciples was only
a nebula of mist, made up in part of unreal hopes and
random guesses. Indeed, we seldom find the demons
yielding to the power of Christ, or to the delegated
power of His disciples, but they make their confession
of superior knowledge as if they possessed a more
intimate acquaintance with Christ. "Jesus I know,
and Paul I know," said the demon, which the sons of
Sceva could not exorcise (Acts xix. 15), while now the
demon of Capernaum boasts, "I know Thee, who Thou
art, the Holy One of God." Nor was it a vain boast
either, for our Evangelist asserts that Jesus did not
suffer the demons to speak, "because they knew that
He was the Christ" (ver. 41). They knew Jesus, but
they feared and hated Him. In a certain sense they
believed, but their belief only caused them to tremble,
while it left them demons still. Just so is it now:—
"There are, too, who believe in hell and lie;
There are who waste their souls in working out
Life's problem, on these sands betwixt two tides,
And end, 'Now give us the beasts' part, in death.'"
Saving faith is thus more than a bare assent of the
mind, more than some cold belief, or vain repetition
of a creed. A creed may be complete and beautiful,
but it is not the Christ; it is only the vesture the
Christ wears; and alas, there are many still who will
chaffer about, and cast lots for, a creed, who will go
directly and crucify the Christ Himself! The faith
that saves, besides the assent of the mind, must have
the consent of the will and the surrender of the life.
It is "with the heart," and not only with the mind,
man "believeth unto righteousness."
The interruption brought the discourse of Jesus to
an abrupt end, but it served to point the discourse
with further exclamations of surprise, while it offered
space for a new manifestation of Divine authority and
power. It did not in the least disconcert the Master,
though it had doubtless sent a thrill of excitement
through the whole congregation. He did not even rise
from His seat (ver. 38), but retaining the teaching posture,
and not deigning a reply to the questions of the
demon, He rebuked the evil spirit, saying, "Hold thy
peace, and come out of him," thus recognizing the dual
will, and distinguishing between the possessor and the
possessed. The command was obeyed instantly and
utterly; though, as if to make one last supreme effort,
he throws his victim down upon the floor of the synagogue,
like Samson Agonistes, pulling to the ground
the temple of his imprisonment. It was, however, a
vain attempt, for he did him "no hurt." The roaring
lion had indeed been "muzzled"—which is the primitive
meaning of the verb rendered "Hold thy peace"—by
the omnipotent word of Jesus.
They were "astonished at His teaching" before, but
how much more so now! Then it was a convincing
word; now it is a commanding word. They hear the
voice of Jesus, sweeping like suppressed thunder over
the boundaries of the invisible world, and commanding
even devils, driving them forth, just with one rebuke,
from the temple of the human soul, as afterwards He
drove the traders from His Father's house with His
whip of small cords. No wonder that "amazement
came upon all," or that they asked, "What is this
word? for with authority and power He commandeth
the unclean spirits, and they come out."
And so Jesus began His miracles of healing at the
outmost marge of human misery. With the finger of
His love, with the touch of His omnipotence, He swept
the uttermost circle of our human need, writing on
that far and low horizon His wonderful name, "Mighty
to save." And since none are outcasts from His mercy
save those who outcast themselves, why should we
limit "the Holy One of Israel"? why should we
despair of any? Life and hope should be coeval.
Immediately on retiring from the synagogue, Jesus
passes out of Capernaum, and along the shore to Bethsaida,
and enters, together with James and John, the
house of Peter and Andrew (John i. 44). It is a
singular coincidence that the Apostle Peter, with whose
name the Romish Church takes such liberties, and
who is himself the "Rock" on which they rear their
huge fabric of priestly assumptions, should be the only
Apostle of whose married life we read; for though John
afterwards possesses a "home," its only inmate besides,
as far as the records show, is the new "mother" he
leads away from the cross. It is true we have not the
name of Peter's wife, but we find her shadow, as well
as that of her husband, thrown across the pages of the
New Testament; cleaving to her mother even while
she follows another; ministering to Jesus, and for a
time finding Him a home; while later we see her
sharing the privations and the perils of her husband's
wandering life (1 Cor. ix. 5). Verily, Rome has drifted
far from the "Rock" of her anchorage, the example of
her patron saint; and between the Vatican of the
modern Pontiff and the sweet domesticities of Bethsaida
is a gulf of divergence which only a powerful
imagination can cross.
No sooner, however, has Jesus entered the house
than He is told how Peter's mother-in-law has been
suddenly stricken down by a violent fever, probably a
local fever for which that lake-shore was notorious, and
which was bred from the malaria of the marsh. Our
physician-Evangelist does not stay to diagnose the
malady, but he speaks of it as "a great fever," thus
giving us an idea of its virulence and consequent
danger. "And they besought Him for her;" not that
He was at all reluctant to grant their request, for the
tense of the verb implies that once asking was sufficient;
but evidently there was the "beseeching" look
and tone of a mingled love and fear. Jesus responds
instantly; for can He come fresh from the healing of
a stranger, to allow a dread shadow to darken the
home and the hearts of His own? Seeking the sick
chamber, He bends over the fever-stricken one, and
taking her hand in His (Mark i. 31), He speaks some
word of command, "rebuking the fever," as St. Luke
expresses it. In a moment the fatal fire is quenched,
the throbbing heart regains its normal beat, a delicious
coolness takes the place of the burning heat, while
the fever-flush steals away to make place for the bloom
of health. The cure was perfect and instant. The
lost strength returned, and "immediately she arose
and ministered unto them," preparing, doubtless, the
evening meal.
May we not throw the light of this narrative upon
one of the questions of the day? Men speak of the
reign of law, and the drift of modern scientific thought
is against any interference—even Divine—with the
ordinary operations of physical law. As the visible
universe is opened up and explored the heavens are
crowded back and back, until they seem nothing but
a golden mist, some distant dream. Nature's laws are
seen to be so uniform, so ruthlessly exact, that certain
of those who should be teachers of a higher faith are
suggesting the impossibility of any interference with
their ordinary operations. "You do but waste your
breath," they say, "in asking for any immunities from
Nature's penalties, or for any deviation from her fixed
rules. They are invariable, inviolate. Be content
rather to be conformed, mentally and morally, to God's
will." But is prayer to have so restricted an area?
is the physical world to be buried so deep in "law"
that it shall give no rest to prayer, not even for the
sole of her foot? Entire conformity to God's will is,
indeed, the highest aim and privilege of life, and he
who prays the most seeks most for this; but has God
no will in the world of physics, in the realm of matter?
Shall we push Him back to the narrow ledge of a
primal Genesis? or shall we leave Him chained to
that frontier coast, another Prometheus bound? It is
well to respect and to honour law, but Nature's laws
are complex, manifold. They can form combinations
numberless, working different or opposite results. He
who searches for "the springs of life" will
"Reach the law within the law;"
and who can tell whether there is not a law of prayer
and faith, thrown by the Unseen Hand across all the
warp of created things, binding "the whole round
earth" about "the feet of God"? Reason says, "It
might be so," and Scripture says, "It is so." Was
Jesus angry when they told Him of the fever-stricken,
and they implored His intervention? Did He say,
"You mistake My mission. I must not interfere with
the course of the fever; it must have its range. If
she lives, she lives; and if she dies, she dies; and
whether the one or the other, you must be patient,
you must be content"? But such were not the words
of Jesus, with their latent fatalism. He heard the
prayer, and at once granted it, not by annulling
Nature's laws, nor even suspending them, but by introducing
a higher law. Even though the fever was the
result of natural causes, and though it probably might
have been prevented, had they but drained the marsh
or planted it with the eucalyptus, yet this does not
shut out all interventions of Divine mercy. The Divine
compassion makes some allowance for our human
ignorance, when it is not wilful, and for our human
impotence.
The fever "left her, and immediately she rose up
and ministered unto them." Yes, and there are fevers
of the spirit as well as of the flesh, when the heart
is quick and flurried, the brain hot with anxious
thought, when the fret and jar of life seem eating our
strength away, and our disquiet spirit finds its rest
broken by the pressure of some fearful nightmare. And
how soon does this soul-fever strike us down! how
it unfits us for our ministry of blessing, robbing us of
the "heart at leisure from itself," and filling the soul
with sad, distressing fears, until our life seems like
the helpless, withered leaf, whirled and tossed hither
and thither by the wind! For the fever of the body
there may not always be relief, but for the fever of
the spirit there is a possible and a perfect cure. It is
the touch of Jesus. A close personal contact with the
living and loving Christ will rebuke the fever of your
heart; it will give to your soul a quietness and restfulness
that are Divine; and with the touch of His
omnipotence upon you, and with all the elation of conscious
strength, you too will arise into a nobler life,
a life which will find its supremest joy in ministering
unto others, and so ministering unto Him.
Such was the Sabbath in Galilee in which Jesus
began His miracles of healing. But if it saw the
beginning of His miracles, it did not see their end;
for soon as the sun had set, and the Sabbath restraint
was over, "all that had any sick with divers diseases
brought them unto Him, and He laid His hands on
every one of them, and healed them." A marvellous
ending of a marvellous day! Jesus throws out by
handfuls His largesse of blessing, health, which is the
highest wealth, showing that there is no end to His
power, as there is no limit to His love; that His will
is supreme over all forces and all laws; that He is,
and ever will be, the perfect Saviour, binding up the
broken in heart, assuaging all griefs, and healing all
wounds!
CHAPTER X.
THE CALLING OF THE FOUR.
When Peter and his companions had the interview
with Jesus by the Jordan, and were summoned
to follow Him, it was the designation, rather than the
appointment, to the Apostleship. They did accompany
Him to Cana, and thence to Capernaum; but here their
paths diverged for a time, Jesus passing on alone to
Nazareth, while the novitiate disciples fall back again
into the routine of secular life. Now, however, His
mission is fairly inaugurated, and He must attach them
permanently to His person. He must lay His hand,
where His thoughts have long been, upon the future,
making provision for the stability and permanence of
His work, that so the kingdom may survive and
flourish when the Ascension clouds have made the
King Himself invisible.
St. Matthew and St. Mark insert their abridged
narrative of the call before the healing of the demoniac
and the cure of Peter's mother-in-law; and most expositors
think that St. Luke's setting "in order," in this
case at least, is wrong; that he has preferred to have a
chronological inaccuracy, so that His miracles may be
gathered into related groups. But that our Evangelist
is in error is by no means certain; indeed, we are
inclined to think that the balance of probability is on
the side of his arrangement. How else shall we account
for the crowds who now press upon Jesus so importunately
and with such Galilean ardour? It was not the
rumour of His Judæan miracles which had awoke this
tempest of excitement, for the journey to Jerusalem was
not yet taken. And what else could it be, if the miraculous
draught of fishes was the first of the Capernaum
miracles? But suppose that we retain the order of
St. Luke, that the call followed closely upon that
memorable Sabbath, then the crowds fall into the story
naturally; it is the multitude which had gathered about
the door when the Sabbath sun had set, putting an
after-glow upon the hills, and on whose sick He
wrought His miracles of healing. Nor does the fact
that Jesus went to be a guest in Peter's house require
us to invert the order of St. Luke; for the casual
acquaintance by the Jordan had since ripened into
intimacy, so that Peter would naturally offer hospitality
to his Master on His coming to Capernaum. Again, too,
going back to the Sabbath in the synagogue, we read
how they were astonished at His doctrine; "for His
word was with authority;" and when that astonishment
was heightened into amazement, as they saw the demon
cowed and silenced, this was their exclamation, "What
a word is this!" And does not Peter refer to this, when
the same voice that commanded the demon now commands
them to "Let down the nets," and he answers,
"At Thy word I will"? It certainly seems as if the
"word" of the sea-shore were an echo from the
synagogue, and so a "word" that justifies the order of
our Evangelist.
It was probably still early in the morning—for the
days of Jesus began back at the dawn, and very often
before—when He sought the quiet of the sea-shore,
possibly to find a still hour for devotion, or perhaps to
see how His friends had fared with their all-night
fishing. Little quiet, however, could He find, for from
Capernaum and Bethsaida comes a hurrying and intrusive
crowd, surging around Him with the swirl and
roar of confused voices, and pressing inconveniently
near. Not that the crowd was hostile; it was a friendly
but inquisitive multitude, eager, not so much to see a
repetition of His miracles, as to hear Him speak, in
those rare, sweet accents, "the word of God." The
expression characterizes the whole teaching of Jesus.
Though His words were meant for earth, for human
ears and for human hearts, there was no earthliness
about them. On the topics in which man is most
exercised and garrulous, such as local or national
events, Jesus is strangely silent. He scarcely gives
them a passing thought; for what were the events of
the day to Him who was "before Abraham," and who
saw the two eternities? what to Him was the gossip
of the hour, how Rome's armies marched and fought, or
how "the dogs of faction" bayed? To His mind these
were but as dust caught in the eddies of the wind. The
thoughts of Jesus were high. Like the figures of the
prophet's vision, they had feet indeed, so that they
could alight and rest awhile on earthly things—though
even here they only touched earth at points which
were common to humanity, and they were winged, too,
having the sweep of the lower spaces and of the highest
heavens. And so there was a heavenliness upon the
words of Jesus, and a sweetness, as if celestial harmonies
were imprisoned within them. They set men
looking upwards, and listening; for the heavens seemed
nearer as He spoke, and they were no longer dumb.
And not only did the words of Jesus bring to men a clearer
revelation of God, correcting the hard views which man,
in his fears and his sins, had formed of Him, but men
felt the Divineness of His speech; that Jesus was the
Bearer of a new evangel, God's latest message of hope
and love. And He was the Bearer of such a message;
He was Himself that Evangel, the Word of God
incarnate, that men might hear of heavenly things in
the common accents of earthly speech.
Nor was Jesus loth to deliver His message; He
needed no constraining to speak of the things pertaining
to the kingdom of God. Only let Him see the listening
heart, the void of a sincere longing, and His speech
distilled as the dew. And so no time was to Him
inopportune; the break of day, the noon, the night
were all alike to Him. No place was out of harmony
with His message—the Temple-court, the synagogue,
the domestic hearth, the mountain, the lake-shore; He
consecrated all alike with the music of His speech.
Nay, even upon the cross, amid its agonies, He opens
His lips once more, though parched with terrible thirst,
to speak peace within a penitent soul, and to open for it
the gate of Paradise.
Drawn up on the shore, close by the water's edge,
are two boats, empty now, for Simon and his partners
are busy washing their nets, after their night of fruitless
toil. Seeking for freer space than the pushing crowd
will allow Him, and also wanting a point of vantage,
where His voice will command a wider range of
listeners, Jesus gets into Simon's boat, and requests
him to put out a little from the land. "And He sat
down, and taught the multitudes out of the boat,"
assuming the posture of the teacher, even though the
occasion partook so largely of the impromptu character.
When He dispensed the material bread He made the
multitudes "sit down;" but when He dispensed the
living bread, the heavenly manna, He left the multitudes
standing, while He Himself sat down, so claiming the
authority of a Master, as His posture emphasized His
words. It is somewhat singular that when our Evangelist
has been so careful and minute in his description
of the scene, giving us a sort of photograph of that lakeside
group, with bits of artistic colouring thrown in,
that then he should omit entirely the subject-matter of
the discourse. But so he does, and we try in vain to
fill up the blank. Did He, as at Nazareth, turn the
lamps of prophecy full upon Himself, and tell them
how the "great Light" had at last risen upon Galilee
of the nations? or did He let His speech reflect the
shimmer of the lake, as He told in parable how the
kingdom of heaven was "like unto a net that was cast
into the sea, and gathered of every kind"? Possibly
He did, but His words, whatever they were, "like the
pipes of Pan, died with the ears and hearts of those
who heard them."
"When He had left speaking," having dismissed the
multitude with His benediction, He turns to give to His
future disciples, Peter and Andrew, a private lesson.
"Put out into the deep," He said, including Andrew
now in His plural imperative, "and let down your nets
for a draught." It was a commanding voice, altogether
different in its tone from the last words He addressed
to Peter, when He "requested" him to put out a little
from the land. Then He spoke as the Friend, possibly
the Guest, with a certain amount of deference; now He
steps up to a very throne of power, a throne which in
Peter's life He never more abdicates. Simon recognizes
the altered conditions, that a Higher Will is now in the
boat, where hitherto his own will has been supreme;
and saluting Him as "Master," he says, "We toiled all
night, and took nothing; but at Thy word I will let
down the nets." He does not demur; he does not
hesitate one moment. Though himself weary with his
night-long labours, and though the command of the
Master went directly against his nautical experiences,
he sinks his thoughts and his doubts in the word of
his Lord. It is true he speaks of the failure of the
night, how they have taken nothing; but instead of
making that a plea for hesitancy and doubt, it is the
foil to make his unquestioning faith stand out in bolder
relief. Peter was the man of impulse, the man of
action, with a swift-beating heart and an ever-ready
hand. To his forward-stepping mind decision was
easy and immediate; and so, almost before the command
was completed, his swift lips had made answer,
"I will let down the nets." It was the language of a
prompt and full obedience. It showed that Simon's
nature was responsive and genuine, that when a
Christly word struck upon his soul it set his whole
being vibrating, and drove out all meaner thoughts.
He had learned to obey, which was the first lesson of
discipleship; and having learned to obey, he was therefore
fit to rule, qualified for leadership, and worthy of
being entrusted with the keys of the kingdom.
And how much is missed in life through feebleness
of resolve, a lack of decision! How many are the
invertebrate souls, lacking in will and void of purpose,
who, instead of piercing waves and conquering the
flow of adverse tides, like the medusæ, can only drift,
all limp and languid, in the current of circumstance!
Such men do not make apostles; they are but ciphers
of flesh and blood, of no value by themselves, and only
of any worth as they are attached to the unit of some
stronger will. A poor broken thing is a life spent
in the subjunctive mood, among the "mights" and
"shoulds," where the "I will" waits upon "I would".
That is the truest, worthiest life that is divided between
the indicative and the imperative. As in shaking
pebbles the smaller ones drop down to the bottom,
their place determined by their size, so in the shaking
together of human lives, in the rub and jostle of the
world, the strong wills invariably come to the top.
And how much do even Christians lose, through
their partial or their slow obedience! How we hesitate
and question, when our duty is simply to obey! How
we cling to our own ways, modes, and wills, when the
Christ is commanding us forward to some higher
service! How strangely we forget that in the grammar
of life the "Thou willest" should be the first person,
and the "I will" a far-off second! When the soldier
hears the word of command he becomes deaf to all
other voices, even the voice of danger, or the voice of
death itself; and when Christ speaks to us His word
should completely fill the soul, leaving no room for
hesitancy, no place for doubt. Said the mother to the
servants of Cana, "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do
it." That "whatsoever" is the line of duty, and the
line of beauty too. He who makes Christ's will his
will, who does implicitly "whatsoever He saith," will
find a Cana anywhere, where life's water turns to
wine, and where life's common things are exalted into
sacraments. He who walks up to the light will surely
walk in the light.
We can imagine with what alacrity Simon obeys
the Master's word, and how the disappointment of the
night and all sense of fatigue are lost in the exhilaration
of the new hopes. Seconded by the more quiet Andrew,
who catches the enthusiasm of his brother's faith, he
pulls out into deep water, where they let down the
nets. Immediately they enclosed "a great multitude"
of fishes, a weight altogether beyond their power to
lift; and as they saw the nets beginning to give way
with the strain, Peter "beckoned" to his partners,
James and John, whose boat, probably, was still drawn
up on the shore. Coming to their assistance, together
they secured the spoil, completely filling the two boats,
until they were in danger of sinking with the over-weight.
Here, then, we find a miracle of a new order. Hitherto,
in the narrative of our Evangelist, Jesus has shown His
supernatural power only in connection with humanity,
driving away the ills and diseases which preyed upon
the human body and the human soul. And not even
here did Jesus make use of that power randomly,
making it common and cheap; it was called forth by
the constraint of a great need and a great desire.
Now, however, there is neither the desire nor the need.
It was not the first time, nor was it to be the last, that
Peter and Andrew had spent a night in fruitless toil.
That was a lesson they had early to learn, and which
they were never allowed long to forget. They had
been quite content to leave their boat, as indeed they
had intended, on the sands, until the evening should
recall them to their task. But Jesus volunteers His
help, and works a miracle—whether of omnipotence, or
omniscience, or of both, it matters not, and not either
to relieve some present distress, or to still some pain,
but that He might fill the empty boats with fishes.
We must not, however, assess the value of the miracle
at the market-price of the take, for evidently Jesus
had some ulterior motive and design. As the leaden
types, lying detached and meaningless in the "case," can
be arranged into words and be made to voice the very
highest thought, so these boats and oars, nets and fish
are but so many characters, the Divine "code" as we
may call it, spelling out, first to these fishermen, and
then to mankind in general, the deep thought and
purpose of Christ. Can we discover that meaning?
We think we may.
In the first place, the miracle shows us the supremacy
of Christ. We may almost read the Divineness of
Christ's mission in the manner of its manifestation.
Had Jesus been man only, His thoughts running on
human lines, and His plans built after human models,
He would have arranged for another Epiphany at the
beginning of His ministry, showing His credentials at
the first, and announcing in full the purpose of His
mission. That would have been the way of man, fond
as he is of surprises and sudden transitions; but such
is not the way of God. The forces of heaven do not
move forward in leaps and somersaults; their advances
are gradual and rhythmic. Evolution, and not
revolution, is the Divine law, in the realm of matter
and of mind alike. The dawn must precede the day.
And just so the life of the Divine Son is manifested.
He who is the "Light of the world" comes into that
world softly as a sunrise, lighting up little by little
the horizon of His disciples' thought, lest a revelation
which was too full and too sudden should only dazzle
and blind them. So far they have seen Him exercise
His power over diseases and demons, or, as at Cana,
over inorganic matter; now they see that power moving
out in new directions. Jesus sets up His throne to
face the sea, the sea with which they were so familiar,
and over which they claimed some sort of lordship.
But even here, upon their own element, Jesus is supreme.
He sees what they do not; He knows these
deeps, filling up with His omniscience the blanks they
seek to fill with their random guesses. Here, hitherto,
their wills have been all-powerful; they could take
their boats and cast their nets just when and where
they would; but now they feel the touch of a Higher
Will, and Christ's word fills their hearts, impelling them
onward, even as their boats were driven of the wind.
Jesus now assumes the command. His Will, like a
magnet, attracts to itself and controls their lesser wills;
and as His word now launches out the boat and casts
the nets, so shortly, at that same "word," will boats
and nets, and the sea itself, be left behind.
And did not that Divine Will move beneath the
water as well as above it, controlling the movements
of the shoal of fishes, as on the surface it was controlling
the thoughts and moving the hands of the
fishermen? It is true that in Gennesaret, as in our
modern seas, the fish sometimes moved in such dense
shoals that an enormous "take" would be an event
purely natural, a wonder indeed, but no miracle.
Possibly it was so here, in which case the narrative
would resolve itself into a miracle of omniscience, as
Jesus saw, what even the trained eyes of the fishermen
had not seen, the movements of the shoal, then regulating
His commands, so making the oars above and the fins
below strike the water in unison. But was this all?
Evidently not, to Peter's mind, at any rate. Had it
been all to him, a purely natural phenomenon, or had
he seen in it only the prescience of Christ, a vision
somewhat clearer and farther than his own, it would
not have created such feelings of surprise and awe.
He might still have wondered, but he scarcely would
have worshipped. But Peter feels himself in the presence
of a Power that knows no limit, One who has
supreme authority over diseases and demons, and who
now commands even the fishes of the sea. In this
sudden wealth of spoil he reads the majesty and glory
of the new-found Christ, whose word, spoken or
unspoken, is omnipotent, alike in the heights above
and in the depths beneath. And so the moment his
thoughts are disengaged from the pressing task he
prostrates himself at the feet of Jesus, crying with
awe-stricken speech, "Depart from me; for I am a
sinful man, O Lord!" We are not, perhaps, to interpret
this literally, for Peter's lips were apt to become
tremulous with the excitement of the moment, and to
say words which in a cooler mood he would recall, or
at least modify. So here, it surely was not his meaning
that "the Lord," as he now calls Jesus, should
leave him; for how indeed should He depart, now that
they are afloat upon the deep, far from land? But
such had been the revelation of the power and holiness
of Jesus, borne in by the miracle upon Peter's soul,
that he felt himself thrown back, morally and in every
way, to an infinite distance from Christ. His boat was
unworthy to carry, as the house of the centurion was
unworthy to receive, such infinite perfections as now he
saw in Jesus. It was an apocalypse indeed, revealing,
together with the purity and power of Christ, the
littleness, the nothingness of his sinful self; that, as
Elijah covered his face when the Lord passed by, so
Peter feels as if he ought to draw the veil of an infinite
distance around himself—the distance which would
ever be between him and the Lord, were not His
mercy and His love just as infinite as His power.
The fuller meaning of the miracle, however, becomes
apparent when we interpret it in the light of the call
which immediately followed. Reading the sudden fear
which has come over Peter's soul, and which has
thrown his speech somewhat into confusion, Jesus first
stills the agitation of his heart by a word of assurance
and of cheer. "Fear not," He says, for "from
henceforth thou shalt catch men." It will be observed
that St. Luke puts the commission of Christ in the
singular number, as addressed to Peter alone, while
St. Matthew and St. Mark put it in the plural, as including
Andrew as well: "I will make you to become
fishers of men." The difference, however, is but immaterial,
and possibly the reason why St. Luke introduces
the Apostle Peter with such a frequent nomination—for
"Simon" is a familiar name in these early
chapters—making his call so emphatic and prominent,
was because in the partisan times which came but too
early in the Church the Gentile Christians, for whom
our Evangelist is writing, might think unworthily and
speak disparagingly of him who was the Apostle of
the Circumcision. Be this as it may, Simon and
Andrew are now summoned to, and commissioned for,
a higher service. That "henceforth" strikes across
their life like a high watershed, severing the old from
the new, their future from their past, and throwing all
the currents of their thoughts and plans into different
and opposite directions. They are to be "fishers of
men," and Jesus, who so delights in giving object-lessons
to His disciples, uses the miracle as a sort of
background, on which He may write their commission
in large and lasting characters; it is the Divine seal
upon their credentials.
Not that they understood the full purport of His
words at once. The phrase "fishers of men" was one
of those seed-thoughts which needed pondering in the
heart; it would gradually unfold itself in the after-months
of discipleship, ripening at last in the summer
heat and summer light of the Pentecost. They were
now to be fishers of the higher art, their quest the souls
of men. This must now be the one object, the supreme
aim of their life, a life now ennobled by a higher call.
Plans, journeys, thoughts, and words, all must bear the
stamp of their great commission, which is to "catch
men," not unto death, however, as the fish expire when
taken from their native element, but unto life—for such
is the meaning of the word. And to "take them alive"
is to save them; it is to take them out of an element
which stifles and destroys, and to draw them, by the
constraints of truth and love, within the kingdom of
heaven, which kingdom is righteousness and life, even
eternal life.
But if the full meaning of the Master's words grows
upon them—an aftermath to be harvested in later
months—enough is understood to make the line of
present duty plain. That "henceforth" is clear, sharp,
and imperative. It leaves room neither for excuse nor
postponement. And so immediately, "when they had
brought their boats to land, they left all and followed
Him," to learn by following how they too might be
winners of souls, and in a lesser, lower sense, saviours
of men.
The story of St. Luke closes somewhat abruptly,
with no further reference to Simon's partners; and
having "beckoned" them into his central scene, and
filled their boat, then, as in a dissolving-view, the pen
of our Evangelist draws around them the haze of
silence, and they disappear. The other Synoptists,
however, fill up the blank, telling how Jesus came to
them, probably later in the day, for they were mending
the nets, which had been tangled and somewhat torn
with the weight of spoil they had just taken. Speaking
no word of explanation, and giving no word of promise,
He simply says, with that commanding voice of His,
"Follow Me," thus putting Himself above all associations
and all relationships, as Leader and Lord. James
and John recognize the call, for which doubtless they
had been prepared, as being for themselves alone, and
instantly leaving the father, the "hired servants," and
the half-mended nets, and breaking utterly with their
past, they follow Jesus, giving to Him, with the exception
of one dark, hesitating hour, a life-long devotion.
And forsaking all, the four disciples found all. They
exchanged a dead self for a living Christ, earth for
heaven. Following the Lord fully, with no side-glances
at self or selfish gain—at any rate after the
enduement and the enlightenment of Pentecost—they
found in the presence and friendship of the Lord the
"hundredfold" in the present life. Allying themselves
with Christ, they too rose with the rising Sun. Obscure
fishermen, they wrote their names among the
immortals as the first Apostles of the new faith, bearers
of the keys of the kingdom. Following Christ,
they led the world; and as the Light that rose over
Galilee of the nations becomes ever more intense and
bright, so it makes ever more intense and vivid the
shadows of these Galilean fishermen, as it throws them
across all lands and times.
And such even now is the truest and noblest life.
The life which is "hid with Christ" is the life that
shines the farthest and that tells the most. Whether
in the more quiet paths and scenes of discipleship or
in the more responsible and public duties of the apostolate,
Jesus demands of us a true, whole-souled, and
life-long devotion. And, here indeed, the paradox is
true, for by losing life we find it, even the life more
abundant; for
"Men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."
Nay, they may attain to the highest things, even to the
highest heavens.
CHAPTER XI.
CONCERNING PRAYER.
When the Greeks called man ὁ ανθρωπος, or the
"uplooking one," they did but crystallize in a
word what is a universal fact, the religious instinct of
humanity. Everywhere, and through all times, man
has felt, as by a sort of intuition, that earth was no
Ultima Thule, with nothing beyond but oceans of
vacancy and silence, but that it lay in the over-shadow
of other worlds, between which and their own were
subtle modes of correspondence. They felt themselves
to be in the presence of Powers other and higher than
human, who somehow influenced their destiny, whose
favour they must win, and whose displeasure they must
avert. And so Paganism reared her altars, almost
numberless, dedicating them even to the "Unknown
God," lest some anonymous deity should be grieved at
being omitted from the enumeration. The prevalence
of false religions in the world, the garrulous babble of
mythology, does but voice the religious instinct of
man; it is but another Tower of Babel, by which men
hope to find and to scale the heavens which must be
somewhere overhead.
In the Old Testament, however, we find the clearer
revelation. What to the unaided eye of reason and of
nature seemed but a wave of golden mist athwart the
sky—"a meeting of gentle lights without a name"—now
becomes a wide-reaching and shining realm, peopled
with intelligences of divers ranks and orders; while in
the centre of all is the city and the throne of the Invisible
King, Jehovah, Lord of Sabaoth. In the breath
of the new morning the gossamer threads Polytheism
had been spinning through the night were swept away,
and on the pillars of the New Jerusalem, that celestial
city of which their own Salem was a far-off and broken
type, they read the inscription, "Hear, O Israel: the
Lord our God is one Lord." But while the Old Testament
revealed the unity of the Godhead, it emphasized
especially His sovereignty, the glories of His holiness,
and the thunders of His power. He is the great
Creator, arranging His universe, commanding evolutions
and revolutions, and giving to each molecule of
matter its secret affinities and repulsions. And again
He is the Lawgiver, the great Judge, speaking out of
the cloudy pillar and the windy tempest, dividing the
firmaments of Right and Wrong, whose holiness hates
sin with an infinite hatred, and whose justice, with
sword of flame, pursues the wrong-doer like an unforgetting
Nemesis. It is only natural, therefore, that with
such conceptions of God, the heavens should appear
distant and somewhat cold. The quiet that was upon
the world was the hush of awe, of fear, rather than of
love; for while the goodness of God was a familiar and
favourite theme, and while the mercy of God, which
"endureth for ever," was the refrain, oft repeated, of
their loftiest songs, the love of God was a height the
Old Dispensation had not explored, and the Fatherhood
of God, that new world of perpetual summer, lay
all undiscovered, or but dimly apprehended through the
mist. The Divine love and the Divine Fatherhood
were truths which seemed to be held in reserve for the
New Dispensation; and as the light needs the subtle
and sympathetic ether before it can reach our outlying
world, so the love and the Fatherhood of God are
borne in upon us by Him who was Himself the Divine
Son and the incarnation of the Divine love.
It is just here where the teaching of Jesus concerning
prayer begins. He does not seek to explain its philosophy;
He does not give hints as to any observance
of time or place; but leaving these questions to adjust
themselves, He seeks to bring heaven into closer touch
with earth. And how can He do this so well as by
revealing the Fatherhood of God? When the electric
wire linked the New with the Old World the distances
were annihilated, the thousand leagues of sea were as
if they were not; and when Jesus threw across, between
earth and heaven, that word "Father," the wide distances
vanished, and even the silences became vocal.
In the Psalms, those loftiest utterances of devotion,
Religion only once ventured to call God "Father;"
and then, as if frightened at her own temerity, she
lapses into silence, and never speaks the familiar word
again. But how different the language of the Gospels!
It is a name that Jesus is never weary of repeating,
striking its music upwards of seventy times, as if by
the frequent iteration He would lodge the heavenly
word deep within the world's heart. This is His first
lesson in the science of prayer: He drills them on the
Divine Fatherhood, setting them on that word, as it
were, to practise the scales; for as he who has practised
well the scales has acquired the key to all harmonies,
so he who has learned well the "Father" has learned
the secret of heaven, the sesame that opens all its doors
and unlocks all its treasures.
"When ye pray," said Jesus, replying to a disciple
who sought instruction in the heavenly language, "say,
Father," thus giving us what was His own pass-word
to the courts of heaven. It is as if He said, "If you
would pray acceptably put yourself in the right position.
Seek to realize, and then to claim, your true relationship.
Do not look upon God as a distant and cold abstraction,
or as some blind force; do not regard Him as being
hostile to you or as careless about you. Else your
prayer will be some wail of bitterness, a cry coming out
of the dark, and losing itself in the dark again. But
look upon God as your Father, your living, loving, heavenly
Father; and then step up with a holy boldness into
the child-place, and all heaven opens before you there."
And not only does Jesus thus "show us the Father,"
but He takes pains to show us that it is a real, and not
some fictitious Fatherhood. He tells us that the word
means far more in its heavenly than in its earthly use;
that the earthly meaning, in fact, is but a shadow of the
heavenly. For "if ye then," He says, "being evil,
know how to give good gifts unto your children: how
much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy
Spirit to them that ask Him?" He thus sets us a
problem in Divine proportion. He gives us the human
fatherhood, with all it implies, as our known quantities,
and from these He leaves us to work out the unknown
quantity, which is the Divine ability and willingness
to give good gifts to men; for the Holy Spirit includes
in Himself all spiritual gifts. It is a problem, however,
which our earthly figures cannot solve. The nearest
that we can approach to the answer is that the Divine
Fatherhood is the human fatherhood multiplied by that
"how much more"—a factor which gives us an infinite
series.
Again, Jesus teaches that character is an important
condition of prayer, and that in this realm heart is
more than any art. Words alone do not constitute
prayer, for they may be only like the bubbles of the
children's play, iridescent but hollow, never climbing
the sky, but returning to the earth whence they came.
And so when the scribes and Pharisees make "long
prayers," striking devotional attitudes, and putting on
airs of sanctity, Jesus could not endure them. They
were a weariness and abomination to Him; for He
read their secret heart, and found it vain and proud.
In His parable (xviii. 11) He puts the genuine and the
counterfeit prayer side by side, drawing the sharp
contrast between them. He gives us that of the Pharisee
wordy, inflated, full of the self-eulogizing "I."
It is the prayerless prayer, that had no need, and
which was simply an incense burned before the clayey
image of himself. Then He gives us the few brief
words of the publican, the cry of a broken heart, "God
be merciful to me, a sinner," a prayer which reached
directly the highest heaven, and which came back
freighted with the peace of God. "If I regard iniquity
in my heart," the Psalmist said, "the Lord will not
hear me." And it is true. If there be the least unforgiven
sin within the soul we spread forth our hands,
we make many prayers, in vain; we do but utter "wild,
delirious cries" that Heaven will not hear, or at any
rate regard. The first cry of true prayer is the cry for
mercy, pardon; and until this is spoken, until we step
up by faith into the child-position, we do but offer vain
oblations. Nay, even in the regenerate heart, if there
be a temporary lapse, and unholy tempers brood within,
the lips of prayer become paralyzed at once, or they
only stammer in incoherent speech. We may with
filled hands compass the altar of God, but neither gifts
nor prayers can be accepted if there be bitterness and
jealousy within, or if our "brother has aught against"
us. The wrong must be righted with our brother, or
we cannot be right with God. How can we ask for
forgiveness if we ourselves cannot forgive? How can
we ask for mercy if we are hard and merciless, gripping
the throat of each offender, as we demand the
uttermost farthing? He who can pray for them who
despitefully use him is in the way of the Divine commandment;
he has climbed to the dome of the temple,
where the whispers of prayer, and even its inarticulate
aspirations, are heard in heaven. And so the connection
is most close and constant between praying and
living, and they pray most and best who at the same
time "make their life a prayer."
Again, Jesus maps out for us the realm of prayer,
showing the wide areas it should cover. St. Luke
gives us an abbreviated form of the prayer recorded
by St. Matthew, and which we call the "Lord's Prayer."
It is a disputed point, though not a material one,
whether the two prayers are but varied renderings of
one and the same utterance, or whether Jesus gave,
on a later occasion, an epitomized form of the prayer
He had prescribed before, though from the circumstantial
evidence of St. Luke we incline to the latter
view. The two forms, however, are identical in substance.
It is scarcely likely that Jesus intended it to
be a rigid formula, to which we should be slavishly
bound; for the varied renderings of the two Evangelists
show plainly that Heaven does not lay stress upon
the ipsissima verba. We must take it rather as a
Divine model, laying down the lines on which our
prayers should move. It is, in fact, a sort of prayer-microcosm,
giving a miniature reflection of the whole
world of prayer, as a drop of dew will give a reflection
of the encircling sky. It gives us what we may call
the species of prayer, whose genera branch off into
infinite varieties; nor can we readily conceive of any
petition, however particular or private, whose root-stem
is not found in the few but comprehensive words of
the Lord's Prayer. It covers every want of man, just
as it befits every place and time.
Running through the prayer are two marked divisions,
the one general, the other particular and
personal; and in the Divine order, contrary to our
human wont, the general stands first, and the personal
second. Our prayers often move in narrow circles,
like the homing birds coming back to this "centred
self" of ours, and sometimes we forget to give them
the wider sweeps over a redeemed humanity. But
Jesus says, "When ye pray, say, Father, hallowed be
Thy name. Thy kingdom come." It is a temporary
erasure of self, as the soul of the worshipper is absorbed
in God. In its nearness to the throne it forgets for
awhile its own little needs; its low-flying thoughts
are caught up into the higher currents of the Divine
thought and purpose, moving outwards with them.
And this is the first petition, that the name of God
may be hallowed throughout the world; that is, that
men's conceptions of the Deity may become just and
holy, until earth gives back in echo the Trisagion of the
seraphim. The second petition is a continuation of
the first; for just in proportion as men's conceptions
of God are corrected and hallowed will the kingdom
of God be set up on earth. The first petition, like that
of the Psalmist, is for the sending out of "Thy light
and Thy truth;" the second is that humanity may
be led to the "holy hill," praising God upon the harp,
and finding in God their "exceeding joy." To find
God as the Father-King is to step up within the
kingdom.
The prayer now descends into the lower plane of
personal wants, covering (1) our physical, and (2) our
spiritual needs. The former are met with one petition,
"Give us day by day our daily bread," a sentence
confessedly obscure, and which has given rise to much
dispute. Some interpret it in a spiritual sense alone,
since, as they say, any other interpretation would
break in upon the uniformity of the prayer, whose
other terms are all spiritual. But if, as we have suggested,
the whole prayer must be regarded as an
epitome of prayer in general, then it must include somewhere
our physical needs, or a large and important
domain of our life is left uncovered. As to the meaning
of the singular adjective επιουσιον we need not say
much. That it can scarcely mean "to-morrow's"
bread is evident from the warning Jesus gives against
"taking thought" for the morrow, and we must not
allow the prayer to traverse the command. The most
natural and likely interpretation is that which the heart
of mankind has always given it, as our "daily" bread,
or bread sufficient for the day. Jesus thus selects,
what is the most common of our physical wants, the
bread which comes to us in such purely natural,
matter-of-course ways, as the specimen need of our
physical life. But when He thus lifts up this common,
ever-recurring mercy into the region of prayer He puts
a halo of Divineness about it, and by including this
He teaches us that there is no want of even our
physical life which is excluded from the realm of prayer.
If we are invited to speak with God concerning our
daily bread, then certainly we need not be silent as to
aught else.
Our spiritual needs are included in the two petitions,
"And forgive us our sins; for we ourselves also forgive
everyone that is indebted to us. And bring us not into
temptation." The parenthesis does not imply that all
debts should be remitted, for payment of these is enjoined
as one of the duties of life. The indebtedness
spoken of is rather the New Testament indebtedness,
the failure of duty or courtesy, the omission of some
"ought" of life or some injury or offence. It is that
human forgiveness, the opposite of resentment, which
grows up under the shadow of the Divine forgiveness.
The former of these petitions, then, is for the forgiveness
of all past sin, while the latter is for deliverance
from present sinning; for when we pray, "Bring us
not into temptation," it is a prayer that we may not
be tempted "above that we are able," which, amplified,
means that in all our temptations we may be victorious,
"kept by the power of God."
Such, then, is the wide realm of prayer, as indicated
by Jesus. He assures us that there is no department
of our being, no circumstance of our life, which does
not lie within its range; that
"The whole round world is every way
Bound with gold chains about the feet of God,"
and that on these golden chains, as on a harp, the
touch of prayer may wake sweet music, far-off or near
alike. And how much we miss through restraining
prayer, reserving it for special occasions, or for the
greater crises of life! But if we would only loop up
with heaven each successive hour, if we would only
run the thread of prayer through the common events
and the common tasks, we should find the whole day
and the whole life swinging on a higher, calmer level.
The common task would cease to be common, and the
earthly would be less earthly, if we only threw a bit
of heaven upon it, or we opened it out to heaven. If
in everything we could but make our requests known
unto God—that is, if prayer became the habitual act
of life—we should find that heaven was no longer the
land "afar off," but that it was close upon us, with all
its proffered ministries.
Again, Jesus teaches the importance of earnestness
and importunity in prayer. He sketches the picture—for
it is scarcely a parable—of the man whose hospitality
is claimed, late at night, by a passing friend, but who
has no provision made for the emergency. He goes
over to another friend, and rousing him up at midnight,
he asks for the loan of three loaves. And with what
result? Does the man answer from within, "Trouble
me not: the door is now shut, and my children are
with me in bed; I cannot rise and give thee"? No,
that would be an impossible answer; for "though he
will not rise and give him because he is his friend,
yet because of his importunity he will rise and give
him as many as he needeth" (xi. 8). It is the unreasonableness,
or at any rate the untimeliness of the
request Jesus seems to emphasize. The man himself
is thoughtless, improvident in his household management.
He disturbs his neighbour, waking up his
whole family at midnight for such a trivial matter
as the loan of three loaves. But he gains his request,
not, either, on the ground of friendship, but through
sheer audacity, impudence; for such is the meaning
of the word, rather than importunity. The lesson is
easily learned, for the suppressed comparison would
be, "If man, being evil, will put himself out of the
way to serve a friend, even at this untimely hour,
filling up by his thoughtfulness his friend's lack of
thought, how much more will the heavenly Father give
to His child such things as are needful?"
We have the same lesson taught in the parable of
the Unjust Judge (xviii. 1), that "men ought always
to pray, and not to faint." Here, however, the characters
are reversed. The suppliant is a poor and a
wronged widow, while the person addressed is a hard,
selfish, godless man, who boasts of his atheism. She
asks, not for a favour, but for her rights—that she may
have due protection from some extortionate adversary,
who somehow has got her in his power; for justice
rather than vengeance is her demand. But "he would
not for awhile," and all her cries for pity and for help
beat upon that callous heart only as the surf upon a
rocky shore, to be thrown back upon itself. But afterwards
he said within himself, "Though I fear not God,
nor regard man, yet because this widow troubleth me,
I will avenge her, lest she wear me out by her continual
coming." And so he is moved to take her part against
her adversary, not for any motive of compassion or
sense of justice, but through mere selfishness, that he
may escape the annoyance of her frequent visits—lest
her continual coming "worry" me, as the colloquial
expression might be rendered. Here the comparison, or
contrast rather, is expressed, at any rate in part. It is,
"If an unjust and abandoned judge grants a just petition
at last, out of base motives, when it is often urged,
to a defenceless person for whom he cares nothing, how
much more shall a just and merciful God hear the cry
and avenge the cause of those whom He loves?"Farrar
It is a resolute persistence in prayer the parable
urges, the continued asking, and seeking, and knocking
that Jesus both commended and commanded (xi. 9),
and which has the promise of such certain answers,
and not the tantalizing mockeries of stones for bread,
or scorpions for fish. Some blessings lie near at hand;
we have only to ask, and we receive—receive even while
we ask. But other blessings lie farther off, and they
can only be ours by a continuance in prayer, by a
persistent importunity. Not that our heavenly Father
needs any wearying into mercy; but the blessing may
not be ripe, or we ourselves may not be fully prepared
to receive it. A blessing for which we are unprepared
would only be an untimely blessing, and like a December
swallow, it would soon die, without nest or brood. And
sometimes the long delay is but a test of faith, whetting
and sharpening the desire, until our very life seems to
depend upon the granting of our prayer. So long as
our prayers are among the "may-be's" and "mights"
there are fears and doubts alternating with our hope
and faith. But when the desires are intensified, and
our prayers rise into the "must-be's," then the answers
are near at hand; for that "must be" is the soul's
Mahanaim, where the angels meet us, and God Himself
says "I will." Delays in our prayers are by no means
denials; they are often but the lengthened summer
for the ripening of our blessings, making them larger
and more sweet.
And now we have only to consider, which we must
do briefly, the practice of Jesus, the place of prayer in
His own life; and we shall find that in every point it
coincides exactly with His teaching. To us of the
clouded vision heaven is sometimes a hope more than
a reality. It is an unseen goal, luring us across the
wilderness, and which one of these days we may possess;
but it is not to us as the wide-reaching, encircling
sky, throwing its sunshine into each day, and lighting
up our nights with its thousand lamps. To Jesus,
heaven was more and nearer than it is to us. He had
left it behind; and yet He had not left it, for He speaks
of Himself, the Son of man, as being now in heaven.
And so He was. His feet were upon earth, at home
amid its dust; but His heart, His truer life, were all
above. And how constant His correspondence, or
rather communion, with heaven! At first sight it
appears strange to us that Jesus should need the
sustenance of prayer, or that He could even adopt
its language. But when He became the Son of man
He voluntarily assumed the needs of humanity; He
emptied Himself, as the Apostle expresses a great
mystery, as if for the time divesting Himself of all
Divine prerogatives, choosing to live as man amongst
men. And so Jesus prayed. He was wont, even as
we are, to refresh a wasted strength by draughts from
the celestial springs; and as Antæus, in his wrestling,
recovered himself as he touched the ground, so we find
Jesus, in the great crises of His life, falling back upon
Heaven.
St. Luke, in his narrative of the Baptism, inserts one
fact the other Synoptists omit—that Jesus was in the act
of prayer when the heavens were opened, and the Holy
Ghost descended, in the semblance of a dove, upon Him.
It is as if the opened heavens, the descending dove, and
the audible voice were but the answer to His prayer.
And why not? Standing on the threshold of His
mission, would He not naturally ask that a double
portion of the Spirit might be His—that Heaven might
put its manifest seal upon that mission, if not for the
confirmation of His own faith, yet for that of His forerunner?
At any rate, the fact is plain that it was while
He was in the act of prayer that He received that
second and higher baptism, even the baptism of the
Spirit.
A second epoch in that Divine life was when Jesus
formally instituted the Apostleship, calling and initiating
the Twelve into the closer brotherhood. It was, so
to speak, the appointment of a regency, who should
exercise authority and rule in the new kingdom,
sitting, as Jesus figuratively expresses it (xxii. 30), "on
thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel." It is easy
to see what tremendous issues were involved in this
appointment; for were these foundation-stones untrue,
warped by jealousies and vain ambitions, the whole
superstructure would have been weakened, thrown out
of the square. And so before the selection is made, a
selection demanding such insight and foresight, such
a balancing of complementary gifts, Jesus devotes the
whole night to prayer, seeking the solitude of the
mountain-height, and in the early dawn coming down,
with the dews of night upon His garment and with the
dews of heaven upon His soul, which, like crystals or
lenses of light, made the invisible visible and the distant
near.
A third crisis in that Divine life was at the Transfiguration,
when the summit was reached, the borderline
between earth and heaven, where, amid celestial
greetings and overshadowing clouds of glory, that
sinless life would have had its natural transition into
heaven. And here again we find the same coincidence
of prayer. Both St. Mark and St. Luke state that the
"high mountain" was climbed for the express purpose
of communion with Heaven; they "went up into the
mountain to pray." It is only St. Luke, however, who
states that it was "as He was praying" the fashion of
His countenance was altered, thus making the vision
an answer, or at least a corollary, to the prayer. He is
at a point where two ways meet: the one passes into
heaven at once, from that high level to which by a
sinless life He has attained; the other path sweeps
suddenly downward to a valley of agony, a cross of
shame, a tomb of death; and after this wide détour the
heavenly heights are reached again. Which path will
He choose? If He takes the one He passes solitary
into heaven; if He takes the other He brings with Him
a redeemed humanity. And does not this give us, in a
sort of echo, the burden of His prayer? He finds the
shadow of the cross thrown over this heaven-lighted
summit—for when Moses and Elias appear they would
not introduce a subject altogether new; they would in
their conversation strike in with the theme with which
His mind is already preoccupied, that is the decease He
should accomplish at Jerusalem—and as the chill of that
shadow settles upon Him, causing the flesh to shrink
and quiver for a while, would He not seek for the
strength He needs? Would He not ask, as later, in
the garden, that the cup might pass from Him; or if
that should not be possible, that His will might not
conflict with the Father's will, even for a passing
moment? At any rate we may suppose that the vision
was, in some way, Heaven's answer to His prayer,
giving Him the solace and strengthening that He
sought, as the Father's voice attested His Sonship, and
celestials came forth to salute the Well-beloved, and to
hearten Him on towards His dark goal.
Just so was it when Jesus kept His fourth watch
in Gethsemane. What Gethsemane was, and what
its fearful agony meant, we shall consider in a later
chapter. It is enough for our present purpose to see
how Jesus consecrated that deep valley, as before He
had consecrated the Transfiguration height, to prayer.
Leaving the three outside the veil of the darkness, He
passes into Gethsemane, as into another Holy of holies,
there to offer up for His own and for Himself the
sacrifice of prayer; while as our High Priest He
sprinkles with His own blood, that blood of the everlasting
covenant, the sacred ground. And what prayer
was that! how intensely fervent! That if it were
possible the dread cup might pass from Him, but that
either way the Father's will might be done! And that
prayer was the prelude to victory; for as the first
Adam fell by the assertion of self, the clashing of his
will with God's, the second Adam conquers by the total
surrender of His will to the will of the Father. The
agony was lost in the acquiescence.
But it was not alone in the great crises of His life
that Jesus fell back upon Heaven. Prayer with Him
was habitual, the fragrant atmosphere in which He
lived, and moved, and spoke. His words glide as by
a natural transition into its language, as a bird whose
feet have lightly touched the ground suddenly takes to
its wings; and again and again we find Him pausing
in the weaving of His speech, to throw across the
earthward warp the heavenward woof of prayer. It
was a necessity of His life; and if the intrusive crowds
allowed Him no time for its exercise, He was wont to
elude them, to find upon the mountain or in the desert
His prayer-chamber beneath the stars. And how
frequently we read of His "looking up to heaven"
amid the pauses of His daily task! stopping before He
breaks the bread, and on the mirror of His upturned
glance leading the thoughts and thanks of the multitude
to the All-Father, who giveth to all His creatures
their meat in due season; or pausing as He works
some impromptu miracle, before speaking the omnipotent
"Ephphatha," that on His upward look He may
signal to the skies! And what a light is turned upon
His life and His relation to His disciples by a simple
incident that occurs on the night of the betrayal!
Reading the sign of the times, in His forecast of the
dark to-morrow, He sees the terrible strain that will
be put upon Peter's faith, and which He likens to a
Satanic sifting. With prescient eye He sees the
temporary collapse; how, in the fierce heat of the
trial, the "rock" will be thrown into a state of flux; so
weak and pliant, it will be all rippled by agitation and
unrest, or driven back at the mere breath of a servant-girl.
He says mournfully, "Simon, Simon, behold.
Satan asked to have you, that he might sift you as
wheat: but I made supplication for thee, that thy faith
fail not" (xxii. 31). So completely does Jesus identify
Himself with His own, making their separate needs
His care (for this doubtless was no solitary case); but
just as the High Priest carried on his breastplate the
twelve tribal names, thus bringing all Israel within the
light of Urim and Thummim, so Jesus carries within
His heart both the name and the need of each separate
disciple, asking for them in prayer what, perhaps, they
have failed to ask for themselves. Nor are the prayers
of Jesus limited by any such narrow circle; they compassed
the world, lighting up all horizons; and even
upon the cross, amid the jeers and laughter of the
crowd, He forgets His own agonies, as with parched
lips He prays for His murderers, "Father, forgive
them; for they know not what they do."
Thus, more than any son of man, did Jesus "pray
without ceasing," "in everything by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving" making request unto God.
Shall we not copy His bright example? shall we not,
too, live, labour, and endure, as "seeing Him who is
invisible"? He who lives a life of prayer will never
question its reality. He who sees God in everything,
and everything in God, will turn his life into a south
land, with upper and nether springs of blessing in
ceaseless flow; for the life that lies full heavenward
lies in perpetual summer, in the eternal noon.
CHAPTER XII.
THE FAITH OF THE CENTURION.
Luke vii. 1-10.
Our Evangelist prefaces the narrative of the healing
of the centurion's servant with one of his
characteristic time-marks, the shadow upon his dial-plate
being the shadow of the new mount of God:
"After He had ended all His sayings in the ears of
the people, He entered into Capernaum." The language
is unusually weighty, almost solemn, as if the Sermon
on the Mount were not so much a sermon as a manifesto,
the formal proclamation of the kingdom of heaven.
Our word "ended," too, is scarcely an equivalent of
the original word, whose underlying idea is that of
fullness, completion. It is more than a full-stop to
point a sentence; it is a word that characterizes the
sentence itself, suggesting, if not implying, that these
"sayings" of His formed a complete and rounded
whole, a body of moral and ethical truth which was
perfect in itself. The Mount of Beatitudes thus stands
before us as the Sinai of the New Testament, giving
its laws to all peoples and to all times. But how
different the aspect of the two mounts! Then the
people dare not touch the mountain; now they press
close up to the "Prophet like unto Moses" to hear the
word of God. Then the Law came in a cluster of
restrictions and negations; it now speaks in commands
most positive, in principles permanent as time itself;
while from this new Sinai the clouds have disappeared,
the thunders ceased, leaving a sky serene and bright,
and a heaven which is strangely near.
Returning to Capernaum—which city, after the ejection
from Nazareth, became the home of Jesus, and
the centre of His Galilean ministry—He was met by
a deputation of Jewish elders, who came to intercede
with Him on behalf of a centurion whose servant was
lying dangerously ill and apparently at the point of
death. The narrative thus gives us, as its dramatis
personæ, the Sufferer, the Intercessor, and the Healer.
As we read the story our thought is arrested, and
naturally so, by the central figure. The imposing
shadow of the centurion so completely fills our range
of vision that it throws into the background the nameless
one who in his secret chamber is struggling vainly
in the tightening grip of death. But who is he who
can command such a service? around whose couch is
such a multitude of ministering feet? who is he
whose panting breath can throw over the heart of his
master, and over his face, the ripple-marks of a great
sorrow, which sends hither and thither, as the wind
tosses the dry leaves, soldiers of the army, elders of
the Jews, friends of the master, and which makes
even the feet of the Lord hasten with His succour?
"And a certain centurion's servant, who was dear
unto him, was sick and at the point of death." Such
is the brief sentence which describes a character, and
sums up the whole of an obscure life. We are not
able to define precisely his position, for the word leaves
us in doubt whether he were a slave or a servant of the
centurion. Probably—if we may throw the light of
the whole narrative upon the word—he was a confidential
servant, living in the house of his master, on terms
of more than usual intimacy. What those terms were
we may easily discover by opening out the word "dear,"
reading its depths as well as its surface-meaning. In
its lower sense it means "valuable," "worth-y" (putting
its ancient accent upon the modern word). It sets the
man, not over against the tables of the Law, but against
the law of the tables, weighing him in the balances of
trade, and estimating him by the scale of commercial
values. But in this meaner, worldly mode of reckoning
he is not found wanting. He is a servant proved and
approved. Like Eliezer of old, he has identified himself
with his master's interests, listening for his voice, and
learning to read even the wishes which were unexpressed
in words. Adjusting his will to the higher will, like
a vane answering the currents of the wind, his hands,
his feet, and his whole self have swung round to fall
into the unit of his master's purpose. Faithful in his
service, whether that service were under the master's
eye or not, and faithful alike in the great and the little
things, he has entered into his master's confidence, and
so into his joy. Losing his own personality, he is content
to be something between a cipher and a unit, only
a "hand." But he is the master's right hand, strong
and ever ready, so useful as to be almost an integral
part of the master's self, without which the master's life
would be incomplete and strangely bereaved. All this
we may learn from the lower meaning of the phrase
"was dear unto him."
But the word has a higher meaning, one that is
properly rendered by our "dear." It implies esteem,
affection, transferring our thought from the subject to
the object, from the character of the servant to the
influence it has exerted upon the master, The word is
thus an index, a barometrical reading, measuring for us
the pressure of that influence, and recording for us the
high sentiments of regard and affection it has evoked.
As the trees around the pond lean towards the water
which laves their roots, so the strong soul of the centurion,
drawn by the attractions of a lowly but a noble
life, leans toward, until it leans upon, his servant, giving
him its confidence, its esteem and love, that golden
fruitage of the heart. That such was the mutual
relation of the master and the servant is evident, for
Jesus, who read motives and heard thoughts, would not
so freely and promptly have placed His miraculous
power at the disposal of the centurion had his sorrow
been only the selfish sorrow of losing what was commercially
valuable. To an appeal of selfishness, though
thrown forward and magnified by the sounding-boards
of all the synagogues, the ears of Jesus would have
been perfectly deaf; but when it was the cry of a
genuine sorrow, the moan of a vicarious pain, an
unselfish, disinterested grief, then the ears of Jesus
were quick to hear, and His feet swift to respond.
It is impossible for us to define exactly what the
sickness was, though the statement of St. Matthew
that it was "palsy," and that he was "grievously tormented,"
would suggest that it might be an acute case
of inflammatory rheumatism. But whatever it might
be, it was a most painful, and as every one thought a
mortal sickness, one that left no room for hope, save
this last hope in the Divine mercy. But what a lesson
is here for our times, as indeed for all times, the lesson
of humanity! How little does Heaven make of rank
and station! Jesus does not even see them; He
ignores them utterly. To His mind Humanity is one,
and the broad lines of distinction, the impassable
barriers Society is fond of drawing or setting up, to
Him are but imaginary meridians of the sea, a name,
but nothing more. It is but a nameless servant of a
nameless master, one, too, of many, for a hundred
others are ready, with military precision, to do that
same master's will; but Jesus does not hesitate. He
who voluntarily took upon Himself the form of a servant,
as He came into the world "not to be ministered
unto, but to minister," now becomes the Servant of a
servant, saying to him who knew only how to obey,
how to serve, "Here am I; command Me; use Me
as thou wilt." All service is honourable, if we serve
not ourselves, but our fellows, and it is doubly so if,
serving man, we serve God too. As the sunshine looks
down into, and strews with flowers, the lowest vales,
so the Divine compassion falls on the lowliest lives, and
the Divine grace makes them sweet and beautiful.
Christianity is the great leveller, but it levels upwards,
and if we possess the mind of Christ, His Spirit dwelling
and ruling within, we too, like the great Apostle,
shall know no man after the flesh; the accidents of
birth, and rank, and fortune will sink back into the
trifles that they are; for however these may vary, it is
an eternal truth, though spoken by a son of the soil
and the heather—
"A man's a man for a' that."
It is not easy to tell how the seed-thought is borne
into a heart, there to germinate and ripen; for influences
are subtle, invisible things. Like the pollen of a
flower, which may be carried on the antennæ of some
unconscious insect, or borne into the future by the
passing breeze, so influences which will yet ripen into
character and make destinies are thrown off unconsciously
from our common deeds, or they are borne on
the wings of the chance, casual word. The case of
the centurion is no exception. By what steps he has
been brought into the clearer light we cannot tell, but
evidently this Pagan officer is now a proselyte to the
Hebrew faith and worship, the window of his soul
open towards Jerusalem, while his professional life
still looks towards Rome, as he renders to Cæsar the
allegiance and service which are Cæsar's due. And
what a testimony it is to the vitality and reproductive
power of the Hebrew faith, that it should boast of at
least three centurions, in the imperial ranks, of whom
Scripture makes honourable mention—one at Capernaum;
another, Cornelius, at Cæsarea, whose prayers
and alms were had in remembrance of Heaven; and the
third in Jerusalem, witnessing a good confession upon
Calvary, and proclaiming within the shadow of the
cross the Divinity of the Crucified. It shows how the
Paganism of Rome failed to satisfy the aspirations of
the soul, and how Mars, red and lurid through the
night, paled and disappeared at the rising of the Sun.
Although identifying himself with the religious life
of the city, the centurion had not yet had any personal
interview with Jesus. Possibly his military duties
prevented his attendance at the synagogue, so that he
had not seen the cures Jesus there wrought upon the
demoniac and the man with the withered hand. The
report of them, however, must soon have reached him,
intimate as he was with the officials of the synagogue;
while the nobleman, the cure of whose sick son is
narrated by St. John (iv. 46), would probably be
amongst his personal friends, an acquaintance at any
rate. The centurion "heard" of Jesus, but he could
not have heard had not some one spoken of Him. The
Christ was borne into his mind and heart on the breath
of common speech; that is, the little human word grew
into the Divine Word. It was the verbal testimony
as to what Jesus had done that now led to the still
greater things He was prepared to do. And such is
the place and power of testimony to-day. It is the
most persuasive, the most effective form of speech.
Testimony will often win where argument has failed,
and gold itself is all-powerless to extend the frontiers
of the heavenly kingdom until it is melted down and
exchanged for the higher currency of speech. It is
first the human voice crying in the wilderness, and
then the incarnate Word, whose coming makes the
wilderness to be glad, and the desert places of life to
sing. And so, while a sword of flame guards the
Paradise Lost, it is a "tongue" of flame, that symbol
of a perpetual Pentecost, which calls man back, redeemed
now, to the Paradise Restored. If Christians
would only speak more for Christ; if, shaking off that
foolish reserve, they would in simple language testify
to what they themselves have seen, and known, and
experienced, how rapidly would the kingdom come,
the kingdom for which we pray, indeed, but for which,
alas, we are afraid to speak! Nations then would be
born in a day, and the millennium, instead of being the
distant or the forlorn hope it is, would be a speedy
realization. We should be in the fringe of it directly.
It is said that on one of the Alpine glaciers the guides
forbid travellers to speak, lest the mere tremor of the
human voice should loosen and bring down the deadly
avalanche. Whether this be so or not, it was some
unnamed voice that now sent the centurion to Christ,
and brought the Christ to him.
It was probably a sudden relapse, with increased
paroxysms of pain, on the part of the sufferer, which
now decided the centurion to make his appeal to
Jesus, sending a deputation of Jewish elders, as the
day was on the wane, to the house to which Jesus had
now returned. They make their request that "He
would come and save the servant of the centurion,
who was now lying at the point of death." True
advocates, and skilful, were these elders. They made
the centurion's cause their own, as if their hearts had
caught the rhythmic beat of his great sorrow, and
when Jesus held back a little—as He often did, to test
the intensity of the desire and the sincerity of the
suppliant—"they besought Him earnestly," or "kept
on beseeching," as the tense of the verb would imply,
crowning their entreaty with the plea, "He is worthy
that Thou shouldest do this, for he loveth our nation,
and himself built us our synagogue." Possibly they
feared—putting a Hebrew construction upon His sympathies—that
Jesus would demur, and perhaps refuse,
because their client was a foreigner. They did not
know, what we know so well, that the mercy of Jesus
was as broad as it was deep, knowing no bounds
where its waves of blessing are stayed. But how
forceful and prevalent was their plea! Though they
knew it not, these elders do but ask Jesus to illustrate
the words He has just spoken, "Give, and it shall be
given unto you." And had not Jesus laid this down as
one of the laws of mercy, that action and reaction are
equal? Had He not been describing the orbit in
which blessings travel, showing that though its orbit
be apparently eccentric at times, like the boomerang,
that wheels round and comes back to the hand that
threw it forward, the mercy shown will eventually
come back to him who showed it, with a wealth of
heavenly usury? And so their plea was the one of all
others to be availing. It was the precept of the mount
evolved into practice. It was, "Bless him, for he has
richly blessed us. He has opened his hand, showering
his favours upon us; do Thou open Thine hand now,
and show him that the God of the Hebrews is a God
who hears, and heeds, and helps."
It has been thought, from the language of the elders,
that the synagogue built by the centurion was the
only one that Capernaum possessed; for they speak
of it as "the" synagogue. But this does not follow,
and indeed it is most improbable. They might still
call it "the" synagogue, not because it was the only
one, but because it was the one foremost and uppermost
in their thought, the one in which they were
particularly interested. The definite article no more
proves this to be the only synagogue in Capernaum
than the phrase "the house" (ver. 10) proves the house
of the centurion to be the only house of the city. The
fact is that in the Gospel age Capernaum was a busy
and important place, as shown by its possessing a
garrison of soldiers, and by its being the place of
custom, situated as it was on the great highway of
trade. And if Jerusalem could boast of four hundred
synagogues, and Tiberias—a city not even named by
the Synoptists—fourteen, Capernaum certainly would
possess more than one. Indeed, had Capernaum been
the insignificant village that one synagogue would
imply, then, instead of deserving the bitter woes Jesus
pronounced upon it, it would have deserved the highest
commendation, as the most fruitful field in all His
ministry, giving Him, besides other disciples, a ruler
of the Jews and the commandant of the garrison. That
it deserved such bitter "woes" proves that Capernaum
had a population both dense and, in the general, hostile
to Jesus, compared with which His friends and
adherents were a feeble few.
In spite of the negative manner Jesus purposely
showed at the first, He fully intended to grant all the
elders had asked, and allowing them now to guide
Him, He "went with them." When, however, they
were come near the house, the centurion sent other
"friends" to intercept Jesus, and to urge Him not to
take any further trouble. The message, which they
deliver in the exact form in which it was given to them,
is so characteristic and exquisitely beautiful that it is
best to give it entire: "Lord, trouble not Thyself: for
I am not worthy that Thou shouldest come under my
roof: wherefore neither thought I myself worthy to
come unto Thee: but say the word, and my servant shall
be healed. For I also am a man set under authority,
having under myself soldiers: and I say to this one, Go,
and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh;
and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it."
The narrative of St. Matthew differs slightly from
that of St. Luke, in that he omits all reference to the
two deputations, speaking of the interview as being
personal with the centurion. But St. Matthew's is
evidently an abbreviated narrative, and he passes over
the intermediaries, in accordance with the maxim that
he who acts through another does it per se. But both
agree as to the terms of the message, a message which
is at once a marvel and a rebuke to us, and one which
was indeed deserving of being twice recorded and
eulogized in the pages of the Gospels.
And how the message reveals the man, disclosing
as in a transparency the character of this nameless
foreigner! We have already seen how broad were his
sympathies, and how generous his deeds, as he makes
room in his large heart for a conquered and despised
people, at his own cost building a temple for the
exercises of their faith. We have seen, too, what a
wealth of tenderness and benevolence was hiding beneath
a somewhat stern exterior, in his affection for a
servant, and his anxious solicitude for that servant's
health. But now we see in the centurion other graces
of character, that set him high amongst those "outside
saints" who worshipped in the outer courts, until such
time as the veil of the Temple was rent in twain, and
the way into the Holiest was opened for all. And what
a beautiful humility is here! what an absence of assumption
or of pride! Occupying an honoured position,
representing in his own person an empire which
was world-wide, surrounded by troops of friends, and
by all the comforts wealth could buy, accustomed to
speak in imperative, if not in imperious ways, yet as
he turns towards Jesus it is with a respectful, yea, a
reverential demeanour. He feels himself in the presence
of some Higher Being, an unseen but august Cæsar.
Nay, not in His presence either, for into that audience-chamber
he feels that he has neither the fitness nor the
right to intrude. All that he can do is to send forward
his petition by the hands of worthier advocates, who
have access to Him, while he himself keeps back out
of sight, with bared feet standing by the outer gate.
Others can speak well and highly of him, recounting
his noble deeds, but of himself he has nothing good to
say; he can only speak of self in terms of disparagement,
as he emphasizes his littleness, his unworthiness.
Nor was it with him the conventional hyperbole of
Eastern manners; it was the language of deepest,
sincerest truth, when he said that he was not worthy
even to speak with Christ, or to receive such a Guest
beneath his roof. Between himself and the One he reverently
addressed as "Lord" there was an infinite distance;
for one was human, while the Other was Divine.
And what a rare and remarkable faith! In his
thought Jesus is an Imperator, commanding all forces,
as He rules the invisible realms. His will is supreme
over all substances, across all distances. "Thou hast
no need, Lord, to take any trouble about my poor
request. There is no necessity that Thou shouldest
take one step, or even lift up a finger; Thou hast only
to speak the word, and it is done;" and then he gives
that wonderfully graphic illustration borrowed from his
own military life.
The passage "For I also am a man set under
authority" is generally rendered as referring to his
own subordinate position under the Chiliarch. But
such a rendering, as it seems to us, breaks the continuity
of thought, and grammatically is scarcely
accurate. The whole passage is an amplification and
description of the "word" of ver. 7, and the "also"
introduces something the centurion and Jesus possess
in common, i.e., the power to command; for the "I
also" certainly corresponds with the "Thou" which is
implied, but not expressed. But the centurion did not
mean to imply that Jesus possessed only limited, delegated
powers; this was farthest from his thought, and
formed no part of the comparison. But let the clause
"I also am a man set under authority" be rendered,
not as referring to the authority which is above him,
but to that which is upon him—"I also am vested with
authority," or "Authority is put upon me"—and the
meaning becomes clear. The "also" is no longer
warped into an ungrammatical meaning, introducing a
contrast rather than a likeness; while the clause which
follows, "having under myself soldiers," takes its proper
place as an enlargement and explanation of the "authority"
with which the centurion is invested.
The centurion speaks in a soldierly way. There is
a crispness and sharpness about his tones—that shibboleth
of militaryism. He says, "My word is all-powerful
in the ranks which I command. I have but
to say 'Come,' or 'Go,' and my word is instantly
obeyed. The soldier upon whose ear it falls dare not
hesitate, any more than he dare refuse. He 'goes' at
my word, anywhither, on some forlorn hope it may be,
or to his grave." And such is the obedience, instant
and absolute, that military service demands. The
soldier must not question, he must obey; he must not
reason, he must act; for when the word of command—that
leaded word of authority—falls upon his ear, it
completely fills his soul, and makes him deaf to all
other, meaner voices.
Such was the thought in the centurion's mind, and
from the "go" and "come" of military authority to
the higher "word" of Jesus the transition is easy.
But how strong the faith that could give to Jesus such
an enthronement, that could clothe His word with such
superhuman power! Yonder, in his secluded chamber,
lies the sufferer, his nerves quivering in their pain,
while the mortal sickness physicians and remedies
have all failed to touch, much less to remove, has
dragged him close up to the gate of death. But this
"word" of Jesus shall be all-sufficient. Spoken here
and now, it shall pass over the intervening streets and
through the interposing walls and doors; it shall say
to these demons of evil, "Loose him, and let him go,"
and in a moment the torturing pain shall cease, the
fluttering heart shall resume its healthy, steady beat,
the rigid muscles shall become pliant as before, while
through arteries and veins the life-blood—its poison
all extracted now—shall regain its healthful, quiet flow.
The centurion believed all this of the "word" of Jesus,
and even more. In his heart it was a word all-potent,
if not omnipotent, like to the word of Him who "spake,
and it was done," who "commanded, and it stood fast."
And if the word of Jesus in these realms of life and
death was so imperative and all-commanding, could
the Christ Himself be less than Divine?
To find such confidence reposed in Himself was to
Jesus something new; and to find this rarest plant of
faith growing up on Gentile soil was a still greater
marvel and turning to the multitude which clustered
thick and eager around, He said to them, "I have
not found so great faith, no, not in Israel." And
commending the centurion's faith, He honours it too,
doing all he requested, and even more, though without
the "word." Jesus does not even say "I will," or
"Be it so," but He works the instant and perfect
cure by a mere volition. He wills it, and it is done,
so that when the friends returned to the house they
found the servant "whole."
Of the sequel we know nothing. We do not even
read that Jesus saw the man at whose faith He had so
marvelled. But doubtless He did, for His heart was
drawn strangely to him, and doubtless He gave to
him many of those "words" for which his soul had
longed and listened, words in which were held, as in
solution, all authority and all truth. And doubtless,
too, in the after-years, Jesus crowned that life of
faithful but unnoted service with the higher "word,"
the heavenly "Well done."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ANOINTING OF THE FEET.
Luke vii. 36-50.
Whether the narrative of the Anointing is
inserted in its chronological order we cannot
say, for the Evangelist gives us no word by which we
may recognize either its time or its place-relation; but
we can easily see that it falls into the story artistically,
with a singular fitness. Going back to the context, we
find Jesus pronouncing a high eulogium upon John
the Baptist. Hereupon the Evangelist adds a statement
of his own, calling attention to the fact that even
John's ministry failed to reach and influence the
Pharisees and lawyers, who rejected the counsel of
God, and declined the baptism of His messenger.
Then Jesus, in one of His brief but exquisite parables,
sketches the character of the Pharisees. Recalling a
scene of the market-place, where the children were
accustomed to play at "weddings" and "funerals"—which,
by the way, are the only games at which the
children of the land play to-day—and where sometimes
the play was spoiled and stopped by some of the
children getting into a pet, and lapsing into a sullen
silence, Jesus says that is just a picture of the childish
perversity of the Pharisees. They respond neither
to the mourning of the one nor to the music of the
other, but because John came neither eating bread nor
drinking wine, they can him a maniac, and say, "He
hath a devil;" while of Jesus, who has no ascetic
ways, but mingles in the gatherings of social life, a
Man amongst men, they say, "Behold a gluttonous
man and a wine-bibber, a friend of publicans and
sinners." And having recorded this, our Evangelist
inserts, as an appropriate sequel, the account of the
supper in the Pharisee's house, with its idyllic interlude,
played by a woman's hand, a narrative which shows
how Wisdom is justified of all her children, and how
these condescensions of Jesus, His intercourse with
even those who were ceremonially or morally unclean,
were both proper and beautiful.
It was in one of the Galilean towns, perhaps at Nain,
where Jesus was surprised at receiving an invitation
to the house of a Pharisee. Such courtesies on the
part of a class who prided themselves on their exclusiveness,
and who were bitterly intolerant of all who
were outside their narrow circle, were exceptional and
rare. Besides, the teaching of Jesus was diametrically
opposed to the leaven of the Pharisees. Between the
caste of the one and the Catholicism of the other was
a wide gulf of divergence. To Jesus the heart was
everything, and the outflowing issues were coloured
by its hues; to the Pharisees the hand, the outward
touch, was more than heart, and contact more than
conduct. Jesus laid a Divine emphasis upon character;
the cleanness He demanded was moral cleanness,
purity of heart; that of the Pharisees was a ceremonial
cleanness, the avoidance of things which were under
a ceremonial ban. And so they magnified the jots and
tittles, scrupulously tithing their mint and anise, while
they overlooked completely the moralities of the heart,
and reduced to a mere nothing those grander virtues
of mercy and of justice. Between the Separatists and
Jesus there was therefore constant friction, which
afterwards developed into open hostility; and while
they ever sought to damage Him with opprobrious
epithets, and to bring His teaching into disrepute, He
did not fail to expose their hollowness and insincerity,
tearing off the veneer with which they sought to hide
the brood of viperous things their creed had gendered,
and to hurl against their whited sepulchres His indignant
"woes."
It would almost seem as if Jesus hesitated in accepting
the invitation, for the tense of the verb "desired"
implies that the request was repeated. Possibly
other arrangements had been made, or perhaps Jesus
sought to draw out and test the sincerity of the
Pharisee, who in kind and courteous words offered his
hospitality. The hesitation would certainly not arise
from any reluctance on His part, for Jesus refused no
open door; he welcomed any opportunity of influencing
a soul. As the shepherd of His own parable went
over the mountainous paths in quest of his lone, lost
sheep, so Jesus was glad to risk unkind aspersions,
and to bear the "fierce light" of hostile, questioning
eyes, if He might but rescue a soul, and win some
erring one back to virtue and to truth.
The character of the host we cannot exactly determine.
The narrative lights up his features but indistinctly,
for the nameless "sinner" is the central object
of the picture, while Simon stands in the background,
out of focus, and so somewhat veiled in obscurity. To
many he appears as the cold and heartless censor,
distant and haughty, seeking by the guile of hospitality
to entrap Jesus, hiding behind the mask of friendship
some dark and sinister motive. But such deep shadows
are cast by our own thoughts rather than by the
narrative; they are the random "guesses after truth,"
instead of the truth itself. It will be noticed that
Jesus does not impugn in the least his motive in
proffering his hospitality; and this, though but a
negative evidence, is not without its weight, when on
a similar occasion the evil motive was brought to light.
The only charge laid against him—if charge it be—was
the omission of certain points of etiquette that
Eastern hospitality was accustomed to observe, and
even here there is nothing to show that Jesus was
treated differently from the other invited guests. The
omission, while it failed to single out Jesus for special
honour, might still mean no disrespect; and at the
most it was a breach of manners, deportment, rather
than of morals, just one of those lapses Jesus was most
ready to overlook and forgive. We shall form a juster
estimate of the man's character if we regard him as a
seeker after truth. Evidently he has felt a drawing
towards Jesus; indeed, ver. 47 would almost imply that
he had received some personal benefit at His hands.
Be this as it may, he is desirous of a closer and a freer
intercourse. His mind is perplexed, the balances of
his judgment swinging in alternate and opposite ways.
A new problem has presented itself to him, and in that
problem is one factor he cannot yet value. It is the
unknown quantity, Jesus of Nazareth. Who is He?
what is He? A prophet—the Prophet—the Christ?
Such are the questions running through his mind—questions
which must be answered soon, as his thoughts
and opinions have ripened into convictions. And so
he invites Jesus to his house and board, that in
the nearer vision and the unfettered freedom of social
intercourse he may solve the great enigma. Nay, he
invites Jesus with a degree of earnestness, putting
upon Him the constraint of a great desire; and
leaving his heart open to conviction, ready to embrace
the truth as soon as he recognizes it to be truth, he
flings open the door of his hospitalities, though in so
doing he shakes the whole fabric of Pharisaic exclusiveness
and sanctity. Seeking after truth, the truth finds
him.
There was a simplicity and freeness in the social
life of the East which our Western civilization can
scarcely understand. The door of the guest-chamber
was left open, and the uninvited, even comparative
strangers, were allowed to pass in and out during the
entertainment; or they might take their seats by the
wall, as spectators and listeners. It was so here. No
sooner have the guests taken their places, reclining
around the table, their bared feet projecting behind
them, than the usual drift of the uninvited set in,
amongst whom, almost unnoticed in the excitements of
the hour, was "a woman of the city." Simon in his
soliloquy speaks of her as "a sinner;" but had we his
testimony only, we should hesitate in giving to the
word its usually received meaning; for "sinner" was
a pet term of the Pharisees, applied to all who were
outside their circle, and even to Jesus Himself. But
when our Evangelist, in describing her character, makes
use of the same word, we can only interpret the "sinner"
in one way, in its sensual, depraved meaning.
And with this agrees the phrase "a woman which was
in the city," which seems to indicate the loose relations
of her too-public life.
Bearing in her hand "an alabaster cruse of ointment,"
for a purpose which soon became apparent, she
passed over to the place where Jesus sat, and stood
directly behind Him. Accustomed as she had been to
hide her deeds in the veil of darkness, nothing but the
current of a deep emotion could have carried her thus
through the door of the guest-chamber, setting her,
alone of her sex, full in the glare of the lamps and the
light of scornful eyes; and no sooner has she reached
her goal than the storm of the heart breaks in a rain
of tears, which fall hot and fast upon the feet of the
Master. This, however, is no part of her plan; they
were impromptu tears she could not restrain; and
instantly she stoops down, and with the loosened
tresses of her hair she wipes His feet, kissing them
passionately as she did so. There is a delicate meaning
in the construction of the Greek verb, "she began
to wet His feet with her tears;" it implies that the
action was not continued, as when afterwards she
"anointed" His feet. It was momentary, instantaneous,
checked soon as it was discovered. Then pouring
from her flask the fragrant nard, she proceeded with
loving, leisurely haste to anoint His feet, until the whole
chamber was redolent of the sweet perfume.
But what is the meaning of this strange episode,
this "song without words," struck by the woman's
hands as from a lyre of alabaster? It was evidently
something determined, prearranged. The phrase "when
she knew that He was sitting at meat" means something
more than she "heard." Her knowledge as to
where Jesus was had not come to her in a casual way,
in the vagrant gossip of the town; it had come by
search and inquiry on her part, as if the plan were
already determined, and she were eager to carry it out.
The cruse of ointment that she brings also reveals the
settled resolve that she came on purpose, and she
came only, to anoint the feet of Jesus. The word, too,
rendered "she brought" has a deeper meaning than
our translation conveys. It is a word that is used in
ten other passages of the New Testament, where it
is invariably rendered "receive," or "received," referring
to something received as a wage, or as a gift, or
as a prize. Used here in the narrative, it implies that
the cruse of ointment had not been bought; it was
something she had received as a gift, or possibly as
the wages of her sin. And not only was it prearranged,
part of a deliberate intention, but evidently it was not
displeasing to Jesus. He did not resent it. He gives
Himself up passively to the woman's will. He allows
her to touch, and even to kiss His feet, though He
knows that to society she is a moral leper, and that
her fragrant ointment is possibly the reward of her
shame. We must, then, look behind the deed to the
motive. To Jesus the ointment and the tears were
full of meaning, eloquent beyond any power of words.
Can we discover that meaning, and read why they
were so welcome? We think we may.
And here let us say that Simon's thoughts were
perfectly natural and correct, with no word or tone
that we can censure. Canon Farrar, it is true, detects
in the "This man" with which he speaks of Jesus a
"supercilious scorn;" but we fail to see the least
scorn, or even disrespect, for the pronoun Simon uses
is the identical word used by St. Matthew (Matt. iii. 3),
of John the Baptist, when he says, "This is he that was
spoken of by the prophet Esaias," and the word of the
"voice from heaven" which said, "This is My beloved
Son" (Matt. iii. 17). That the woman was a sinner
Simon knew well; and would not Jesus know it too, if
He were a prophet? Doubtless He would; but as
Simon marks no sign of disapproval upon the face of
Jesus, the enigmatical "if" grows larger in his mind,
and he begins to think that Jesus has scarcely the keen
insight—the power of seeing through things—that a
true prophet would have. Simon's reasoning was right,
but his facts were wrong. He imagined that Jesus did
not know "who and what manner of woman" this was;
whereas Jesus knew more than he, for He knew not only
the past of shame, but a present of forgiveness and hope.
And what did the tears and the ointment mean, that
Jesus should receive them so readily, and that He should
speak of them so approvingly? The parable Jesus
spoke to Simon will explain it. "Simon, I have somewhat
to say unto thee," said Jesus, answering his
thoughts—for He had heard them—by words. And
falling naturally into the parabolic form of speech—as
He did when He wanted to make His meaning more
startling and impressive—He said, "A certain money-lender
had two debtors: the one owed five hundred
pence, and the other fifty. When they had not wherewith
to pay, he forgave them both. Which of them
therefore will love him most?" A question to which
Simon could promptly answer, "He, I suppose, to
whom he forgave the most." It is clear, then, whatever
others might see in the woman's deed, that Jesus
read in it the expression of her love, and that He
accepted it as such; the tears and outpoured ointment
were the broken utterances of an affection which was
too deep for words. But if her offering—as it certainly
was—was the gift of love, how shall we explain her
tears? for love, in the presence of the beloved, does
not weep so passionately, indeed does not weep at all,
except, it may be, tears of joy, or tears of a mutual
sorrow. In this way: As the wind blows landward
from the sea, the mountain ranges cool the clouds, and
cause them to unlock their treasures, in the fertile and
refreshing rains; so in the heart of this "sinner" a
cloud of recollections is blown up suddenly from her
dark past; the memories of her shame—even though
that shame be now forgiven—sweep across her soul
with resistless force, for penitence does not end when
forgiveness is assured; and as she finds herself in
the presence of Infinite Purity, what wonder that the
heart's great deeps are broken up, and that the wild
storm of conflicting emotions within should find relief
in a rain of tears? Tears of penitence they doubtless
were, bitter with the sorrow and the shame of years
of guilt; but they were tears of gratitude and holy love
as well, all suffused and brightened by the touch of
mercy and the light of hope. And so the passionate
weeping was no acted grief, no hysterical tempest; it
was the perfectly natural accompaniment of profound
emotion, that storm of mingled but diverse elements
which now swept through her soul. Her tears, like
the dew-drops that hang upon leaf and flower, were
wrought in the darkness, fashioned by the Night, and
at the same time they were the jewels that graced the
robe of a new dawn, the dawn of a better, a purer
life.
But how came this new affection within her heart,
an affection so deep that it must have tears and anointings
for its expression—this new affection, which has
become a pure and holy passion, and which breaks
through conventional bonds, as it has broken through
the old habits, the ill usages of a life? Jesus Himself
traces for us this affection to its source. He tells us—for
the parable is all meaningless unless we recognize
in the five-hundred-pence debtor the sinning woman—that
her great love grows out of her great forgiveness,
a past forgiveness too, for Jesus speaks of the change
as already accomplished: "Her sins, which were many,
are (have been) forgiven." And here we touch an unwritten
chapter of the Divine life; for as the woman's
love flows up around Jesus, casting its treasures at
His feet, so the forgiveness must first have come
from Jesus. His voice it must have been which said,
"Let there be light," and which turned the chaos of
her dark soul into another Paradise. At any rate, she
thinks she owes to Him her all. Her new creation,
with its deliverance from the tyrannous past; her new
joys and hopes, the spring-blossom of a new and
heavenly existence; the conscious purity which has
now taken the place of lust—she owes all to the word
and power of Jesus. But when this change took place,
or when, in the great transit, this Venus of the moral
firmament passed across the disc of the Sun, we do not
know. St. John inserts in his story one little incident,
which is like a piece of mosaic dropped out from the
Gospels of the Synoptists, of a woman who was taken
in her sin and brought to Jesus. And when the hands
of her accusers were not clean enough to cast the first
stone, but they shrank one by one out of sight, self-condemned,
Jesus bade the penitent one to "go in
peace, and sin no more."The narrative is of doubtful authenticity;
but even should it be proved to be a postscript by some later scribe, it
would still point to a tradition, which, as Stier says, was "well founded
and genuine."
Are the two characters
identical? and does the forgiven one, dismissed into
peace, now return to bring to her Saviour her offering
of gratitude and love? We can only say that such
an identification is at least possible, and more so far
than the improbable identification of tradition, which
confounds this nameless "sinner" with Mary Magdalene,
which is an assumption perfectly baseless and
most unlikely.
And so in this erring one, who now puts her crown
of fragrance upon the feet of Jesus, since she is unworthy
to put it upon His head, we see a penitent
and forgiven soul. Somewhere Jesus found her, out
on the forbidden paths, the paths of sin, which, steep
and slippery, lead down to death; His look arrested her,
for it cast within her heart the light of a new hope;
His presence, which was the embodiment of a purity
infinite and absolute, shot through her soul the deep
consciousness and conviction of her guilt; and doubtless
upon her ears had fallen the words of the great
absolution and the Divine benediction, "Thy sins are
all forgiven; go in peace," words which to her made
all things new—a new heart within, and a new earth
around. And now, regenerate and restored, the sad
past forgiven, all the currents of her thought and life
reversed, the love of sin turned into a perfect loathing,
her language, spoken in tears, kisses, and fragrant
nard, is the language of the Psalmist, "O Lord, I will
praise Thee; for though Thou wast angry with me,
Thine anger is turned away, and Thou comfortedst
me." It was the Magnificat of a forgiven and a loving
soul.
Simon had watched the woman's actions in silence,
though in evident displeasure. He would have resented
her touch, and have forbade even her presence; but
found under his roof, she became in a certain sense
a guest, shielded by the hospitable courtesies of Eastern
life. But if he said nothing, he thought much, and his
thoughts were hard and bitter. He looked upon the
woman as a moral leper, an outcast. There was defilement
in her touch, and he would have shaken it off
from him as if it were a viper, fit only to be cast into
the fire of a burning indignation. Now Jesus must
teach him a lesson, and throw his thoughts back upon
himself. And first He teaches him that there is forgiveness
for sin, even the sin of uncleanness; and
in this we see the bringing in of a better hope. The
Law said, "The soul that sinneth, it shall surely die;"
it shall be cut off from the people of Israel. The Law
had but one voice for the adulterer and adulteress,
the voice which was the knell of a sharp and fearful
doom, without reprieve or mercy of any kind. It cast
upon them the deadly rain of stones, as if it would
hurl a whole Sinai upon them. But Jesus comes to
man with a message of mercy and of hope. He proclaims
a deliverance from the sin, and a pardon for the
sinner; nay, He offers Himself, as at once the Forgiver
of sin and the Saviour from sin. Let Him but see
it repented of; let Him but see the tears of penitence,
or hear the sighs of a broken and contrite heart, and
He steps forward at once to deliver and to save. The
valley of Achor, where the Law sets up its memorial of
shame, Jesus turns into a door of hope. He speaks
life where the Law spoke death; He offers hope where
the Law gave but despair; and where exacting Law
gave pains and fearful punishment only, the Mediator
of the New Covenant, to the penitent though erring
ones, spoke pardon and peace, even the perfect peace,
the eternal peace.
And Jesus teaches Simon another lesson. He teaches
him to judge himself, and not either by his own fictitious
standard, by the Pharisaic table of excellence, but by
the Divine standard. Holding up as a mirror the
example of the woman, Jesus gives to Simon a portrait
of his own self, as seen in the heavenly light, all
shrunken and dwarfed, the large "I" of Pharisaic
complacency becoming, in comparison, small indeed.
Turning to the woman, He said unto Simon, "Seest
thou this woman?" (And Simon had not seen her;
he had only seen her shadow, the shadow of her sinful
past). "I entered into thine house; thou gavest Me no
water for My feet: but she hath wetted My feet with
her tears, and wiped them with her hair. Thou gavest
Me no kiss: but she, since the time I came in, hath
not ceased to kiss My feet. My head with oil thou
didst not anoint: but she hath anointed My feet with
ointment." It is a problem of the pronouns, in which
the "I" being given, it is desired to find the relative
values of "thou" and "she." And how beautifully
does Jesus work it out, according to the rules of Divine
proportions! With what antithetical skill does He
make His comparison, or rather His contrast! "Thou
gavest me no water for My feet; she hath wetted My
feet with her tears, and wiped them with her hair.
Thou gavest me no kiss: she hath not ceased to kiss my
feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: she hath
anointed My feet with ointment."
And so Jesus sets over against the omissions of
Simon the loving and lavish attentions of the woman;
and while reproving him, not for a lack of civility, but
for a want of heartiness in his reception of Himself,
He shows how deep and full run the currents of her
affection, breaking through the banks and bounds of
conventionality in their sweet overflow, while as yet
the currents of his love were intermittent, shallow, and
somewhat cold. He does not denounce this Simon as
having no part or lot in this matter. No; He even
credits him with a little love, as He speaks of him as a
pardoned, justified soul. And it was true. The heart
of Simon had been drawn toward Jesus, and in the
urgent invitation and these proffered hospitalities we
can discern a nascent affection. His love is yet but in
the bud. It is there, a thing of life; but it is confined,
constrained, and lacking the sweetness of the ripened
and opened flower. Jesus does not cut off the budding
affection, and cast it out amongst the withered and dead
things, but sprinkling it with the dew of His speech,
and throwing upon it the sunshine of His approving
look, He leaves it to develop, ripening into an after-harvest
of fragrance and of beauty. And why was
Simon's love more feeble and immature than that of the
woman? First, because he did not see so much in
Jesus as she did. He was yet stumbling over the "if,"
with some lingering doubts as to whether He were
"the prophet;" to her He is more than a "prophet,"
even her Lord and her Saviour, covering her past
with a mantle of mercy, and opening within her heart
a heaven. Then, too, Simon's forgiveness was not so
great as hers. Not that any forgiveness can be less
than entire; for when Heaven saves it is not a salvation
by instalments—certain sins remitted, while others
are held back uncancelled. But Simon's views of sin
were not so sharp and vivid as were those of the
woman. The atmosphere of Phariseeism in its moral
aspects was hazy; it magnified human virtues, and
created all sorts of illusive mirages of self-righteousness
and reputed holiness, and doubtless Simon's vision
had been impaired by the refracting atmosphere of his
creed. The greatness of our salvation is ever measured
by the greatness of our danger and our guilt. The
heavier the burden and weight of condemnation, the
deeper is the peace and the higher are the ecstasies of
joy when that condemnation is removed. Shall we say,
then, "We must sin more, that love may more abound"?
Nay, we need not, we must not; for as Godet says,
"What is wanting to the best of us, in order to love
much, is not sin, but the knowledge of it." And this
deeper knowledge of sin, the more vivid realization of
its guilt, its virulence, its all-pervasiveness, comes
just in proportion as we approach Christ. Standing
close up to the cross, feeling the mortal agonies of
Him whose death was necessary as sin's atonement,
in that vivid light of redeeming love even the strict
moralist, the Pharisee of the Pharisees, could speak of
himself as the "chief" of sinners.
The lesson was over, and Jesus dismissed the woman—who,
with her empty alabaster flask, had lingered at
the feast, and who had heard all the conversation—with
the double assurance of pardon: "Thy sins are
forgiven; thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace."
And such is the Divine order everywhere and always—Faith,
Love, Peace. Faith is the procuring cause, or
the condition of salvation; love and peace are its after-fruits;
for without faith, love would be only fear, and
peace itself would be unrest.
She went in peace, "the peace of God, which passeth
all understanding;" but she left behind her the music
of her tears and the sweet fragrance of her deed, a
fragrance and a music which have filled the whole
world, and which, floating across the valley of death,
will pass up into heaven itself!
There was still one little whisper of murmuring, or
questioning rather; for the guests were startled by the
boldness of His words, and asked among themselves,
"Who is this that even forgiveth sins?" But it will
be noticed that Simon himself is no longer among the
questioners, the doubters. Jesus is to him "the Prophet,"
and more than a prophet, for who can forgive
sins but God alone? And though we hear no more
of him or of his deeds, we may rest assured that
his conquered heart was given without reserve to
Jesus, and that he too learned to love with a true
affection, even with the "perfect love," which "casteth
out fear."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE PARABLE OF THE SOWER.
Luke viii. 1-18.
In a single parenthetical sentence our Evangelist
indicates a marked change in the mode of the
Divine ministry. Hitherto "His own city," Capernaum,
has been a sort of centre, from which the lines of light
and blessing have radiated. Now, however, He leaves
Capernaum, and makes a circuit through the province
of Galilee, going through its cities and villages in a
systematic, and as the verb would imply, a leisurely
way, preaching the "good tidings of the kingdom of
God." Though no mention is made of them, we are
not to suppose that miracles were suspended; but
evidently they were set in the background, as secondary
things, the by-plays or "asides" of the Divine Teacher,
who now is intent upon delivering His message, the
last message, too, that they would hear from Him.
Accompanying Him, and forming an imposing demonstration,
were His twelve disciples, together with
"many" women, who ministered unto them of their
substance, among whom were three prominent ones,
probably persons of position and influence—Mary of
Magdala, Joanna, wife of Chuza, Herod's steward,
and Susanna, who had been healed by Jesus of
"evil spirits and infirmities"—which last word, in New
Testament language, is a synonym for physical weakness
and disorder. Of the particulars and results of
this mission we know nothing, unless we may see,
in the "great multitude" which followed and thronged
Jesus on His return, the harvest reaped from the
Galilean hills. Our Evangelist, at any rate, links them
together, as if the "great multitude" which now lines
the shore was, in part at least, the cloud of eager souls
which had been caught up and borne along on His
fervid speech, as the echoes of the kingdom went
resounding among the hills and vales of Galilee.
Returning to Capernaum, whither the crowds follow
Him, every city sending its contingent of curious or
conquered souls, Jesus, as St. Matthew and St. Mark
inform us, leaves the house, and seeks the open stretch
of shore, where from a boat—probably the familiar boat
of Simon—He addresses the multitudes, adopting now,
as His favourite mode of speech, the amplified parable.
It is probable that He had observed on the part of
His disciples an undue elation of spirit. Reading the
crowds numerically, and not discerning the different
motives which had brought them together, their eyes
deceived them. They imagined that these eager multitudes
were but a wave-sheaf of the harvest already
ripe, which only waited their gathering-in. But it is
not so; and Jesus sifts and winnows His audience,
to show His disciples that the apparent is not always
the real, and that between the hearers of the word
and the doers there will ever be a wide margin of
disappointment and comparative failure. The harvest,
in God's husbandry, as in man's, does not depend
altogether upon the quality of the seed or the faithfulness
of the sower, but upon the nature of the soil on
which it falls.
As the sower went forth to sow his seed, "some fell
by the way-side, and it was trodden under-foot, and the
birds of the heaven devoured it." In his carefulness
to cover all his ground, the sower had gone close up
to the boundary, and some of the seed had fallen on
the edge of the bare and trampled path, where it lay
homeless and exposed. It was in contact with the
earth, but it was a mechanical, and not a vital touch.
There was no correspondence, no communion between
them. Instead of welcoming and nourishing the seed,
it held it aloof, in a cold, repelling way. Had the soil
been sympathetic and receptive, it held within itself
all the elements of growth. Touched by the subtle
life that was hidden within the seed, the dead earth
itself had lived, growing up into blades of promise,
and from the full ear throwing itself forward into the
future years. But the earth was hard and unreceptive;
its possibilities of blessing were locked up and buried
beneath a crust of trampled soil that was callous and
unresponsive as the rock itself. And so the seed lay
unwelcomed and alone, and the life which the warm
touch of earth would have loosened and set free
remained within its husk as a dead thing, without voice
or hearing. There was nothing else for it but to be
ground into dust by the passing foot or to be picked
up by the foraging birds.
The parable was at once a prophecy and an experience.
Forming a part of the crowd which surrounded
Jesus was an outer ring of hearers who came but to
criticize and to cavil. They had no desire to be
taught—at any rate by such a teacher. They were
themselves the "knowing ones," the learned, and they
looked with suspicion and ill-concealed scorn upon
the youthful Nazarene. Turning upon the Speaker
a cold, questioning glance, or exchanging signals with
one another, they were evidently hostile to Jesus,
listening, it is true, but with a feline alertness, hoping
to entrap the sweet Singer in His speech. Upon
these, and such as these, the word of God, even when
spoken by the Divine Son, made no impression. It
was a speaking to the rocks, with no other result than
the awaking of a few echoes of mockery and banter.
The experience is still true. Among those who
frequent the house of God are many whose worship is
a cold, conventional thing. Drawn thither by custom,
by the social instinct, or by the love of change, they
pass within the gates of the Lord's house, ostensibly
to worship. But they are insincere, indifferent; they
bring their body, and deposit it in the accustomed pew,
but they might as well have put there a bag of ashes
or an automaton of brass. Their mind is not here,
and the cold, stolid features, unlighted by any passing
gleam, tell too surely of a vacancy or vagrancy of
thought. And even while the lips are throwing off
mechanically Jubilates and Te Deums their heart is
"far from Me," chasing some phantom "will o' the
wisp," or dreaming their dreams of pleasure, gain, and
ease. The worship of God they themselves would
call it, but God does not recognize it. He calls their
prayers a weariness, their incense an abomination.
Theirs is but a worship of Self, as, setting up their
image of clay, they summon earth's musicians to play
their sweet airs about it. God, with them, is set back,
ignored, proscribed. The personal "I" is writ so
large, and is so all-pervasive, that there is no room
for the I AM. Living for earth, all the fibres of their
being growing downwards towards it, heaven is not
even a cloud drifting across their distant vision; it is
an empty space, a vacancy. To the voices of earth
their ears are keenly sensitive; its very whispers thrill
them with new excitements; but to the voices of
Heaven they are deaf; the still, small voice is all
unheard, and even the thunders of God are so muffled
as to be unrecognized and scarcely audible. And so
the word of God falls upon their ears in vain. It drops
upon a soil that is impervious and antipathetic, a
heart which knows no penitence, and a life whose
fancied goodness has no room for mercy, or which finds
such complete satisfaction in the gains of unrighteousness
or the pleasures of sin that it is purposely and
persistently deaf to all higher, holier voices. Ulysses
filled his ears with wax, lest he should yield himself
up to the enchantments of the sirens. The fable is
true, even when read in reversed lines; for when
Virtue, Purity, and Faith invite men to their resting-place,
calling them to the Islands of the Blessed, and to
the Paradise of God, they charm in vain. Deafening
their ears, and not deigning to give a passing thought
to the higher call, men drift past the heaven which
might have been theirs, until these holier voices are
silenced by the awful distance.
That the word of God is inoperative here is through
no fault, either of the seed or of the sower. That
word is still "quick and powerful," but it is sterile,
because it finds nothing on which it may grow. It is
not "understood," as Jesus Himself explains. It falls
upon the outward ear alone, and there only as unmeaning
sound, like the accents of some unknown tongue.
And so the wicked one easily takes away the word from
their heart; for, as the preposition itself implies, that
word had not fallen into the heart; it was lying on it in a
superficial way, like the seed cast upon the trampled path.
Is there, then, no hope for these way-side hearers?
and sparing our strength and toil, shall we leave them
for soils more promising? By no means. The fallow
ground may be broken up; the ploughshare can loosen
the hardened, unproductive earth. Pulverized by the
teeth of the harrow or the teeth of the frost, the barren
track itself disappears; it passes up into the advanced
classes, giving back the seed with which it is now
entrusted, with a thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold increase.
And this is true in the higher husbandry, in which
we are permitted to be "God's fellow-workers." The
heart which to-day is indifferent or repellent, to-morrow,
chastened by sickness or torn by the ploughshare
of some keen grief, may hail with eagerness the
message it rejected and even scorned before. Amid
the penury and shame of the far country, the father's
house, from which he had wantonly turned, now comes
to the prodigal like a sweet dream, and even its bread
has all the aroma and sweetness of ambrosial food.
No matter how disappointing the soil, we are to do
our duty, which is to "sow beside all waters;" nor
should any calculations of imaginary productiveness
make us slack our hand or cast away our hope. When
the Spirit is poured out from on high, even "the
wilderness becomes as a fruitful field," and death itself
becomes instinct with life.
"And other fell on the rock; and as soon as it grew
it withered away, because it had no moisture." Here
is a second quality of soil. It is not, however, a soil
that is weakened by an intermixture of gravel or of
stones, but rather a soil that is thinly spread upon the
rock. It is good soil as far as it goes, but it is shallow.
It receives the seed gladly, as if that were its one
mission, as indeed it is; it gives the seed a hiding-place,
throwing over it a mantle of earth, so that the
birds shall not devour it. It lays its warm touch upon
the enveloping husk, as the Master once laid His
finger upon the bier, and to the imprisoned life which
was within it said, "Arise and multiply. Pass up
into the sunlight, and give God's children bread." And
the seed responds, obeys. The emerging life throws
out its two wings—one downwards, as its roots clasp
the soil; one upwards, as the blade, pushing the clods
aside, makes for the light and the heavens that are
above it. "Surely," we should say, if we read the
future from the present merely, "the hundredfold is
here. Pull down your barns and build greater, for
never was seed received more kindly, never were the beginnings
of life more auspicious, and never was promise
so great." Ah that the promise should so soon be a
disappointment, and the forecast be so soon belied! The
soil has no depth. It is simply a thin covering spread
over the rock. It offers no room for growth. The
life it nourishes can be nothing more than an ephemeral
life, which owns but a to-day, whose "to-morrow" will
be in the oven of a burning heat. The growth is entirely
superficial, for its roots come directly to the hard,
impenetrable rock, which, yielding no support, but cutting
off all supplies from the unseen reservoirs beneath,
turns back the incipient life all starved and shrunken.
The result is a sudden withering and decay. A foundling,
left, not by some iron gate which the touch of
mercy might open, but by a dead wall of cold, unresponsive
stone, the plant throws up its arms into the air,
in its vain struggle for life, and then wilts and droops,
lying at last, a dead and shrivelled thing, on the dry
bosom of the earth which had given it its untimely birth.
Such, says Jesus, are many who hear the word.
Unlike those by the way-side, these do not reject it.
They listen, bending toward that word with attentive
ears and eager hearts. Nay, they receive it with joy;
it strikes upon their soul with the music of a new
evangel. But the work is not thorough; it is superficial,
external. They "have no root" in a deep and
settled conviction, only a green blade of profession
and of mock promise, and when the testing-time comes,
as it comes to all, "the time of temptation," they fall
away, or they "stand off," as the verb might be literally
rendered.
In this second class we must place a large proportion
of those who heard and who followed Jesus. There
was something attractive about His manner and about
His message. Again and again we read how they
"pressed upon Him" to hear His words, the multitude
hanging on His lips as the bees will cluster upon a
honeyed leaf. Thousands upon thousands thus came
within the spell of His voice, now wondering at His
gracious words, and now stunned with astonishment,
as they marked the authority with which He spoke,
the compressed thunder that was in His tones. But
in how many cases are we forced to admit the interest
to be but momentary! It was with many—shall we
say with most?—merely a passing excitement, the
effervescence of personal contact. The words of Jesus
came "as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant
voice," and for the moment the hearts of the multitudes
were set vibrating in responsive harmonies. But the
music ceased when the Singer was absent. The impressions
were not permanent, and even the emotions
had soon passed away, almost from memory. St. John
speaks of one sifting in Galilee when "many of His
disciples went back, and walked no more with Him"
(vi. 66), showing that with them at least it was an
attachment rather than an attachment that bound them
to Himself. The bond of union was the hope of some
personal gain, rather than the bond of a pure and deep
affection. And so directly He speaks of His approaching
death, of His "flesh and blood" which He shall
give them to eat and to drink, like an icy breath from
the north, those words chill their devotion, turning their
zeal and ardour into a cold indifference, if not into an
open hostility. And this same winnowing of Galilee
is repeated in Judæa. We read of multitudes who
escorted Jesus down the Mount of Olives, strewing His
path with garments, giving Him a royal welcome to the
"city of the Great King." But how soon a change
"came o'er the spirit of their dream"! how soon
the hosannahs died away! As a hawk in the sky will
still in a moment the warbling of the birds, so the
uplifted cross threw its cold shadow upon their hearts,
drowning the brief hosannahs in a strange silence.
The cross was the fan in the Masters hand, with
which He "throughly purged His floor," separating the
true from the false. It blew away into the deep valley
of Oblivion the chaff, the dead superficialities, the barren
yawns, leaving as the residuum of the sifted multitudes
a mere handful of a hundred and twenty names.
These pro tem. believers are indigenous to every soil.
There never is a great movement afloat—philanthropic,
political or spiritual—but numberless smaller craft are
lifted up on its swell. For a moment they seem instinct
with life, but having no propelling power in themselves,
they drop behind, soon to be embedded in the mire.
And especially is this true in the region of spiritual
dynamics. In all so-called "revivals" of religion, when
the Church rejoices in a deepened and quickened life,
when a cooling zeal has been rewarmed at the heavenly
fires, and converts are multiplied, in the accessions
which follow almost invariably will be found a proportion
of what we may call "casuals." We cannot say
they are counterfeits, for the work, as far as it goes,
seems real, and the change, both in their thought and
life, is clearly marked. But they are unstable souls,
prone to drifting, their direction given in the main by
the set of the current in which they happen to be. And
so when they reach the point—which all must reach
sooner or later—where two seas meet, the cross current
of enticement and temptation bears hard upon them, and
they make shipwreck of faith. Others, again, are led
by impulse. Religion with them is mainly a matter of
feeling. Overlooking the fact that the emotions are
easily stirred, that they respond to the passing breath
just as the sea ripples to the breeze, they substitute
emotion for conviction, feeling for faith. But these have
no foundation, no root, no independent life, and when
the excitements on which they feed are withdrawn,
when the emotion subsides, the high tide of fervour
falling back to its mean sea-level, they lose heart and
hope. They are even ready to pity themselves as the
objects of an illusion. But the illusion was one of their
own making. They set the pleasant before the right,
delight before duty, comfort before Christ, and instead
of finding their heaven in doing the will of God, no
matter what the emotions, they sought their heaven in
their own personal happiness, and so they missed both.
"They endure for a while." And of how many are
these words true! Verily we must not count our fruits
from the blossoms of spring, nor must we reckon our
harvest in that easy, hopeful way of multiplying each
seed, or even each blade, by the hundredfold, for the
blade may be only a short-lived blade and nothing more.
"And other fell amidst the thorns; and the thorns
grew with it, and choked it." Here is a third quality
of soil in the ascending series. In the first, the trampled
path, life was not possible; the seed could find not the
least response. In the second there was life. The
thinly sprinkled soil gave the seed a home, a rooting;
but lacking depth of earth and the necessary moisture,
the life was precarious, ephemeral. It died away in the
blade, and never reached its fruitage. Now, however,
we have a deeper, richer soil, with an abundance of
vitality, one capable of sustaining an exuberant life.
But it is not clean; it is already thickly sown with
thorns, and the two growths running up side by side,
the hardier gets the mastery. And though the corn-life
struggles up into the ear, bearing a sort of fruit, it
is a grain that is dwarfed and shrivelled, a mere husk
and shell, which no leaven can transmute into bread.
It brings forth fruit, as the exposition of the parable
indicates, but it has not strength to complete its task;
it does not ripen it, bringing the fruit "to perfection."
Such, says Jesus, is another and a large class of
hearers. They are naturally capable of doing great
things. Possessing strong wills, and a large amount
of energy, they are just the lives to be fruitful, impressing
themselves upon others, and so throwing their
manifold influence down into the future. But they do
not, and for the simple reason that they do not give to
the word a whole heart. Their attentions and energies
are divided. Instead of seeking "first the kingdom of
God," making that the supreme quest of life, it is with
them but one of many things to be desired and sought.
Chief among the hindrances to a perfected growth and
fruitfulness, Jesus mentions three; namely, cares, riches,
and pleasures. By the "cares of life" we must
understand—interpreting the word by its related word in
Matthew vi. 34—the anxieties of life. It is the anxious
thought, mainly about the "to-morrow," which presses
upon the heart as a sore and constant burden. It is
the fearfulness and unrest of soul which gloom the
spirit and shroud the life, making the Divine peace
itself a fret and worry. And how many Christians find
this to be the normal experience! They love God, they
seek to serve Him; but they are weighted and weary.
Instead of having the hopeful, buoyant spirit which
rises to the crest of passing waves, it is a heart depressed
and sad, living in the deeps. And so the
brightness of their life is dimmed; they walk not "in
the light, as He is in the light," but beneath a sky frequently
overcast, their days bringing only "a little
glooming light, much like a shade." And so their
spiritual life is stunted, their usefulness impaired. Instead
of having a heart "at leisure from itself," they
are engrossed with their own unsatisfactory experiences.
Instead of looking upwards to the heavens which are
their own, or outwards upon the crying needs of earth,
they look inward with frequent and morbid introspection;
and instead of lending a hand to the fallen, that
a brotherly touch might help them to rise, their hands
find full employment in steadying the world, or worlds,
of care which, Atlas-like, they are doomed to carry.
Self-doomed, we should have said; for the Divine Voice
invites us to cast "all our anxiety upon Him," assuring
us that He careth for us, an assurance and an invitation
which make our anxieties, the fret and fever of life,
altogether superfluous.
Exactly the same effect of making the spiritual life
incomplete, and so unproductive, is caused by riches
and pleasures, or, as we might render the expression,
by the pursuit after riches or after pleasure. Not that
the Scriptures condemn wealth in itself. It is, per se, of
a neutral character, whether a blessing or a bane depends
on how it is earned and how it is held. Nor do
the Scriptures condemn legitimate modes and measures
of business; they condemn waste and indolence, but
they commend industry, diligence, thrift. But the evil
is in making wealth the chief aim of life. It is deceptive,
promising satisfaction which it never gives, creating
a thirst which it is powerless to slake, until the desire,
ever more greedy and clamorous, grows into a "love
of money," a pure worship of Mammon. Religion and
business may well go together, for God has joined them
in one. Each keeping its proper place, religion first
and most, and business a far-off second, together they
are the centrifugal and centripetal forces that keep the
life revolving steadily around its Divine centre. But
let the positions be reversed; let business be the first,
chief thought, let religion sink down to some second
or third place, and the life swings farther and farther
from its pivotal centre, into wildernesses of dearth
and cold. To give due thought to earthly things
is right; nay, we may give all diligence to make our
earthly, as well as our heavenly calling sure; but when
business gets imperious in its demands, swallowing up
all our thought and energy, leaving no time for spiritual
exercises or for personal service for Christ, then the
religious life declines. Crowded back into the chance
corners, with nothing left it but the brief interstices of
a busy life, religion can do little more than maintain
a profession; its helpfulness is, in the main, remitted
to the past, and its fruitfulness is postponed to that
uncertain nowhere of the Greek calends.
The same is true with regard to the pleasures of life.
The word "pleasure" is a somewhat infrequent word
in the New Testament, and generally it is used of the
lower, sensual pleasures. We are not obliged, however,
to give the word its lowest meaning; indeed, the
analogy of the parable would scarcely allow such an
interpretation. Sinful pleasure would not check growth;
it would simply prevent it, making a spiritual life
impossible. We must therefore interpret the "pleasures"
which retard the upward growth, and render it
infertile, as the lawful pleasures of life, such as the
delights of the eye and ear, the gratification of the
tastes, the enjoyments of domestic or social life. Perfectly
innocent and pure in themselves, purposely
designed for our enjoyment, as St. Paul plainly intimates
(1 Tim. vi. 17), they are pleasures which we have
no right to treat with the stoic's disdain, nor with the
ascetic's aversion. But the snare is in permitting these
desires to step out of their proper place, in allowing
them to have a controlling influence. As servants their
ministry is helpful and benign; but if we make them
"lords," then, like "the ill uses of a life," we find it
difficult to put them down; they rather put us down,
making us their thrall. To please God should be the
one absorbing pursuit and passion of life, and wholly
bent on this, if other pure enjoyments come in our way
we may receive them thankfully. But if we make our
personal gratification the aim, if our thoughts and plans
are set on this rather than upon the pleasing of God,
then our spiritual life is enfeebled and stifled, and the
fruit we should bear shrivels up into chaff. Then we
become selfish and self-willed, and the pure pleasures
of life, which like Vestal Virgins minister within the
temple of God, leading us ever to Him, turn round
to burn perpetual incense before our enlarged and
exalted Self. He who stops to confer with flesh
and blood, who is ever consulting his own likes and
leanings, can never be an apostle to others.
"And other fell into the good ground, and grew,
and brought forth fruit a hundredfold." Here is the
highest quality of soil. Not hard, like the trampled
path, nor shallow, like the covering of the rock, not
preoccupied with the roots of other growths, this is
mellow, deep, clean, and rich. The seed falls, not "by,"
or "in," or "among," but "into" it, while seed and
soil together grow up in an affluence of life, and passing
through the blade-age and the earing, it ripens into a
harvest of a hundredfold. Such, says Jesus, are they
who, in an honest and good heart, having heard the
word, hold it fast, and bring forth fruit with patience.
Here, then, we reach the germ of the parable, the secret
of fruitfulness. The one difference between the saint
and the sinner, between the hundredfold hearer and
him whose life is spent in throwing out promises of
a harvest which never ripens, is their different attitude
towards the word of God. In the one case that word
is rejected altogether, or it is a concept of the mind
alone, an aurora of the Arctic night, distant and cold,
which some mistake for the dawn of a new day. In
the other the word passes through the mind into the
deepest heart; it conquers and rules the whole being;
it becomes a part of one's very self, the soul of the soul.
"Thy word have I hid in my heart," said the Psalmist,
and he who puts the Divine word there, before all
earthly and selfish voices, letting that Divine Voice fill
up that most sacred temple of the heart, will make his
outer life both beautiful and fruitful. He will walk the
earth as one of God's seers, ever beholding Him who
is invisible, speaking by life or lips in heavenly tones,
and by his own steadfast, upward gaze lifting the
hearts and thoughts of men "above the world's uncertain
haze." Such is the Divine law of life; the measure
of our faith is the measure of our fruitfulness. If we
but half believe in the promises of God or in the
eternal realities, then the sinews of our soul are
houghed, and there comes over us the sad paralysis
of doubt. How can we bring forth fruit except we
abide in Him? and how can we abide in Him but by
letting His words abide in us? But having His words
abiding in us, then His peace, His joy, His life are ours,
and we, who without Him are poor, dead things, now
become strong in His infinite strength, and fruitful
with a Divine fruitfulness; and to our lives, which
were all barren and dead, will men come for the words
that "help and heal," while the Master Himself gathers
from them His thirty, sixty, or hundredfold, the fruitage
of a whole-hearted, patient faith.
Let us take heed, therefore, how we hear, for on the
character of the hearing depends the character of the
life. Nor is the truth given us for ourselves alone; it
is given that it may become incarnate in us, so that
others may see and feel the truth that is in us, even as
men cannot help seeing the light which is manifest.
And so the parable closes with the account of the
visit of His mother and brethren, who came, as St.
Matthew informs us, "to take Him home;" and when
the message was passed on to Him that His mother
and His brethren wished to see Him, this was His
remarkable answer, claiming relationship with all
whose hearts vibrate to the same "word:" "My
mother and My brethren are those which hear the
word of God, and DO IT." It is the secret of the
Divine life on earth; they hear, and they do.
CHAPTER XV.
THE KINGDOM OF GOD.
In considering the words of Jesus, if we may not be
able to measure their depth or to scale their height,
we can with absolute certainty discover their drift, and
see in what direction they move, and we shall find
that their orbit is an ellipse. Moving around the two
centres, sin and salvation, they describe what is not a
geometric figure, but a glorious reality, "the kingdom
of God." It is not unlikely that the expression was one
of the current phrases of the times, a golden casket,
holding within it the dream of a restored Hebraism;
for we find, without any collusion or rehearsal of parts,
the Baptist making use of the identical words in his
inaugural address, while it is certain the disciples
themselves so misunderstood the thought of their
Master as to refer His "kingdom" to that narrow
realm of Hebrew sympathies and hopes. Nor did they
see their error until, in the light of Pentecostal flames,
their own dream disappeared, and the new kingdom,
opening out like a receding sky, embraced a world
within its folds. That Jesus adopted the phrase, liable
to misconstruction as it was, and that He used it so
repeatedly, making it the centre of so many parables
and discourses, shows how completely the kingdom
of God possessed both His mind and heart. Indeed,
so accustomed were His thoughts and words to flow
in this direction that even the valley of Death, "lying
darkly between" His two lives, could not alter their
course, or turn His thoughts out of their familiar
channel; and as we find the Christ beyond the cross
and tomb, amid the resurrection glories, we hear Him
speaking still of "the things pertaining to the kingdom
of God."
It will be observed that Jesus uses the two expressions
"the kingdom of God" and "the kingdom of
heaven" interchangeably. But in what sense is it
the "kingdom of heaven"? Does it mean that the
celestial realm will so far extend its bounds as to
embrace our outlying and low-lying world? Not exactly,
for the conditions of the two realms are so diverse.
The one is the perfected, the visible kingdom, where
the throne is set, and the King Himself is manifest,
its citizens, angels, heavenly intelligences, and saints
now freed from the cumbering clay of mortality, and
for ever safe from the solicitations of evil. This New
Jerusalem does not come down to earth, except in the
vision of the seer, as it were in a shadow. And yet
the two kingdoms are in close correspondence, after all;
for what is the kingdom of God in heaven but His
eternal rule over the spirits of the redeemed and of
the unredeemed? what are the harmonies of heaven
but the harmonies of surrendered wills, as, without
any hesitation or discord, they strike in with the Divine
Will in absolute precision? To this extent, then, at
least, heaven may project itself upon earth; the spirits
of men not yet made perfect may be in subjection to
the Supreme Spirit; the separate wills of a redeemed
humanity, striking in with the Divine Will, may swell
the heavenly harmonies with their earthly music.
And so Jesus speaks of this kingdom as being
"within you." As if He said, "You are looking in
the wrong direction. You expect the kingdom of God
to be set up around you, with its visible symbols of flags
and coins, on which is the image of some new Cæsar.
You are mistaken. The kingdom, like its King, is
unseen; it seeks, not countries, but consciences; its
realm is in the heart, in the great interior of the soul."
And is not this the reason why it is called, with such
emphatic repetition, "the kingdom," as if it were, if
not the only, at any rate the highest kingdom of God
on earth? We speak of a kingdom of Nature, and
who will know its secrets as He who was both Nature's
child and Nature's Lord? And how far-reaching a
realm is that! from the motes that swim in the air to
the most distant stars, which themselves are but the
gateway to the unseen Beyond! What forces are
here, forces of chemical affinities and repulsions, of
gravitation and of life! What successions and transformations
can Nature show! what infinite varieties
of substance, form, and colour! what a realm of
harmony and peace, with no irruptions of discordant
elements! Surely one would think, if God has a
kingdom upon earth, this kingdom of Nature is it.
But no; Jesus does not often refer to that, except as
He makes Nature speak in His parables, or as He
uses the sparrows, the grass, and the lilies as so many
lenses through which our weak human vision may see
God. The kingdom of God on earth is as much
higher than the kingdom of Nature as spirit is above
matter, as love is more and greater than power.
We said just now how completely the thought of
"the kingdom" possessed the mind and heart of Jesus.
We might go one step farther, and say how completely
Jesus identified Himself with that kingdom. He puts.
Himself in its pivotal centre, with all possible naturalness,
and with an ease that assumption cannot feign.
He gathers up its royalties and draws them around
His own Person. He speaks of it as "My kingdom;"
and this, not alone in familiar discourse with His
disciples, but when face to face with the representative
of earth's greatest power. Nor is the personal pronoun
some chance word, used in a far-off, accommodated
sense; it is the crucial word of the sentence, underscored
and emphasized by a threefold repetition; it is
the word He will not strike out, nor recall, even to
save Himself from the cross. He never speaks of the
kingdom but even His enemies acknowledge the
"authority" that rings in His tones, the authority
of conscious power, as well as of perfect knowledge.
When His ministry is drawing to a close He says to
Peter, "I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom
of heaven;" which language may be understood as
the official designation of the Apostle Peter to a position
of pre-eminence in the Church, as its first leader. But
whatever it may mean, it shows that the keys of the
kingdom are His; He can bestow them on whom He
will. The kingdom of heaven is not a realm in which
authority and honours move upwards from below, the
blossoming of "the people's will;" it is an absolute
monarchy, an autocracy, and Jesus Himself is here
King supreme, His will swaying the lesser wills of
men, and rearranging their positions, as the angel had
foretold: "He shall reign over the house of David
for ever, and of His kingdom there shall be no end."
Given Him of the Father it is (xxii. 29; i. 32), but the
kingdom is His, not either as a metaphor, but really,
absolutely, inalienably; nor is there admittance within
that kingdom but by Him who is the Way, as He is
the Life. We enter into the kingdom, or the kingdom
enters into us, as we find, and then crown the
King, as we sanctify in our hearts "Christ as Lord"
(1 Pet. iii. 15).
This brings us to the question of citizenship, the
conditions and demands of the kingdom; and here we
see how far this new dynasty is removed from the
kingdoms of this world. They deal with mankind in
groups; they look at birth, not character; and their
bounds are well defined by rivers, mountains, seas, or
by accurately surveyed lines. The kingdom of heaven,
on the other hand, dispenses with all space-limits, all
physical configurations, and regards mankind as one
group, a unity, a lapsed but a redeemed world. But
while opening its gates and offering its privileges to all
alike, irrespective of class or circumstance, it is most
eclective in its requirements, and most rigid in the
application of its test, its one test of character. Indeed,
the laws of the heavenly kingdom are a complete
reversal of the lines of worldly policy. Take, for
instance, the two estimates of wealth, and see how
different the position it occupies in the two societies.
The world makes wealth its summum bonum; or if not
exactly in itself the highest good, in commercial values
it is equivalent to the highest good, which is position.
Gold is all-powerful, the goal of man's vain ambitions,
the panacea of earthly ill. Men chase it in hot, feverish
haste, trampling upon each other in the mad scramble,
and worshipping it in a blind idolatry. But where is
wealth in the new kingdom? The worlds first becomes
the last. It has no purchasing-power here; its
golden key cannot open the least of these heavenly
gates. Jesus sets it back, far back, in His estimate of
the good. He speaks of it as if it were an encumbrance,
a dead weight, that must be lifted, and that handicaps
the heavenly athlete. "How hardly," said Jesus, when
the rich ruler turned away "very sorrowful," "shall
they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!"
(xviii. 24); and then, by way of illustration, He shows
us the picture of the camel passing through the so-called
"needle's eye" of an Eastern door. He does
not say that such a thing is impossible, for the camel
could pass through the "needle's eye," but it must first
kneel down and be stripped of all its baggage, before it
can pass the narrow door, within the larger, but now
closed gate. Wealth may have its uses, and noble uses
too, within the kingdom—for it is somewhat remarkable
how the faith of the two rich disciples shone out
the brightest, when the faith of the rest suffered a
temporary eclipse from the passing cross—but he who
possesses it must be as if he possessed it not. He
must not regard it as his own, but as talents given him
in trust by his Lord, their image and superscription
being that of the Invisible King.
Again, Jesus sets down vacillation, hesitancy, as a
disqualification for citizenship in His kingdom. At
the close of His Galilean ministry our Evangelist introduces
us to a group of embryo disciples. The first of
the three says, "Lord, I will follow Thee whithersoever
Thou goest" (ix. 57). Bold words they were, and
doubtless well meant, but it was the language of a
passing impulse, rather than of a settled conviction;
it was the coruscation of a glowing, ardent temperament.
He had not counted the cost. The large word
"whithersoever" might, indeed, easily be spoken, but it
held within it a Gethsemane and a Calvary, paths of
sorrow, shame, and death he was not prepared to face.
And so Jesus neither welcomed nor dismissed him,
but opening out one part of his "whithersoever," He
gave it back to him in the words, "The foxes have
holes, and the birds of the heaven have nests; but the
Son of man hath not where to lay His head." The
second responds to the "Follow Me" of Christ with the
request that he might be allowed first to go and bury
his father. It was a most natural request, but participation
in these funeral rites would entail a ceremonial
uncleanness of seven days, by which time Jesus would
be far away. Besides, Jesus must teach him, and the
ages after him, that His claims were paramount; that
when He commands obedience must be instant and
absolute, with no interventions, no postponement.
Jesus replies to him in that enigmatical way of His,
"Leave the dead to bury their own dead: but go thou
and publish abroad the kingdom of God;" indicating
that this supreme crisis of his life is virtually a passing
from death to life, a "resurrection from earth to things
above." The last in this group of three volunteers his
pledge, "I will follow Thee, Lord; but first suffer me
to bid farewell to them that are at my house" (ix. 61);
but to him Jesus replies, mournfully and sorrowfully,
"No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking
back, is fit for the kingdom of God" (ix. 62).
Why does Jesus treat these two candidates so differently?
They both say, "I will follow Thee," the one
in word, the other by implication; they both request a
little time for what they regard a filial duty; why, then,
be treated so differently, the one thrust forward to a
still higher service, commissioned to preach the kingdom,
and afterwards, if we may accept the tradition
that he was Philip the Evangelist, passing up into the
diaconate; the other, unwelcomed and uncommissioned,
but disapproved as "not fit for the kingdom"? Why
there should be this wide divergence between the two
lives we cannot see, either from their manner or their
words. It must have been a difference in the moral
attitude of the two men, and which He who heard
thoughts and read motives detected at once. In the
case of the former there was the fixed, determined
resolve, which the bier of a dead father might hold
back a little, but which it could not break or bend.
But Jesus saw in the other a double-minded soul, whose
feet and heart moved in diverse, opposite ways, who
gave, not his whole, but a very partial, self to his work;
and this halting, wavering one He dismissed with the
words of forecasted doom, "Not fit for the kingdom
of God."
It is a hard saying, with a seeming severity about it;
but is it not a truth universal and eternal? Are any
kingdoms, either of knowledge or power, won and held
by the irresolute and wavering? Like the stricken
men of Sodom, they weary themselves to find the door
of the kingdom; or if they do see the Beautiful Gates
of a better life, they sit with the lame man, outside, or
they linger on the steps, hearing the music indeed, but
hearing it from afar. It is a truth of both dispensations,
written in all the books; the Reubens who are "unstable
as water" can never excel; the elder born, in
the accident of years, they may be, but the birthright
passes by them, to be inherited and enjoyed by others.
But if the gates of the kingdom are irrevocably
closed against the half-hearted, the self-indulgent, and
the proud, there is a sesame to which they open gladly.
"Blessed are ye poor," so reads the first and great
Beatitude: "for yours is the kingdom of God" (vi. 20);
and beginning with this present realization, Jesus goes
on to speak of the strange contrasts and inversions the
perfected kingdom will show, when the weepers will
laugh, the hungry be full, and those who are despised
and persecuted will rejoice in their exceeding great
reward. But who are the "poor" to whom the gates
of the kingdom are open so soon and so wide? At
first sight it would appear as if we must give a literal
interpretation to the word, reading it in a worldly,
temporal sense; but this is not necessary. Jesus was
now directly addressing His disciples (vi. 20), though,
doubtless, His words were intended to pass beyond
them, to those ever-enlarging circles of humanity who
in the after-years should press forward to hear Him.
But evidently the disciples were in no weeping mood
to-day; they would be elated and joyful over the recent
miracles. Neither should we call them "poor," in the
worldly sense of that word, for most of them had been
called from honourable positions in society, while some
had even "hired servants" to wait upon and assist
them. Indeed, it was not the wont of Jesus to recognize
the class distinctions Society was so fond of drawing
and defining. He appraised men, not by their means,
but by the manhood which was in them; and when He
found a nobility of soul—whether in the higher or the
lower walks of life it made no difference—He stepped
forward to recognize and to salute it. We must therefore
give to these words of Jesus, as to so many others,
the deeper meaning, making the "blessed" of this
Beatitude, who are now welcomed to the opened gate
of the kingdom, the "poor in spirit," as, indeed,
St. Matthew writes it.
What this spirit-poverty is, Jesus Himself explains,
in a brief but wonderfully realistic parable. He draws
for us the picture of two men at their Temple devotions.
The one, a Pharisee, stands erect, with head uplifted,
as if it were quite on a level with the heaven he was
addressing, and with supercilious pride he counts his
beads of rounded egotisms. He calls it a worship of
God, when it is but a worship of self. He inflates the
great "I," and then plays upon it, making it strike
sharp and loud, like the tom-tom of a heathen fetish.
Such is the man who fancies that he is rich toward
God, that he has need of nothing, not even of mercy,
when all the time he is utterly blind and miserably
poor. The other is a publican, and so presumably
rich. But how different his posture! With heart
broken and contrite, self with him is a nothing, a
zero; nay, in his lowly estimate it had become a minus
quantity, less than nothing, deserving only rebuke and
chastisement. Disclaiming any good, either inherent
or acquired, he puts the deep need and hunger of his
soul into one broken cry, "God be merciful to me a
sinner (xviii. 13). Such are the two characters Jesus
portrays as standing by the gate of the kingdom, the
one proud in spirit, the other "poor in spirit;" the
one throwing upon the heavens the shadow of his
magnified self, the other shrinking up into the pauper,
the nothing that he was. But Jesus tells us that he
was "justified," accepted, rather than the other. With
nought he could call his own, save his deep need and
his great sin, he finds an opened gate and a welcome
within the kingdom; while the proud in spirit is sent
empty away, or carrying back only the tithed mint and
anise, and all the vain oblations Heaven could not
accept.
"Blessed" indeed are such "poor;" for He giveth
grace unto the lowly, while the proud He knoweth afar
off. The humble, the meek, these shall inherit the
earth, ay, and the heavens too, and they shall know
how true is the paradox, having nothing, yet possessing
all things. The fruit of the tree of life hangs low,
and he must stoop who would gather it. He who
would enter God's kingdom must first become "as a
little child," knowing nothing as yet, but longing to
know even the mysteries of the kingdom, and having
nothing but the plea of a great mercy and a great need.
And are they not "blessed" who are citizens of the
kingdom—with righteousness, peace, and joy all their
own, a peace which is perfect and Divine, and a joy
which no man taketh from them? Are they not
blessed, thrice blessed, when the bright shadow of the
Throne covers all their earthly life, making its dark
places light, and weaving rainbows out of their very
tears? He who through the strait gate of repentance
passes within the kingdom finds it "the kingdom
of heaven" indeed, his earthly years the beginnings
of the heavenly life.
And now we touch a point Jesus ever loved to
illustrate and emphasize, the manner of the kingdom's
growth, as with ever-widening frontiers it sweeps outward
in its conquest of a world. It was a beautiful
dream of Hebrew prophecy that in the latter days the
kingdom of God, or the kingdom of the Messiah,
should overlap the bounds of human empires, and
ultimately cover the whole earth. Looking through her
kaleidoscope of ever-shifting but harmonious figures,
Prophecy was never weary of telling of the Golden
Age she saw in the far future, when the shadows
would lift, and a new Dawn, breaking out of Jerusalem,
would steal over the world. Even the Gentiles should
be drawn to its light, and kings to the brightness of
its rising; the seas should offer their abundance as
a willing tribute, and the isles should wait for and
welcome its laws. Taking up into itself the petty
strifes and jealousies of men, the discords of earth
should cease; humanity should again become a unit,
restored and regenerate fellow-citizens of the new
kingdom, the kingdom which should have no end, no
boundaries either of space or time.
Such was the dream of Prophecy, the kingdom Jesus
sets Himself to found and realize upon earth. But
how? Disclaiming any rivalry with Pilate, or with
his imperial master, Jesus said, "My kingdom is not
of this world," so lifting it altogether out of the mould
in which earthly dynasties are cast. "This world"
uses force; its kingdoms are won and held by metallic
processes, tinctures of iron and steel. In the kingdom
of God carnal weapons are out of place; its only
forces are truth and love, and he who takes the sword
to advance this cause wounds but himself, after the
vain manner of Baal's priests. "This world" counts
heads or hands; the kingdom of God numbers its
citizens by hearts alone. "This world" believes in
pomp and show, in outward visibilities and symbols;
the kingdom of God cometh not "with observation;"
its voices are gentle as a zephyr, its footsteps noiseless
as the coming of spring. If man had had the ordering
of the kingdom he would have summoned to his aid
all kinds of portents and surprises; he would have
arranged processions of imposing events; but Jesus
likens the coming of the kingdom to a grain of mustard-seed
cast into a garden, or to a handful of leaven hid
in three sata of meal. The two parables, with minor
distinctions, are one in their import, the leading thought
common to both being the contrast between its ultimate
growth and the smallness and obscurity of its beginnings.
In both the recreative force is a hidden force,
buried out of sight, in the soil or in the meal. In
both the force works outward from its centre, the
invisible becoming visible, the inner life assuming an
outer, external form. In both we see the touch of life
upon death; for left to itself, the soil never would be
anything more than dead earth, as the meal would be
nothing more than dust, the broken ashes of a life
that was departed. In both there is extension by
assimilation, the leaven throwing itself out among the
particles of kindred meal, while the tree attracts to
itself the kindred elements of the soil. In both there
is the mediation of the human hand; but as if to show
that the kingdom offers equal privilege to male and
female, with like possibilities of service, the one parable
shows us the hand of a man, the other the hand of a
woman. In both there is a perfect work, a consummation,
the one parable showing us the whole mass
leavened, the other showing us the wide-spreading
tree, with the birds nesting in its branches.
Such, in outline, is the rise and progress of the
kingdom of God in the heart of the individual man,
and in the world; for the human soul is the protoplasm,
the germ-cell, out of which this world-wide kingdom is
evolved. The mass is leavened only by the leavening
of the separate units. And how comes the kingdom
of God within the soul and life of man? Not with
observation or supernatural portents, but silently as
the flashing forth of light. Thought, desire, purpose,
prayer—these are the wheels of the chariot in which
the Lord comes to His temple, the King into His
kingdom. And when the kingdom of God is set up
"within you" the outer life shapes itself to the new
purpose and aim, the writ and will of the King running
unhindered through every department, even to its outmost
frontier, while thoughts, feelings, desires, and all
the golden coinage of the heart bear, not, as before,
the image of Self, but the image and superscription
of the Invisible King—the "Not I, but Christ."
And so the honour of the kingdom is in our keeping,
as the growths of the kingdom are in our hands.
The Divine Cloud adjusts its pace to our human steps,
alas, often far too slow! Shall the leaven stop with
us, as we make religion a kind of sanctified selfishness,
doing nothing but gauging the emotions and
singing its little doxologies? Do we forget that the
weak human hand carries the Ark of God, and pushes
forward the boundaries of the kingdom? Do we
forget that hearts are only won by hearts? The
kingdom of God on earth is the kingdom of surrendered
wills and of consecrated lives. Shall we not, then,
pray, "Thy kingdom come," and living "more nearly
as we pray," seek a redeemed humanity as subjects of
our King? So will the Divine purpose become a
realization, and the "morning" which now is always
"somewhere in the world" will be everywhere, the
promise and the dawn of a heavenly day, the eternal
Sabbath!
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MIRACLES OF HEALING.
It is only natural that our Evangelist should linger
with a professional as well as a personal interest
over Christ's connection with human suffering and
disease, and that in recounting the miracles of healing
he should be peculiarly at home; the theme would
be in such thorough accord with his studies and tastes.
It is true he does not refer to these miracles as being
a fulfilment of prophecy; it is left for St. Matthew,
who weaves his Gospel on the unfinished warp of the
Old Testament, to recall the words of Isaiah, how
"Himself took our infirmities and bare our diseases;"
yet our physician-Evangelist evidently lingers over the
pathological side of his Gospel with an intense interest.
St. John passes by the miracles of healing in comparative
silence, though he stays to give us two cases which
are omitted by the Synoptists—that of the nobleman's
son at Capernaum, and that of the impotent man at
Bethesda. But St. John's Gospel moves in more
etherial spheres, and the touches he chronicles are
rather the touches of mind with mind, spirit with spirit,
than the physical touches through the coarser medium
of the flesh. The Synoptists, however, especially
their earlier chapters, bring the works of Christ into
prominence, travelling too very much over the same
ground, though each introduces some special facts
omitted by the rest, while in their record of the same
fact each Evangelist throws some additional colouring.
Grouping together the miracles of healing—for our
space will not allow a separate treatment of each—our
thought is first arrested by the variety of forms in
which suffering and disease presented themselves to
Jesus, the wideness of the ground, physical and
psychical, the miracles of healing cover. Our Evangelist
mentions fourteen different cases, not, however,
as including the whole, or even the greater part, but
rather as being typical, representative cases. They
are, as it were, the nearer constellations, localized and
named; but again and again in his narrative we find
whole groups and clusters lying farther back, making
a sort of Milky Way of light, whose thickly clustered
worlds baffle all our attempts at enumeration. Such are
the "women" of chap. viii. ver. 2, who had been healed
of their infirmities, but whose record is omitted in the
Gospel story; and such, too, are those groups of cures
mentioned in chapters iv. 40, v. 15, vi. 19, and vii. 21,
when the Divine power seemed to culminate, throwing
itself out in a largesse of blessing, fairly raining down
its bright gifts of healing like meteoric showers.
Turning now to the typical cases mentioned by
St. Luke, they are as follows: the man possessed
of an unclean demon; Peter's wife's mother, who
was sick of a fever; a leper, a paralytic, the man
with the withered hand, the servant of the centurion,
the demoniac, the woman with an issue, the boy
possessed with a demon, the man with a dumb
demon, the woman with an infirmity, the man with
the dropsy, the ten lepers, and blind Bartimæus.
The list, like so many lines of dark meridians, measures
off the entire circumference of the world of suffering,
beginning with the withered hand, and going on and
down to that "sacrament of death," leprosy, and to
that yet further deep, demoniacal possession. Some
diseases were of more recent origin, as the case of
fever; others were chronic, of twelve or eighteen years'
standing, or lifelong, as in the case of the possessed
boy. In some a solitary organ was affected, as when
the hand had withered, or the tongue was tied by some
power of evil, or the eyes had lost their gift of vision.
In others the whole person was diseased, as when the
fires of the fever shot through the heated veins, or
the leprosy was covering the flesh with the white
scales of death. But whatever its nature or its stage,
the disease was acute, as far as human probabilities
went, past all hope of healing. It was no slight attack,
but a "great fever" which had stricken down the
mother-in-law of Peter, the intensive adjective showing
that it had reached its danger-point. And where
among human means was there hope for a restored
vision, when for years the last glimmer of light had
faded away, when even the optic nerve was atrophied
by the long disuse? and where, among the limited
pharmacopœias of ancient or even among the
vastly extended lists of modern times, was there a cure
for the leper, who carried, burned into his very flesh,
his sentence of death? No, it was not the trivial,
temporary cases of sickness Jesus took in hand; but
He passed into that innermost shrine of the temple of
suffering, the shrine that lay in perpetual night, and
over whose doorway was the inscription of Dante's
"Inferno," "All hope abandon, ye who enter here!"
But when Jesus entered this grim abode He turned its
darkness to light, its sighs to songs, bringing hope
to despairing ones, and leading back into the light of
day these captives of Death, as Orpheus is fabled to
have brought back to earth the lost Eurydice.
And not only are the cases so varied in their character,
and humanly speaking, hopeless in their nature,
but they were presented to Jesus in such a diversity
of ways. They are none of them arranged for, studied.
They could not have formed any plan or routine of
mercy, nor were they timed for the purpose of producing
spectacular effects. They were nearly all of
them impromptu, extemporary events, coming without
His seeking, and coming often as interruptions to His
own plans. Now it is in the synagogue, in the pauses
of public worship, that Jesus rebukes an unclean devil,
or He bids the cripple stretch out his withered hand.
Now it is in the city, amid the crowd, or out upon the
plain; now it is within the house of a chief Pharisee,
in the very midst of an entertainment; while at other
times He is walking on the road, when, without even
stopping in His journey, He wills the leper clean, or
He throws the gift of life and health forward to the
centurion's servant, whom He has not seen. No times
were inopportune to Him, and no places were foreign
to the Son of man, where men suffered and pain abode.
Jesus refused no request on the ground that the time
was not well chosen, and though He did again and
again refuse the request of selfish interest or vain
ambition, He never once turned a deaf ear to the cry
of sorrow or of pain, no matter when or whence it
came.
And if we consider His methods of healing we find
the same diversity. Perhaps we ought not to use that
word, for there was a singular absence of method.
There was nothing set, artificial in His way, but an
easy freedom, a beautiful naturalness. In one respect,
and perhaps in one only, are all similar, and that is in
the absence of intermediaries. There was no use of
means, no prescription of remedies; for in the seeming
exception, the clay with which He anointed the eyes of
the blind, and the waters of Siloam which He prescribed,
were not remedial in themselves; the washing
was rather the test of the man's faith, while the anointing
was a sort of "aside," spoken, not to the man
himself, but to the group of onlookers, preparing them
for the fresh manifestation of His power. Generally a
word was enough, though we read of His healing
"touch," and twice of the symbolic laying on of hands.
And by-the-way, it is somewhat singular that Jesus
made use of the touch at the healing of the leper,
when the touch meant ceremonial uncleanness. Why
does He not speak the word only, as He did afterwards
at the healing of the "ten"? And why does He, as
it were, go out of His way to put Himself in personal
contact with a leper, who was under a ceremonial ban?
Was it not to show that a new era had dawned, an era
in which uncleanness should be that of the heart, the
life, and no longer the outward uncleanness, which any
accident of contact might induce? Did not the touching
of the leper mean the abrogation of the multiplied
bans of the Old Dispensation, just as afterwards a
heavenly vision coming to Peter wiped out the dividing-line
between clean and unclean meats? And why did
not the touch of the leper make Jesus ceremonially
unclean? for we do not read that it did, or that He
altered His plans one whit because of it. Perhaps we
find our answer in the Levitical regulations respecting
the leprosy. We read (Lev. xiv. 28) that at the
cleansing of the leper the priest was to dip his right
finger in the blood and in the oil, and put it on the ear,
and hand, and foot of the person cleansed. The finger
of the priest was thus the index or sign of purity, the
lifting up of the ban which his leprosy had put around
and over him. And when Jesus touched the leper it
was the priestly touch; it carried its own cleansing
with it, imparting power and purity, instead of contracting
the defilement of another.
But if Jesus touched the leper, and permitted the
woman of Capernaum to touch Him, or at any rate
His garment, He studiously avoided any personal contact
with those possessed of devils. He recognized
here the presence of evil spirits, the powers of darkness,
which have enthralled the weaker human spirit,
and for these a word is enough. But how different a
word to His other words of healing, when He said to
the leper, "I will; be thou clean," and to Bartimæus,
"Receive thy sight"! Now it is a word sharp, imperative,
not spoken to the poor helpless victim, but
thrown over and beyond him, to the dark personality,
which held a human soul in a vile, degrading bondage.
And so while the possessed boy lay writhing and foaming
on the ground, Jesus laid no hand upon him; it
was not till after He had spoken the mighty word, and
the demon had departed from him, that Jesus took him
by the hand and lifted him up.
But whether by word or by touch, the miracles were
wrought with consummate ease; there were none of
those artistic flourishes which mere performers use as
a blind to cover their sleight of hand. There was no
straining for effect, no apparent effort. Jesus Himself
seemed perfectly unconscious that He was doing anything
marvellous or even unusual. The words of power
fell naturally from His lips, like the falling of leaves
from the tree of life, carrying, wheresoever they might
go, healing for the nations.
But if the method of the cures is wonderful, the
unstudied ease and simple naturalness of the Healer,
the completeness of the cures is even more so. In all
the multitudes of cases there was no failure. We find
the disciples baffled and chagrined, attempting what
they cannot perform, as with the possessed boy; but
with Jesus failure was an impossible word. Nor did
Jesus simply make them better, bringing them into a
state of convalescence, and so putting them in the way
of getting well. The cure was instant and complete;
"immediately" is St. Luke's frequent and favourite
word; so much so that she who half an hour ago was
stricken down with malignant fever, and apparently
at the point of death, now is going about her ordinary
duties as if nothing had happened, "ministering" to
Peter's many guests. Though Nature possesses a great
deal of resilient force, her periods of convalescence,
when the disease itself is checked, are more or less
prolonged, and weeks, or sometimes months, must
elapse before the spring-tides of health return, bringing
with them a sweet overflow, an exuberance of life.
Not so, however, when Jesus was the Healer. At His
word, or at the mere beckoning of His finger, the tides
of health, which had gone far out in the ebb, suddenly
returned in all their spring fulness, lifting high on their
wave the bark which through hopeless years had been
settling down into its miry grave. Eighteen years of
disease had made the woman quite deformed; the contracting
muscles had bent the form God made to stand
erect, so that she could "in no wise lift herself up;"
but when Jesus said, "Woman, thou art loosed from
thine infirmity," and laid His hands upon her, in an
instant the tightened muscles relaxed, the bent form
regained its earlier grace, for "she was made straight,
and glorified God." One moment, with the Christ in
it, was more than eighteen years of disease, and with
the most perfect ease it could undo all the eighteen
years had done. And this is but a specimen case, for
the same completeness characterizes all the cures that
Jesus wrought. "They were made whole," as it reads,
no matter what the malady might be; and though
disease had loosened all the thousand strings, so that
the wonderful harp was reduced to silence, or at best
could but strike discordant notes, the hand of Jesus has
but to touch it, and in an instant each string recovers
its pristine tone, the jarring sounds vanish, and body,
"mind, and soul according well, awake sweet music as
before."
But though Jesus wrought these many and complete
cures, making the healing of the sick a sort of pastime,
the interludes in that Divine "Messiah," still He
did not work these miracles indiscriminately, without
method or conditions. He freely placed His service
at the disposal of others, giving Himself up to one tireless
round of mercy; but it is evident there was some
selection for these gifts of healing. The healing power
was not thrown out randomly, falling on any one it
might chance to strike; it flowed out in certain directions
only, in ordered channels; it followed certain
lines and laws. For instance, these circles of healing
were geographically narrow. They followed the personal
presence of Jesus, and with one or two exceptions,
were never found apart from that presence; so
that, many as they were, they would form but a small
part of suffering humanity. And even within these
circles of His visible presence we are not to suppose
that all were healed. Some were taken, and others
were left, to a suffering from which only death would
release them. Can we discover the law of this election
of mercy? We think we may.
(1) In the first place, there must be the need for the
Divine intervention. This perhaps goes without saying,
and does not seem to mean much, since among those
who were left unhealed there were needs just as great
as those of the more favoured ones. But while the
"need" in some cases was not enough to secure the
Divine mercy, in other cases it was all that was asked.
If the disease was mental or psychical, with reason
all bewildered, and the firmaments of Right and Wrong
mixed confusedly together, making a chaos of the soul,
that was all Jesus required. At other times He waited
for the desire to be evoked and the request to be made;
but for these cases of lunacy, epilepsy, and demoniacal
possession He waived the other conditions, and
without waiting for the request, as in the synagogue
(iv. 34) or on the Gadarene coast, He spoke the word,
which brought order to a distracted soul, and which
led Reason back to her Jerusalem, to the long-vacant
throne.
For others the need itself was not sufficient; there
must be the request. Our desire for any blessing is
our appraisement of its value, and Jesus dispensed His
gifts of healing on the Divine conditions, "Ask, and
ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find." How the
request came, whether from the sufferer himself or
through some intercessor, it did not matter; for no
request for healing came to Jesus to be disregarded or
denied. Nor was it always needful to put the request
into words. Prayer is too grand and great a thing
for the lips to have a monopoly of it, and the deepest
prayers may be put into acts as well as into words,
as they are sometimes uttered in inarticulate sighs, and
in groans which are too deep for words. And was it
not truest prayer, as the multitudes carried their sick
and laid them down at the feet of Jesus, even had
their voice spoken no solitary word? and was it not
truest prayer, as they put themselves, with their bent
forms and withered hands right in His way, not able
to speak one single word, but throwing across to Him
the piteous but hopeful look? The request was thus
the expression of their desire, and at the same time
the expression of their faith, telling of the trust they
reposed in His pity and His power, a trust He was
always delighted to see, and to which He always
responded, as He Himself said again and again, "Thy
faith hath saved thee." Faith then, as now, was the
sesame to which all Heaven's gates fly open; and
as in the case of the paralytic who was borne of four,
and let down through the roof, even a vicarious faith
prevails with Jesus, as it brings to their friend a double
and complete salvation. And so they who sought
Jesus as their Healer found Him, and they who
believed entered into His rest, this lower rest of a perfect
health and perfect life; while they who were
indifferent and they who doubted were left behind,
crushed by the sorrow that He would have removed,
and tortured by pains that His touch would have completely
stilled.
And now it remains for us to gather up the light of
these miracles, and to focus it on Him who was the
central Figure, Jesus, the Divine Healer. And (1)
the miracles of healing speak of the knowledge of
Jesus. The question, "What is man?" has been the
standing question of the ages, but it is still unanswered,
or answered but in part. His complex nature is still
a mystery, the eternal riddle of the Sphinx, and Œdipus
comes not. Physiology can number and name the bones
and muscles, can tell the forms and functions of the
different organs; chemistry can resolve the body into
its constituent elements, and weigh out their exact proportions;
philosophy can map out the departments of
the mind; but man remains the great enigma. Biology
carries her silken clue right up to the primordial cell;
but here she finds a Gordian knot, which her keenest
instruments cannot cut, or her keenest wit unravel.
Within that complex nature of ours are oceans of
mystery which Thought may indeed explore, but which
she cannot fathom, paths which the vulture eye of
Reason hath not seen, whose voices are the voices of
unknown tongues, answering each other through the
mist. But how familiar did Jesus seem with all these
life-secrets! how intimate with all the life-forces!
How versed He was in etiology, knowing without
possibility of mistake whence diseases came, and just
where they looked! It was no mystery to Him
how the hand had shrunk, shrivelling into a mass of
bones, with no skill in its fingers, and no life in its
cloyed-up veins, or how the eyes had lost their power
of vision. His knowledge of the human frame was
an exact and perfect knowledge, reading its innermost
secrets, as in a transparency, knowing to a certainty
what links had dropped out of the subtle mechanism,
and what had been warped out of place, and
knowing well just at what point and to what an
extent to apply the healing remedy, which was His
own volition. All earth and all heaven were without
a covering to His gaze; and what was this but
Omniscience?
(2) Again, the miracles of healing speak of the
compassion of Jesus. It was with no reluctance that
He wrought these works of mercy; it was His delight.
His heart was drawn towards suffering and pain by the
magnetism of a Divine sympathy, or rather, we ought
to say, towards the sufferers themselves; for suffering
and pain, like sin and woe, were exotics in His Father's
garden, the deadly nightshade an enemy had sown.
And so we mark a great tenderness in all His dealings
with the afflicted. He does not apply the caustic of
bitter and biting words. Even when, as we may suppose,
the suffering is the harvest of earlier sin, as in the
case of the paralytic, Jesus speaks no harsh reproaches;
He says simply and kindly, "Go in peace, and sin no
more." And do we not find here a reason why these
miracles of healing were so frequent in His ministry?
Was it not because in His mind sickness was somehow
related to sin? If miracles were needed to attest
the Divineness of His mission, there was no need of the
constant succession of them, no need, that they should
form a part, and a large part, of the daily task. Sickness
is, so to speak, something unnaturally natural.
It results from the transgression of some physical law,
as sin is the transgression of some moral law; and He
who is man's Saviour brings a complete salvation,
a redemption for the body as well as a redemption for
the soul. Indeed, the diseases of the body are but the
shadows, seen and felt, of the deeper diseases of the
soul, and with Jesus the physical healing was but a
step to the higher truth and higher experience, that
spiritual cleansing, that inner creation of a right spirit,
a perfect heart. And so Jesus carried on the two works
side by side; they were the two parts of His one and
great salvation; and as He loved and pitied the sinner,
so He pitied and loved the sufferer; His sympathies all
went out to meet him, preparing the way for His healing
virtues to follow.
(3) Again, the miracles of healing speak of the power
of Jesus. This was seen indirectly when we considered
the completeness of the cures, and the wide field they
covered, and we need not enlarge upon it now. But
what a consciousness of might there was in Jesus!
Others, prophets and apostles, have healed the sick,
but their power was delegated. It came as in waves
of Divine impulse, intermittent and temporary. The
power that Jesus wielded was inherent and absolute,
deeps which knew neither cessation nor diminution.
His will was supreme over all forces. Nature's potencies
are diffused and isolated, slumbering in herb or metal,
flower or leaf, in mountain or sea. But all are inert and
useless until man distils them with his subtle alchemies,
and then applies them by his slow processes, dissolving
the tinctures in the blood, sending on its warm currents
the healing virtue, if haply it may reach its goal and
accomplish its mission. But all these potencies lay
in the hand or in the will of Christ. The forces of
life all were marshalled under His bidding. He had
but to say to one "Go," and it went, here or there,
or anywhither; nor does it go for nought; it accomplishes
its high behest, the great Master's will. Nay,
the power of Jesus is supreme even in that outlying
and dark world of evil spirits. The demons fly at
His rebuke; and let Him throw but one healing word
across the dark, chaotic soul of one possessed, and
in an instant Reason dawns; bright thoughts play
on the horizon; the firmaments of Right and Wrong
separate to infinite distances; and out of the darkness
a Paradise emerges, of beauty and light, where the new
son of God resides, and God Himself comes down in
the cool and the heat of the days alike. What power
is this? Is it not the power of God? is it not
Omnipotence?
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MIRACLE OF THE LOAVES.
Luke ix. 1-17.
The Galilean ministry was drawing to a close,
for the "great Light" which had risen over the
northern province must now move southward, to set
behind a cross and a grave. Jesus, however, is reluctant
to leave these borders, amid whose hills the greater
part of His life has been spent, and among whose composite
population His greatest successes have been won,
without one last effort. Calling together the Twelve,
who hitherto have been Apostles in promise and in
name rather than in fact, He lays His plans before
them. Dividing the district into sections, so as to
equalize their labours and prevent any overlapping, He
sends them out in pairs; for in the Divine arithmetic
two are more than twice one, more than the sum of the
separate units by all the added force and strength of
fellowship. They are to be the heralds of the new
kingdom, to "preach the kingdom of God," their insignia
no outward, visible badge, but the investiture of
authority over all demons, and power over all diseases.
Apostles of the Unseen, servants of the Invisible King,
they must dismiss all worldly cares; they must not
even make provision for their journey, weighting themselves
with such impedimenta as wallets stored with
bread or changes of raiment. They must go forth in an
absolute trust in God, thus proving themselves citizens
of the heavenly kingdom, whose gates they open to all
who will repent and step up into them. They may take
a staff, for that will help rather than hinder on the steep
mountain paths; but since the King's business requireth
haste, they must not spend their time in the interminable
salutations of the age, nor in going about from house to
house; such changes would only distract, diverting to
themselves the thought which should be centred upon
their mission. Should any city not receive them, they
must retire at once, shaking off, as they depart, the very
dust from their feet, as a testimony against them.
Such were the directions, as Jesus dismissed the
Twelve, sending them to reap the Galilean harvest, and
at the same time to prepare them for the wider fields
which after the Pentecost would open to them on every
side. It is only by incidental allusions that we learn
anything as to the success of the mission, but when
our Evangelist says "they went throughout the villages,
preaching the Gospel and healing everywhere," these
frequent miracles of healing would imply that they
found a sympathetic and receptive people. Nor were
the impulses of the new movement confined to the
lower reaches of society; for even the palace felt its
vibrations, and St. Luke, who seems to have had private
means of information within the Court, possibly through
Chuza and Manaen, pauses to give us a kind of silhouette
of the Tetrarch. Herod himself is perplexed. Like a
vane, "that fox" swings round to the varying gusts of
public opinion that come eddying within the palace
from the excited world outside; and as some say that
Jesus is Elias, and others "one of the old prophets,"
while others aver that He is John himself, risen from
the dead, this last rumour falls upon the ears of Herod
like alarming thunders, making him quiver like an aspen.
"And he sought to see Jesus." The "conscience
that makes cowards of us all" had unnerved him, and
he longed by a personal acquaintance with Jesus to
waive back out of his sight the apparition of the
murdered prophet. Who Jesus might be did not
much concern Herod. He might be Elias, or one of
the old prophets, anything but John; and so when
Herod did see Jesus afterwards, and saw that He was
not the risen Baptist, but the Man of Galilee, his
courage revived, and he gave Jesus into the hands of
his cohorts, that they might mock Him with the faded
purple.
What steps Herod took to secure an interview we
do not know; but the verb indicates more than a wish
on his part; it implies some plan or attempt to gratify
the wish; and probably it was these advances of
Herod, together with the Apostles' need of rest after
the strain and excitements of their mission, which
prompted Jesus to seek a place of retirement outside
the bounds of Antipas. On the northern shore of the
Sea of Galilee, and on the eastern bank of the Jordan,
was a second Bethsaida, or "House of Fish" as the
name means, built by Philip, and to which, in honour
of Cæsar's daughter, he gave the surname of "Julias."
The city itself stood on the hills, some three or four
miles back from the shore; while between the city and
the lake swept a wide and silent plain, all untilled, as
the New Testament "desert" means, but rich in
pasturage, as the "much grass" of John vi. 10 would
show. This still shore offered, as it seemed, a safe
refuge from the exacting and intrusive crowds of
Capernaum, whose constant coming and going left
them no leisure so much as to eat; and bidding them
launch the familiar boat, Jesus and the twelve sail
away to the other side. The excited crowds, however,
which followed them to the water's edge, are not so
easily to be shaken off; but guessing the direction of
the boat, they seek to head her off by a quick detour
round the shore. And some of them do; for when
the boat grates on the northern shingle some of the
swift-footed ones are already there; while stretching
back for miles is a stream of humanity, of both sexes
and of all ages, but all fired with one purpose. The
desert has suddenly grown populous.
And how does Jesus bear this interruption to His
plans? Does He chafe at this intrusion of the people
upon His quiet hours? Does He resent their importunity,
calling it impertinence, then driving them from
Him with a whip of sharp words? Not so. Jesus
was accustomed to interruptions; they formed almost
the staple of His life. Nor did He repulse one solitary
soul which sought sincerely His mercy, no matter how
unseasonable the hour, as men would read the hours.
So now Jesus "received" them, or "welcomed" them,
as it is in the R.V. It is a favourite word with
St. Luke, found in his Gospel more frequently than in
the other three Gospels together. Applied to persons,
it means nearly always to receive as guests, to welcome
to hospitality and home. And such is its meaning
here. Jesus takes the place of the host. True, it is
a desert place, but it is a part of the All-Father's world,
a room of the Father's house, carpeted with grass
and ablaze with flowers; and Jesus, by His welcome,
transforms the desert into a guest-chamber, where in
a new way He keeps the Passover with His disciples,
at the same time entertaining His thousands of self-bidden
guests, giving to them truth, speaking of the
kingdom of God, and giving health, healing "those
that had need of healing."
It was toward evening, "when the day began to
wear away," that Jesus gave to a bright and busy day
its crowning benediction. The thought had already
ripened into purpose, in His mind, to spread a table
for them in the wilderness; for how could He, the
compassionate One, send them to their homes famishing
and faint? These poor, shepherdless sheep have
put themselves into His care. Their simple, unproviding
confidence has made Him in a sense responsible,
and can He disappoint that confidence? It is true
they have been thoughtless and improvident. They
have let the enthusiasm of the hour carry them away,
without making any provision of the necessary food;
but even this does not check the flow of the Divine
compassion, for Jesus proceeds to fill up their lack of
thought by His Divine thoughtfulness, and their scarcity
with His Divine affluence.
According to St. John, it was Jesus who took the
initiative, as He put the test-question to Philip,
"Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat?"
Philip does not reply to the "whence;" that may stand
aside awhile, as in mathematical language he speaks
to the previous question, which is their ability to buy.
"Two hundred pennyworth of bread," he said, "is not
sufficient for them, that every one may take a little."
He does not say how much would be required to
satisfy the hunger of the multitude; his reckoning is
not for a feast, but for a taste, to every one "a little."
Nor does he calculate the full cost of even this, but
says simply, "Two hundred pennyworth would not be
sufficient." Evidently, in Philip's mind the two hundred,
pence is the known quantity of the equation, and he
works out his calculation from that, as he proves the
impossibility of buying bread for this vast company
anywhere. We may therefore conclude that the two
hundred pence represented the value of the common
purse, the purchasing power of the Apostolic community;
and this was a sum altogether inadequate to
meet the cost of providing bread for the multitude.
The only alternative, as far as the disciples see, is to
dismiss them, and let them requisition for themselves;
and in a peremptory manner they ask Jesus to "send
the multitude away," reminding Him of what certainly
they had no need to remind Him, that they were here
"in a desert place."
The disciples had spoken in their subjunctive, non
possumus, way; it is now time for Jesus to speak,
which He does, not in interrogatives longer, but in His
imperative, commanding tone: "Give ye them to eat,"
a word which throws the disciples back upon themselves
in astonishment and utter helplessness. What
can they do? The whole available supply, as Andrew
reports it, is but five barley loaves and two small fishes,
which a lad has brought, possibly for their own refreshment.
Five flat loaves of barley, which was the food
of the poorest of the poor, and "two small fishes," as
St. John calls them, throwing a bit of local colouring into
the narrative by his diminutive word—these are the
foundation repast, which Jesus asks to be brought to
Himself, that from Himself it may go, broken and
enlarged, to the multitude of guests. Meantime the
crowd is just as large, and perhaps more excited and
impatient than before; for they would not understand
these "asides" between the disciples and the Master,
nor could they read as yet His compassionate and
benevolent thought. It would be a pushing, jostling
crowd, as these thousands were massed on the hill-side.
Some are gathered in little groups, discussing the
Messiahship; others are clustered round some relative
or friend, who to-day has been wonderfully healed;
while others, of the forward sort, are selfishly elbowing
their way to the front. The whole scene is a kaleidoscope
of changing form and colour, a perfect chaos of
confusion. But Jesus speaks again: "Make them sit
down in companies;" and those words, thrown across
the seething mass, reduce it to order, crystallizing
it, as it were, into measured and numbered lines.
St. Mark, half-playfully, likens it to a garden, with its
parterres of flowers; and such indeed it was, but it was
a garden of the higher cult, with its variegated beds of
humanity, a hundred men broad, and fifty deep.
When order was secured, and all were in their places,
Jesus takes His place as the host at the head of the
extemporized table, and though it is most frugal fare,
He holds the barley loaves heavenward, and lifting up
His eyes, He blesses God, probably in the words of
the usual formula, "Blessed art Thou, Jehovah our
God, King of the world, Who causeth to come forth
bread from the earth." Then breaking the bread, He
distributes it among the disciples, bidding them bear
it to the people. It is not a matter of moment as to
the exact point where the supernatural came in, whether
it was in the breaking or the distributing. Somewhere
a power which must have been Divine touched the
bread, for the broken pieces strangely grew, enlarging
rapidly as they were minished. It is just possible that
we have a clue to the mystery in the tense of the verb,
for the imperfect, which denotes continued action, would
read, "He brake," or "He kept on breaking," from
which we might almost infer that the miracle was
coincident with the touch. But whether so or not, the
power was equal to the occasion, and the supply over
and above the largest need, completely satisfying the
hunger of the five thousand men, besides the off-group
of women and children, who, though left out of the
enumeration, were within the circle of the miracle, the
remembered and satisfied guests of the Master.
It now remains for us to gather up the meaning
and the practical lessons of the miracle. And first,
it reveals to us the Divine pity. When Jesus called
Himself the Son of man it was a title full of deep
meaning, and most appropriate. He was the true, the
ideal Humanity, humanity as it would have been without
the warps and discolourations that sin has made,
and within His heart were untold depths of sympathy,
the "fellow-feeling that makes man wondrous kind."
To the haughty and the proud He was stern, lowering
upon them with a withering scorn; to the unreal, the
false, the unclean He was severity itself, with lightnings
in His looks and terrible thunders in His
"woes;" but for troubled and tired souls He had
nothing but tenderness and gentleness, and a compassion
that was infinite. Even had He not called the
weary and heavy-laden to Himself, they would have
sought Him; they would have read the "Come" in
the sunlight of His face. Jesus felt for others a
vicarious pain, a vicarious sorrow, His heart responding
to it at once, as the delicately poised needle
responds to the subtle sparks that flash in upon it
from without. So here; He receives the multitude
kindly, even though they are strangers, and though
they have thwarted His purpose and broken in upon
His rest, and as this stream of human life flows out
to Him His compassion flows out to them. He commiserates
their forlorn condition, wandering like straying
sheep upon the mountains; He gives Himself up
to them, healing all that were sick, assuaging the pain
or restoring the lost sense; while at the same time He
ministers to a higher nature, telling them of the kingdom
of God, which had come nigh to them, and which
was theirs if they would surrender themselves to it and
obey. Nor was even this enough to satisfy the promptings
of His deep pity, but all-forgetful of His own
weariness, He lengthens out this day of mercy, staying
to minister to their lower, physical wants, as He
spreads for them a table in the wilderness. Verily He
was, incarnate, as He is in His glory, "touched with
the feelings of our infirmities."
Again, we see the Divine love of order and arrangement.
Nothing was done until the crowding and confusion
had ceased, and even the Divine beneficence
waits until the turbulent mass has become quiet, settled
down into serried lines, the five thousand making two
perfect squares. "Order," it is said, "is Heaven's
first law;" but whether the first or the second, certain
it is that Heaven gives us the perfection of order. It
is only in the lawless wills of man that "time is broke,
and no proportion kept." In the heavenly state nothing
is out of place or out of time. All wills there play into
each other with such absolute precision that life itself
is a song, a Gloria in Excelsis. And how this is seen
in all the works of God! What rhythmic motions are
in the marches of the stars and the processions of the
seasons! To everything a place, to everything a time;
such is the unwritten law of the realm of physics, where
Law is supreme, and anarchy is unknown. So in our
earthly lives, on their secular and on their spiritual
side alike, order is time, order is strength, and he who
is deficient in this grace should practise on it the more.
Avoid slovenliness; it is a distant relation of sin itself.
Arrange your duties, and do not let them crowd one
upon the other. Set the greater duties, not abreast,
but one behind the other, filling up the spaces with the
smaller ones. Do not let things drift, or your life,
built for carrying precious argosies, and accomplishing
something, will break up into pieces, the flotsam and
jetsam of a barren shore. In prayer be orderly.
Arrange your desires. Let some come first, while
others stand back in the second or the third row, waiting
their turn. If your relations with your fellows have
got a little disarranged, atwist, seek to readjust the
disturbed relation. Oppose what is evil and mean with
all your might; but if no principle is involved, even at
the cost of a little feeling, seek to have things put
square. To get things into a tangle requires no great
skill; but he who would be a true artist, keeping the
Divine pattern before him, and ever working towards
it, if not up to it, may reduce the tangled skein to
harmony, and like the Gobelin tapestry-makers, weave
a life that is noble and beautiful, a life on which men
will love to gaze.
Again, we see the Divine concern for little things.
Abundance always tempts to extravagance and waste.
And so here; the broken remnants of the repast might
have been thrown away as of no account; but Jesus
bade them, "Gather up the fragments, that nothing be
lost;" and we read they filled with the broken bread,
which remained over and above to them that had eaten,
twelve baskets full—and, by the way, the word rendered
"basket" here corresponds with the frugal fare, for,
made of willow or of wicker, it was of the coarsest
kind, used only by the poor. What became of the
fragments, which outweighed the original supply, we
do not read; but though they were only the crumbs of
the Divine bounty, and though there was no present
use for them, Jesus would not allow them to be wasted.
But the true meaning of the narrative lies deeper than
this. It is a miracle of a new order, this multiplying
of the loaves. In His other miracles Jesus has wrought
on the line of Nature, accelerating her slower processes,
and accomplishing in an instant, by His mere volition,
what by natural causes must have been the work of
time, but which in the specific cases would have been
purely impossible, owing to the enfeeblement of nature
by disease. Sight, hearing, even life itself, come to
man through channels purely natural; but Nature
never yet has made bread. She grows the corn, but
there her part ends, while Science must do the rest,
first reducing the corn to flour, then kneading it into
dough, and by the burning fires of the oven transmuting
the dough to bread. Why does Jesus here depart
from His usual order, creating what neither nature nor
science can produce alone, but which requires their concurrent
forces? Let us see. To Jesus these visible,
tangible things were but the dead keys His hand
touched, as He called forth some deeper, farther-off
music, some spiritual truth that by any other method
men would be slow to learn. Of what, then, is this
bread of the desert the emblem? St. John tells us
that when the miracle occurred "the Passover was
nigh at hand," and this time-mark helps to explain
the overcrowding into the desert, for probably many
of the five thousand were men who were now on their
way to Jerusalem, and who had stayed at Capernaum
and the neighbouring cities for the night. This supposition,
too, is considerably strengthened by the words
of the disciples, as they suggest that they should go
and "lodge" in the neighbouring cities and villages,
which word implies that they were not residents of that
locality, but passing strangers. And as Jesus cannot
now go up to Jerusalem to the feast, He gathers the
shepherdless thousands about Him, and keeps a sort of
Passover in the open guest-chamber of the mountainside.
That such was the thought of the Master, making
it an anterior sacrament, is evident from the address
Jesus gave the following day at Capernaum, in which
He passes, by a natural transition, from the broken
bread with which He satisfied their physical hunger
to Himself as the Bread come down from heaven, the
"living Bread" as He called it, which was His flesh.
There is thus a Eucharistic meaning in the miracle of
the loaves, and this northern hill signals in its subtle
correspondences on to Jerusalem, to another hill, where
His body was bruised and broken "for our iniquities,"
and His blood was poured out, a precious oblation for
sin. And as that Blood was typified by the wine of
the first miracle at Cana, so now Jesus completes the
prophetic sacrament by the miraculous creation of
bread from the five seminal loaves, bread which He
Himself has consecrated to the holier use, as the visible
emblem of that Body which was given for us, men,
women, and children alike, even for a redeemed
humanity. Cana and the desert-place thus draw near
together, while both look across to Calvary; and as
the Church keeps now her Eucharistic feast, taking
from the one the consecrated bread, and from the other
the consecrated wine, she shows forth the Lord's death
"till He come."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TRANSFIGURATION.
The Transfiguration of Christ marks the culminating
point in the Divine life; the few remaining
months are a rapid descent into the valley of Sacrifice
and Death. The story is told by each of the three
Synoptists, with an almost equal amount of detail, and
all agree as to the time when it occurred; for though
St. Matthew and St. Mark make the interval six days,
while St. Luke speaks of it as "about eight," there is
no real disagreement; St. Luke's reckoning is inclusive.
As to the locality, too, they all agree, though in a
certain indefinite way. St. Matthew and St. Mark
leave it indeterminate, simply saying that it was "a
high mountain," while St. Luke calls it "the mountain."
Tradition has long localised the scene upon Mount
Tabor, but evidently she has read off her bearings
from her own fancies, rather than from the facts of the
narrative. To say nothing of the distance of Mount
Tabor from Cæsarea Philippi—which, though a difficulty,
is not an insuperable one, since it might easily
be covered in less than the six intervening days—Tabor
is but one of the group of heights which fringe
the Plain of Esdraelon, and so one to which the
definite article would not, and could not, be applied.
Besides, Tabor now was crowned by a Roman fortress,
and so could scarcely be said to be "apart" from the
strifes and ways of men, while it stood within the
borders of Galilee, whereas St. Mark, by implication,
sets his "high mountain" outside the Galilean bounds
(ix. 30). But if Tabor fails to meet the requirements
of the narrative, Mount Hermon answers them exactly,
throwing its spurs close up to Cæsarea Philippi, while
its snow-crowned peak shone out pure and white above
the lesser heights of Galilee.
It is not an unmeaning coincidence that each of the
Evangelists should introduce his narrative with the same
temporal word, "after." That word is something more
than a connecting link, a bridge thrown over a blank
space of days; it is rather, when taken in connection
with the preceding narrative, the key which unlocks
the whole meaning and mystery of the Transfiguration.
"After these sayings," writes St. Luke. What sayings?
Let us go back a little, and see. Jesus had asked His
disciples as to the drift of popular opinion about
Himself, and had drawn from Peter the memorable
confession—that first Apostle's Creed—"Thou art the
Christ of God." Immediately, however, Jesus leads
down their minds from these celestial heights to the
lowest depths of degradation, dishonour, and death, as
He says, "The Son of man must suffer many things,
and be rejected of the elders, chief priests, and scribes,
and be killed, and the third day be raised up." Those
words shattered their bright dream at once. Like
some fearful nightmare, the foreshadow of the cross
fell upon their hearts, filling them with fear and gloom,
and striking down hope, and courage, yea, even faith
itself. It would almost seem as if the disciples were
unnerved, paralyzed by the blow, and as if an atrophy
had stolen over their hearts and lips alike; for the
next six days are one void of silence, without word or
deed, as far as the records show. How shall their
lost hope be recalled, or courage be revived? How
shall they be taught that death does not end all—that
the enigma was true of Himself, as well as of
them, that He shall find His life by losing it? The
Transfiguration is the answer.
Taking with Him Peter, John, and James—the three
who shall yet be witnesses of His agony—Jesus retires
to the mountain height, probably intending, as our
Evangelist indicates, to spend the night in prayer.
Keeping the midnight watch was nothing new to these
disciples; it was their frequent experience upon the
Galilean lake; but now, left to the quiet of their own
thoughts, and with none of the excitements of the
spoil about them, they yield to the cravings of nature
and fall asleep. Awaking, they find their Master still
engaged in prayer, all oblivious of earthly hours, and
as they watch He is transfigured before them. The
fashion, or appearance, of His countenance, as St. Luke
tersely puts it, "became another," all suffused with a
heavenly radiance, while His very garments became
lustrous with a whiteness which was beyond the
fuller's art and beyond the whiteness of the snow, and
all iridescent, flashing and sparkling as if set with
stars. Suddenly, ere their eyes have grown accustomed
to the new splendours, two celestial visitants appear,
wearing the glorious body of the heavenly life and
conversing with Jesus.
Such was the scene upon the "holy mount," which
the Apostles could never forget, and which St. Peter
recalls with a lingering wonder and delight in the far-off
after-years (2 Pet. i. 18). Can we push aside the
outward draperies, and read the Divine thought and
purpose that are hidden within? We think we may.
And—
1. We see the place and meaning of the Transfiguration
in the life of Jesus. Hitherto the humanity of Jesus
had been naturally and perfectly human; for though
heavenly signs have, as at the Advent and the Baptism,
borne witness to its super-humanity, these signs have
been temporary and external, shining or alighting upon
it from without. Now, however, the sign is from within.
The brightness of the outer flesh is but the outshining
of the inner glory. And what was that glory but the
"glory of the Lord," a manifestation of the Deity,
that fulness of the Godhead which dwelt within? The
faces of other sons of men have shone, as when Moses
stepped downwards from the mount, or as Stephen
looked upwards to the opened heavens; but it was the
shining of a reflected glory, like the sunlight upon the
moon. But when the humanity of Jesus was thus
transfigured it was a native glory, the inward radiance
of the soul stealing through, and lighting up, the enveloping
globe of human flesh. It is easy to see why
this celestial appearance should not be the normal
manifestation of the Christ; for had it been, He would
no longer have been the "Son of man." Between
Himself and the humanity He had come to redeem
would have been a gulf wide and profound, while
the Fatherhood of God would have been a truth lying
back in the vistas of the unknown, a truth unfelt; for
men only reach up to that Fatherhood through the
Brotherhood of Christ. But if we ask why now, just
for once, there should be this transfiguring of the Person
of Jesus, the answer is not so evident. Godet has a
suggestion which is as natural as it is beautiful. He
represents the Transfiguration as the natural issue of
a perfect, a sinless his, a life in which death should
have no place, as it would have had no place in the
life of unfallen man. Innocence, holiness, glory—these
would have been the successive steps connecting
earth with heaven, an ever-upward path, across which
death would not even have cast a shadow. Such
would have been the path opened to the first Adam,
had not sin intervened, bringing death as its wage
and penalty. And now, as the Second Adam takes
the place of the first, moving steadily along the path
of obedience from which the first Adam swerved,
should we not naturally look for that life to end in some
translation or transfiguration, the body of the earthly
life blossoming into the body of the heavenly? and
where else so appropriately as here, upon the "holy
mount," when the spirits of the perfected come forth
to meet Him, and the chariot of cloud is ready to convey
Him to the heavens which are so near? It is thus
something more than conjecture—it is a probability—that
had the life of Jesus been by itself, detached from mankind
in general, the Transfiguration had been the mode
and the beginning of the glorification. The way to the
heavens, from which He was self-exiled, was open to
Him from the mount of glory, but He preferred to pass
up by the mount of passion and of sacrifice. The
burden of the world's redemption is upon Him, and
that eternal purpose leads Him down from the Transfiguration
glories, and onwards to a cross and grave.
He chooses to die, with and for man, rather than to live
and reign without man.
But not only does the "holy mount" throw its light
on what would have been the path of unfallen man, it
gives us in prophecy a vision of the resurrection life.
Compare the picture of the transfigured Christ, as
drawn by the Synoptists, with the picture, drawn by
John himself, of the Christ of the Exaltation, and how
strikingly similar they are! (Rev. i. 13-17). In both
descriptions we have an affluence of metaphor and
simile, which affluence was itself but the stammering
of our weak human speech, as it seeks to tell the
unutterable. In both we have a whiteness like the
snow, while to portray the countenance St. John repeats
almost verbatim St. Matthew's words, "His face
did shine as the sun." Evidently the Christ of the
Transfiguration and the Christ of the Exaltation are
one and the same Person; and why do we blame Peter
for speaking in such random, delirious words upon the
mount, when John, by the glory of that same vision, in
Patmos, is stricken to the ground as if dead, not able
to speak at all? When Peter spoke, somewhat incoherently,
about the "three tabernacles," it was not, as
some aver, the random speech of one who was but half
awake, but of one whose reason was dazzled and confused
with the blinding glory. And so the Transfiguration
anticipates the Glorification, investing the sacred
Person with those same robes of light and royalty He
had laid aside for a time, but which He will shortly
assume again—the habiliments of an eternal re-enthronement.
2. Again, the holy mount shows us the place of
death in the life of man. We read, "There talked with
Him two men, which were Moses and Elijah;" and as
if the Evangelist would emphasize the fact that it was
no apparition, existing only in their heated imagination,
he repeats the statement (ver. 35) that they were "two
men." Strange gathering—Moses, Elias, and Christ!—the
Law in the person of Moses, the Prophets in the
person of Elias, both doing homage to the Christ, who
was Himself the fulfilment of prophecy and law. But
what the Evangelist seems to note particularly is the
humanness of the two celestials. Though the earthly
life of each ended in an abrupt, unearthly way, the one
having a translation, the other a Divine interment
(whatever that may mean), they have both been residents
of the heavenly world for centuries. But as they
appear to-day "in glory," that is, with the glorified
body of the heavenly life, outwardly, visibly, their
bodies are still human. There is nothing about their
form and build that is grotesque, or even unearthly.
They have not even the traditional but fictitious wings
with which poetry is wont to set on the inhabitants of
the sky. They are still "men," with bodies resembling,
both in size and form, the old body of earth. But if the
appearance of these "men" reminds us of earth, if we
wait awhile, we see that their natures are very unearthly,
not unnatural so much as supernatural. They glide
down through the air with the ease of a bird and the
swiftness of light, and when the interview ends, and
they go their separate ways, these heavenly "men"
gather up their robes and vanish, strangely and suddenly
as they came. And yet they can make use of
earthly supports, even the grosser forms of matter,
planting their feet upon the grass as naturally as
when Moses climbed up Pisgah or as Elijah stood in
Horeb's cave.
And not only do the bodies of these celestials retain
still the image of the earthly life, but the bent of their
minds is the same, the set and drift of their thoughts
following the old directions. The earthly lives of Moses
and Elias had been spent in different lands, in different
times; five hundred eventful years pushed them far
apart; but their mission had been one. Both were
prophets of the Highest, the one bringing God's law
down to the people, the other leading a lapsed people
back and up to God's law. Yes, and they are prophets
still, but with a nearer vision now. No longer do they
gaze through the crimson lenses of the sacrificial
blood, beholding the Promised One afar off. They
have read the Divine thought and purpose of redemption;
they are initiated into its mysteries; and now
that the cross is close at hand, they come to bring
to the world's Saviour their heavenly greetings, and to
invest Him, by anticipation, with robes of glory, soon
to be His for evermore.
Such is the apocalypse of the holy mount. The
veil which hides from our dull eye of sense the hereafter
was lifted up. The heavens were opened to them,
no longer far away beyond the cold stars, but near
them, touching them on every side. They saw the
saints of other days interesting themselves in earthly
events—in one event at least, and speaking of that
death which they mourned and feared, calmly, as a
thing expected and desired, but calling it by its new
and softened name, a "departure," an "exodus." And
as they see the past centuries saluting Him whom they
have learned to call the Christ, "the Son of God," as
the truth of immortality is borne in upon them, not as
a vague conception of the mind, but by oral and ocular
demonstration, would they not see the shadow of the
coming death in a different light? would not the painful
pressure upon their spirits be eased somewhat, if not,
indeed, entirely removed? and—
"The Apostle's heart of rock
Be nerved against temptation's shock"?
Would they not more patiently endure, now that they
had become apostles of the Invisible, seers of the
Unseen?
But if the glory of the holy mount sets in a fairer
light the cross and grave of Christ, may we not throw
from the mirror of our thought some of its light upon
our lowlier graves? What is death, after all, but the
transition into life? Retaining its earthly accent, we
call it a "decease;" but that is true only of the corporeal
nature, that body of "flesh and blood" which cannot
inherit the higher kingdom of glory to which we pass.
There is no break in the continuity of the soul's existence,
not even one parenthetic hour. When He who
was the Resurrection and the Life said, "To-day shalt
thou be with Me in paradise," that word passed on a
forgiven soul directly to a state of conscious blessedness.
From "the azure deep of air" does the eagle
look regretfully upon the eyrie of its crag, where it lay
in its unfledged weakness? or does it mourn the broken
shell from which its young life emerged? And why
should we mourn, or weep with unrestrained tears,
when the shell is broken that the freed spirit may soar
up to the regions of the blessed, and range the eternities
of God? Paganism closed the story of human
life with an interrogation-point, and sought to fill up
with guesses the blank she did not know. Christianity
speaks with clearer voice; hers is "a sure and certain
hope," for He who "hath abolished death" hath
"brought life and immortality to light." Earth's exodus
is heaven's genesis, and what we call the end celestials
call the beginning.
And not only does the mount speak of the certainties
of the after-life, it gives, in a binocular vision, the
likeness of the resurrection body, answering, in part,
the standing question, "How are the dead raised up?"
The body of the heavenly life must have some correspondence
with, and resemblance to, the body of our
earthly life. It will, in a sense, grow out of it. It
will not be something entirely new, but the old refined,
spiritualized, the dross and earthliness all removed,
the marks of care, and pain, and sin all wiped out. And
more, the Transfiguration mount gives us indubitable
proof that heaven and earth lie, virtually, close together,
and that the so-called "departed" are not entirely
severed from earthly things; they can still read the
shadows upon earthly dials, and hear the strike of
earthly hours. They are not so absorbed and lost in
the new glories as to take no note of earthly events;
nor are they restrained from visiting, at permitted
times, the earth they have not wholly left; for as heaven
was theirs, when on earth, in hope and anticipation,
so now, in heaven, earth is theirs in thought and
memory. They have still interests here, associations
they cannot forget, friends who are still beloved, and
harvests of influence they still may reap. With the
absurdities and follies of so-called Spiritualism we have
no sort of sympathy—they are the vagaries of weak
minds; but even their eccentricities and excesses shall
not be allowed to rob us of what is a truly Christian
hope, that they who cared for us on earth care for us
still, and that they who loved and prayed for us below
love us none the less, and pray for us none the less
frequently, now that the conflict with them is over,
and the eternal rest begun. And why may not their
spirits touch ours, influencing our mind and heart, even
when we are not conscious whence those influences
come? for are they not, with the angels, "ministering
spirits, sent forth to do service for the sake of them
that shall inherit salvation?" The Mount of Transfiguration
does indeed stand "apart," for on its summit
the paths of the celestials and of the terrestrials meet
and merge; and it is "high" indeed, for it touches
heaven.
3. Again, the holy mount shows us the place of
death in the life of Jesus. How long the vision lasted
we cannot tell, but in all probability the interview was
but brief. What supreme moments they were! and
what a rush of tumultuous thoughts, we may suppose,
would fill the minds of the two saints, as they stand
again on the familiar earth! But listen! They speak
no word to revive the old-time memories; they bring
no tidings of the heavenly world; they do not even
ask, as they well might, the thousand questions concerning
His life and ministry. They think, they speak,
of one thing only, the "decease which He was about
to accomplish at Jerusalem." Here, then, we see the
drift of heavenly minds, and here we learn a truth
which is wonderfully true, that the death of Jesus, the
cross of Jesus, was the one central thought of heaven,
as it is the one central hope of earth. But how can it
be such if the life of Jesus is all we need, and if the
death is but an ordinary death, an appendix, necessary
indeed, but unimportant? Such is the belief of some,
but such certainly is not the teaching of this narrative,
nor of the other Scriptures. Heaven sets the cross of
Jesus "in the midst," the one central fact of history.
He was born that He might die; He lived that He
might die. All the lines of His human life converge
upon Calvary, as He Himself said, "For unto this
hour came I into the world." And why is that death
so all-important, bending towards its cross all the lines
of Scripture, as it now monopolizes the speech of these
two celestials? Why? There is but one answer
which is satisfactory, the answer St. Peter himself
gives: "His own Self bare our sins in His body upon
the tree, that we, having died unto sins, might live unto
righteousness" (1 Pet. ii. 24). And so the Mount of
Transfiguration looks towards the Mount of Sacrifice.
It lights up Calvary, and lays a wreath of glory upon
the cross.
We need not speak again of Peter's random words,
as he seeks to detain the celestial visitants. He would
fain prolong what to him is a Feast of Tabernacles,
and he suggests the building of three booths upon
the mountain slope—"one for Thee," putting his Lord
first, "and one for Moses, and one for Elias." He
makes no mention of himself or of his companions.
He is content to remain outside, so that he may only
be near, as it were on the fringe of the transfiguring
glories. But what a strange request! what wandering,
delirious words, almost enough to make celestials
smile! Well might the Evangelist excuse Peter's
random words by saying, "Not knowing what he said."
But if Peter gets no answer to his request, and if he is
not permitted to build the tabernacles, Heaven spreads
over the group its canopy of cloud, that Shekinah-cloud
whose very shadow was brightness; while once
again, as at the Baptism, a Voice speaks out of the
cloud, the voice of the Father: "This is My Son, My
Chosen; hear ye Him." And so the mountain pageant
fades; for when the cloud has passed away Moses and
Elias have disappeared, "Jesus only" is left with the
three disciples. Then they retrace their steps down
the mountain side, the three carrying in their heart a
precious memory, the strains of a lingering music,
which they only put into words when the Son of man
is risen from the dead; while Jesus turns, not reluctantly,
from the opened door and the welcome of
Heaven, to make an atonement upon Calvary, and
through the veil of His rent flesh to make a way for
sinful man even into the Holiest.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE GOOD SAMARITAN.
Luke x. 25-37.
It would scarcely have accorded with the traditions
of human nature had the teachers of religion looked
favourably upon Jesus. Stepping, as He did, within
their domain, without any human ordination or scholastic
authority, they naturally resented the intrusion,
and when the teaching of the new Rabbi so distinctly
contravened their own interpretation of the law their
curiosity deepened into jealousy, and curdled at last
into a virulent hate. The ecclesiastical atmosphere
was charged with electricity, but it only manifested
itself at first in the harmless play of summer lightning,
the cross-fire of half-earnest and half-captious questions;
later it was the forked lightning that struck
Him down into a grave.
We have no means of localizing, either in point of
time or place, the incident here recorded by our Evangelist,
and which, by the way, only St. Luke mentions.
It stands by itself, bearing in its dependent parable of
the Good Samaritan an exquisite and perfect flower,
from whose deep cup has dropped the very nectar of
the gods.
It was probably during one of His public discourses
that a "certain lawyer," or scribe—for the two titles
are used interchangeably—"stood up and tempted
Him." He sought to prove Him by questions, as the
word means here, hoping to entrap Jesus amid the
vagaries of Rabbinical tradition. "Teacher," said he,
hiding his sinister motive behind a veil of courtesy and
apparent candour, "what shall I do to inherit eternal
life?" Had the question been sincere, Jesus would
probably have given a direct answer; but reading the
under-current of his thought, which moved transversely to
the surface-current of his speech, Jesus simply answered
his question by asking another: "What is written in the
Law? How readest thou?" With a readiness which
implied a perfect familiarity with the Law, he replied,
"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,
and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with
all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself." Some
expositors have thought that the Evangelist here gives
the summary of what was a lengthened conversation,
and that Jesus Himself led the mind of the lawyer to
join together these detached portions of Scripture—one
from Deuteronomy vi. 5, and the other from Leviticus
xix. 18. It is true there is a striking resemblance between
the answer of the lawyer and the answer Jesus Himself
gave subsequently to a similar question (Mark xii. 30,
31); but there is no necessity for us to apologize for
the resemblance, as if it were improbable and unnatural.
The fact is, as the narrative of Mark xii. plainly indicates,
that these two sentences were held in general
consent as the epitome of the Law, its first and its
second commandment. Even the scribe assents to this
as an axiomatic truth he has no wish to challenge. It
will be observed that a fourth term is added to the three
of the original, possibly on account of the Septuagint
rendering, which translated the Hebrew "heart" by
"mind." Godet suggests that since the term "heart"
is the most general term, denoting "in Scripture the
central focus from which all the rays of the moral life
go forth," that it stands in apposition to the other three,
the one in its three particulars. This, which is the most
natural interpretation, would refer the "mind" to the
intellectual faculties, the "soul" to the emotional faculties,
the sensibilities, and the "might" to the will, which
rules all force; while by the "heart" is meant the unit,
the "centred self," into which the others merge, and of
which they form a part.
Jesus commended him for his answer: "Thou hast
answered right: this do, and thou shalt live"—words
which brushed away completely the Hebraic figment of
inherited life. That life was not something that should
be reached by processes of loving. The life should
precede the love, and should give birth to it: the love
should grow out of the life, its blossoming flower.
Having the tables so turned upon himself, and
wishing to "justify," or to put himself right, the
stranger asks still another question: "And who is my
neighbour?" doubtless hoping to cover his retreat in
the smoke of a burning question. To our minds, made
familiar with the thought of humanity, it seems as if a
question so simple scarcely deserved such an elaborate
answer as Jesus gave to it. But the thought of humanity
had not yet possessed the world; indeed, it had only
just come to earth, to be spoken by, and incarnate
in, Him who was the Son of man. To the Jew the
question of the lawyer was a most important one. The
word "neighbour" could be spoken in a breath; but
unwind that word, and it measures off the whole of our
earthly life, it covers all our practical, every-day duties.
It ran through the pages of the Law, the ark in which
the Golden Rule was hidden; or like a silent angel, it
flashed its sword across life's forbidden paths. But if
the Jew could not erase this broad word from the pages
of the Law, he could narrow and emasculate its meaning
by an interpretation of his own. And this they had
done, making this Divine word almost of none effect by
their tradition. To the Jewish mind "neighbour" was
simply "Jew" spelt large. The only neighbourhood
they recognized was the narrow neighbourhood of
Hebrew speech and Hebrew sympathies. The Hebrew
mind was isolated as their land, and all who could not
frame their shibboleths were barbarians, Gentiles, whom
they were at perfect liberty to spoil, as with anathemas
and swords they chased them over their Jordans.
Jesus, however, is on the alert; and how wisely He
answers! He does not declaim against the narrowness
of Hebrew thought; He utters no denunciatory word
against their proud and false exclusiveness. He quietly
unfolds the word, spreading it out into an exquisite
parable, that all coming times may see how beautiful,
how Divine the word "neighbour" is.
He said, "A certain man was going down from
Jerusalem to Jericho; and he fell among robbers,
which both stripped him, and beat him, and departed,
leaving him half dead." The parables of Jesus, though
drawn from real life, had no local colouring. They
grouped themselves around some well-known fact of
nature, or some general custom of social life; and so
their spirit was national or cosmopolitan, rather than
local. Here, however, Jesus departs from His usual
manner, giving to His parable a local habitation. It is
the road which led steeply down from Jerusalem to
Jericho, and which for centuries has been so infested
with robbers or bandits as to earn for itself the darkly
ominous name of "the Bloody Way." Possibly that
name itself is an outgrowth from the parable; but whether
so or not, it is scarcely to be supposed that it had so
evil a character in the days of Christ. As Jericho then
was a populous city, and intimately connected with
Jerusalem in its social and business life, the road would
be much frequented. Indeed, the parable indicates as
much; for Jesus, whose words were never untrue to
nature or to history, represents His three travellers as
all journeying singly; while the khan or "inn" shows,
in its reflection, a constant stream of travel. Our
anonymous traveller, however, does not find it so safe
as he had anticipated. Attacked, in one of its dusky
ravines, by a band of brigands, they strip him of his
clothing, with whatever the girdle-purse might contain,
and beating him out of sheer devilry, they leave him by
the road-side, unable to walk, unable even to rise, a
living-dying man.
"And by chance, a certain priest was going down
that way; and when he saw him he passed by on the
other side. And in like manner a Levite also, when
he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the
other side." As in a tableaux vivants, Jesus shows us
the two ecclesiastics, who come in sight in the happy,
coincidental way that Romance so delights in. They
had probably just completed their "course" of Temple
service, and were now going down to Jericho, which
was a favourite residence of the priests, for the somewhat
long interval their sacred duties allowed them. They
had, therefore, no pressure of business upon them;
indeed, the verb would almost imply that the priest
was walking leisurely along. But they bring no help
to the wounded man. Directly they see him, instead
of being drawn to him by the attractions of sympathy,
something, either the shock or the fright, acts upon
them as a centrifugal force, and sends them describing
an arc of a circle around that centre of groans and
blood. At any rate they "passed by on the other
side," leaving behind them neither deed nor word of
mercy, but leaving behind them a shadow of themselves
which, while time itself lasts, will be vivid, cold,
and repelling. It is just possible, however, that they
do not deserve all the unmeasured censure which the
critics and the centuries have given, and are still likely
to give. It is very easy for us to condemn their action
as selfish, heartless; but let us put ourselves in their
place, alone in the lonely pass, with this proof of an
imminent danger sprung suddenly upon us, and it is
possible that we ourselves should not have been quite
so brave as by our safe firesides we imagine ourselves
to be. The fact is it needed something more than
sympathy to make them turn aside and befriend the
wounded man; it needed physical courage, and that
of the highest kind, and this wanting, sympathy itself
would not be sufficient. The heart might long to help,
even when the feet were hastening away. A sudden
inrush of fear, even of vague alarm, will sometimes
drive us contrary to the drift of our sympathies, just
as our feet are lifted and we ourselves carried onwards
by a surging crowd.
Whether this be a correct interpretation of their conduct
or not, it certainly harmonizes with the general
attitude of Jesus towards the priesthood. The chief
priests were always and bitterly hostile, but we have
reasonable ground for supposing that the priests, as
a body, looked favouringly upon Jesus. The bolts of
terrible "woes" are hurled against Pharisees and
scribes, yet Jesus does not condemn the priests in a
single word; while in that aftermath of the Pentecost
the Temple courts yielded the richest harvests, as "a
great company of the priests were obedient to the
faith." If, then, Jesus now holds up the priesthood to
execration, setting these ecclesiastics in the pillory of
His parable, that the coming centuries may throw sharp
words at them, it is certainly an exceptional mood.
The sweet silence has curdled into acrid speech. But
even here Jesus does not condemn, except, as it would
seem, by implication, the conduct of the priest and
Levite. They come into the parable rather as accessories,
and Jesus makes use of them as a foil, to
throw out into bolder relief the central figure, which
is the Samaritan, and so to emphasize His central truth,
which is the real answer to the lawyer's question, that
"neighbour" is too broad, and too human, a word to
be cut off and eliminated by any boundaries of race.
But in thus casting a mantle of charity around
our priest and Levite, we must admit that the character
is sometimes true even down to recent days.
Ecclesiasticism and religion, alas! are not always
synonyms. Revolted Israel sins and sacrifices by
turns, and seeking to keep the balance in equal poise,
she puts over against her multitude of sins her multitude
of sacrifices. Religiousness may be at times but
a cloak for moral laxity, and to some rite is more than
right. There are those, alas! to-day, who wear the
livery of the Temple, to whom religion is a routine
mechanism of dead things, rather than the commerce
of living hearts, who open with hireling hand the
Temple gates, who chant with hireling lips how "His
mercy endureth for ever," and then step down from
their sacred Jerusalem, to toss justice and mercy to the
winds, as they defraud the widow and oppress the poor.
"But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came
where he was: and when he saw him, he was moved
with compassion, and came to him, and bound up his
wounds, pouring on them oil and wine; and he set him
on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took
care of him." At first sight it would appear as if Jesus
had weakened the narrative by a topographical inaccuracy,
as if He had gone out of His way to place a
Samaritan on the road to Jericho, which was altogether
out of the line of Samaritan travel. But it is a deliberate
purpose on the part of Jesus, and not a lapsus
linguæ, that introduces this Samaritan; for this is the
gist of the whole parable. The man who had fallen
among the robbers was doubtless a Jew; for had it
been otherwise, the fact would have been stated. Now
there was no question as to whether the word "neighbour"
embraced their fellow-countrymen; the question
was whether it passed beyond their national bounds,
opening up lines of duty across the outlying world.
It is therefore almost a necessity that the one who
teaches this lesson should be himself an alien, a
foreigner, and Jesus chooses the Samaritan as being of
a race against which Jewish antipathies were especially
strong, but for which He Himself had a special regard
and warmest sympathy. Though occupying adjacent
territory, the Jews and the Samaritans practically were
far apart, antipodal races we might almost call them.
Between them lay a wide and deep chasm that trade
even could not bridge, and across which the courtesies
and sympathies of life never passed. "The Jews have
no dealings with the Samaritans," said the flippant
woman of Samaria, as she voiced a jealousy and hatred
which were as mutual as they were deep. But here,
in this ideal Samaritan, is a noble exception. Though
belonging to a lowly and obscure race, his thoughts are
high. The ear of his soul has so caught the rhythm of
Divine harmonies that it does not hear longer the little
lisping shibboleths of earthly speech; and while the sympathies
of smaller hearts flow like a stream down in their
well-defined and accustomed channel, seldom knowing
any overflow, save in some rare freshet of impulse and
of feeling, the sympathies of the Samaritan moved outward
like the currents of the wind, sweeping across all
chasms and over all mountain heights of division, bearing
their clouds of blessing anywhither as the need
required. It makes no difference to him that the fallen
man is of an alien race. He is a man, and that is
enough; and he is down, and must be raised; he is
in need, and must be helped. The priest and Levite
thought first and most of themselves, and giving to
the man but a brief and scared look, they passed on
with a quickened pace. Not so with the Samaritan;
he loses all thought of himself, and is perfectly oblivious
to the danger he himself may be running. Upon his
great soul he feels the pressure of this "must;" it runs
along the tightened muscles of his arm, as he checks
his steed. He himself comes down, dismounting, that
he may help the man to rise. He opens his flask and
puts his wine to the lips, that their groans may cease,
or that they may be soothed down into inarticulate
speech. The oil he has brought for his own food he
pours upon the wounds, and when the man has sufficiently
recovered he lifts him upon his own beast and
takes him to the inn. Nor is this enough for his great
heart, but continuing his journey on the morrow, he
first arranges with his host that the man shall be well
cared for, giving him two pence, which was the two
days' wages of a labouring man, at the same time
telling him that he must not limit his attentions to the
sum he pays in advance, but that if anything more
should be needed he would pay the balance on his
return. We do not read whether it was needed or not,
for the Samaritan, mounting his steed, passes out of
our hearing and out of our sight. Not quite out of
our hearing, however, for Heaven has caught his gentle,
loving words, and hidden them within this parable, that
all coming times may listen to their music; nor out of
our sight either, for his photograph was caught in the
sunlight of the Master's speech; and as we turn over
the pages of Inspiration there is no picture more beautiful
than that of the nameless Samaritan, whom all the
world calls "the Good," the man who knew so much
better than his age what humanity and mercy meant.
In the new light the lawyer can answer his own question
now, and he does; for when Jesus asks, "Which
of these three, thinkest thou, proved neighbour unto
him that fell among the robbers?" he replies, with no
hesitation, but with a lingering prejudice that does not
care to pronounce the, to him, outlandish name, "He
that showed mercy on him." The lesson is learned,
the lesson of humanity, for the whole parable is but
an amplification of the Golden Rule, and Jesus dismisses
the subject and the scholar with the personal
application, which is but a corollary of the proposition
He has demonstrated, "Go thou and do likewise." Go
and do to others as you would have them do to
you, were the circumstances reversed and your places
changed. Read off your duty, not from your own low
standpoint merely, but in a binocular vision, as you put
yourself in his place; so will you find that the line of
duty and the line of beauty are one.
The practical lessons of the parable are easy to
trace, as they are of universal application. The first,
lesson it teaches is the lesson of humanity, the neighbourhood
and brotherhood of man. It is a convenience,
and perhaps a necessity, of human life, that the great
mass of humanity should be broken up into fragments,
sections, with differing customs, languages, and names.
It gives to the world the stimulus of competition and
helpful rivalries. But these distinctions are superficial,
temporary, and beneath this diversity of speech and
thought there is the deeper unity of soul. We emphasize
our differences; we pride ourselves upon them;
but how little does Heaven make of them! Heaven
does not even see them. Our national boundaries may
climb up over the Alps, but they cannot touch the sky.
Those skies look down and smile on all alike, divinely
impartial in their gifts of beauty and of light. And
how little of the provincial, or even national, there was
about Jesus! Though He kept Himself almost entirely
within the borders of the Holy Land, never going far
from His central pivot, which was Jerusalem, and its
cross, yet He belonged to the world, as the world
belonged to Him. He called Himself the Son of man,
at once humanity's flower, and humanity's Son and
Saviour. And as over the cradle of the Son of man the
far east and the far west together leaned, so around
His cross was the meeting-place of the races. The
three chief languages inscribed upon it proclaimed His
royalty, while the cross itself, on which the Sacrifice
for humanity was to be offered, was itself the gift of
humanity at large, as Asia provided it, and Europe
prepared it, and Africa, in the person of the Cyrenean,
bore it. In the mind of Jesus, as in the purpose of
God, humanity was not a group of fractions, but a
unit one and indivisible, made of one blood, and by
one Blood redeemed. In the heart of Jesus there was
the "enthusiasm of humanity," all-absorbing and complete,
and that enthusiasm takes possession of us, a
new force generated in our lives, as we approach in
spirit the great Ideal Man.
The second lesson of the parable is the lesson of
mercy, the beauty of self-sacrifice. It was because the
Samaritan forgot himself that all the world has remembered
and applauded him. It is because of his stoop of
self-renouncing love that his character is so exalted, his
memory so dear, and that his very name, which is a
title without a name, floats down the ages like a sweet
song. "Go and do thou likewise" is the Master's
word to us. Discipline your heart that you may see
in man everywhere a brother, whose keeper you are.
Let fraternity be, not a theory only, but a realized fact,
and then a factor of your life. Train your eye to
watch for others' needs, to read another's woe. Train
your soul to sympathy, and your hand to helpfulness;
for in our world there is room enough for both. Bethesda's
porches stretch far as our eye can reach, all
crowded, too, with the sorrowing, the sick, and the sad,
thick enough indeed, but not so close as that an angel's
foot may not step between them, and not so sad but
an angel's voice may soothe and cheer. He who lifts
another's load, who soothes another's smart, who
brightens a life that else would be dark, who puts a
music within a brother's soul, though it be only for a
passing moment, wakes even a sweeter music within
his own, for he enters on earth into his Master's joy,
the joy of a redeeming, self-sacrificing love.
CHAPTER XX.
THE TWO SISTERS.
Luke x. 38-42.
At first sight it appears as if our Evangelist had
departed from the orderly arrangement of which
he speaks in his prelude, in thus linking this domestic
scene of Judæa with His northern Galilean journey,
and to the casual glance this home-flower does certainly
seem an exotic in this garden of the Lord. The
strangeness, the out-of-placeness, however, vanishes
entirely upon a nearer, closer view. If, as is probable,
the parable of the Good Samaritan was spoken during
that northward journey, its scene lies away in Judæa,
in the dangerous road that sweeps down from Jerusalem
to Jericho. Now, this road to Jericho lay through the
village of Bethany, and in the Evangelist's mind the
two places are intimately connected, as we see (chap.
xix. vv. 1, 29); so that the idyll of Bethany would follow
the parable of the Good Samaritan with a certain
naturalness, the one recalling the other by the simple
association of ideas. Then, too, it harmonizes so
thoroughly with its context, as it comes between a
parable on works and a chapter on prayer. In the one,
man is the doer, heart and hand going out in the
beautiful ministries of love; in the other, man is the
receiver, waiting upon God, opening hand and heart
for the inflow of Divine grace. In one it is Love in
action that we see; in the other it is Love at rest, at
rest from activities of her own, in quest of further good.
This is exactly the picture our Evangelist draws of
the two sisters, and which might have served as a
parable had it not been so plainly taken from real
life. Perhaps, too, another consideration influenced
the Evangelist, and one that is suggested by the studied
vagueness of the narrative. He gives no clue as to
where the little incident occurred, for the "certain
village" might be equally appropriate in Samaria
or Judæa; while the two names, Martha and Mary,
apart from the corroboration of St. John's Gospel,
would not enable us to localize the scene. It is evident
that St. Luke wished to throw around them a sort of
incognito, probably because they were still living when
he wrote, and too great publicity might subject them
to inconvenience, or even to something more. And
so St. Luke considerately masks the picture, shutting
off the background of locality, while St. John, who
writes at a later date, when Jerusalem has fallen, and
who is under no such obligation of reserve, fixes the
scene precisely; for there can be no doubt that the
Mary and Martha of his Gospel, of Bethany, are the
Martha and Mary of St. Luke; their very characters,
as well as names, are identical.
It was in one of His journeys to the south, though
we have no means of telling which, that He came to
Bethany, a small village on the eastern slope of Olivet,
and about three-quarters of an hour from Jerusalem.
There are several indications in the Gospels that this
was a favourite resort of Jesus during His Judæan
ministry (Matt. xxi. 1; John viii. 1); and it is somewhat
singular that the only nights that we read He
spent in Jerusalem were the night in the garden and
the two nights He slept in its grave. He preferred
the quiet haven of Bethany; and though we cannot
with absolute certainty recognize the village home
where Jesus had such frequent welcome, yet throwing
the side-light of John xi. 5 upon the haze, it seems
in part to lift; for the deep affection Jesus had for the
three implies a close and ripened intimacy.
St. John, in his allusions to the family, makes Mary
prominent, giving precedence to her name, as he calls
Bethany "the village of Mary and her sister Martha"
(John xi. 1). St. Luke, however, makes Martha the
central figure of his picture, while Mary is set back in
the shade, or rather in the sunshine of that Presence
which was and is the Light of the world. It was,
"Martha received Him into her house." She was the
recognized head of the family, "the lady" in fact,
as well as by the implication of her name, which was
the native equivalent of "lady." It was she who gave
the invitation to the Master, and on her devolved all
the care of the entertainment, the preparation of the
feast, and the reception of the guests; for though the
change of pronoun in ver. 38 from "they" to "Him"
would lead us to suppose that the disciples had gone
another way, and were not with Him now, still the
"much serving" would show that it was a special
occasion, and that others had been invited to meet
Jesus.
It is a significant coincidence that St. John, speaking
(xii. 2) of another supper at Bethany, in the house of
Simon, states that Martha "served," using the same
word that Jesus addressed to her in the narrative of
St. Luke. Evidently Martha was a "server." This
was her forte, so much so that her services were in
requisition outside her own house. Hers was a culinary
skill, and she delighted with her sleight of hand to
effect all sorts of transformations, as, conjuring with
her fire, she called forth the pleasures and harmonies
of taste. In this case, however, she overdid it; she
went beyond her strength. Perhaps her guests outnumbered
her invitations, or something unforeseen had
upset her plans, so that some of the viands were
belated. At any rate, she was cumbered, distracted,
"put about" as our modern colloquialism would have
it. Perhaps we might say she was "put out" as well,
for we can certainly detect a trace of irritability both
in her manner and in her speech. She breaks in
suddenly among the guests (the aorist participle gives
the rustle of a quick movement), and in the hearing of
them all she says to Jesus, "Lord, dost Thou not care
that my sister did leave me to serve alone? bid her
therefore that she help me." Her tone is sharp,
querulous, and her words send a deep chill across the
table, as when a sea-fret drifts coldly inland. If Mary
was in the wrong thus to sit at the feet of Jesus, Martha
certainly was not in the right. There was no occasion
to give this public reprimand, this round-hand rebuke.
She might have come and secretly called her, as she
did afterwards, on the day of their sorrow, and probably
Mary would have risen as quickly now as then. But
Martha is overweighted, ruffled; her feelings get the
better of her judgment, and she speaks, out of the impatience
of her heart, words she never would have spoken had
she but known that Inspiration would keep their echoes
reverberating down all the years of time. And besides,
her words were somewhat lacking in respect to the
Master. True, she addresses Him as "Lord;" but
having done this, she goes off into an interrogative
with an implied censure in it, and closes with an imperative,
which, to say the least, was not becoming,
while all through an undue emphasis is laid upon the
first personal pronoun, the "me" of her aggrieved self.
Turning to the other sister, we find a striking contrast,
for Mary, as our Evangelist puts it, "also sat
at the Lord's feet, and heard His word." This does
not imply any forwardness on her part, or any desire
to make herself conspicuous; the whole drift of her
nature was in the opposite direction. Sitting "at His
feet" now that they were reclining at the table, meant
sitting behind Him, alone amid the company, and
screened from their too-curious gaze by Him who drew
all eyes to Himself. Nor does she break through her
womanly reserve to take part in the conversation; she
simply "heard His word;" or "she kept listening,"
as the imperfect tense denotes. She put herself in the
listening attitude, content to be in the shadow, outside
the charmed circle, if she only might hear Him speak,
whose words fell like a rain of music upon her soul.
Her sister chided her for this, and the large family of
modern Marthas—for feminine sentiment is almost
entirely on Martha's side—blame her severely, for
what they call the selfishness of her conduct, seeking
her own enjoyment, even though others must pay the
price of it. But was Mary so utterly selfish? and did
she sacrifice duty to gratify her inclination? Not at
all, and certainly not to the extent our Marthas would
have us believe. Mary had assisted in the preparations
and the reception, as the "also" of ver. 39 shows;
while Martha's own words, "My sister did leave me
to serve alone," themselves imply that Mary had shared
the labours of the entertainment before taking her
place at the feet of Jesus. The probability is that she
had completed her task; and now that He who spake
as never man spake before was conversing with the
guests, she could not forego the privilege of listening
to the voice she might not hear again.
It is to Jesus, however, that we must go with our
rivalry of claims. He is our Court of Equity. His
estimate of character was never at fault. He looked
at the essences of things, the soul of things, and not
to the outward wrappings of circumstance, and He
read that palimpsest of motive, the underlying thought,
more easily than others could read the outward act.
And certainly Jesus had no apology for selfishness; His
whole life was one war against it, and against sin,
which is but selfishness ripened. But how does Jesus
adjust this sisterly difference? Does He dismiss the
listener, and send her back to an unfinished task?
Does He pass on to her Martha's warm reproof? Not
at all; but He gently reproves the elder sister.
"Martha, Martha," He said, as if her mind had
wandered, and the iteration was necessary to call her
to herself, "thou art anxious and troubled about many
things: but one thing is needful: for Mary hath chosen
the good part, which shall not be taken away from her."
It is easy to see from this where Jesus thought the
blame should rest. It was Martha who had taken too
much upon herself. Her generous heart had gone
beyond her strength, and far beyond the need. Wishing
to do honour to her Guest, studying to please Him,
she had been over-lavish in her entertainment, until
she had become worried—anxious, troubled, as Jesus
said, the former word referring to the inner disquiet,
the unrest of soul, and the latter to the outward perturbation,
the tremor of the nerves, and the cloudiness
that looked from her eyes. The fact was that Martha
had misread the tastes of her Guest. She thought to
please Him by the abundance of her provision, the
largeness of her hospitality; but for these lower pleasures
of sense and of taste Jesus cared little. He had meat
to eat that others knew not of, and to do the will of
Him that sent Him was to Jesus more than any
ambrosia or nectar of the gods. The more simple the
repast, the more it pleased Him, whose thoughts were
high in the heavenly places, even while His feet and
the mortal body He wore touched lightly the earth.
And so while Martha's motive was pure, her judgment
was mistaken, and her eager heart tempted her to
works of supererogation, to an excess of care which
was anxiety, the fret and fever of the soul. Had she
been content with a modest service, such as would have
pleased her Guest, she too might have found time to
sit at His feet, and to have found there an Elim of rest
and a Mount of Beatitudes.
But while Jesus has a kind rebuke for Martha, He
has only words of commendation for her sister, whom
she has been so openly and sharply upbraiding.
"Mary," He said, speaking the name Martha had not
uttered, "hath chosen the good part, which shall not
be taken away from her." He answers Martha in
her own language, her native tongue; for in speaking
of Mary's choice as the "good part," it is a culinary
phrase, the parlance of the kitchen or the table, meaning
the choice bit. The phrase is in apposition with
the one thing which is needful, which itself is the
antithesis to the "many things" of Martha's care.
What the "one thing" is of which Jesus speaks we
cannot say with certainty, and almost numberless have
been the interpretations given to it. But without going
into them, can we not find the truest interpretation in
the Lord's own words? We think we may, for in
the Sermon on the Mount we have an exact parallel
to the narrative. He finds people burdened, anxious
about the things of this life, wearying themselves
with the interminable questions, "What shall we eat?
or What shall we drink?" as if life had no quest higher
and vaster than these. And Jesus rebukes this spirit
of anxiety, exorcising it by an appeal to the lilies and
the grass of the field; and summing up His condemnation
of anxiety, He adds the injunction, "Seek ye His
kingdom, and these things shall be added unto you"
(xii. 31). Here, again, we have the "many things" of
human care and strife contrasted with the "one thing"
which is of supremest moment. First, the kingdom;
this in the mind of Jesus was the summum bonum, the
highest good of man, compared with which the "many
things" for which men strive and toil are but the dust
of the balances. And this was the choice of Mary.
She sought the kingdom of God, sitting at the feet
of Him who proclaimed it, and who was, though she
knew it not as yet, Himself the King. Martha too
sought the kingdom, but her distracted mind showed
that that was not her only, perhaps not her chief
quest. Earthly things weighed too heavily upon her
mind and heart, and through their dust the heavenly
things became somewhat obscured. Mary's heart was
set heavenward. She was the listener, eager to know
the will of God, that she might do it. Martha was so
busied with her own activities that she could not give
her thoughts to Christ; Mary ceased from her works,
that so she might enter into His rest, setting the
world behind her, that her undivided gaze might be
upon Him who was truly her Lord. And so Jesus
loved Martha, yet pitied and chided her, while He
loved and commended Mary.
Nor was the "good part" ever taken from her, for
again and again we find her returning to the feet of
Jesus. In the day of their great sorrow, as soon as
she heard that the Master had come and called her, she
arose quickly, and coming to Jesus, though it was the
bare, dusty ground, she fell at His feet, seeking strength
and help where she before had sought light and truth.
And once more: when the shadow of the cross came
vividly near, when Simon gave the feast which Martha
served, Mary sought those feet again, to pour upon
them the precious and fragrant nard, the sweet odours
of which filled all the house, as they have since filled
all the world. Yes, Mary did not sit at the feet of
Jesus in vain; she had learned to know Christ as few
of the disciples did; for when Jesus said, "She has
done it for My burying," He intends us to infer that
Mary feels, stealing over her retiring but loving soul,
the cold and awful shadow of the cross. Her broken
alabaster and its poured-out spikenard are her unspoken
ode to the Redeemer, her pre-dated homage to the
Crucified.
And so we find in Mary the truest type of service.
Hers was not always the passive attitude, receiving
and never giving, absorbing and not diffusing. There
was the service before the session; her hands had
prepared and wrought for Christ before she placed
herself at His feet, and the sacrifice followed, as she
brought her costly gift, to the astonishment of all the
rest, her sweet and healing balm for the wounds which
were soon to follow.
The life that is all receptive, that has no active
ministries of love, no waiting upon Christ in the person
of His followers, is an unnatural, an unhealthy life, a
piece of morbid selfishness which neither pleases God
nor blesses man. On the other hand, the life that is
always busy, that is in a constant swirl of outward duties,
flying here and there like the stormy petrel over the
unresting waves, will soon weary or wear itself out, or
it will grow into an automaton, a mechanism without a
soul. Receiving, giving, praying, working—these are
the alternate chords on which the music of our lives
should be struck. Heavenward, earthward, should be
the alternate looks—heavenward in our waiting upon
God, and earthward in our service for man. That life
shines the most and is seen the farthest which reflects
most of the heavenly light; and he serves Christ the
best who now sits humbly and prayerfully at His feet,
and then goes forth to be a "living echo" of His voice,
breaking for Him the alabaster of a self-sacrificing
love. As one has beautifully expressed it, "The
effective life and the receptive life are one. No sweep
of arm that does some work for God but harvests also
some more of the truth of God and sweeps it into the
treasury of the life."Phillips Brooks.
But if Mary gives us a type of the truest and best
service, Martha shows us a kind of service which is
only too common. She gave to Jesus a right loving
welcome, and was delighted with the privilege of ministering
to His wants; but the coming of Jesus brought
her, not peace, but distraction—not rest, but worry.
Her very service ruffled and irritated her, until mind
and heart were like the tempestuous lake ere the spell
of the Divine "Peace" fell upon it. And all the time
the Christ was near, who could bear each burden, and
still all the disquiet of the soul! But Martha was all
absorbed in the thought of what she could do for Him,
and she forgot how much more He could do for her,
giving to her chafed spirit quietness and rest, even
amid her toil. The Divine Peace was near her, within
her home, but the hurryings of her restless will and
her manifold activities effectually excluded that peace
from her heart.
And how many who call themselves Christians are
true Marthas, serving Christ, but feeling the yoke to
chafe, and the burden to weight them! perhaps preaching
to others the Gospel of rest and peace, and themselves
knowing little of its experience and blessedness—like
the camels of the desert, which carry their treasures
of corn and sweet spices to others, and themselves
feed on the bitter and prickly herbs. Ah, you are
too much upon your feet! Cease for awhile from your
own works, and let God work in you. Wait in His
presence. Let His words take hold of you, and His
love enthuse you; so will you find rest amid your
toil, calmness amid the strife, and you will prove that
the fret and the fever of life will all disappear at the
touch of the living Christ.
CHAPTER XXI.
LOST AND FOUND.
Luke xv.
In this chapter we see how the waves of influence,
moving outward from their Divine centre, touch
the outermost fringe of humanity, sending the pulsations
of new excitements and new hopes through classes
Religion and Society both had banned. "Now all the
publicans and sinners were drawing near unto Him,
for to hear Him." It was evidently a movement
widespread and deep. The hostility of Pharisees and
scribes would naturally give to these outcasts a certain
bias in His favour, causing their hearts to lean towards
him, while His words of hope fell upon their lives like
the breaking of a new dawn. Nor did Jesus forbid
their approach. Instead of looking upon it as an
intrusion, an impertinence, the attraction was mutual.
Instead of receiving them with a cold and scant courtesy,
He welcomed them, receiving them gladly, as the verb
of the Pharisees' murmur implies. He even mingled
with them in social intercourse, with an acceptance,
if not an interchange, of hospitality. To the Pharisaic
mind, however, this was a flagrant lapse, a breach of
the proprieties which was unpardonable and half
criminal, and they gave vent to their disapprobation
and disgust in the loud and scornful murmur, "This
man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them." It is
from this hard sentence of withering contempt, as from
a prickly and bitter calyx, we have the trifoliate
parables of the Lost Sheep, the Lost Coin, and the Lost
Man, the last of which is perhaps the crown and
flower of all the parables. With minor differences, the
three parables are really one, emphasizing, as they
reiterate, the one truth how Heaven seeks after the
lost of earth, and how it rejoices when the lost is
found.
The first parable is pastoral: "What man of you,"
asks Jesus, using the Tu quoque retort, "having a
hundred sheep, and having lost one of them, doth not
leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go
after that which is lost, until he find it?" It is one
of those questions which only need to be asked to
be answered, an interrogative which is axiomatic and
self-evident. Jesus tries to set his detractors in His
place, that they may think His thoughts, feel His
feelings, as they look out on the world from His standpoint;
but since they cannot follow Him to these
redemptive heights, He comes down to the lower level
of their vision. "Suppose you have a hundred sheep,
and one of them, getting separated from the rest,
goes astray, what do you do? Dismissing it from
your thought, do you leave it to its fate, the certain
slaughter that awaits it from the wild beasts? or do
you seek to minimize your loss, working it out by the
rule of proportion as you ask, 'What is one to ninety-nine?'
then writing off the lost one, not as a unit, but
as a common fraction? No; such a supposition is
incredible and impossible. You would go in search
of the lost directly. Turning your back upon the
ninety and nine, and turning your thoughts from them
too, you would leave them in their mountain pasture,The word
rendered "wilderness" means any land unenclosed.
as you sought the lost one. Calling it by its name,
you would climb the terraced hills, and awake the
echoes of the wadies, until the flinty heart of the
mountain had felt the sympathy of your sorrow,
repeating with you the lost wanderer's name. And
when at last you found it you would not chide or
punish it; you would not even force it to retrace its
steps across the weary distance, but taking compassion
on its weakness, you would lift it upon your shoulders
and bear it rejoicing home. Then forgetful of your
own weariness, fatigue and anxiety swallowed up in
the new-found joy, you would go round to your
neighbours, to break the good news to them, and so
all would rejoice together."
Such is the picture, warm in colour and instinct
with life, Jesus sketches in a few well-chosen words.
He delicately conceals all reference to Himself; but
even the chromatic vision of the Pharisees would
plainly perceive how complete was its justification of
His own conduct, in mingling thus with the erring and
the lost; while to us the parable is but a veil of words,
through which we discern the form and features of the
"Good Shepherd," who gave even His life for the
sheep, seeking that He might save that which was lost.
The second, which is a twin parable, is from domestic
life. As in the parables of the kingdom, Jesus sets
beside the man with the mustard-seed the woman with
her leaven, so here He makes the same distinction,
clothing the Truth both in a masculine and a feminine
dress. He asks again, "Or what woman" (He does
not say "of you," for if women were present amongst
His hearers they would be in the background) "having
ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light
a lamp, and sweep the house, and seek diligently until
she find it? And when she hath found it, she calleth
together her friends and neighbours, saying, Rejoice
with me, for I have found the piece which I had lost."
Much objection has been taken to this parable for its
supposed want of naturalness and reality. "Is it
likely," our objectors say, "that the loss of a small coin
like a drachma, whose value was about sevenpence-halfpenny,
could be the occasion of so much concern,
and that its recovery should be enough to call forth the
congratulations of all the village matrons? Surely that
is not parable, but hyperbole." But things have a real
as well as an intrinsic value, and what to others would
be common and cheap, to its possessor might be a
treasure beyond reckoning, with all the added values
of association and sentiment. So the ten drachmas of
the woman might have a history; they might have
been a family heirloom, moving quietly down the
generations, with whole poems, ay, and even tragedies,
hidden within them. Or we can conceive of a poverty
so dire and strait that even one small coin in the
emergent circumstance might grow into a value far
beyond its intrinsic worth. But the parable does not
need all these suppositions to steady it and keep it
from falling to the ground. When rightly understood
it becomes singularly natural, the truth of truth, if such
an essence can be distilled in human speech. The probable
interpretation is that the ten drachmas were the
ten coins worn as a frontlet by the women of the east.
This frontlet was given by the bridegroom to the bride
at the time of marriage, and like the ring of western
life, it was invested with a kind of sanctity. It must
be worn on all public occasions, and guarded with a
jealous, sacred care; for should one of its pieces be
lost, it would be regarded as an indication that the
possessor had not only been careless, but also that she
had been unfaithful to her marriage vow. Throwing,
then, this light of eastern custom upon the parable,
how vivid and lifelike it becomes! With what intense
eagerness would she seek for the missing coin! Lighting
her lamp—for the house would be but dimly lighted
with its open door and its small unglazed window—how
carefully and almost tremblingly she would peer along
its shelves, and sweep out the corners of her few
rooms! and how great would be her joy as she saw
it glistening in the dust! Her whole soul would go
out after it, as if it were a living, sentient thing. She
would clasp it in her hand, and even press it to her
lips; for has it not taken a heavy care and sorrow from
her heart? That one coin rising from the dust has
been to her like the rising of another sun, filling her
home with light and her life with melody; and what
wonder that she hastens to communicate her joy, as,
standing by her door, after the eastern wont, she holds
up the missing treasure, and calls on her neighbours
and friends (the substantives are feminine now) to
rejoice with her.
The third parable carries the thought still higher,
forming the crown of the ascending series. Not only
is there a mathematical progression, as the lost fraction
increases from one-hundredth to one-tenth, and then
to one-half of the whole, but the intrinsic value of the
loss rises in a corresponding series. In the first it
was a lost sheep, a loss which might soon be replaced,
and which would soon be forgotten; in the second it
was a lost coin, which, as we have seen, meant the loss
of what was more valuable than gold, even honour and
character; while in the third it is a lost child. We
call it the parable of the Prodigal Son; it might with
equal propriety be called the Parable of the Bereaved
Father, for the whole story crystallizes about that
name, repeating it, in one form or another, no less than
twelve times.
"A certain man," so begins this parabolic Paternoster,
"had two sons." Tired of the restraints of home and
the surveillance of the father's eye, the younger of
them determined to see the world for himself, in order,
as the sequel shows, that he might have a free hand,
and give loose reins to his passions. With a cold,
impertinent bluntness, he says to the father, whose
death he thus anticipates, "Father, give me the portion
of thy substance that falleth to me," a command
whose sharp, imperative tone shows but too plainly
the proud, masterful spirit of the youth. He respects
neither age nor law; for though the paternal estate
could be divided during the father's life, no son, much
less the younger, had any right to demand it. The
father grants the request, dividing "unto them," as it
reads, "his living;" for the same line which marks off
the portion of the younger marks out too that of the
elder son, though he holds his portion as yet only in
promise. Not many days after—for having found its
wings, the foolish bird is in haste to fly—the youth
gathers all together, and then takes his journey into
a far country. The down grades of life are generally
steep and short, and so one sentence is enough to
describe this descensus Averni, down which the youth
plunges so insanely: "He wasted his substance with
riotous living," scattering it, as the verb means, throwing
it away after low, illicit pleasures. "And when he
had spent all"—the "all" he had scrambled for and
gathered a short while before—"there arose a mighty
famine in that country; and he began to be in want;"
and so great were his straits, so remorseless the pangs
of hunger, that he was glad to attach himself to a
citizen of that country as swineherd, living out in the
fields with his drove, like the swineherds of Gadara.
But such was the pressure of the famine that his mere
pittance could not cope with famine prices, and again
and again he hungered to have his fill of the carob-pods,
which were dealt out statedly and sparingly to the
swine. But no man gave even these to him; he was
forgotten, as one already dead.
Such is the picture Jesus draws of the lost man, a
picture of abject misery and degradation. When the
sheep wandered it strayed unwittingly, blindly, getting
farther from its fellows and its fold even when
bleating vainly for them. When the drachma was lost
it did not lose itself, nor had it any consciousness that
it had dropped out of its proper environment. But in
the case of the lost man it was altogether different.
Here it is a wilful perversity, which breaks through the
restraints of home, tramples upon its endearments, and
throws up a blighted life, scarred and pealed amid the
husks and swine of a far country. And it is this
element of perversity, self-will, which explains, as
indeed it necessitates, another marked difference in
the parables. When the sheep and the drachma were
lost there was an eager search, as the shepherd followed
the wanderer over the mountain gullies, and the
woman with broom and lamp went after the lost coin.
But when the youth is lost, flinging himself away, the
father does not follow him, except in thought, and love,
and prayer. He sits "still in the house," nursing a
bitter grief, and the work on the farm goes on just
as usual, for the service of the younger brother would
probably be not much missed. And why does not the
father summon his servants, bidding them go after the
lost child, bringing him home, if necessary, by force?
Simply because such a finding would be no finding.
They might indeed carry the wanderer home, setting
down his feet by the familiar door; but of what use
is that if his heart is still wayward and his will rebellious?
Home would not be home to him; and with
his heart in the far country, he would walk even in
his father's fields and in his father's house as an alien,
a foreigner. And so all embassies, all messages would
be in vain; and even a father's love can do no more
than wait, patiently and prayerfully, in hopes that a
better spirit may yet come over him, and that some
rebound of feeling may bring him home, a humbled
penitent. The change comes at length, and the slow
morning dawns.
When the photographer wishes to develop the picture
that is hidden in the film of the sensitive plate he
carries it to a darkened room, and bathed in the developing
solution the latent image gradually appears,
even to the minutest details. It was so here; for
when in his extremest need, with the pinch of a fearful
hunger upon him, and the felt darkness of a painful
isolation surrounding him, there came into the prodigal's
soul a sweet picture of the far-away home, the home
which might still have been his but for his wantonness,
but which is his now only in memory. It is true his
first thoughts of that home were not very lofty; they
only crouched with the dogs under the father's table,
or hovered around the plentiful board of the servants,
attracted by the "bread enough and to spare." But such
is the natural association of ideas; the carob-pods of
the swine naturally suggest the bread of the servants,
while this in turn opens up all the chambers of the
father's house, reviving its half-faded images of happiness
and love, and awaking all the sweet memories
that sin had stifled and silenced. That it was so here,
the lower leading up to the higher thought, is evident
from the young man's soliloquy: "I will arise and go
to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have
sinned against Heaven and in thy sight: I am no more
worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy
hired servants." The hunger for the servants' bread
is all forgotten now, swallowed up in the hunger of
the soul, as it pines for the father's presence and for
the father's smile, longing for the lost Eden. The
very name "father" strikes with a strange music upon
his awakened and penitent soul, making him for the
time half-oblivious to his present wretchedness; and
as Memory recalls a bright but vanished past, Hope
peoples the dark sky with a heavenly host, who sing
a new Advent, the dawn of a heavenly day. An
Advent? Perhaps it was an Easter rather, with a
"resurrection from earth to things above," an Easter
whose anthem, in songs without end, was, "I will
arise and go to my father," that Resurgam of a new
and holier life.
No sooner is the "I will" spoken than there is a
reversing of all the wheels. The hands follow whither
the heart has gone; the feet shake off the dust of the
far country, retracing the steps they measured so
foolishly and lightly before; while the eyes, washed
by their bitter tears—
"Not backward are their glances bent,
But onward to the Father's house."
"And he arose and came to his father." He came
to himself first; and having found that better self, he
became conscious of the void he had not felt before.
For the first time he realizes how much the father
is to him, and how terrible the bereavement and loss
he inflicted upon himself when he put between that
father and himself the desert of an awful distance.
And as the bright memories of other days flash
up within his soul, like the converging rays of a
borealis, they all turn towards and centre in the father.
Servants, home, and loaves of bread alike speak of
him whose very shadow is brightness to the self-orphaned
child. He yearns for the father's presence
with a strange and intense yearning; and could that
presence be his again, even if he were nothing more
than a servant, with but casual interviews, hearing
his voice but in its commanding tones, he would be
content and happy.
And so he comes and seeks the father; will the
father relent and receive him? Can he overlook and
forgive the waywardness and wantonness which have
embittered his old age? Can he receive him back even
as a servant, a child who has scorned his authority,
slighted his love, and squandered his substance in
riotous living? Does the father say, "He has made his
own bed, and he must lie upon it; he has had his portion,
even to the swept-up crumbs, and there is nothing left
for him now"? No, for there is something left, a treasure
which he might scorn, indeed, but which he could
not throw away, even a heritage of love. And what a
picture the parable draws of the love that hopeth and
endureth all things! "But while he was yet afar off,
his father saw him, and was moved with compassion,
and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him." As the
moon in her revolutions lifts up the tides, drawing the
deep oceans to herself, so do the unsounded depths of
the father's heart turn towards the prodigal whose life
has set, dropping out of sight behind wildernesses of
darkness. Thought, prayer, pity, compassion, love flow
out towards the attraction they can no longer see.
Nay, it seems as if the father's vision were transfixed
riveted to the spot where the form of his erring lad
vanished out of sight; for no sooner has the youth
come within sight of the home, than the father's eyes,
made telescopic with love, discern him, and as if by
intuition, recognize him, even though his attire be mean
and tattered, and his step has no longer the lightness
of innocence nor the firmness of integrity. It is, it is
his child, the erring but now repenting child, and the
pent-up emotions of the father's soul rush out as in a
tumultuous freshet to meet him. He even "ran" to
meet him, all forgetful of the dignity of years, and
throwing himself upon his neck, he kissed him, not
either with the cold kiss of courtesy, but with the
warm, fervent kiss of love, as the intensive prefix of
the verb implies.
So far this scene of reconciliation has been as a dumb
show. The storm of emotion so interrupted the electric
flow of quiet thought and speech that no word was
spoken in the mutual embrace. When, however, the
power of speech returns the youth is the first to break
the silence. "Father," he said, repeating the words of
his mental resolve when in the far country, "I have
sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight: I am no more
worthy to be called thy son." It is no longer the sense
of physical need, but the deeper sense of guilt, that
now presses upon his soul. The moral nature, which
by the anodynes of sin had been thrown into a state of
coma, awakes to a vivid consciousness, and in the new
awakening, in the broadening light of the new dawn,
he sees one thing only, and that is his sin, a sin which
has thrown its blackness over the wasted years, which
has embittered a father's heart, and which cast its
shadow even into heaven itself. Nor is it the conviction
of sin only; there is a full and frank confession of
it, with no attempt at palliation or excuse. He does
not seek to gloss it over, but smiting his breast with
bitter reproaches, he confesses his sin with "a humble,
lowly, penitent, and obedient heart," hoping for the
mercy and forgiveness he is conscious he does not
deserve. Nor does he hope in vain. Even before the
confession is completed, the absolution is spoken,
virtually at least; for without allowing the youth to
finish his sentence, in which he offers to renounce his
sonship and to accept a menial position, the father calls
to the servants, "Bring forth quickly the best robe,
and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and
shoes on his feet: and bring the fatted calf, and kill it,
and let us eat and make merry." In this peal of imperatives
we detect the rapid beating of the father's
heart, the loving, eager haste to wipe out all the sad
marks that sin has left. In the luminous atmosphere
of the father's love the youth is no more the prodigal;
he is as one transfigured; and now that the chrysalis
has left the mire, and crept up into the sunlight, it must
have a dress befitting its new summer life, wings of
gauze, and robes of rainbow hues. The best, or "the
first robe" as it is in the Greek, must be brought out
for him; a signet-ring, the pledge of authority, must
be put upon his hand; shoes, the badge of freedom,
must be found for the tired and bared feet; while for
the merry-making which is extemporized, the domestic
festa which is the crown of these rejoicings, the fatted
calf, which was in reserve for some high festival, must
be killed. And all this is spoken in a breath, in a sort
of bewilderment, the ecstasy of an excessive joy; and
forgetting that the simple command is enough for
servants, the master must needs tell out his joy to
them: "For this my son was dead, and is alive again;
he was lost, and is found."
If the three parables were all through coincident, the
parable of the Prodigal Son should close at this point,
the curtain dropping over the festive scene, where songs,
and music, and the rhythm of the dance are the outward
and weak expressions of the father's joy over the son
who comes back from the far country, as one alive from
the dead. But Jesus has another purpose; He must
not only plead the cause of the outcast and the low,
setting open for them the door of mercy and of hope;
He must also rebuke and silence the unreasoning
murmur of the Pharisees and scribes—which He does
in the picture of the Elder Brother. Coming from the
field, the heir is surprised to find the whole house given
up to an impromptu feast. He hears the sounds of
merriment and music, but its strains fall strange and
harsh upon his ear. What can it mean? Why was
he not consulted? Why should his father thus take
occasion of his absence in the fields to invite his friends
and neighbours? The proud spirit chafes under the
slight, and calling one of the servants, he asks what
it all means. The answer is not reassuring, for it only
perplexes and pains him the more: "Thy brother is
come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because
he hath received him safe and sound"—an answer
which does but deepen his displeasure, turning his
sullenness to anger. "And would not go in." They
may end the feast, as they began it, without him. The
festive joy is something foreign to his nature; it awakes
but feelings of repulsion, and all its music is to him a
grating discord, a Miserere.
But let us not be too severe upon the elder brother.
He was not perfect, by any means, but in any appraisement
of his character there are certain veinings of
worth and nobleness that must not be omitted. We
have already seen how, in the division of the father's
goods, when he divided unto them his living, while the
younger took away his portion, and swiftly scattered it
in riotous living, the elder brother took no advantage
of the deed of gift. He did not dispossess the father,
securing for himself the paternal estate. He put it back
into his father's hands, content with the filial relation
of dependence and obedience. The father's word was
still his law. He was the dutiful son; and when he
said, "These many years do I serve thee, and I never
transgressed a commandment of thine," the boast was
no exaggeration but the statement of a simple truth.
Compared with the life of the prodigal, the life of the
elder brother had been consistent, conscientious, and
moral. Where, then, was his failure, his lack? It was
just here, in the lack of heart, the absence of affection.
He bore the name of a son, but he carried the heart of
a servant. His nature was servile, rather than filial;
and while his hands offered a service unremitting and
precise, it was the cold service of an impassive mechanism.
Instead of love passing out in living heart-throbs,
suffusing all the life with its warmth, and clothing it in
its own iridescent colouring, it was only a metallic
mainspring called "duty." The father's presence is
not the delight to him; he does not once mention that
tender name in which the repenting one finds such a
heaven; and when he draws the picture of his highest
happiness, the feast of his earthly Walhalla, "my
friends" are there, though the father is excluded.
And so between the father and the elder brother,
with all this seeming nearness, there was a distance
of reserve, and where the voices of affection and of
constant communion should have been heard there was
too often a vacancy of silence. It takes a heart to read
a heart; and since this was wanting in the elder
brother, he could not know the heart of the father;
he could not understand his wild joy. He had no
patience with his younger brother; and had he received
him back at all, it would have been with a
haughty stiffness, and with a lowering in his looks,
which should have been at once a rebuke for the past
and a warning for the future. The father looked on
his son's repentance; the elder brother did not regard
the repentance at all; perhaps he had not heard of it,
or perhaps he could not understand it; it was something
that lay out of the plane of his consciousness.
He saw the sin only, how the younger son had devoured
his living with harlots; and so he was severe, exacting,
bitter. He would have brought out the sackcloth, but
nothing more; while as to the music and the fatted
calf, they would appear to his loveless soul as an absurd
anachronism.
But far removed as he is from the father's spirit, he
is still his son; and though the father rejoices more
over the younger than over the elder, as was but
natural, he loves them both with an equal love. He
cannot bear that there should be any estrangement
now; and he even leaves the festive throng, and the
son he has welcomed and robed, and going out, he begs,
he entreats the elder brother to pass in, and to throw
himself into the general joy. And when the elder son
complains that, with all his years of obedient, dutiful
service, he has never had even a kid, much less a fatted
calf, on which to feast his friends, the father says,
lovingly, but chidingly, "Son"—or "Child," rather, for
it is a term of greater endearment than the "son" he
had just used before—"thou art ever with me, and all
that is mine is thine. But it was meet to make merry
and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive
again; and was lost, and is found." He plays upon the
"child" as upon a harp, that he may drive away the
evil spirits of jealousy and anger, and that even within
the servant-heart he may awake some chords, if only
the far-off echoes of a lost childhood. He reminds him
how vastly different their two positions are. For him
there has been no break in their intercourse; the
father's house has been his home; he has had the free
range of all: to the younger that home has been nothing
but a distant memory, with a waste of dreary years
between. He has been heir and lord of all; and so
completely have father and son been identified, their
separate personalities merged the one in the other, that
the possessive pronouns, the "mine" and the "thine,"
are used interchangeably. The younger returns penniless,
disinherited by his own misdeed. Nay, he has
been as one dead; for what was the far country but a
vault of slimy things, the sepulchre of a dead soul?
"And should we not make merry and be glad, when
thy brother" (it is the antithesis to "thy son" of
ver. 30, a mutual "thy") "comes back to us as one
raised from the dead?"
Whether the father's pleading prevailed, or not, we
are not told. We can but hope it did, and that the
elder brother, with his asperities all dissolved, and his
jealousies removed, did pass within to share the general
joy, and to embrace a lost brother. Then he too would
know the sweetness of forgiveness, and taught by the
erring but now forgiven one, he too would learn to
spell out more correctly that deep word "father," the
word he had stammered at, and perhaps misspelt
before, as the fatherhood and the brotherhood became
to him not ideas merely, but bright realities.
Gathering up now the lessons of the parables, they
show us (1) the Divine grief over sin. In the first
two this is the prominent thought, the sorrow of the
loser. God is represented as losing that which is of
worth to Him, something serviceable, and therefore
valuable. In the third parable the same idea is suggested
rather than stated; but the thought is carried
farther, for now it is more than a loss, it is a bereavement
the father suffers. The retreating form of the
wanderer throws back its shadow across the father's
home and heart, a shadow that congeals and stays, and
that is darker than the shadow of Death itself. It is
the Divine Grief, whose depths we cannot sound, and
from whose mystery we must stand back, not one
stone's cast, but many.
The parables show (2) the sad state of the sinner.
In the case of the Lost Sheep and the Lost Coin we
see his perfect helplessness to recover himself, and
that he must remain lost, unless One higher than himself
undertakes his cause, and "help is laid upon One
that is mighty." It is the third parable, however,
which especially emphasizes the downward course of
sin and the deepening wretchedness of the sinner.
The flowery path leads on to a valley of desolation.
The way of transgressors is ever a downward path;
and let an evil spirit possess a soul, it hurries him
directly down the steep place, where, unless the flight
be checked, a certain destruction awaits him. Sin
degrades and isolates. Want, sorrow, penury, and
pain are but a part of its viperous brood, and he who
plays with sin, calling it freedom, will find his rod
blossom with bitter fruit, or he will see it grow into
a serpent with poison in its fangs.
The parables show (3) God's willingness and eagerness
to save. The long and eager search after the
lost sheep and the lost coin show, though but imperfectly,
the supreme efforts God makes for man's
salvation. He is not left to wander unrebuked and
unsought. There is no forbidden path along which
men insanely rush, but some bright angel stands beside
it, warning back the sinner, it may be with a drawn
sword, some "terror of the Lord," or it may be with
a cross, the sacrifice of an infinite love. Though He
could send His armies to destroy, He sends His messengers
to win us back to obedience and to love—Conscience,
Memory, Reason, the Word, the Spirit, and
even the well-beloved Son. Nor is the great search
discontinued, until it has proved to be in vain.
The parables show (4) the eager interest Heaven
takes in man's salvation, and the deep joy there is
among the angels over his repentance and recovery.
And so the three parables close with a Jubilate. The
shepherd rejoices over his recovered sheep more than
over the ninety and nine which went not astray; the
woman rejoices over the one coin found more than
over the nine which were not lost. And this is perfectly
natural. The joy of acquisition is more than
the joy of possession; and as the crest of the waves
is thrown up above the mean sea-level by the alternate
depths of depression, so the very sorrow and grief
over the loss and bereavement, now that the lost is
found and the dead is alive, throw up the emotions
beyond their mean level, up to the summits of an
exuberant joy. And whether Jesus meant, by the
ninety and nine just persons who needed no repentance
the unfallen intelligences of heaven, or whether, as
Godet thinks, He referred to those who under the
Old Covenant were sincere doers of the Law, and
who found their righteousness therein (Deut. vi. 25),
it is still true, and a truth stamped with a Divine
"Verily," that more than the joy of Heaven over these
is its joy over the sinner that repented, the dead who
now was alive, and the lost who now was found!
CHAPTER XXII.
THE ETHICS OF THE GOSPEL.
Whatever of truth there may be in the charge
of "other-worldliness," as brought against the
modern exponents of Christianity, such a charge could
not even be whispered against its Divine Founder. It
is just possible that the Church had been gazing too
steadfastly up into heaven, and that she had not been
studying the science of the "Humanities" as zealously
as she ought, and as she has done since; but Jesus did
not allow even heavenly things to obliterate or to blur
the lines of earthly duty. We might have supposed
that coming down from heaven, and familiar with its
secrets, He would have much to say about the New
World, its position in space, its society and manner of
life. But no; Jesus says little about the life which is
to come; it is the life which now is that engrosses His
attention, and almost monopolizes His speech. Life
with Him was not in the future tense; it was one
living present, real, earnest, but fugitive. Indeed, that
future was but the present projected over into eternity.
And so Jesus, founding the kingdom of God on earth,
and summoning all men into it, if he did not bring
commandments written and lithographed, like Moses,
yet He did lay down principles and rules of conduct,
marking out, in all departments of human life, the
straight and white lines of duty, the eternal "ought."
It is true that Jesus Himself did not originate much in
this department of Christian ethics, and probably for
most of His sayings we can find a symphony struck
from the pages of earlier, and perhaps heathen moralists;
but in the wide realm of Right there can be no new law.
Principles may be evolved, interpreted; they cannot be
created. Right, like Truth, holds the "eternal years;"
and through the millenniums before Christ, as through
the millenniums after, Conscience, that "ethical intellect"
which speaks to all men if they will but draw near to
her Sinai and listen, spoke to some in clear, authoritative
tones. But if Jesus did no more, He gathered up
the "broken lights" of earth, the intermittent flashes
which had played on the horizon before, into one
steady electric beam, which lights up our human life
outward to its farthest reach, and onward to its farthest
goal.
In the mind of Jesus conduct was the outward and
visible expression of some inner invisible force. As
our earth moves round its elliptic in obedience to the
subtle attractions of other outlying worlds, so the orbits
of human lives, whether symmetrical or eccentric, are
determined mainly by the two forces' Character and
Circumstance. Conduct is character in motion; for
men do what they themselves are, i.e. as far as circumstances
will allow. And it is just at this point the
ethical teaching of Jesus begins. He recognizes the
imperium in imperio, that hidden world of thought,
feeling, sentiment, and desire which, itself invisible, is
the mould in which things visible are cast. And so
Jesus, in His influence upon men, worked outward from
within. He sought, not reform, but regeneration,
moulding the life by changing the character; for, to
use His own figure, how could the thorn produce
grapes, or the thistle figs?
And so when Jesus was asked, "What shall I do
that I may inherit eternal life?" He gave an answer
which at first sight seemed to ignore the question
entirely. He said no word about "doing," but threw
the questioner back upon "being," asking what was
written in the law: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy
God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with
all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour
as thyself" (x. 27). And as Jesus here makes
Love the condition of eternal life, its sine qua non, so
He makes it the one all-embracing duty, the fulfilling
of the law. If a man love God supremely, and his
neighbour as himself, he cannot do more; for all other
commandments are included in these, the sub-sections
of the greater law. Jesus thus sought to create a new
force, hiding it within the heart, as the mainspring of
duty, providing for that duty both aim and inspiration.
We call it a "new" force, and such it was practically;
for though it was, in a way, embedded in their law, it
was mainly as a dead letter, so much so that when
Jesus bade His disciples to "love one another" He
called it a "new commandment." Here, then, we find
what is at once the rule of conduct and its motive. In
the new system of ethics, as taught and enforced by
Jesus, and illustrated by His life, the Law of Love was
to be supreme. It was to be to the moral world what
gravitation is to the natural, a silent but mighty and
all-pervasive force, throwing its spell upon the isolated
actions of the common day, giving impulse and direction
to the whole current of life, ruling alike the little
eddies of thought and the wider sweeps of benevolent
activities. To Jesus "the soul of improvement was the
improvement of the soul." He laid His hand upon the
heart's innermost shrine, building up that unseen temple
four-square, like the city of the Apocalypse, and lighting
up all its windows with the warm, iridescent light
of love.
With this, then, as the foundation-tone, running
through all the spaces and along all the lines of life, the
thoughts, desires, words, and acts must all harmonize
with love; and if they do not, if they strike a note that
is foreign to its key-tone, it breaks the harmony at
once, throwing jars and discords into the music. Such
a breach of the harmonic law would be called a mistake,
but when it is a breach of Christ's moral law it is
more than a mistake, it is a wrong.
Before passing to the outer life Jesus pauses, in this
Gospel, to correct certain dissonances of mind and soul,
of thought and feeling, which put us in a wrong attitude
towards our fellows. First of all, He forbids us to sit
in judgment upon others. He says, "Judge not, and
ye shall not be judged: and condemn not, and ye shall
not be condemned" (vi. 37). This does not mean that
we close our eyes with a voluntary blindness, working
our way through life like moles; nor does it mean that
we keep our opinions in a state of flux, not allowing
them to crystallize into thought, or to harden into the
leaden alphabets of human speech. There is within us
all a moral sense, a miniature Sinai, and we can no
more suppress its thunders or sheath its lightnings than
we can hush the breakers of the shore into silence, or
suppress the play of the Northern Lights. But in that
unconscious judgment we pass upon the actions of
others, with our condemnation of the wrong, we pass
our sentence upon the wrong-doer, mentally ejecting
him from the courtesies and sympathies of life, and
if we allow him to live at all, compelling him to live
apart, as a moral incurable. And so, with our hatred
of the sin, we learn to hate the sinner, and calling
from him both our charities and our hopes, we hurl
him down into some little Gehenna of our own. But
it is exactly this feeling, this kind of judgment, the
Law of Love condemns. We may "hate the sin, and
yet the sinner love," keeping him still within the circle
of our sympathies and our hopes. It is not meet that
we should be merciless who have ourselves experienced
so much of mercy; nor is it for us to hale others off
to prison, or ruthlessly to exact the uttermost farthing,
when we ourselves at the very best are erring and
unfaithful servants, standing so much and so often in
need of forgiveness.
But there is another "judging" that the command of
Christ condemns, and that is the hasty and the false
judgments we pass on the motives and lives of others.
How apt we are to depreciate the worth of others who
do not happen to belong to our circle! We look so
intently for their faults and foibles that we become blind
to their excellences. We forget that there is some
good in every person, some that we can see if we only
look, and we may be always sure that there is some we
cannot see. We should not prejudge. We should not
form our opinion upon an ex parte statement. We
should not leave the heart too open to the flying
germs of rumour, and we should discount heavily
any damaging, disparaging statement. We should not
allow ourselves to draw too many inferences, for he
who is given to drawing inferences draws largely on his
imagination. We should think slowly in our judgment
of others, for he who leaps to conclusions generally
takes his leap in the dark. We should learn to wait for
the second thoughts, for they are often truer than the
first. Nor is it wise to use too much "the spur of the
moment;" it is a sharp weapon, and is apt to cut both
ways. We should not interpret others' motives by
our own feelings, nor should we "suppose" too much.
Above all, we should be charitable, judging of others
as we judge ourselves. Perhaps the beam that is in a
brother's eye is but the magnified mote that is in our
own. It is better to learn the art of appreciating than
that of depreciating; for though the one is easy, and the
other difficult, yet he who looks for the good, and exalts
the good, will make the very wilderness to blossom and
be glad; while he who depreciates everything outside
his own little self impoverishes life, and makes the very
garden of the Lord one arid, barren desert.
Again, Jesus condemns pride, as being a direct contravention
of His Law of Love. Love rejoices in the
possessions and gifts of others, nor would she care
to add to her own if it must be at the cost of theirs.
Love is an equalizer, levelling up the inequalities the
accidents of life have made, and preferring to stand on
some lower level with her fellows than to sit solitary
on some lofty and cold Olympus. Pride, on the other
hand, is a repelling, separating force. Scorning those
who occupy the lower places, she is contented only on
her Olympian summit, where she keeps herself warm
with the fires of her self-adulation. The proud heart
is the loveless heart, one huge inflation; if she carries
others at all, it is only as a steadying ballast; she will
not hesitate to throw them over and throw them down,
as mere dust or sand, if their fall will help her to rise.
Pride, like the eagle, builds her nest on high, bringing
forth whole broods of loveless, preying passions, hatreds,
jealousies, and hypocrisies. Pride sees no brotherhood
in man; humanity to her means no more than so many
serfs to wait upon her pleasure, or so many victims for
her sacrifice! And how Jesus loved to prick these
bubbles of airy nothings, showing up these vanities as
the very essence of selfishness! He did not spare His
words, even though they stung, when "He marked how
they chose out the chief seats" at the friendly supper
(xiv. 7); and one of His bitter "woes" He hurled at
the Pharisees just because "they loved the chief seats
in the synagogues," worshipping Self, when they pretended
to worship God, so making the house of God
itself an arena for the sport and play of their proud
ambitions. "He that is least among you all," He said,
when rebuking the disciples' lust for pre-eminence,
"the same is great." And such is Heaven's law:
humility is the cardinal virtue, the "strait" and low
gate which opens into the very heart of the kingdom.
Humility is the one and the only way of heavenly
preferments and eternal promotions; for in the life to
come there will be strange contrasts and inversions,
as he that exalted himself is now humbled, and he that
humbled himself is now exalted (xiv. 11).
Tracing now the lines of duty as they run across the
outer life, we find them following the same directions.
As the golden milestone of the Forum marked the centre
of the empire, towards which its roads converged, and
from which all distances were measured, so in the
Christian commonwealth Jesus makes Love the capital,
the central, controlling power; while at the focal point
of all the duties He sets up His Golden Rule, which
gives direction to all the paths of human conduct:
"And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye
also to them likewise" (vi. 31). In this general law
we have what we might call the ethical compass, for it
embraces within its circle the "whole duty of man"
towards his fellow; and it only needs an adjusted
conscience, like the delicately poised needle, and the
line of the "ought" can be read off at once, even in
those uncertain latitudes where no specific law is found.
Are we in doubt as to what course of conduct to pursue,
as to the kind of treatment we should accord to our
fellow? we can always find the via recta by a short
mental transposition. We have only to put ourselves
in his place, and to imagine our relative positions
reversed, and from the "would" of our supposed
desires and hopes we read the "ought" of present
duty. The Golden Rule is thus a practical exposition
of the Second Commandment, investing our neighbour
with the same luminous atmosphere we throw about
ourselves, the atmosphere of a benevolent, beneficent
love.
But beyond this general law Jesus gives us a prescript
as to the treatment of enemies. He says, "Love your
enemies, do good to them that hate you, bless them that
curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you. To
him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the
other: and from him that taketh away thy cloak withhold
not thy coat also" (vi. 27-29). In considering these injunctions
we must bear in mind that the word "enemy" in
its New Testament meaning had not the wide and general
signification it has to-day. It then stood in antithesis
to the word "neighbour," as in Matt. v. 43; and as the
word "neighbour" to the Jew included those, and those
only, who were of the Hebrew race and faith, the word
"enemy" referred to those outside, who were aliens
from the commonwealth of Israel. To the Hebrew
mind it stood as a synonym for "Gentile." In these
words, then, we find, not a general and universal law,
but the special instructions as to their course of conduct
in dealing with the Gentiles, to whom they would
shortly be sent. No matter what their treatment, they
must bear it with an uncomplaining patience. Stripped,
beaten, they must not resist, much less retaliate; they
must not allow any vindictive feelings to possess them,
nor must they take in their own hot hand the sword of
a "sweet revenge." Nay, they must even bear a good-will
towards their enemies, repaying their hate with
love, their spite and enmity with prayers, and their
curses with sincerest benedictions.
It will be observed that no mention is made of repentance
or of restitution: without waiting for these,
or even expecting them, they must be prepared to forgive
and prepared to love their enemies, even while
they are shamefully treating them. And what else,
under the circumstances, could they have done? If
they appealed to the secular power it would simply
have been an appeal to a heathen court, from enemies
to enemies. And as to waiting for repentance, their
"enemies" are only treating them as enemies, aliens
and foreigners, wronging them, it is true, but ignorantly,
and not through any personal malice. They must forgive
just for the same reason that Jesus forgave His
Roman murderers, "for they know not what they do."
We cannot, therefore, take these injunctions, which
evidently had a special and temporary application, as
the literal rule of conduct towards those who are unfriendly
or hostile to us. This, however, is plain, that
even our enemies, whose enmity is directly personal
rather than sectional or racial, are not to be excluded
from the Law of Love. We must bear them neither
hatred nor resentment; we must guard our hearts
sacredly from all malevolent, vindictive feelings. We
must not be our own avenger, taking vengeance upon
our adversaries, as we let loose the barking Cerberus
to track and run them down. All such feelings are
contrary to the Law of Love, and so are contraband,
entirely foreign to the heart that calls itself Christian.
But with all this we are not to meet all sorts of injuries
and wrongs without protest or resistance. We cannot
condone a wrong without being accomplices in the
wrong. To defend our property and life is just as
much our duty as it was the wisdom and the duty of
those to whom Jesus spoke to offer an uncomplaining
cheek to the Gentile smiter. Not to do this is to encourage
crime, and to put a premium upon evil. Nor
is it inconsistent with a true love to seek to punish,
by lawful means, the wrong-doer. Justice here is the
highest type of mercy, and pains and penalties have
a remedial virtue, taming the passions which had grown
too wild, or straightening the conscience that had
become warped.
And so Jesus, speaking of the "offences," the occasions
of stumbling that would come, said, "If thy
brother sin, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him"
(xvii. 3). It is not the patient, silent acquiescence now.
No, we must rebuke the brother who has sinned against
us and wronged us. And if this is vain, we must tell
it to the Church, as St. Matthew completes the injunction
(xviii. 17); and if the offender will not hear the
Church, he must be cast out, ejected from their fellowship,
and becoming to their thought as a heathen or a
publican. The wrong, though it is a brother who does
it, must not be glossed over with the enamel of a
euphemism; nor must it be hushed up, veiled by a
silence. It must be brought to the light of day;
it must be rebuked and punished; nor must it be
forgiven until it is repented of. Let there be, however,
a genuine repentance, and there must be on our part
the prompt and complete forgiveness of the wrong.
We must set it back out of our sight, amongst the forgotten
things. And if the wrong be repeated, if the
repentance be repeated, the forgiveness must be repeated
too, not only for seven times seven offences,
but for seventy times seven. Nor is it left to our option
whether we forgive or no; it is a duty, absolute and
imperative; we must forgive, as we ourselves hope to
be forgiven.
Again, Jesus treats of the true use of wealth. He
Himself assumed a voluntary poverty. Silver and
gold had He none; indeed, the only coin that we read
He handled was the borrowed Roman penny, with
Cæsar's inscription upon it. But while Jesus Himself
preferred poverty, choosing to live on the outflowing
charities of those who felt it both a privilege and an
honour to minister to Him of their substance, yet He
did not condemn wealth. It was not a wrong per se.
In the Old Testament it had been regarded as a sign
of Heaven's special favour, and amongst the rich Jesus
Himself found some of His warmest, truest friends—friends
who came nobly to the front when some who
had made louder professions had ignominiously fled.
Nor did Jesus require the renunciation of wealth as the
condition of discipleship. He did not advocate that
fictitious égalité of the Commune. He sought rather to
level up than to level down. It is true He did say to
the ruler, "Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto
the poor;" but this was an exceptional caseThis demand was made
from the Apostles (xii. 33), but not from others
beyond the Apostolic circle.
and
probably it was put before him as a test command, like
the command to Abraham that he should sacrifice his
son—which was not intended to be carried out literally,
but only as far as the intention, the will. There was
no such demand made from Nicodemus, and when
Zacchæus testified that it had been his practice (the
present tense would indicate a retrospective rather than
a prospective rule) to give one-half of his income to the
poor, Jesus does not find fault with his division, and
demand the other half; He commends him, and passes
him up, right over the excommunication of the rabbis,
among the true sons of Abraham. Jesus did not pose
as an assessor; He left men to divide their own inheritance.
It was enough for Him if He could put within
the soul this new force, the "moral dynamic" of love
to God and man; then the outward relations would
shape themselves, regulated as by some automatic
action.
But with all this, Jesus recognized the peculiar temptations
and dangers of wealth. He saw how riches
tend to engross and monopolize the thought, diverting
it from higher things, and so He classed riches with
cares, pleasures, which choke the Word of life, and make
it unfruitful. He saw how wealth tended to selfishness;
that it acted as an astringent, closing up the
valves of the heart, and thus shutting down the outflow
of its sympathies. And so Jesus, whenever He spoke
of wealth, spoke in words of warning: "How hardly
shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of
God!" He said, when He saw how the rich ruler set
wealth before faith and hope. And singularly enough,
the only times Jesus, in His parables, lifts up the curtain
of doom it is to tell of "certain rich" men—the one,
whose soul swung selfishly between his banquets and
his barns, and who, alas! had laid up no treasures in
heaven; and the other, who exchanged his purple and
fine linen for the folds of enveloping flames, and the
sumptuous fare of earth for eternal want, the eternal
hunger and thirst of the after-retribution!
What, then, is the true use of wealth? and how
may we so hold it that it shall prove a blessing, and
not a bane? In the first place, we must hold it in our
hand, and not lay it up in the heart. We must possess
it; it must not possess us. We may give our thought,
moderately, to it, but our affections must not be allowed
to centre upon it. We read that the Pharisees "were
lovers of money" (xvi. 14), and that argentic passion
was the root of all their evils. The love of money, like
an opiate, little by little, steals over the whole frame,
deadening the sensibility, perverting the judgment, and
weakening the will, producing a kind of intoxication,
in which the better reason is lost, and the confused
speech can only articulate, with Shylock, "My ducats,
my ducats!" The true way of holding wealth is to
hold it in trust, recognizing God's ownership and our
stewardship. Bank it up, give it no outlet, and your
wealth becomes a stagnant pool, breeding malaria and
burning fevers; but open the channel, give it an outlet,
and it will bring life and music to a thousand lower
vales, increasing the happiness of others, and increasing
your own the more. And so Jesus strikes in with
His frequent imperative, "Give"—"Give, and it shall be
given unto you; good measure, pressed down, shaken
together, running over, shall they give into your
bosom" (vi. 38). And this is the true use of wealth,
its consecration to the needs of humanity. And may
we not say that here is its truest pleasure? He who
has learned the art of generous giving, who makes his
life one large-hearted benevolence, living for others and
not for himself, has acquired an art that is beautiful
and Divine, an art that turns the deserts into gardens
of the Lord, and that peoples the sky overhead with
unseen singing Ariels. Giving and living are heavenly
synonyms, and he who giveth most liveth best.
But not from the words of Jesus alone do we read
off the lines of our duty. He is in His own Person
a Polar Star, to whom all the meridians of our round
life turn, and from whom they emanate. His life is
thus our law, His example our pattern. Do we wish
to learn what are the duties of children to their parents?
the thirty silent years of Nazareth speak in answer.
They show us how the Boy Jesus is in subjection to
His parents, giving to them a perfect obedience, a
perfect trust, and a perfect love. They show us the
Divine Youth, still shut in within that narrow circle,
ministering to that circle, by hard manual toil becoming
the stay of that fatherless home. Do we wish to learn
our duties to the State? See how Jesus walked in
a land across which the Roman eagle had cast its
shadow! He did not preach a crusade against the
barbarian invaders. He recognized in their presence
and power the ordination of God—that they had been
sent to chastise a lapsed Israel. And so Jesus spoke
no word of denunciation, no fiery word, which might
have proved the spark of a revolution. He took
Himself away from the multitudes when they would
by force make Him King. He spoke in respectful terms
of the powers that were; He even justified the payment
of tribute to Cæsar, acknowledging his lordship, while
at the same time He spoke of the higher tribute to
the great Over-Lord, even God. When upon His trial
for life or death, before a Roman tribunal, He even
stayed to apologize for Pilate's weakness, casting the
heavier sin back on the hierarchy that had bought
Him and delivered Him up; while upon the cross,
amid its untold agonies, though His lips were glued
by a fearful thirst, He opened them to breathe a last
prayer for His Roman executioners: "Father, forgive
them; for they know not what they do."
But was Jesus, then, an alien from His kinsmen
according to the flesh? Was patriotism to Him an
unknown force? Did He know nothing of love of
country, that inspiration which has turned common
men into heroes and martyrs, that love which oceans
cannot quench, nor distance weaken, which throws
an auroral brightness around the most sterile shores,
and which makes the emigrant sick with a strange
Heimweh? Did the Son of man, the ideal Man, know
nothing at all of this? He did know it, and know it
well. He identified Himself thoroughly with His
people; He placed Himself under the law, observing
its rites and ceremonies. After the Childhood-exile in
Egypt, He scarcely passed out of the sacred bounds;
no storms of rough persecution could dislodge the
heavenly Dove, or send Him wheeling off from His
native hills. And if He did not preach rebellion, He
did preach that righteousness which gives to a nation
its truest wealth and widest liberty. He did denounce
the Pharisaic shams, the hollow hypocrisies, which had
eaten away the nation's heart and strength. And how
He loved Jerusalem, forgetting His own triumph in
the vision of her humiliation, and weeping for the
desolations which were coming sure and fast! This,
the Holy City, was the centre to which He ever
returned, and to which He gave His last bequest—His
cross and His grave. Nay, when the cross is taken
down, and the grave is vacant, He lingers to give His
Apostles their commission; and when He bids them,
"Go ye out into all the world," He adds, "beginning
at Jerusalem." The Son of man is the Son of David
still, and within His deep love for humanity at large
was a peculiar love for His "own," as the ark itself
was enshrined within the Holy of holies.
And so we might traverse the whole ethical domain,
and we should find no duty which is not enforced or
suggested by the words or the life of the great Teacher.
As Dr. Dorner says, "There is only one morality;
the original of it is in God; the copy of it is in the
Man of God." Happy is He who sees this Polar Star,
whose light shines clear and calm above the rush of
human years and the ebbs and flows of human life!
Happier still is he who shapes his course by it, who
reads off all his bearings from its light! He who
builds his life after the Divine model, reading the
Christ-life into his own, will build up another city of
God on earth, four-square and compact together, a
city of peace, because a city of righteousness and a
city of love.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE ESCHATOLOGY OF THE GOSPEL.
Coifi, in his parable to the thanes and nobles of
the North Humber country, likened the present
life of man to the flight of a sparrow through one of
their lighted halls, coming out of the night, and then
disappearing in the dark winter whence it came; and
he asked for Christianity a candid hearing, if perhaps
she might tell the secrets of the beyond. And so
indeed she does, lighting up the "dark winter" with
a bright, though a partial apocalypse. It is not our
purpose to enter into a general discussion of the
subject; our task is simply to arrest the beams of
inspired light hiding within this Gospel, and by a sort
of spectrum analysis to read from them what they are
permitted to reveal. And—
1. The Gospel teaches that the grave is not the end
of life. It may seem as if we were stating but a
truism in saying this; yet if a truism, it perhaps has
not been allowed its due place in our thought, and its
restatement may not be altogether a superfluous word.
We cannot study the life of Jesus without noticing that
His views of earth were not the views of men in
general. To them this world was everything; to
possess it, even in some infinitesimal quantity, was their
supreme ambition; and though in their better, clearer
moments they caught glimpses of worlds other than
their own, yet to their distant vision they were as the
twinkling stars of the azure, far off and cold, soon
losing themselves in the haze of unreality, or setting in
the shadows of the imposing earth. To Jesus earth
was but a fragment of a vaster whole, a fragment
whose substances were but the shadows of higher,
heavenlier realities. Nor were these outlying spaces
to His mind voids of silence, a "dark inane," without
life or thought; they were peopled with intelligences
whose personalities were as distinctly marked as is this
human Ego, and whose movements, unweighted by the
gyves of flesh, seemed subtle and swift as thought
itself. With one of these worlds Jesus was perfectly
familiar. With heaven, which was the abode of His
Father and innumerable hosts of angels, He was in
close and constant correspondence, and the frequent
prayer, the frequent upward looks tell us how near and
how intensely real the heavenly places were to Him.
But in the mind of Jesus this empyrean of happiness
and light had its antipodes of woe and darkness, a
penal realm of fearful shadow, and which, borrowing the
language of the city, He called the Gehenna of burning.
Such were the two invisible realms, lying away from
earth, yet closely touching it from opposite directions,
and to one or other of which all the paths of human
life turned, to find their goal and their self-chosen
destiny.
And not only so, but the transition from the Seen
to the Unseen was not to Jesus the abrupt and total
change that it seems to man. To us the dividing-line
is both dark and broad. It seems to us a transmigration
to some new and strange world, where we must begin
life de novo. To Jesus the line was narrow, like one of
the imaginary meridians of earth, the "here" shading off
into the "hereafter," while both were but the hemispheres
of one round life. And so Jesus did not often speak of
"death;" that was too human a word. He preferred
the softer names of "sleep" or "exodus," thus making
death the quickener of life, or likening it to a
triumphal march from bondage to liberty. Nor was "the
Valley of the Shadow" to Jesus a strange, unfamiliar
place. He knew all its secrets, all its windings. It
was His own territory, where His will was supreme.
Again and again He throws a commanding voice across
the valley, a voice which goes reverberating among
the heights beyond, and instantly the departed spirit
retraces its steps, to animate again the cold clay it had
forsaken. "He is not the God of the dead, but of the
living," said Jesus, as He claimed for Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob an existence altogether apart from the
crumbling dust of Hebron; and as we see Moses and
Elias coming to the Mount of Transfiguration, we see
that the departed have not so far departed as to take
no interest in earthly things, and as not to hear the
strike of earthly hours. And how clearly this is seen
in the resurrection life of Jesus, with which this
Gospel closes! Death and the Grave have done their
worst to Him, but how little is that worst! how
insignificant the blank it makes in the Divine Life!
The few hours in the grave were but a semibreve
rest in the music of that Life; the Easter morning
struck a fresh bar, and the music went on, in the higher
spaces, it is true, but in the same key and in the same
sweet strain. And just so is it with all human life;
"the grave is not our goal." Conditions and circumstances
will of necessity change, as the mortal puts on
immortality, but the life itself will be one and the same
life, here amid things visible and temporal, and there
amid the invisible and eternal.
2. The Gospel shows in what respects the conditions
of the after-life will be changed. In chapter xx. 27 we
read how that the Sadducees came to Jesus, tempting
Him. They were the cold materialists of the age,
denying the existence of spirits, and so denying the
resurrection. They put before Him an extreme, though
not impossible case, of a woman who had been the wife,
successively, of seven brethren; and they ask, with the
ripple of an inward laugh in their question, "In the
resurrection therefore whose wife of them shall she
be?" Jesus answered, "The sons of this world marry,
and are given in marriage: but they that are accounted
worthy to attain to that world, and the resurrection
from the dead, neither marry, nor are given in marriage:
for neither can they die any more: for they are equal
unto the angels; and are sons of God, being sons of the
resurrection." It will be observed how Jesus plays
with the word around which the Sadducean mind
revolves. To them marriage was a key-word which
locked up the gates of an after-life, and threw back the
resurrection among the impossibilities and absurdities.
But Jesus takes up their key-word, and turning it
round and round in His speech, He makes it unlock
and open the inner soul of these men, showing how,
in spite of their intellectuality, the drift of their thoughts
was but low and sensual. At the same time Jesus
shows that their test-word is altogether mundane. It
is made for earth alone; for having a nature of flesh
and blood, it cannot enter into the higher kingdom of
glory. Marriage has its place in the life whose termini
are birth and death. It exists mainly for the perpetuation
and increase of the human race. It has thus to
do with the lower nature of man, the physical, the
earthly; but in the world to come birth, marriage,
death will be outdated, obsolete terms. Man then will
be "equal unto the angels," the coarser nature which
fitted him for earth being shaken off and left behind,
amongst other mortalities.
And exactly the same truth is taught by the three
posthumous appearances recorded in this Gospel. When
they appeared upon the Mount of Transfiguration,
Moses and Elias had been residents of the other
world, the one for nine, the other for fourteen centuries.
But while possessing the form, and perhaps the features
of the old body of earth, the glorious body they wear
now is under conditions and laws altogether different.
How easy and aërial are its movements! Though it
possesses no wings, it has the lightness and buoyancy
of a bird, moving through space swiftly and silently as
the light pulses through the ether. Or take the body
of Christ's resurrection life. It has not yet become the
glorified body of the heavenly life; it is in its transition
state, between the two; yet how changed it is! Lifted
above the needs and laws of our earth-bound nature,
the risen Christ no longer lives among His own; He
dwells apart, where we cannot tell. When He does
appear He comes in upon them suddenly, giving no
warning of His approach; and then, after the bright
though brief apocalypse, He vanishes as mysteriously
as He came, passing at the last on the clouds to heaven.
There is thus some correspondence between the body
of the old and that of the new life, though how far the
resemblance extends we cannot tell; we can only fall
back upon the Apostle's words, which to our human
ear sound like a paradox, but which give us our only
solution of the enigma, "It is raised a spiritual body"
(i Cor. xv. 44). It is no longer the "natural body,"
but a supernatural one, with a spiritual instead of a
material form, and under spiritual laws.
But taking the Apostle's words as our base-line, and
measuring from them, we may throw our lines of sight
across the hereafter, reading at least as much as this,
that whatever may be the pleasures or the pains of the
after-life, they will be of a spiritual, and not of a physical
kind. It is just here that our vision sometimes gets
blurred and indistinct, as all the descriptions of that
after-life, even in Scripture, are given in earthly figures.
And so we have built up before us a material heaven,
with jasper walls, and gates of pearl, and gardens of
perennial fruits, with crowns and other palace delights.
But it is evident that these are but the earthly shadows
of the heavenly realities, the darkened glasses of our
earthly speech, which help our dull vision to gaze upon
glories which the eye of our mortality hath not seen,
and which its heart cannot conceive, except dimly, as a
few "broken lights" pass through the dark lenses of
these earthly figures. What new senses may be created
we do not know, but if the body of the after-life is "a
spiritual body," then its whole environment must be
changed. Material substances can no longer affect it,
either to cause pleasure or pain; and though we may
not yet tell in what the delights of the one state, or
the pains of the other will consist, we do know that
they must be something other than literal palms and
crowns, and other than material fires. These figures
are but the stammerings of our earthly speech, as it
tries to tell the unutterable.
3. Our Gospel teaches that character determines destiny.
"A man's life," said Jesus, when rebuking covetousness
(xii. 15), "consisteth not in the abundance of
the things which he possesseth." These are not life's
noblest aim, nor its truest wealth. They are but the
accidents of life, the particles of floating dust, caught
up by the stream; they will be left behind soon as
the sediment, if not before, when they reach the barrier
of the grave. A man's possessions do not constitute
the true life; they do not make the real self, the
man. Here it is not what a man has, but what a
man is. And a man is just what his heart makes him.
The outer life is but the blossoming of the inner soul,
and what we call character, in its objective meaning,
is but the subtle and silent influence, the odour, as we
might call it, fragrant or otherwise, which the soul
unconsciously throws out. And even in this world
character is more than circumstance, for it gives aim
and direction to the whole life. Men do not always
reach their goal in earthly things, but in the moral
world each man goes to his "own place," the place
he himself has chosen and sought; he is the arbiter of
his own destiny.
And what we find to be a law of earth is the law of
the kingdom of heaven, as Jesus was constantly affirming.
The future life would simply be the present life,
with eternity as its coefficient. Destiny itself would be
but the harvest of earthly deeds, the hereafter being
only the after-here. Jesus shows us how while on
earth we may lay up "treasures in the heavens,"
making for ourselves "purses which wax not old," and
thus becoming "rich toward God." He draws a vivid
picture of "a certain rich man," whose one estimate of
life was "the abundance of the things which he possessed,"
the size and affluence of his barns, and whose
soul was required of him just when he was congratulating
it on the years of guaranteed plenty, bidding it,
"Take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry (xii. 16-12)."
He does not here trace for us the destiny of such a soul—He
does this in another parable—but He pictures it
as suddenly torn away, and eternally separated, from
all it had possessed before, leaving it, perhaps, to be
squandered thriftlessly, or consumed by the fires of
lust; while, starved and shrivelled, the pauper soul is
driven out from its earthly stewardship, to find, alas!
no welcome in the "eternal tabernacles." In the
appraisement of this world such a man would be
deemed wise and happy, but to Heaven he is the
"foolish one," committing the great, the eternal folly.
The same lesson is taught in the parables of the
Housebuilders (vi. 47) and of the Talents (xix. 12). In
each there comes the inevitable test, the down-rush of
the flood and the reckoning of the lord, a test which
leaves the obedient secure and happy, the faithful promoted
to honour and rewards, passed up among the
kings; but the disobedient, if not entombed in the ruins
of their false hopes, yet all shelterless from the pitiless
storm, and the unfaithful and slothful servant stripped
of even the little he had, passed downwards into dishonour
and shame.
In another parable, that of the Rich Man and Lazarus
(xvi. 19-31) we have a light thrown upon our subject
which is at once vivid and lurid. In a few graphic words
He draws for us the picture of strange contrasts. The
one is rich, dwelling in a palatial residence, whose imposing
gateway looked down upon the vulgar crowd; clothed
in garments of Tyrian purple and of Egyptian byssus,
which only great wealth could purchase, and faring
sumptuously every day. So, with perpetual banquets,
the rich man lived his selfish, sensual life. With
thought all centred upon himself, and that his lowest
self, he has no thoughts or sympathies to spare for
the outlying world. They do not even travel so far as
to the poor beggar who is cast daily at his gate, in
hopes that some of the shaken-out crumbs of the banquet
may fall within his reach. Such is the contrast—the
extreme of wealth, and the extreme of poverty; the one
with troops of friends, the other friendless—for the
verb shows that the hands which laid him down by the
rich man's gate were not the gentle hands of affection,
but the rough hands of duty or of a cold charity; the
one clothed in splendid attire, the other not possessing
enough even to cover his sores; the one gorged to
repletion, the other shrunken and starved; the one the
anonymous Epicurean, the other possessing a name
indeed, but nought beside, but a name that had a
Divinity hidden within it,The name "Lazarus" is derived from
El-ezer, or "God helps."
and which was an index to
the soul that bore it. Such were the two characters
Jesus portrayed; and then, lifting up the veil of shadows,
He shows how the marked contrast reappears in the
after-life, but with a strange inverting. Now the poor
man is blessed, the rich in distress; the one is enfolded
in Abraham's bosom, the other enveloped in flames;
the one has all the delights of Paradise, the other begs
for just a drop of water with which to cool the parched
tongue.
It may be said that this is simply parable, set forth
in language which must not be taken literally. So it
is; but the parables of Jesus were not mere word-pictures;
they field in solution essential truth. And
when we have eliminated all this figurative colouring
there is still left this residuary, elementary truth, that
character determines destiny: that we cast into our
future the shadow of our present selves; that the good
will be blessed, and the evil unblessed, which means
accursed; and that heaven and hell are tremendous
realities, whose pleasures and whose pains lie alike
deep beyond the sounding of our weak speech. When
the rich man forgot his duties to humanity; when he
banished God from his mansion, and proscribed mercy
from his thoughts; when he left Heaven's foundling to
the dogs, he was writing out his book of doom, passing
sentence upon himself. The tree lies as it falls, and
it falls as it leans; and where is there place for the
unforgiven, the unregenerate, for the sensual and the
selfish, the unjust and the unclean, but somewhere in
the outer darkness they themselves have helped to
make? To the sensual and the vile heaven itself
would be a hell, its very joys curdling into pain, its
streets, thronged with the multitudes of the redeemed,
offering to the guilty and unrenewed soul but a solitude
of silence and anguish; and even were there no final
judgment, no solemn pronouncement of destiny, the
evil could never blend with the good, the pure with
the vile; they would gravitate, even as they do now,
in opposite directions, each seeking its "own place."
Wherever and whatever our final heaven may be, no
one is an outcast but who casts himself out, a self-immolation,
a suicide.
But is it destiny? it may be asked. May there not
be an after-probation, so that character itself may be
transformed? may not the "great gulf" itself disappear,
or at last be bridged over, so that the repentant
may pass out of its penal but purifying fires? Such,
indeed, is the belief, or rather the hope, of some; but
"the larger hope" as they are pleased to call it, as far
as this Gospel is concerned, is a beautiful but illusive
dream. He who was Himself the "Resurrection and
the Life," and who holds in His own hands the keys
of death and of Hades, gives no hint of such a posthumous
palingenesis. He speaks again and again of
a day of test and scrutiny, when actions will be weighed
and characters assayed, and when men will be judged
according to their works. Now it is at the "coming"
of the Son of man, in the glory of His Father, and
with a retinue of "holy angels;" now it is the returning
of the lord, and the reckoning with his servants;
while again it is at the end of the world, as the angel-reapers
separate the wheat from the tares; or as He
Himself, the great Judge, with His "Come ye," passes
on the faithful to the heavenly kingdom, and at the
same time, with His "Depart ye," drives from His
presence the unfaithful and unforgiven into the outer
darkness. Nor does Jesus say one word to suggest
that the judgment is not final. The blasphemy against
the Holy Ghost, whatever that may mean, shall not
be forgiven (xii. 10), or, as St. Matthew expresses it,
"neither in this world, nor in that which is to come."
The unfaithful servant is "cut asunder" (xii. 46); the
enemies who would not have their Lord to reign over
them are slain (xix. 27); and when once the door is
shut it is all in vain that those outside cry, "Lord,
open to us!" They had an open door, but they
slighted and scorned it, and now they must abide by
their choice, outside the door, outside the kingdom,
with the "workers of iniquity," where "there is weeping
and gnashing of teeth" (xiii. 28).
Or if we turn again to the parable of the Rich Man,
where is there room for the "larger hope"? where
is the suggestion that these "pains of hell" may be
lessened; and ultimately escaped altogether? We listen
in vain for one syllable of hope. In vain he makes
his appeal to "father Abraham;" in vain he entreats
the good offices of Lazarus; in vain he asks for a
momentary alleviation of his pain, in the boon of one
drop of water: between him and help, yea, between
him and hope, is a "great gulf fixed, ... that none
may cross" (xvi. 26).
"That none may cross." Such are the words of
Jesus, though here put in the mouth of Abraham; and
if finality is not here, where can we find it? What
may be the judgment passed upon those who, though
erring, are ignorant, we cannot tell, though Jesus
plainly indicates that the number of the stripes will
vary, as they knew, or they did not know, the Lord's
will; but for those who had the light, and turned from
it, who saw the right, but did it not, who heard the
Gospel of love, with its great salvation, and only rejected
it—for these there is only an "outer darkness" of
eternal hopelessness. And what is the outer darkness
itself but the darkness of their own inner blindness,
a blindness which was wilful and persistent?
Our Gospel thus teaches that death does not alter
character, that character makes destiny, and that
destiny once determined is unalterable and eternal.
Or, to put it in the words of the angel to the seer, "He
that is unrighteous, let him do unrighteousness still:
and he that is filthy, let him be made filthy still: and
he that is righteous, let him do righteousness still:
and he that is holy, let him be made holy still" (Rev.
xxii. 11).
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE WATCH IN GETHSEMANE.
Hitherto the life of Jesus has been comparatively
free from sorrow and from pain.
With the exception of the narrow strip of wilderness
which fell between the Baptism and His inaugural
miracle, the Divine Life has lain for the most part in
the sunshine, above the fret and fever of anxious
thought and care. True, He had enemies, whose hatred
was persistent and virulent; the shafts of calumny fell
around Him in one steady rain; His motives were
constantly misconstrued, His words misunderstood; but
with all this His life was peace. How could He
have spoken of "rest" of soul, and have promised it
to the weary and heavy-laden, if He Himself were a
stranger to its experience? How could He have awoke
such songs and shouts of gladness, or have strewn the
lives of men with such unusual brightness, without
having that brightness and music coming back in
reflections and echoes within His own heart—that
heart which was the fontal source of their new-found
joys? And if many doubted, or even hated Him,
there were many who admired and feared, and not a
few who loved and adored Him, and who were glad to
place at His disposal their entire substance, nay, their
entire selves. But if His anointing thus far has been the
anointing of gladness, there is a baptism of sorrow and
anguish prepared for Him, and to that ordeal He now
proceeds, first girding up His soul with the music of
a thanksgiving psalm. Let us, too, arise and follow
Him; but taking off our shoes, let us step softly and
reverently into the mystery of the Divine sorrow; for
though we must ever stand back from that mystery
more than a "stone's cast," perhaps, if we keep mind
and heart awake and alert, we may read something of
its deep meaning.
The whole scene of Gethsemane is unique. Like
the Mount of Transfiguration, the Garden of the Agony
stands "apart" from all other paths, in a profound
isolation. And in more senses than this these two
august scenes are related and coincident. Indeed, we
cannot fully understand the mystery of the Garden
but as we allow the mystery of the Mount to explain
it, in part at least, so threading the light of the one
into the darkness of the other. On the Mount of
Transfiguration the Divine Life, as we have seen,
reached its culminating point, its perihelion as we
may call it, where it touched the very heavens for one
brief night, passing through its out-streaming glories
and crossing the paths of celestials. In Gethsemane
we have the antipodal fact; we see the Divine Life in
its far aphelion, where it touches hell itself, moving
round in an awful gloom, and crossing the paths of the
"powers of darkness." And so our best outlook into
Gethsemane is not from the Mount of Olives—though
the two names are related, as the two places are
adjacent, Gethsemane lying at the foot of Olivet—but
from that more distant Mount of Transfiguration.
Leaving the "guest-chamber," where a Passover of
a new order has been instituted, and the cup, with its
fruit of the vine, has received a higher consecration,
Jesus leads the broken band down the stairs, which
still vibrate with the heavy tread of the traitor, and
in the still, full moonlight they pass out of the city,
the gates being open because of the Passover. Descending
the steep ravine, and crossing the brook
Kedron, they enter the enclosure of Gethsemane. Both
St. Luke and St. John tell us that He was accustomed
to resort thither—for, strangely enough, we do not read
of Jesus spending so much as one night within the
city walls—and so probably the garden belonged to
one of His adherents, possibly to St. Mark. Bidding
the eight remain near the entrance, and exhorting
them to pray that they enter not into, or, as it means
here, that they "yield not to," the temptation which
is shortly to come upon them, Jesus takes Peter, James,
and John farther into the garden. They were witnesses
of His Transfiguration, when His face shone like the
sun, and the spirits of the perfected came to do Him
homage; they must now see a transfiguration of
sorrow, as that face is furrowed by the sharp lines of
pain, and half-masked by a veil of blood. From the
narratives of St. Matthew and St. Mark it would
appear as if Jesus now experienced a sudden change
of feeling. In the guest-chamber He was calmly confident;
and though we may detect in His words and
symbolic acts a certain undertone of sadness, the
salutation of one "about to die," yet there was no
tremor, no fear. He spoke of His own death, which
now was near at hand, as calmly as if the Mount of
Sacrifice were but another mountain of spices; while
to His disciples He spoke words of cheer and hope,
putting around their hearts a soothing, healing balm,
even before the dreadful wound is made. But now all
this is changed: "He began to be greatly amazed and
sore troubled" (St. Mark xiv. 33). The word we here
render "amazed," as St. Mark uses it, has sometimes
the element of fear within it, as when the women were
"amazed," or "affrighted," by the vision of the angels
(xvi. 5); and such, we are inclined to think, is its
meaning here. It was not so much wonder as it was
trepidation, and a certain dread, which now fell of a
sudden upon the Master. Over that pure soul, which
ever lay calm and serene as the bright heaven which
stooped to embrace it, has broken a storm of conflicting
winds, and dense, murky clouds, and all is disquiet and
distress, where before was nothing but peace. "My
soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death;" such is
the strange confession of tremulous lips, as for once
He opens the infinite depths of His heart, and shows
the mortal grief which has suddenly fallen there. It
is the first contact of the eclipse, as between Himself
and the Father's smile another world is passing, the
world of the "outer darkness," even hell, throwing
down upon His soul a chilling, awful shadow.
Jesus understands its meaning. It is the signal for
the final battle, the shadow of the "prince of this
world," who, rallying all his forces, cometh to find
"nothing in Me." Jesus accepts the challenge, and
that He may meet the enemy single-handed, with no
earthly supports, He bids the three, "Abide ye here,
and watch with Me." "With Me," and not "for Me;"
for what could avail to Him the vigilance of human
eyes amid this felt darkness of the soul? It was not
for Himself He bade them "watch," but for themselves,
that waking and praying they might gain a strength
which would be proof against temptation, the test which
would be keenly severe, and which now was close at
hand.
"And He was parted from them about a stone's
cast." The verb implies a measure of constraint, as
if, in the conflict of emotion, the longing for some
human presence and human sympathy held Him back.
And why not? Is not the very presence of a friend
a solace in grief, even if no words are spoken? and
does not the "aloneness" of a sorrow make the sorrow
tenfold more bitter? Not like the "stricken deer that
left the herd," the human heart, when wounded or sore
pressed, yearns for sympathy, finding in the silent
look or in the touch of a hand a grateful anodyne.
But this wine-press He must tread alone, and of the
people there must be none with Him; and so the
three who are most favoured and most beloved are
left back at a stone's cast from the physical suffering
of Christ, while from His heart-agony they must stand
back at an infinite distance.
It was while Jesus was praying upon the holy
mount that the heavens were opened unto Him; and
now, as another cloud envelopes Him, not of glory, but
of a thick darkness, it finds Him in the same attitude
of prayer. He at whose feet sinful man had knelt, all
unrebuked, Himself now kneels, as He sends to heaven
the earnest and almost bitter cry, "O My Father, if
it be possible, let this cup pass from Me!" The three
Evangelists differ in their wording of the Saviour's
petition, showing that the spirit is more than the
letter of prayer; that Heaven thinks more of the inner
thought than of the outward drapery of words; but
the thought of the three is identical, while all make
prominent the central figure of the "cup."
The cups of Scripture are of divers patterns and of
varied meanings. There was the cup of blessing, like
that of the Psalmist (Psalm xxiii. 5), filled to the brim
and running over with mercy. There was the "cup of
salvation," that sacrament of the Old Testament which
kept in memory one deliverance, that of Israel, while it
prophesied of another, the "great salvation" which was
to come. What, then, was the cup Jesus so feared to
drink, and which He asked, so earnestly and repeatedly,
that it might pass from Him? Was it the fear of
death? Certainly not; for how could He be afraid
of death, who had so triumphed over it, and who had
proclaimed Himself the Resurrection and the Life?
How could He fear death, when He knew so well "the
seraph face that smiled beneath the frowning mask,"
and knew that it would end for ever all His sufferings
and His pain? Death to Him was a familiar thought.
He spoke of it freely, not either with the hard indifference
of the Stoic, or with the palsied speech of
one whose lips shake with an inward fear, but in calm,
sweet accents, as any child of earth might speak of
going home. Was this "cup," then, the death itself?
and when He asked that it might pass away, was He
suggesting that possibly some mode of atonement might
be found other than the cross? We think not. Jesus
knew full well that His earthly life would have, and
could have, but one issue. Death would be its goal,
as it was its object. Whether, as Holman Hunt
represents, the cross threw its shadow back as far as
the shop at Nazareth, we do not know, for the record
is silent. But we do know that the shadow of death
lay across the whole of His public life, for we find it
appearing in His words. The cross was a dark and
vivid certainty that He wished neither to forget nor
to evade, for must not the Son of man be "lifted up,"
that He may draw all men to Himself? Must not the
corn of wheat be hidden in its grave before it can
become fruitful, throwing itself forward down the years
in hundredfold multiplications? Yes; death to Jesus
is the inevitable, and long before the Roman soldiers
have pieced together the transverse beams Jesus had
made His cross, fashioning it in His thought, and
hiding it in His words. Nay, He has this very night
instituted a new sacrament, in which, for all generations,
the broken bread shall be the emblem of His
bruised and broken body, and the wine, of His blood,
the blood of the New Testament, which is shed for
man. And does Jesus now seek, by reiterated prayers,
to shift that cross from the Divine purpose, substituting
in its place something less painful, less cruel?
does He seek now to annul His own predictions, and
to make His own sacrament void and meaningless?
This cannot be; and so, whatever the "cup" may
mean, we cannot take it as a synonym for His
death.
What, then, is its meaning? The Psalmist had long
before sung—
"For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the wine foameth;
It is full of mixture, and He poureth out of the same:
Surely the dregs thereof, all the wicked of the earth shall wring them out, and drink them" (Psalm lxxv. 8);
while St. John, speaking of the last woes (Rev. xiv. 10),
tells how they who have the mark of the beast upon
their foreheads "shall drink of the wine of the wrath
of God, which is prepared unmixed in the cup of His
anger." Here, then, is the "cup" which now is set
before the Son of man, the very touch of which fills
His soul with unutterable dread. It is the cup of God's
anger, filled to the brim with its strange red wine, the
wine of His wrath. Jesus comes to earth as the Representative
Man, the Second Adam, in whom all shall
be made alive. He voluntarily assumes the place of
the transgressor, as St. Paul writes (2 Cor. v. 21), "Him
who knew no sin He made to be sin on our behalf; that
we might become the righteousness of God in Him,"
a passage which corresponds exactly with the prophetic
idea of substitution, as given by Isaiah (liii. 5), "He
was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for
our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon
Him; and with His stripes we are healed." And so
"the iniquity of us all" was laid on Him, the Holy One.
In His own Person He must feel, in its concentrated
forms, the smart and consequence of sin; and as His
physical sufferings are the extremest pain even sin can
produce, so Jesus must suffer, too, all the mental anguish,
the agony of a soul bereft of God. And as Jesus, on
the Transfiguration mount, passed up to the very gate
of heaven, so lighting up with splendour and glory the
lost path of unfallen man, so now, in the Garden, Jesus
tracks the path of fallen man, right on to its fearful
consummation, which is the "outer darkness" of hell
itself. This vivid consciousness has been graciously
withheld from Him hitherto; for the terrible pressure
would simply have unfitted Him for His ministry of
blessing; for how could He have been the "kindly
Light," leading humanity homeward, heavenward, if
that Light Himself were hidden in "encircling gloom,"
and lost in a felt darkness? But ere His mission is
complete this is an experience that He must know.
Identifying Himself with sin, He must feel its very
farthest consequence, the awful solitude, and the unutterable
anguish, of a soul now bereft of hope and
forsaken of God. In the heathen fable Orpheus goes
down, lyre in hand, to the Plutonic realm, to bring
back again to life and love the lost Eurydice; but
Jesus, in His vicarious sufferings, goes down to hell
itself, that He may win back from their sins, and bear
in triumph to the upper heavens, a lost humanity.
Rising from the ground, and going back to His three
disciples, He finds them asleep. The Synoptists all
seek to explain, and to apologize for, their unnatural
slumber, St. Matthew and St. Mark telling us that
their "eyes were heavy," while St. Luke states that
their sleep was the result of their grief; for, happily,
in the wonderful compensations of nature, intense grief
does tend to induce somnolence. But while the Evangelists
refer their slumber to natural causes, might there
not be something more in it, some supernatural element?
Sleep can be caused by natural means, and yet
be an unnatural sleep, as when narcotics benumb the
senses, or some mesmeric spell muffles the speech, and
makes the soul for a time unconscious. And might it
not have been some invisible touch which made their
eyes so heavy? for it is an exact repetition of their
attitude when on the holy mount, and in that sleep
sorrow certainly had no part. When St. John saw
the vision upon Patmos, he "fell at His feet as one
dead;" and when Saul beheld the light, near Damascus,
he fell to the ground. And how often we find the celestial
vision connected with a trance-like state! and why
may not the "trance" be an effect of the vision, just as
well as its cause, or rather its circumstance? At any
rate, the fact is plain, that supernatural visions tend to
lock up the natural senses, the veil which is uplifted
before the unseen world being wrapped around the eyes
and the soul of the seer. And this, we are inclined to
think, was a possible, partial cause for the slumber upon
the mount and in the garden, a sleep which, under
the circumstances, was strangely unnatural and almost
unpardonable.
Addressing Himself directly to Peter, who had
promised to follow His Lord unto death, but whose
heart now strangely lagged behind, and calling him by
his earlier name—for Jesus only once made use of the
name He Himself had chosen; the "Rock" was at
present in a state of flux, and had not yet settled down
to its petrine character—He said, "What, Simon, could
ye not watch with Me one hour? Watch and pray, that
ye enter not into temptation." Then, for a moment
forgetting His own sorrow, and putting Himself in
their place, He makes the apology for them which
their lips are afraid to utter: "The spirit indeed is
willing, but the flesh is weak;" so compassionate is He
over human weakness and infirmity, even while He is
severity itself towards falsity and sin.
St. Luke records the narrative only in a condensed
form, giving us the salient points, but not entering so
fully into detail. It is from St. Matthew and St. Mark that
we learn how Jesus went back a second time, and falling
prostrate on the ground, prayed still in the self-same
words, and how He returned to His disciples to find
them again asleep; even the reproof of the Master has
not been able to counterbalance the pressure of the
supernatural heaviness. No word is spoken this time—at
any rate the Evangelists have not repeated them for
us—but how eloquent would be that look of disappointment
and of grief! and how that rebuke would fall
burning hot upon their heart, focussed in the lenses of
His sad and tearful eyes! But the three are dazed,
bewildered, and for once the ready tongue of Peter is
speechless; "they wist not what to answer Him"
(Mark xiv. 40).
Not yet, however, is the conflict ended. Three times
did the tempter come to Him in the wilderness, and
three times is the fierce battle to be waged in the
garden, the last the sorest. It would almost seem as
if the three assaults were descending steps of sorrow,
each marking some lower deep in the dark mystery;
for now the death-sorrow becomes an "agony" of
spirit, a pressure from within so fearful as to arrest
the flow of blood, forcing it through the opened pores
in an awful sweat, until great drops, or "clots," of
blood gathered upon His face, and then fell to the
ground. Could there be possibly, even for the lost,
an anguish more intense? and was not Jesus then,
as man's Surety, wringing out and drinking the very
last dregs of that cup of His anger which "the wicked
of the earth," if unredeemed, had been doomed to
drink? Verily He was, and the bloody sweat was a
part, an earnest, of our atonement, sprinkling with its
redemptive virtues the very ground which was "cursed"
for man's sake (Gen. iii. 17). It was the pledge and
the foregathered fruit of a death already virtually accomplished,
in the absolute surrender of the Divine Son
as man's sacrifice.
And so the thrice-uttered prayer of Jesus, even
though He prayed the "more earnestly," was not
granted. It was heard, and it was answered, but not
in the specific way of the request. Like Paul's prayer
for the removal of the thorn, and which, though not
granted, was yet answered in the promise of the
"sufficient" grace, so now the thrice-uttered prayer
of Jesus does not remove the cup. It is there, and it
is there for Him to drink, as He tastes for man both of
the earthly death and of the bitterness of the after, the
second death. But the answer came in the strengthening
of His soul, and in the heavenly greetings the
angel brought down to Him when the conflict was over.
But in this reiterated prayer for the removal of the cup
there was no conflict between Himself and the Father.
The request itself was enveloped in submission, the
contingent "if" which preceded it, and the "not My
win, but Thine," which followed, completely enclosing
it. The will of Jesus was ever adjusted to the will of
the Father, working within it in an absolute precision,
with no momentary breaks. But here the "if" implies
uncertainty, doubt. Even Jesus is not quite sure as
to what, in the special case, the Father's will may
involve, and so, while He asks for the removal of the
cup, this is the smaller request, inlaid within the
larger, deeper prayer, that "not My will, but Thine,
be done." Jesus did not seek to bend the Father's will,
and make it conform to His desires, but He sought,
whatever might be the cost, to configure His desires
to that all-wise and all-loving Will.
So in our smaller lives there may be hours of distress
and uncertainty. We may see, mingled for us, cups of
sorrow, loss, or pain, which we fear to drink, and the
shrinking flesh may seek to be exempted from the
ordeal; but let us not too hastily ask that they may
be put away, for fear we may dismiss some cup of
blessing from our life. Let us seek rather for a perfect
submission to the will of God, conforming all our
desires and all our prayers to that will. So in that
"perfect acquiescence" there will be for us a "perfect
rest." Gethsemane itself will become bright and all
musical with songs, and where the powers of darkness
mocked us Heaven's angels will come, with their sweet
ministry. Nay, the cup of sorrow and of pain, at which
we trembled before, if we see how God's will has
wrought and filled it, and we embrace that will, the
cup of sorrow will be a transfigured cup, a golden
chalice of the King, all filled to the brim, and running
over, with the new wine of the kingdom.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PASSION.
Luke xxii. 47-xxiii.
While Jesus kept His sad watch in Gethsemane,
treading the winepress alone, His enemies kept
theirs in the city. The step of Judas, as he passed
out into the night, went verberating within the house
of the high priest, and onwards into the palace of Pilate
himself, awaking a thousand echoes, as swift messengers
flew hither and thither, bearing the hurried
summons, calling the rulers and elders from their
repose, and marshalling the Roman cohort. Hitherto
the powers of darkness have been restrained, and
though they have, again and again, attempted the life
of Jesus, as if some occult spell were upon them, they
could not accomplish their purpose. Far back in the
Infancy Herod had sought to kill Him; but though his
cold steel reaped a bloody swath in Ramah, it could
not touch the Divine Child. The men of Nazareth had
sought to hurl Him down the sheer precipice, but He
escaped; Jesus had not come into the world to die at
Nazareth, thrown off, as by an accident, from a Galilean
cliff. He had come to "accomplish His decease," as
the celestials put it upon the mount, "at Jerusalem,"
and that too, as He indicated plainly and frequently in
His speech, upon a cross. Now, however, the hour of
darkness has struck, and the fulness of the time has
come. The cross and the Victim both are ready, and
Heaven itself consents to the great sacrifice.
Strangely enough, the first overture of the "Passion
music" is by one of the twelve—as our Evangelist
names him, "Judas who was called Iscariot, being of
the number of the twelve" (xxii. 3). It will be
observed that St. Luke puts a parenthesis of forty
verses between the actual betrayal and its preliminary
stages, so throwing the conception of the plot back to
an earlier date than the eve of the Last Supper, and
the subsequent narrative is best read in the light of its
programme. At first sight it would appear as if the
part of the betrayer were superfluous, seeing that Jesus
came almost daily into the Temple, where He spoke
openly, without either reserve or fear. What need
could there be for any intermediary to come between
the chief priests and the Victim of their hate? Was
not His person familiar to all the Temple officials? and
could they not apprehend Him almost at any hour?
Yes, but one thing stood in the way, and that was
"the fear of the people." Jesus evidently had an
influential following; the popular sympathies were on
His side; and had the attack been made upon Him
during the day, in the thronged streets of the city or
in the Temple courts, there would have been, almost to
a certainty, a popular rising on His behalf. The arrest
must be made in the absence of the multitude (xxii.
6), which means that they must fall upon Him in one
of His quiet hours, and in one of His quiet retreats;
it must be a night attack, when the multitudes are
asleep. Here, then, is room for the betrayer, who comes
at the opportune moment, and offers himself for the
despicable task, a task which has made the name of
"Judas" a synonym for all that is treacherous and vile.
How the base thought could ever have come into the
mind of Judas it were hard to tell, but it certainly was
not sprung upon him as a surprise. But men lean in
the direction of their weakness, and when they fall it
is generally on their weakest side, the side on which
temptation is the strongest. It was so here. St. John
writes him down in a single sentence: "He was a thief,
and having the bag, took away what was put therein"
(John xii. 6). His ruling passion was the love of
money, and in the delirium of this fever his hot hands
dashed to the ground and broke in pieces the tables of
law and equity alike, striking at all the moralities. And
between robbing his Master and betraying Him there
was no great distance to traverse, especially when
conscience lay in a numb stupor, drugged by opiates,
these tinctures of silver.
Here, then, is a betrayer ready to their hand. He
knows what hour is best, and how to conduct them to
His secret retreats. And so Judas communed with
the chief priests and captains, or he "talked it over
with them" as the word means, the secret conference
ending in a bargain, as they "covenanted" to give him
money (xxii. 5). It was a hard and fast bargain; for
the word "covenanted" has about it a metallic ring,
and opening it out, it lets us see the wordy chaffering,
as Judas abates his price to the offer of the high priests,
the thirty pieces of silver, which was the market price
of an ordinary slave. Not that Judas intended to be a
participator in His death, as the sequel of his remorse
shows. He probably thought and hoped that his
Master would escape, slipping through the meshes they
so cunningly had thrown about Him; but having done
his part of the covenant, his reward would be sure, for
the thirty pieces were already in his possession. Ah,
he little dreamed how far-reaching his action would be!
That silver key of his would set in motion the ponderous
wheel which would not stop until his Master
was its Victim, lying all crushed and bleeding beneath
it! He only discovered his mistake when, alas! it
was too late for remedy. Gladly would he have given
back his thirty pieces, ay, and thirty times thirty, to
have called back his treacherous "Hail," but he could
not. That "Hail, Master," had gone beyond his recall,
reverberating down the ages and up among the stars,
while even its echoes, as they came back to him in
painful memories, threw him out of the world an
unloved and guilty suicide!
What with the cunning of the high priests and the
cold calculations of Judas, whose mind was practised
in weighing chances and providing for contingences,
the plot is laid deeply and well. No detail is omitted:
the band of soldiers, who shall put the stamp of officialism
upon the procedure, while at the same time they
cower the populace and repress any attempt at rescue;
the swords and staves, should they have to resort to
force; the lanterns and torches, with which to light up
the dark hiding-places of the garden; the cords or
chains, with which to bind their Prisoner; the kiss,
which should be at once the sign of recognition and
the signal for the arrest, all are prearranged and
provided; while out of sight the high priests are
keeping their midnight watch, ready for the mock
trial, for which the suborned witnesses are even now
rehearsing their parts. Could worldly prudence or
malicious skill go farther?
Stealthily as the leopard approaches its victim, the
motley crowd enter the garden, coming with muffled
steps to take and lead away the Lamb of God. Only
the glimmer of their torches gave notice of their approach,
and even these burned dull in the intense
moonlight. But Jesus needed no audible or visible
warning, for He Himself knew just how events were
drifting, reading the near future as plainly as the near
past; and before they have come in sight He has
awoke the three sleeping sentinels with a word which
will effectually drive slumber from their eyelids: "Arise,
let us be going: behold, he is at hand that betrayeth
Me" (Matt. xxvi. 46).
It will be seen from this that Jesus could easily have
eluded His pursuers had He cared to do so. Even
without any appeal to His supernatural powers, He
could have withdrawn Himself under cover of the
night, and have left the human sleuth-hounds foiled of
their prey and vainly baying at the moon. But instead
of this, He makes no attempt at flight. He even seeks
the glades of Gethsemane, when by simply going
elsewhere He might have disconcerted their plot and
brought their counsel to nought. And now He yields
Himself up to His death, not passively merely, but
with the entire and active concurrence of His will. He
"offered Himself," as the writer of the Epistle to the
Hebrews expresses it (Heb. ix. 14), a free-will Offering,
a voluntary Sacrifice. He could, as He Himself said,
have called legions of angels to His help; but He would
not give the signal, though it were no more than one
uplifted look. And so He does not refuse even the
kiss of treachery; He suffers the hot lips of the traitor
to burn His cheeks; and when others would have
shaken off the viper into the fire, or have crushed it
with the heel of a righteous indignation, Jesus receives
patiently the stamp of infamy, His only word being a
question of surprise, not at the treachery itself, but at
its mode: "Betrayest thou the Son of man with a
kiss?" And when for the moment, as St. John tells
us, a strange awe fell upon the multitude, and they
"went backward and fell to the ground," Jesus, as it
were, called in the outshining glories, masking them
with the tired and blood-stained humanity that He
wore, so stilling the tremor that was upon His enemies,
as He nerved the very hands that should take Him.
And again, when they do bind Him, He offers no resistance;
but when Peter's quick sword flashes from its
scabbard, and takes off the right ear of Malchus, the
servant of the high priest, and so one of the leaders
in the arrest, Jesus asks for the use of His manacled
hand—for so we read the "Suffer ye thus far"—and
touching the ear, heals it at once. He Himself is
willing to be wounded even unto death, but His
alone must be the wounds. His enemies must not
share His pain, nor must His disciples pass with
Him into this temple of His sufferings; and He even
stays to ask for them a free parole: "Let these go
their way."
But while for the disciples Jesus has but words of
tender rebuke or of prayer, while for Malchus He has
a word and a touch of mercy, and while even for Judas
He has an endearing epithet, "friend," for the chief
priests, captains, and elders He has severer words.
They are the ringleaders, the plotters. All this commotion,
this needless parade of hostile strength, these
superfluous insults are but the foaming of their rabid
frenzy, the blossoming of their malicious hate; and
turning to them as they stand gloating in their supercilious
scorn, He asks, "Are ye come out, as against a
robber, with swords and staves? When I was daily
with you in the Temple, ye stretched not forth your
hands against Me: but this is your hour, and the power
of darkness." True words, for they who should have
been priests of Heaven are in league with hell, willing
ministers of the powers of darkness. And this was
indeed their hour, but the hour of their victory would
prove the hour of their doom.
St. Luke, as do the other Synoptists, omits the
preliminary trial before Annas, the ex-high priest
(John xviii. 13), and leads us direct to the palace of
Caiaphas, whither they conduct Jesus bound. Instead,
however, of pursuing the main narrative, he lingers to
gather up the side-lights of the palace-yard, as they
cast a lurid light upon the character of Simon. Some
time before, Jesus had forewarned him of a coming
ordeal, and which He called a Satanic sifting; while
only a few hours ago He had prophesied that this
night, before the cock should crow twice, Peter would
thrice deny Him—a singular prediction, and one which
at the time seemed most unlikely, but which proved
true to the very letter. After the encounter in the
garden, Peter retires from our sight for awhile; but
his flight was neither far nor long, for as the procession
moves up towards the city Peter and John follow
it as a rear-guard, on to the house of Annas, and now
to the house of Caiaphas. We need not repeat the
details of the story—how John passed him through the
door into the inner court, and how he sat, or "stood,"
as St. John puts it, by the charcoal fire, warming himself
with the officers and servants. The differing verbs
only show the restlessness of the man, which was a
life-long characteristic of Peter, but which would be
doubly accentuated here, with suspecting eyes focussed
upon him. Indeed, in the whole scene of the courtyard,
as sketched for us in the varying but not discordant
narratives of the Evangelists, we may detect
the vibrations of constant movement and the ripple-marks
of intense excitement.
When challenged the first time, by the maid who
kept the door, Peter answered with a sharp, blunt
negative: he was not a disciple; he did not even
know Him. At the second challenge, by another
maid, he replied with an absolute denial, but added to
his denial the confirmation of an oath. At the third
challenge, by one of the men standing near, he denied
as before, but added to his denial both an oath and an
anathema. It is rather unfortunate that our version
renders it (Matt. xxvi. 74; Mark xiv. 71), "He began to
curse and to swear;" for these words have a peculiarly
ill savour, a taste of Billingsgate, which the original
words have not. To our ear, "to curse and to swear"
are the accomplishments of a loose and a foul tongue,
which throws out its fires of passion in profanity, or in
coarse obscenities, as it revels in immoralities of speech.
The words in the New Testament, however, have a
meaning altogether different. Here "to swear" means
to take an oath, as in our courts of law, or rather to
make an affirmation. Even God Himself is spoken of as
swearing, as in the song of Zacharias (i. 73), where
He is said to have remembered His holy covenant,
"the oath which He sware unto Abraham our father."
Indeed, this form of speech, the oath or affirmation,
had come into too general use, as we may see from the
paragraph upon oaths in the Sermon on the Mount
(Matt. v. 33-37). Jesus here condemned it, it is true,
for to Him who was Truth itself our word should be as
our bond; but His reference to it shows how prevalent
the custom was, even amongst strict legalists and
moralists. When, then, Peter "swore," it does not mean
that he suddenly became profane, but simply that he
backed up his denial with a solemn affirmation. So,
too, with the word "curse;" it has not our modern
meaning. Literally rendered, it would be, "He put
himself under an anathema," which "anathema" was
the bond or penalty he was willing to pay if his words
should not be true. In Acts xxiii. 12 we have the
cognate word, where the "anathema" was, "They would
neither eat nor drink till they had killed Paul." The
curse thus was nothing immoral in itself; it was a
form of speech even the purest might use, a sort of
underlined affirmation.
But though the language of Peter was neither profane
nor foul, though in his "oath" and in his "curse"
there is nothing for which the purest taste need
apologize, yet here was his sin, his grievous sin: he
made use of the oath and the curse to back up a
deliberate and cowardly lie, even as men to-day will
kiss the book to make God's Word of truth a cover
for perjury. How shall we explain the sad fall of
this captain-disciple, who was first and foremost of
the Twelve? Were these denials but the wild and
wandering cries of some delirium? We find that
Peter's lips did sometimes throw off unreasoning and
untimely words, speaking like one in a dream, as he
proposed the three tabernacles on the mount, "not
knowing what he said." But this is no delirium, no
ecstasy; his mind is clear as the sky overhead, his
thought bright and sharp as was his sword just now.
No, it was not a failure in the reason; it was a sadder
failure in the heart. Of physical courage Simon had
an abundance, but he was somewhat deficient in moral
courage. His surname "Peter" was as yet but a forename,
a prophecy; for the "rock"-granite was yet in
a state of flux, pliant, somewhat wavering, and too
easily impressed. It must "be dipped in baths of hissing
tears" ere it hardens into the foundation-rock for
the new temple. In the garden he was too ready, too
brave. "Shall we smite with the sword?" he asked,
matching the "we," which numbered two swords,
against a whole Roman cohort; but that was in the
presence of his Master, and in the consciousness of
strength which that Presence gave. It is different
now. His Master is Himself a bound and helpless
Prisoner. His own sword is taken from him, or, which
is the same thing, it is ordered to its sheath. The
bright dream of temporal sovereignty, which like a
beautiful mirage had played on the horizon of his
thought, had suddenly faded, withdrawing itself into
the darkness. Simon is disappointed, perplexed, bewildered,
and with hopes shattered, faith stunned, and
love itself in a momentary conflict with self-love, he
loses heart and becomes demoralized, his better nature
falling to pieces like a routed army.
Such were the conditions of Peter's denial, the strain
and pressure under which his courage and his faith
gave way, and almost before he knew it he had thrice
denied his Lord, tossing away the Christ he would die
for on his cold, impetuous words, as, with a tinge of
disrespect in his tone and word, he called Him "the
Man." But hardly had the denial been made and the
anathema been said when suddenly the cock crew. It
was but the familiar call of an unwitting bird, but it
smote upon Peter's ear like a near clap of thunder; it
brought to his mind those words of his Master, which
he had thought were uncertain parable, but which he
finds now were certain prophecy, and thus let in a
rush of sweet, old-time memories. Conscience-stricken,
and with a load of terrible guilt pressing upon his soul,
he looks up timidly towards the Lord he has forsworn.
Will He deny him, on one of His bitter "woes" casting
him down to the Gehenna he deserves? No;
Jesus looks upon Peter; nay, He even "turns" round
toward him, that He may look; and as Peter saw that
look, the face all streaked with blood and lined with an
unutterable anguish, when he felt that glance fixed
upon him of an upbraiding but a pitying and forgiving
love, that look of Jesus pierced the inmost soul of the
denying, agnostic disciple, breaking up the fountains of
his heart, and sending him out to weep "bitterly."
That look was the supreme moment in Peter's life. It
forgave, while it rebuked him; it passed through his
nature like refining fire, burning out what was weak,
and selfish and sordid, and transforming Simon, the
boaster, the man of words, into Peter, the man of
deeds, the man of "rock."
But if in the outer court truth is thrown to the winds,
within the palace justice herself is parodied. It would
seem as if the first interview of Caiaphas with Jesus
were private, or in the presence at most of a few
personal attendants. But at this meeting, as the High
Priest of the New was arraigned before the high priest
of the Old Dispensation, nothing was elicited. Questioned
as to His disciples and as to His doctrine, Jesus
maintained a dignified silence, only speaking to remind
His pseudo-judge that there were certain rules of procedure
with which he himself was bound to comply.
He would not enlighten him; what He had said He
had said openly, in the Temple; and if he wished to
know he must appeal to those who heard Him, he must
call his witnesses; an answer which brought Him a
sharp and cruel blow from one of the officers, the first
of a sad rain of blows which bruised His flesh and
made His visage marred more than any man's.
The private interview ended, the doors were thrown
open to the mixed company of chief priests, elders, and
scribes, probably the same as had witnessed the arrest,
with others of the council who had been hastily summoned,
and who were known to be avowedly hostile
to Jesus. It certainly was not a properly constituted
tribunal, a council of the Sanhedrim, which alone had
the power to adjudicate on questions purely religious.
It was rather a packed jury, a Star Chamber of self-appointed
assessors. With the exception that witnesses
were called (and even these were "false," with discrepant
stories which neutralized their testimony and
made it valueless), the whole proceedings were a hurried
travesty of justice, unconstitutional, and so illegal. But
such was the virulent hate of the hierarchy of the
Temple, they were prepared to break through all
legalities to gain their end; yea, they would even
have broken the tables of the law themselves, if they
might only have stoned the Nazarene with the fragments,
and then have buried Him under the rude cairn.
The only testimony they could find was that He had
said He would destroy the temple made with hands,
and in three days build another made without hands
(Mark xiv. 58); and even in this the statements of
the two witnesses did not agree, while both were
garbled misrepresentations of the truth.
Hitherto Jesus had remained silent, and when
Caiaphas sprang from his seat, asking, "Answerest
Thou nothing?" seeking to extract some broken speech
by the pressure of an imperious mien and browbeating
words, Jesus answered by a majestic silence. Why
should He cast His pearls before these swine, who
were even now turning upon Him to rend Him? But
when the high priest asked, "Art Thou the Christ?"
Jesus replied, "If I tell you, ye will not believe: and
if I ask you, ye will not answer. But from henceforth
shall the Son of man be seated at the right hand of the
power of God;" thus anticipating His enthronement
far above all principalities and powers, in His eternal
reign. The words "Son of man" struck with loud
vibrations upon the ears of His enraged jurors, suggesting
the antithesis, and immediately all speak at once,
as they clamour, "Art Thou, then, the Son of God?"
a question which Caiaphas repeats as an adjuration, and
which Jesus answers with a brief, calm, "Ye say that
I am." It was a Divine confession, at once the confession
of His Messiahship and a confession of His
Divinity. It was all that His enemies wanted; there
was no need of further witnesses, and Caiaphas rent
his clothes and asked his echoes of what the blasphemer
was worthy? And opening their clenched teeth, his
echoes shouted, "Death!"
The lingering dawn had not broken when the high
priest and his barking hounds had run their Prey down
to death—that is, as far as they were allowed to go;
and as the meeting of the full council could not be
held till the broad daylight, the men who have Jesus
in charge extemporize a little interlude of their own.
Setting Jesus in the midst, they mock Him, and make
sport of Him, heaping upon that Face, still streaked
with its sweat of blood, all the indignities a malign
ingenuity can suggest. Now they "cover His face"
(Mark xiv. 65), throwing around it one of their loose
robes; now they "blindfold" Him, and then strike
"Him on the face" (xxii. 64), as they derisively ask
that He will prophecy who smote Him; while, again,
they "spit in His face" (Matt. xxvi. 67), besmearing
it with the venom of unclean, hissing lips! And amid
it all the patient Sufferer answers not a word; He is
silent, dumb, the Lamb before His shearers.
Soon as the day had fairly broke, the Sanhedrists,
with the chief priests, meet in full council, to give effect
to the decision of the earlier conclave; and since it
is not in their power to do more, they determine to
hand Jesus over to the secular power, going to Pilate
in a body, thus giving their informal endorsement to
the demand for His death. So now the scene shifts
from the palace of Caiaphas to the Prætorium, a short
distance as measured by the linear scale, but a far
remove if we gauge thought or if we consider climatic
influences. The palace of Caiaphas lay toward the
Orient; the Prætorium was a growth of the Occident,
a bit of Western life transplanted to the once fruitful,
but now sterile East. Within the palace the air was
close and mouldy; thought could not breathe, and
religion was little more than a mummy, tightly bound
by the grave-clothes of tradition, and all scented with
old-time cosmetics. Within the Prætorium the atmosphere
was at least freer; there was more room to
breathe; for Rome was a sort of libertine in religion,
finding room within her Pantheon for all the deities
of this and almost any other world. In matters of
religion the Roman power was perfectly indifferent,
her only policy the policy of laissez faire; and when
Pilate first saw Jesus and His crowd of accusers he
sought to dismiss them at once, remitting Him to be
judged "according to your law," putting, doubtless, an
inflection of contempt upon the "your." It was not
until they had shifted the charge altogether, making
it one of sedition instead of blasphemy, as they accuse
Jesus of "perverting our nation, and forbidding to
give tribute to Cæsar," that Pilate took the case
seriously in hand. But from the first his sympathies
evidently were with the strange and lonely Prophet.
Left comparatively alone with Pilate—for the crowd
would not risk the defilement of the Prætorium—Jesus
still maintained a dignified reserve and silence, not even
speaking to Pilate's question of surprise, "Answerest
Thou nothing?" Jesus would speak no word in self-defence,
not even to take out the twist His accusers
had put into His words, as they distorted their meaning.
When, however, He was questioned as to His mission
and Royalty He spoke directly, as He had spoken before
to Caiaphas, not, however, claiming to be King of the
Jews, as His enemies asserted, but Lord of a kingdom
which was not of this world; that is, not like earthly
empires, whose bounds are mountains and seas, and
whose thrones rest upon pillars of steel, the carnal
weapons which first upbuild, and then support them.
He was a King indeed; but His realm was the wide
realm of mind and heart; His was a kingdom in which
love was law, and love was force, a kingdom which
had no limitations of speech, and no bounds, either of
time or space.
Pilate was perplexed and awed. Governor though
he was, he mentally did homage before the strange
Imperator whose nature was imperial, whatever His
realm might be. "I find no fault in this Man," he
said, attesting the innocence he had discovered in the
mien and tones of his Prisoner; but his attestation
only awoke a fiercer cry from the chief priests, "that He
was a seditious person, stirring up the people, and
preparing insurrection even from Galilee to Jerusalem."
The word Galilee caught Pilate's ear, and at once
suggested a plan that would shift the responsibility
from himself. He would change the venue from Judæa
to Galilee; and since the Prisoner was a Galilean, he
would send Him to the Tetrarch of Galilee, Herod,
who happened to be in Jerusalem at the time. It was
the stratagem of a wavering mind, of a man whose
courage was not equal to his convictions, of a man
with a double purpose. He would like to save his
Prisoner, but he must save himself; and when the two
purposes came into collision, as they did soon, the
"might" of a timid desire had to give way to the
"must" of a prudential necessity; the Christ was
pushed aside and nailed to a cross, that Self might
survive and reign. And so "Pilate sent Him to
Herod."
Herod was proud to have this deference shown him
in Jerusalem, and by his rival, too, and "exceeding
glad" that, by a caprice of fortune, his long-cherished
desire, which had been baffled hitherto, of seeing the
Prophet of Galilee, should be realized. He found it,
however, a disappointing and barren interview; for
Jesus would work no miracle, as he had hoped; He
would not even speak. To all the questions and threats
of Herod, Jesus maintained a rigid and almost scornful
silence; and though to Pilate He had spoken at some
length, Jesus would have no intercourse with the murderer
of the Baptist. Herod had silenced the Voice
of the wilderness; he should not hear the Incarnate
Word. Jesus thus set Herod at nought, counting him
as a nothing, ignoring him purposely and utterly; and
stung with rage that his authority should be thus contemned
before the chief priests and scribes, Herod set
his Victim "at nought," mocking Him in coarse banter;
and as if the whole proceeding were but a farce, a bit
of comedy, he invests Him with one of his glittering
robes, and sends the Prophet-King back to Pilate.
For a brief space Jesus finds shelter by the judgment-seat,
removed from the presence of His accusers, though
still within hearing of their cries, as Pilate himself
keeps the wolves at bay. Intensely desirous of acquitting
his Prisoner, he leaves the seat of judgment to
become His advocate. He appeals to their sense of
justice; that Jesus is entirely innocent of any crime or
fault. They reply that according to their law He ought
to die, because He called Himself the "Son of God."
He appeals to their custom of having some prisoner
released at this feast, and he suggests that it would be
a personal favour if they would permit him to release
Jesus. They answer, "Not this man, but Barabbas."
He offers to meet them half-way, in a sort of compromise,
and out of deference to their wishes he will
chastise Jesus if they will consent to let Him go; but
it is not chastisement they want—they themselves could
have done that—but death. He appeals to their pity,
leading Jesus forth, wearing the purple robe, as if to
ask, "Is it not enough already?" but they cry even
more fiercely for His death. Then he yields so far to
their clamour as to deliver up Jesus to be mocked and
scourged, as the soldiers play at "royalty," arraying
Him in the purple robe, putting a reed in His hand as
a mock sceptre, and a crown of thorns upon His head,
then turning to smite Him on the head, to spit in His
face, and to kneel before Him in mock homage, saluting
Him, "Hail, King of the Jews!" And Pilate allows
all this, himself leading Jesus forth in this mock array,
as he bids the crowd, "Behold your King!" And why?
has He experienced such a revulsion of feeling towards
his Prisoner that he can now vie with the chief priests
in his coarse insult of Jesus? Not so; but it is Pilate's
last appeal. It is a sop thrown out to the mob, in hopes
that it may slake their terrible blood-thirst, a sacrifice
of pain and shame which may perhaps prevent the
greater sacrifice of life; while at the same time it is an
ocular demonstration of the incongruity of their charge;
for His Kingship, whatever it might be, was nothing
the Roman power had to fear; it was not even to be
taken in a serious way; it was a matter for ridicule,
and not for revenge, something they could easily afford
to play with. But this last appeal was futile as the
others had been, and the crowd only became more
fierce as they saw in Pilate traces of weakening and
wavering. At last the courage of Pilate breaks down
utterly before the threat that he will not be Cæsar's
friend if he let this man go, and he delivers up Jesus
to their will, not, however, before he has called for
water, and by a symbolic washing of his hands has
thrown back, or tried to throw back, upon his accusers,
the crime of shedding innocent blood. Weak, wavering
Pilate—
"Making his high place the lawless perch
Of winged ambitions;"
overridden by his fears; governor, but governed by his
subjects; sitting on the judgment-seat, and then abdicating
his position of judge; the personification of
law, and condemning the Innocent contrary to the law;
giving up to the extremest penalty and punishment One
whom he has thrice proclaimed as guiltless, without
fault, and that, too, in the face of a Heaven-sent warning
dream! In the wild inrush of his fears, which
swept over him like an inbreaking sea, his own weak
will was borne down, and reason, right, conscience, all
were drowned. Verily Pilate washes his hands in
vain; he cannot wipe off his responsibility or wipe out
the deep stains of blood.
And now we come to the last act of the strange
drama, which the four Evangelists give from their
different stand-points, and so with varying but not
differing details. We will read it mainly from the
narrative of St. Luke. The shadow of the cross has
long been a vivid conception of His mind; and again
and again we can see its reflection in the current of
His clear speech; now, however, it is present to His
sight, close at hand, a grim and terrible reality. It is
laid upon the shoulder of the Sufferer, and the Victim
carries His altar through the streets of the city and
up towards the Mount of Sacrifice, until He faints
beneath the burden, when the precious load is laid
upon Simon the Cyrenian, who, coming out of the
country, met the procession as it issued from the gate.
It was probably during this halt by the way that the
incident occurred, related only by our Evangelist, when
the women who followed with the multitude broke out
into loud lamentation and weeping, the first expression
of human sympathy Jesus has received through all the
agonies of the long morning. And even this sympathy
He gave back to those who proffered it, bidding these
"daughters of Jerusalem" weep not for Him, but for
themselves and for their children, because of the day
of doom which was fast coming upon their city and on
them. Thus Jesus pushes from Him the cup of human
sympathy, as afterwards He refused the cup of mingled
wine and myrrh: He would drink the bitter draught
unsweetened; alone and all unaided He would wrestle
with death, and conquer.
It is somewhat singular that none of the Evangelists
have left us a clue by which we can recognize, with
any certainty, the scene of the Crucifixion. In our
thoughts and in our songs Calvary is a mount, towering
high among the mounts of God, higher than Sinai
itself. And such it is, potentially; for it has the sweep
of all the earth, and touches heaven. But the Scriptures
do not call it a "mount," but only a "place."
Indeed, the name of "Calvary" does not appear in
Scripture, except as the Latin translation of the Greek
Kranion, or the Hebrew Golgotha, both of which mean
"the place of the skull." All that we can safely say
is that it was probably some rounded eminence, as
the name would indicate, and as modern explorations
would suggest, on the north of the city, near the tomb
of Jeremiah.
But if the site of the cross is only given us in a
casual way, its position is noted by all the Evangelists
with exactness. It was between the crosses of two
malefactors or bandits; as St. John puts it, in an
emphatic, Divine tautology, "On either side one, and
Jesus in the midst." Possibly they intended it as
their last insult, heaping shame upon shame; but
unwittingly they only fulfilled the Scripture, which had
prophesied that He would be "numbered among the
transgressors," and that He would make His grave
"with the wicked" in His death.
St. Luke omits several details, which St. John, who
was an eye-witness, could give more fully; but he
stays to speak of the parting of His raiment, and he
adds, what the others omit, the prayer for His executioners,
"Father, forgive them; for they know not what
they do," an incident he probably had heard from one
of the band of crucifiers, perhaps the centurion himself.
With a true artistic skill, however, and with brief
touches, he draws for us the scene on which all ages
will reverently gaze. In the foreground is the cross
of Jesus, with its trilingual superscription, "This is
the King of the Jews;" while close beside it are the
crosses of the thieves, whose very faces St. Luke
lights up with life and character. Standing near are
the soldiers, relieving the ennui with cruel sport, as
they rail at the Christ, offering Him vinegar, and
bidding Him come down. Then we have the rulers,
crowding up near the cross, scoffing, and pelting their
Victim with ribald jests, the "people" standing back,
beholding; while "afar off," in the distance, are His
acquaintance and the women from Galilee. But if our
Evangelist touches these incidents lightly, he lingers
to give us one scene of the cross in full, which the
other Evangelists omit. Has Jesus found an advocate
in Pilate? has He found a cross-bearer in the Cyrenian,
and sympathisers in the lamenting women?
He finds now upon His cross a testimony to His
Messiahship more clear and more eloquent than the
hieroglyphs of Pilate; for when one of the thieves
railed upon Him, shouting out "Christ" in mockery,
Jesus made no reply. The other answered for Him,
rebuking his fellow, while attesting the innocence of
Jesus. Then, with a prayer in which penitence and
faith were strangely blended, he turned to the Divine
Victim and said, "Jesus, remember me when Thou
comest in Thy kingdom." Rare faith! Through the
tears of his penitence, as through lenses of light, he
sees the new Dawn to which this fearful night will
give birth, the kingdom which is sure to come, and
which, coming, will abide, and he salutes the dying
One as Christ, the King! Jesus did not reply to the
railer; He received in silence his barbed taunts; but
to this cry for mercy Jesus had a quick response—"To-day
shalt thou be with Me in Paradise," so
admitting the penitent into His kingdom at once, and,
ere the day is spent, passing him up to the abodes of
the Blessed, even to Paradise itself.
And now there comes the hush of a great silence
and the awe of a strange darkness. From the sixth
to the ninth hour, over the cross, and the city, and
the land, hung the shadow of an untimely night, when
the "sun's light failed," as our Evangelist puts it;
while in the Temple was another portent, the veil, which
was suspended between the Holy Place and the Most
Holy, being rent in the midst! The mysterious darkness
was but the pall for a mysterious death; for Jesus
cried with a loud voice into the gloom, "Father, into
Thy hands I commend My spirit," and then, as it reads
in language which is not applied to mortal man, "He
gave up the ghost." He dismissed His spirit, a perfectly
voluntary Sacrifice, laying down the life which no man
was able to take from Him.
And why? What meant this death, which was at
once the end and the crown of His life? What meant
the cross, which thus draws to itself all the lines of
His earthly life, while it throws its shadow back into
the Old Dispensation, over all its altars and its passovers?
To other mortals death is but an appendix
to the life, a negation, a something we could dispense
with, were it possible thus to be exempt from the bond
we all must pay to Nature. But not so was it with
Jesus. He was born that He might die; He lived
that He might die; it was for this hour on Calvary
that He came into the world, the Word being made
flesh, that the sacred flesh might be transfixed to a
cross, and buried in an earthly grave. Surely, then, it
was not as man that Jesus died; He died for man; He
died as the Son of God! And when upon the cross
the horror of a great darkness fell upon His soul, and
He who had borne every torture that earth could
inflict without one murmur of impatience or cry of
pain, cried, with a terrible anguish in His voice, "My
God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?" we
can interpret the great horror and the strange cry but
in one way: the Lamb of God was bearing away the
sin of the world; He was tasting for man the bitter
pains of the second death; and as He drinks the cup
of the wrath of God against sin He feels passing over
Him the awful loneliness of a soul bereft of God, the
chill of the "outer darkness" itself. Jesus lived as our
Example; He died as our Atonement, opening by His
blood the Holiest of all, even His highest heaven.
And so the cross of Jesus must ever remain "in the
midst," the one bright centre of all our hopes and all
our songs; it must be "in the midst" of our toil, at
once our pattern of service and our inspiration. Nay,
the cross of Jesus will be "in the midst" of heaven
itself, the centre towards which the circles of redeemed
saints will bow, and round which the ceaseless "Alleluia"
will roll; for what is "the Lamb in the midst of the
throne" (Rev. vii. 17) but the cross transfigured, and
the Lamb eternally enthroned?
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE FIRST LORD'S DAY.
St. Luke xxiv.
The Sabbath came and went over the grave of its
Lord, and silence reigned in Joseph's garden,
broken only by the mailed sentinels, who laughed and
chatted by the sealed sepulchre. As to the disciples,
this "high day" is a dies non to them, for the curtain
of a deep silence hides them from our view. Did they
go up to the Temple to join in the Psalm, how "His
mercy endureth for ever?" Scarcely: their thoughts
were transfixed to the cross, which haunted them like
a horrid dream; its rude dark wood had stunned them
for awhile, as it broke down their faith and shattered
all their hopes. But if the constellation of the Apostles
passes into temporary eclipse, with no beam of inspired
light falling upon them, "the women" are not thus
hidden, for we read, "And on the Sabbath day they
rested, according to the commandment". It is true it
is but a negative attitude that is portrayed, but it is
an exceedingly beautiful one. It is Love waiting upon
Duty. The voices of their grief are not allowed to
become so excessive and clamorous as to drown the
Divine voice, speaking through the ages, "Remember
that thou keep holy the Sabbath day;" and even the
fragrant offerings of their devotion are set aside, that
they may keep inviolate the Sabbath rest.
But if the spices of the women are the spikenard
and myrrh of a mingled love and grief, they are at the
same time a tacit admission of their error. They prove
conclusively that the women, at any rate, had no thought
of a resurrection. It appears strange to us that such
should be the case, after the frequent references Jesus
made to His death and rising again. But evidently
the disciples attached to these sayings of Jesus one
of those deeper, farther-off meanings which were so
characteristic of His speech, interpreting in some
mysterious spiritual sense what was intended to be
read in a strict literalness. At present nothing could
be farther from their thoughts than a resurrection; it
had not even occurred to them as a possible thing;
and instead of being something to which they were
ready to give a credulous assent, or a myth which
came all shaped and winged out of their own heated
imaginings, it was something altogether foreign to their
thoughts, and which, when it did occur, only by many
infallible proofs was recognized and admitted into their
hearts as truth. And so the very spices the women
prepare for the embalming are a silent but a fragrant
testimony to the reality of the Resurrection. They
show the drift of the disciples' thought, that when the
stone was rolled to the door of the sepulchre it shut
in to the darkness, and buried, all their hopes. The
only Easter they knew, or even dreamed of, was that
first and final Easter of the last day.
As soon as the restraint of the Sabbath was over, the
women turned again to their labour of love, preparing
the ointment and spices for the embalming, and coming
with the early dawn to the sepulchre. Though it was
"yet dark," as St. John tells us, they did not anticipate
any difficulty from the city gates, for these were left
open both by night and day during the Passover feast;
but the thought did occur to them on the way as to
how they should roll back the stone, a task for which
they had not prepared, and which was evidently beyond
their unaided strength. Their question, however, had
been answered in anticipation, for when they reached
the garden the stone was rolled away, and the sepulchre
all exposed. Surprised and startled by the discovery,
their surprise deepened into consternation as
passing within the sepulchre, they found that the body
of Jesus, on which they had come to perform the last
kind offices of affection, had disappeared. And how?
could there be more than one solution of the enigma?
The enemies of Jesus had surely laid violent hands
upon the tomb, rifling it of the precious dust they
sorrowfully had committed to its keeping, reserving it
for fresh indignities. St. John supplements the narrative
of our Evangelist, telling how the Magdalene,
slipping out from the rest, "ran" back to the city to
announce, in half-hysterical speech, "They have taken
away the Lord out of the tomb, and we know not where
they have laid Him;" for though St. John names but
the Magdalene, the "we" implies that she was but one
of a group of ministering women, a group that she had
abruptly left. The rest lingered by the tomb perplexed,
with reason blinded by the whirling clouds of doubt,
when suddenly—the "behold" indicates a swift surprise—"two
men stood by them in dazzling apparel."
In speaking of them as "two men" probably our Evangelist
only intended to call attention to the humanness
of their form, as in verse 23 he speaks of the appearance
as "a vision of angels." It will be observed, however,
that in the New Testament the two words "men" and
"angels" are used interchangeably; as in St. Luke vii.
24, Rev. xxii. 8, where the "angels" are evidently
men, while in Mark xvi. 5, and again in the verse before
us, the so-called "men" are angels. But does not this
interchangeable use of the words imply a close relation
between the two orders of being? and is it not possible
that in the eternal ripenings and evolutions of heaven
a perfected humanity may pass up into the angelic
ranks? At any rate, we do know that when angels
have appeared on earth there has been a strange
humanness about them. They have not even had the
fictitious wings which poetry has woven for them; they
have nearly always appeared wearing the human face
divine, and speaking with the tones and in the tongues
of men, as if it were their native speech.
But if their form is earthly, their dress is heavenly.
Their garments flash and glitter like the robes of the
transfigured Christ; and awed by the supernatural
portent, the women bow down their faces to the earth.
"Why," asked the angels, "seek ye the living among
the dead? He is not here, but is risen: remember how
He spake unto you when He was yet in Galilee, saying
that the Son of man must be delivered up into the
hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day
rise again." Even the angels are not allowed to disclose
the secret of His resurrection life, or to tell where
He may be found, but they announce the fact that they
are not at liberty to explain. "He is not here; He is
risen," is the Gospel of the angels, a Gospel whose
prelude they themselves have heard, but, alas! forgotten;
and since Heaven does not reveal what by searching
we ourselves may find out, the angels throw them
back upon their own recollections, recalling the words
Jesus Himself had spoken, and which, had they been
understood and remembered, would have lighted up the
empty sepulchre and have solved the great mystery.
And how much we lose because we do not remember,
or if remembering, we do not believe! Divine words
have been spoken, and spoken to us, but to our ear,
dulled by unbelief, they have come as empty sound, all
inarticulate, and we have said it was some thunder in
the sky or the voices of a passing wind. How many
promises, which, like the harps of God, would have
made even our wildernesses vocal, have we hung up, sad
and silent, on the willows of the "strange lands"! If
we only "remembered" the words of the Lord Jesus,
if they became to us real and eternally true, instead of
being the unreal voices of a dream, those words would
be, not "the distant lamps" of Heaven, but near at
hand, lighting up all dark places, because throwing
their light within, turning even the graves of our buried
hopes into sanctuaries of joy and praise!
And so the women, instead of embalming their Lord,
carried their spices back unused. Not unused, however,
for in the spices and ointments the Living One did
not need their own names were embalmed, a fragrant
memory. Coming to the tomb, as they thought, to do
homage to a dead Christ, the Magdalene, and Mary,
and Johanna, and Salome found a Christ who had
conquered death, and at the same time found an
immortality for themselves; for the fragrance of their
thought, which was not permitted to ripen into deeds,
has filled the whole world.
Returning to the city, whither the Magdalene had
outrun them, they announced to the rest, as she had
done to Peter and John, the fact of the empty grave;
but they completed the story with the narrative of the
angelic vision and the statement that Jesus had risen.
So little, however, were the disciples predisposed to
receive the tidings of a resurrection, they would not
admit the fact even when attested by at least four
witnesses, but set it down as idle, silly talk, something
which was not only void of truth, but void of sense.
Only Peter and John of the Apostles, as far as we
know, visited the sepulchre, and even they doubted,
though they found the tomb empty and the linen clothes
carefully wrapped up. They "believed" that the body
had disappeared, but, as St. John tells us, "as yet they
knew not the Scripture, that He must rise again from
the dead" (St. John xx. 9); and as they leave the empty
grave to return to their own home, they only "wondered
at that which was come to pass." It was an enigma
they could not solve; and though the Easter morning
had now fully broke, the day which should light all
days, as it drew to itself the honours and songs of the
Sabbath, yet to the minds and hearts of the Apostles it
was "yet dark;" the glory of the Lord had not yet
risen upon them.
And now comes one of those beautiful pictures,
peculiar to St. Luke, as he lights up the Judæan hills
with a soft afterglow, an afterglow which at the same time
is the aurora of a new dawn. It was in the afternoon
of that first Lord's day, when two disciples set out from
Jerusalem for Emmaus, a village, probably the modern
Khamasa, sixty furlongs from the city. Who the two
disciples were we cannot say, for one is unnamed,
while the other bears a name, Cleopas, we do not meet
with elsewhere, though its Greek origin would lead us
to infer that he was some Gentile proselyte who had
attached himself to Jesus. As to the second, we have
not even the clue of an obscure name with which to
identify him, and in this somewhat strange anonymity
some expositors have thought they detected the shadow
of the Evangelist, Luke, himself. The supposition is
not an impossible one; for though St. Luke was not an
eye-witness from the beginning, he might have witnessed
some of the closing scenes of the Divine life; while the
very minuteness of detail which characterizes his story
would almost show that if not himself a participant, he
was closely related to those who were; but had St. Luke
himself been the favoured one, it is scarcely likely
that he would have omitted this personal testimony
when speaking of the "many infallible proofs" of His
resurrection.
Whoever the two might be, it is certain that they
enjoyed the esteem and confidence of the disciples,
having free access, even at untimely hours, to the
Apostolic circle, while the fact that Jesus Himself
sought their company, and selected them to such
honours, shows the high place which was accorded to
them in the Divine regard.
We are not apprised of the object of their journey;
indeed, they themselves seem to have lost sight of that
in the gleams of glory which, all unexpected, fell across
their path. It is not unlikely that it was connected
with recent events; for now that the central Sun,
around whom their lives revolved, has disappeared,
will not those lives necessarily take new directions,
or drift back into the old orbits? But whatever their
purposes might be, their thoughts are retrospective
rather than prospective; for while their faces are set
towards Emmaus, and their feet are steadily measuring
off the furlongs of the journey, their thoughts are
lingering behind, clinging to the dark crest of Calvary,
as the cloud-pennon clings to the Alpine peak. They
can speak but of one theme, "these things which have
happened:" the One whom they took to be the Christ,
to whom their hearts had been so strangely drawn;
His character, miracles, and words; the ignominious
Death, in which that Life, with all their hopes, was
quenched; and then the strange tidings which had
been brought by the women, as to how they had found
the grave empty, and how they had seen a vision of
angels. The word "questioned together" generally
implies a difference of opinion, and refers to the cross-questioning
of disputants; but in this case it probably
referred only to the innumerable questions the report of
the Resurrection would raise in their minds, the honest
doubts and difficulties with which they felt themselves
compelled to grapple.
It was while they were discussing these new problems,
walking leisurely along the road—for men walk
heavily when weighted at the heart—a Stranger overtook
and joined them, asking, after the usual salutation,
which would not be omitted, "What communications
are these that ye have one with another, as ye
walk?" The very form of the question would help
to disguise the familiar voice, while the changed
"form" of which St. Mark speaks would somewhat
mask the familiar features; but at the same time it
would appear that there was a supernatural holding of
their eyes, as if a dusky veil were wrapped about the
Stranger. His question startled them, even as a voice
from another world, as, indeed, it seemed; and stopping
suddenly, they turned their "sad" faces to the Stranger
in a momentary and silent astonishment, a silence
which Cleopas broke by asking, "Dost thou alone
sojourn in Jerusalem, and not know the things which
are come to pass there in these days?" a double
question, to which the stranger replied with the brief
interrogative, "What things?" It needed no more than
that solitary word to unseal the fountain of their lips,
for the clouds which had broken so wildly and darkly
over Calvary had filled their hearts with an intense and
bitter grief, which longed for expression, even for the
poor relief of words. And so they break in together
with their answer (the pronoun is changed now),
"Concerning Jesus of Nazareth, which was a Prophet
mighty in deed and word before God and all the people:
and how the chief priests and our rulers delivered Him
up to be condemned to death, and crucified Him. But
we hoped that it was He which should redeem Israel.
Yea, and beside all this, it is now the third day since
these things came to pass. Moreover certain women
of our company amazed us, having been early at the
tomb; and when they found not His body, they came,
saying, that they had also seen a vision of angels, which
said that He was alive. And certain of them that were
with us went to the tomb, and found it even so as the
women had said: but Him they saw not."
It is the impetuous language of intense feeling, in
which hope and despair strike alternate chords. In
the first strain Jesus of Nazareth is lifted high; He is
a Prophet mighty in word and deed; then He is stricken
down, condemned to death, and crucified. Again, hope
speaks, recalling the bright dream of a redemption for
Israel; but having spoken that word, Hope herself
goes aside to weep by the grave where her Redeemer
was hurriedly buried. Still again is the glimmer of a
new light, as the women bring home the message of
the angels; but still again the light sets in darkness,
a gloom which neither the eyes of Reason nor of Faith
could as yet pierce; for "Him they saw not" marks
the totality of the eclipse, pointing to a void of darkness,
a firmament without a sun or star.
But incidentally, in the swift current of their speech,
we catch a reflection of the Christ as He appeared to
their minds. He was indeed a Prophet, second to
none, and in their hope He was more, for He was the
Redeemer of Israel. It is evident the disciples had
not yet grasped the full purport of the Messianic
mission. Their thought was hazy, obscure, like the
vision of men walking in a mist. The Hebrew dream
of a temporal sovereignty seems to have been a prevailing,
perhaps the prevailing force in their minds, the
attraction which drew and cheered them on. But their
Redeemer was but a local, temporal one, who will
restore the kingdom to Israel; He was not yet the
Redeemer of the world, who should save His people
from their sins. The "regeneration," as they fondly
called it, the "new creation," was purely national, when
out of the chaos of Roman irruptions their Hebrew
paradise will come. For one thing, the disciples were
too near the Divine life to see its just and large proportions.
They must stand back from it the distance
of a Pentecost; they must look on it through their
lenses of flame, before they can take in the profound
meaning of that Life, or the awful mystery of that
Death. At present their vision is out of focus, and all
they can see is the blurred and shadowy outline of
the reality, the temporal rather than the spiritual, a
redeemed nationality rather than a redeemed and regenerated
humanity.
The risen Jesus, for such the Stranger was, though
they knew it not, listened to their requiem patiently
and wonderingly, glad to find within their hearts such
deep and genuine love, which even the cross and the
grave had not been able to extinguish. The men
themselves were true, even though their views were
somewhat warped—the refractions of their Hebrew
atmosphere. And Jesus leads them in thought to
those "shining uplands" of truth; as it were, spurring
them on, by a sharp though kind rebuke, to the heights
where Divine thoughts and purposes move on to their
fulfilment. "O foolish men," He said, "and slow of
heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken!
Behoved it not the Christ to suffer these things, and to
enter into His glory?" They thought He was some
stranger in Jerusalem, yet He knows their prophets
better than themselves; and hark, He puts in a word
they had feared to use. They only called Him "Jesus
of Nazareth;" they did not give Him that higher title
of "the Christ" which they had freely used before.
No; for the cross had rudely shattered and broken
that golden censer, in which they had been wont to
burn a royal incense. But here the Stranger recasts
their broken, golden word, burning its sweet, Divine
incense even in presence of the cross, calling the
Crucified the "Christ"! Verily, this Stranger has
more faith than they; and they still their garrulous
lips, which speak so randomly, to hear the new and
august Teacher, whose voice was an echo of the Truth,
if not the Truth itself!
"And beginning from Moses and from all the prophets,
He interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things
concerning Himself." It will be observed that our
Evangelist uses a peculiar word in speaking of this
Divine exposition. He calls it an "interpretation,"
a word used in the New Testament only in the sense
of translating from one language to another, from the
unknown to the known tongue. And such, indeed, it
was; for they had read the Scriptures but in part,
and so misread them. They had thrown upon those
Scriptures the projections of their own hopes and
illusions; while other Scriptures, those relating to the
sufferings of Christ, were set back, out of sight, or if
heard at all, they were only the voice of an unknown
tongue, a vox et preterea nihil. So Jesus interprets to
them the voices of this unknown tongue. Beginning
at Moses, He shows, from the types, the prophecies,
and the Psalms, how that the Christ must suffer and
die, ere the glories of His kingdom can begin; that
the cross and the grave both lay in the path of
the Redeemer, as the bitter and prickly calyx out of
which the "glories" should unfold themselves. And
thus, opening their Scriptures, putting in the crimson
lens of the blood, as well as the chromatic lens of the
Messianic glory, the disciples find the cross all transfigured,
inwoven in God's eternal purpose of redemption;
while the sufferings of Christ, at which they had
stumbled before, they now see were part of the eternal
plan of mercy, a Divine "ought," a great necessity.
They had now reached Emmaus, the limit of their
journey, but the two disciples cannot lose the company
of One whose words have opened to them a new and
a bright world; and though He was evidently going
on farther, they constrained Him to abide with them,
as it was towards evening and the day was far spent.
And He went in to tarry with them, though not for
long. Sitting down to meat, the Stranger Guest,
without any apology, takes the place of the host, and
blessing the bread, He breaks and gives to them.
Was it the uplifted face threw them back on the old,
familiar days? or did they read the nail-mark in
His hand? We do not know; but in an instant the
veil in which He had enfolded Himself was withdrawn,
and they knew Him: it was the Lord Himself, the
risen Jesus! In a moment the hush of a great awe
fell upon them, and before they had time to embrace
Him whom they had loved so passionately, indeed
before their lips could frame an exclamation of surprise,
He had vanished; He "became invisible" to them, as
it reads, passing out of their sight like a dissolving
cloud. And when they did recover themselves it was
not to speak His name—there was no need of that—but
to say one to another, "Was not our heart burning
within, us while He spake to us in the way, while He
opened to us the Scriptures?" It was to them a
bright Apocalypse, "the Revelation of Jesus Christ,"
who was dead, and is alive for evermore; and all-forgetful
of their errand, and though it is evening, they
leave Emmaus at once, their winged feet not heeding
the sixty furlongs now, as they haste to Jerusalem to
announce to the eleven, and to the rest, that Jesus has
indeed arisen, and has appeared unto them.
Returning to Jerusalem, they go direct to the well-known
trysting-place, where they find the Apostles
("the eleven" as the band was now called, though,
as St. John informs us, Thomas was not present) and
others gathered for their evening meal, and speaking
of another and later appearance of Jesus to Simon,
which must have occurred during their absence from
the city; and they add to the growing wonder by
telling of their evening adventure, and how Jesus was
known of them in breaking of bread. But while they
discussed the subject—for the majority were yet in
doubt as to the reality of the appearances—Jesus Himself
stood before them, passing through the fastened
door; for the same fear that shut the door would
securely lock it. Though giving to them the old-time
salutation, "Peace be to you," it did not calm the
unrest and agitation of their soul; the chill of a great
fear fell upon them, as the spectral Shadow, as they
thought it; stood before them. "Why are ye troubled?"
asks Jesus, "and wherefore do reasonings arise in
your hearts?" for they fairly trembled with fear, as
the word would imply. "See My hands and My feet,
that it is I Myself: handle Me, and see; for a spirit
hath not flesh and bones, as ye behold Me having." He
then extended His hands, drew back His robe from His
feet, and, as St. John says, uncovered His side, that
they might see the wounds of the nails and the spear,
and that by these visible, tangible proofs they might
be convinced of the reality of His Resurrection body.
It was enough; their hearts in an instant swung round
from an extreme of fear to an extreme of joy, a sort
of wild joy, in which Reason for the moment became
confused, and Faith bewildered. But while the heavenly
trance is yet upon them Jesus recalls them to earthly
things, asking if they have any meat; and when they
give Him a piece of a broiled fish, some of the remnants
of their own repast, He takes and eats before them all;
not that now He needed the sustenance of earthly food,
in His resurrection life, but that by this simple act He
might put another seal upon His true humanity. It
was a kind of sacrament, showing forth His oneness
with His own; that on the farther side of the grave,
in His exaltation, as on this, in His humiliation, He was
still the "Son of man," interested in all things, even
the commonplaces, of humanity.
The interview was not for long, for the risen Christ
dwelt apart from His disciples, coming to them at
uncertain times and only for brief spaces. He lingers,
however, now, to explain to the eleven, as before to
the two, the great mystery of the Redemption. He
opens their minds, that the truth may pass within.
Gathering up the lamps of prophecy suspended through
the Scriptures, He turns their varying lights upon
Himself, the Me of whom they testify. He shows
them how it is written in their law that the Christ
must suffer, the Christ must die, the Christ must
rise again the third day, and "that repentance and
remission of sins should be preached in His name unto
all the nations, beginning from Jerusalem." And then
He gave to these preachers of repentance and remission
the promise of which the Book of the Acts is a fulfilment
and enlargement, the "promise of the Father,"
which is the gift of the Holy Ghost. It was the
prophecy of the Pentecost, the first rustle of the
mighty rushing wind, that Divine breath which comes
to all who will receive it.
Our Evangelist passes in silence other appearances
of the Resurrection Life, those forty days in which, by
His frequent manifestations, He was training His disciples
to trust in His unseen Presence. He only in a
few closing words tells of the Ascension; how, near
Bethany, He was parted from them, and taken up into
heaven, throwing down benedictions from His uplifted
hands even as He went; and how the disciples returned
to Jerusalem, not sorrowing, as men bereaved, but with
great joy, having learned now to endure and rejoice
as seeing Him who is invisible, the unseen but ever-present
Christ. That St. Luke omits the other Resurrection
appearances is probably because he intended
to insert them in his prelude to the Acts of the Apostles,
which he does, as he joins his second treatise to the
first. Nor is it altogether an incidental coincidence
that as he writes his later story he begins at Jerusalem,
lingering in the upper room which was the
wind-rocked cradle of the Church, and inserting as
key-words of the new story these four words from
the old: Repentance, Remission, Promise, Power. The
two books are thus one, a seamless robe, woven for
the living Christ, the one giving us the Christ of the
Humiliation, the other the Christ of the Exaltation,
who speaks now from the upper heavens, and whose
power is the power of the Holy Ghost.
And was it altogether undesigned that our Evangelist,
omitting other appearances of the forty days,
yet throws such a wealth of interest and of colouring
into that first Easter day, filling it up from its early
dawn to its late evening? We think not. He is
writing to and for the Gentiles, whose Sabbaths are
not on the last but on the first day of the week, and
he stays to picture for us that first Lord's day, the
day chosen by the Lord of the Sabbath for this high
consecration. And as the Holy Church throughout
all the world keeps her Sabbaths now, her anthems
and songs are a sweet incense burned by the door of
the empty sepulchre; for, "The light which threw the
glory of the Sabbath into the shade was the glory of
the Risen Lord."
INDEX.
Acts, the, and the Gospel,
415.
Adoration of the shepherds,
67.
Advent, the, long, delayed,
17.
" the music of the, 29.
Agony, the, and the Transfiguration,
365.
Angels and "men,"
402.
Anointing, the, of the feet,
209.
Antioch,
3,
4.
Apostleship, the, instituted,
190.
Apostles, the, sent forth,
269.
Augustus Cæsar,
62.
Authority, set under,
206.
Baptism, the, of Jesus,
189.
Beatitudes, the Mount of,
195.
Being, more than doing,
338.
Benedictus, the,
42,
43.
Bethany,
307.
Bethlehem Ephratah,
61,
62.
Bethsaida,
157.
" Julias, 271.
Betrayer, the,
378.
Blind, the, sight for,
138,
139.
Blindness, spiritual,
140.
Body, the spiritual,
356.
"Bread enough and to spare,"
324.
Brotherhood, the, of man,
304.
Business and religion,
237.
Caiaphas,
383,
387.
Calling, the, of the four,
162.
Cana,
64,
131.
" and the desert-place, 280.
Capernaum,
65,
131,
203.
Cares, the, of life,
235.
Carlyle,
32.
Casual disciples,
234.
Centurion, faith of the,
195.
" humility of the, 204.
Centurions, the three,
200.
Character, in the kingdom of heaven,
245.
" and circumstance, 337.
" makes destiny, 357.
Childhood consecrated,
85.
Christ, the transfigured,
283.
" " suffering, 410.
Christianity, the rapid spread of,
8.
Chronology of New Testament vague,
16.
Circumcision, the rite of,
83.
Citizenship in the new kingdom,
245,
248.
Cleopas,
405.
Coifi and his parable,
352.
Common things made sacred,
75.
Concerning prayer,
177.
Conduct, character in motion,
337.
Court of the women,
47.
Creed, a, not a Christ,
155.
Cross, the foreshadow of the,
282.
" the, the central thought of heaven, 291.
Cup, the, of the Agony,
368.
" " of sorrow transfigured, 375.
Death, foreign to the sinless life,
285.
" an "exodus," 288.
Debtors, the two,
216.
Decision of character,
167.
Demonology,
153,
155.
"Depart from me, O lord,"
172.
Departed, the, interested in earthly things,
290.
Destiny, eternal,
363.
Disciples, the three candidate,
246,
247.
" " sleeping, 372, 381.
" misunderstand Christ's mission, 409.
Divided energies,
235.
Dorner, Dr.,
351.
Drachma, the lost,
339.
Draught, the, of fishes,
169.
Duties owing to the State,
349.
Eastern mind poetic,
31.
"Eat, drink, and be merry,"
358.
Elder brother, the,
329.
Elizabeth,
20,
34.
" song of, 20, 36, 37.
Emmaus, the walk to,
405.
" the, apocalypse, 411.
Eschatology, the, of St. Luke,
352.
Ethics, the, of St. Luke,
336,
351.
Ethical, the, compass,
342.
Evolution, not revolution,
170.
Ewald,
90.
Faith, the secret of victory,
127.
Farrar, Archdeacon,
187,
215.
Fast, the forty days',
110.
Fasting and prayer,
111.
Fatherhood, the, of God,
179.
Forgiveness, the joy of,
217.
" to follow repentance, 346.
Gabriel and the Virgin Mary,
55.
Gethsemane,
191,
284,
296,
364.
"Give ye them to eat,"
274.
Giving,
202,
348.
Godet, Professor,
223,
296,
335.
Golden rule, the,
303.
Good tidings to the poor,
136.
" part, the, 312.
Gospel, the, of the Old Testament,
134.
" " " liberty, 142.
Gospels, the four, a unity,
1.
Grave, the, not our goal,
354.
Growth of the kingdom,
251.
Gulf, the great,
363.
Healing, miracles of,
255.
Hearers, not doers,
226.
Heaven in the Old Testament,
178.
" near and real to Jesus, 189.
" and hell, 361.
Hebraisms in St. Luke,
15.
Hermon, Mount,
282.
Herod, king of Judæa,
18.
" the Tetrarch, 270.
" Jesus before, 392.
Herodias, daughter of,
103.
Holy Spirit, full of the,
108.
Home associations,
82.
" and the synagogue, 149.
Hope and despair,
408.
Housebuilders, the,
359.
Humanity and nationality,
5.
Humility,
342.
Hundredfold, the, increase,
239.
Incarnation, the,
48.
Inn, the, of Bethlehem,
76.
" " " Chimham, 77.
Inspiration, the personal element in,
2,
10.
" " work of the Holy Spirit, 12, 13.
Jesus, baptism of,
97.
" returns to Nazareth, 128.
" preaches in the synagogue, 132.
" no pessimist, 136.
" and the Fatherhood of God, 136.
" a Lover of freedom, 143.
" the King, 244.
" " knowledge of, 264.
" " compassion of, 266.
" " power of, 267.
" "offered Himself," 381.
" appears to the eleven, 412.
Jews, the, and the Samaritans,
301.
Joachim and Anna,
53.
John the Baptist, a Nazarite,
25.
" his mission foretold, 81.
" withdraws to the desert, 88.
" his manifestation, 89.
" effect of his ministry, 92.
" secret of his success, 93.
" his wavering faith, 100.
" belongs to the old dispensation, 102.
Joseph,
50.
Judaism and spiritual life,
21.
Judas Iscariot,
378.
Judging others,
339.
Khamasa, the modern Emmaus,
405.
Kingdom, the, of heaven,
241.
" the keys of the, 244.
" the, and its citizens, 245.
" the growth of the, 251.
" the, not of this world, 252.
Lamb, the, of God,
100.
"Larger hope," the,
361.
Law, the, exacting, unforgiving,
220.
" of love, the, supreme, 338.
Leaven, the, hid in the meal,
252.
Leper, Jesus touches the,
259.
Life, the, which now is,
336.
Little things, the Divine care for,
278.
Loan, the, of the three loaves,
186.
Loaves, the miracle of the,
269.
Lord's Day, the first,
400.
Losing all, to gain all,
175.
Lost and found,
317.
Love in action and love at rest,
307.
" the all-embracing duty, 338.
" of country, 350.
Loving the sinner,
324.
" our enemies, 343.
Luke, St., and humanity,
4.
" " his Gentile sympathies, 4, 5.
" " his profession, 6, 7.
" " reasons for writing his Gospel, 9.
Magnificat, the,
39.
Malchus,
382.
Mariolatry,
52.
Marriage in the after-life,
355.
Martha of Bethany,
309.
Mary the listener,
310.
" anoints the feet of Jesus, 314.
Miracles, natural and necessary,
148.
Miracle, a, of a new order,
169,
279.
Misery, the, of sin,
333.
Money, the love of,
348,
379.
Moses and Elijah,
286.
Mustard seed, a grain of,
252.
"My soul is exceeding sorrowful,"
367.
Nature, the kingdom of,
243.
Nazareth,
37,
50.
Needle's eye, the,
246.
Neighbour, my,
296.
Ninety and nine, the, just persons,
335.
"Numbered among the transgressors,"
396.
Nunc Dimittis,
44.
Oaths and curses,
384.
Obedience, in the Christian life,
168.
Obedience to parents,
349.
Order, Heaven's love of,
277.
Orpheus and his lyre,
371.
Papias,
55.
Passover, an extemporised,
280.
" the, 377.
Paternoster, a parabolic,
322.
Peter, the faith of,
167.
Peter's wife's mother,
157.
" denial, 383.
" lack of moral courage, 386.
Pharisee, the, and the publican,
181,
250.
Pharisees, the teaching of the,
200.
" the, reject both Jesus and John, 209.
Philip the evangelist,
247.
Phillips Brooks,
315.
Pilate, Jesus before,
390.
" pleads for Jesus, 393.
" character of, 394.
Pity, the Divine,
276.
Pleasures, the, of life,
238.
" and pains of the after-life, 357.
Poor, the, in spirit,
249.
" " and the proud in spirit, 250.
Prayer and healing,
159.
" character, a condition of, 181.
" the Lord's, 182.
" " wide realm of, 185.
" importunity in, 186.
" habitual with Jesus, 189, 194.
" of Jesus for Simon, 193.
" answered, but not granted, 374.
Pride condemned,
341.
Priest, the, and Levite,
298.
Priesthood, friendly to Jesus,
299.
Principles, evolved but not created,
337.
Prodigal son, the,
321.
Promise, the, of the Father,
414.
Prophets of the old dispensation,
135.
Psalms, the, of the Advent,
33.
" the four, one song, 45.
Quarantania, the,
110.
Receiving and giving,
315.
Regeneration not reform,
337.
Religion, little more than form,
149.
Religiousness not always religion,
300.
Religious, the, instinct,
177.
Repentant, Heaven's joy over the,
334.
Resurrection life, the,
285.
Return, the, of the prodigal,
325.
Riches, the pursuit after,
237.
Rich man, the, and Lazarus,
359.
Sabbath, a, in Galilee,
148.
" the, question, 150.
" " and the Lords Day, 415.
Sacrament, the new,
370.
Sacred sites obscure,
68.
Samaritan, the good,
294.
" his thoughtful sympathy, 302.
Sceptre, the departed,
91.
Scriptures, the misread,
410.
Sea, the, is His,
171.
Seed, the way-side,
227.
" the, on the rocks, 230.
" " amid the thorns, 235.
" " in the good ground, 238.
Self-sacrifice, the beauty of,
305.
Servant, the, of the centurion,
196.
Sheep, the lost,
318.
Shepherds, the, and the angels,
69.
" character of the, 73.
Sight for the soul,
306.
Silence, four centuries of,
19.
Simon the Pharisee,
211.
" " " a seeker after truth, 212.
" the Cyrenean, 395.
Sin, confessed, then forgiven,
328.
" the Divine grief over, 330.
" to be rebuked, 345.
Sinners, hope for,
220.
Sisters, the two,
306.
Son, a, with a servant's heart,
330.
Sower, parable of the,
225.
Spices for the embalming,
401.
Spikenard and tears,
216.
Stier,
218.
Sympathy in sorrow,
368.
Synagogue, the, at Capernaum,
151.
Talents, parable of the,
359.
Taxing, the,
62.
Temptation, the,
105.
Testimony, value of personal,
201.
Testing times,
233.
Theophilus,
7.
Thief, the penitent,
397.
Tower, the, of the flock,
68.
Transfiguration, the,
191,
281.
Trial, the mock,
388.
Ulysses and the sirens,
229.
Unclean devil, the,
152.
Unity, the, of the Godhead,
178.
Unjust judge, the,
187.
Unquiet heart, the,
315.
Vacillation, a bar to heavenly citizenship,
246.
Valley, the, of the shadow,
354.
Vindictive feelings disallowed,
344.
Virgin-conception, the, a familiar thought,
50.
Vision, the double,
141.
Voice, the human, and the Divine Word,
201.
Watch, the, in Gethsemane,
364.
Wayside, the, may become fruitful,
230.
Wealth, its place in the new kingdom,
245.
" the true use of, 346.
" " peculiar dangers of, 347.
" to be held in trust, 348.
" consecrated, 348.
Welcome home, the,
328.
Will, submission to the Father's,
375.
Woman, a, of the city,
213.
Words, the, of Jesus, the Word of God,
164.
" Divine, forgotten, 403.
Work and worship,
55,
74.
Worlds beyond the world,
353.
Worship, the heart in,
150.
" counterfeit, 228.
Wrong not to be condoned,
345.
Zacharias,
20.
" in the holy place, 22.
" prayer of, 23.
" the angel's message to, 23.
" asks for a sign, 26.
" and the Benidictus, 28.
Indexes
Index of Scripture Commentary
Index of Pages of the Print Edition