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Title: The Expositor's Bible: The Gospel of St John, Vol. II
Author: Dods, Marcus, 1834-1909
Language: English
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THE EXPOSITOR’S BIBLE.
EDITED BY THE REV.
W. ROBERTSON NICOLL, M.A., LL.D.
_Editor of “The Expositor.”_
THE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN.
BY
MARCUS DODS, D.D.
London:
HODDER AND STOUGHTON,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCXCII.
THE
GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN.
BY
MARCUS DODS, D.D.,
PROFESSOR OF EXEGETICAL THEOLOGY, NEW COLLEGE, EDINBURGH.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
_VOL. II._
London:
HODDER AND STOUGHTON,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCXCII.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.
THE ANOINTING OF JESUS 3
II.
THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM 19
III.
THE CORN OF WHEAT 31
IV.
THE ATTRACTIVE FORCE OF THE CROSS 47
V.
RESULTS OF CHRIST’S MANIFESTATION 65
VI.
THE FOOT-WASHING 75
VII.
JUDAS 91
VIII.
JESUS ANNOUNCES HIS DEPARTURE 109
IX.
THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE 123
X.
THE FATHER SEEN IN CHRIST 137
XI.
THE BEQUEST OF PEACE 159
XII.
THE VINE AND THE BRANCHES 175
XIII.
NOT SERVANTS, BUT FRIENDS 193
XIV.
THE SPIRIT CHRIST’S WITNESS 205
XV.
LAST WORDS 229
XVI.
CHRIST’S INTERCESSORY PRAYER 247
XVII.
THE ARREST 263
XVIII.
PETER’S DENIAL AND REPENTANCE 281
XIX.
JESUS BEFORE PILATE 299
XX.
MARY AT THE CROSS 321
XXI.
THE CRUCIFIXION 335
XXII.
THE RESURRECTION 351
XXIII.
THOMAS’ TEST 365
XXIV.
APPEARANCE AT SEA OF GALILEE 383
XXV.
RESTORATION OF PETER 399
XXVI.
CONCLUSION 413
I.
_THE ANOINTING OF JESUS._
“Jesus therefore six days before the Passover came to Bethany, where
Lazarus was, whom Jesus raised from the dead. So they made Him a
supper there: and Martha served; but Lazarus was one of them that
sat at meat with Him. Mary therefore took a pound of ointment of
spikenard, very precious, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped
His feet with her hair: and the house was filled with the odour of
the ointment. But Judas Iscariot, one of His disciples, which should
betray Him, saith, Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred
pence, and given to the poor? Now this he said, not because he cared
for the poor; but because he was a thief, and having the bag took
away what was put therein. Jesus therefore said, Suffer her to keep
it against the day of My burying. For the poor ye have always with
you; but Me ye have not always. The common people therefore of the
Jews learned that He was there: and they came, not for Jesus’ sake
only, but that they might see Lazarus also, whom He had raised from
the dead. But the chief priests took counsel that they might put
Lazarus also to death; because that by reason of him many of the
Jews went away, and believed on Jesus.”—JOHN xii. 1–11.
This twelfth chapter is the watershed of the Gospel. The
self-manifestation of Jesus to the world is now ended; and from this
point onwards to the close we have to do with the results of that
manifestation. He hides Himself from the unbelieving, and allows their
unbelief full scope; while He makes further disclosures to the faithful
few. The whole Gospel is a systematic and wonderfully artistic
exhibition of the manner in which the deeds, words, and claims of Jesus
produced,—on the one hand, a growing belief and enthusiasm; on the
other, a steadily hardening unbelief and hostility. In this chapter the
culmination of these processes is carefully illustrated by three
incidents. In the first of these incidents evidence is given that there
was an intimate circle of friends in whose love Jesus was embalmed, and
His work and memory insured against decay; while the very deed which had
riveted the faith and affection of this intimate circle is shown to have
brought the antagonism of His enemies to a head. In the second incident
the writer shows that on the whole popular mind Jesus had made a
profound impression, and that the instincts of the Jewish people
acknowledged Him as King. In the third incident the influence He was
destined to have and was already to some extent exerting beyond the
bounds of Judaism is illustrated by the request of the Greeks that they
might see Jesus.
In this first incident, then, is disclosed a devotedness of faith which
cannot be surpassed, an attachment which is absolute; but here also we
see that the hostility of avowed enemies has penetrated even the inner
circle of the personal followers of Jesus, and that one of the chosen
Twelve has so little faith or love that he can see no beauty and find no
pleasure in any tribute paid to his Master. In this hour there meet a
ripeness of love which suddenly reveals the permanent place which Jesus
has won for Himself in the hearts of men, and a maturity of alienation
which forebodes that His end cannot be far distant. In this beautiful
incident, therefore, we turn a page in the gospel and come suddenly into
the presence of Christ’s death. To this death He Himself freely alludes,
because He sees that things are now ripe for it, that nothing short of
His death will satisfy His enemies, while no further manifestation can
give Him a more abiding place in the love of His friends. The chill,
damp odour of the tomb first strikes upon the sense, mingling with and
absorbed in the perfume of Mary’s ointment. If Jesus dies, He cannot be
forgotten. He is embalmed in the love of such disciples.
On His way to Jerusalem for the last time Jesus reached Bethany “six
days before the Passover”—that is to say, in all probability[1] on the
Friday evening previous to His death. It was natural that He should wish
to spend His last Sabbath in the congenial and strengthening society of
a family whose welcome and whose affection He could rely upon. In the
little town of Bethany He had become popular, and since the raising of
Lazarus He was regarded with marked veneration. Accordingly they made
Him a feast, which, as Mark informs us, was given in the house of Simon
the leper. Any gathering of His friends in Bethany must have been
incomplete without Lazarus and his sisters. Each is present, and each
contributes an appropriate addition to the feast. Martha serves;
Lazarus, mute as he is throughout the whole story, bears witness by his
presence as a living guest to the worthiness of Jesus; while Mary makes
the day memorable by a characteristic action. Coming in, apparently
after the guests had reclined at table, she broke an alabaster of very
costly spikenard[2] and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped His feet
with her hair.
This token of affection took the company by surprise. Lazarus and his
sisters may have been in sufficiently good circumstances to admit of
their making a substantial acknowledgment of their indebtedness to
Jesus; and although this alabaster of ointment had cost as much as would
keep a labouring man’s family for a year, this could not seem an
excessive return to make for service so valuable as Jesus had rendered.
It was the manner of the acknowledgment which took the company by
surprise. Jesus was a poor man, and His very appearance may have
suggested that there were other things He needed more urgently than
such a gift as this. Had the family provided a home for Him or given
Him the price of this ointment, no one would have uttered a remark. But
this was the kind of demonstration reserved for princes or persons of
great distinction; and when paid to One so conspicuously humble in His
dress and habits, there seemed to the uninstructed eye something
incongruous and bordering on the grotesque. When the fragrance of the
ointment disclosed its value, there was therefore an instantaneous
exclamation of surprise, and at any rate in one instance of blunt
disapproval. Judas, instinctively putting a money value on this display
of affection, roundly and with coarse indelicacy declared it had better
have been sold and given to the poor.
Jesus viewed the act with very different feelings. The rulers were
determining to put Him out of the way, as not only worthless but
dangerous; the very man who objected to this present expenditure was
making up his mind to sell Him for a small part of the sum; the people
were scrutinising His conduct, criticising Him;—in the midst of all
this hatred, suspicion, treachery, coldness, and hesitation comes this
woman and puts aside all this would-be wisdom and caution, and for
herself pronounces that no tribute is rich enough to pay to Him. It is
the rarity of such action, not the rarity of the nard, that strikes
Jesus. This, He says, is a noble deed she has done, far rarer, far more
difficult to produce, far more penetrating, and lasting in its fragrance
than the richest perfume that man has compounded. Mary has the
experience that all those have who for Christ’s sake expose themselves
to the misunderstanding and abuse of vulgar and unsympathetic minds; she
receives from Himself more explicit assurance that her offering has
given pleasure to Him and is gratefully accepted. We may sometimes find
ourselves obliged to do what we perfectly well know will be
misunderstood and censured; we may be compelled to adopt a line of
conduct which seems to convict us of heedlessness and of the neglect of
duties we owe to others; we may be driven to action which lays us open
to the charge of being romantic and extravagant; but of one thing we may
be perfectly sure—that however our motives are mis-read and condemned
by those who first make their voices heard, He for whose sake we do
these things will not disparage our action nor misunderstand our
motives. The way to a fuller intimacy with Christ often lies through
passages in life we must traverse alone.
But we are probably more likely to misunderstand than to be
misunderstood. We are so limited in our sympathies, so scantily
furnished with knowledge, and have so slack a hold upon great
principles, that for the most part we can understand only those who are
like ourselves. When a woman comes in with her effusiveness, we are put
out and irritated; when a man whose mind is wholly uneducated utters his
feelings by shouting hymns and dancing on the street, we think him a
semi-lunatic; when a member of our family spends an hour or two a day in
devotional exercises, we condemn it as waste of time which might be
better spent on practical charities or household duties.
Most liable of all to this vice of misjudging the actions of others, and
indeed of misapprehending generally wherein the real value of life
consists, are those who, like Judas, measure all things by a
utilitarian, if not a money, standard. Actions which have no immediate
results are pronounced by such persons to be mere sentiment and waste,
while in fact they redeem human nature and make life seem worth living.
The charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava served none of the
immediate purposes of the battle, and was indeed a blunder and waste
from that point of view; yet are not our annals enriched by it as they
have been by few victories? On the Parthenon there were figures placed
with their backs hard against the wall of the pediment; these backs were
never seen and were not intended to be seen, but yet were carved with
the same care as was spent upon the front of the figures. Was that care
waste? There are thousands of persons in our own society who think it
essential to teach their children arithmetic, but pernicious to instil
into their minds a love of poetry or art. They judge of education by the
test, Will it pay? can this attainment be turned into money? The other
question, Will it enrich the nature of the child and of the man? is not
asked. They proceed as if they believed that the man is made for
business, not business for the man; and thus it comes to pass that
everywhere among us men are found sacrificed to business, stunted in
their moral development, shut off from the deeper things of life. The
pursuits which such persons condemn are the very things which lift life
out of the low level of commonplace buying and selling, and invite us to
remember that man liveth not by bread alone, but by high thoughts, by
noble sacrifice, by devoted love and all that love dictates, by the
powers of the unseen, mightier by far than all that we see.
In the face, then, of so much that runs counter to such demonstrations
as Mary’s and condemns them as extravagance, it is important to note the
principles upon which our Lord proceeds in His justification of her
action.
First, He says, this is an occasional, exceptional tribute. “The poor
always ye have with you, but me ye have not always.” Charity to the poor
you may continue from day to day all your life long: whatever you spend
on me is spent once for all. You need not think the poor defrauded by
this expenditure. Within a few days I shall be beyond all such tokens of
regard, and the poor will still claim your sympathy. This principle
solves for us some social and domestic problems. Of many expenses common
in society, and especially of expenses connected with scenes such as
this festive gathering at Bethany, the question always arises, Is this
expenditure justifiable? When present at an entertainment costing as
much and doing as little material good as the spikenard whose perfume
had died before the guests separated, we cannot but ask, Is not this,
after all, mere waste? had it not been better to have given the value to
the poor? The hunger-bitten faces, the poverty-stricken outcasts, we
have seen during the day are suggested to us by the superabundance now
before us. The effort to spend most where least is needed suggests to
us, as to these guests at Bethany, gaunt, pinched, sickly faces, bare
rooms, cold grates, feeble, dull-eyed children—in a word, starving
families who might be kept for weeks together on what is here spent in a
few minutes; and the question is inevitable, Is this right? Can it be
right to spend a man’s ransom on a mere good smell, while at the end of
the street a widow is pining with hunger? Our Lord replies that so long
as one is day by day considering the poor and relieving their
necessities, he need not grudge an occasional outlay to manifest his
regard for his friends. The poor of Bethany would probably appeal to
Mary much more hopefully than to Judas, and they would appeal all the
more successfully because her heart had been allowed to utter itself
thus to Jesus. There is, of course, an expenditure for display under the
guise of friendship. Such expenditure finds no justification here or
anywhere else. But those who in a practical way acknowledge the
perpetual presence of the poor are justified in the occasional outlay
demanded by friendship.
2. But our Lord’s defence of Mary is of wider range. “Let her alone,” He
says, “against the day of my burying hath she kept this.” It was not
only occasional, exceptional tribute she had paid Him; it was solitary,
never to be repeated. Against my burial she has kept this unguent; for
me ye have not always. Would you blame Mary for spending this, were I
lying in my tomb? Would you call it too costly a tribute, were it the
last? Well, it is the last.[3] Such is our Lord’s justification of her
action. Was Mary herself conscious that this was a parting tribute? It
is possible that her love and womanly instinct had revealed to her the
nearness of that death of which Jesus Himself so often spoke, but which
the disciples refused to think of. She may have felt that this was the
last time she would have an opportunity of expressing her devotion.
Drawn to Him with unutterable tenderness, with admiration, gratitude,
anxiety mingling in her heart, she hastens to spend upon Him her
costliest. Passing away from _her_ world she knows He is; buried so far
as she was concerned she knew Him to be if He was to keep the Passover
at Jerusalem in the midst of His enemies. Had the others felt with her,
none could have grudged her the last consolation of this utterance of
her love, or have grudged Him the consolation of receiving it. For this
made Him strong to die, this among other motives—the knowledge that His
love and sacrifice were not in vain, that He had won human hearts, and
that in their affection He would survive. This is His true embalming.
This it is that forbids that His flesh see corruption, that His earthly
manifestation die out and be forgotten. To die before He had attached to
Himself friends as passionate in their devotion as Mary would have been
premature. The recollection of His work might have been lost. But when
He had won men like John and women like Mary, He could die assured that
His name would never be lost from earth. The breaking of the alabaster
box, the pouring out of Mary’s soul in adoration of her Lord—this was
the signal that all was ripe for His departure, this the proof that His
manifestation had done its work. The love of His own had come to
maturity and burst thus into flower. Jesus therefore recognises in this
act His true embalming.
And it is probably from this point of view that we may most readily see
the appropriateness of that singular commendation and promise which our
Lord, according to the other gospels, added: “Verily I say unto you,
wherever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this
also that she hath done shall be spoken for a memorial of her.”
At first sight the encomium might seem as extravagant as the action. Was
there, a Judas might ask, anything deserving of immortality in the
sacrifice of a few pounds? But no such measurements are admissible here.
The encomium was deserved because the act was the irrepressible
utterance of all-absorbing love—of a love so full, so rich, so rare
that even the ordinary disciples of Christ were at first not in perfect
sympathy with it. The absolute devotedness of her love found a fit
symbol in the alabaster box or vase which she had to break that the
ointment might flow out. It was not a bottle out of which she might take
the stopper and let a carefully measured quantity dribble out, reserving
the rest for other and perhaps very different uses—fit symbol of our
love to Christ; but it was a hermetically sealed casket or flask, out of
which, if she let one drop fall, the whole must go. It had to be broken;
it had to be devoted to one sole use. It could not be in part reserved
or in part diverted to other uses. Where you have such love as this,
have you not the highest thing humanity can produce? Where is it now to
be had on earth, where are we to look for this all-devoting, unreserving
love, which gathers up all its possessions and pours them out at
Christ’s feet, saying, “Take all, would it were more”?
The encomium, therefore, was deserved and appropriate. In her love the
Lord would ever live: so long as she existed the remembrance of Him
could not die. No death could touch her heart with his chilly hand and
freeze the warmth of her devotion. Christ was immortal in her, and she
was therefore immortal in Him. Her love was a bond that could not be
broken, the truest spiritual union. In embalming Him, therefore, she
unconsciously embalmed herself. Her love was the amber in which He was
to be preserved, and she became inviolable as He. Her love was the
marble on which His name and worth were engraven, on which His image was
deeply sculptured, and they were to live and last together. Christ
“prolongs His days” in the love of His people. In every generation there
arise those who will not let His remembrance die out, and who to their
own necessities call out the living energy of Christ. In so doing they
unwittingly make themselves undying as He; their love of Him is the
little spark of immortality in their soul. It is that which indissolubly
and by the only genuine spiritual affinity links them to what is
eternal. To all who thus love Him Christ cannot but say, “Because I
live, ye shall live also.”
Another point in our Lord’s defence of Mary’s conduct, though it is not
explicitly asserted, plainly is, that tributes of affection paid
directly to Himself are of value to Him. Judas might with some
plausibility have quoted against our Lord His own teaching that an act
of kindness done to the poor was kindness to Him. It might be said that,
on our Lord’s own showing, what He desires is, not homage paid to
Himself personally, but loving and merciful conduct. And certainly any
homage paid to Himself which is not accompanied by such conduct is of no
value at all. But as love to Him is the spring and regulator of all
right conduct, it is necessary that we should cultivate this love; and
because He delights in our well-being and in ourselves, and does not
look upon us merely as so much material in which He may exhibit His
healing powers, He necessarily rejoices in every expression of true
devotedness that is paid to Him by any of us.
And on our side wherever there is true and ardent love it must crave
direct expression. “If ye love me,” says our Lord, “keep my
commandments”; and obedience certainly is the normal test and exhibition
of love. But there is that in our nature which refuses to be satisfied
with obedience, which craves fellowship with what we love, which carries
us out of ourselves and compels us to express our feeling directly. And
that soul is not fully developed whose pent-up gratitude, cherished
admiration, and warm affection do not from time to time break away from
all ordinary modes of expressing devotion and choose some such direct
method as Mary chose, or some such straightforward utterance as Peter’s:
“Lord, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest that I love Thee.”
It may, indeed, occur to us, as we read of Mary’s tribute to her Lord,
that the very words in which He justified her action forbid our
supposing that any so grateful tribute can be paid Him by us. “Me ye
have not always” may seem to warn us against expecting that so direct
and satisfying an intercourse can be maintained now, when we no longer
have Him. And no doubt this is one of the standing difficulties of
Christian experience. We can love those who live with us, whose eye we
can meet, whose voice we know, whose expression of face we can read. We
feel it easy to fix our affections on one and another of those who are
alive contemporaneously with ourselves. But with Christ it is different:
we miss those sensible impressions made upon us by the living bodily
presence; we find it difficult to retain in the mind a settled idea of
the feeling He has towards us. It is an effort to accomplish by faith
what sight without any effort effectually accomplishes. We do not _see_
that He loves us; the looks and tones that chiefly reveal human love are
absent; we are not from hour to hour confronted, whether we will or no,
with one evidence or other of love. Were the life of a Christian
nowadays no more difficult than it was to Mary, were it brightened with
Christ’s presence as a household friend, were the whole sum and
substance of it merely a giving way to the love He kindled by palpable
favours and measurable friendship, then surely the Christian life would
be a very simple, very easy, very happy course.
But the connection between ourselves and Christ is not of the body that
passes, but of the spirit which endures. It is spiritual, and such a
connection may be seriously perverted by the interference of sense and
of bodily sensations. To measure the love of Christ by His expression of
face and by His tone of voice is legitimate, but it is not the truest
measurement: to be drawn to Him by the accidental kindnesses our present
difficulties must provoke is to be drawn by something short of perfect
spiritual affinity. And, on the whole, it is well that our spirit should
be allowed to choose its eternal friendship and alliance by what is
specially and exclusively its own, so that its choice cannot be
mistaken, as the choice sometimes is when there is a mixture of physical
and spiritual attractiveness. So much are we guided in youth and in the
whole of our life by what is material, so freely do we allow our tastes
to be determined and our character to be formed by our connection with
what is material, that the whole man gets blunted in his _spiritual_
perceptions and incapable of appreciating what is not seen. And the
great part of our education in this life is to lift the spirit to its
true place and to its appropriate company, to teach it to measure its
gains apart from material prosperity, and to train it to love with
ardour what cannot be seen.
Besides, it cannot be doubted that this incident itself very plainly
teaches that Christ came into this world to win our love and to turn all
duty into a personal acting towards Him; to make the _whole_ of life
like those parts of it which are now its bright exceptional holiday
times; to make all of it a pleasure by making all of it and not merely
parts of it the utterance of love. Even a little love in our life is the
sunshine that quickens and warms and brightens the whole. There seems at
length to be a reason and a satisfaction in life when love animates us.
It is easy to act well to those whom we really love, and Christ has come
for the express purpose of bringing our whole life within this charmed
circle. He has come not to bring constraint and gloom into our lives,
but to let us out into the full liberty and joy of the life that God
Himself lives and judges to be the only life worthy of His bestowal upon
us.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] It is uncertain whether the “six days” are inclusive or exclusive of
the day of arrival and of the first day of the Feast. It is also
uncertain on what day of the week the Crucifixion happened.
[2] In _The Classical Review_ for July 1890 Mr. Bennett suggests that
the difficult word πιστικῆς should be written πιστακῆς, and that it
refers to the _Pistacia terebinthus_, which grows in Cyprus and Judæa,
and yields a very fragrant and very costly unguent.
[3] So Stier.
II.
_THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM._
“On the morrow a great multitude that had come to the feast, when
they heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem, took the branches of
the palm trees, and went forth to meet Him, and cried out, Hosanna:
Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord, even the King of
Israel. And Jesus, having found a young ass, sat thereon; as it is
written, Fear not, daughter of Zion: behold, thy King cometh,
sitting on an ass’s colt. These things understood not His disciples
at the first: but when Jesus was glorified, then remembered they
that these things were written of Him, and that they had done these
things unto Him. The multitude therefore that was with Him when He
called Lazarus out of the tomb, and raised him from the dead, bare
witness. For this cause also the multitude went and met Him, for
that they heard that He had done this sign. The Pharisees therefore
said among themselves, Behold, how ye prevail nothing: lo, the world
is gone after Him.”—JOHN xii. 12–19.
If our Lord arrived in Bethany on Friday evening and spent the Sabbath
with His friends there, “the next day” of ver. 12 is Sunday; and in the
Church year this day is known as Palm Sunday, from the incident here
related. It was also the day, four days before the Passover, on which
the Jews were enjoined by the law to choose their paschal lamb. Some
consciousness of this may have guided our Lord’s action. Certainly He
means finally to offer Himself to the people as the Messiah. Often as He
had evaded them before, and often as He had forbidden His disciples to
proclaim Him, He is now conscious that His hour has come, and by
entering Jerusalem as King of peace He definitely proclaims Himself the
promised Messiah. As plainly as the crowning of a new monarch and the
flourish of trumpets and the kissing of his hand by the great officers
of state proclaim him king, so unmistakably does our Lord by riding into
Jerusalem on an ass and by accepting the hosannas of the people proclaim
Himself the King promised to men through the Jews, as the King of peace
who was to win men to His rule by love and sway them by a Divine Spirit.
The scene must have been one not easily forgotten. The Mount of Olives
runs north and south parallel to the east wall of Jerusalem, and
separated from it by a gully, through which flows the brook Kidron. The
Mount is crossed by three paths. One of these is a steep footpath, which
runs direct over the crest of the hill; the second runs round its
northern shoulder; while the third crosses the southern slope. It was by
this last route the pilgrim caravans were accustomed to enter the city.
On the occasion of our Lord’s entry the road was probably thronged with
visitors making their way to the great annual feast. No fewer than three
million persons are said to have been sometimes packed together in
Jerusalem at the Passover; and all of them being on holiday, were ready
for any kind of excitement. The idea of a festal procession was quite to
their mind. And no sooner did the disciples appear with Jesus riding in
their midst than the vast streams of people caught the infection of
loyal enthusiasm, tore down branches of the palms and olives which were
found in abundance by the roadside, and either waved them in the air or
strewed them in the line of march. Others unwrapped their loose cloaks
from their shoulders and spread them along the rough path to form a
carpet as He approached—a custom which is still, it seems, observed in
the East in royal processions, and which has indeed sometimes been
imported into our own country on great occasions. Thus with every
demonstration of loyalty, with ceaseless shoutings that were heard
across the valley in the streets of Jerusalem itself, and waving the
palm branches, they moved towards the city.
Those who have entered the city from Bethany by this road tell us that
there are two striking points in it. The first is when at a turn of the
broad and well-defined mountain track the southern portion of the city
comes for an instant into view. This part of the city was called “the
city of David,” and the suggestion is not without probability that it
may have been at this point the multitude burst out in words that linked
Jesus with David. “Hosanna to the Son of David. Blessed is the King that
cometh in the name of the Lord. Blessed is the kingdom of our father
David. Hosanna, peace and glory in the highest.” This became the
watchword of the day, so that even the boys who had come out of the city
to see the procession were heard afterwards, as they loitered in the
streets, still shouting the same refrain.
After this the road again dips, and the glimpse of the city is lost
behind the intervening ridge of Olivet; but shortly a rugged ascent is
climbed and a ledge of bare rock is reached, and in an instant the whole
city bursts into view. The prospect from this point must have been one
of the grandest of its kind in the world, the fine natural position of
Jerusalem not only showing to advantage, but the long line of city wall
embracing, like the setting of a jewel, the marvellous structures of
Herod, the polished marble and the gilded pinnacles glittering in the
morning sun and dazzling the eye. It was in all probability at this
point that our Lord was overcome with regret when He considered the sad
fate of the beautiful city, and when in place of the smiling palaces and
apparently impregnable walls His imagination filled His eye with
smoke-blackened ruins, with pavements slippery with blood, with walls
breached at all points and choked with rotting corpses.
Our Lord’s choice of the ass was significant. The ass was commonly used
for riding, and the well-cared-for ass of the rich man was a very fine
animal, much larger and stronger than the little breed with which we
are familiar. Its coat, too, is as glossy as a well-kept
horse’s—“shiny black, or satiny white, or sleek mouse colour.” It was
not chosen by our Lord at this time that He might show His humility, for
it would have been still humbler to walk like His disciples. So far from
being a token of humility, He chose a colt which apparently had never
borne another rider. He rather meant by claiming the ass and by riding
into Jerusalem upon it to assert His royalty; but He did not choose a
horse, because that animal would have suggested royalty of quite another
kind from His—royalty which was maintained by war and outward force;
for the horse and the chariot had always been among the Hebrews symbolic
of warlike force. The disciples themselves, strangely enough, did not
see the significance of this action, although, when they had time to
reflect upon it, they remembered that Zechariah had said: “Rejoice
greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy
King cometh unto thee: He is just, and having salvation; lowly, and
riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass. And I will cut
off the chariot from Ephraim, and the horse from Jerusalem, and the
battle bow shall be cut off: and He shall speak peace unto the heathen.”
When John says, “these things understood not His disciples at the
first,” he cannot mean that they did not understand that Jesus by this
act claimed to be the Messiah, because even the mob perceived the
significance of this entry into Jerusalem and hailed Him “Son of David.”
What they did not understand, probably, was why He chose this mode of
identifying Himself with the Messiah. At any rate, their perplexity
brings out very clearly that the conception was not suggested to Jesus.
He was not induced by the disciples nor led on by the people to make a
demonstration which He Himself scarcely approved or had not intended to
make. On the contrary, from His first recorded act that morning He had
taken command of the situation. Whatever was done was done with
deliberation, at His own instance and as His own act.[4]
This then in the first place; it was His own deliberate act. He put
Himself forward, knowing that He would receive the hosannas of the
people, and intending that He should receive them. All His backwardness
is gone; all shyness of becoming a public spectacle is gone. For this
also is to be noted—that no place or occasion could have been more
public than the Passover at Jerusalem. Whatever it was He meant to
indicate by His action, it was to the largest possible public He meant
to indicate it. No longer in the retirement of a Galilean village, nor
in a fisherman’s cottage, nor in dubious or ambiguous terms, but in the
full blaze of the utmost publicity that could possibly be given to His
proclamation, and in language that could not be forgotten or
misinterpreted, He now declared Himself. He knew He must attract the
attention of the authorities, and His entrance was a direct challenge to
them.
What was it then that with such deliberation and such publicity He meant
to proclaim? What was it that in these last critical hours of His life,
when He knew He should have few more opportunities of speaking to the
people, He sought to impress upon them? What was it that, when free from
the solicitations of men and the pressure of circumstances, He sought
to declare? It was that He was the Messiah. There might be those in the
crowd who did not understand what was meant. There might be persons who
did not know Him, or who were incompetent judges of character, and
supposed He was a mere enthusiast carried away by dwelling too much on
some one aspect of Old Testament prophecy. In every generation there are
good men who become almost crazed upon some one topic, and sacrifice
everything to the promotion of one favourite hope. But however He might
be misjudged, there can be no question of His own idea of the
significance of His action. He claims to be the Messiah.
Such a claim is the most stupendous that could be made. To be the
Messiah is to be God’s Viceroy and Representative on earth, able to
represent God adequately to men, and to bring about that perfect
condition which is named “the kingdom of God.” The Messiah must be
conscious of ability perfectly to accomplish the will of God with man,
and to bring men into absolute harmony with God. This is claimed by
Jesus. He stands in His sober senses and claims to be that universal
Sovereign, that true King of men, whom the Jews had been encouraged to
expect, and who when He came would reign over Gentiles as well as Jews.
By this demonstration, to which His previous career had been naturally
leading up, He claims to take command of earth, of this world in all its
generations, not in the easier sense of laying down upon paper a
political constitution fit for all races, but in the sense of being able
to deliver mankind from the source of all their misery and to lift men
to a true superiority. He has gone about on earth, not secluding Himself
from the woes and ways of men, not delicately isolating Himself, but
exposing Himself freely to the touch of the malignities, the
vulgarities, the ignorance and wickedness of all; and He now claims to
rule all this, and implies that earth can present no complication of
distress or iniquity which he cannot by the Divine forces within Him
transform into health and purity and hope.
This then is His deliberate claim. He quietly but distinctly proclaims
that He fulfils all God’s promise and purpose among men; is that
promised King who was to rectify all things, to unite men to Himself,
and to lead them on to their true destiny; to be practically God upon
earth, accessible to men and identified with all human interests. Many
have tested His claim and have proved its validity. By true allegiance
to Him many have found that they have gained the mastery over the world.
They have entered into peace, have felt eternal verities underneath
their feet, and have attained a connection with God such as must be
everlasting. They are filled with a new spirit towards men and see all
things with purged eyes. Not abruptly and unintelligibly, by leaps and
bounds, but gradually and in harmony with the nature of things, His
kingdom is extending. Already His Spirit has done much: in time His
Spirit will everywhere prevail. It is by Him and on the lines which He
has laid down that humanity is advancing to its goal.
This was the claim He made; and this claim was enthusiastically admitted
by the popular instinct.[5] The populace was not merely humouring in
holiday mood a whimsical person for their own diversion. Many of them
knew Lazarus and knew Jesus, and taking the matter seriously gave the
tone to the rest. The people indeed did not, any more than the
disciples, understand how different the kingdom of their expectation was
from the kingdom Jesus meant to found. But while they entirely
misapprehended the purpose for which He was sent, they believed that He
was sent by God: His credentials were absolutely satisfactory, His work
incomprehensible. But as yet they still thought He must be of the same
mind as themselves regarding the work of the Messiah. To His claim,
therefore, the response given by the people was loud and demonstrative.
It was indeed a very brief reign they accorded to their King, but their
prompt acknowledgment of Him was the instinctive and irrepressible
expression of what they really felt to be His due. A popular
demonstration is notoriously untrustworthy, always running to extremes,
necessarily uttering itself with a loudness far in excess of individual
conviction, and gathering to itself the loose and floating mass of
people who have no convictions of their own, and are thankful to any one
who leads them and gives them a cue, and helps them to feel that they
have after all a place in the community. Who has not stood by as an
onlooker at a public demonstration and smiled at the noise and glare
that a mass of people will produce when their feelings are ever so
little stirred, and marked how even against their own individual
sentiments they are carried away by the mere tide of the day’s
circumstances, and for the mere sake of making a demonstration? This
crowd which followed our Lord with shoutings very speedily repented and
changed their shouts into a far blinder shriek of rage against Him who
had been the occasion of their folly. And it must indeed have been a
humbling experience for our Lord to have Himself ushered into Jerusalem
by a crowd through whose hosannas He already heard the mutter of their
curses. Such is the homage He has to content Himself with—such is the
homage a perfect life has won.
For He knew what was in man; and while His disciples might be deceived
by this popular response to His claim, He Himself was fully aware how
little it could be built upon. Save in His own heart, there is no
premonition of death. More than ever in His life before does His sky
seem bright without a cloud. He Himself is in His early prime with life
before Him; His followers are hopeful, the multitude jubilant; but
through all this gay enthusiasm He sees the scowling hate of the priests
and scribes; the shouting of the multitude does not drown in His ear the
mutterings of a Judas and of the Sanhedrim. He knew that the throne He
was now hailed to was the cross, that His coronation was the reception
on His own brows of all the thorns and stings and burdens that man’s sin
had brought into the world. He did not fancy that the redemption of the
world to God was an easy matter which could be accomplished by an
afternoon’s enthusiasm. He kept steadily before His mind the actual
condition of the men who were by His spiritual influence to become the
willing and devoted subjects of God’s kingdom. He measured with accuracy
the forces against Him, and understood that His warfare was not with the
legions of Rome, against whom this Jewish patriotism and indomitable
courage and easily roused enthusiasm might tell, but with principalities
and powers a thousandfold stronger, with the demons of hatred and
jealousy, of lust and worldliness, of carnality and selfishness. Never
for a moment did He forget His true mission and sell His spiritual
throne, hard-earned as it was to be, for popular applause and the
glories of the hour. Knowing that only by the utmost of human goodness
and self-sacrifice, and by the utmost of trial and endurance, could any
true and lasting rule of men be gained, He chose this path and the
throne it led to. With the most comprehensive view of the kingdom He was
to found, and with a spirit of profound seriousness strangely
contrasting in its composed and self-possessed insight with the blind
tumult around Him, He claimed the crown of the Messiah. His suffering
was not formal and nominal, it was not a mere pageant; equally real was
the claim He now made and which brought Him to that suffering.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] This is more distinctly brought out in the Synoptic Gospels than in
St. John: cp. Mark xi. 1–10.
[5] According to the reading of the scene by St. John, the people needed
no prompting.
III.
_THE CORN OF WHEAT._
“Now there were certain Greeks among those that went up to worship
at the feast: these therefore came to Philip, which was of Bethsaida
of Galilee, and asked him, saying, Sir, we would see Jesus. Philip
cometh and telleth Andrew: Andrew cometh, and Philip, and they tell
Jesus. And Jesus answereth them, saying, The hour is come, that the
Son of man should be glorified. Verily, verily, I say unto you,
Except a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it abideth by
itself alone; but if it die, it beareth much fruit. He that loveth
his life loseth it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall
keep it unto life eternal.”—JOHN xii. 20–26.
St. John now introduces a third incident to show that all is ripe for
the death of Jesus. Already he has shown us that in the inmost circle of
His friends He has now won for Himself a permanent place, a love which
ensures that His memory will be had in everlasting remembrance. Next, he
has lifted into prominence the scene in which the outer circle of the
Jewish people were constrained, in an hour when their honest enthusiasm
and instincts carried them away, to acknowledge Him as the Messiah who
had come to fulfil all God’s will upon earth. He now goes on to tell us
how this agitation at the centre was found rippling in ever-widening
circles till it broke with a gentle whisper on the shores of the isles
of the Gentiles. This is the significance which St. John sees in the
request of the Greeks that they might be introduced to Jesus.
These Greeks were “of those that came up to worship at the feast.” They
were proselytes, Greeks by birth, Jews by religion. They suggest the
importance for Christianity of the leavening process which Judaism was
accomplishing throughout the world. They may not have come from any
remoter country than Galilee, but from traditions and customs separate
as the poles from the Jewish customs and thoughts. From their heathen
surroundings they came to Jerusalem, possibly for the first time, with
wondering anticipations of the blessedness of those who dwelt in God’s
house, and feeling their thirst for the living God burning within them
as their eyes lighted on the pinnacles of the Temple, and as at last
their feet stood within its precincts. But up through all these desires
grew one that overshadowed them, and, through all the petitions which a
year or many years of sin and difficulty had made familiar to their
lips, this petition made its way: “Sir, we would see Jesus.”
This petition they address to Philip, not only because he had a Greek
name, and therefore presumably belonged to a family in which Greek was
spoken and Greek connections cultivated, but because, as St. John
reminds us, he was “of Bethsaida of Galilee,” and might be expected to
understand and speak Greek, if, indeed, he was not already known to
these strangers in Jerusalem. And by their request they obviously did
not mean that Philip should set them in a place of vantage from which
they might have a good view of Jesus as He passed by, for this they
could well have accomplished without Philip’s friendly intervention. But
they wished to question and make Him out, to see for themselves whether
there were in Jesus what even in Judaism they felt to be
lacking—whether He at last might not satisfy the longings of their
Divinely awakened spirits. Possibly they may even have wished to
ascertain His purposes regarding the outlying nations, how the Messianic
reign was to affect them. Possibly they may even have thought of
offering Him an asylum where He might find shelter from the hostility of
His own people.
Evidently Philip considered that this request was critical. The
Apostles had been charged not to enter into any Gentile city, and they
might naturally suppose that Jesus would be reluctant to be interviewed
by Greeks. But before dismissing the request, he lays it before Andrew
his friend, who also bore a Greek name; and after deliberation the two
make bold, if not to urge the request, at least to inform Jesus that it
had been made. At once in this modestly urged petition He hears the
whole Gentile world uttering its weary, long-disappointed sigh, “We
would see.” This is no mere Greek inquisitiveness; it is the craving of
thoughtful men recognising their need of a Redeemer. To the eye of
Jesus, therefore, this meeting opens a prospect which for the moment
overcomes Him with the brightness of its glory. In this little knot of
strangers He sees the firstfruits of the immeasurable harvest which was
henceforth to be continuously reaped among the Gentiles. No more do we
hear the heart-broken cry, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!” no longer the
reproachful “Ye will not come to Me, that ye might have life,” but the
glad consummation of His utmost hope utters itself in the words, “The
hour is come that the Son of man should be glorified.”
But while promise was thus given of the glorification of the Messiah by
His reception among all men, the path which led to this was never absent
from the mind of our Lord. Second to the inspiriting thought of His
recognition by the Gentile world came the thought of the painful means
by which alone He could be truly glorified. He checks, therefore, the
shout of exultation which He sees rising to the lips of His disciples
with the sobering reflection: “Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a
corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it
die, it bringeth forth much fruit.” As if He said, Do not fancy that I
have nothing to do but to accept the sceptre which these men offer, to
seat Myself on the world’s throne. The world’s throne is the Cross.
These men will not know My power until I die. The manifestation of
Divine presence in My life, has been distinct enough to win them to
inquiry; they will be for ever won to Me by the Divine presence revealed
in My death. Like the corn of wheat, I must die if I would be abundantly
fruitful. It is through death My whole living power can be disengaged
and can accomplish all possibilities.
Two points are here suggested: (I.) That the life, the living force that
was in Christ, reached its proper value and influence through His death;
and (II.) that the proper value of Christ’s life is that it propagates
similar lives.
I. The life of Christ acquired its proper value and received its fit
development through His death. This truth He sets before us in the
illuminating figure of the corn of wheat. “Except a corn of wheat fall
into the ground and die, it abideth alone.” There are three uses to
which wheat may be put: it may be stored for sale, it may be ground and
eaten, it may be sown. For our Lord’s purposes these three uses may be
considered as only two. Wheat may be eaten, or it may be sown. With a
pickle of wheat or a grain of oats you may do one of two things: you may
eat it and enjoy a momentary gratification and benefit; or you may put
it in the ground, burying it out of sight and suffering it to pass
through uncomely processes, and it will reappear multiplied a
hundredfold, and so on in everlasting series. Year by year men sacrifice
their choicest sample of grain, and are content to bury it in the earth
instead of exposing it in the market, because they understand that
except it die it abideth alone, but if it die it bringeth forth much
fruit. The proper life of the grain is terminated when it is used for
immediate gratification: it receives its fullest development and
accomplishes its richest end when it is cast into the ground, buried out
of sight, and apparently lost.
As with the grain, so is it with each human life. One of two things you
can do with your life; both you cannot do, and no third thing is
possible. You may consume your life for your own present gratification
and profit, to satisfy your present cravings and tastes and to secure
the largest amount of immediate enjoyment to yourself—you may eat your
life; or you may be content to put aside present enjoyment and profits
of a selfish kind and devote your life to the uses of God and men. In
the one case you make an end of your life, you consume it as it goes; no
good results, no enlarging influence, no deepening of character, no
fuller life, follows from such an expenditure of life—spent on yourself
and on the present, it terminates with yourself and with the present.
But in the other case you find you have entered into a more abundant
life; by living for others your interests are widened, your desire for
life increased, the results and ends of life enriched. “He that loveth
his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall
keep it unto life eternal.” It is a law we cannot evade. He that
consumes his life now, spending it on himself—he who cannot bear to let
his life out of his own hand, but cherishes and pampers it and gathers
all good around it, and will have the fullest present enjoyment out of
it,—this man is losing his life; it comes to an end as certainly as the
seed that is eaten. But he who devotes his life to other uses than his
own gratification, who does not so prize self that everything must
minister to its comfort and advancement, but who can truly yield himself
to God and put himself at God’s disposal for the general good,—this
man, though he may often seem to lose his life, and often does lose it
so far as present advantage goes, keeps it to life everlasting.
The law of the seed is the law of human life. Use your life for present
and selfish gratification and to satisfy your present cravings, and you
lose it for ever. Renounce self, yield yourself to God, spend your life
for the common good, irrespective of recognition or the lack of it,
personal pleasure or the absence of it, and although your life may thus
seem to be lost, it is finding its best and highest development and
passes into life eternal. Your life is a seed now, not a developed
plant, and it can become a developed plant only by your taking heart to
cast it from you and sow it in the fertile soil of other men’s needs.
This will seem, indeed, to disintegrate it and fritter it away, and
leave it a contemptible, obscure, forgotten thing; but it does, in fact,
set free the vital forces that are in it, and give it its fit career and
maturity.
Looking at the thing itself, apart from figure, it is apparent that “he
that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this
world shall keep it unto life eternal.” The man who most freely uses his
life for others, keeping least to himself and living solely for the
common interests of mankind, has the most enduring influence. He sets in
motion forces which propagate fresh results eternally. And not only so.
He who freely sows his life has it eternally, not only in so far as he
has set in motion an endless series of beneficent influences, but
inasmuch as he himself enters into life eternal. An immortality of
influence is one thing and a very great thing; but an immortality of
personal life is another, and this also is promised by our Lord when He
says (ver. 26), “Where I am, there shall also My servant be.”
This, then, being the law of human life, Christ, being man, must not
only enounce but observe it. He speaks of Himself even more directly
than of us when He says, “He that loveth his life shall lose it.” His
disciples thought they had never seen such promise in His life as at
this hour: seedtime seemed to them to be past, and the harvest at hand.
Their Master seemed to be fairly launched on the tide that was to carry
Him to the highest pinnacle of human glory. And so He was, but not, as
they thought, by simply yielding Himself to be set as King and to
receive adoration from Jew and Gentile. He saw with different eyes, and
that it was a different exaltation which would win for Him lasting
sovereignty: “I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me.” He knew
the law which governed the development of human life. He knew that a
total and absolute surrender of self to the uses and needs of others was
the one path to permanent life, and that in His case this absolute
surrender involved death.
A comparison of the good done by the life of Christ with that done by
His death shows how truly He judged when He declared that it was by His
death He should effectually gather all men to Him. His death, like the
dissolution of the seed, seemed to terminate His work, but really was
its germination. So long as He lived, it was but His single strength
that was used; He abode alone. There was great virtue in His life—great
power for the healing, the instruction, the elevation, of mankind. In
His brief public career He suggested much to the influential men of His
time, set all men who knew Him a-thinking, aided many to reform their
lives, and removed a large amount of distress and disease. He
communicated to the world a mass of new truth, so that those who have
lived after Him have stood at quite a different level of knowledge from
that of those who lived before Him. And yet how little of the proper
results of Christ’s influence, how little understanding of Christianity,
do you find even in His nearest friends until He died. By the visible
appearance and the external benefits and the false expectations His
greatness created, the minds of men were detained from penetrating to
the spirit and mind of Christ. It was expedient for them that He should
go away, for until He went they depended on His visible power, and His
spirit could not be wholly received by them. They were looking at the
husk of the seed, and its life could not reach them. They were looking
for help from Him instead of themselves becoming like Him.
And therefore He chose at an early age to cease from all that was
marvellous and beneficent in His life among men. He might, as these
Greeks suggested, have visited other lands and have continued His
healing and teaching there. He might have done more in His own time than
He did, and His time might have been indefinitely prolonged; but He
chose to cease from all this and voluntarily gave Himself to die,
judging that thereby He could do much more good than by His life. He was
straitened till this was accomplished; He felt as a man imprisoned and
whose powers are held in check. It was winter and not spring-time with
Him. There was a change to pass upon Him which should disengage the
vital forces that were in Him and cause their full power to be felt—a
change which should thaw the springs of life in Him and let them flow
forth to all. To use His own figure, He was as a seed unsown so long as
He lived, valuable only in His own proper person; but by dying His life
obtained the value of seed sown, propagating its kind in everlasting
increase.
II. The second point suggested is, that the proper value of Christ’s
life consists in this—that it propagates similar lives. As seed
produces grain of its own kind, so Christ produces men like Christ. He
ceasing to do good in this world as a living man, a multitude of others
by this very cessation are raised in His likeness. By His death we
receive both inclination and ability to become with Him sons of God.
“The love of Christ constraineth us, because we thus judge that if one
died for all, then all died; and that He died for all, that they which
live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him that died
for them.” By His death He has effected an entrance for this law of
self-surrender into human life, has exhibited it in a perfect form, and
has won others to live as He lived. So that, using the figure He used,
we may say that the company of Christians now on earth are Christ in a
new form, His body indeed. “That which thou sowest, thou sowest not that
body which shall be, but bare grain: but God giveth it a body as it hath
pleased Him, and to every seed his own body.” Christ having been sown,
lives now in His people. They are the body in which He dwells. And this
will be seen. For standing and looking at a head of barley waving on its
stalk, no amount of telling would persuade you that that had sprung from
a seed of wheat; and looking at any life which is characterised by
selfish ambition and eagerness for advancement and little regard for the
wants of other men, no persuasion can make it credible that that life
springs from the self-sacrificing life of Christ.
What Christ here shows us, then, is that the principle which regulates
the development of seed regulates the growth, continuance, and
fruitfulness of human life; that whatever is of the nature of seed gets
to its full life only through death; that our Lord, knowing this law,
submitted to it, or rather by His native love was attracted to the life
and death which revealed this law to Him. He gave His life away for the
good of men, and therefore prolongs His days and sees His seed
eternally. There is not one way for Him and another for us. The same law
applies to all. It is not peculiar to Christ. The work He did was
peculiar to Him, as each individual has his own place and work; but the
principle on which all right lives are led is one and the same
universally. What Christ did He did because He was living a human life
on right principles. We need not die on the cross as He did, but we must
as truly yield ourselves as living sacrifices to the interests of men.
If we have not done so, we have yet to go back to the very beginning of
all lasting life and progress; and we are but deceiving ourselves by
attainments and successes which are not only hollow, but are slowly
cramping and killing all that is in us. Whoever will choose the same
destiny as Christ must take the same road to it that He took. He took
the one right way for men to go, and said, “If any man follow Me, where
I am there will he be also.” If we do not follow Him, we really walk in
darkness and know not whither we go. We cannot live for selfish purposes
and then enjoy the common happiness and glory of the race. Self-seeking
is self-destroying.
And it is needful to remark that this self-renunciation must be real.
The law of sacrifice is the law not for a year or two in order to gain
some higher selfish good—which is not self-sacrifice, but deeper
self-seeking; it is the law of all human life, not a short test of our
fidelity to Christ, but the only law on which life can ever proceed. It
is not a barter of self I make, giving it up for a little that I may
have an enriched self to eternity; but it is a real foregoing and
abandonment of self for ever, a change of desire and nature, so that
instead of finding my joy in what concerns myself only I find my joy in
what is serviceable to others.
Thus only can we enter into permanent happiness. Goodness and happiness
are one—one in the long-run, if not one in every step of the way. We
are not asked to live for others without any heart to do so. We are not
asked to choose as our eternal life what will be a constant pain and can
only be reluctantly done. The very heathen would not offer in sacrifice
the animal that struggled as it was led to the altar. All sacrifice must
be willingly made; it must be the sacrifice which is prompted by love.
God and this world demand our best work, and only what we do with
pleasure can be our best work. Sacrifice of self and labour for others
are not like Christ’s sacrifice and labour unless they spring from love.
Forced, reluctant, constrained sacrifice or service—service which is no
joy to ourselves through the love we bear to those for whom we do it—is
not the service that is required of us. Service into which we can throw
our whole strength, because we are convinced it will be of use to
others, and because we long to see them enjoying it—this is the service
required. Love, in short, is the solution of all. Find your happiness in
the happiness of many rather than in the happiness of one, and life
becomes simple and inspiring.
Nor are we to suppose that this is an impracticable, high-pitched
counsel of perfection with which plain men need not trouble themselves.
_Every_ human life is under this law. There is no path to goodness or to
happiness save this one. Nature herself teaches us as much. When a man
is truly attracted by another, and when genuine affection possesses his
heart, his whole being is enlarged, and he finds it his best pleasure to
serve that person. The father who sees his children enjoying the fruit
of his toil feels himself a far richer man than if he were spending all
on himself. But this family affection, this domestic solution of the
problem of happy self-sacrifice, is intended to encourage and show us
the way to a wider extension of our love, and thereby of our use and
happiness. The more love we have, the happier we are. Self-sacrifice
looks miserable, and we shrink from it as from death and destitution,
because we look at it in separation from the love it springs from.
Self-sacrifice without love _is_ death; we abandon our own life and do
not find it again in any other. It is a seed ground under the heel, not
a seed lightly thrown into prepared soil. It is in love that goodness
and happiness have their common root. And it is this love which is
required of us and promised to us. So that as often as we shudder at the
dissolution of our own personal interests, the scattering of our own
selfish hopes and plans, the surrender of our life to the service of
others, we are to remember that this, which looks so very like death,
and which often throws around our prospects the chilling atmosphere of
the tomb, is not really the termination, but the beginning of the true
and eternal life of the spirit. Let us keep our heart in the fellowship
of the sacrifice of Christ, let us feel our way into the meanings and
uses of that sacrifice, and learn its reality, its utility, its grace,
and at length it will lay hold of our whole nature, and we shall find
that it impels us to regard other men with interest and to find our true
joy and life in serving them.
IV.
_THE ATTRACTIVE FORCE OF THE CROSS._
“Now is my soul troubled; and what shall I say? Father, save Me from
this hour. But for this cause came I unto this hour. Father, glorify
Thy name. There came therefore a voice out of heaven, saying, I have
both glorified it, and will glorify it again. The multitude
therefore, that stood by, and heard it, said that it had thundered:
others said, An angel hath spoken to Him. Jesus answered and said,
This voice hath not come for My sake, but for your sakes. Now is the
judgment of this world: now shall the prince of this world be cast
out. And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto
Myself. But this He said, signifying by what manner of death He
should die. The multitude therefore answered Him, We have heard out
of the law that the Christ abideth for ever: and how sayest thou,
The Son of man must be lifted up? who is this Son of man? Jesus
therefore said unto them, Yet a little while is the light among you.
Walk while ye have the light, that darkness overtake you not: and he
that walketh in the darkness knoweth not whither he goeth. While ye
have the light, believe on the light, that ye may become sons of
light.”—JOHN xii. 27–36.
The presence of the Greeks had stirred in the soul of Jesus conflicting
emotions. Glory by humiliation, life through death, the secured
happiness of mankind through His own anguish and abandonment,—well
might the prospect disturb Him. So masterly is His self-command, so
steadfast and constant His habitual temper, that one almost inevitably
underrates the severity of the conflict. The occasional withdrawal of
the veil permits us reverently to observe some symptoms of the turmoil
within—symptoms which it is probably best to speak of in His own words:
“Now is My soul troubled; and what shall I say? Shall I say, ‘Father,
save Me from this hour’? But for this cause came I unto this hour.
Father, glorify Thy name.” This Evangelist does not describe the agony
in the Garden of Gethsemane. It was needless after this indication of
the same conflict. Here is the same shrinking from a public and shameful
death conquered by His resolution to deliver men from a still darker and
more shameful death. Here is the same foretaste of the bitterness of the
cup as it now actually touches His lips, the same clear reckoning of all
it meant to drain that cup to the dregs, together with the deliberate
assent to all that the will of the Father might require Him to endure.
In response to this act of submission, expressed in the words, “Father,
glorify Thy name,” there came a voice from heaven, saying, “I have both
glorified it, and will glorify it again.” The meaning of this assurance
was, that as in all the past manifestation of Christ the Father had
become better known to men, so in all that was now impending, however
painful and disturbed, however filled with human passions and to all
appearance the mere result of them, the Father would still be glorified.
Some thought the voice was thunder; others seemed almost to catch
articulate sounds, and said, “An angel spake to Him.” But Jesus
explained that it was not “to Him” the voice was specially addressed,
but rather for the sake of those who stood by. And it was indeed of
immense importance that the disciples should understand that the events
which were about to happen were overruled by God that He might be
glorified in Christ. It is easy for us to see that nothing so glorifies
the Father’s name as these hours of suffering; but how hard for the
onlookers to believe that this sudden transformation of the Messianic
throne into the criminal’s cross was no defeat of God’s purpose, but its
final fulfilment. He leads them, therefore, to consider that in His
judgment the whole world is judged, and to perceive in His arrest and
trial and condemnation not merely the misguided and wanton outrage of a
few men in power, but the critical hour of the world’s history.
This world has commonly presented itself to thoughtful minds as a
battle-field in which the powers of good and evil wage ceaseless war. In
the words He now utters the Lord declares Himself to be standing at the
very crisis of the battle, and with the deepest assurance He announces
that the opposing power is broken and that victory remains with Him.
“Now is the prince of this world cast out; and I will draw all men unto
Me.” The prince of this world, that which actually rules and leads men
in opposition to God, was judged, condemned, and overthrown in the death
of Christ. By His meek acceptance of God’s will in the face of all that
could make it difficult and dreadful to accept it, He won for the race
deliverance from the thraldom of sin. At length a human life had been
lived without submission at any point to the prince of this world. As
man and in the name of all men Jesus resisted the last and most violent
assault that could be made upon His faith in God and fellowship with
Him, and so perfected His obedience and overcame the prince of this
world,—overcame him not in one act alone—many had done that—but in a
completed human life, in a life which had been freely exposed to the
complete array of temptations that can be directed against men in this
world.
In order more clearly to apprehend the promise of victory contained in
our Lord’s words, we may consider (I.) the object He had in view—to
“draw all men” to Him; and (II.) the condition of His attaining this
object—namely, His death.
I. The object of Christ was to draw all men to Him. The opposition in
which He here sets Himself to the prince of this world shows us that by
“drawing” He means attracting _as a king attracts_, to His name, His
claims, His standard, His person. Our life consists in our pursuance of
one object or another, and our devotion is continually competed for.
When two claimants contest a kingdom, the country is divided between
them, part cleaving to the one and part to the other. The individual
determines to which side he shall cleave,—by his prejudices or by his
justice, as it may be; by his knowledge of the comparative capacity of
the claimants, or by his ignorant predilection. He is taken in by
sounding titles, or he penetrates through all bombast and promises and
douceurs to the real merit or demerit of the man himself. One person
will judge by the personal manners of the respective claimants; another
by their published manifesto, and professed object and style of rule;
another by their known character and probable conduct. And while men
thus range themselves on this side or on that, they really pass judgment
on themselves, betraying as they do what it is that chiefly draws them,
and taking their places on the side of good or evil. It is thus that we
all judge ourselves by following this or that claimant to our faith,
regard, and devotion, to ourself and our life. What we spend ourselves
on, what we aim at and pursue, what we make our object, that judges us
and that rules us and that determines our destiny.
Christ came into the world to be our King, to lead us to worthy
achievements. He came that we might have a worthy object of choice and
of the devotion of our life. He serves the same purpose as a king: He
embodies in His own person, and thereby makes visible and attractive,
the will of God and the cause of righteousness. Persons who could only
with great difficulty apprehend His objects and plans can appreciate His
person and trust Him. Persons to whom there would seem little attraction
in a cause or in an undefined “progress of humanity” can kindle with
enthusiasm towards Him personally, and unconsciously promote His cause
and the cause of humanity. And therefore, while some are attracted by
His person, others by the legitimacy of His claims, others by His
programme of government, others by His benefactions, we must beware of
denying loyalty to any of these. Expressions of love to His person may
be lacking in the man who yet most intelligently enters into Christ’s
views for the race, and sacrifices his means and his life to forward
these views. Those who gather to His standard are various in
temperament, are drawn by various attractions, and must be various in
their forms of showing allegiance. And this, which is the strength of
His camp, can only become its weakness when men begin to think there is
no way but their own; and that allegiance which is strenuous in labour
but not fluent in devout expression, or loyalty which shouts and throws
its cap in the air but lacks intelligence, is displeasing to the King.
The King, who has great ends in view, will not inquire what it is
precisely which forms the bond between Him and His subjects so long as
they truly sympathise with Him and second His efforts. The one question
is, Is He their actual leader?
Of the kingdom of Christ, though a full description cannot be given, one
or two of the essential characteristics may be mentioned.
1. It is _a kingdom_, a community of men under one head. When Christ
proposed to attract men to Himself, it was for the good of the race He
did so. It could achieve its destiny only if He led it, only if it
yielded itself to His mind and ways. And those who are attracted to Him,
and see reason to believe that the hope of the world lies in the
universal adoption of His mind and ways, are formed into one solid body
or community. They labour for the same ends, are governed by the same
laws, and whether they know one another or not they have the most real
sympathy and live for one cause. Being drawn to Christ, we enter into
abiding fellowship with all the good who have laboured or are labouring
in the cause of humanity. We take our places in the everlasting kingdom,
in the community of those who shall see and take part in the great
future of mankind and the growing enlargement of its destiny. We are
hereby entered among the living, and are joined to that body of mankind
which is to go on and which holds the future—not to an extinct party
which may have memories, but has no hopes. In sin, in selfishness, in
worldliness, individualism reigns, and all profound or abiding unity is
impossible. Sinners have common interests only for a time, only as a
temporary guise of selfish interests. Every man out of Christ is really
an isolated individual. But passing into Christ’s kingdom we are no
longer isolated, abandoned wretches stranded by the stream of time, but
members of the undying commonwealth of men in which our life, our work,
our rights, our future, our association with all good, are assured.
2. It is a _universal_ kingdom. “I will draw _all_ men unto Me.” The one
rational hope of forming men into one kingdom shines through these
words. The idea of a universal monarchy has visited the great minds of
our race. They have cherished their various dreams of a time when all
men should live under one law and possibly speak one language, and have
interests so truly in common that war should be impossible. But an
effectual instrument for accomplishing this grand design has ever been
wanting. Christ turns this grandest dream of humanity into a rational
hope. He appeals to what is universally present in human nature. There
is that in Him which every man needs,—a door to the Father; a visible
image of the unseen God; a gracious, wise, and holy Friend. He does not
appeal exclusively to one generation, to educated or to uneducated, to
Orientals or to Europeans alone, but to man, to that which we have in
common with the lowest and the highest, the most primitive and most
highly developed of the species. The attractive influence He exerts upon
men is not conditioned by their historical insight, by their ability to
sift evidence, by this or that which distinguishes man from man, but by
their innate consciousness that some higher power than themselves
exists, by their ability, if not to recognise goodness when they see it,
at least to recognise love when it is spent upon them.
But while our Lord affirms that there is that in Him which all men can
recognise and learn to love and serve, He does not say that His kingdom
will therefore be quickly formed. He does not say that this greatest
work of God will take a shorter time than the common works of God which
prolong one day of our hasty methods into a thousand years of solidly
growing purpose. If it has taken a million ages for the rocks to knit
and form for us a standing-ground and dwelling-place, we must not expect
that this kingdom, which is to be the one enduring result of this
world’s history, and which can be built up only of thoroughly convinced
men and of generations slowly weeded of traditional prejudices and
customs, can be completed in a few years. No doubt interests are at
stake in human destiny and losses are made by human waste which had no
place in the physical creation of the world; still, God’s methods are,
as we judge, slow, and we must not think that He who “works hitherto” is
doing nothing because the swift processes of jugglery or the hasty
methods of human workmanship find no place in the extension of Christ’s
kingdom. This kingdom has a firm hold of the world and must grow. If
there is one thing certain about the future of the world, it is that
righteousness and truth will prevail. The world is bound to come to the
feet of Christ.
3. Christ’s kingdom being universal, it is also and necessarily
_inward_. What is common to all men lies deepest in each. Christ was
conscious that He held the key to human nature. He knew what was in man.
With the penetrating insight of absolute purity He had gone about among
men, freely mixing with rich and with poor, with the sick and the
healthy, with the religious and the irreligious. He was as much at home
with the condemned criminal as with the blameless Pharisee; saw through
Pilate and Caiaphas alike; knew all that the keenest dramatist could
tell Him of the meannesses, the depravities, the cruelties, the blind
passions, the obstructed goodness, of men; but knew also that He could
sway all that was in man and exhibit that to men which should cause the
sinner to abhor his sin and seek the face of God. This He would do by a
simple moral process, without violent demonstration or disturbance or
assertion of authority. He would “draw” men. It is by inward conviction,
not by outward compulsion, men are to become His subjects. It is by the
free and rational working of the human mind that Jesus builds up His
kingdom. His hope lies in a fuller and fuller light, in a clearer and
clearer recognition of facts. Attachment to Christ must be the act of
the soul’s self; everything, therefore, which strengthens the will or
enlightens the mind or enlarges the man brings him nearer to the kingdom
of Christ, and makes it more likely he will yield to His drawing.
And because Christ’s rule is inward it is therefore of universal
application. The inmost choice of the man being governed by Christ, and
his character being thus touched at its inmost spring, all his conduct
will be governed by Christ and be a carrying out of the will of Christ.
It is not the frame of society Christ seeks to alter, but the spirit of
it. It is not the occupations and institutions of human life which the
subject of Christ finds to be incompatible with Christ’s rule, so much
as the aim and principles on which they are conducted. The kingdom of
Christ claims all human life as its own, and the spirit of Christ finds
nothing that is essentially human alien from it. If the statesman is a
Christian, it will be seen in his policy; if the poet is a Christian,
his song will betray it; if a thinker be a Christian, his readers soon
find it out. Christianity does not mean religious services, churches,
creeds, Bibles, books, equipment of any kind; it means the Spirit of
Christ. It is the most portable and flexible of all religions, and
therefore the most pervasive and dominant in the life of its adherent.
It needs but the Spirit of God and the spirit of man, and Christ
mediating between them.
II. Such being Christ’s object, what is the condition of His attaining
it? “I, _if I be lifted up_, will draw all men unto Me.” The elevation
requisite for becoming a visible object to men of all generations was
the elevation of the Cross. His death would accomplish what His life
could not accomplish. The words betray a distinct consciousness that
there was in His death a more potent spell, a more certain and real
influence for good among men than in His teaching or in His miracles or
in His purity of life.
What is it, then, in the death of Christ which so far surpasses His life
in its power of attraction? The life was equally unselfish and devoted;
it was more prolonged; it was more directly useful,—why, then, would it
have been comparatively ineffective without the death? It may, in the
first place, be answered, Because His death presents in a dramatic and
compact form that very devotedness which is diffused through every part
of His life. Between the life and the death there is the same difference
as between sheet lightning and forked lightning, between the diffused
heat of the sun and the same heat focussed upon a point through a lens.
It discloses what was actually but latently there. The life and the
death of Christ are one and mutually explain each other. From the life
we learn that no motive can have prompted Christ to die but the one
motive which ruled Him always—the desire to do all God willed in men’s
behalf. We cannot interpret the death as anything else than a consistent
part of a deliberate work undertaken for men’s good. It was not an
accident; it was not an external necessity: it was, as the whole life
was, a willing acceptance of the uttermost that was required to set men
on a higher level and unite them to God. But as the life throws this
light upon the death of Christ, how that light is gathered up and thrown
abroad in world-wide reflection from the death of Christ! For here His
self-sacrifice shines completed and perfect; here it is exhibited in
that tragic and supreme form which in all cases arrests attention and
commands respect. Even when a man of wasted life sacrifices himself at
last, and in one heroic act saves another by his death, his past life is
forgotten or seems to be redeemed by his death, and at all events we own
the beauty and the pathos of the deed. A martyr to the faith may have
been but a poor creature, narrow, harsh and overbearing, vain and
vulgar in spirit; but all the past is blotted out, and our attention is
arrested on the blazing pile or the bloody scaffold. So the death of
Christ, though but a part of the self-sacrificing life, yet stands by
itself as the culmination and seal of that life; it catches the eye and
strikes the mind, and conveys at one view the main impression made by
the whole life and character of Him who gave Himself upon the cross.
But Christ is no mere hero or teacher sealing his truth with his blood;
nor is it enough to say that His death renders, in a conspicuous form,
the perfect self-sacrifice with which He devoted Himself to our good. It
is conceivable that in a long-past age some other man should have lived
and died for his fellows, and yet we at once recognise that, though the
history of such a person came into our hands, we should not be so
affected and drawn by it as to choose him as our king and rest upon him
the hope of uniting us to one another and to God. Wherein, then, lies
the difference? The difference lies in this—that Christ was the
representative of God. This He Himself uniformly claimed to be. He knew
He was unique, different from all others; but He advanced no claim to
esteem that did not pass to the Father who sent Him. Always he explained
His powers as being the proper equipment of God’s representative, “The
words that I speak unto you, I speak not of Myself.” His whole life was
the message of God to man, the Word made flesh. His death was but the
last syllable of this great utterance—the utterance of God’s love for
man, the final evidence that nothing is grudged us by God. Greater love
hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. His
death draws us because there is in it more than human heroism and
self-sacrifice. It draws us because in it the very heart of God is laid
bare to us. It softens, it breaks us down, by the irresistible
tenderness it discloses in the mighty and ever-blessed God. Every man
feels it has a message for him, because in it the God and Father of us
all speaks to us.
It is this which is special to the death of Christ, and which separates
it from all other deaths and heroic sacrifices. It has a universal
bearing—a bearing upon every man, because it is a Divine act, the act
of that One who is the God and Father of all men. In the same century as
our Lord many men died in a manner which strongly excites our
admiration. Nothing could well be more noble, nothing more pathetic,
than the fearless and loving spirit in which Roman after Roman met his
death. But beyond respectful admiration these heroic deeds win from us
no further sentiment. They are the deeds of men who have no connection
with us. The well-worn words, “What’s Hecuba _to me_ or I to Hecuba?”
rise to our lips when we try to fancy any deep connection. But the death
of Christ concerns all men without exception, because it is the greatest
declarative act of the God of all men. It is the manifesto all men are
concerned to read. It is the act of One with whom all men are already
connected in the closest way. And the result of our contemplation of it
is, not that we admire, but that we are drawn, are attracted, into new
relations with Him whom that death reveals. This death moves and draws
us as no other can, because here we get to the very heart of that which
most deeply concerns us. Here we learn what our God is and where we
stand eternally. He who is nearest us of all, and in whom our life is
bound up, reveals Himself; and seeing Him here full of ungrudging and
most reliable love, of tenderest and utterly self-sacrificing
devotedness to us, we cannot but give way to this central attraction,
and with all other willing creatures be drawn into fullest intimacy and
firmest relations to the God of all.
The death of Christ, then, draws men chiefly because God here shows men
His sympathy, His love, His trustworthiness. What the sun is in the
solar system, Christ’s death is in the moral world. The sun by its
physical attraction binds the several planets together and holds them
within range of its light and heat. God, the central intelligence and
original moral Being, draws to Himself and holds within reach of His
life-giving radiance all who are susceptible of moral influences; and He
does so through the death of Christ. This is His supreme revelation.
Here, if we may say so with reverence, God is seen at His best—not that
at any time or in any action He is different, but here He is _seen_ to
be the God of love He ever is. Nothing is better than self-sacrifice:
that is the highest point a moral nature can touch. And God, by the
sacrifice which is rendered visible on the cross, gives to the moral
world a real, actual, immovable centre, round which moral natures will
more and more gather, and which will hold them together in self-effacing
unity.
To complete the idea of the attractiveness of the Cross, it must further
be kept in view that this particular form of the manifestation of the
Divine love was adapted to the needs of those to whom it was made. To
sinners the love of God manifested itself in providing a sacrifice for
sin. The death on the cross was not an irrelevant display, but was an
act required for the removal of the most insuperable obstacles that lay
in man’s path. The sinner, believing that in the death of Christ his
sins are atoned for, conceives hope in God and claims the Divine
compassion in his own behalf. To the penitent the Cross is attractive as
an open door to the prisoner, or the harbour-heads to the storm-tossed
ship.
Let us not suppose, then, that we are not welcome to Christ. He desires
to draw us to Himself and to form a connection with us. He understands
our hesitations, our doubts of our own capacity for any steady and
enthusiastic loyalty; but He knows also the power of truth and love, the
power of His own person and of His own death to draw and fix the
hesitating and wavering soul. And we shall find that as we strive to
serve Christ in our daily life it is still His death that holds and
draws us. It is His death which gives us compunction in our times of
frivolity, or selfishness, or carnality, or rebellion, or unbelief. It
is there Christ appears in His own most touching attitude and with His
own most irresistible appeal. We cannot further wound One already so
wounded in His desire to win us from evil. To strike One already thus
nailed to the tree in helplessness and anguish, is more than the hardest
heart can do. Our sin, our infidelity, our unmoved contemplation of His
love, our blind indifference to His purpose—these things wound Him more
than the spear and the scourge. To rid us of these things was His
purpose in dying, and to see that His work is in vain and His sufferings
unregarded and unfruitful is the deepest injury of all. It is not to the
mere sentiment of pity He appeals: rather He says, “Weep not for Me;
weep for yourselves.” It is to our power to recognise perfect goodness
and to appreciate perfect love. He appeals to our power to see below the
surface of things, and through the outer shell of this world’s life to
the Spirit of good that is at the root of all and that manifests itself
in Him. Here is the true stay of the human soul: “Come unto Me, all ye
that labour and are heavy laden”; “I am come a light into the world:
walk in the light.”
V.
_RESULTS OF CHRIST’S MANIFESTATION._
“But though He had done so many signs before them, yet they believed
not on Him: that the word of Isaiah the prophet might be fulfilled,
which he spake, Lord, who hath believed our report? and to whom hath
the arm of the Lord been revealed? For this cause they could not
believe, for that Isaiah said again, He hath blinded their eyes, and
He hardened their heart; lest they should see with their eyes, and
perceive with their heart, and should turn, and I should heal them.
These things said Isaiah, because he saw His glory; and he spake of
Him. Nevertheless even of the rulers many believed on Him; but
because of the Pharisees they did not confess it, lest they should
be put out of the synagogue: for they loved the glory of men more
than the glory of God. And Jesus cried and said, He that believeth
on Me, believeth not on Me, but on Him that sent Me. And he that
beholdeth Me beholdeth Him that sent Me. I am come a light into the
world, that whosoever believeth on Me may not abide in the darkness.
And if any man hear My sayings, and keep them not, I judge him not:
for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world. He that
rejecteth Me, and receiveth not My sayings, hath One that judgeth
him: the word that I spake, the same shall judge him in the last
day. For I spake not from Myself; but the Father which sent Me, He
hath given Me a commandment, what I should say, and what I should
speak. And I know that His commandment is life eternal: the things
therefore which I speak, even as the Father hath said unto Me, so I
speak.”—JOHN xii. 37–50.
In this Gospel the death of Christ is viewed as the first step in His
glorification. When He speaks of being “lifted up,” there is a double
reference in the expression, a local and an ethical reference.[6] He is
lifted up on the cross, but lifted up on it as His true throne and as
the necessary step towards His supremacy at God’s right hand. It was,
John tells us, with direct reference to the cross that Jesus now used
the words: “I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me.” The Jews,
who heard the words, perceived that, whatever else was contained in
them, intimation of His removal from earth was given. But, according to
the current Messianic expectation, the Christ “abideth for ever,” or at
any rate for four hundred or a thousand years. How then could this
Person, who announced His immediate departure, be the Christ? The Old
Testament gave them ground for supposing that the Messianic reign would
be lasting; but had they listened to our Lord’s teaching they would have
learned that this reign was spiritual, and not in the form of an earthly
kingdom with a visible sovereign.
Accordingly, although they had recognised Jesus as the Messiah, they
are again stumbled by this fresh declaration of His. They begin to fancy
that perhaps after all by calling Himself “the Son of man” He has not
meant exactly what they mean by the Messiah. From the form of their
question it would seem that Jesus had used the designation “the Son of
man” in intimating His departure; for they say, “How sayest thou, The
Son of man must be lifted up?” Up to this time, therefore, they had
taken it for granted that by calling Himself the Son of man He claimed
to be the Christ, but now they begin to doubt whether there may not be
two persons signified by those titles.
Jesus furnishes them with no direct solution of their difficulty. He
never betrays any interest in these external identifications. The time
for discussing the relation of the Son of man to the Messiah is past.
His manifestation is closed. Enough light has been given. Conscience has
been appealed to and discussion is no longer admissible. “Ye have light:
walk in the light.” The way to come to a settlement of all their doubts
and hesitations is to follow Him. There is still time for that. “Yet a
little while is the light among you.” But the time is short; there is
none to waste on idle questionings, none to spend on sophisticating
conscience—time only for deciding as conscience bids.
By thus believing in the light they will themselves become “children of
light.” The “children of light” are those who live in it as their
element,—as “the children of this world” are those who wholly belong to
this world and find in it what is congenial; as “the son of perdition”
is he who is identified with perdition. The children of light have
accepted the revelation that is in Christ, and live in the “day” that
the Lord has made. Christ contains the truth for them—the truth which
penetrates to their inmost thought and illuminates the darkest problems
of life. In Christ they have seen that which determines their relation
to God; and that being determined, all else that is of prime importance
finds a settlement. To know God and ourselves; to know God’s nature and
purpose, and our own capabilities and relation to God,—these constitute
the light we need for living by; and this light Christ gives. It was in
a dim, uncertain twilight, with feebly shining lanterns, the wisest and
best of men sought to make out the nature of God and His purposes
regarding man; but in Christ God has made noonday around us.
They, therefore, that stood, or that stand, in His presence, and yet
recognise no light, must be asleep, or must turn away from an excess of
light that is disagreeable or inconvenient. If we are not the fuller of
life and joy the more truth we know, if we shrink from admitting the
consciousness of a present and holy God, and do not feel it to be the
very sunshine of life in which alone we thrive, we must be spiritually
asleep or spiritually dead. And this cry of Christ is but another form
of the cry that His Church has prolonged: “Awake, thou that sleepest,
and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.”
The “little while” of their enjoyment of the light was short indeed, for
no sooner had He made an end of these sayings than He “departed, and did
hide Himself from them.” He probably found retirement from the feverish,
inconstant, questioning crowd with His friends in Bethany. At any rate
this removal of the light, while it meant darkness to those who had not
received Him and who did not keep His words, could bring no darkness to
His own, who had received Him and the light in Him. Perhaps the best
comment on this is the memorable passage from _Comus_:
“Virtue could see to do what virtue would
By her own radiant light, though sun and moon
Were in the great sea sunk.
He that has light within his own clear breast
May sit i’ the centre and enjoy bright day;
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts
Benighted walks under the midday sun,
Himself is his own dungeon.”
And now the writer of this Gospel, before entering upon the closing
scenes, pauses and presents a summary of the results of all that has
been hitherto related. First, he accounts for the unbelief of the Jews.
It could not fail to strike his readers as remarkable that, “though He
had done so many miracles before the people, yet they believed not in
Him.” In this John sees nothing inexplicable, however sad and
significant it may be. At first sight it is an astounding fact that the
very people who had been prepared to recognise and receive the Messiah
should not have believed in Him. Might not this to some minds be
convincing evidence that Jesus was not the Messiah? If the same God who
sent Him forth had for centuries specially prepared a people to
recognise and receive Him when He came, was it possible that this people
should repudiate Him? Was it likely that such a result should be
produced or should be allowed? But John turns the point of this argument
by showing that a precisely similar phenomenon had often appeared in the
history of Israel. The old prophets had the very same complaint to make:
“Who hath believed our report? and to whom hath the arm of the Lord been
revealed?” The people had habitually, as a people with individual
exceptions, refused to listen to God’s voice or to acknowledge His
presence in prophet and providence.
Besides, might it not very well be that the blindness and callousness of
the Jews in rejecting Jesus was the inevitable issue of a long process
of hardening? If, in former periods of their history, they had proved
themselves unworthy of God’s training and irresponsive to it, what else
could be expected than that they should reject the Messiah when He came?
This hardening and blinding process was the inevitable, natural result
of their past conduct. But what nature does, God does; and therefore the
Evangelist says “they could not believe, because that Esaias said again,
He hath blinded their eyes, and hardened their heart; that they should
not see with their eyes, nor understand with their heart.” The organ for
perceiving spiritual truth was blinded, and their susceptibility to
religious and moral impressions had become callous and hardened and
impervious.
And while this was no doubt true of the people as a whole, still there
were not a few individuals who eagerly responded to this last message
from God. In the most unlikely quarters, and in circumstances calculated
to counteract the influence of spiritual forces, some were convinced.
“Even among the chief rulers many believed on Him.” This belief,
however, did not tell upon the mass, because, through fear of
excommunication, those who were convinced dared not utter their
conviction. “They loved the praise of men more than the praise of God.”
They allowed their relations to men to determine their relation to God.
Men were more real to them than God. The praise of men came home to
their hearts with a sensible relish that the praise of God could not
rival. They reaped what they had sown; they had sought the esteem of
men, and now they were unable to find their strength in God’s approval.
The glory which consisted in following the lowly and outcast Jesus, the
glory of fellowship with God, was quite eclipsed by the glory of living
in the eye of the people as wise and estimable persons.
In the last paragraph of the chapter John gives a summary of the claims
and message of Jesus. He has told us (ver. 36) that Jesus had departed
from public view and had hidden Himself, and he mentions no return to
publicity. It is therefore probable that in these remaining verses, and
before he turns to a somewhat different aspect of Christ’s ministry, he
gives in rapid and brief retrospect the sum of what Jesus had advanced
as His claim. He introduces this paragraph, indeed, with the words,
“Jesus cried and said”; but as neither time nor place is mentioned, it
is quite likely that no special time or place is supposed; and in point
of fact each detail adduced in these verses can be paralleled from some
previously recorded utterance of Jesus.
First, then, as everywhere in the Gospel, so here, He claims to be the
representative of God in so close and perfect a manner that “he that
believeth on Me, believeth not on Me, but on Him that sent Me. And he
that seeth Me, seeth Him that sent Me.” No belief terminates in Christ
Himself: to believe in Him is to believe in God, because all that He is
and does proceeds from God and leads to God. The whole purpose of
Christ’s manifestation was to reveal God. He did not wish to arrest
thought upon Himself, but through Himself to guide thought to Him whom
He revealed. He was sustained by the Father, and all He said and did
was of the Father’s inspiration. Whoever, therefore, “saw” or
understood Him “saw” the Father; and whoever believed in Him believed in
the Father.
Second, as regards men, He is “come a light into the world.” Naturally
there is in the world no sufficient light. Men feel that they are in
darkness. They feel the darkness all the more appalling and depressing
the more developed their own human nature is. “More light” has been the
cry from the beginning. What are we? where are we? whence are we?
whither are we going? what is there above and beyond this world? These
questions are echoed back from an unanswering void, until Christ comes
and gives the answer. Since He came men have felt that they did not any
longer walk in darkness. They see where they are going, and they see why
they should go.
And if it be asked, as among the Jews it certainly must have been asked,
why, if Jesus is the Messiah, does He not punish men for rejecting Him?
the answer is, “I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.”
Judgment, indeed, necessarily results from His coming. Men are divided
by His coming. “The words that I have spoken, the same shall judge men
in the last day.” The offer of God, the offer of righteousness, is that
which judges men. Why are they still dead, when life has been offered?
This is the condemnation. “The commandment of the Father is life
everlasting.” This is the sum of the message of God to men in Christ;
this is “the commandment” which the Father has given Me; this is
Christ’s commission: to bring God in the fulness of His grace and love
and life-giving power within men’s reach. It is to give life eternal to
men that God has come to them in Christ. To refuse that life is their
condemnation.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] See iii. 14.
VI.
_THE FOOT-WASHING._
“Now before the feast of the Passover, Jesus knowing that His hour was
come that He should depart out of this world unto the Father, having
loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end. And
during supper, the devil having already put into the heart of Judas
Iscariot, Simon’s son, to betray Him, Jesus, knowing that the Father had
given all things into His hands, and that He came forth from God, and
goeth unto God, riseth from supper, and layeth aside His garments; and
He took a towel, and girded Himself. Then He poureth water into the
basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the
towel wherewith He was girded. So He cometh to Simon Peter. He saith
unto Him, Lord, dost Thou wash my feet? Jesus answered and said unto
him, What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt understand
hereafter. Peter saith unto Him, Thou shalt never wash my feet. Jesus
answered him, If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with Me. Simon Peter
saith unto Him, Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head.
Jesus saith to him, He that is bathed needeth not save to wash his feet,
but is clean every whit: and ye are clean, but not all. For He knew him
that should betray Him; therefore said He, Ye are not all clean. So when
He had washed their feet, and taken His garments, and sat down again, He
said unto them, Know ye what I have done to you? Ye call Me, Master,
and, Lord: and ye say well; for so I am. If I then, the Lord and the
Master, have washed your feet, ye also ought to wash one another’s feet.
For I have given you an example, that ye also should do as I have done
to you. Verily, verily, I say unto you, A servant is not greater than
his lord; neither one that is sent greater than he that sent him. If ye
know these things, blessed are ye if ye do them.”—JOHN xiii. 1–17.
St. John, having finished his account of the public manifestation of
Jesus, proceeds now to narrate the closing scenes, in which the
disclosures He made to “His own” form a chief part. That the transition
may be observed, attention is drawn to it. At earlier stages of our
Lord’s ministry He has given as His reason for refraining from proposed
lines of action that His hour was not come: now He “knew that His hour
was come, that He should depart out of this world unto the Father.” This
indeed was the last evening of His life. Within twenty-four hours He was
to be in the tomb. Yet according to this writer it was not the paschal
supper which our Lord now partook of with His disciples; it was “before
the feast of the Passover.” Jesus being Himself the Paschal Lamb was
sacrificed on the day on which the Passover was eaten, and in this and
the following chapters we have an account of the preceding evening.
In order to account for what follows, the precise time is defined in the
words “supper being served”[7] or “supper-time having arrived”; not, as
in the Authorised Version, “supper being ended,” which plainly was not
the case;[8] nor, as in the Revised Version, “during supper.” The
difficulty about washing the feet could not have arisen after or during
supper, but only as the guests entered and reclined at table. In
Palestine, as in other countries of the same latitude, shoes were not
universally worn, and were not worn at all within doors; and where some
protection to the foot was worn, it was commonly a mere sandal, a sole
tied on with a thong. The upper part of the foot was thus left exposed,
and necessarily became heated and dirty with the fine and scorching dust
of the roads. Much discomfort was thus produced, and the first duty of a
host was to provide for its removal. A slave was ordered to remove the
sandals and wash the feet.[9] And in order that this might be done, the
guest either sat on the couch appointed for him at table, or reclined
with his feet protruding beyond the end of it, that the slave, coming
round with the pitcher and basin,[10] might pour cool water gently over
them. So necessary to comfort was this attention that our Lord
reproached the Pharisee who had invited Him to dinner with a breach of
courtesy because he had omitted it.
On ordinary occasions it is probable that the disciples would perform
this humble office by turns, where there was no slave to discharge it
for all. But this evening, when they gathered for the last supper, all
took their places at the table with a studied ignorance of the
necessity, a feigned unconsciousness that any such attention was
required. As a matter of course, the pitcher of cool water, the basin,
and the towel had been set as part of the requisite furnishing of the
supper chamber; but no one among the disciples betrayed the slightest
consciousness that he understood that any such custom existed. Why was
this? Because, as Luke tells us (xxii. 24), “there had arisen among them
a contention, which of them is accounted to be the greatest.” Beginning,
perhaps, by discussing the prospects of their Master’s kingdom, they had
passed on to compare the importance of this or that faculty for
forwarding the interests of the kingdom, and had ended by easily
recognised personal allusions and even the direct pitting of man against
man. The assumption of superiority on the part of the sons of Zebedee
and others was called in question, and it suddenly appeared how this
assumption had galled the rest and rankled in their minds. That such a
discussion should arise may be disappointing, but it was natural. All
men are jealous of their reputation, and crave that credit be given them
for their natural talent, their acquired skill, their professional
standing, their influence, or at any rate for their humility.
Heated, then, and angry and full of resentment these men hustle into the
supper-room and seat themselves like so many sulky schoolboys. They
streamed into the room and doggedly took their places; and then came a
pause. For any one to wash the feet of the rest was to declare himself
the servant of all; and that was precisely what each one was resolved
he, for his part, would not do. No one of them had humour enough to see
the absurdity of the situation. No one of them was sensitive enough to
be ashamed of showing such a temper in Christ’s presence. There they
sat, looking at the table, looking at the ceiling, arranging their
dress, each resolved upon this—that he would not be the man to own
himself servant of all.
But this unhealthy heat quite unfits them to listen to what their Lord
has to say to them that last evening. Occupied as they are, not with
anxiety about Him nor with absorbing desire for the prosperity of His
kingdom, but with selfish ambitions that separate them alike from Him
and from one another, how can they receive what He has to say? But how
is He to bring them into a state of mind in which they can listen wholly
and devotedly to Him? How is He to quench their heated passions and stir
within them humility and love? “He riseth from the supper-table, and
laid aside His garments, and took a towel, and girded Himself. After
that He poureth water into the basin, and began to wash the disciples’
feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith He was girded.” Each
separate action is a fresh astonishment and a deeper shame to the
bewildered and conscience-stricken disciples. “Who is not able to
picture the scene,—the faces of John and James and Peter; the intense
silence, in which each movement of Jesus was painfully audible; the
furtive watching of Him, as He rose, to see what He would do; the sudden
pang of self-reproach as they perceived what it meant; the bitter
humiliation and the burning shame?”
But not only is the time noted, in order that we may perceive the
relevancy of the foot-washing, but the Evangelist steps aside from his
usual custom and describes the mood of Jesus that we may more deeply
penetrate into the significance of the action. Around this scene in the
supper-chamber St. John sets lights which permit us to see its various
beauty and grace. And first of all he would have us notice what seems
chiefly to have struck himself as from time to time he reflected on this
last evening—that Jesus, even in these last hours, was wholly possessed
and governed by love. Although He knew “that His hour had come, that He
should depart out of this world unto the Father, yet having loved His
own which were in the world He loved them unto the end.” Already the
deep darkness of the coming night was touching the spirit of Jesus with
its shadow. Already the pain of the betrayal, the lonely desolation of
desertion by His friends, the defenceless exposure to fierce, unjust,
ruthless men, the untried misery of death and dissolution, the critical
trial of His cause and of all the labour of His life, these and many
anxieties that cannot be imagined, were pouring in upon His spirit, wave
upon wave. If ever man might have been excused for absorption in His own
affairs Jesus was then that man. On the edge of what He knew to be the
critical passage in the world’s history, what had He to do attending to
the comfort and adjusting the silly differences of a few unworthy men?
With the weight of a world on His arm, was He to have His hands free for
such a trifling attention as this? With His whole soul pressed with the
heaviest burden ever laid on man, was it to be expected He should turn
aside at such a call?
But His love made it seem no turning aside at all. His love had made Him
wholly theirs, and though standing on the brink of death He was
disengaged to do them the slightest service. His love was love, devoted,
enduring, constant. He had loved them, and He loved them still. It was
their condition which had brought Him into the world, and His love for
them was that which would carry Him through all that was before Him. The
very fact that they showed themselves still so jealous and childish, so
unfit to cope with the world, drew out His affection towards them. He
was departing from the world and they were remaining in it, exposed to
all its opposition and destined to bear the brunt of hostility directed
against Him—how then can He but pity and strengthen them? Nothing is
more touching on a death-bed than to see the sufferer hiding and making
light of his own pain, and turning the attention of those around him
away from him to themselves, and making arrangements, not for his own
relief, but for the future comfort of others. This which has often
dimmed with tears the eyes of the bystanders struck John when he saw his
Master ministering to the wants of His disciples, although He knew that
His own hour had come.
Another side-light which serves to bring out the full significance of
this action is Jesus’ consciousness of His own dignity. “Jesus, knowing
that the Father had given all things into His hands, and that He came
forth from God, and goeth unto God,” riseth from supper, and took a
towel and girded Himself. It was not in forgetfulness of His Divine
origin, but in full consciousness of it, He discharged this menial
function. As He had divested Himself of the “form of God” at the first,
stripping Himself of the outward glory attendant on recognised Divinity,
and had taken upon Him the form of a servant, so now He “laid aside His
garments and girded Himself,” assuming the guise of a household slave.
For a fisherman to pour water over a fisherman’s feet was no great
condescension; but that He, in whose hands are all human affairs and
whose nearest relation is the Father, should thus condescend is of
unparalleled significance. It is this kind of action that is suitable to
One whose consciousness is Divine. Not only does the dignity of Jesus
vastly augment the beauty of the action, but it sheds new light on the
Divine character.
Still another circumstance which seemed to John to accentuate the grace
of the foot-washing was this—that Judas was among the guests, and that
“the devil had now put into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, to
betray him.” The idea had at last formed itself in Judas’ mind that the
best use he could make of Jesus was to sell Him to His enemies. His
hopes of gain in the Messianic kingdom were finally blighted, but he
might still make something out of Jesus and save himself from all
implication in a movement frowned upon by the authorities. He clearly
apprehended that all hopes of a temporal kingdom were gone. He had
probably not strength of mind enough to say candidly that he had joined
the company of disciples on a false understanding, and meant now quietly
to return to his trading at Kerioth. If he could break up the whole
movement, he would be justified in his dissatisfaction, and would also
be held to be a useful servant of the nation. So he turns traitor. And
John does not whitewash him, but plainly brands him as a traitor. Now,
much may be forgiven a man; but treachery—what is to be done with it;
with the man who uses the knowledge only a friend can have, to betray
you to your enemies? Suppose Jesus had unmasked him to Peter and the
rest, would he ever have left that room alive? Instead of unmasking him,
Jesus makes no difference between him and the others, kneels by his
couch, takes his feet in His hands, washes and gently dries them.
However difficult it is to understand why Jesus chose Judas at the
first, there can be no question that throughout His acquaintance with
him He had done all that was possible to win him. The kind of treatment
Judas had received throughout may be inferred from the treatment he
received now. Jesus knew him to be a man of a low type and impenitent;
He knew him to be at that very time out of harmony with the little
company, false, plotting, meaning to save himself by bringing ruin on
the rest. Yet Jesus will not denounce him to the others. His sole weapon
is love. Conquests which He cannot achieve with this He will not achieve
at all. In the person of Judas the utmost of malignity the world can
show is present to Him, and He meets it with kindness. Well may Astié
exclaim: “Jesus at the feet of the traitor—what a picture! what lessons
for us!”
Shame and astonishment shut the mouths of the disciples, and not a sound
broke the stillness of the room but the tinkle and plash of the water in
the basin as Jesus went from couch to couch. But the silence was broken
when He came to Peter. The deep reverence which the disciples had
contracted for Jesus betrays itself in Peter’s inability to suffer Him
to touch his feet. Peter could not endure that the places of master and
servant should thus be reversed. He feels that shrinking and revulsion
which we feel when a delicate person or one much above us in station
proceeds to do some service from which we ourselves would shrink as
beneath us. That Peter should have drawn up his feet, started up on the
couch, and exclaimed, “Lord, do you actually propose to wash my feet!”
is to his credit, and just what we should have expected of a man who
never lacked generous impulses. Our Lord therefore assures him that his
scruples will be removed, and that what he could not understand would be
shortly explained to him. He treats Peter’s scruples very much as He
treated the Baptist’s when John hesitated about baptizing Him. Let Me,
says Jesus, do it now, and I will explain My reason when I have
finished the washing of you all. But this does not satisfy Peter. Out he
comes with one of his blunt and hasty speeches: “Lord, Thou shalt never
wash my feet!” He knew better than Jesus, that is to say, what should be
done. Jesus was mistaken in supposing that any explanation could be
given of it. Hasty, self-confident, knowing better than anybody else,
Peter once again ran himself into grave fault. The first requirement in
a disciple is entire self-surrender. The others had meekly allowed Jesus
to wash their feet, cut to the heart with shame as they were, and
scarcely able to let their feet lie in His hands; but Peter must show
himself of a different mind. His first refusal was readily forgiven as a
generous impulse; the second is an obstinate, proud, self-righteous
utterance, and was forthwith met by the swift rebuke of Jesus: “If I
wash thee not, thou hast no part with Me.”
Superficially, these words might have been understood as intimating to
Peter that, if he wished to partake of the feast prepared, he must allow
Jesus to wash his feet. Unless he was prepared to leave the room and
reckon himself an outcast from that company, he must submit to the
feet-washing which his friends and fellow-guests had submitted to. There
was that in the tone of our Lord which awakened Peter to see how great
and painful a rupture this would be. He almost hears in the words a
sentence of expulsion pronounced on himself; and as rapidly as he had
withdrawn from the touch of Christ, so rapidly does he now run to the
opposite extreme and offer his whole body to be washed—“not my feet
only, but my hands and my head.” If this washing means that we are Thy
friends and partners, let me be all washed, for every bit of me is
Thine. Here again Peter was swayed by blind impulse, and here again he
erred. If he could only have been quiet! If he could only have held his
tongue! If only he could have allowed his Lord to manage without his
interference and suggestion at every point! But this was precisely what
Peter had as yet not learned to do. In after-years he was to learn
meekness; he was to learn to submit while others bound him and carried
him whither they would; but as yet that was impossible to him. His
Lord’s plan is never good enough for him; Jesus is never exactly right.
What He proposes must always be eked out by Peter’s superior wisdom.
What gusts of shame must have stormed through Peter’s soul when he
looked back on this scene! Yet it concerns us rather to admire than to
condemn Peter’s fervour. How welcome to our Lord as He passed from the
cold and treacherous heart of Judas must this burst of enthusiastic
devotion have been! “Lord, if washing be any symbol of my being Thine,
wash hands and head as well as feet.”
Jesus throws a new light upon His action in His reply: “He that is
washed, needeth not save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit: and
ye are clean, but not all.” The words would have more readily disclosed
Christ’s meaning had they been literally rendered: He that has bathed
needeth not save to wash his feet. The daily use of the bath rendered it
needless to wash more than the feet, which were soiled with walking from
the bath to the supper-chamber. But that Christ had in view as He washed
the disciples’ feet something more than the mere bodily cleansing and
comfort is plain from His remark that they were not all clean. All had
enjoyed the feet-washing, but all were not clean. The feet of Judas were
as clean as the feet of John or Peter, but his heart was foul. And what
Christ intended when He girt Himself with the towel and took up the
pitcher was not merely to wash the soil from their feet, but to wash
from their hearts the hard and proud feelings which were so uncongenial
to that night of communion and so threatening to His cause. Far more
needful to their happiness at the feast than the comfort of cool and
clean feet was their restored affection and esteem for one another, and
that humility that takes the lowest place. Jesus could very well have
eaten with men who were unwashed; but He could not eat with men hating
one another, glaring fiercely across the table, declining to answer or
to pass what they were asked for, showing in every way malice and
bitterness of spirit. He knew that at bottom they were good men; He knew
that with one exception they loved Him and one another; He knew that as
a whole they were clean, and that this vicious temper in which they at
present entered the room was but the soil contracted for the hour. But
none the less must it be washed off. _And He did effectually wash it off
by washing their feet._ For was there a man among them who, when he saw
his Lord and Master stooping at his couch-foot, would not most gladly
have changed places with Him? Was there one of them who was not softened
and broken down by the action of the Lord? Is it not certain that shame
must have cast out pride from every heart; that the feet would be very
little thought of, but that the change of feeling would be marked and
obvious? From a group of angry, proud, insolent, implacable, resentful
men, they were in five minutes changed into a company of humbled, meek,
loving disciples of the Lord, each thinking hardly of himself and
esteeming others better. They were effectually cleansed from the stain
they had contracted, and could enter on the enjoyment of the Last
Supper with pure conscience, with restored and increased affection for
one another, and with deepened adoration for the marvellous wisdom and
all-accomplishing grace of their Master.
Jesus, then, does not mistake present defilement for habitual impurity,
nor partial stain for total uncleanness. He knows whom He has chosen. He
understands the difference between deep-seated alienation of spirit and
the passing mood which for the hour disturbs friendship. He
discriminates between Judas and Peter: between the man who has not been
in the bath, and the man whose feet are soiled in walking from it;
between him who is at heart unmoved and unimpressed by His love, and him
who has for a space fallen from the consciousness of it. He does not
suppose that because we have sinned this morning we have no real root of
grace in us. He knows the heart we bear Him; and if just at present
unworthy feelings prevail, He does not misunderstand as men may, and
straightway dismiss us from His company. He recognises that our feet
need washing, that our present stain must be removed, but not on this
account does He think we need to be all washed and have never been right
in heart towards Him.
These present stains, then, Christ seeks to remove, that our fellowship
with Him may be unembarrassed; and that our heart, restored to humility
and tenderness, may be in a state to receive the blessing He would
bestow. It is not enough to be once forgiven, to begin the day “clean
every whit.” No sooner do we take a step in the life of the day than our
footfall raises a little puff of dust which does not settle without
sullying us. Our temper is ruffled, and words fall from our lips that
injure and exasperate. In one way or other stain attaches to our
conscience, and we are moved away from cordial and open fellowship with
Christ. All this happens to those who are at heart as truly Christ’s
friends as those first disciples. But we must have these stains washed
away even as they had. Humbly we must own them, and humbly accept their
forgiveness and rejoice in their removal. As these men had with shame to
lay their feet in Christ’s hands, so must we. As His hands had to come
in contact with the soiled feet of the disciples, so has His moral
nature to come in contact with the sins from which He cleanses us. His
heart is purer than were His hands, and He shrinks more from contact
with moral than with physical pollution; and yet without ceasing we
bring Him into contact with such pollution. When we consider what those
stains actually are from which we must ask Christ to wash us, we feel
tempted to exclaim with Peter, “Lord, Thou shalt never wash my feet!” As
these men must have shivered with shame through all their nature, so do
we when we see Christ stoop before us to wash away once again the
defilement we have contracted; when we lay our feet soiled with the miry
and dusty ways of life in His sacred hands; when we see the
uncomplaining, unreproachful grace with which He performs for us this
lowly and painful office. But only thus are we prepared for communion
with Him and with one another. Only by admitting that we need cleansing,
and by humbly allowing Him to cleanse us, are we brought into true
fellowship with Him. With the humble and contrite spirit which has
thrown down all barriers of pride and freely admits His love and
rejoices in His holiness does He abide. Whoso sits down at Christ’s
table must sit down clean; he may not have come clean, even as those
first guests were not clean, but he must allow Christ to cleanse him,
must honestly suffer Christ to remove from his heart, from his desire
and purpose, all that He counts defiling.
But our Lord was not content to let His action speak for itself; He
expressly explains (vv. 12–17) the meaning of what He had now done. He
meant that they should learn to wash one another’s feet, to be humble
and ready to be of service to one another even when to serve seemed to
compromise their dignity.[11] No disciple of Christ need go far to find
feet that need washing, feet that are stained or bleeding with the hard
ways that have been trodden. To recover men from the difficulties into
which sin or misfortune has brought them—to wipe off some of the soil
from men’s lives—to make them purer, sweeter, readier to listen to
Christ, even unostentatiously to do the small services which each hour
calls for—is to follow Him who girt Himself with the slave’s apron. As
often as we thus condescend we become like Christ. By putting Himself in
the servant’s place, our Lord has consecrated all service. The disciple
who next washed the feet of the rest would feel that he was representing
Christ, and would suggest to the minds of the others the action of their
Lord; and as often as we lay aside the conventional dignity in which we
are clad, and gird ourselves to do what others despise, we feel that we
are doing what Christ would do, and are truly representing Him.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Compare Mark vi. 2, γενομένου σαββάτου; and the Latin “posita mensa.”
[8] See ver. 2.
[9] ὑπολύετε, παῖδες, καὶ ἀπονίζετε.
[10] The “tûsht” and “ibrîek” of modern Palestine.
[11] For the formal Foot-washing by the Lord High Almoner, the Pope, or
other officials, see Augustine’s _Letters_ LV.; Herzog art.
_Fusswaschung_; Smith’s _Dict. of Christian Antiq._ art. _Maundy
Thursday_.
VII.
_JUDAS._
“I speak not of you all: I know whom I have chosen: but that the
Scripture may be fulfilled, He that eateth My bread lifted up his
heel against Me. From henceforth I tell you before it come to pass,
that, when it is come to pass, ye may believe that I am He. Verily,
verily, I say unto you, He that receiveth whomsoever I send
receiveth Me; and he that receiveth Me receiveth Him that sent Me.
When Jesus had thus said, He was troubled in the spirit, and
testified, and said, Verily, verily, I say unto you, that one of you
shall betray Me. The disciples looked one on another, doubting of
whom He spake. There was at the table reclining in Jesus’ bosom one
of His disciples, whom Jesus loved. Simon Peter therefore beckoneth
to him, and saith unto him, Tell us who it is of whom He speaketh.
He leaning back, as he was, on Jesus’ breast saith unto Him, Lord,
who is it? Jesus therefore answereth, He it is, for whom I shall dip
the sop, and give it to him. So when He had dipped the sop, He
taketh and giveth it to Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot. And after
the sop, then entered Satan into him. Jesus therefore saith unto
him, That thou doest, do quickly. Now no man at the table knew for
what intent He spake this unto him. For some thought, because Judas
had the bag, that Jesus said unto him, Buy what things we have need
of for the feast; or, that he should give something to the poor. He
then having received the sop went out straightway: and it was
night.”—JOHN xiii. 18–30.
When Jesus had washed the disciples’ feet, apparently in dead silence
save for the interruption of Peter, He resumed those parts of His dress
He had laid aside, and reclined at the table already spread for the
supper. As the meal began, and while He was explaining the meaning of
His act and the lesson He desired them to draw from it, John, who lay
next Him at table, saw that His face did not wear the expression of
festal joy, nor even of untroubled composure, but was clouded with deep
concern and grief. The reason of this was immediately apparent: already,
while washing Peter’s feet, He had awakened the attention and excited
the consciences of the disciples by hinting that on some one of them at
least, if not on more, uncleansed guilt still lay, even though all
partook in the symbolic washing. And now in His explanation of the
foot-washing He repeats this limitation and warning, and also points at
the precise nature of the guilt, though not yet singling out the guilty
person. “I speak not of you all; I know whom I have chosen; I have not
been deceived: but it was necessary that this part of God’s purpose be
fulfilled, and that this Scripture, ‘He that eateth bread with Me, hath
lifted up his heel against Me,’ receive accomplishment in Me.”
It was impossible that Jesus should undisturbedly eat out of the same
dish with the man whom He knew to have already sold Him to the priests;
it were unfair to the other disciples and a violence to His own feelings
to allow such a man any longer to remain in their company. But our Lord
does not name the traitor and denounce him; he singles him out and sends
him from the table on his hateful mission by a process that left every
man at the table unaware on what errand he was despatched. In this
process there were three steps. First of all, our Lord indicated that
among the disciples there was a traitor. With dismay these true-hearted
men hear the firmly pronounced statement “one of _you_ shall betray Me”
(ver. 21). All of them, as another Evangelist informs us, were exceeding
sorrowful, and looked on one another in bewilderment; and unable to
detect the conscious look of guilt in the face of any of their
companions, or to recall any circumstance which might fix even suspicion
on any of them, each, conscious of the deep, unfathomed capacity for
evil in his own heart, can but frankly ask of the Master, “Lord, is it
I?” It is a question that at once proves their consciousness of actual
innocence and possible guilt. It was a kindness in the Lord to give
these genuine men, who were so shortly to go through trial for His sake,
an opportunity of discovering how much they loved Him and how closely
knit their hearts had really become to Him. This question of theirs
expressed the deep pain and shame that the very thought of the
possibility of their being false to Him gave them. They must at all
hazards be cleared of this charge. And from this shock of the very idea
of being untrue their hearts recoiled towards Him with an enthusiastic
tenderness that made this moment possibly as moving a passage as any
that occurred that eventful night But there was one of them that did not
join in the question “Lord, is it I?”—else must not our Lord have
broken silence? The Twelve are still left in doubt, none noticing in the
eagerness of questioning who has not asked, each only glad to know he
himself is not charged.
The second step in the process is recorded in the 26th chapter of
Matthew, where we read that, when the disciples asked “Lord, is it I?”
Jesus answered, “He that dippeth his hand with Me in the dish, the same
shall betray Me.” It was a large company, and there were necessarily
several dishes on the table, so that probably there were three others
using the same dish as our Lord: John we know was next Him; Peter was
near enough to John to make signs and whisper to him; Judas was also
close to Jesus, a position which he either always occupied as treasurer
and purveyor of the company, or into which he thrust himself this
evening with the purpose of more effectually screening himself from
suspicion. The circle of suspicion is thus narrowed to the one or two
who were not only so intimate as to be eating at the same table, but as
to be dipping in the same dish.
The third step in the process of discovery went on almost simultaneously
with this. The impatient Peter, who had himself so often unwittingly
given offence to his Master, is resolved to find out definitely who is
pointed at, and yet dare not say to Christ “Who is it?” He beckons
therefore to John to ask Jesus privately, as he lay next to Jesus. John
leans a little back towards Jesus and puts in a whisper the definite
question “Who is it?” and Jesus in the ear of the beloved disciple
whispers the reply, “He it is to whom I shall give a sop when I have
dipped it.” And when He had dipped the sop, He gave it to Judas
Iscariot. This reveals to John, but to no one else, who the traitor was,
for the giving of the sop was no more at that table than the handing of
a plate or the offer of any article of food is at any table. John alone
knew the significance of it. But Judas had already taken alarm at the
narrowing of the circle of suspicion, and had possibly for the moment
ceased dipping in the same dish with Jesus, lest he should be identified
with the traitor. Jesus therefore dips for him and offers him the sop
which he will not himself take, and the look that accompanies the act,
as well as the act itself, shows Judas that his treachery is discovered.
He therefore mechanically takes up in a somewhat colder form the
question of the rest, and says, “Master, is it I?” His fear subdues his
voice to a whisper, heard only by John and the Lord; and the answer,
“Thou hast said. That thou doest, do quickly,” is equally unobserved by
the rest. Judas need fear no violence at their hands; John alone knows
the meaning of his abrupt rising and hurrying from the room, and John
sees that Jesus wishes him to go unobserved. The rest, therefore,
thought only that Judas was going out to make some final purchases that
had been forgotten, or to care for the poor in this season of festivity.
But John saw differently. “The traitor,” he says, “went immediately out;
and it was night.” As his ill-omened, stealthy figure glided from the
chamber, the sudden night of the Eastern twilightless sunset had fallen
on the company; sadness, silence, and gloom fell upon John’s spirit; the
hour of darkness had at length fallen in the very midst of this quiet
feast.
This sin of Judas presents us with one of the most perplexed problems
of life and character that the strange circumstances of this world have
ever produced. Let us first of all look at the connection of this
betrayal with the life of Christ, and then consider the phase of
character exhibited in Judas. In connection with the life of Christ the
difficulty is to understand why the death of Christ was to be brought
about in this particular way of treachery among His own followers. It
may be said that it came to pass “that Scripture might be fulfilled,”
that this special prediction in the 41st Psalm might be fulfilled. But
why was such a prediction made? It was of course the event which
determined the prediction, not the prediction which determined the
event. Was it, then, an accident that Jesus should be handed over to the
authorities in this particular way? Or was there any significance in it,
that justifies its being made so prominent in the narrative? Certainly
if our Lord was to be brought into contact with the most painful form of
sin, He must have experience of treachery. He had known the sorrow that
death brings to the survivors; He had known the pain and disappointment
of being resisted by stupid, obstinate, bad-hearted men; but if He was
to know the utmost of misery which man can inflict upon man, He must be
brought into contact with one who could accept His love, eat His bread,
press His hand with assurance of fidelity, and then sell Him.
When we endeavour to set before our minds a clear idea of the character
of Judas, and to understand how such a character could be developed, we
have to acknowledge that we could desire a few more facts in order to
certify us of what we can now only conjecture. Obviously we must start
from the idea that with extraordinary capacity for wickedness Judas had
also more than ordinary leanings to what was good. He was an Apostle,
and had, we must suppose, been called to that office by Christ under the
impression that he possessed gifts which would make him very serviceable
to the Christian community. He was himself so impressed with Christ as
to follow Him: making those pecuniary sacrifices of which Peter
boastfully spoke, and which must have been specially sore to Judas. It
is possible, indeed, that he may have followed Jesus as a speculation,
hoping to receive wealth and honour in the new kingdom; but this motive
mingled with the attachment to Christ’s person which all the Apostles
had, and mingles in a different form with the discipleship of all
Christians. With this motive, therefore, there probably mingled in the
mind of Judas a desire to be with One who could shield him from evil
influences; he judged that with Jesus he would find continual aid
against his weaker nature. Possibly he wished by one bold abandonment of
the world to get rid for ever of his covetousness. That Judas was
trusted by the other Apostles is manifest from the fact that to him they
committed their common fund,—not to John, whose dreamy and abstracted
nature ill fitted him for minute practical affairs; not to Peter, whose
impulsive nature might often have landed the little company in
difficulties; not even to Matthew, accustomed as he was to accounts; but
to Judas, who had the economical habits, the aptitude for finance, the
love of bargaining, which regularly go hand in hand with the love of
money. This practical faculty for finance and for affairs generally
might, if rightly guided, have become a most serviceable element in the
Apostolate, and might have enabled Judas more successfully than any
other of the Apostles to mediate between the Church and the world. That
Judas in all other respects conducted himself circumspectly is proved by
the fact that, though other Apostles incurred the displeasure of Christ
and were rebuked by Him, Judas committed no glaring fault till this last
week. Even to the end he was unsuspected by his fellow-Apostles; and to
the end he had an active conscience. His last act, were it not so awful,
would inspire us with something like respect for him: he is overwhelmed
with remorse and shame; his sense of guilt is stronger even than the
love of money that had hitherto been his strongest passion: he judges
himself fairly, sees what he has become, and goes to his own place;
recognises as not every man does recognise what is his fit habitation,
and goes to it.
But this man, with his good impulses, his resolute will, his enlightened
conscience, his favouring circumstances, his frequent feelings of
affection towards Christ and desire to serve Him, committed a crime so
unparalleled in wickedness that men practically make very little attempt
to estimate it or measure it with sins of their own. Commonly we think
of it as a special, exceptional wickedness—not so much the natural
product of a heart like our own and what may be reproduced by ourselves,
as the work of Satan using a man as his scarcely responsible tool to
effect a purpose which needs never again to be effected.
If we ask what precisely it was in the crime of Judas that makes us so
abhor it, manifestly its most hateful ingredient was its treachery. “It
was not an enemy that reproached me; then I could have borne it; but it
was thou, a man mine equal, my guide, and mine acquaintance.” Cæsar
defended himself till the dagger of a friend pierced him; then in
indignant grief he covered his head with his mantle and accepted his
fate. You can forgive the open blow of a declared enemy against whom you
are on your guard; but the man that lives with you on terms of the
greatest intimacy for years, so that he learns your ways and habits, the
state of your affairs and your past history—the man whom you so confide
in and like that you communicate to him freely much that you keep hidden
from others, and who, while still professing friendship, uses the
information he has gained to blacken your character and ruin your peace,
to injure your family or damage your business,—this man, you know, has
much to repent of. So one can forgive the Pharisees who knew not what
they did, and were throughout the declared opponents of Christ; but
Judas attached himself to Christ, knew that His life was one of unmixed
benevolence, was conscious that Christ would have given up anything to
serve him, felt moved and proud from time to time by the fact that
Christ loved him, and yet at the last used all these privileges of
friendship against his Friend.
And Judas did not scruple to use this power that only the love of Jesus
could have given him, to betray Him to men whom he knew to be
unscrupulous and resolved to destroy Him. The garden where the Lord
prayed for His enemies was not sacred to Judas; the cheek that a seraph
would blush to kiss, and to salute which was the beginning of joy
eternal to the devout disciple, was mere common clay to this man into
whom Satan had entered. The crime of Judas is invested with a horror
altogether its own by the fact that this Person whom he betrayed was the
Son of God and the Saviour of the world, the Best-beloved of God and
every man’s Friend. The greatest blessing that God had ever given to
earth Judas was forward to reject: not altogether unaware of the majesty
of Christ, Judas presumed to use Him in a little money-making scheme of
his own.
The best use that Judas could think of putting Jesus to, the best use he
could make of _Him_ whom all angels worship, was to sell Him for £5.[12]
He could get nothing more out of Christ than that. After three years’
acquaintanceship and observation of the various ways in which Christ
could bless people, this was all he could get from Him. And there are
still such men: men for whom there is nothing in Christ; men who can
find nothing in Him that they sincerely care for; men who, though
calling themselves His followers, would, if truth were told, be better
content and feel they had more substantial profit if they could turn Him
into money.
So difficult is it to comprehend how any man who had lived as the friend
of Jesus could find it in his heart to betray Him, should resist the
touching expressions of love that were shown him, and brave the awful
warning uttered at the supper-table—so difficult is it to suppose that
any man, however infatuated, would so deliberately sell his soul for £5,
that a theory has been started to explain the crime by mitigating its
guilt. It has been supposed that when he delivered up his Master into
the hands of the chief priests he expected that our Lord would save
Himself by a miracle. He knew that Jesus meant to proclaim a kingdom; he
had been waiting for three years now, eagerly expecting that this
proclamation and its accompanying gains would arrive. Yet he feared the
opportunity was once more passing: Jesus had been brought into the city
in triumph, but seemed indisposed to make use of this popular
excitement for any temporal advantage. Judas was weary of this
inactivity: might he not himself bring matters to a crisis by giving
Jesus into the hands of His enemies, and thus forcing Him to reveal His
real power and assert by miracle His kingship? In corroboration of this
theory, it is said that it is certain that Judas did not expect Jesus to
be condemned; for when he saw that he was condemned he repented of his
act.
This seems a shallow view to take of Judas’ remorse, and a feeble ground
on which to build such a theory. A crime seems one thing before, another
after, its commission. The murderer expects and wishes to kill his
victim, but how often is he seized with an agony of remorse as soon as
the blow is struck? Before we sin, it is the gain we see; after we sin,
the guilt. It is impossible to construe the act of Judas into a mistaken
act of friendship or impatience; the terms in which he is spoken of in
Scripture forbid this idea; and one cannot suppose that a keen-sighted
man like Judas could expect that, even supposing he did force our Lord
to proclaim Himself, his own share in the business would be rewarded. He
could not suppose this after the terrible denunciation and explicit
statement that still rang in his ears when he hanged himself: “The Son
of man goeth as it is written of Him: but woe unto that man by whom the
Son of man is betrayed! it had been good for that man if he had not been
born.”
We must then abide by the more commonplace view of this crime. The only
mitigating circumstance that can be admitted is, that possibly among the
many perplexed thoughts entertained by Judas he may have supposed that
Jesus would be acquitted, or would at least not be punished with death.
Still, this being admitted, the fact remains that he cared so little
for the love of Christ, and regarded so little the good He was doing,
and had so little common honour in him, that he sold his Master to His
deadly enemies. And this monstrous wickedness is to be accounted for
mainly by his love of money. Naturally covetous, he fed his evil
disposition during those years he carried the bag for the disciples:
while the rest are taken up with more spiritual matters, he gives more
of his thought than is needful to the matter of collecting as much as
possible; he counts it his special province to protect himself and the
others against all “the probable emergencies and changes of life.” This
he does, regardless of the frequent admonitions he hears from the Lord
addressed to others; and as he finds excuses for his own avarice in the
face of these admonitions, and hardens himself against the better
impulses that are stirred within him by the words and presence of
Christ, his covetousness roots itself deeper and deeper in his soul. Add
to this, that now he was a disappointed man: the other disciples,
finding that the kingdom of Christ was to be spiritual, were pure and
high-minded enough to see that their disappointment was their great
gain. The love of Christ had transformed them, and to be like Him was
enough for them; but Judas still clung to the idea of earthly grandeur
and wealth, and finding Christ was not to give him these he was soured
and embittered. He saw that now, since that scene at Bethany the week
before, his covetousness and earthliness would be resisted and would
also betray him. He felt that he could no longer endure this
poverty-stricken life, and had some rage at himself and at Christ that
he had been inveigled into it by what he might be pleased to say to
himself were false pretences. His self-restraint, he felt, was breaking
down; his covetousness was getting the better of him; he felt that he
must break with Christ and His followers; but in doing so he would at
once win what he had lost during these years of poverty, and also
revenge himself on those who had kept him poor, and finally would
justify his own conduct in deserting this society by exploding it and
causing it to cease from among men.
The sin of Judas, then, first of all teaches us the great power and
danger of the love of money. The mere thirty pieces of silver would not
have been enough to tempt Judas to commit so dastardly and black a
crime; but he was now an embittered and desperate man, and he had become
so by allowing money to be all in all to him for these last years of his
life. For the danger of this passion consists very much in this—that it
infallibly eats out of the soul every generous emotion and high aim: it
is the failing of a sordid nature—a little, mean, earthly nature—a
failing which, like all others, may be extirpated through God’s grace,
but which is notoriously difficult to extirpate, and which notoriously
is accompanied by or produces other features of character which are
among the most repulsive one meets. The love of money is also dangerous,
because it can be so easily gratified; all that we do in the world day
by day is in the case of most of us connected with money, so that we
have continual and not only occasional opportunity of sinning if we be
inclined to the sin. Other passions are appealed to only now and again,
but our employments touch this passion at all points. It leaves no long
intervals, as other passions do, for repentance and amendment; but
steadily, constantly, little by little, increases in force. Judas had
his fingers in the bag all day; it was under his pillow and he dreamt
upon it all night; and it was this that accelerated his ruin. And by
this constant appeal it is sure to succeed at one time or other, if we
be open to it. Judas could not suppose that his quiet
self-aggrandisement by pilfering little coins from the bag could ever
bring him to commit such a crime against his Lord: so may every covetous
person fancy that his sin is one that is his own business, and will not
damage his religious profession and ruin his soul as some wild lust or
reckless infidelity would do. But Judas and those who sin with him in
making continually little gains to which they have no right are wrong in
supposing their sin is less dangerous; and for this reason—that
covetousness is more a sin of the _will_ than sins of the flesh or of a
passionate nature; there is more choice in it; it is more the sin of the
whole man unresisting; and therefore it, above all others, is called
idolatry—it, above all others, proves that the man is in his heart
choosing the world and not God. Therefore it is that even our Lord
Himself spoke almost despairingly, certainly quite differently, of
covetous men in comparison with other sinners.
Disappointment in Christ is not an unknown thing among ourselves. Men
still profess to be Christians who are so only in the degree in which
Judas was. They expect _some_ good from Christ, but not all. They attach
themselves to Christ in a loose, conventional way, expecting that,
though they are Christians, they need not lose anything by their
Christianity, nor make any great efforts or sacrifices. They retain
command of their own life, and are prepared to go with Christ only so
far as they find it agreeable or inviting. The eye of an observer may
not be able to distinguish them from Christ’s true followers; but the
distinction is present and is radical. They are seeking to use Christ,
and are not willing to be used by Him. They are not wholly and heartily
His, but merely seek to derive some influences from Him. The result is
that they one day find that, through all their religious profession and
apparent Christian life, their characteristic sin has actually been
gaining strength. And finding this, they turn upon Christ with
disappointment and rage in their hearts, because they become aware that
they have lost both this world and the next—have lost many pleasures
and gains they might have enjoyed, and yet have gained no spiritual
attainment. They find that the reward of double-mindedness is the most
absolute perdition, that both Christ and the world, to be made anything
of, require the whole man, and that he who tries to get the good of both
gets the good of neither. And when a man awakes to see that this is the
result of his Christian profession, there is no deadliness of hatred to
which the bitter disappointment of his soul will not carry him. He has
himself been a dupe, and he calls Christ an impostor. He know himself to
be damned, and he says there is no salvation in Christ.
But to this disastrous issue _any_ cherished sin may also in its own way
lead; for the more comprehensive lesson which this sin of Judas brings
with it is the rapidity of sin’s growth and the enormous proportions it
attains when the sinner is sinning against light, when he is in
circumstances conducive to holiness and still sins. To discover the
wickedest of men, to see the utmost of human guilt, we must look, not
among the heathen, but among those who know God; not among the
profligate, dissolute, abandoned classes of society, but among the
Apostles. The good that was in Judas led him to join Christ, and kept
him associated with Christ for some years; but the devil of
covetousness that was cast out for a while returned and brought with him
seven devils worse than himself. There was everything in his position to
win him to unworldliness: the men he lived with cared not one whit for
comforts or anything that money could buy; but instead of catching their
spirit he took advantage of their carelessness. He was in a public
position, liable to detection; but this, instead of making him honest
perforce, made him only the more crafty and studiedly hypocritical. The
solemn warnings of Christ, so far from intimidating him, only made him
more skilful in evading all good influence, and made the road to hell
easier. The position he enjoyed, and by which he might have been for
ever enrolled among the foremost of mankind, one of the twelve
foundations of the eternal city, he so skilfully misused that the
greatest sinner feels glad that he has yet not been left to commit the
sin of Judas. Had Judas not followed Christ he could never have attained
the pinnacle of infamy on which he now for ever stands. In all
probability he would have passed his days as a small trader with false
weights in the little town of Kerioth, or, at the worst, might have
developed into an extortionous publican, and have passed into oblivion
with the thousands of unjust men who have died and been at last forced
to let go the money that should long ago have belonged to others. Or had
Judas followed Christ truly, then there lay before him the noblest of
all lives, the most blessed of destinies. But he followed Christ and yet
took his sin with him: and thence his ruin.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] More exactly, £3 10 8, the legal value of a slave.
VIII.
_JESUS ANNOUNCES HIS DEPARTURE._
“When therefore he was gone out, Jesus saith, Now is the Son of man
glorified, and God is glorified in Him; and God shall glorify Him in
Himself, and straightway shall He glorify Him. Little children, yet
a little while I am with you. Ye shall seek Me: and as I said unto
the Jews, Whither I go, ye cannot come; so now I say unto you. A new
commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; even as I
have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men
know that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one to another. Simon
Peter saith unto Him, Lord, whither goest Thou? Jesus answered,
Whither I go, thou canst not follow Me now; but thou shalt follow
afterwards. Peter saith unto Him, Lord, why cannot I follow Thee
even now? I will lay down my life for Thee. Jesus answereth, Wilt
thou lay down thy life for Me? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, The
cock shall not crow, till thou hast denied Me thrice. Let not your
heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in Me. In My
Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have
told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and
prepare a place for you, I come again, and will receive you unto
Myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go, ye
know the way.”—JOHN xiii. 31–xiv. 4.
When Judas glided out of the supper-room on his terrible mission, a
weight seemed to be lifted from the spirit of Jesus. The words which
fell from Him, however, indicated that He not only felt the relief of
being rid of a disturbing element in the company, but that He recognised
that a crisis in His own career had been reached and successfully passed
through. “Now is the Son of man glorified, and God is glorified in Him.”
In sending Judas forth He had in point of fact delivered Himself to
death. He had taken the step which cannot be withdrawn, and He is
conscious of taking it in fulfilment of the will of the Father. The
conflict in His own mind is revealed only by the decision of the
victory. No man in soundness of body and of mind can voluntarily give
himself to die without seeing clearly other possibilities, and without
feeling it to be a hard and painful thing to relinquish life. Jesus had
made up His mind. His death is the beginning of His glorification. In
choosing the cross He chooses the crown. “The Son of man is glorified”
in His perfect self-sacrifice that wins all men to Him; and God is
glorified in Him because this sacrifice is a tribute at once to the
justice and the love of God. The Cross reveals God as nothing else
does.
Not only has this decision glorified the Son of man and God through Him
and in Him, but as a consequence “God will glorify” the Son of man “in
Himself.” He will lift Him to participation in the Divine glory. It was
well that the disciples should know that this would “straightway” result
from all that their Master was now to pass through; that the perfect
sympathy with the Father’s will which He was now showing would be
rewarded by permanent participation in the authority of God. It must be
through such an one as their Lord, who is absolutely at one with God,
that God fulfils His purpose towards men. By this life and death of
perfect obedience, of absolute devotedness to God and man, Christ
necessarily wins dominion over human affairs and exercises a determining
influence on all that is to be. In all that Christ did upon earth God
was glorified; His holiness, His fatherly love were manifested to men:
in all that God now does upon earth Christ will be glorified; the
uniqueness and power of His life will become more manifest, the
supremacy of His Spirit be more and more apparent.
This glorification was not the far-off result of the impending
sacrifice. It was to date from the present hour and to begin in the
sacrifice. God will glorify Him “straightway.” “Yet _a little while_”
was He to be with His disciples. Therefore does He tenderly address
them, recognising their incompetence, their inability to stand alone, as
“little children”; and in view of the exhibition of bad feeling, and
even of treachery, which the Twelve had at that very hour given, His
commandment, “Love one another,” comes with a tenfold significance. I am
leaving you, He says: put away, then, all heart-burnings and
jealousies; cling together; do not let quarrels and envyings divide
you. This was to be their safeguard when He left them and went where
they could not come. “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love
one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this
shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one to
another.”
The commandment to love our neighbour as ourselves was no new
commandment. But to love “as I have loved you” was so new that its
practice was enough to identify a man as a disciple of Christ. The
manner and the measure of the love that is possible and that is
commanded could not even be understood until Christ’s love was revealed.
But probably what Jesus had even more directly in view was the love that
was to bind His followers together[13] and make them one solid body. It
was on their mutual attachment that the very existence of the Christian
Church depended; and this love of men to one another springing out of
the love of Christ for them, and because of their acknowledgment and
love of a common Lord, was a new thing in the world. The bond to Christ
proved itself stronger than all other ties, and those who cherished a
common love to Him were drawn to one another more closely than even to
blood relations. In fact, Christ, by His love for men, has created a new
bond, and that the strongest by which men can be bound to one another.
As the Christian Church is a new institution upon earth, so is the
principle which forms it a new principle. The principle has, indeed, too
often been hidden from sight, if not smothered, by the institution; too
little has love been regarded as the one thing by which the disciple of
Christ is to be recognised, the one note of the true Church. But that
this form of love was a new thing upon earth is apparent.[14]
Tenderly as Jesus made the announcement of His departure, it filled the
minds of the disciples with consternation. Even the buoyant and hardy
Peter felt for the moment staggered by the intelligence, and still more
by the announcement that he was not able to accompany his Lord. He was
assured that one day he should follow Him, but at present this was
impossible. This, Peter considered a reflection upon his courage and
fidelity; and although his headlong self-confidence had only a few
minutes before been so severely rebuked, he exclaims, “Lord, why cannot
I follow Thee now? I will lay down my life for Thy sake.” This was the
true expression of Peter’s present feeling, and he was allowed in the
end to give proof that these vehement words were not mere bluster. But
as yet he had not at all apprehended the separateness of his Lord and
the uniqueness of His work. He did not know precisely what Jesus alluded
to, but he thought a strong arm would not be out of place in any
conflict that was coming. The offers which even true fidelity makes are
often only additional hindrances to our Lord’s purposes, and additional
burdens for Him to bear. On Himself alone must He depend. No man can
counsel Him, and none can aid save by first receiving from Him His own
spirit.
Peter thus rebuked falls into unwonted silence, and takes no further
part in the conversation. The rest, knowing that Peter has more courage
than any of them, fear that if he is thus to fall it cannot be hopeful
for themselves. They feel that if they are left without Jesus they have
no strength to make head against the rulers, no skill in argument such
as made Jesus victorious when assailed by the scribes, no popular
eloquence which might enable them to win the people. Eleven more
helpless men could not well be. “Sheep without a shepherd” was not too
strong an expression to depict their weakness and want of influence,
their incompetence to effect anything, their inability even to keep
together. Christ was their bond of union and the strength of each of
them. It was to be with Him that they had left all. And in forsaking
all—father and mother, wife and children, home and kindred and
calling—they had found in Christ that hundredfold more even in this
life which He had promised. He had so won their hearts, there was about
Him something so fascinating, that they felt no loss when they enjoyed
His presence, and feared no danger in which He was their leader. They
had perhaps not thought very definitely of their future; they felt so
confident in Jesus that they were content to let Him bring in His
kingdom as He pleased; they were so charmed with the novelty of their
life as His disciples, with the great ideas that dropped from His lips,
with the wonderful works He did, with the new light He shed upon all the
personages and institutions of the world, that they were satisfied to
leave their hope undefined. But all this satisfaction and secret
assurance of hope depended on Christ. As yet He had not given to _them_
anything which could enable them to make any mark upon the world. They
were still very ignorant, so that any lawyer could entangle and puzzle
them. They had not received from Christ any influential position in
society from which they could sway men. There were no great visible
institutions with which they could identify themselves and so become
conspicuous.
It was with dismay, therefore, that they heard that He was going where
they could not accompany Him. A cloud of gloomy foreboding gathered on
their faces as they lay round the table and fixed their eyes on Him as
on one whose words they would interpret differently if they could. Their
anxious looks are not disregarded. “Let not your heart be troubled,” He
says: “believe in God, and in Me, too, believe.” Do not give way to
disturbing thoughts; do not suppose that only failure, disgrace,
helplessness, and calamity await you. Trust God. In this, as in all
matters, He is guiding and ruling and working His own good ends through
all present evil. Trust Him, even when you cannot penetrate the
darkness. It is His part to bring you successfully through; it is your
part to follow where He leads. Do not question and debate and vex your
soul, but leave all to Him. “Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why
art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God; for I shall yet praise
Him who is the health of my countenance and my God.”
“And in Me, too, trust.” I would not leave you had I not a purpose to
serve. It is not to secure My own safety or happiness I go. It is not to
occupy the sole available room in My Father’s house. There are many
rooms there, and I go to prepare a place for you. Trust Me. In order
that they may fully understand the reasonableness of His departure He
assures them, first of all, that it has a purpose. The parent mourns
over the son who in mere waywardness leaves his home and his occupation;
but with very different feelings does he follow one who has come to see
that the greater good of the family requires that he should go, and who
has carefully ascertained where and how he can best serve those he
leaves behind. To such an absence men can reconcile themselves. The
parting is bitter, but the greater good to be gained by it enables them
to approve its reasonableness and to submit. And what our Lord says to
His disciples is virtually this: I have not wearied of earth and tired
of your company, neither do I go because I must. I could escape Judas
and the Jews. But I have a purpose which requires that I should go. You
have not found Me impulsive, neither am I now acting without good
reason. Could I be of more use to you by staying, I would stay.
This is a new kind of assertion to be made by human lips: “I am going
into the other world to effect a a purpose.” Often the sense of duty has
been so strong in men that they have left this world without a murmur.
But no one has felt so clear about what lies beyond, or has been so
confident of his own power to effect any change for the better in the
other world, that he has left this for a sphere of greater usefulness.
This is what Christ does.
But He also explains what His purpose is: “In My Father’s house are many
mansions. I go to prepare a place for you.” The Father’s house was a new
figure for heaven. The idea of God’s house was, however, familiar to the
Jews. But in the Temple the freedom and familiarity which we associate
with home were absent. It was only when One came who felt that His real
home was in God that the Temple could be called “the Father’s house.”
Yet there is nothing that the heart of man more importunately craves
than the freedom and ease which this name implies. To live unafraid of
God, not shrinking from Him, but so truly at one with Him that we live
as one household brightened by His presence—this is the thirst for God
which is one day felt in every heart. And on His part God has many
mansions in His house, proclaiming that He desires to have us at home
with Him; that He wishes us to know and trust Him, not to change our
countenances when we meet Him at a corner, save by an added brightness
of joy. And this is what we have to look forward to—that after all our
coldness and distrust have been removed and our hearts thawed by His
presence, we shall live in the constant enjoyment of a Father’s love,
feeling ourselves more truly at home with Him than with any one else,
delighting in the perfectness of His sympathy and the abundance of His
provision.
Into this intimacy with God, this freedom of the universe, this sense
that “all things are ours” because we are His, this entirely attractive
heaven, we are to be introduced by Christ. “I go to prepare a place for
you.” It is He who has transformed the darkness of the grave into the
bright gateway of the Father’s home, where all His children are to find
eternal rest and everlasting joy. As an old writer says, “Christ is the
quartermaster who provides quarters for all who follow Him.” He has gone
on before to make ready for those whom He has summoned to come after
Him.
If we ask why it was needful that Christ should go forward thus, and
what precisely He had to do in the way of preparation, the question may
be answered in different ways. These disciples in after-years compared
Christ’s passing into the Father’s presence to the high priest’s
entrance within the veil to present the blood of sprinkling and to make
intercession. But in the language of Christ there is no hint that such
thoughts were in His mind. It is the Father’s house that is in His mind,
the eternal home of men; and He sees the Father welcoming Him as the
leader of many brethren, and with gladness in His heart going from room
to room, always adding some new touch for the comfort and surprise of
the eagerly expected children. If God, like a grieved and indignant
father whose sons have preferred other company to his, had dismantled
and locked the rooms that once were ours, Christ has made our peace, and
has given to the yearning heart of the Father opportunity to open these
rooms once more and deck them for our home-coming. With the words of
Christ there enters the spirit a conviction that when we pass out of
this life we shall find ourselves as much fuller of life and deeper in
joy as we are nearer to God, the source of all life and joy; and that
when we come to the gates of God’s dwelling it will not be as the
vagabond and beggar unknown to the household and who can give no good
account of himself, but as the child whose room is ready for him, whose
coming is expected and prepared for, and who has indeed been sent for.
This of itself is enough to give us hopeful thoughts of the future
state. Christ is busied in preparing for us what will give us
satisfaction and joy. When we expect a guest we love and have written
for, we take pleasure in preparing for his reception,—we hang in his
room the picture he likes; if he is infirm, we wheel in the easiest
chair; we gather the flowers he admires and set them on his table; we go
back and back to see if nothing else will suggest itself to us, so that
when he comes he may have entire satisfaction. This is enough for us to
know—that Christ is similarly occupied. He knows our tastes, our
capabilities, our attainments, and he has identified a place as ours and
holds it for us. What the joys and the activities and occupations of the
future shall be we do not know. With the body we shall lay aside many of
our appetites and tastes and proclivities, and what has here seemed
necessary to our comfort will at once become indifferent. We shall not
be able to desire the pleasures that now allure and draw us. The need of
shelter, of retirement, of food, of comfort, will disappear with the
body; and what the joys and the requirements of a spiritual body will be
we do not know. But we do know that at home with God the fullest life
that man can live will certainly be ours.
It is a touching evidence of Christ’s truthfulness and fidelity to His
people that is given in the words, “If it were not so, I would have told
you”—that is to say, if it had not been possible for you to follow Me
into the Father’s presence and find a favourable reception there, I
would have told you this long ago. I would not have taught you to love
Me, only to have given you the grief of separation. I would not have
encouraged you to hope for what I was not sure you are to receive. He
had all along seen how the minds of the disciples were working; He had
seen that by being admitted to familiarity with Him they had learnt to
expect God’s eternal favour; and had this been a deceitful expectation
He would have undeceived them. So it is with Him still. The hopes His
word begets are not vain. These dreams of glory that pass before the
spirit that listens to Christ and thinks of Him are to be realised. If
it were not so, He would have told us. We ourselves feel that we are
scarcely acting an honest part when we allow persons to entertain false
hopes, even when these hopes help to comfort and support them, as in the
case of persons suffering from disease. So our Lord does not beget hopes
He cannot satisfy. If there were still difficulties in the way of our
eternal happiness, He would have told us of these. If there were any
reason to despair, He Himself would have been the first to tell us to
despair. If eternity were to be a blank to us, if God were inaccessible,
if the idea of a perfect state awaiting us were mere talk, He would have
told us so.
Neither will the Lord leave His disciples to find their own way to the
Father’s home: “If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again,
and receive you unto Myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”
Present separation was but the first step towards abiding union. And as
each disciple was summoned to follow Christ in death, he recognised that
this was the summons, not of an earthly power, but of his Lord; he
recognised that to him the Lord’s promise was being kept, and that he
was being taken into eternal union with Jesus Christ. From many all the
pain and darkness of death have been taken away by this assurance. They
have accepted death as the needful transition from a state in which much
hinders fellowship with Christ to a state in which that fellowship is
all in all.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] “That ye love _one another_” is the twice-expressed commandment.
[14] “Any Church that professes to be _the_ Church of Christ cannot be
that Church. The true Church refuses to be circumscribed or parted by
any denominational wall. It knows that Christ is repudiated when His
people are repudiated. Not even a Biblical creed can yield satisfactory
evidence that a specified Church is the true Church. True Christians are
those who love one another across denominational differences, and
exhibit the spirit of Him who gave Himself to death upon the cross that
His murderers might live.”
IX.
_THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE._
“Thomas saith unto Him, Lord, we know not whither Thou goest; how
know we the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the Way, and the Truth,
and the Life: no one cometh unto the Father, but by Me. If ye had
known Me, ye would have known My Father also: from henceforth ye
know Him, and have seen Him.”—JOHN xiv. 5–7.
It surprises us to find that words which have become familiar and most
intelligible to us should have been to the Apostles obscure and
puzzling. Apparently they were not yet persuaded that their Master was
shortly to die; and, accordingly, when He spoke of going to His Father’s
house, it did not occur to them that He meant passing into the spiritual
world. His assuring words, “Where I am, there ye shall be also,”
therefore fell short. And when He sees their bewilderment written on
their faces, He tentatively, half interrogatively, adds, “And whither I
go ye know, and the way ye know.”[15] Unless they knew where He was
going, there was less consolation even in the promise that He would come
for them after He had gone and prepared a place for them. And when He
thus challenges them candidly to say whether they understood where He
was going, and where He would one day take them also, Thomas, always the
mouthpiece for the despondency of the Twelve, at once replies, “Lord, we
know not whither Thou goest; and how can we know the way?”
This interruption by Thomas gives occasion to the great declaration, “I
am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life: no man cometh unto the Father,
but by Me.” It is, then, to the Father that Christ is the Way. And He is
the Way by being the Truth and the Life. We must first, then, consider
in what sense He is the Truth and the Life.
I. I am the Truth. Were these words merely equivalent to “I speak the
truth,” it would be much to know this of One who tells us things of so
measureless a consequence to ourselves. The faith of the disciples was
being strained by what He had just been saying to them. Here was a man
in most respects like themselves: a man who got hungry and sleepy, a man
who was to be arrested and executed by the rulers, assuring them that He
was going to prepare for them everlasting habitations, and that He would
return to take them to these habitations. He saw that they found it hard
to believe this. Who does not find it hard to believe all our Lord tells
us of our future? Think how much we trust simply to His word. If He is
not true, then the whole of Christendom has framed its life on a false
issue, and is met at death by blank disappointment. Christ has aroused
in our minds by His promises and statements a group of ideas and
expectations which nothing but His word could have persuaded us to
entertain. Nothing is more remarkable about our Lord than the calmness
and assurance with which He utters the most astounding statements. The
ablest and most enlightened men have their hesitations, their periods of
agonising doubt, their suspense of judgment, their laboured inquiries,
their mental conflicts. With Jesus there is nothing of this. From first
to last He sees with perfect clearness to the utmost bound of human
thought, knows with absolute certainty whatever is essential for us to
know. His is not the assurance of ignorance, nor is it the dogmatism of
traditional teaching, nor the evasive assurance of a superficial and
reckless mind. It is plainly the assurance of One who stands in the full
noon of truth and speaks what He knows.
But in His endeavours to gain the confidence of men there is discernible
no anger at their incredulity. Again and again He brings forward reasons
why His word should be believed. He appeals to their knowledge of His
candour: “If it were not so, I would have told you.” It was the _truth_
He came into the world to bear witness to. Lies enough were current
already. He came to be the Light of the world, to dispel the darkness
and bring men into the very truth of things. But with all His
impressiveness of asseveration there is no anger, scarcely even wonder
that men did not believe, because He saw as plainly as we see that to
venture our eternal hope on His word is not easy. And yet He answered
promptly and with authority the questions which have employed the
lifetime of many and baffled them in the end. He answered them as if
they were the very alphabet of knowledge. These alarmed and perturbed
disciples ask Him: “Is there a life beyond? is there another side of
death?” “Yes,” He says, “through death I go to the Father.” “Is there,”
they ask, “for us also a life beyond? shall such creatures as we find
sufficient and suitable habitation and welcome when we pass from this
warm, well-known world?” “In My Father’s house,” He says, “are many
mansions.” Confronted with the problems that most deeply exercise the
human spirit, He without faltering pronounces upon them. For every
question which our most anxious and trying experiences dictate He has
the ready and sufficient answer. “He is the Truth.”
But more than this is contained in His words. He says not merely “I
speak the truth,” but “I am the Truth.” In His person and work we find
all truth that it is essential to know. He is the true Man, the
revelation of perfect manhood, in whom we see what human life truly is.
In His own history He shows us our own capacities and our own destiny.
An angel or an inanimate law might _tell_ us the truth about human life,
but Christ is the Truth. He is man like ourselves. If we are
extinguished at death, so is He. If for us there is no future life,
neither is there for Him. He is Himself human.
Further and especially, He is the truth about God: “If ye had known Me,
ye had known My Father also.” Strenuous efforts are being made in our
day to convince us that all our search after God is vain, because by the
very nature of the case it is impossible to know God. We are assured
that all our imaginations of God are but a reflection of ourselves
magnified infinitely; and that what results from all our thinking is not
God, but only a magnified man. We form in our thoughts an ideal of human
excellence—perfect holiness and perfect love; and we add to this
highest moral character we can conceive a supernatural power and wisdom,
and this we call God. But this, we are assured, is but to mislead
ourselves; for what we thus set before our minds as Divine is not God,
but only a higher kind of man. But God is not a higher kind of man: He
is a different kind of being—a Being to whom it is absurd to ascribe
intelligence, or will, or personality, or anything human.
We have felt the force of what is thus urged; and feeling most deeply
that for us the greatest of all questions is, What is God? we have been
afraid lest, after all, we have been deluding ourselves with an image of
our own creating very different from the reality. We have felt that
there is a great truth lying at the heart of what is thus urged, a truth
which the Bible makes as much of as philosophy does—the truth that we
cannot find out God, cannot comprehend Him. We say certain things about
Him, as that He is a Spirit; but which of us knows what a pure spirit
is, which of us can conceive in our minds a distinct idea of what we so
freely speak of as a spirit? Indeed, it is because it is impossible for
us to have any sufficient idea of God as He is in Himself that He has
become man and manifested Himself in flesh.
This revelation of God in man implies that there is an affinity and
likeness between God and man—that man is made in God’s image. Were it
not so, we should see in Christ, not God at all, but only man. If God is
manifest in Christ, it is because there is that in God which can find
suitable expression in a human life and person. In fact, this revelation
takes for granted that in a sense it is quite true that God is a
magnified Man—that He is a Being in whom there is much that resembles
what is in man. And it stands to reason that this must be so. It is
quite true that man can only conceive what is like himself; but that is
only half the truth. It is also true that God can only create what is
consistent with His own mind. In His creatures we see a reflection of
Himself. And as we ascend from the lowest of them to the highest, we see
what He considers the highest qualities. Finding in ourselves these
highest qualities—qualities which enable us to understand all lower
creatures and to use them—we gather that in God Himself there must be
something akin to our mind and to our inner man.
Christ, then, is “the Truth,” because He is the Revealer of God. In Him
we learn what God is and how to approach Him. But knowledge is not
enough. It is conceivable that we should have learned much about God and
yet have despaired of ever becoming like Him. It might gradually have
become our conviction that we were for ever shut out from all good,
although that is incompatible with a true knowledge of God; for if God
is known at all, He must be known as Love, as self-communicating. But
the possibility of having knowledge which we cannot use is precluded by
the fact that He who is the Truth is also the Life. In Him who is the
Revealer we at the same time find power to avail ourselves of the
revelation. For:
II. “I am the Life.” The declaration need not be restricted to the
immediate occasion, Christ imparts to men power to use the knowledge of
the Father He gives them. He gives men desire, will, and power to live
with God and in God. But is not all life implied in this? This is life
as men are destined to know it.
In every man there is a thirst for life. Everything that clogs, impedes,
or retards life we hate; sickness, imprisonment, death, whatever
diminishes, enfeebles, limits, or destroys life, we abhor. Happiness
means abundant life, great vitality finding vent for itself in healthy
ways. Great scope or opportunity of living to good purpose is useless to
the invalid who has little life in himself; and, on the other hand,
abundant vitality is only a pain to the man who is shut up and can spend
his energy only in pacing a cell eight feet by four. Our happiness
depends upon these two conditions—perfect energy and infinite scope.
But can we assure ourselves of either? Is not the one certainty of life,
as we know it, that it must end? Is it not certain that, no matter what
energy the most vigorous of us enjoy, we shall all one day “lie in cold
obstruction”? Naturally we fear that time, as if all life were then to
end for us. We shrink from that apparent termination, as if beyond it
there could be but a shadowy, spectral life in which nothing is
substantial, nothing lively, nothing delightsome, nothing strong. That
state which we shrink from our Lord chooses as a condition of perfect
life, abundant and untrammelled. And what He has chosen for Himself He
means to bestow upon us.
Why should we find it so hard to believe in that abundant life? There is
a sufficient source of physical life which upholds the universe and is
not burdened, which in continuance and exuberantly brings forth life in
inconceivably various forms. The world around us indicates a source of
life which seems always to grow and expand rather than to be exhausted.
So there is a source of spiritual life, a force sufficient to uphold all
men in righteousness and in eternal vitality of spirit, and which can
give birth to ever new and varied forms of heroic, holy, godly living—a
force which is ever pressing forward to find expression through all
moral beings, and capable of making all human action as perfect, as
beautiful, and infinitely more significant than the products of physical
life which we see around us. If the flowers profusely scattered by the
wayside are marvels of beauty, if the bodily frame of man and of the
other animals is continually surprising us with some new revelation of
exquisite arrangement of parts, if nature is so lavish and so perfect in
physical life, may we not believe that there is as rich a fountain of
moral and spiritual life? Nay, “the youths may faint and be weary, and
the young men utterly fall,” physical life may fail and in the nature of
things must fail, “but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their
strength, they shall run and not be weary.”
It is Jesus Christ who brings us into connection with this source of
life eternal—He bears it in His own person. In Him we receive a new
spirit; in Him our motive to live for righteousness is continually
renewed; we are conscious that in Him we touch what is undying and never
fails to renew spiritual life in us. Whatever we need to give us true
and everlasting life we have in Christ. Whatever we need to enable us to
come to the Father, whatever we shall need between this present stage of
experience and our final stage, we have in Him.
The more, then, we use Christ, the more life we have. The more we are
with Him and the more we partake of His Spirit, the fuller does our own
life become. It is not by imitating successful men we become influential
for good, but by living with Christ. It is not by adopting the habits
and methods of saints we become strong and useful, but by accepting
Christ and His Spirit. Nothing can take the place of Christ. Nothing can
take His words and say to us, “I am the Life.” If we wish life, if we
see that we are doing little good and desire energy to overtake the good
that needs to be done, it is to Him we must go. If we feel as if all our
efforts were vain, and as if we could not bear up any longer against our
circumstances or against our wicked nature we can receive fresh vigour
and hopefulness only from Christ. We need not be surprised at our
failures if we are not receiving from Christ the life that is in Him.
And nothing can give us the life that is in Him but our own personal
application to Him, our direct dealing with Himself. Ordinances and
sacraments help to bring Him clearly before us, but they are not living
and cannot give us life. It is only in so far as through and in them we
reach Christ and receive Him that we partake of that highest of all
forms of life—the life that is in Him, the living One, by whom all
things were made, and who in the very face of death can say, “Because I
live ye shall live also.”
III. Being the Revealer of the Father, and giving men power to approach
God and live in Him, Jesus legitimately designates Himself “the Way.”
Jesus never says “I am the Father”; He does not even say “I am God,” for
that might have produced misunderstanding. He uniformly speaks as if
there were One on whom He Himself leant, and to whom He prayed, and with
whom, as with another person, He had fellowship. “I am the Way,” He
says; and a way implies a goal beyond itself, some further object to
which it leads and brings us. He is not the Being revealed, but the
Revealer; not the terminal object of our worship, but the image of the
invisible God, the Priest, the Sacrifice.
Christ announces Himself to Thomas as the Way, in order to remove from
the mind of the disciple the uncertainty he felt about the future. He
knew there were heights of glory and blessedness to which the Messiah
would certainly attain, but which seemed dim and remote and even quite
unattainable to sinful men. Jesus defines at once the goal and the way.
All our vague yearnings after what will satisfy us He reduces to this
simple expression: “the Father.” This, He implies, is the goal and
destiny of man; to come to the Father, who embraces in His loving care
all our wants, our incapacities, our sorrows; to reach and abide in a
love that is strong, wise, educative, imperishable; to reach this love
and be so transformed by it as to feel more at home with this perfectly
holy God than with any besides. And to bring us to this goal is the
function of Christ, the Way. It is His to bring together what is highest
and what is lowest. It is His to unite those who are separated by the
most real obstacles: to bring us, weak and unstable and full of evil
imaginings, into abiding union with the Supreme, glad to be conformed to
Him and to accomplish His purposes. In proclaiming Himself “the Way,”
Christ pronounces Himself able to effect the most real union between
parties and conditions as separate as heaven and earth, sin and
holiness, the poor creature I know myself to be and the infinite and
eternal God who is so high I cannot know Him.
Further, the way to which we commit ourselves when we seek to come to
the Father through Christ is a _Person_. “I am the Way.” It is not a
cold, dead road we have to make the most of for ourselves, pursuing it
often in darkness, in weakness, in fear. It is a living way—a way that
renews our strength as we walk in it, that enlivens instead of
exhausting us, that gives direction and light as we go forward. Often we
seem to find our way barred; we do not know how to get farther forward;
we wonder if there is no book in which we can find direction; we long
for some wise guide who could show us how to proceed. At such times
Christ would have us hear Him saying, “I am the Way. If you abide in Me,
if you continue in My love, you are in the way and must be carried
forward to all good.” Often we seem to lose ourselves and cannot tell
whether our faces and our steps are directed aright or not; we become
doubtful whether we have been making any progress or have not rather
been going back. Often we lose heart and begin to doubt whether it is
possible for us men ever to reach any purer, higher life; we are going,
we say, we know not whither; this life is full of blunders and failures.
Many of the best and most earnest and gifted men have owned their
ignorance of the purpose of life and of its end. No voice comes to us
out of the unseen world to give us assurance that there is life there.
How can lonely, ignorant, irresolute, weak, and helpless creatures such
as we are ever attain to anything we can call blessedness? To all such
gloom and doubting Christ, with the utmost confidence, says, “I am the
Way. Wherever you are, at whatever point of experience, at whatever
stage of sin, this way begins where you are, and you have but to take it
and it leads to God, to that unknown Highest you yearn for even while
you shrink from Him. From your person, as you are at this moment, there
leads a way to the Father.”
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Or, “And whither I go ye know the way.”
X.
_THE FATHER SEEN IN CHRIST._
“Philip saith unto Him, Lord, show us the Father, and it sufficeth
us. Jesus saith unto him, Have I been so longtime with you, and dost
thou not know Me, Philip? he that hath seen Me hath seen the Father;
how sayest thou, Show us the Father? Believest thou not that I am in
the Father, and the Father in Me? the words that I say unto you I
speak not from Myself: but the Father abiding in Me doeth His works.
Believe Me that I am in the Father, and the Father in Me: or else
believe Me for the very works’ sake. Verily, verily, I say unto you,
He that believeth on Me, the works that I do shall he do also; and
greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto the Father.
And whatsoever ye shall ask in My name, that will I do, that the
Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask Me anything in
My name, that will I do. If ye love Me, ye will keep My
commandments. And I will pray the Father, and He shall give you
another Comforter, that He may be with you for ever, even the Spirit
of truth: whom the world cannot receive; for it beholdeth Him not,
neither knoweth Him: ye know Him; for He abideth with you, and shall
be in you. I will not leave you desolate: I come unto you. Yet a
little while, and the world beholdeth Me no more; but ye behold Me:
because I live, ye shall live also. In that day ye shall know that I
am in My Father, and ye in Me, and I in you. He that hath My
commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me: and he that
loveth Me shall be loved of My Father and I will love him, and will
manifest Myself unto him.”—JOHN xiv. 8–21.
A third interruption on the part of one of the disciples gives the Lord
occasion to be still more explicit. Philip is only further bewildered by
the words, “from henceforth ye know the Father and have seen Him.” He
catches, however, at the idea that the Father can be seen, and eagerly
exclaims, “Lord, show us the Father, and it sufficeth us.” In this
exclamation there may be a little of that vexed and almost irritated
feeling that every one at times has felt in reading the words of Christ.
We feel as if He might have made things plainer. We unconsciously
reproach Him with making a mystery, with going about and about a subject
and refusing to speak straight at it. Philip felt that if Christ could
show the Father, then there was no need of any more enigmatical talk.
Ignorant as this request may be, it sprang from the thirst for God which
was felt by an earnest and godly man. It arose from the craving that now
and again visits every soul to get to the heart of all mystery. Here in
this life we are much in the dark. We feel ourselves to be capable of
better enjoyments, of a higher life. The whole creation groaneth and
travaileth, as if striving towards some better and more satisfying
state. There is a something not yet attained which we feel we must
reach. Were this life all, we should pronounce existence a failure. And
yet there is great uncertainty over our future. There is no familiar
intercourse with those who have passed on and are now in the other
world. We have no opportunity of informing ourselves of their state and
occupations. We go on in great darkness and often with a feeling of
great insecurity and trepidation; feeling lost, in darkness, not knowing
whither we are going, not sure that we are in the way to life and
happiness. Why, we are tempted to ask, should there be so much
uncertainty? Why should we live so remote from the centre of things, and
have to grope our way to life and light, clouded by doubts, beset by
misleading and disturbing influences? “_Show_ us the Father,” we are
tempted to say with Philip—show us the Father and it sufficeth us. Show
us the Supreme. Show us the eternal One who governs all. Take us but
once to the centre of things and show us the Father in whom we live.
Take us for once behind the scenes and let us see the hand that moves
all things; let us know all that can be known, that we may see what it
is we are going to, and what is to become of us when this visible world
is done. Give us assurance that behind all this dumb, immovable mask of
outward things there is a living God whose love we can trust and whose
power can preserve us to life everlasting.
To Philip’s eager request Jesus replies: “Have I been so long time with
you, and hast thou not known Me, Philip? He that hath seen Me hath seen
the Father; how sayest thou, Show us the Father?” And it is thus our
Lord addresses all whose unsatisfied craving finds voice in Philip’s
request. To all who crave some more immediate, if not more sensible
manifestation of God, to all who live in doubt and feel as if more might
be done to give us certitude regarding the relation we hold to God and
to the future, Christ says: No further revelation is to be made, because
no further revelation is needed or can be made. All has been shown that
can be shown. There is no more of the Father you can see than you have
seen in Me. God has taken that form which is most comprehensible to
you—your own form, the form of man. You have seen the Father. I am the
truth, the reality. It is no longer a symbol telling you something about
a distant God, but the Father Himself is in Me, speaking and acting
among you through Me.
What do we find in Christ? We find perfection of moral character,
superiority to circumstances, to the elements, to disease, to death. We
find in Him One who forgives sin and brings peace of conscience, who
bestows the Holy Spirit and leads to perfect righteousness. We cannot
imagine anything in God which is not made present to us in Christ In any
part of the universe we should feel secure with Christ. In the most
critical spiritual emergency we should have confidence that He could
right matters. In the physical and in the spiritual world He is equally
at home and equally commanding. We can believe Him when He says that he
that has seen Him has seen the Father.
What precisely does this utterance mean? Does it only mean that Jesus in
His holy and loving ways and in the whole of His character was God’s
very image? As you might say of a son who strongly resembles his father,
“If you have seen the one, you have seen the other.” It is true that the
self-sacrifice and humility and devotedness of Jesus did give men new
views of the true character of God, that His conduct was an exact
transcript of God’s mind and conveyed to men new thoughts of God.
But it is plain that the connection between Jesus and God was a
different _kind_ of connection from that which subsists between every
man and God. Every man might in a sense say, “I am in the Father and the
Father in me.” But plainly the very fact that Jesus said to Philip,
“Believest thou not that I am in the Father and the Father in Me?” is
proof that it was not this ordinary connection He had in view. Philip
could have had no difficulty in perceiving and acknowledging that God
was in Jesus as He is in every man. But if that were all that Jesus
meant, then it was wholly out of place to appeal to the works the Father
had given Him to do in proof of this assertion.
When, therefore, Jesus said, “He that hath seen Me hath seen the
Father,” He did not merely mean that by His superior holiness He had
revealed the Father as no other man had done (although even this would
be a most surprising assertion for any mere man to make—that He was so
holy that whoever had seen Him had seen the absolutely holy God), but He
meant that God was present with Him in a special manner.
So important was it that the disciples should firmly grasp the truth
that the Father was in Christ that Jesus proceeds to enlarge upon the
proof or evidence of this. In the course of doing so He imparts to them
three assurances fitted to comfort them in the prospect of His
departure: first, that so far from being weakened by His going to the
Father, they will do greater works than even those which had proved that
the Father was present with Him; second, that He would not leave them
friendless and without support, but would send them the Paraclete, the
Spirit of truth, who should abide with them; and third, that although
the world would not see Him, they would, and would recognise that He was
the maintainer of their own life.
But all this experience would serve to convince them that the Father was
in Him. He had, He says, lived among them as the representative of the
Father, uttering His will, doing His works. These works might have
convinced them even if they were not spiritual enough to perceive that
His words were Divine utterances. But a time was coming when a
satisfying conviction of the truth that God had been present with them
in the presence of Jesus would be wrought in them. When, after His
departure, they found _themselves_ doing the works of God, greater works
than Jesus had done, when they found that the Spirit of truth dwelt in
them, imparting to them the very mind and life of Christ Himself, then
they should be certified of the truth that Jesus now declared, that the
Father was in Him and He in the Father. “At that day ye shall know that
I am in My Father, and you in Me, and I in you.” What their
understanding could not at present quite grasp, the course of events and
their own spiritual experience would make plain to them. When in the
prosecution of Christ’s instructions they strove to fulfil His commands
and carry out His will upon earth, they would find themselves
countenanced and supported by powers unseen, would find their life
sustained by the life of Christ.
Jesus, then, speaks here of three grades of conviction regarding His
claim to be God’s representative: three kinds of evidence—a lower, a
higher, and the highest. There is the evidence of His miracles, the
evidence of His words or His own testimony, and the evidence of the new
spiritual life He would maintain in His followers.
Miracles are not the highest evidence, but they are evidence. One
miracle might not be convincing evidence. Many miracles of the same
kind, such as a number of cures of nervous complaints, or several
successful treatments of blind persons, might only indicate superior
knowledge of morbid conditions and of remedies. A physician in advance
of his age might accomplish wonders. Or had all the miracles of Jesus
been such as the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, it might, with
a shade of plausibility, have been urged that this was legerdemain. But
what we see in Jesus is not power to perform an occasional wonder to
make men stare or to win for Himself applause, but power as God’s
representative on earth to do whatever is needful for the manifestation
of God’s presence and for the fulfilment of God’s will. It may surely at
this time of day be taken for granted that Jesus was serious and true.
The works are given Him by the Father to do: it is as an exhibition of
God’s power He performs them. They are therefore performed not in one
form only, but in every needed form. He shows command over all nature,
and gives evidence that spirit is superior to matter and rules it.
The miracles of Christ are also convincing because they are performed by
a miraculous Person. That an ordinary man should seem to rule nature, or
should exhibit wonders on no adequate occasion, must always seem
unlikely, if not incredible. But that a Person notoriously exceptional,
being what no other man has ever been, should do things that no other
man has done, excites no incredulity. That Christ was supremely and
absolutely holy no one doubts; but this itself is a miracle; and that
this miraculous Person should act miraculously is not unlikely.
Moreover, there was adequate occasion both for the miracle of Christ’s
person and the miracle of His life and separate acts. There was an end
to be served so great as to justify this interruption of the course of
things as managed by men. If miracles are possible, then they could
never be more worthily introduced. If at any time it might seem
appropriate and needful that the unseen, holy, and loving God should
assert His power over all that touches us His children, so as to give us
the consciousness of His presence and of His faithfulness, surely that
time was precisely then when Christ came forth from the Father to reveal
His holiness and His love, to show men that supreme power and supreme
holiness and love reside together in God.
At present men are swinging from an excessive exaltation of miracles to
an excessive depreciation of them. They sometimes speak as if no one
could work a miracle, and sometimes as if any one could work a miracle.
Having discovered that miracles do not convince every one, they leap to
the conclusion that they convince no one; and perceiving that Christ
does not place them on the highest platform of evidence, they proceed to
put them out of court altogether. This is inconsiderate and unwise. The
miracles of Christ are appealed to by Himself as evidence of His truth;
and looking at them in connection with His person, His life, and His
mission or object, considering their character as works of compassion,
and their instructive revelation of the nature and purpose of Him who
did them, we cannot, I think, but feel that they carry in them a very
strong claim upon our most serious attention and do help us to trust in
Christ.
But Christ Himself, in the words before us, expects that those who have
listened to His teaching and seen His life should need no other evidence
that God is in Him and He in God—should not require to go down and back
to the preliminary evidence of miracles which may serve to attract
strangers. And, obviously, we get closer to the very heart of any
person, nearer to the very core of their being, through their ordinary
and habitual demeanour and conversation than by considering their
exceptional and occasional acts. And it is a great tribute to the power
and beauty of Christ’s personality that it actually is not His miracles
which solely or chiefly convince us of His claims upon our confidence,
but rather His own character as it shines through His talks with His
disciples and with all men He met. This, we feel, is the Person for us.
Here we have the human ideal. The characteristics here disclosed are
those which ought everywhere to prevail.
But the crowning evidence of Christ’s unity with the Father can be
enjoyed only by those who share His life. The conclusive evidence which
for ever scatters doubt and remains abidingly as the immovable ground of
confidence in Christ is our individual acceptance of His Spirit.
Christ’s life in God, His identification with the ultimate source of
life and power, is to become one of the unquestioned facts of
consciousness, one of the immovable data of human existence. We shall
one day be as sure of His unity with the Father, and that in Christ our
life is hid in God, as we are sure that now we are alive. Faith in
Christ is to become an unquestioned certainty. How then is this
assurance to be attained? It is to be attained when we ourselves as
Christ’s agents do greater works than He Himself did, and when by the
power of His spiritual presence with us we live as He lived.
Christ calls our attention to this with His usual formula when about to
declare a surprising but important truth: “Verily, verily, I say unto
you, He that believeth on Me shall do greater works than these.”
Beginning with such evidence and such trust as we can attain, we shall
be encouraged by finding the practical strength which comes of union
with Christ. It speedily became apparent to the disciples that our Lord
meant what He said when He assured them that they would do greater works
than He had done. His miracles had amazed them and had done much good.
And yet, after all, they were necessarily very limited in number, in the
area of their exercise, and in the permanence of their results. Many
were healed; but many, many more remained diseased. And even those who
were healed were not rendered permanently unassailable by disease. The
eyes of the blind which were opened for a year or two must close shortly
in death. The paralysed, though sent from Christ’s presence healed, must
yield to the debilitating influences of age and betake themselves again
to the crutch or the couch. Lazarus given back for a time to his
sorrowing sisters must again, and this time without recall, own the
power of death. And how far did the influence of Christ penetrate into
these healed persons? Did they all obey His words and sin no more? or
did some worse thing than the disease He freed them from fall upon some
of them? Was there none who used his restored eyesight to minister to
sin, his restored energies to do more wickedness than otherwise would
have been possible? In one word, the miracles of Christ, great as they
were and beneficent as they were, were still confined to the body, and
did not directly touch the spirit of man.
But was this the object of Christ’s coming? Did He come to do a little
less than several of the great medical discoverers have done? Assuredly
not. These works of healing which He wrought on the bodies of men were,
as John regularly calls them, “signs”; they were not acts terminating in
themselves, and finding their full significance in the happiness
communicated to the healed persons; they were signs pointing to a power
over men’s spirits, and suggesting to men analogous but everlasting
benefits. Christ wrought His miracles that men, beginning with what they
could see and appreciate, might be led on to believe in and trust Him
for power to help them in all their matters. And now He expressly
announces to His disciples that these works which He had been doing were
not miracles of the highest kind; that miracles of the highest kind were
works of healing and renewal wrought not on the bodies but on the souls
of men, works whose effects would not be deleted by disease and death,
but would be permanent, works which should not be confined to Palestine,
but should be coextensive with the human race. And these greater works
He would now proceed to accomplish through His disciples. By His removal
from earth His work was not to be stopped, but to pass into a higher
stage. He had come to earth not to make a passing display of Divine
power, not to give a tantalising glimpse of what the world might be were
His power acting freely and continuously in it; but He had come to lead
us to apprehend the value of spiritual health and to trust Him for that.
And now that He had won men’s trust and taught a few to love Him and to
value His Spirit, He removes Himself from their sight, and puts Himself
beyond the reach of those who merely sought for earthly benefits, that
He may through the Spirit come to all who understood how much greater
are spiritual benefits.
This crowning evidence of Christ’s being with the Father and in Him the
disciples very soon enjoyed. On the day of Pentecost they found such
results following from their simple word as had never followed the word
of Christ. Thousands were renewed in heart and life. And from that day
to this these greater works have never ceased. And why? “Because I go to
the Father.” And two reasons are given in these simple words. In the
first place, no such results could be accomplished by Christ because not
till He died was the Father’s love fully known. It was the death and
resurrection of Christ that convinced men of the truth of what Christ
had proclaimed in His life and in His words regarding the Father. The
tender compunction which was stirred by His death gave a purchase to the
preacher of repentance which did not previously exist. It is Christ’s
death and resurrection which have been the converting influence through
all the ages, and these Christ Himself could not preach. It was only
when He had gone to the Father that the greater works of His kingdom
could be done. Besides, it was only then that the greater works could be
understood and longed for. The fact is, that the death and resurrection
of Christ radically altered men’s conceptions of the spiritual world,
and gave them a belief in a future life of the spirit such as they
previously had not and could not have. When men came experimentally into
contact with One who had passed through death, and who now entered the
unseen world full of plans and of vitality to execute them, a new sense
of the value of spiritual benefits was born within them. The fact of
being associated with a living Christ at God’s right hand has refined
the spiritual conceptions of men, and has given a quality to holiness
which was not previously conspicuous. The spiritual world is now real
and near, and men no longer think of Christ as a worker of miracles on
physical nature, but as the King of the world unseen and the willing
Source of all spiritual good. We sometimes wonder Christ preached so
little and spoke so little as men do now in directing sinners to Him;
but He knew that while He lived this was almost useless, and that events
would proclaim Him more effectually than any words.
But when Christ gives as a reason for the greater works of His disciples
that He Himself went to the Father, He also means that, being with the
Father, He would be in the place of power, able to respond to the
prayers of His people. “I go unto the Father, and whatsoever ye shall
ask in My name that will I do.” No man in Christ’s circumstances would
utter such words at random. They are uttered with a perfect knowledge of
the difficulties and in absolute good faith. But praying “in Christ’s
name” is not so easy an achievement as we are apt to think. Praying in
Christ’s name means, no doubt, that we go to God, not in our own name,
but in His. He has given us power to use His name, as when we send a
messenger we bid him use our name. Sometimes when we send a person to a
friend we are almost afraid to give him our name, knowing that our
friend will be anxious for our sakes to do all he can and perhaps too
much for the applicant. And in going to God in the name of Christ, as
those who can plead His friendship and are identified with Him, we know
we are sure of a loving and liberal reception.
But praying in Christ’s name means more than this. It means that we pray
for such things as will promote Christ’s kingdom. When we do anything in
another’s name, it is for him we do it. When we take possession of a
property or a legacy in the name of some society, it is not for our own
private advantage but for the society we take possession. When an
officer arrests any one in the Queen’s name, it is not to satisfy his
private malice he does so; and when he collects money in the name of
government, it is not to fill his own pocket. Yet how constantly do we
overlook this obvious condition of acceptable prayer! To pray in
Christ’s name is to seek what He seeks, to ask aid in promoting what He
has at heart. To come in Christ’s name and plead selfish and worldly
desires is absurd. To pray in Christ’s name is to pray in the spirit in
which He Himself prayed and for objects He desires. When we measure our
prayers by this rule, we cease to wonder that so few seem to be
answered. Is God to answer prayers that positively lead men away from
Him? Is He to build them up in the presumption that happiness can be
found in the pursuit of selfish objects and worldly comfort? It is when
a man stands, as these disciples stood, detached from worldly hopes and
finding all in Christ, so clearly apprehending the sweep and benignity
of Christ’s will as to see that it comprehends all good to man, and that
life can serve no purpose if it do not help to fulfil that will—it is
then a man prays with assurance and finds his prayer answered. Christ
had won the love of these men and knew that their chief desire would be
to serve Him, that their prayers would always be that they might fulfil
His purposes. Their fear was, not that He would summon them to live
wholly for the ends for which He had lived, but that when He was gone
they should find themselves unfit to contend with the world.
And therefore He gives them the final encouragement that He would still
be with them, not indeed in a visible form apparent to all eyes, but in
a valid and powerful spiritual manner appreciable by those who loved
Christ and strove to do His will. “If ye love Me, keep My commandments.
And I will pray the Father, and He shall give you another Comforter,”
another _Advocate_, one _called to_ your aid, and who shall so
effectually aid you that in His presence and help you will know Me
present with you. “I will not leave you comfortless, like orphans: I
will come to you.” Christ Himself was still to be with them. He was not
merely to leave them His memory and example, but was to be with them,
sustaining and guiding and helping them even as He had done. The only
difference was to be this—that whereas up to this time they had
verified His presence by their senses, seeing His body, hearing His
words, and so forth, they should henceforward verify His presence by a
spiritual sense which the world of those who did not love Him could not
make use of. “Yet a little while, and the world seeth Me no more; but ye
see Me: because I live, ye shall live also.” They would find that their
life was bound up in His; and as that new life of theirs grew strong and
proved itself victorious over the world and powerful to subdue men’s
hearts to Christ and win the world to Christ’s kingdom, they should feel
a growing persuasion, a deepening consciousness, that this life of
theirs was but the manifestation of the continued life of Christ. “At
that day they would know that Christ was in the Father, and they in Him,
and He in them.”
Consciousness, then, of Christ’s present life and of His close relation
to ourselves is to be won only by loving Him and living in Him and for
Him. Lower grades of faith there are on which most of us stand, and by
which, let us hope, we are slowly ascending to this assured and
ineradicable consciousness. Drawn to Christ we are by the beauty of His
life, by His evident mastery of all that concerns us, by His knowledge,
by the revelation He makes; but doubts assail us, questionings arise,
and we long for the full assurance of the personal love of God and of
the continued personal life and energy of Christ which would give us an
immovable ground to stand on. According to Christ’s explanation given in
this passage to His disciples, this deepest conviction, this
unquestionable consciousness of His presence, is attained only by those
who proceed upon the lower grades of faith, and with true love for Him
seek to find their life in Him. It is a conviction which can only be won
experimentally. The disciples passed from the lower to the higher faith
at a bound. The sight of the risen Lord, the new world vividly present
to them in His person, gave their devotedness an impulse which carried
them at once and for ever to certainty. There are many still who are so
drawn by spiritual affinity to Christ that unhesitatingly and
unrepentingly they give themselves wholly to Him, and have the reward of
a conscious life in Christ. Others have more slowly to win their way
upwards, fighting against unbelief, striving to give themselves more
undividedly to Christ, and encouraging themselves with the hope that
from their hearts also all doubts will one day for ever vanish. Certain
it is that Christ’s life can only be given to those who are willing to
receive it—certain it is that only those who seek to do His work seek
to be sustained by His life. If we are not striving to attain those ends
which He gave His life to accomplish, we cannot be surprised if we are
not sensible of receiving His aid. If we aim at worldly ends, we shall
need no other energy than what the world supplies; but if we throw
ourselves heartily into the Christian order of things and manner of
life, we shall at once be sensible of our need of help, and shall know
whether we receive it or not.
Christ’s promise is explicit—a promise given as the stay of His friends
in their bitterest need: “He that hath My commandments, and keepeth
them, he it is that loveth Me: and he that loveth Me shall be loved of
My Father, and I will love Him, and will manifest Myself to him.” It
will still be a spiritual manifestation which can be perceived only by
those whose spirits are exercised to discern such things; but it will be
absolutely satisfying. We shall find one day that Christ’s work has been
successful, that He has brought men and God into a perfect harmony.
“That day” shall arrive for us also, when we shall find that Christ has
actually accomplished what He undertook, and has set our life and
ourselves on an enduring foundation—has given us eternal life in God, a
life of perfect joy. Things are under God’s guidance progressive, and
Christ is the great means He uses for the progress of all that concerns
ourselves. And what Christ has done is not to be fruitless or only half
effective; He will see of the travail of His soul and be
satisfied—satisfied because in us the utmost of happiness and the
utmost of good have been attained, because greater and richer things
than man has conceived have been made ours.
These utterances are fitted to dispel a form of unbelief which seriously
hinders many sincere inquirers. It arises from the difficulty of
believing in Christ as now alive and able to afford spiritual
assistance. Many persons who enthusiastically admit the perfectness of
Christ’s character and of the morality He taught, and who desire above
all else to make that morality their own, are yet unable to believe that
He can give them any real and present assistance in their efforts after
holiness. A teacher is a very different thing from a Saviour. They are
satisfied with Christ’s teaching; but they need more than teaching—they
need not only to see the road, but to be enabled to follow it. Unless a
man can find some real connection between himself and God, unless he can
rely upon receiving inward support from God, he feels that there is
nothing which can truly be called salvation.
This form of unbelief assails almost every man. Very often it results
from the slow-growing conviction that the Christian religion is not
working in ourselves the definite results we expected. When we read the
New Testament, we see the reasonableness of faith, we cannot but
subscribe to the _theory_ of Christianity; but when we endeavour to
practise it we fail. We have tried it, and it does not seem to work. At
first we think this is something peculiar to ourselves, and that through
some personal carelessness or mistake we have failed to receive all the
benefit which others receive. But as time goes on the suspicion
strengthens in some minds that faith is a delusion: prayer seems to be
unanswered; effort seems to be unacknowledged. The power of an almighty
spirit within the human spirit cannot be traced. Perhaps this
suspicion, more than all other causes put together, produces undecided,
heartless Christians.
What, then, is to be said in view of such doubts? Perhaps it may help us
past them if we consider that spiritual things are spiritually
discerned, and that the one proof of His ascension to God’s right hand
which Christ Himself promised was the bestowal of His Spirit. If we find
that, however slowly, we are coming into a truer harmony with God; if we
find that we can more cordially approve the Spirit of Christ, and give
to that Spirit a more real place in our life; if we are finding that we
can be satisfied with very little in the way of selfish and worldly
advancement, and that it is a greater satisfaction to us to do good than
to get good; if we find ourselves in any degree more patient, more
temperate, more humble,—then Christ is manifesting in us His present
life in the only way in which He promised to do so. Even if we have more
knowledge, more perception of what moral greatness is, if we see through
the superficial formalisms which once passed for religion with us, this
is a step in the right direction, and if wisely used may be the
foundation of a superstructure of intelligent service and real
fellowship with God. Every discovery and abandonment of error, every
unmasking of delusion, every attainment of truth, is a step nearer to
permanent reality, and is a true spiritual gain; and if in times past we
have had little experience of spiritual joy and confidence, if our
thoughts have been sceptical and questioning and perplexed, all this may
be the needful preliminary to a more independent and assured and truer
faith, and may be the very best proof that Christ is guiding our mind
and attending to our prayers. It is for “the world” to refuse to
believe in the Spirit, because “it beholdeth Him not, neither knoweth
Him.”
It may also be said that to think of Christ as a good man who has passed
away like other good men, leaving an influence and no more behind Him,
to think of Him as lying still in His tomb outside Jerusalem, is to
reverse not only the belief of those who knew Christ best, but the
belief of godly men in all ages. For in all ages both before and after
Christ it has been the clear conviction of devout souls that God sought
them much more ardently and persistently than they sought God. The truth
which shines most conspicuously in the experience of all the saved is
that they were saved by God and not by themselves. If human experience
is to be trusted at all, if it in any case reflects the substantial
verities of the spiritual world, then we may hold it as proved in the
uniform experience of men that God somehow communicated to them a living
energy, and not only taught them what to do, but gave them strength to
do it. If under the Christian dispensation we are left to make the best
we can for ourselves of the truth taught by Christ and of the example He
set us in His life and death, then the Christian dispensation, so far
from being an advance on all that went before, fails to supply us with
that very thing which is sought through all religions—actual access to
a living source of spiritual strength. I believe that the resurrection
of Christ is established by stronger evidence than exists for any other
historical fact; but apart altogether from the historical evidence, the
entire experience of God’s people goes to show that Christ, as the
mediator between God and man, as the representative of God and the
channel of His influence upon us, must be now alive, and must be in a
position to exert a personal care and a personal influence, and to yield
a present and inward assistance. Were it otherwise, we should be left
without a Saviour to struggle against the enemies of the soul in our own
strength, and this would be a complete reversal of the experience of all
those who in past ages have been engaged in the same strife and have
been victorious.
XI.
_THE BEQUEST OF PEACE._
“Judas (not Iscariot) saith unto Him, Lord, what is come to pass
that Thou wilt manifest Thyself unto us, and not unto the world?
Jesus answered and said unto him, If a man love Me, he will keep My
word: and My Father will love him, and We will come unto him, and
make our abode with him. He that loveth Me not keepeth not My words:
and the word which ye hear is not Mine, but the Father’s who sent
Me. These things have I spoken unto you, while yet abiding with you.
But the Comforter, even the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send
in My name, He shall teach you all things, and bring to your
remembrance all that I said unto you. Peace I leave with you; My
peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let
not your heart be troubled, neither let it be fearful. Ye heard how
I said to you, I go away, and I come unto you. If ye loved Me, ye
would have rejoiced, because I go unto the Father: for the Father is
greater than I. And now I have told you before it come to pass,
that, when it is come to pass, ye may believe. I will no more speak
much with you, for the prince of the world cometh: and he hath
nothing in Me; but that the world may know that I love the Father,
and as the Father gave Me commandment, even so I do. Arise, let us
go hence.”—JOHN xiv. 22–31.
The encouraging assurances of our Lord are interrupted by Judas
Thaddeus. As Peter, Thomas, and Philip had availed themselves of their
Master’s readiness to solve their difficulties, so now Judas utters his
perplexity. He perceives that the manifestation of which Jesus has
spoken is not public and general, but special and private; and he says,
“Lord, what has happened, that Thou art to manifest Thyself to us, and
not to the world?” It would seem as if Judas had been greatly impressed
by the public demonstration in favour of Jesus a day or two previously,
and supposed that something must have occurred to cause Him now to wish
to manifest Himself only to a select few.
Apparently Judas’ construction of the future was still entangled with
the ordinary Messianic expectation. He thought Jesus, although departing
for a little, would return speedily in outward Messianic glory, and
would triumphantly enter Jerusalem and establish Himself there. But how
this could be done privately he could not understand. And if Jesus had
entirely altered His plan, and did not mean immediately to claim
Messianic supremacy, but only to manifest Himself to a few, was this
possible?
By His reply our Lord shows for the hundredth time that outward
proclamation and external acknowledgment were not in His thoughts. It is
to the individual and in response to individual love He will manifest
Himself. It is therefore a spiritual manifestation He has in view.
Moreover, it was not to a specially privileged few, whose number was
already complete, that He would manifest Himself. Judas supposed that to
him and his fellow-Apostles, “us,” Jesus would manifest Himself, and
over against this select company he set “the world.” But this mechanical
line of demarcation our Lord obliterates in His reply, “If _any man_
loveth Me, ... We will come to him.” He enounces the great spiritual law
that they who seek to have Christ’s presence manifested to them must
love and obey Him. He that longs for more satisfying knowledge of
spiritual realities, he that thirsts for certainty and to see God as if
face to face, must expect no sudden or magical revelation, but must be
content with the true spiritual education which proceeds by loving and
living. To the disciples the method might seem slow—to us also it often
seems slow; but it is the method which nature requires. Our knowledge of
God, our belief that in Christ we have a hold of ultimate truth and are
living among eternal verities, grow with our love and service of Christ.
It may take us a lifetime—it will take us a lifetime—to learn to love
Him as we ought, but others have learned and we also may learn, and
there is no possible experience so precious to us.
It is, then, to those who serve Him that Christ manifests Himself, and
manifests Himself in an abiding, spiritual, influential manner. That
those who do not serve Him do not believe in His presence and power is
to be expected. But were those who have served Him asked if they had
become more convinced of His spiritual and effectual presence, their
voice would be that this promise had been fulfilled. And this is the
very citadel of the religion of Christ. If Christ does not now abide
with and energetically aid those who serve Him, then their faith is
vain. If His spiritual presence with them is not manifested in spiritual
results, if they have no evidence that He is personally and actively
employed in and with them, their faith is vain. To believe in a Christ
long since removed from earth and whose present life cannot now
influence or touch mankind is not the faith which Christ Himself
invites. And if His promise to abide with those who love and serve Him
is not actually performed, Christendom has been produced by a mistake
and has lived on a delusion.
At this point (ver. 25) Jesus pauses; and feeling how little He had time
to say of what was needful, and how much better they would understand
their relation to Him after He had finally passed from their bodily
sight, He says: “These things I have spoken to you, while yet I remain
with you; but the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, which the Father will send
in My name, He will teach you all things, and will remind you of all
that I have said to you.” Jesus cannot tell them all He would wish them
to know; but the same Helper whom He has already promised will
especially help them by giving them understanding of what has already
been told them, and by leading them into further knowledge. He is to
come “in the name” of Jesus—that is to say, as His representative—and
to carry on His work in the world.[16]
Here, then, the Lord predicts that one day His disciples will know more
than He has taught them. They were to advance in knowledge beyond the
point to which He had brought them. His teaching would necessarily be
the foundation of all future attainment, and whatever would not square
with that they must necessarily reject; but they were to add much to the
foundation He had laid. We cannot therefore expect to find in the
teaching of Jesus all that His followers ought to know regarding Himself
and His connection with them. All that is absolutely necessary we shall
find there; but if we wish to know all that He would have us know, we
must look beyond. The teaching which we receive from the Apostles is the
requisite and promised complement of the teaching which Christ Himself
delivered. He being the subject taught as much as the teacher, and His
whole experience as living, dying, rising, and ascending, constituting
the facts which Christian teaching was to explain, it was impossible
that He Himself should be the final teacher. He could not at once be
text and exposition. He lived among men, and by His teaching shed much
light on the significance of His life; He died, and was not altogether
silent regarding the meaning of His death, but it was enough that He
furnished matter for His Apostles to explain, and confined Himself to
sketching the mere outline of Christian truth.
Again and again throughout this last conversation Jesus tries to break
off, but finds it impossible. Here (ver. 27), when He has assured them
that, although He Himself leaves them in ignorance of many things, the
Spirit will lead them into all truth, He proceeds to make His parting
bequest. He would fain leave them what will enable them to be free from
care and distress; but He has none of those worldly possessions which
men usually lay up for their children and those dependent on them.
House, lands, clothes, money, He had none. He could not even secure for
those who were to carry on His work an exemption from persecution which
He Himself had not enjoyed. He did not leave them, as some initiators
have done, stable though new institutions, an empire of recent origin
but already firmly established. “Not as the world giveth, give I unto
you.”
But He does give them that which all other bequests aim at producing:
“Peace I leave with you.” Men may differ as to the best means of
attaining peace, or even as to the kind of peace that is desirable, but
all agree in seeking an untroubled state. We seek a condition in which
we shall have no unsatisfied desires gnawing at our heart and making
peace impossible, no stings of conscience, dipped in the poison of past
wrong-doing, torturing us hour by hour, no foreboding anxiety darkening
and disturbing a present which might otherwise be peaceful. The
comprehensive nature of this possession is shown by the fact that peace
can be produced only by the contribution of past, present, and future.
As health implies that all the laws which regulate bodily life are being
observed, and as it is disturbed by the infringement of any one of
these, so peace of mind implies that in the spiritual life all is as it
should be. Introduce remorse or an evil conscience, and you destroy
peace; introduce fear or anxiety, and peace is impossible. Introduce
anything discordant, ambition alongside of indolence, a sensitive
conscience alongside of strong passions, and peace takes flight. He,
therefore, who promises to give peace promises to give unassailable
security, inward integrity and perfectness, all which goes to make up
that perfect condition in which we shall be for ever content to abide.
Jesus further defines the peace which He was leaving to the disciples as
that peace which He had Himself enjoyed: “_My_ peace I give unto
you,”—as one hands over a possession he has himself tested, the shield
or helmet that has served him in battle. “That which has protected Me in
a thousand fights I make over to you.” The peace which Christ desires
His disciples to enjoy is that which characterised Himself; the same
serenity in danger, the same equanimity in troublous circumstances, the
same freedom from anxiety about results, the same speedy recovery of
composure after anything which for a moment ruffled the calm surface of
His demeanour. This is what He makes over to His people; this is what He
makes possible to all who serve Him.
There is nothing which more markedly distinguishes Jesus and proves His
superiority than His calm peace in all circumstances. He was poor, and
might have resented the incapacitating straitness of poverty. He was
driven from place to place, His purpose and motives were suspected, His
action and teaching resisted, the good He strove to do continually
marred; but He carried Himself through all with serenity. It is said
that nothing shakes the nerve of brave men so much as fear of
assassination: our Lord lived among bitterly hostile men, and was again
and again on the brink of being made away with; but He was imperturbably
resolute to do the work given Him to do. Take Him at an unguarded
moment, tell Him the boat is sinking underneath Him, and you find the
same undisturbed composure. He was never troubled at the results of His
work or about His own reputation; when He was reviled, He reviled not
again.
This unruffled serenity was so obvious a characteristic of the demeanour
of Jesus, that as it was familiar to His friends, so it was perplexing
to His judges. The Roman governor saw in His bearing an equanimity so
different from the callousness of the hardened criminal and from the
agitation of the self-condemned, that he could not help exclaiming in
astonishment, “Dost Thou not know that I have power over Thee?”
Therefore without egotism our Lord could speak of “My peace.” The world
had come to Him in various shapes, and He had conquered it. No
allurement of pleasure, no opening to ambition had distracted Him and
broken up His serene contentment; no danger had filled His spirit with
anxiety and fear. On one occasion only could He say, “Now is My soul
troubled.” Out of all that life had presented to Him He had wrought out
for Himself and for us peace.
By calling it specifically “My peace” our Lord distinguishes it from the
peace which men ordinarily pursue. Some seek it by accommodating
themselves to the world, by fixing for themselves a low standard and
disbelieving in the possibility of living up to any high standard in
this world. Some seek peace by giving the fullest possible gratification
to all their desires; they seek peace in external things—comfort, ease,
plenty, pleasant connections. Some stifle anxiety about worldly things
by impressing on themselves that fretting does no good, and that what
cannot be cured must be endured; and any anxiety that might arise about
their spiritual condition they stifle by the imagination that God is too
great or too good to deal strictly with their shortcomings. Such kinds
of peace, our Lord implies, are delusive. It is not outward things which
can give peace of mind, no more than it is a soft couch which can give
rest to a fevered body. Restfulness must be produced from within.
There are, in fact, two roads to peace—we may conquer or we may be
conquered. A country may always enjoy peace, if it is prepared always to
submit to indignities, to accommodate itself to the demands of stronger
parties, and absolutely to dismiss from its mind all ideas of honour or
self-respect. This mode of obtaining peace has the advantages of easy
and speedy attainment—advantages to which every man naturally attaches
too high a value. For in the individual life we are daily choosing
either the one peace or the other; the unrighteous desires which
distract us we are either conquering or being conquered by. We are
either accepting the cheap peace that lies on this side of conflict, or
we are attaining or striving towards the peace that lies on the other
side of conflict. But the peace we gain by submission is both
short-lived and delusive. It is short-lived, for a gratified desire is
like a relieved beggar, who will quickly find his way back to you with
his request rather enlarged than curtailed; and it is delusive, because
it is a peace which is the beginning of bondage of the worst kind. Any
peace that is worth the having or worth the speaking about lies beyond,
at the other side of conflict. We cannot long veil this from ourselves:
we may decline the conflict and put off the evil day; but still we are
conscious that we have not the peace our natures crave until we subdue
the evil that is in us. We look and look for peace to distil upon us
from without, to rise and shine upon us as to-morrow’s sun, without
effort of our own, and yet we know that such expectation is the merest
delusion, and that peace must begin within, must be found in ourselves
and not in our circumstances. We know that until our truest purposes are
in thorough harmony with our conscientious convictions we have no right
to peace. We know that we can have no deep and lasting peace until we
are satisfied with our own inward state, or are at least definitely on
the road to satisfaction.
Again, the peace of which Christ here speaks may be called His, as being
wrought out by Him, and as being only attainable by others through His
communication of it to them. We do at first inquire with surprise how it
is possible that any one can bequeath to us his own moral qualities.
This, in fact, is what one often wishes were possible—that the father
who by long discipline, by many painful experiences, has at last become
meek and wise, could transmit these qualities to his son who has life
all before him. As we read the notices of those who pass away from among
us, it is the loss of so much moral force we mourn; it may be, for all
we know, as indispensable elsewhere, but nevertheless it is our loss, a
loss for which no work done by the man, nor any works left behind him,
compensate; for the man is always, or generally, greater than his works,
and what he has done only shows us the power and possibilities that are
in him. Each generation needs to raise its own good men, not
independent, certainly, of the past, but not altogether inheriting what
past generations have done; just as each new year must raise its own
crops, and only gets the benefit of past toil in the shape of improved
land, good seed, better implements and methods of agriculture. Still,
there is a transmission from father to son of moral qualities. What the
father has painfully acquired may be found in the son by inheritance.
And this is _analogous_ to the transfusion of moral qualities from
Christ to His people. For it is true of all the graces of the Christian,
that they are first acquired by Christ, and only from Him derived to the
Christian. It is of His fulness we all receive, and grace for grace. He
is the Light at whom we must all kindle, the Source from whom all flows.
How, then, does Christ communicate to us His peace or any of His own
qualities—qualities in some instances acquired by personal experience
and personal effort? He gives us peace, first, by reconciling us to God
by removing the burden of our past guilt and giving us access to God’s
favour. His work sheds quite a new light upon God; reveals the fatherly
love of God following us into our wandering and misery, and claiming us
in our worst estate as His, acknowledging us and bidding us hope.
Through Him we are brought back to the Father. He comes with this
message from God, that He loves us. Am I, then, troubled about the past,
about what I have done? As life goes on, do I only see more and more
clearly how thoroughly I have been a wrong-doer? Does the present, as I
live through it, only shed a brighter and brighter light on the evil of
the past? Do I fear the future as that which can only more and more
painfully evolve the consequences of my past wrong-doing? Am I gradually
awaking to the full and awful import of being a sinner? After many
years of a Christian profession, am I coming at last to see that above
all else my life has been a life of sin, of shortcoming or evasion of
duty, of deep consideration for my own pleasure or my own purpose, and
utter or comparative regardlessness of God? Are the slowly evolving
circumstances of my life at length effecting what no preaching has ever
effected? are they making me understand that sin is the real evil, and
that I am beset by it and my destiny entangled and ruled by it? To me,
then, what offer could be more appropriate than the offer of peace? From
all fear of God and of myself I am called to peace in Christ.
Reconcilement with God is the foundation, manifestly and of course, of
all peace; and this we have as Christ’s direct gift to us. But this
fundamental peace, though it will eventually pervade the whole man, does
in point of fact only slowly develop into a peace such as our Lord
Himself possessed. The peace which our Lord spoke of to His disciples,
peace amidst all the ills of life, can only be attained by a real
following of Christ, and a hearty and profound acceptance of His
principles and spirit. And it is not the less His gift because we have
thus to work for it, to alter or be altered wholly in our own inward
being. It is not therefore a deceptive bequest. When the father gives
his son a good education, he cannot do so irrespective of the hard work
of the son himself. When the general promises victory to his men, they
do not expect to have it without fighting. And our Lord does not upset
or supersede the fundamental laws of our nature and of our spiritual
growth. He does not make effort of our own unnecessary; He does not give
us a ready-made character irrespective of the laws by which character
grows, irrespective of deep-seated thirst for holiness in ourselves and
long-sustained conflict with outward obstacles and internal weaknesses
and infidelities.
But He helps us to peace, not only though primarily by bringing us back
to God’s favour, but also by showing us in His own person and life how
peace is attained and preserved, and by communicating to us His Spirit
to aid us in our efforts to attain it. He found out more perfectly than
any one else the secret of peace; and we are stirred by His example and
success, not only as we are stirred by the example of any dead saint or
sage with whom we have no present personal living fellowship, but as we
are stirred by the example of a living Father who is always with us to
infuse new heart into us, and to give us effectual counsel and aid.
While we put forth our own efforts to win this self-conquest, and so
school all within us as to enter into peace, Christ is with us securing
that our efforts shall not be in vain, giving us the fixed and clear
idea of peace as our eternal condition, and giving us also whatever we
need to win it.
These words our Lord uttered at a time when, if ever, He was not likely
to use words of course, to adopt traditional and misleading phrases. He
loved the men He was speaking to, He knew He was after this to have few
more opportunities of speaking with them, His love interpreted to Him
the difficulties and troubles which would fall upon them, and this was
the armour which He knew would bear them scathless through all. That His
promise was fulfilled we know. We do not know what became of the
majority of the Apostles, whether they did much or little; but if we
look at the men who stood out prominently in the early history of the
Church, we see how much they stood in need of this peace and how truly
they received it. Look at Stephen, sinking bruised and bleeding under
the stones of a cursing mob, and say what characterises him—what makes
his face shine and his lips open in prayer for his murderers? Look at
Paul, driven out of one city, dragged lifeless out of another, clinging
to a spar on a wild sea, stripped by robbers, arraigned before
magistrate after magistrate—what keeps his spirit serene, his purpose
unshaken through a life such as this? What put into his lips these
valued words and taught him to say to others, “Rejoice evermore, and let
the peace of God which passeth understanding keep your heart and mind”?
It was the fulfilment of this promise—a promise which is meant for us
as for them. It will be fulfilled in us as in these men, not by a mere
verbal petition, not by a craving however strong, or a prayer however
sincere, but by a true and profound acceptance of Christ, by a
conscientious following of Him as our real leader, as that One from whom
we take our ideas of life, of what is worthy and what is unworthy.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] “In this designation of the teaching Spirit as holy, there lie
lessons for two classes of people. All fanatical professions of
possessing Divine illumination, which are not warranted and sealed by
purity of life, are lies or self-delusion. And, on the other hand,
cold-blooded intellectualism will never force the locks of the palace of
Divine truth; but they that come there must have clean hands and a pure
heart; and only those who have the love and the longing for goodness
will be wise scholars in Christ’s school.”—MACLAREN.
XII.
_THE VINE AND THE BRANCHES._
“Arise, let us go hence. I am the true Vine, and My Father is the
Husbandman. Every branch in Me that beareth not fruit, He taketh it
away: and every branch that beareth fruit, He cleanseth it, that it
may bear more fruit. Already ye are clean because of the word which
I have spoken unto you. Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch
cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; so neither
can ye, except ye abide in Me. I am the Vine, ye are the branches:
He that abideth in Me, and I in him, the same beareth much fruit:
for apart from Me ye can do nothing. If a man abide not in Me, he is
cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and they gather them, and
cast them into the fire, and they are burned. If ye abide in Me, and
My words abide in you, ask whatsoever ye will, and it shall be done
unto you. Herein is My Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit;
and so shall ye be My disciples. Even as the Father hath loved Me, I
also have loved you; abide ye in My love. If ye keep My
commandments, ye shall abide in My love; even as I have kept My
Father’s commandments, and abide in His love. These things have I
spoken unto you, that My joy may be in you, and that your joy may be
fulfilled. This is My commandment, that ye love one another, even as
I have loved you.”—JOHN xiv. 31–xv. 12.
Like a friend who cannot tear himself away and has many more last words
after he has bid us good-bye, Jesus continues speaking to the disciples
while they are selecting and putting on their sandals and girding
themselves to face the chill night air. He had to all appearance said
all He meant to say. He had indeed closed the conversation with the
melancholy words, “Henceforth I will not talk much with you.” He had
given the signal for breaking up the feast and leaving the house, rising
from table Himself and summoning the rest to do the same. But as He saw
their reluctance to move, and the alarmed and bewildered expression that
hung upon their faces, He could not but renew His efforts to banish
their forebodings and impart to them intelligent courage to face
separation from Him. All He had said about His spiritual presence with
them had fallen short: they could not as yet understand it. They were
possessed with the dread of losing Him whose future was their future,
and with the success of whose plans all their hopes were bound up. The
prospect of losing Him was too dreadful; and though He had assured them
He would still be with them, there was an appearance of mystery and
unreality about that presence which prevented them from trusting it.
They knew they could effect nothing if He left them: their work was
done, their hopes blighted.
As Jesus, then, rises, and as they all fondly cluster round Him, and as
He recognises once more how much He is to these men, there occurs to His
mind an allegory which may help the disciples to understand better the
connection they have with Him, and how it is still to be maintained. It
has been supposed that this allegory was suggested to Him by some vine
trailing round the doorway or by some other visible object, but such
outward suggestion is needless. Recognising their fears and difficulties
and dependence on Him as they hung upon Him for the last time, what more
natural than that He should meet their dependence and remove their fears
of real separation by saying, “I am the Vine, ye the branches”? What
more natural, when He wished to set vividly before them the importance
of the work He was bequeathing to them, and to stimulate them faithfully
to carry on what He had begun, than to say, “I am the Vine, ye the
fruit-bearing branches: abide in Me, and I in you”?
Doubtless our Lord’s introduction of the word “true” or “real”—“I am
the true Vine”—implies a comparison with other vines, but not
necessarily with any vines then outwardly visible. Much more likely is
it that as He saw the dependence of His disciples upon Him, He saw new
meaning in the old and familiar idea that Israel was the vine planted by
God. He saw that in Himself[17] and His disciples all that had been
suggested by this figure was in reality accomplished. God’s intention in
creating man was fulfilled. It was secured by the life of Christ and by
the attachment of men to Him that the purpose of God in creation would
bear fruit. That which amply satisfied God was now in actual existence
in the person and attractiveness of Christ. Seizing upon the figure of
the vine as fully expressing this, Christ fixes it for ever in the mind
of His disciples as the symbol of His connection with them, and with a
few decisive strokes He gives prominence to the chief characteristics of
this connection.
I. The first idea, then, which our Lord wished to present by means of
this allegory is, that He and His disciples together form one whole,
neither being complete without the other. The vine can bear no fruit if
it has no branches; the branches cannot live apart from the vine.
Without the branches the stem is a fruitless pole; without the stem the
branches wither and die. Stem and branches together constitute one
fruit-bearing tree. I, for my part, says Christ, am the Vine; ye are the
branches, neither perfect without the other, the two together forming
one complete tree, essential to one another as stem and branches.
The significance underlying the figure is obvious, and no more welcome
or animating thought could have reached the heart of the disciples as
they felt the first tremor of separation from their Lord. Christ, in His
own visible person and by His own hands and words, was no longer to
extend His kingdom on earth. He was to continue to fulfil God’s purpose
among men, no longer however in His own person, but through His
disciples. They were now to be His branches, the medium through which He
could express all the life that was in Him, His love for man, His
purpose to lift and save the world. Not with His own lips was He any
longer to tell men of holiness and of God, not with His own hand was He
to dispense blessing to the needy ones of earth, but His disciples were
now to be the sympathetic interpreters of His goodness and the
unobstructed channels through which He might still pour out upon men all
His loving purpose. As God the Father is a Spirit and needs human hands
to do actual deeds of mercy for Him, as He does not Himself in His own
separate personality make the bed of the sick poor, but does it only
through the intervention of human charity, so can Christ speak no
audible word in the ear of the sinner, nor do the actual work required
for the help and advancement of men. This He leaves to His disciples,
His part being to give them love and perseverance for it, to supply them
with all they need as His branches.
This, then, is the last word of encouragement and of quickening our Lord
leaves with these men and with us: I leave you to do all for Me; I
entrust you with this gravest task of accomplishing in the world all I
have prepared for by My life and death. This great end, to attain which
I thought fit to leave the glory I had with the Father, and for which I
have spent all—this I leave in your hands. It is in this world of men
the whole results of the Incarnation are to be found, and it is on you
the burden is laid of applying to this world the work I have done. You
live for Me. But on the other hand I live for you. “Because I live, ye
shall live also.” I do not really leave you. If I say, “Abide in Me,” I
none the less say, “and I in you.” It is in you I spend all the Divine
energy you have witnessed in my life. It is through you I live. I am the
Vine, the life-giving Stem, sustaining and quickening you. Ye are the
branches, effecting what I intend, bearing the fruit for the sake of
which I have been planted in the world by My Father, the Husbandman.
II. The second idea is that this unity of the tree is formed by unity
_of life_. It is a unity brought about, not by mechanical juxtaposition,
but by organic relationship. “As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself,
but must abide in the vine, so neither can ye except ye abide in Me.” A
ball of twine or a bag of shot cannot be called a whole. If you cut off
a yard of the twine, the part cut off has all the qualities and
properties of the remainder, and is perhaps more serviceable apart from
the rest than in connection with it. A handful of shot is more
serviceable for many purposes than a bagful, and the quantity you take
out of the bag retains all the properties it had while in the bag;
because there is _no common life_ in the twine or in the shot, making
all the particles one whole. But take anything which is a true unity or
whole—your body, for example. Different results follow here from
separation. Your eye is useless taken from its place in the body. You
can lend a friend your knife or your purse, and it may be more
serviceable in his hands than in yours; but you cannot lend him your
arms or your ears. Apart from yourself, the members of your body are
useless, because here there is one common life forming one organic
whole.
It is thus in the relation of Christ and His followers. He and they
together form one whole, _because_ one common _life_ unites them. “_As_
the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, so neither can ye.” Why can the
branch bear no fruit except it abide in the vine? Because it is a
_vital_ unity that makes the tree one. And what is a vital unity between
persons? It can be nothing else than a spiritual unity—a unity not of
a bodily kind, but inward and of the spirit. In other words, _it is a
unity of purpose and of resources for attaining that purpose_. The
branch is one with the tree because it draws its life from the tree and
bears the fruit proper to the tree. We are one with Christ when we adopt
His purpose in the world as the real governing aim of our life, and when
we renew our strength for the fulfilment of that purpose by fellowship
with His love for mankind and His eternal purpose to bless men.
We must be content, then, to be branches. We must be content not to
stand isolated and grow from a private root of our own. We must utterly
renounce selfishness. Successful selfishness is absolutely impossible.
The greater the apparent success of selfishness is, the more gigantic
will the failure one day appear. An arm severed from the body, a branch
lopped off the tree, is the true symbol of the selfish man. He will be
left behind as the true progress of mankind proceeds, with no part in
the common joy, stranded and dying in cold isolation. We must learn that
our true life can only be lived when we recognise that we are parts of a
great whole, that we are here not to prosecute any private interest of
our own and win a private good for ourselves, but to forward the good
that others share in and the cause that is common.
How this unity is formed received no explanation on this occasion. The
manner in which men become branches of the true Vine was not touched
upon in the allegory. Already the disciples were branches, and no
explanation was called for. It may, however, be legitimate to gather a
hint from the allegory itself regarding the formation of the living bond
between Christ and His people. However ignorant we may be of the
propagation of fruit trees and the processes of grafting we can at any
rate understand that no mere tying of a branch to a tree, bark to bark,
would effect anything save the withering of the branch. The branch, if
it is to be fruitful, must form a solid part of the tree, must be
grafted so as to become of one structure and life with the stem. It must
be cut through, so as to lay bare the whole interior structure of it,
and so as to leave open all the vessels that carry the sap; and a
similar incision must be made in the stock upon which the branch is to
be grafted, so that the cut sap-vessels of the branch may be in contact
with the cut sap-vessels of the stock. Such must be our grafting into
Christ. It must be a laying bare of our inmost nature to His inmost
nature, so that a vital connection may be formed between these two. What
we expect to receive by being connected with Christ is the very Spirit
which made Him what He was. We expect to receive into the source of
conduct in us all that was the source of conduct in Him. We wish to be
in such a connection with Him that His principles, sentiments, and aims
shall become ours.
On His side Christ has laid bare His deepest feelings and spirit. In His
life and in His death He submitted to that severest operation which
seemed to be a maiming of Him, but which in point of fact was the
necessary preparation for His receiving fruitful branches. He did not
hide the true springs of His life under a hard and rough bark; but
submitting Himself to the Husbandman’s knife, He has suffered us through
His wounds to see the real motives and vital spirit of His
nature—truth, justice, holiness, fidelity, love. Whatever in this life
cut our Lord to the quick, whatever tested most thoroughly the true
spring of His conduct, only more clearly showed that deepest within Him
and strongest within Him lay holy love. And He was not shy of telling
men His love for them: in the public death He died He loudly declared
it, opening His nature to the gaze of all. And to this open heart He
declined to receive none; as many as the Father gave Him were welcome;
He had none of that aversion we feel to admit all and sundry into close
relations with us. He at once gives His heart and keeps back nothing to
Himself; He invites us into the closest possible connection with Him,
with the intention that we should grow to Him and for ever be loved by
Him. Whatever real, lasting, and influential connection can be
established between two persons, this He wishes to have with us. If it
is possible for two persons so to grow together that separation in
spirit is for ever impossible, it is nothing short of this Christ seeks.
But when we turn to the cutting of the branch, we see reluctance and
vacillation and much to remind us that, in the graft we now speak of,
the Husbandman has to deal, not with passive branches which cannot
shrink from his knife, but with free and sensitive human beings. The
hand of the Father is on us to sever us from the old stock and give us a
place in Christ, but we feel it hard to be severed from the root we have
grown from and to which we are now so firmly attached. We refuse to see
that the old tree is doomed to the axe, or after we have been inserted
into Christ we loosen ourselves again and again, so that morning by
morning as the Father visits His tree He finds us dangling useless with
signs of withering already upon us. But in the end the Vinedresser’s
patient skill prevails. We submit ourselves to those incisive operations
of God’s providence or of His gentler but effective word which finally
sever us from what we once clung to. We are impelled to lay bare our
heart to Christ and seek the deepest and truest and most influential
union.
And even after the graft has been achieved the husbandman’s care is
still needed that the branch may “abide in the vine,” and that it may
“bring forth more fruit.” There are two risks—the branch may be
loosened, or it may run to wood and leaves. Care is taken when a graft
is made that its permanent participation in the life of the tree be
secured. The graft is not only tied to the tree, but the point of
juncture is cased in clay or pitch or wax, so as to exclude air, water,
or any disturbing influence. Analogous spiritual treatment is certainly
requisite if the attachment of the soul to Christ is to become solid,
firm, permanent. If the soul and Christ are to be really one, nothing
must be allowed to tamper with the attachment. It must be sheltered from
all that might rudely impinge upon it and displace the disciple from the
attitude towards Christ he has assumed. When the graft and the stock
have grown together into one, then the point of attachment will resist
any shock; but, while the attachment is recent, care is needed that the
juncture be hermetically secluded from adverse influences.
The husbandman’s care is also needed that after the branch is grafted it
may bring forth fruit increasingly. Stationariness is not to be
tolerated. As for fruitlessness, that is out of the question. More fruit
each season is looked for, and arranged for by the vigorous prunings of
the husbandman. The branch is not left to nature. It is not allowed to
run out in every direction, to waste its life in attaining size. Where
it seems to be doing grandly and promising success, the knife of the
vinedresser ruthlessly cuts down the flourish, and the fine appearance
lies withering on the ground. But the vintage justifies the husbandman.
III. This brings us to the third idea of the allegory—that the result
aimed at in our connection with Christ is fruit-bearing. The allegory
bids us think of God as engaged in the tendance and culture of men with
the watchful, fond interest with which the vinedresser tends his plants
through every stage of growth and every season of the year, and even
when there is nothing to be done gazes on them admiringly and finds
still some little attention he can pay them; but all in the hope of
fruit. All this interest collapses at once, all this care becomes a
foolish waste of time and material, and reflects discredit and ridicule
on the vinedresser, if there is no fruit. God has prepared for us in
this life a soil than which nothing can be better for the production of
the fruit He desires us to yield; He has made it possible for every man
to serve a good purpose; He does His part not with reluctance, but, if
we may say so, as His chief interest; but all in the expectation of
fruit. We do not spend days of labour and nights of anxious thought, we
do not lay out all we have at command, on that which is to effect
nothing and give no satisfaction to ourselves or any one else; and
neither does God. He did not make this world full of men for want of
something better to do, as a mere idle pastime. He made it that the
earth might yield her increase, that each of us might bring forth fruit.
Fruit alone can justify the expense put upon this world. The wisdom, the
patience, the love that have guided all things through the slow-moving
ages will be justified in the product. And what this product is we
already know: it is the attainment of moral perfection by created
beings. To this all that has been made and done in the past leads up.
“The whole creation groaneth and travaileth,”—for what? “For the
manifestation of the sons of God.” The lives and acts of good men are
the adequate return for all past outlay, the satisfying fruit.
The production of this fruit became a certainty when Christ was planted
in the world as a new moral stem. He was sent into the world not to make
some magnificent outward display of Divine power, to carry us to some
other planet, or alter the conditions of life here. God might have
departed from His purpose of filling this earth with holy men, and might
have used it for some easier display which for the moment might have
seemed more striking. He did not do so. It was human obedience, the
fruit of genuine human righteousness, of the love and goodness of men
and women, that He was resolved to reap from earth. He was resolved to
train men to such a pitch of goodness that in a world contrived to tempt
there should be found nothing so alluring, nothing so terrifying, as to
turn men from the straight path. He was to produce a race of men who,
while still in the body, urged by appetites, assaulted by passions and
cravings, with death threatening and life inviting, should prefer all
suffering rather than flinch from duty, should prove themselves actually
superior to every assault that can be made on virtue, should prove that
spirit is greater than matter. And God set Christ in the world to be the
living type of human perfection, to attract men by their love for Him to
His kind of life, and to furnish them with all needed aid in becoming
like Him—that as Christ had kept the Father’s commandments, His
disciples should keep His commandments, that thus a common
understanding, an identity of interest and moral life, should be
established between God and man.
Perhaps it is not pressing the figure too hard to remark that the fruit
differs from timber in this respect—that it enters into and nourishes
the life of man. No doubt in this allegory fruit-bearing primarily and
chiefly indicates that God’s purpose in creating man is satisfied. The
tree He has planted is not barren, but fruitful. But certainly a great
distinction between the selfish and the unselfish man, between the man
who has private ambitions and the man who labours for the public good,
lies in this—that the selfish man seeks to erect a monument of some
kind for himself, while the unselfish man spends himself in labours that
are not conspicuous, but assist the life of his fellows. An oak carving
or a structure of hard wood will last a thousand years and keep in
memory the skill of the designer: fruit is eaten and disappears, but it
passes into human life, and becomes part of the stream that flows on for
ever. The ambitious man longs to execute a monumental work, and does not
much regard whether it will be for the good of men or not; a great war
will serve his turn, a great book, anything conspicuous. But he who is
content to be a branch of the True Vine will not seek the admiration of
men, but will strive to introduce a healthy spiritual life into those he
can reach, even although in order to do so he must remain obscure and
must see his labours absorbed without notice or recognition.
Does the teaching of this allegory, then, accord with the facts of life
as we know them? Is it a truth, and a truth we must act upon, that apart
from Christ we can do nothing? In what sense and to what extent is
association with Christ really necessary to us?
Something may of course be made of life apart from Christ. A man may
have much enjoyment and a man may do much good apart from Christ. He may
be an inventor, who makes human life easier or safer or fuller of
interest. He may be a literary man, who by his writings enlightens,
exhilarates, and elevates mankind. He may, with entire ignorance or
utter disregard of Christ, toil for his country or for his class or for
his cause. But the best uses and ends of human life cannot be attained
apart from Christ. Only in Him does the reunion of man with God seem
attainable, and only in Him do God and God’s aim and work in the world
become intelligible. He is as necessary for the spiritual life of men as
the sun is for this physical life. We may effect something by
candle-light; we may be quite proud of electric light, and think we are
getting far towards independence; but what man in his senses will be
betrayed by these attainments into thinking we may dispense with the
sun? Christ holds the key to all that is most permanent in human
endeavour, to all that is deepest and best in human character. Only in
Him can we take our place as partners with God in what He is really
doing with this world. And only from Him can we draw courage,
hopefulness, love to prosecute this work. In Him God does reveal
Himself, and in Him the fulness of God is found by us. He is in point of
fact the one moral stem apart from whom we are not bearing and cannot
bear the fruit God desires.
If, then, we are not bringing forth fruit, it is because there is a flaw
in our connection with Christ; if we are conscious that the results of
our life and activity are not such results as He designs, and are in no
sense traceable to Him, this is because there is something about our
adherence to Him that is loose and needs rectification. Christ calls us
to Him and makes us sharers in His work; and he who listens to this call
and counts it enough to be a branch of this Vine and do His will is
upheld by Christ’s Spirit, is sweetened by His meekness and love, is
purified by His holy and fearless rectitude, is transformed by the
dominant will of this Person whom he has received deepest into his soul,
and does therefore bring forth, in whatever place in life he holds, the
same kind of fruit as Christ Himself would bring forth; it is indeed
Christ who brings forth these fruits, Christ at a few steps removed—for
every Christian learns, as well as Paul, to say, “Not I, but Christ in
me.” If, then, the will of Christ is not being fulfilled through us, if
there is good that it belongs to us to do, but which remains undone,
then the point of juncture with Christ is the point that needs looking
to. It is not some unaccountable blight that makes us useless; it is not
that we have got the wrong piece of the wall, a situation in which
Christ Himself could bear no precious fruit. The Husbandman knew His own
meaning when He trained us along that restricted line and nailed us
down; He chose the place for us, knowing the quality of fruit He desires
us to yield. The reason of our fruitlessness is the simple one, that we
are not closely enough attached to Christ.
How, then, is it with ourselves? By examining the results of our lives,
would any one be prompted to exclaim, “These are trees of
_righteousness_, the planting of the Lord that He may be glorified”? For
this examination is made, and made not by one who chances to pass, and
who, being a novice in horticulture, might be deceived by a show of
leaves or poor fruit, or whose examination might terminate in wonder at
the slothfulness or mismanagement of the owner who allowed such trees
to cumber his ground; but the examination is made by One who has come
for the express purpose of gathering fruit, who knows exactly what has
been spent upon us and what might have been made of our opportunities,
who has in His own mind a definite idea of the fruit that should be
found, and who can tell by a glance whether such fruit actually exists
or no. To this infallible Judge of produce what have we to offer? From
all our busy engagement in many affairs, from all our thought, what has
resulted that we can offer as a satisfactory return for all that has
been spent upon us? It is deeds of profitable service such as men of
large and loving nature would do that God seeks from us. And He
recognises without fail what is love and what only seems so. He
infallibly detects the corroding spot of selfishness that rots the whole
fair-seeming cluster. He stands undeceivable before us, and takes our
lives precisely for what they are worth.
It concerns us to make such inquiries, for fruitless branches cannot be
tolerated. The purpose of the tree is fruit. If, then, we would escape
all suspicion of our own state and all reproach of fruitlessness, what
we have to do is, not so much to find out new rules for conduct, as to
strive to renew our hold upon Christ and intelligently to enter into His
purposes. “Abide in Him.” This is the secret of fruitfulness. All that
the branch needs is in the Vine; it does not need to go beyond the Vine
for anything. When we feel the life of Christ ebbing from our soul, when
we see our leaf fading, when we feel sapless, heartless for Christian
duty, reluctant to work for others, to take anything to do with the
relief of misery and the repression of vice, there is a remedy for this
state, and it is to renew our fellowship with Christ—to allow the mind
once again to conceive clearly the worthiness of His aims, to yield the
heart once again to the vitalising influence of His love, to turn from
the vanities and futilities with which men strive to make life seem
important to the reality and substantial worth of the life of Christ. To
abide in Christ is to abide by our adoption of His view of the true
purpose of human life after testing it by actual experience; it is to
abide by our trust in Him as the true Lord of men, and as able to supply
us with all that we need to keep His commandments. And thus abiding in
Christ we are sustained by Him; for He abides in us, imparts to us, His
branches now on earth, the force which is needful to accomplish His
purposes.
FOOTNOTES:
[17] That the vine was a recognised symbol of the Messiah is shown by
Delitzsch in the _Expositor_, 3rd series, vol. iii., pp. 68, 69. See
also his _Iris_, pp. 180–190, E. Tr.
XIII.
_NOT SERVANTS, BUT FRIENDS._
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life
for his friends. Ye are My friends, if ye do the things which I
command you. No longer do I call you servants; for the servant
knoweth not what his lord doeth: but I have called you friends; for
all things that I heard from My Father I have made known unto you.
Ye did not choose Me, but I chose you, and appointed you, that ye
should go and bear fruit, and that your fruit should abide: that
whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in My name, He may give it
you. These things I command you, that ye may love one
another.”—JOHN xv. 13–17.
These words of our Lord are the charter of our emancipation. They give
us entrance into true freedom. They set us in the same attitude towards
life and towards God as Christ Himself occupied. Without this
proclamation of freedom and all it covers we are the mere drudges of
this world,—doing its work, but without any great and far-reaching aim
that makes it worth doing; accepting the tasks allotted to us because we
must, not because we will; living on because we happen to be here, but
without any part in that great future towards which all things are
running on. But this is of the very essence of slavery. For our Lord
here lays His finger on the sorest part of this deepest of human sores
when He says, “The slave knows not what his master does.” It is not that
his back is torn with the lash, it is not that he is underfed and
overworked, it is not that he is poor and despised; all this would be
cheerfully undergone to serve a cherished purpose and accomplish ends a
man had chosen for himself. But when all this must be endured to work
out the purposes of another, purposes never hinted to him, and with
which, were they hinted, he might have no sympathy, this is slavery,
this is to be treated as a tool for accomplishing aims chosen by
another, and to be robbed of all that constitutes manhood. Sailors and
soldiers have sometimes mutinied when subjected to similar treatment,
when no inkling has been given them of the port to which they are
shipped or the nature of the expedition on which they are led. Men do
not feel degraded by any amount of hardship, by going for months on
short rations or lying in frost without tents; but they do feel degraded
when they are used as weapons of offence, as if they had no intelligence
to appreciate a worthy aim, no power of sympathising with a great
design, no need of an interest in life and a worthy object on which to
spend it, no share in the common cause. Yet such is the life with which,
apart from Christ, we must perforce be content, doing the tasks
appointed us with no sustaining consciousness that our work is part of a
great whole working out the purposes of the Highest. Even such a spirit
as Carlyle is driven to say: “Here on earth we are soldiers, fighting in
a foreign land, that understand not the plan of campaign and have no
need to understand it, seeing what is at our hand to be
done,”—excellent counsel for slaves, but not descriptive of the life we
are meant for, nor of the life our Lord would be content to give us.
To give us true freedom, to make this life a thing we choose with the
clearest perception of its uses and with the utmost ardour, our Lord
makes known to us all that He heard of the Father. What He had heard of
the Father, all that the Spirit of the Father had taught Him of the need
of human effort and of human righteousness, all that as He grew up to
manhood He recognised of the deep-seated woes of humanity, and all that
He was prompted to do for the relief of these woes, He made known to His
disciples. The irresistible call to self-sacrifice and labour for the
relief of men which He heard and obeyed, He made known and He makes
known to all who follow Him. He did not allot clearly defined tasks to
His followers; He did not treat them as slaves, appointing one to this
and another to that: He showed them His own aim and His own motive, and
left them as His friends to be attracted by the aim that had drawn Him,
and to be ever animated with the motive that sufficed for Him. What had
made His life so glorious, so full of joy, so rich in constant reward,
He knew would fill their lives also; and He leaves them free to choose
it for themselves, to stand before life as independent, unfettered,
undriven men, and choose without compulsion what their own deepest
convictions prompted them to choose. The “friend” is not compelled
blindly to go through with a task whose result he does not understand or
does not sympathise with; the friend is invited to share in a work in
which he has a direct personal interest and to which he can give himself
cordially. All life should be the forwarding of purposes we approve, the
bringing about of ends we earnestly desire: all life, if we are free
men, must be matter of choice, not of compulsion. And therefore Christ,
having heard of the Father that which made Him feel straitened until the
great aim of His life could be accomplished, which made Him press
forward through life attracted and impelled by the consciousness of its
infinite value as achieving endless good, imparts to us what moved and
animated Him, that we may freely choose as He chose and enter into the
joy of our Lord.
This, then, is the point of this great utterance: Jesus takes our lives
up into partnership with His own. He sets before us the same views and
hopes which animated Himself, and gives us a prospect of being useful to
Him and in His work. If we engage in the work of life with a dull and
heartless feeling of its weariness, or merely for the sake of gaining a
livelihood, if we are not drawn to labour by the prospect of result,
then we have scarcely entered into the condition our Lord opens to us.
It is for the merest slaves to view their labour with indifference or
repugnance. Out of this state our Lord calls us, by making known to us
what the Father made known to Him, by giving us the whole means of a
free, rational, and fruitful life. He gives us the fullest satisfaction
moral beings can have, because He fills our life with intelligent
purpose. He lifts us into a position in which we see that we are not the
slaves of fate or of this world, but that _all things are ours_, that
we, through and with Him, are masters of the position, and that so far
from thinking it almost a hardship to have been born into so melancholy
and hopeless a world, we have really the best reason and the highest
possible object for living. He comes among us and says, “Let us all work
together. Something can be made of this world. Let us with heart and
hope strive to make of it something worthy. Let unity of aim and of work
bind us together.” This is indeed to redeem life from its vanity.
He says this, and lest any should think, “This is fantastic; how can
such an one as I am forward the work of Christ? It is enough if I get
from Him salvation for myself,” He goes on to say, “Ye have not chosen
Me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you that ye should go and bring
forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain. It was,” He says,
“precisely in view of the eternal results of your work that I selected
you and called you to follow Me.” It was true then, and it is true now,
that the initiative in our fellowship with Christ is with Him. So far as
the first disciples were concerned Jesus might have spent His life
making ploughs and cottage furniture. No one discovered Him. Neither
does any one now discover Him. It is He who comes and summons us to
follow and to serve Him. He does so because He sees that there is that
which we can do which no one else can: relationships we hold,
opportunities we possess, capacities for just this or that, which are
our special property into which no other can possibly step, and which,
if we do not use them, cannot otherwise be used.
Does He, then, point out to us with unmistakable exactness what we are
to do, and how we are to do it? Does He lay down for us a code of rules
so multifarious and significant that we cannot mistake the precise piece
of work He requires from us? He does not. He has but one sole
commandment, and this is no commandment, because we cannot keep it on
compulsion, but only at the prompting of our own inward spirit: He bids
us love one another. He comes back and back to this with significant
persistence, and declines to utter one other commandment. In love alone
is sufficient wisdom, sufficient motive, and sufficient reward for human
life. It alone has adequate wisdom for all situations, new resource for
every fresh need, adaptability to all emergencies, an inexhaustible
fertility and competency; it alone can bring the capability of each to
the service of all. Without love we beat the air.
That love is our true life is shown further by this—that it is its own
reward. When a man’s life is in any intelligible sense proceeding from
love, when this is his chief motive, he is content with living, and
looks for no reward. His joy is already full; he does not ask, What
shall I be the better of thus sacrificing myself? what shall I gain by
all this regulation of my life? what good return in the future shall I
have for all I am losing now? He cannot ask these questions, if the
motive of his self-sacrificing life be love; just as little as the
husband could ask what reward he should have for loving his wife. A man
would be astounded and would scarcely know what you meant if you asked
him what he expected to get by loving his children or his parents or his
friends. Get? Why he does not expect to get anything; he does not love
for an object: he loves because he cannot help it; and the chief joy of
his life is in these unrewarded affections. He no longer looks forward
and thinks of a fulness of life that is to be; he already lives and is
satisfied with the life he has. His happiness is present; his reward is
that he may be allowed to express his love, to feed it, to gratify it by
giving and labouring and sacrificing. In a word, he finds in love
eternal life—life that is full of joy, that kindles and enlivens his
whole nature, that carries him out of himself and makes him capable of
all good.
This truth, then, that whatever a man does from love is its own reward,
is the solution of the question whether virtue is its own reward. Virtue
is its own reward when it is inspired by love. Life is its own reward
when love is the principle of it. We know that we should always be happy
were we always loving. We know that we should never weary of living nor
turn with distaste from our work were all our work only the expression
of our love, of our deep, true, and well-directed regard for the good
of others. It is when we disregard our Lord’s one commandment and try
some other kind of virtuous living that joy departs from our life, and
we begin to hope for some future reward which may compensate for the
dulness of the present—as if a change of time could change the
essential conditions of life and happiness. If we are not joyful now, if
life is dreary and dull and pointless to us, so that we crave the
excitement of a speculative business, or of boisterous social meetings,
or of individual success and applause, then it should be quite plain to
us that as yet we have not found life, and have not the capacity for
eternal life quickened in us. If we are able to love one human being in
some sort as Christ loved us—that is to say, if our affection is so
fixed upon any one that we feel we could give our life for that
person—let us thank God for this; for this love of ours gives us the
key to human life, and will better instruct us in what is most essential
to know, and lead us on to what is most essential to be and to do than
any one can teach us. It is profoundly and widely true, as John says,
that every one that loveth is born of God and knoweth God. If we love
one human being, we at least know that a life in which love is the main
element needs no reward and looks for none. We see that God looks for no
reward, but is eternally blessed because simply God is eternally love.
Life eternal must be a life of love, of delight in our fellows, of
rejoicing in their good and seeking to increase their happiness.
Sometimes, however, we find ourselves grieving at the prosperity of the
wicked: we think that they should be unhappy, and yet they seem more
satisfied than ourselves. They pay no regard whatever to the law of life
laid down by our Lord; they never dream of living for others; they have
never once proposed to themselves to consider whether His great law,
that a man must lose his life if he is to have it eternally, has any
application to them; and yet they seem to enjoy life as much as anybody
can. Take a man who has a good constitution, and who is in easy
circumstances, and who has a good and pure nature; you will often see
such a man living with no regard to the Christian rule, and yet enjoying
life thoroughly to the very end. And of course it is just such a
spectacle, repeated everywhere throughout society, that influences men’s
minds and tempts all of us to believe that such a life is best after
all, and that selfishness as well as unselfishness can be happy; or at
all events that we can have as much happiness as our own disposition is
capable of by a self-seeking life. Now, when we are in a mood to compare
our own happiness with that of other men, our own happiness must
obviously be at a low ebb; but when we resent the prosperity of the
wicked, we should remember that, though they may flourish like the green
bay tree, their fruit does not remain: living for themselves, their
fruit departs with themselves, their good is interred with their bones.
But it is also to be considered that we should never allow ourselves to
get the length of putting this question or of comparing our happiness
with that of others. For we can only do so when we are ourselves
disappointed and discontented and have missed the joy of life; and this
again can be only when we have ceased to live lovingly for others.
But this one essential of Christian service and human freedom—how are
we to attain it? Is it not the one thing which seems obstinately to
stand beyond our grasp? For the human heart has laws of its own, and
cannot love to order or admire because it ought. But Christ brings, in
Himself, the fountain out of which our hearts can be supplied, the fire
which kindles all who approach it. No one can receive His love without
sharing it. No one can dwell upon Christ’s love for him and treasure it
as his true and central possession without finding his own heart
enlarged and softened. Until our own heart is flooded with the great and
regenerating love of Christ, we strive in vain to love our fellows. It
is when we fully admit it that it overflows through our own satisfied
and quickened affections to others.
And perhaps we do well not too curiously to question and finger our
love, making sure only that we are keeping ourselves in Christ’s
fellowship and seeking to do His will. Affection, indeed, induces
companionship, but also companionship produces affection, and the honest
and hopeful endeavour to serve Christ loyally will have its reward in a
deepening devotion. It is not the recruit but the veteran whose heart is
wholly his chief’s. And he who has long and faithfully served Christ
will not need to ask where his heart is. We hate those whom we have
injured, and we love those whom we have served; and if by long service
we can win our way to an intimacy with Christ which no longer needs to
question itself or test its soundness, in that service we may most
joyfully engage. For what can be a happier consummation than to find
ourselves finally overcome by the love of Christ, drawn with all the
force of a Divine attraction, convinced that here is our rest, and that
this is at once our motive and our reward?
XIV.
_THE SPIRIT CHRIST’S WITNESS._
“If the world hateth you, ye know that it hath hated Me before it
hated you. If ye were of the world, the world would love its own:
but because ye are not of the world, but I chose you out of the
world, therefore the world hateth you. Remember the word that I said
unto you, A servant is not greater than his lord. If they persecuted
Me, they will also persecute you; if they kept My word, they will
keep yours also. But all these things will they do unto you for My
name’s sake, because they know not Him that sent Me. If I had not
come and spoken unto them, they had not had sin: but now they have
no excuse for their sin. He that hateth Me hateth My Father also. If
I had not done among them the works which none other did, they had
not had sin: but now have they both seen and hated both Me and My
Father. But this cometh to pass, that the word may be fulfilled that
is written in their law, They hated Me without a cause. But when the
Comforter is come, whom I will send unto you from the Father, even
the Spirit of truth, which proceedeth from the Father, He shall bear
witness of Me: and ye also bear witness, because ye have been with
Me from the beginning. These things have I spoken unto you, that ye
should not be made to stumble. They shall put you out of the
synagogues: yea, the hour cometh, that whosoever killeth you shall
think that he offereth service unto God. And these things will they
do, because they have not known the Father, nor Me. But these things
have I spoken unto you, that when their hour is come, ye may
remember them, how that I told you. And these things I said not unto
you from the beginning, because I was with you. But now I go unto
Him that sent Me; and none of you asketh Me, Whither goest Thou? But
because I have spoken these things unto you, sorrow hath filled your
heart. Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you
that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come
unto you; but if I go, I will send Him unto you. And He, when He is
come, will convict the world in respect of sin, and of
righteousness, and of judgment: of sin, because they believe not on
Me; of righteousness, because I go to the Father, and ye behold Me
no more; of judgment, because the prince of this world hath been
judged. I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear
them now. Howbeit when He, the Spirit of truth, is come, He shall
guide you into all the truth: for He shall not speak from Himself;
but what things soever He shall hear, these shall He speak: and He
shall declare unto you the things that are to come. He shall glorify
Me: for He shall take of Mine, and shall declare it unto you. All
things whatsoever the Father hath are Mine: therefore said I, that
He taketh of Mine, and shall declare it unto you.”—JOHN xv. 18–xvi.
15.
Having shown His disciples that by them only can His purposes on earth
be fulfilled, and that He will fit them for all work that may be
required of them, the Lord now adds that their task will be full of
hazard and hardship: “They shall put you out of the synagogues: yea, the
time cometh that whosoever killeth you will think that he offereth
service unto God.” This was but a dreary prospect, and one to make each
Apostle hesitate, and in the privacy of his own thoughts consider
whether he should face a life so devoid of all that men naturally crave.
To live for great ends is no doubt animating, but to be compelled in
doing so to abandon all expectation of recognition, and to lay one’s
account for abuse, poverty, persecution, calls for some heroism in him
that undertakes such a life. He forewarns them of this persecution, that
when it comes they may not be taken aback and fancy that things are not
falling out with them as their Lord anticipated. And He offers them two
strong consolations which might uphold and animate them under all they
should be called upon to suffer.
I. “If the world hateth you, ye know that it hath hated Me before it
hated you. If ye were of the world, the world would love its own; but
because ye are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world,
therefore the world hateth you.” Persecution is thus turned into a joy,
because it is the testimony paid by the world to the disciples’ identity
with Christ. The love of the world would be a sure evidence of their
unfaithfulness to Christ and of their entire lack of resemblance to Him;
but its hate was the tribute it would pay to their likeness to Him and
successful promotion of His cause. They might well question their
loyalty to Christ, if the world which had slain Him fawned upon them.
The Christian may conclude he is reckoned a helpless and harmless foe if
he suffers no persecution, if in no company he is frowned upon or felt
to be uncongenial, if he is treated by the world as if its aims were his
aims and its spirit his spirit. No faithful follower of Christ who mixes
with society can escape every form of persecution. It is the seal which
the world puts on the choice of Christ. It is proof that a man’s
attachment to Christ and endeavour to forward His purposes have been
recognised by the world. Persecution, then, should be welcome as the
world’s testimony to the disciple’s identity with Christ.
No idea had fixed itself more deeply in the mind of John than this of
the identity of Christ and His people. As he brooded upon the life of
Christ and sought to penetrate to the hidden meanings of all that
appeared on the surface, he came to see that the unbelief and hatred
with which He was met was the necessary result of goodness presented to
worldliness and selfishness. And as time went on he saw that the
experience of Christ was exceptional only in degree, that His experience
was and would be repeated in every one who sought to live in His Spirit
and to do His will. The future of the Church accordingly presented
itself to him as a history of conflict, of extreme cruelty on the part
of the world and quiet conquering endurance on the part of Christ’s
people. And it was this which he embodied in the Book of Revelation.
This book he wrote as a kind of detailed commentary on the passage
before us, and in it he intended to depict the sufferings and final
conquest of the Church. The one book is a reflex and supplement to the
other; and as in the Gospel he had shown the unbelief and cruelty of the
world against Christ, so in the Revelation he shows in a series of
strongly coloured pictures how the Church of Christ would pass through
the same experience, would be persecuted as Christ was persecuted, but
would ultimately conquer. Both books are wrought out with extreme care
and finished to the minutest detail, and both deal with the cardinal
matters of human history—sin, righteousness, and the final result of
their conflict. Underneath all that appears on the surface in the life
of the individual and in the history of the race there are just these
abiding elements—sin and righteousness. It is the moral value of things
which in the long run proves of consequence, the moral element which
ultimately determines all else.
II. The second consolation and encouragement the Lord gave them was that
they would receive the aid of a powerful champion—_the_ Paraclete, the
one effectual, sufficient Helper. “When the Paraclete is come, whom I
will send unto you from the Father, even the Spirit of truth, which
proceedeth from the Father, he shall bear witness of Me: and ye also
bear witness, because ye have been with Me from the beginning.”
Inevitably the disciples would argue that, if the words and works of
Jesus Himself had not broken down the unbelief of the world, it was not
likely that anything which they could say or do would have that effect.
If the impressive presence of Christ Himself had not attracted and
convinced all men, how was it possible that mere telling about what He
had said and done and been would convince them? And He has just been
reminding them how little effect His own words and works had had. “If I
had not come and spoken unto them, they had not had sin: ... if I had
not done among them the works which none other did, they had not had
sin: but now have they both seen and hated both Me and My Father.” What
power, then, could break down this obstinate unbelief?
Our Lord assures them that together with their witness-bearing there
will be an all-powerful witness—“the Spirit of truth”; one who could
find access to the hearts and minds to which they addressed themselves
and carry truth home to conviction. It was on this account that it was
“expedient” that their Lord should depart, and that His visible presence
should be superseded by the presence of the Spirit. It was necessary
that His death, resurrection, and ascension to the right hand of the
Father should take place, in order that His supremacy might be secured.
And in order that He might be everywhere and inwardly present with men,
it was necessary that He should be visible nowhere on earth. The inward
spiritual presence depended on the bodily absence.
Before passing to the specific contents of the Spirit’s testimony, as
stated in vv. 8–11, it is necessary to gather up what our Lord indicates
regarding the Spirit Himself and His function in the Christian
dispensation. First, the Spirit here spoken of is a personal existence.
Throughout all that our Lord says in this last conversation regarding
the Spirit personal epithets are applied to Him, and the actions
ascribed to Him are personal actions. He is to be the substitute of the
most marked and influential Personality with whom the disciples had ever
been brought in contact. He is to supply His vacated place. He is to be
to the disciples as friendly and staunch an ally and a more constantly
present and efficient teacher than Christ Himself. What as yet was not
in their minds He was to impart to them; and He was to mediate and
maintain communication between the absent Lord and themselves. Was it
possible that the disciples should think of the Spirit otherwise than as
a conscious and energetic Person when they heard Him spoken of in such
words as these: “Howbeit when He, the Spirit of truth, is come, He shall
guide you into all the truth: for He shall not speak from Himself; but
what things soever He shall hear, these shall He speak: and He shall
declare unto you the things that are to come. He shall glorify Me: for
He shall take of Mine, and shall declare it unto you”? From these words
it would seem as if the disciples were justified in expecting the
presence and aid of One who was very closely related to their Lord, but
yet distinct from Him, who could understand their state of mind and
adapt Himself to them, who is not identical with the Master they are
losing, and yet comes into still closer contact with them. What
underlies this, and what is the very nature of the Spirit and His
relation to the Father and the Son, we do not know; but our Lord chose
these expressions which to our thought involve personality because this
is the truest and safest form under which we can now conceive of the
Spirit.
The function for the discharge of which this Spirit is necessary is the
“glorification” of Christ. Without Him the manifestation of Christ will
be lost. He is needed to secure that the world be brought into contact
with Christ, and that men recognise and use Him. This is the most
general and comprehensive aspect of the Spirit’s work: “He shall glorify
Me” (ver. 14). In making this announcement our Lord assumes that
position of commanding importance with which this Gospel has made us
familiar. The Divine Spirit is to be sent forth, and the direct object
of His mission is the glorifying of Christ. The meaning of Christ’s
manifestation is the essential thing for men to understand. In
manifesting Himself He has revealed the Father. He has in His own person
shown what a Divine nature is; and therefore in order to His
glorification all that is required is that light be shed upon what He
has done and been, and that the eyes of men be opened to see Him and His
work. The recognition of Christ and of God in Him is the blessedness of
the human race; and to bring this about is the function of the Spirit.
As Jesus Himself had constantly presented Himself as the revealer of the
Father and as speaking His words, so, in “a rivalry of Divine humility,”
the Spirit glorifies the Son and speaks “what He shall hear.”
To discharge this function a twofold ministry is undertaken by the
Spirit: He must enlighten the Apostles, and He must convince the world.
He must enlighten the Apostles. From the nature of the case much had to
be left unsaid by Christ. But this would not prevent the Apostles from
understanding what Christ had done, and what applications His work had
to themselves and their fellow-men. “I have yet many things to say unto
you, but ye cannot bear them now. Howbeit when He, the Spirit of truth,
is come, He will guide you into all the truth.” A great untravelled
country lay before them. Their Master had led them across its border,
and set their faces in the right direction; but who was to find a way
for them through all its intricacies and perplexities? The Spirit of
truth, He who is Himself perfect knowledge and absolute light, “will
guide you”; He will go before you and show you your way.[18] There may
be no sudden impartation of truth, no lifting of the mist that hangs on
the horizon, no consciousness that now you have mastered all
difficulties and can see your way to the end; there may be no violation
of the natural and difficult processes by which men arrive at truth; the
road may be slow, and sometimes there may even be an appearance of
ignominious defeat by those who use swifter but more precarious means of
advance; much will depend on your own patience and wakefulness and
docility; but if you admit the Spirit, He will guide you into all the
truth.
This promise does not involve that the Apostles, and through them all
disciples, should know everything. “All the truth” is relative to the
subject taught. All that they need to know regarding Christ and His work
for them they will learn. All that is needed to glorify Christ, to
enable men to recognise Him as the manifestation of God, will be
imparted. To the truth which the Apostles learn, therefore, nothing need
be added. Nothing essential has been added. Time has now been given to
test this promise, and what time has shown is this—that while libraries
have been written on what the Apostles thought and taught, their
teaching remains as the sufficient guide into all the truth regarding
Christ. Even in non-essentials it is marvellous how little has been
added. Many corrections of misapprehensions of their meaning have been
required, much laborious inquiry to ascertain precisely what they meant,
much elaborate inference and many buildings upon their foundations; but
in their teaching there remain a freshness and a living force which
survive all else that has been written upon Christ and His religion.
This instruction of the Apostles by the Spirit was to recall to their
minds what Christ Himself had said, and was also to show them things to
come. The changed point of view introduced by the dispensation of the
Spirit and the abolition of earthly hopes would cause many of the
sayings of Jesus which they had disregarded and considered
unintelligible to spring into high relief and ray out significance,
while the future also would shape itself quite differently in their
conception. And the Teacher who should superintend and inspire this
altered attitude of mind is the Spirit.[19]
Not only must the Spirit enlighten the Apostles; He must also convince
the world. “He shall bear witness of Me,” and by His witness-bearing the
testimony of the Apostles would become efficacious. They had a natural
fitness to witness about Christ, “because they had been with Him from
the beginning.” No more trustworthy witnesses regarding what Christ had
said or done or been could be called than those men with whom He had
lived on terms of intimacy. No men could more certainly testify to the
identity of the risen Lord. But the significance of the facts they spoke
of could best be taught by the Spirit. The very fact of the Spirit’s
presence was the greatest evidence that the Lord had risen and was using
“all power in heaven” in behalf of men. And possibly it was to this
Peter referred when he said: “We are His witnesses of these things; and
so is also the Holy Ghost, whom God hath given to them that obey Him.”
Certainly the gifts of the Holy Ghost, the power to speak with tongues
or to work miracles of healing, were accepted by the primitive Church as
a seal of the Apostolic word and as the appropriate evidence of the
power of the risen Christ.
But it is apparent from our Lord’s description of the subject-matter of
the Spirit’s witness that here He has especially in view the function of
the Spirit as an inward teacher and strengthener of the moral powers. He
is the fellow-witness of the Apostles, mainly and permanently, by
enlightening men in the significance of the facts reported by them, and
by opening the heart and conscience to their influence.
The subject-matter of the Spirit’s testimony is threefold: “He will
convict the world in respect of sin, and of righteousness, and of
judgment.”
I. He should convict the world of sin. No conviction cuts so deeply and
produces results of such magnitude as the conviction of sin. It is like
subsoil ploughing: it turns up soil that nothing else has got down to.
It alters entirely a man’s attitude towards life. He cannot know himself
a sinner and be satisfied with that condition. This awakening is like
the waking of one who has been buried in a trance, who wakes to find
himself bound round with grave-clothes, hemmed in with all the insignia
of corruption, terror and revulsion distracting and overwhelming his
soul. In spirit he has been far away, weaving perhaps a paradise out of
his fancies, peopling it with choice and happy society, and living
through scenes of gorgeous beauty and comfort in fulness of interest and
life and felicity; but suddenly comes the waking, a few brief moments of
painful struggle and the dream gives place to the reality, and then
comes the certain accumulation of misery till the spirit breaks beneath
its fear. So does the strongest heart groan and break when it wakes to
the full reality of sin, when the Spirit of Christ takes the veil from a
man’s eyes and gives him to see what this world is and what he has been
in it, when the shadows that have occupied him flee away and the naked
inevitable reality confronts him.
Nothing is more overwhelming than this conviction, but nothing is more
hopeful. Given a man who is alive to the evil of sin and who begins to
understand his errors, and you know some good will come of that. Given a
man who sees the importance of being in accord with perfect goodness and
who feels the degradation of sin, and you have the germ of all good in
that man. But how were the Apostles to produce this? how were they to
dispel those mists which blurred the clear outline of good and evil, to
bring to the self-righteous Pharisee and the indifferent and worldly
Sadducee a sense of their own sin? What instrument is there which can
introduce to every human heart, howsoever armoured and fenced round,
this healthy revolution? Looking at men as they actually are, and
considering how many forces are banded together to exclude the knowledge
of sin, how worldly interest demands that no brand shall be affixed to
this and that action, how the customs we are brought up in require us to
take a lenient view of this and that immorality, how we deceive
ourselves by sacrificing sins we do not care for in order to retain sins
that are in our blood, how the resistance of certain sins makes us a
prey to self-righteousness and delusion—considering what we have learnt
of the placidity with which men content themselves with a life they know
is not the highest, does there seem to be any instrument by which a true
and humbling sense of sin can be introduced to the mind?
Christ, knowing that men were about to put Him to death because He had
tried to convict them of sin, confidently predicts that His servants
would by His Spirit’s aid convince the world of sin and of this in
particular—that they had not believed in Him. That very death which
chiefly exhibits human sin has, in fact, become the chief instrument in
making men understand and hate sin. There is no consideration from which
the deceitfulness of sin will not escape, nor any fear which the
recklessness of sin will not brave, nor any authority which self-will
cannot override but only this: Christ has died for me, to save me from
my sin, and I am sinning still, not regarding His blood, not meeting His
purpose. It was when the greatness and the goodness of Christ were
together let in to Peter’s mind that he fell on his face before Him,
saying, “Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man.” And the
experience of thousands is recorded in that more recent confession:
“In evil long I took delight, unawed by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight and stopped my wild career:
I saw One hanging on a tree in agonies and blood.
Who fixed His languid eyes on me as near His cross I stood.
Sure never till my latest breath can I forget that look;
It seemed to charge me with His death, though not a word He spoke.”
Of other convictions we may get rid; the consequences of sin we may
brave, or we may disbelieve that in our case sin will produce any very
disastrous fruits; but in the death of Christ we see, not what sin may
possibly do in the future, but what it actually has done in the past. In
presence of the death of Christ we cannot any longer make a mock of sin
or think lightly of it, as if it were on our own responsibility and at
our own risk we sinned.
But not only does the death of Christ exhibit the intricate connections
of our sin with other persons and the grievous consequence of sin in
general, but also it exhibits the enormity of this particular sin of
rejecting Christ. “He will convince the world of sin, _because they
believe not on Me_.” It was this sin in point of fact which cut to the
heart the crowd at Jerusalem first addressed by Peter. Peter had nothing
to say of their looseness of life, of their worldliness, of their
covetousness: he did not go into particulars of conduct calculated to
bring a blush to their cheeks; he took up but one point, and by a few
convincing remarks showed them the enormity of crucifying the Lord of
glory. The lips which a few days before had cried out “Crucify Him,
crucify Him!” now cried, Men and brethren, what shall we do, how escape
from the crushing condemnation of mistaking God’s image for a criminal?
In that hour Christ’s words were fulfilled; they were convinced of sin
because they believed not on Him.
This is ever the damning sin—to be in presence of goodness and not to
love it, to see Christ and to see Him with unmoved and unloving hearts,
to hear His call without response, to recognise the beauty of holiness
and yet turn away to lust and self and the world. This is the
condemnation—that light is come into the world and we have loved
darkness rather than the light. “If I had not come and spoken unto
them, they had not had sin: but now they have no cloke for their sin. He
that hateth Me, hateth My Father also.” To turn away from Christ is to
turn away from absolute goodness. It is to show that however much we may
relish certain virtues and approve particular forms of goodness,
goodness absolute and complete does not attract us.
II. The conviction of righteousness is the complement, the other half,
of the conviction of sin. In the shame of guilt there is the germ of the
conviction of righteousness. The sense of guilt is but the
acknowledgment that we ought to be righteous. No guilt attaches to the
incapable. The sting of guilt is poisoned with the knowledge that we
were capable of better things. Conscience exclaims against all excuses
that would lull us into the idea that sin is insuperable, and that there
is nothing better for us than a moderately sinful life. When conscience
ceases to condemn, hope dies. A mist rises from sin that obscures the
clear outline between its own domain and that of righteousness, like the
mist that rises from the sea and mingles shore and water in one
undefined cloud. But let it rise off the one and the other is at once
distinctly marked out; and so in the conviction of sin there is already
involved the conviction of righteousness. The blush of shame that
suffuses the face of the sinner as the mist-dispelling Sun of
righteousness arises upon him is the morning flush and promise of an
everlasting day of righteous living.
For each of us it is of the utmost importance to have a fixed and
intelligent persuasion that righteousness is what we are made for. The
righteous Lord loveth righteousness and made us in His image to widen
the joy of rational creatures. He waits for righteousness and cannot
accept sin as an equally grateful fruit of men’s lives. And though in
the main perhaps our faces are turned towards righteousness, and we are
on the whole dissatisfied and ashamed of sin, yet the conviction of
righteousness has much to struggle against in us all. Sin, we
unconsciously plead, is so finely interwoven with all the ways of the
world that it is impossible to live wholly free from it. As well cast a
sponge into the water and command that it absorb none nor sink as put me
in the world and command that I do not admit its influences or sink to
its level. It presses in on me through all my instincts and appetites
and hopes and fears; it washes ceaselessly at the gateways of my senses,
so that one unguarded moment and the torrent bursts in on me and pours
over my wasted bulwarks, resolves, high aims, and whatever else. It is
surely not now and here that I am expected to do more than learn the
rudiments of righteous living and make small experiments in it;
endeavours will surely stand for accomplishment, and pious purposes in
place of heroic action and positive righteousness. Men take sin for
granted and lay their account for it. Will not God also, who remembers
our frailty, consider the circumstances and count sin a matter of
course? Such thoughts haunt and weaken us; but every man whose heart is
touched by the Spirit of God clings to this as his hopeful prayer:
“Teach me to do Thy will, for Thou art my God: Thy Spirit is good; lead
me into the land of uprightness.”
But, after all, it is by fact men are convinced; and were there no facts
to appeal to in this matter conviction could not be attained. It does
seem that we are made for righteousness, but sin is in this world so
universal that there must surely be some way of accounting for it which
shall also excuse it. Had righteousness been to be our life, surely some
few would have attained it. There must be some necessity of sin, some
impossibility of attaining perfect righteousness, and therefore we need
not seek it. Here comes in the proof our Lord speaks of: “The Spirit
will convince of righteousness, because I go to the Father.”
Righteousness has been attained. There has lived One, bone of our bone,
and flesh of our flesh, tempted in all points like as we are, open to
the same ambitious views of life, growing up with the same appetites and
as sensitive to bodily pleasure and bodily pain, feeling as keenly the
neglect and hatred of men, and from the very size of His nature and
width of His sympathy tempted in a thousand ways we are safe from, and
yet in no instance confounding right and wrong, in no instance falling
from perfect harmony with the Divine will to self-will and self-seeking;
never deferring the commandments of God to some other sphere or waiting
for holier times; never forgetting and never renouncing the purpose of
God in His life; but at all times, in weariness and lassitude, in
personal danger and in domestic comfort, putting Himself as a perfect
instrument into God’s hand, ready at all cost to Himself to do the
Father’s will. Here was One who not only recognised that men are made to
work together with God, but who actually did so work; who not only
approved, as we all approve, of a life of holiness and sacrifice, but
actually lived it; who did not think the trial too great, the privation
and risk too dreadful, the self-effacement too humbling; but who met
life with all it brings to all of us—its conflict, its interests, its
opportunities, its allurements, its snares, its hazards. But while out
of this material we fail to make a perfect life, He by His integrity of
purpose and devotedness and love of good fashioned a perfect life. Thus
He simply by living accomplished what the law with its commands and
threats had not accomplished: He condemned sin in the flesh.
But it was open to those whom the Apostles addressed to deny that Jesus
had thus lived; and therefore the conviction of righteousness is
completed by the evidence of the resurrection and ascension of Christ.
“Of righteousness, because I go to My Father, and ye see Me no more.”
Without holiness no man shall see God. It was this that the Apostles
appealed to when first moved to address their fellow-men and proclaim
Christ as the Saviour. It was to His resurrection they confidently
appealed as evidence of the truth of His claim to have been sent of God.
The Jews had put Him to death as a deceiver; but God proclaimed His
righteousness by raising Him from the dead. “Ye denied the Holy One and
the Just, and desired a murderer to be granted unto you, and killed the
Prince of life whom God hath raised from the dead, whereof we are
witnesses.”
Probably, however, another idea underlies the words “because I go to My
Father, and ye see Me no more.” So long as Christ was on earth the Jews
believed that Jesus and His followers were plotting a revolution: when
He was removed beyond sight such a suspicion became ludicrous. But when
His disciples could no longer see Him, they continued to serve Him and
to strive with greater zeal than ever to promote His cause. Slowly then
it dawned on men’s minds that righteousness was what Christ and His
Apostles alone desired and sought to establish on earth. This new
spectacle of men devoting their lives to the advancement of
righteousness, and confident they could establish a kingdom of
righteousness and actually establishing it—this spectacle penetrated
men’s minds, and gave them a new sense of the value of righteousness,
and quite a new conviction of the possibility of attaining it.
III. The third conviction by which the Apostles were to prevail in their
preaching of Christ was the conviction “of judgment, because the prince
of this world is judged.” Men were to be persuaded that a distinction is
made between sin and righteousness, that in no case can sin pass for
righteousness and righteousness for sin. The world that has worldly ends
in view and works towards them by appropriate means, disregarding moral
distinctions, will be convicted of enormous error. The Spirit of truth
will work in men’s minds the conviction that all and every sin is
mistake and productive of nothing good, and can in no instance
accomplish what righteousness would have accomplished. Men will find,
when truth shines in their spirit, that they have not to await a great
day of judgment in the end, when the good results of sin shall be
reversed and reward allotted to those who have done righteously, but
that judgment is a constant and universal element in God’s government
and to be found everywhere throughout it, distinguishing between sin and
righteousness in every present instance, and never for one moment
allowing to sin the value or the results which only righteousness has.
In the minds of men who have been using the world’s unrighteous methods
and living for the world’s selfish ends, the conviction is to be wrought
that no good can come of all that—that sin is sin and not valid for any
good purpose. Men are to recognise that a distinction is made between
human actions, and that condemnation is pronounced on all that are
sinful.
And this conviction is to be wrought in the light of the fact that in
Christ’s victory the prince of this world is judged. The powers by which
the world is actually led are seen to be productive of evil, and not the
powers by which men can permanently be led or should at any time have
been led. The prince of this world was judged by Christ’s refusal
throughout His life to be in anything guided by him. The motives by
which the world is led were not Christ’s motives.
But it is in the death of Christ the prince of this world was especially
judged. That death was brought about by the world’s opposition to
unworldliness. Had the world been seeking spiritual beauty and
prosperity, Christ would not have been crucified. He was crucified
because the world was seeking material gain and worldly glory, and was
thereby blinded to the highest form of goodness. And unquestionably the
very fact that worldliness led to this treatment of Christ is its most
decided condemnation. We cannot think highly of principles and
dispositions which so blind men to the highest form of human goodness
and lead them to actions so unreasonable and wicked. As an individual
will often commit one action which illustrates his whole character, and
flashes sudden light into the hidden parts of it, and discloses its
capabilities and possible results, so the world has in this one act
shown what worldliness essentially is and at all times is capable of. No
stronger condemnation of the influences which move worldly men can be
found than the crucifixion of Christ.
But, besides, the death of Christ exhibits in so touching a form the
largeness and power of spiritual beauty, and brings so vividly home to
the heart the charm of holiness and love, that here more than anywhere
else do men learn to esteem beauty of character and holiness and love
more than all the world can yield them. We feel that to be wholly out of
sympathy with the qualities and ideas manifested in the Cross would be a
pitiable condition. We adopt as our ideal the kind of glory there
revealed, and in our hearts condemn the opposed style of conduct that
the world leads to. As we open our understanding and conscience to the
meaning of Christ’s love and sacrifice and devotedness to God’s will,
the prince of this world is judged and condemned within us. We feel that
to yield to the powers that move and guide the world is impossible for
us, and that we must give ourselves to this Prince of holiness and
spiritual glory.
In point of fact the world is judged. To adhere to worldly motives and
ways and ambitions is to cling to a sinking ship, to throw ourselves
away on a justly doomed cause. The world may trick itself out in what
delusive splendours it may; it is judged all the same, and men who are
deluded by it and still in one way or other acknowledge the prince of
this world destroy themselves and lose the future.
Such was the promise of Christ to His disciples. Is it fulfilled in us?
We may have witnessed in others the entrance and operation of
convictions which to all appearance correspond with those here
described. We may even have been instrumental in producing these
convictions. But a lens of ice will act as a burning-glass, and itself
unmelted will fire the tinder to which it transmits the rays. And
perhaps we may be able to say with much greater confidence that we have
done good than that we are good. Convinced of sin we may be, and
convinced of righteousness we may be—so far at least as to feel most
keenly that the distinction between sin and righteousness is real, wide,
and of eternal consequence—but is the prince of this world judged? has
the power that claims us as the servants of sin and mocks our strivings
after righteousness been, so far as we can judge from our own
experience, defeated? For this is the final test of religion, of our
faith in Christ, of the truth of His words and the efficacy of His work.
Does He accomplish in me what He promised?
Now, when we begin to doubt the efficacy of the Christian method on
account of its apparent failure in our own case, when we see quite
clearly how it ought to work and as clearly that it has not worked, when
this and that turns up in our life and proves beyond controversy that we
are ruled by much the same motives and desires as the world at large,
two subjects of reflection present themselves. First, have we remembered
the word of Christ, “The servant is not greater than his Lord”? Are we
so anxious to be His servants that we would willingly sacrifice whatever
stood in the way of our serving Him? Are we content to be as He was in
the world? There are always many in the Christian Church who are, first,
men of the world, and, secondly, varnished with Christianity; who do not
seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness; who do not yet
understand that the _whole_ of life must be consecrated to Christ and
spring from His will, and who therefore without compunction do make
themselves greater in every worldly respect than their professed Lord.
There are also many in the Christian Church at all times who decline to
make more of this world than Christ Himself did, and whose constant
study it is to put all they have at His disposal. Now, we cannot too
seriously inquire to which of these classes we belong. Are we making a
_bonâ-fide_ thing of our attachment to Christ? Do we feel it in every
part of our life? Do we strive, not to minimise our service and His
claims, but to be wholly His? Have His words, “The servant is not
greater than his Lord,” any meaning to us at all? Is His service truly
the main thing we seek in life? I say we should seriously inquire if
this is so; for not hereafter, but now, are we finally determining our
relation to all things by our relation to Christ.
But, secondly, we must beware of disheartening ourselves by hastily
concluding that in our case Christ’s grace has failed. If we may accept
the Book of Revelation as a true picture, not merely of the conflict of
the Church, but also of the conflict of the individual, then only in the
end can we look for quiet and achieved victory—only in the closing
chapters does conflict cease and victory seem no more doubtful. If it is
to be so with us, the fact of our losing some of the battles must not
discourage us from continuing the campaign. Nothing is more painful and
humbling than to find ourselves falling into unmistakable sin after much
concernment with Christ and His grace; but the very resentment we feel
and the deep and bitter humiliation must be used as incentive to further
effort, and must not be allowed to sound permanent defeat and surrender
to sin.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] ὁδηγήσει.
[19] Godet says: “The saying xiv. 26 gives the formula of the
inspiration of our Gospels; ver. 13 gives that of the inspiration of the
Epistles and the Apocalypse.”
XV.
_LAST WORDS._
“A little while, and ye behold Me no more; and again a little while,
and ye shall see Me. Some of His disciples therefore said one to
another, What is this that He saith unto us, A little while, and ye
behold Me not; and again a little while, and ye shall see Me: and,
Because I go to the Father? They said therefore, What is this that
He saith, A little while? We know not what He saith. Jesus perceived
that they were desirous to ask Him, and He said unto them, Do ye
inquire among yourselves concerning this, that I said, A little
while, and ye behold Me not, and again a little while, and ye shall
see Me? Verily, verily, I say unto you, that ye shall weep and
lament, but the world shall rejoice: ye shall be sorrowful, but your
sorrow shall be turned into joy. A woman when she is in travail hath
sorrow, because her hour is come: but when she is delivered of the
child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for the joy that a man
is born into the world. And ye therefore now have sorrow: but I will
see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no one
taketh away from you. And in that day ye shall ask Me nothing.
Verily, verily, I say unto you, If ye shall ask anything of the
Father, He will give it you in My name. Hitherto have ye asked
nothing in My name: ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be
fulfilled. These things have I spoken unto you in proverbs: the hour
cometh, when I shall no more speak unto you in proverbs, but shall
tell you plainly of the Father. In that day ye shall ask in My name:
and I say not unto you, that I will pray the Father for you; for the
Father Himself loveth you, because ye have loved Me, and have
believed that I came forth from the Father. I came out from the
Father, and am come into the world: again, I leave the world, and go
unto the Father. His disciples say, Lo, now speakest Thou plainly,
and speakest no proverb. Now know we that Thou knowest all things,
and needest not that any man should ask Thee: by this we believe
that Thou camest forth from God. Jesus answered them, Do ye now
believe? Behold, the hour cometh, yea, is come, that ye shall be
scattered, every man to his own, and shall leave Me alone: and yet I
am not alone, because the Father is with Me. These things have I
spoken unto you, that in Me ye may have peace. In the world ye have
tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”—JOHN
xvi. 16–33.
In the intercourse of Jesus with His disciples He at all times showed
one of the most delightful qualities of a friend—a quick and perfect
apprehension of what was passing in their mind. They did not require to
bring their mental condition before Him by laboured explanations. He
knew what was in man, and He especially knew what was in them. He could
forecast the precise impression which His announcements would make upon
them, the doubts and the expectations they would give rise to. Sometimes
they were surprised at this insight, always they profited by it. In
fact, on more occasions than one this insight convinced them that Jesus
had this clear knowledge of men given to Him that He might effectually
deal with all men. It seemed to them, as of course it is, one of the
essential equipments of One who is to be a real centre for the whole
race and to bring help to each and all men. How could a person who was
deficient in this universal sympathy and practical understanding of the
very thoughts of each of us offer himself as our helper? There is
therefore evidence in the life of Jesus that He was never non-plussed,
never at a loss to understand the kind of man He had to do with. There
is evidence of this, and it would seem that we all receive this
evidence; for are we not conscious that our spiritual condition is
understood, our thoughts traced, our difficulties sympathised with? We
may feel very unlike many prominent Christians; we may have no sympathy
with a great deal that passes for Christian sentiment; but Christ’s
sympathy is universal, and nothing human comes wrong to Him. Begin with
Him as you are, without professing to be, though hoping to be, different
from what you are, and by the growth of your own spirit in the sunshine
of His presence and under the guidance of His intelligent sympathy your
doubts will pass away, your ungodliness be renounced. He is offered for
your help as the essential condition of your progress and your growth.
Seeing the perplexity which certain of His expressions had created in
the minds of His disciples, He proceeds to remove it. They had great
need of hopefulness and courage, and He sought to inspire them with
these qualities. They were on the edge of a most bitter experience, and
it was of untold consequence that they should be upheld in it. He does
not hide from them the coming distress, but He reminds them that very
commonly pain and anxiety accompany the birth-throes of a new life; and
if they found themselves shortly in depression and grief which seemed
inconsolable, they were to believe that this was the path to a new and
higher phase of existence and to a joy that would be lasting. Your
grief, He says, will shortly end: your joy never. Your grief will soon
be taken away: your joy no one shall take away. When Christ rose again,
the disciples remembered and understood these words; and a few chapters
further on we find John returning upon the word and saying, “When they
saw the Lord, they were glad,”—they had this _joy_. It was a joy to
them, because love for Christ and hope in Him were their dominant
feelings. They had the joy of having their Friend again, of seeing Him
victorious and proved to be all and more than they had believed. They
had the first glowing visions of a new world for which the preparation
was the life and resurrection of the Son of God. What were they not
prepared to hope for as the result of the immeasurably great things they
had themselves seen and known? It was a mere question now of Christ’s
will: of His power they were assured.
The resurrection of Christ was, however, meant to bring lasting joy, not
to these men only, but to all. These greatest of all events, the descent
to earth of the Son of God with all Divine power and love, and His
resurrection as the conqueror of all that bars the path of men from a
life of light and joy, became solid facts in this world’s history, that
all men might calculate their future by such a past, and might each for
himself conclude that a future of which such events are the preparation
must be great and happy indeed. Death, if not in all respects the most
desolating, is the most certain of all human ills. Anguish and mourning
it has brought and will bring to many human hearts. Do what we will we
cannot save our friends from it; by us it is unconquerable. Yet it is in
this most calamitous of human ills God has shown His nearness and His
love. It is to the death of Christ men look to see the full brightness
of God’s fatherly love. It is this darkest point of human experience
that God has chosen to irradiate with His absorbing glory. Death is at
once our gravest fear and the spring of our hope; it cuts short human
intercourse, but in the cross of Christ it gives us a never-failing,
divinely loving Friend. The death of Christ is the great compensation
of all the ill that death has brought into human life; and when we see
death made the medium of God’s clearest manifestation, we are almost
grateful to it for affording material for an exhibition of God’s love
which transforms all our own life and all our own hopes.
Lasting joy is the condition in which God desires us to be, and He has
given us cause of joy. In Christ’s victory we see all that is needed to
give us hopefulness about the future. Each man finds for himself
assurance of God’s interest in us and in our actual condition: assurance
that whatever is needful to secure for us a happy eternity has been
done; assurance that in a new heavens and a new earth we shall find
lasting satisfaction. This true, permanent, all-embracing joy is open to
all, and is actually enjoyed by those who have something of Christ’s
Spirit, whose chief desire is to see holiness prevail and to keep
themselves and others in harmony with God. To such the accomplishment of
God’s will seems a certainty, and they have learned that the
accomplishment of that will means good to them and to all who love God.
The holiness and harmony with God that win this joy are parts of it. To
be the friends of Christ, imbued with His views of life and of God, this
from first to last is a thing of joy.
That which the disciples at length believed and felt to be the
culmination of their faith was that Jesus had come forth from God. He
Himself more fully expresses what He desired them to believe about Him
in the words: “I came forth from the Father, and am come into the world:
again I leave the world, and go to the Father.” No doubt there is a
sense in which any man may use this language of himself. We can all
truthfully say we came forth from God and came into the world; and we
pass out from the world and return to God. But that the disciples did
not understand the words in this sense is obvious from the difficulty
they found in reaching this belief. Had Jesus merely meant that it was
true of Him, as of all others, that God is the great existence out of
whom we spring and to whom we return, the disciples could have found no
difficulty and the Jews must all have believed in Him. In some special
and exceptional sense, then, He came forth from God. What, then, was
this sense?
When Nicodemus came to Jesus, he addressed Him as a teacher “come from
God,” because, he added, “no man can do these miracles which Thou doest
except God be with Him.” In Nicodemus’ lips, therefore, the words “a
teacher come from God” meant a teacher with a Divine mission and
credentials. In this sense all the prophets were teachers “come from
God.” And accordingly many careful readers of the Gospels believe that
nothing more than this is meant by any of those expressions our Lord
uses of Himself, as “sent from God,” “come forth from God,” and so on.
The only distinction, it is supposed, between Christ and other prophets
is that He is more highly endowed, is commissioned and equipped as God’s
representative in a more perfect degree than Moses or Samuel or Elijah.
He had their power to work miracles, their authority in teaching; but
having a more important mission to accomplish, He had this power and
authority more fully. Now, it is quite certain that some of the
expressions which a careless reader might think conclusive in proof of
Christ’s divinity were not intended to express anything more than that
He was God’s commissioner. Indeed, it is remarkable how He Himself seems
to wish men to believe this above all else—that He was sent by God. In
reading the Gospel of John one is tempted to say that Jesus almost
intentionally avoids affirming His divinity explicitly and directly when
there seemed opportunity to do so. Certainly His main purpose was to
reveal the Father, to bring men to understand that His teaching about
God was true, and that He was sent by God.
There are, however, some expressions which unquestionably affirm
Christ’s pre-existence, and convince us that before He appeared in this
world He lived with God. And among these expressions the words He uses
in this passage hold a place: “I came forth from the Father, and am come
into the world: again, I leave the world, and go to the Father.” These
words, the disciples felt, lifted a veil from their eyes; they told Him
at once that they found an explicitness in this utterance which had been
a-wanting in others. And, indeed, nothing could be more explicit: the
two parts of the sentence balance and interpret one another. “I leave
the world, and go to the Father,” interprets “I came forth from the
Father, and am come into the world.” To say “I leave the world” is not
the same as to say “I go to the Father”: this second clause describes a
state of existence which is entered upon when existence in this world is
done. And to say “I came forth from the Father” is not the same as to
say “I came into the world”; it describes a state of existence
antecedent to that which began by coming into the world.
Thus the Apostles understood the words, and felt therefore that they had
gained a new platform of faith. This they felt to be plain-speaking,
meant to be understood. It so precisely met their craving and gave them
the knowledge they sought, that they felt more than ever Christ’s
insight into their state of mind and His power to satisfy their minds.
At length they are able to say with assurance that He has come forth
from God. They are persuaded that behind what they see there is a higher
nature, and that in Christ’s presence they are in the presence of One
whose origin is not of this world. It was this pre-existence of Christ
with God which gave the disciples assurance regarding all He taught
them. He spoke of what He had seen with the Father.
This belief, however, assured though it was, did not save them from a
cowardly desertion of Him whom they believed to be God’s representative
on earth. They would, when confronted with the world’s authorities and
powers, abandon their Master to His fate, and “would leave Him alone.”
He had always, indeed, been alone. All men who wish to carry out some
novel design or accomplish some extensive reform must be prepared to
stand alone, to listen unmoved to criticism, to estimate at their real
and very low value the prejudiced calumnies of those whose interests are
opposed to their design. They must be prepared to live without reward
and without sympathy, strong in the consciousness of their own rectitude
and that God will prosper the right. Jesus enjoyed the affection of a
considerable circle of friends; He was not without the comfort and
strength which come of being believed in; but in regard to His purpose
in life He was always alone. And yet, unless He won men over to His
views, unless He made some as ardent as Himself regarding them, His work
was lost. This was the special hardship of Christ’s solitariness. Those
whom He had gathered were to desert Him in the critical hour; but the
sore part of this desertion was that they were to go “each to his
own”—oblivious, that is to say, of the great cause in which they had
embarked with Christ.
At all times this is the problem Christ has to solve: how to prevail
upon men to look at life from His point of view, to forget their own
things and combine with Him, to be as enamoured of His cause as He
Himself is. He looks now upon us with our honest professions of faith
and growing regard, and He says: Yes, you believe; but you scatter each
to his own at the slightest breath of danger or temptation. This
scattering, each to his own, is that which thwarts Christ’s purpose and
imperils His work. The world with its enterprises and its gains, its
glitter and its glory, its sufficiency for the present life, comes in
and tempts us; and apart from the common good, we have each our private
schemes of advantage. And yet there is nothing more certain than that
our ultimate advantage is measured by the measure in which we throw in
our lot with Christ—by the measure in which we practically recognise
that there is an object for which all men in common can work, and that
to scatter “each to his own” is to resign the one best hope of life, the
one satisfying and remunerative labour.
In revealing what sustained Himself Christ reveals the true stay of
every soul of man. His trial was indeed severe. Brought without a single
friend to the bar of unsympathetic and unscrupulous judges: the Friend
of man, loving as no other has ever loved, and craving love and sympathy
as no other has craved it, yet standing without one pitying eye, without
one voice raised in His favour. Alone in a world He came to convince and
to win; at the end of His life, spent in winning men, left without one
to say He had not lived in vain; abandoned to enemies, to ignorant,
cruel, profane men. He was dragged through the streets where He had
spoken words of life and healed the sick, but no rescue was attempted.
So outcast from all human consideration was He, that a Barabbas found
friendly voices where He found none. Hearing the suborned witnesses
swear His life away, He heard at the same time His boldest disciple deny
that he knew any person of the name of Jesus. But through this
abandonment He knew the Father’s presence was with Him. “I am not alone,
because the Father is with Me.”
Times which in their own degree try us with the same sense of
solitariness come upon us all. All pain is solitary; you must bear it
alone: kind friends may be round you, but they cannot bear one pang for
you. You feel how separate and individual an existence you have when
your body is racked with pain and healthy people are by your side; and
you feel it also when you visit some pained or sorrowing person and sit
silently in their presence, feeling that the suffering is theirs and
that they must bear it. We should not brood much over any apparent want
of recognition we may meet with; all such brooding is unwholesome and
weak. Many of our minor sufferings we do best to keep to ourselves and
say nothing about them. Let us strive to show sympathy, and we shall
feel less the pain of not having it. To a large extent every one must be
alone in life—forming his own views of things, working out his own idea
of life, conquering his own sins, and schooling his own heart. And every
one is more or less misunderstood even by his most intimate friends. He
finds himself congratulated on occurrences which are no joy to him,
applauded for successes he is ashamed of; the very kindnesses of his
friends reveal to him how little they understand his nature. But all
this will not deeply affect a healthy-minded man, who recognises that he
is in the world to do good, and who is not always craving applause and
recognition.
But there are occasional times in which the want of sympathy is
crushingly felt. Some of the most painful and enduring sorrows of the
human heart are of a kind which forbid that they be breathed to the
nearest friend. Even if others know that they have fallen upon us they
cannot allude to them; and very often they are not even known. And there
are times even more trying, when we have not only to bear a sorrow or an
anxiety all our own, but when we have to adopt a line of conduct which
exposes us to misunderstanding, and to act continuously in a manner
which shuts us off from the sympathy of our friends. Our friends
remonstrate and advise, and we feel that their advice is erroneous: we
are compelled to go our own way and bear the charge of obstinacy and
even of cruelty; for sometimes, like Abraham offering Isaac, we cannot
satisfy conscience without seeming to injure or actually injuring those
we love.
It is in times like these that our faith is tested. We gain a firmer
hold of God than ever before when we in actual life prefer His
countenance and fellowship to the approbation and good-will of our
friends. When in order to keep conscience clean we dare to risk the
good-will of those we depend upon for affection and for support, our
faith becomes a reality and rapidly matures. For a time we may seem to
have rendered ourselves useless, and to have thrown ourselves out of all
profitable relations to our fellow-men: we may be shunned, and our
opinions and conduct may be condemned, and the object we had in view may
seem to be further off than ever; but such was the experience of Christ
also, till even He was forced to cry out, not only Why have ye, My
friends, forsaken Me? but “My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” But as in
His case, so in ours—this is only the natural and necessary path to the
perfect justification of ourselves and of the principles our conduct has
represented. If in obedience to conscience we are exposed to isolation
and the various loss consequent upon it, we are not alone—God is with
us. It is in the line of our conduct He is working and will carry out
His purposes. And well might such an one be envied by those who have
feared such isolation and shrunk from the manifold wretchedness that
comes of resisting the world’s ways and independently following an
unworldly and Christian path.
For really in our own life, as in the life of Christ, all is summed up
in the conflict between Christ and the world; and therefore the last
words of this His last conversation are: “In the world ye shall have
tribulation: but be of good courage. I have overcome the world.” When
Christ speaks of “the world” as comprising all that was opposed to Him,
it is not difficult to understand His meaning. By “the world” we
sometimes mean this earth; sometimes all external things, sun, moon, and
stars as well as this earth; sometimes we mean the world of men, as when
we say “All the world knows” such and such a thing, or as when Christ
said “God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son.” But
much more commonly Christ uses it to denote all in the present state of
things which opposes God and leads man away from God. We speak of
worldliness as fatal to the spirit, because worldliness means preference
for what is external and present to what is inward and both present and
future. Worldliness means attachment to things as they are—to the ways
of society, to the excitements, the pleasures, the profits, of the
present. It means surrender to what appeals to the sense—to comfort to
vanity, to ambition, to love of display. Worldliness is the spirit which
uses the present world without reference to the lasting and spiritual
purposes for the sake of which men are in this world. It ignores what is
eternal and what is spiritual; it is satisfied with present comfort,
with what brings present pleasure, with what ministers to the beauty of
this present life, to the material prosperity of men. And no soul
whatsoever or wheresoever situated can escape the responsibility of
making his choice between the world and God. To each of us the question
which determines all else is, Am I to live for ends which find their
accomplishment in this present life, or for ends which are eternal? Am I
to live so as to secure the utmost of comfort, of ease, of money, of
reputation, of domestic enjoyment, of the good things of this present
world? or am I to live so as to do the most I can for the forwarding of
God’s purposes with men, for the forwarding of spiritual and eternal
good? There is no man who is not living for one or other of these ends.
Two men enter the same office and transact the same business; but the
one is worldly, the other Christian: two men do the same work, use the
same material, draw the same salary; but one cherishes a spiritual end,
the other a worldly,—the one works, always striving to serve God and
his fellows, the other has nothing in view but himself and his own
interests. Two women live in the same street, have children at the same
school, dress very much alike; but you cannot know them long without
perceiving that the one is worldly, with her heart set on position and
earthly advancement for her children, while the other is unworldly and
prays that her children may learn to conquer the world and to live a
stainless and self-sacrificing life though it be a poor one. This is the
determining probation of life; this it is which determines what we are
and shall be. We are, every one of us, living either with the world as
our end or for God. The difficulty of choosing rightly and abiding by
our choice is extreme: no man has ever found it easy; for every man it
is a sufficient test of his reality, of his dependence on principle, of
his moral clear-sightedness, of his strength of character.
Therefore Christ, as the result of all His work, announces that He has
“overcome the world.” And on the ground of this conquest of His He bids
His followers rejoice and take heart, as if somehow His conquest of the
world guaranteed theirs, and as if their conflict would be easier on
account of His. And so indeed it is. Not only has every one now who
proposes to live for high and unworldly ends the satisfaction of knowing
that such a life is possible, and not only has he the vast encouragement
of knowing that One has passed this way before and attained His end;
but, moreover, it is Christ’s victory which has really overcome the
world in a final and public way. The world’s principles of action, its
pleasure-seeking, its selfishness, its childish regard for glitter and
for what is present to sense, in a word, its worldliness when set over
against the life of Christ, is for ever discredited. The experience of
Christ in this world reflects such discredit upon merely worldly ways,
and so clearly exhibits its blindness, its hatred of goodness, its
imbecility when it strives to counterwork God’s purposes, that no man
who morally has his eyes open can fail to look with suspicion and
abhorrence on the world. And the dignity, the love, the apprehension of
what is real and abiding in human affairs, and the ready application of
His life to a real and abiding purpose—all this, which is so visible in
the life of Christ, gives certainty and attractiveness to the principles
opposed to worldliness. We have in Christ’s life at once an
authoritative and an experimental teaching on the greatest of all human
subjects—how life should be spent.
Christ has overcome the world, then, by resisting its influence upon
Himself, by showing Himself actually superior to its most powerful
influences; and His overcoming of the world is not merely a private
victory availing for Himself alone, but it is a public good, because in
His life the perfect beauty of a life devoted to eternal and spiritual
ends is conspicuously shown. The man who can look upon the conflict
between the world and Christ as John has shown it, and say, “I would
rather be one of the Pharisees than Christ,” is hopelessly blind to the
real value of human life. But what says our life regarding the actual
choice we have made?
XVI.
_CHRIST’S INTERCESSORY PRAYER._
“These things spake Jesus; and lifting up His eyes to heaven, He
said, Father, the hour is come; glorify Thy Son, that the Son may
glorify Thee: even as Thou gavest Him authority over all flesh, that
whatsoever Thou hast given Him, to them He should give eternal life.
And this is life eternal, that they should know Thee the only true
God, and Him whom Thou didst send, even Jesus Christ. I glorified
Thee on the earth, having accomplished the work which Thou hast
given Me to do. And now, O Father, glorify Thou Me with Thine own
self with the glory which I had with Thee before the world was. I
manifested Thy name unto the men whom Thou gavest Me out of the
world: Thine they were, and Thou gavest them to Me; and they have
kept Thy word. Now they know that all things whatsoever Thou hast
given Me are from Thee: for the words which Thou gavest Me I have
given unto them; and they received them, and knew of a truth that I
came forth from Thee, and they believed that Thou didst send Me. I
pray for them: I pray not for the world, but for those whom Thou
hast given Me; for they are Thine: and all things that are Mine are
Thine, and Thine are Mine: and I am glorified in them. And I am no
more in the world, and these are in the world, and I come to Thee.
Holy Father, keep them in Thy name which Thou hast given Me, that
they may be one, even as We are. While I was with them, I kept them
in Thy name which Thou hast given Me: and I guarded them, and not
one of them perished, but the son of perdition; that the Scripture
might be fulfilled. But now I come to Thee; and these things I speak
in the world, that they may have My joy fulfilled in themselves. I
have given them Thy word; and the world hated them, because they are
not of the world, even as I am not of the world. I pray not that
Thou shouldest take them from the world, but that Thou shouldest
keep them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am
not of the world. Sanctify them in the truth: Thy word is truth. As
Thou didst send Me into the world, even so sent I them into the
world. And for their sakes I sanctify Myself, that they themselves
also may be sanctified in truth. Neither for these only do I pray,
but for them also that believe on Me through their word; that they
may all be one; even as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee, that
they also may be in Us: that the world may believe that Thou didst
send Me. And the glory which Thou hast given Me I have given unto
them; that they may be one, even as We are one; I in them, and Thou
in Me, that they may be perfected into one; that the world may know
that Thou didst send Me, and lovedst them, even as Thou lovedst Me.
Father, that which Thou hast given Me, I will that, where I am, they
also may be with Me; that they may behold My glory, which Thou hast
given Me: for Thou lovedst Me before the foundation of the world. O
righteous Father, the world knew Thee not, but I knew Thee; and
these knew that Thou didst send Me; and I made known unto them Thy
name, and will make it known; that the love wherewith Thou lovedst
me may be in them, and I in them.”—JOHN xvii.
This prayer of Christ is in some respects the most precious relic of the
past. We have here the words which Christ addressed to God in the
critical hour of His life—the words in which He uttered the deepest
feeling and thought of His Spirit, clarified and concentrated by the
prospect of death. What a revelation it would be to us had we Christ’s
prayers from His boyhood onwards! what a liturgy and promptuary of
devotion if we knew what He had desired from His early years—what He
had feared, what He had prayed against, what He had never ceased to hope
for; the things that one by one dropped out of His prayers, the things
that gradually grew into them; the persons He commended to the Father
and the manner of this commendation; His prayers for His mother, for
John, for Peter, for Lazarus, for Judas! But here we have a prayer
which, if it does not so abundantly satisfy pardonable curiosity, does
at least bring us into as sacred a presence. For even among the prayers
of Christ this stands by itself as that in which He gathered up the
retrospect of His past and surveyed the future of His Church; in which,
as if already dying, He solemnly presented to the Father Himself, His
work, and His people. Recognising the grandeur of the occasion, we may
be disposed to agree with Melanchthon, who, when giving his last
lecture shortly before His death, said: “There is no voice which has
ever been heard, either in heaven or in earth, more exalted, more holy,
more fruitful, more sublime, than this prayer offered up by the Son of
God Himself.”
The prayer was the natural conclusion to the conversation which Jesus
and the disciples had been carrying on. And as the Eleven saw Him
lifting His eyes to heaven, as if the Father He addressed were visible,
they no doubt felt a security which had not been imparted by all His
promises. And when in after-life they spoke of Christ’s intercession,
this instance of it must always have risen in memory and have formed all
their ideas of that part of the Redeemer’s work. It has always been
believed that those who have loved and cared for us while on earth
continue to do so when through death they have passed nearer to the
Source of all love and goodness; this lively interest in us is supposed
to continue because it formed so material an element in their life here
below; and it was impossible that those who heard our Lord thus awfully
commending them to the Father should ever forget this earnest
consideration of their state or should ever come to fancy that they were
forgotten.
Beginning with prayer for Himself, our Lord passes at the sixth verse
into prayer for His disciples, and at the twentieth verse the prayer
expands still more widely and embraces the world, all those who should
believe on Him.
First, Jesus prays for Himself; and His prayer is, “Father, glorify Thy
Son; glorify Thou Me with Thine own self with the glory which I had with
Thee before the world was.” The work for which He came into the world
was done; “I have finished the work which Thou gavest Me to do.” There
remains no more reason why He should stay longer on earth; “the hour is
come,” the hour for closing His earthly career and opening to Him a new
period and sphere. He does not wish and does not need a prolongation of
life. He has found time enough in less than a half of three-score years
and ten to do all He can do on earth. It is character, not time, we need
to do our work. To make a deep and abiding impression it is not longer
life we need, but intensity. Jesus did not find Himself cramped,
limited, or too soon hurried out of life. He viewed death as the
suitable timely step, and took it with self-command and in order to pass
to something better than earthly life.
How immeasurably beneath this level is the vaunted equanimity of the
thinker who says, “Death can be no evil because it is universal”! How
immeasurably beneath it is the habit of most of us! Which of us can
stand in that clear air on that high point which separates life from
what is beyond and can say, “I have finished the work which Thou gavest
Me to do”? A broken column is the fit monument of our life, unfinished,
frustrated, useless. Wasted energy, ill-repaired blunders, unfulfilled
purposes, fruitless years, much that is positively evil, much that was
done mechanically and carelessly and for the day; plans ill conceived
and worse executed; imperfect ideals of life imperfectly realised;
pursuits dictated by uneducated tastes, unchastened whims, accidental
circumstances,—such is the retrospect which most of us have as we look
back over life. Few men even recognise the reality of life as part of an
eternal order, and, of the few who do so, still fewer seriously and
persistently aim at fitting in their life as a solid part of that
order.
Before we know whether we have finished the work given us to do we must
know what that work is. At the outset of his account of Christ’s work
John gives us his conception of it. “The Word was made flesh, and dwelt
among us; and _we beheld His glory_, the glory as of the Only-begotten
of the Father.” This work was now accomplished, and Jesus can say, “I
have glorified Thee on the earth”; “I have manifested Thy name unto the
men which Thou gavest Me out of the world.” We may all add our humble
responsive “Amen” to this account of His finished work. John has carried
us through the scenes in which Jesus manifested the glory of the Father
and showed the full meaning of that name, displaying the Father’s love
in His self-sacrificing interest in men, the Father’s holiness and
supremacy in His devoted filial obedience. Never again can men separate
the idea of the true God from the life of Jesus Christ; it is in that
life we come to know God, and through that life His glory shines. This
many a man has felt is the true Divine glory; this God yearning over His
lost and wretched children, coming down and sharing in their
wretchedness to win them to Himself and blessedness—this is the God for
us. This alone is glory such as we bow before and own to be infinitely
worthy of trust and adoration, almightiness applying itself to the
necessities and fears of the weak, perfect purity winning to itself the
impure and the outcast, love showing itself to be Divine by its
patience, its humility, its absolute sacrifice. It is Christ who has
found entrance for these conceptions of God once for all into the human
mind; it is to Christ we owe it that we know a God we can entirely love
and increasingly worship. With the most assured truth He could say, “I
have finished the work which Thou gavest Me to do; I have glorified
Thee on the earth; I have manifested Thy name unto the men which Thou
gavest Me out of the world.”
But Christ recognises a work which ran parallel with this, a work which
continually resulted from His manifestation of the Father. By His
manifesting the Father He gave eternal life to those who accepted and
believed His revelation. The power to reveal the Father which Christ had
received He had not on His own account, but that He might give eternal
life to men. For “this is life eternal, that they might know Thee the
only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast sent.” Eternal life is
not merely life indefinitely prolonged. It is rather life under new
conditions and fed from different sources. It can be entered upon now,
but a full understanding of it is now impossible. The grub might as well
try to understand the life of the butterfly, or the chick in the shell
the life of the bird. To know what Christ revealed, this is the birth to
life eternal. To know that love and holiness are the governing powers in
conformity with which all things are carried onward to their end; to
know what God is, that He is a Father who cannot leave us His children
of earth behind and pass on to His own great works and purposes in the
universe, but stoops to our littleness and delays that He may carry
every one of us with Him,—this is life eternal. This it is that subdues
the human heart and cleanses it from pride, self-seeking, and lust, and
that inclines it to bow before the holy and loving God, and to choose
Him and life in Him. This it is that turns it from the brief joys and
imperfect meanings of time and gives it a home in eternity—that severs
it in disposition and in destiny from the changing, passing world and
gives it an eternal inheritance as God’s child. To as many as believed
Christ, to them He gave power to become the sons of God. To believe Him
and to accept the God He reveals is to become a son of God and is to
enter into life eternal. To be conquered by the Divine love shown us; to
feel that not in worldly ambition or any self-seeking, but only in
devotion to interests that are spiritual and general, is the true life
for us; to yield ourselves to the Spirit of Christ and seek to be
animated and possessed by that Spirit,—this is to throw in our lot with
God, to be satisfied in Him, to have eternal life.
The earthly work of Christ, then, being finished, He asks the Father to
glorify Him with His own self, with the glory He had with Him before the
world was. It seems to me vain to deny that this petition implies on
Christ’s part a consciousness of a life which He had before He appeared
on earth. His mind turns from the present hour, from His earthly life,
to eternity, to those regions beyond time into which no created
intelligence can follow Him, and in which God alone exists, and in that
Divine solitude He claims a place for Himself. If He merely meant that
from eternity God had conceived of Him, the ideal man, and if the
existence and glory He speaks of were merely existence in God’s mind,
but not actual, His words do not convey His meaning. The glory which He
prayed for now was a conscious, living glory; He did not wish to become
extinct or to be absorbed in the Divine being; He meant to continue and
did continue in actual, personal, living existence. This was the glory
He prayed for, and this therefore must also have been the glory He had
before the world was. It was a glory of which it was proper to say, “_I
had_ it,” and not merely God conceived it: it was enjoyed by Christ
before the worlds were, and was not only in the mind of God.
What that glory was, who can tell? We know it was a glory not of
position only, but of character—a glory which disposed and prepared Him
to sympathize with suffering and to give Himself to the actual needs of
men. From that glory He came to share with men in their humiliation, to
expose Himself to their scorn and abuse, to win them to eternal life and
to some true participation in His glory.
But Christ’s removal from the earthly and visible life involved a great
change in the condition of the disciples. Hitherto He had been present
with them day by day, always exhibiting to them spiritual glory, and
attracting them to it in His own person. So long as they saw God’s glory
in so attractive and friendly a form it was not difficult for them to
resist the world’s temptations. “While I was with them in the world, I
kept them in Thy name”—that is, by revealing the Father to them; but
“now I am no more in the world, but these are in the world, and I come
to Thee. Holy Father, keep through Thine own name those whom Thou hast
given Me. Sanctify them through Thy truth: Thy word is truth.” Christ
had been the Word Incarnate, the utterance of God to men; in Him men
recognised what God is and what God wills. And this sanctified them;
this marvellous revelation of God and His love for men drew men to Him:
they felt how Divine and overcoming a love this was; they adored the
name Father which Christ the Son made known to them; they felt
themselves akin to God and claimed by Him, and spurned the world; they
recognised in themselves that which could understand and be appealed to
by such a love as God’s. Their glory was to be God’s children.
But now the visible image, the Incarnate Word, is withdrawn, and Christ
commits to the Father those whom He leaves on earth. “Holy Father,” Thou
whose holiness moves Thee to keep men separate to Thyself from every
evil contagion, “keep through Thine own name those whom Thou hast given
Me.” It is still by the recognition of God in Christ that we are to be
kept from evil, by contemplating and penetrating this great
manifestation of God to us, by listening humbly and patiently to this
Incarnate Word. Knowledge of the God whose the world and all existence
is, knowledge of Him in whom we live and whose holiness is silently
judging and ruling all things, knowledge that He who rules all and who
is above all gives Himself to us with a love that thinks no sacrifice
too great—it is this knowledge of the truth that saves us from the
world. It is the knowledge of those abiding realities which Christ
revealed, of those great and loving purposes of God to man, and of the
certainty of their fulfilment, which recalls us to holiness and to God.
There is reality here; all else is empty and delusive.
But these realities are obscured and thrust aside by a thousand
pretentious frivolities which claim our immediate attention and
interest. We are in the world, and day by day the world insists that we
shall consider it the great reality. Christ had conquered it and was
leaving it. Why, then, did He not take with Him all whom He had won to
Himself out of the world? He did not do so because they had a work to
accomplish which could only be accomplished in the world. As He had
consecrated Himself to the work of making known the Father, so must
they consecrate themselves to the same work. As Christ in His own person
and life had brought clear before their minds the presence of the
Father, so must they by their person and life manifest in the world the
existence and the grace of Christ. They must make permanent and
universal the revelation He had brought, that all the world might
believe that He was the true representative of God. Christ had lighted
them, and with their light they were to kindle all men, till the world
was full of light. A share in this work is given to each of us. We are
permitted to mediate between God and men, to carry to some the knowledge
which gives life eternal. It is made possible to us to be benefactors in
the highest kind, to give to this man and that a God. To parents it is
made possible to fill the opening and hungry mind of their child with a
sense of God which will awe, restrain, encourage, gladden him all his
life through. To relieve the wants of to-day, to refresh any human
spirit by kindness, and to forward the interests of any struggler in
life is much; but it is little compared with the joy and solid utility
of disclosing to a human soul that which he at last recognises as
Divine, and before which at last he bows in spontaneous adoration and
absolute trust. To the man who has long questioned whether there is a
God, who has doubted whether there is any morally perfect Being, any
Spirit existent greater and purer than man, you have but to show Christ,
and through His unconquerable love and untemptable holiness reveal to
him a God.
But as it was not by telling men about God that Christ convinced men
that somewhere there existed a holy God who cared for them, but by
showing God’s holiness and love present to them in His own person, so
our words may fail to accomplish much if our life does not reveal a
presence men cannot but recognise as Divine. It was by being one with
the Father Christ revealed Him; it was the Father’s will His life
exhibited. And the extension of this to the whole world of men is the
utmost of Christ’s desire. All will be accomplished when all men are
one, even as Christ and the Father are already one.
This text is often cited by those who seek to promote the union of
churches. But we find it belongs to a very different category and much
higher region. That all churches should be under similar government,
should adopt the same creed, should use the same forms of worship, even
if possible, is not supremely desirable; but real unity of sentiment
towards Christ and of zeal to promote His will is supremely desirable.
Christ’s will is all-embracing; the purposes of God are wide as the
universe, and can be fulfilled only by endless varieties of
dispositions, functions, organisations, labours. We must expect that, as
time goes on, men, so far from being contracted into a narrow and
monotonous uniformity, will exhibit increasing diversities of thought
and of method, and will be more and more differentiated in all outward
respects. If the infinitely comprehensive purposes of God are to be
fulfilled, it must be so. But also, if these purposes are to be
fulfilled, all intelligent agents must be at one with God, and must be
so profoundly in sympathy with God’s mind as revealed in Christ that,
however different one man’s work or methods may be from another’s, God’s
will shall alike be carried out by both. If this will can be more freely
carried out by separate churches, then outward separation is no great
calamity. Only when outward separation leads one church to despise or
rival or hate another is it a calamity. But whether churches abide
separate or are incorporated in outward unity, the desirable thing is
that they be one in Christ, that they have the same eagerness in His
service, that they be as regiments of one army fighting a common foe and
supporting one another, diverse in outward appearance, in method, in
function, as artillery, infantry, cavalry, engineers, or even as the
army and navy of the same country, but fighting for one flag and one
cause, and their very diversity more vividly exhibiting their real
unity.
But why should unity be the ultimate desire of Christ, the highest point
to which the Saviour’s wishes for mankind can reach? Because spirit is
that which rules; and if we be one with God in spirit the future is
ours. This mighty universe in which we find ourselves, apparently
governed by forces compared to which the most powerful of human engines
are weak as the moth—forces which keep this earth, and orbs
immeasurably larger, suspended in space,—this universe is controlled by
spirit, is designed for spiritual ends, for ends of the highest kind and
which concern conscious and moral beings.
It is as yet only by glimpses we can see the happiness of those who are
one with God; it is only by inadequate comparisons and with mental
effort we can attain to even a rudimentary conception of the future that
awaits those who are thus eternally blessed. Of them well may Paul say,
“All things are yours; for ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.” It is
for Christ all things are governed by God; to be in Him is to be above
the reach of catastrophe—to be, as Christ Himself expresses it, beside
Himself on the throne, from which all things are ruled. Having been
attracted by His character, by what He is and does, and having sought
here on earth to promote His will, we shall be His agents hereafter, but
in a life in which spiritual glory irradiates everything, and in which
an ecstasy and strength which this frail body could not contain will be
the normal and constant index of the life of God in us. To do good, to
utter by word or deed the love and power that are in us, is the
permanent joy of man. With what alacrity does the surgeon approach the
operation he knows will be successful! with what pleasure does the
painter put on canvas the idea which fills his mind and which he knows
will appeal to every one who sees it! And whoever learns to do good by
partaking of God’s spirit of communicative goodness will find
everlasting joy in imparting what he has and can. He will do so, not
with the feeble and hesitating mind and hand which here make almost
every good action partly painful, but with a spontaneity and sense of
power which will be wholly pleasure; he will know that being one with
God he can do good, can accomplish and effect some solid and needful
work. Slowly, very slowly, is this arrived at; but time is of no
consequence in work that is eternal, so long only as we are sure we do
not idly miss present opportunities of learning, so long only as we know
that our faces are turned in the right direction, and that a right
spirit is in us.
If there lingers in our minds a feeling that the end Christ proposes and
utters as His last prayer for men does not draw us with irresistible
force, it might be enough to say to our own heart that this is our
weakness, that certainly in this prayer we do touch the very central
significance of human life, and that however dimly human words may be
able to convey thoughts regarding eternity we have here in Christ’s
words sufficient indication of the one abiding end and aim of all wisely
directed human life. Whatever the future of man is to be, whatever joy
_life_ is to become, in whatever far-reaching and prolonged experiences
we are to learn the fruitfulness and efficacy of God’s love, whatever
new sources and conditions of happiness we may in future worlds be
introduced to, whatever higher energies and richer affections are to be
opened in us, all this can only be by our becoming one with God, in
whose will the future now lies. And it may also be said, if we think
this the prayer of One who was not in the full current of actual human
life, and had little understanding of men’s ways, that this prayer is
fulfilled in very many who are deeply involved and busily occupied in
this world. They give their mind to their employment, but their heart
goes to higher aims and more enduring results. To do good is to them of
greater consequence than to make money. To see the number of Christ’s
sincere followers increasing is to them truer joy than to see their own
business extending. In the midst of their greatest prosperity they
recognise that there is something far better than worldly prosperity,
and that is, to be kept from the evil that is in the world and to extend
the knowledge of God. They feel in common with all men that it is not
always easy to remember that great spiritual kingdom with its mighty but
unobtrusive interests, but they are kept by the Father’s name, and they
do on the whole live under the influence of God and hoping in His
salvation. And it would help us all to do so were we to believe that
Christ’s interest in us is such as this prayer reveals, and that the
great subject of His intercession is, that we be kept from the evil that
is in the world and be helpful in the great and enduring work of
bringing into truer fellowship men’s lives and God’s goodness. Alongside
of all our profitless labour and unworthiness of aim there runs this
lofty aim of Christ for us; and while we are greedily following after
pleasure, or thoughtlessly throwing ourselves into mere worldliness, our
Lord is praying the Father that we be lifted into harmony with Him and
be used as channels of His grace to others.
XVII.
_THE ARREST._
“When Jesus had spoken these words, He went forth with His disciples
over the brook Kidron, where was a garden, into the which He
entered, Himself and His disciples. Now Judas also, which betrayed
Him, knew the place: for Jesus ofttimes resorted thither with His
disciples. Judas then, having received the band of soldiers, and
officers from the chief priests and the Pharisees, cometh thither
with lanterns and torches and weapons. Jesus therefore, knowing all
the things that were coming upon Him, went forth, and saith unto
them, Whom seek ye? They answered Him, Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus
saith unto them, I am He. And Judas also, which betrayed Him, was
standing with them. When therefore He said unto them, I am He, they
went backward, and fell to the ground. Again therefore He asked
them, Whom seek ye? And they said, Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus
answered, I told you that I am He: if therefore ye seek Me, let
these go their way: that the word might be fulfilled which He spake,
Of those whom Thou hast given Me I lost not one. Simon Peter
therefore having a sword drew it, and struck the high priest’s
servant, and cut off his right ear. Now the servant’s name was
Malchus. Jesus therefore said unto Peter, Put up the sword into the
sheath: the cup which the Father hath given Me, shall I not drink
it? So the band and the chief captain, and the officers of the Jews,
seized Jesus and bound Him, and led Him to Annas first; for he was
father-in-law to Caiaphas, which was high priest that year. Now
Caiaphas was he which gave counsel to the Jews, that it was
expedient that one man should die for the people.”—JOHN xviii.
1–14.
Jesus having commended to the Father Himself and His disciples, left the
city, crossed the Kidron, and entered the Garden of Gethsemane, where He
frequently went for quiet and to pass the night. The time He had spent
in encouraging His disciples and praying for them Judas had spent in
making preparations for His arrest. In order to impress Pilate with the
dangerous nature of this Galilean he asks him for the use of the Roman
cohort to effect His capture. It was possible His arrest might occasion
a tumult and rouse the people to attempt a rescue. Perhaps Judas also
had an alarming remembrance of the miraculous power he had seen Jesus
put forth, and was afraid to attempt His apprehension with only the
understrappers of the Sanhedrim or the Temple guard; so he takes the
Roman cohort of five hundred men, or whatever number he would reckon
would be more than a match for a miracle. And though the moon was full,
he takes the precaution of furnishing the expedition with lanterns and
torches, for he knew that down in that deep Kidron gully it was often
dark when there was plenty of light above; and might not Jesus hide
Himself in some of the shadows, in some thicket or cavern, or in some
garden-shed or tower? He could not have made more elaborate
preparations had he been wishing to take a thief or to surprise a
dangerous chief of banditti in his stronghold.
The futility of such preparations became at once apparent. So far from
trying to hide Himself or slip out by the back of the garden, Jesus no
sooner sees the armed men than He steps to the front and asks, “Whom
seek ye?” Jesus, in order that He might screen His disciples, wished at
once to be identified by His captors themselves as the sole object of
their search. By declaring that they sought Jesus of Nazareth, they
virtually exempted the rest from apprehension. But when Jesus identified
Himself as the person they sought, instead of rushing forward and
holding Him fast, as Judas had instructed them, those in front shrank
back; they felt that they had no weapons that would not break upon the
calmness of that spiritual majesty; they went backward and fell to the
ground. This was no idle display; it was not a needless theatrical
garnishing of the scene for the sake of effect. If we could imagine the
Divine nobility of Christ’s appearance at that critical moment when He
finally proclaimed His work done and gave Himself up to die, we should
all of us sink humbled and overcome before Him. Even in the dim and
flickering light of the torches there was that in His appearance which
made it impossible for the bluntest and rudest soldier to lay a hand
upon Him. Discipline was forgotten; the legionaries who had thrown
themselves on spear-points unawed by the fiercest of foes saw in this
unarmed figure something which quelled and bewildered them.
But this proof of His superiority was lost upon His disciples. They
thought that armed force should be met by armed force. Recovering from
their discomfiture, and being ashamed of it, the soldiers and servants
of the Sanhedrim advance to bind Jesus. Peter, who had with some dim
presentiment of what was coming possessed himself of a sword, aims a
blow at the head of Malchus, who having his hands occupied in binding
Jesus can only defend himself by bending his head to one side, and so
instead of his life loses only his ear. To our Lord this interposition
of Peter seemed as if he were dashing out of His hand the cup which the
Father had put into it. Disengaging His hands from those who already
held them He said, “Suffer ye thus far”[20] (Permit Me to do this one
thing); and laying His hand on the wound He healed it, this forgiving
and beneficent act being the last done by His unbound hands—significant,
indeed, that such should be the style of action from which they
prevented Him by binding His hands. Surely the Roman officer in command,
if none of the others, must have observed the utter incongruity of the
bonds, the fatuous absurdity and wickedness of tying hands because they
wrought miracles of healing.
While our Lord thus calmly resigned Himself to His fate, He was not
without an indignant sense of the wrong that was done Him, not only in
His being apprehended, but in the manner of it. “Are ye come out as
against a thief with swords and with staves? I sat daily teaching in the
Temple, and ye laid no hold on Me.” Many of the soldiers must have felt
how ungenerous it was to treat such a Person as a common felon,—coming
upon Him thus in the dead of night, as if He were one who never appeared
in the daylight; coming with bludgeons and military aid, as if He were
likely to create a disturbance. Commonly an arrest is considered to be
best made if the culprit is seized red-handed in the very act. Why,
then, had they not thus taken Him? They knew that the popular conscience
was with Him, and they dared not take Him on the streets of Jerusalem.
It was the last evidence of their inability to understand His kingdom,
its nature and its aims. Yet surely some of the crowd must have felt
ashamed of themselves, and been uneasy till they got rid of their
unsuitable weapons, stealthily dropping their sticks as they walked or
hurling them deep into the shade of the garden.
This, then, is the result produced by our Lord’s labours of love and
wisdom. His conduct had been most conciliatory—conciliatory to the
point of meekness unintelligible to those who could not penetrate His
motives. He had innovated certainly, but His innovations were blessings,
and were so marked by wisdom and sanctioned by reason that every direct
assault against them had broken down. He did not seek for power further
than for the power of doing good. He knew He could lift men to a far
other life than they were living, and permission to do so was His grand
desire. The result was that He was marked as the object of the most
rancorous hatred of which the human heart is capable. Why so? Do we need
to ask? What is more exasperating to men who fancy themselves the
teachers of the age than to find another teacher carrying the
convictions of the people? What is more painful than to find that in
advanced life we must revolutionise our opinions and admit the truth
taught by our juniors? He who has new truths to declare or new methods
to introduce must recognise that he will be opposed by the combined
forces of ignorance, pride, self-interest, and sloth. The majority are
always on the side of things as they are. And whoever suggests
improvement, whoever shows the faultiness and falseness of what has been
in vogue, must be prepared to pay the price and endure misunderstanding,
calumny, opposition, and ill-usage. If all men speak well of us, it is
only while we go with the stream. As soon as we oppose popular customs,
explode received opinions, introduce reforms, we must lay our account
for ill-treatment. It has always been so, and in the nature of things it
must always be so. We cannot commit a crime more truly hated by society
than to convince it there are better ways of living than its own and a
truth beyond what it has conceived, and it has been the consolation and
encouragement of many who have endeavoured to improve matters around
them and have met with contempt or enmity that they share the lot of Him
whose reward for seeking to bless mankind was that He was arrested as a
common felon.
When thus treated, men are apt to be embittered towards their fellows.
When all their efforts to do good are made the very ground of accusation
against them, there is the strongest provocation to give up all such
attempts and to arrange for one’s own comfort and safety. This world has
few more sufficient tests to apply to character than this; and it is
only the few who, when misinterpreted and ill-used by ignorance and
malignity, can retain any loving care for others. It struck the
spectators, therefore, of this scene in the garden as a circumstance
worthy of record, that when Jesus was Himself bound He should shield His
disciples. “If ye seek Me, let these go their way.” Some of the crowd
had perhaps laid hands on the disciples or were showing a disposition to
apprehend them as well as their Master. Jesus therefore interferes,
reminding His captors that they had themselves said that _He_ was the
object of this midnight raid, and that the disciples must therefore be
scatheless.
In relating this part of the scene John puts an interpretation on it
which was not merely natural, but which has been put upon it
instinctively by all Christians since. It seemed to John as if, in thus
acting, our Lord was throwing into a concrete and tangible form His true
substitution in the room of His people. To John these words He utters
seem the motto of His work. Had any of the disciples been arrested along
with Jesus and been executed by His side as act and part with Him, the
view which the Christian world has taken of Christ’s position and work
must have been blurred if not quite altered. But the Jews had
penetration enough to see where the strength of this movement lay. They
believed that if the Shepherd was smitten the sheep would give them no
trouble, but would necessarily scatter. Peter’s flourish with the sword
attracted little attention; they knew that great movements were not led
by men of his type. They passed him by with a smile and did not even
arrest him. It was Jesus who stood before them as alone dangerous. And
Jesus on His side knew that the Jews were right, that He was the
responsible person, that these Galileans would have been dreaming at
their nets had He not summoned them to follow Him. If there was any
offence in the matter, it belonged to Him, not to them.
But in Jesus thus stepping to the front and shielding the disciples by
exposing Himself, John sees a picture of the whole sacrifice and
substitution of Christ. This figure of his Master moving forward to meet
the swords and staves of the party remains indelibly stamped upon his
mind as the symbol of Christ’s whole relation to His people. That night
in Gethsemane was to them all the hour and power of darkness; and in
every subsequent hour of darkness John and the rest see the same Divine
figure stepping to the front, shielding them and taking upon Himself all
the responsibility. It is thus Christ would have us think of Him—as our
friend and protector, watchful over our interests, alive to all that
threatens our persons, interposing between us and every hostile event.
If by following Him according to our knowledge we are brought into
difficulties, into circumstances of trouble and danger, if we are
brought into collision with those in power, if we are discouraged and
threatened by serious obstacles, let us be quite sure that in the
critical moment He will interpose and convince us that, though He cannot
save Himself, He can save others. He will not lead us into difficulties
and leave us to find our own way out of them. If in striving to
discharge our duty we have become entangled in many distressing and
annoying circumstances, He acknowledges His responsibility in leading us
into such a condition, and will see that we are not permanently the
worse for it. If in seeking to know Him more thoroughly we have been led
into mental perplexities, He will stand by us and see that we come to no
harm. He encourages us to take this action of His in shielding His
disciples as the symbol of what we all may expect He will do for
ourselves. In all matters between God and us He interposes and claims to
be counted as the true Head who is accountable, as that One who desires
to answer all charges that can be made against the rest of us. If
therefore, in view of much duty left undone, of many sinful imaginings
harboured, of much vileness of conduct and character, we feel that it is
ourselves the eye of God is seeking and with _us_ He means to take
account; if we know not how to answer Him regarding many things that
stick in our memory and conscience,—let us accept the assurance here
given us that Christ presents Himself as responsible.
It is not without surprise that we read that when Jesus was arrested all
the disciples forsook Him and fled. John, indeed, and Peter speedily
recovered themselves and followed to the hall of judgment; and the
others may not only have felt that they were in danger so long as they
remained in His company, but also that by accompanying Him they could
not mend matters. Still, the kind of loyalty that stands by a falling
cause, and the kind of courage that risks all to show sympathy with a
friend or leader, are qualities so very common that one would have
expected to find them here. And no doubt had the matter been to be
decided in Peter’s fashion, by the sword, they would have stood by Him.
But there was a certain mysteriousness about our Lord’s purpose that
prevented His followers from being quite sure where they were being led
to. They were perplexed and staggered by the whole transaction. They had
expected things to go differently and scarcely knew what they were doing
when they fled.
There are times when we feel a slackening of devotion to Christ, times
when we are doubtful whether we have not been misled, times when the
bond between us and Him seems to be of the slenderest possible
description, times when we have as truly forsaken Him as these
disciples, and are running no risks for Him, doing nothing to advance
His interests, seeking only our own comfort and our own safety. These
times will frequently be found to be the result of disappointed
expectations. Things have not gone with us in the spiritual life as we
expected. We have found things altogether more difficult than we looked
for. We do not know what to make of our present state nor what to expect
in the future, and so we lose an active interest in Christ and fall away
from any hope that is living and influential.
Another point which John evidently desires to bring prominently before
us in this narrative is Christ’s willingness to surrender Himself; the
voluntary character of all He afterwards suffered. It was at this point
of His career, at His apprehension, this could best be brought out.
Afterwards He might say He suffered willingly, but so far as appearances
went He had no option. Previous to His apprehension His professions of
willingness would not have been attended to. It was precisely now that
it could be seen whether He would flee, hide, resist, or calmly yield
Himself. And John is careful to bring out His willingness. He went to
the garden as usual, “knowing all things that should come upon Him.” It
would have been easy to seek some safer quarters for the night, but He
would not. At the last moment escape from the garden could not have been
impossible. His followers could have covered His retreat. But He
advances to meet the party, avows Himself to be the man they sought,
will not suffer Peter to use his sword, in every way shows that His
surrender is voluntary. Still, had He not shown His power to escape,
onlookers might have thought this was only the prudent conduct of a
brave man who wished to preserve His dignity, and therefore preferred
delivering Himself up to being ignominiously dragged from a
hiding-place. Therefore it was made plain that if He yielded it was not
for want of power to resist. By a word He overthrew those who came to
bind Him, and made them feel ashamed of their preparations. He spoke
confidently of help that would have swept the cohort off the field.[21]
And thus it was brought out that, if He died, He laid down His life and
was not deprived of it solely by the hate and violence of men. The hate
and violence were there; but they were not the sole factors. He yielded
to these because they were ingredients in the cup His Father wished Him
to drink.
The reason of this is obvious. Christ’s life was to be all sacrifice,
because self-sacrifice is the essence of holiness and of love. From
beginning to end the moving spring of all His actions was deliberate
self-devotement to the good of men or to the fulfilment of God’s will;
for these are equivalents. And His death as the crowning act of this
career was to be conspicuously a death embodying and exhibiting the
spirit of self-sacrifice. He offered Himself on the cross through the
eternal Spirit. That death was not compulsory; it was not the outcome of
a sudden whim or generous impulse; it was the expression of a constant
uniform “eternal” Spirit, which on the cross, in the yielding of life
itself, rendered up for men all that was possible. Unwillingly no
sacrifice can be made. When a man is taxed to support the poor, we do
not call that a sacrifice. Sacrifice must be free, loving, uncompelled;
it must be the exhibition in act of love, the freest and most
spontaneous of all human emotions. “It is a true Christian instinct in
our language which has seized upon the word _sacrifice_ to express the
self-devotion prompted by an unselfish love for others: we speak of the
_sacrifices_ made by a loving wife or mother; and we test the sincerity
of a Christian by the _sacrifices_ he will make for the love of Christ
and the brethren.... The reason why Christianity has approved itself a
living principle of regeneration to the world is specially because a
Divine example and a Divine spirit of self-sacrifice have wrought
together in the hearts of men, and thereby an ever-increasing number
have been quickened with the desire and strengthened with the will to
spend and be spent for the cleansing, the restoration, and the life of
the most guilty, miserable, and degraded of their fellows.” It was in
Christ’s life and death this great principle of the life of God and man
was affirmed: there self-sacrifice is perfectly exhibited.
It is to this willingness of Christ to suffer we must ever turn. It is
this voluntary, uncompelled, spontaneous devotion of Himself to the good
of men which is the magnetic point in this earth. Here is something we
can cleave to with assurance, something we can trust and build upon.
Christ in His own sovereign freedom of will and impelled by love of us
has given Himself to work out our perfect deliverance from sin and evil
of every kind. Let us deal sincerely with Him, let us be in earnest
about these matters, let us hope truly in Him, let us give Him time to
conquer by moral means all our moral foes within and without, and we
shall one day enter into His joy and His triumph.
But when we thus apply John’s words we are haunted with a suspicion that
they were perhaps not intended to be thus used. Is John justified in
finding in Christ’s surrender of Himself to the authorities, on
condition that the disciples should escape, fulfilment of the words that
of those whom God had given Him He had lost none? The actual occurrence
we see here is Jesus arrested as a false Messiah, and claiming to be the
sole culprit if any culprit there be. Is this an occurrence that has any
bearing upon us or any special instruction regarding the substitution of
a sin-bearer in our room? Can it mean that He alone bears the punishment
of our sin and that we go free? Is it any more than an illustration of
His substitutionary work, one instance out of many of His habit of
self-devotion in the room of others? Can I build upon this act in the
Garden of Gethsemane and conclude from it that He surrenders Himself
that I may escape punishment? Can I legitimately gather from it anything
more than another proof of His constant readiness to stand in the
breach? It is plain enough that a person who acted as Christ did here is
one we could trust; but had this action any special virtue as the actual
substitution of Christ in our room as sin-bearer?
It is, I think, well that we should occasionally put to ourselves such
questions and train ourselves to look at the events of Christ’s life as
actual occurrences, and to distinguish between what is fanciful and what
is real. So much has been said and written regarding His work, it has
been the subject of so much sentiment, the basis of so many conflicting
theories, the text of so much loose and allegorising interpretation,
that the original plain and substantial fact is apt to be overlaid and
lost sight of. And yet it is that plain and substantial reality which
has virtue for us, while all else is delusive, howsoever finely
sentimental, howsoever rich in coincidences with Old Testament sayings
or in suggestions of ingenious doctrine. The subject of substitution is
obscure. Inquiry into the Atonement is like the search for the North
Pole: approach it from what quarter we may, there are unmistakable
indications that a finality exists in that direction; but to make our
way to it and take a survey all round it at once is still beyond us. We
must be content if we can correct certain variations of the compass and
find so much as one open waterway through which our own little vessel
can be steered.
Looking, then, at this surrender of Christ in the light of John’s
comment, we see clearly enough that Christ sought to shelter His
disciples at His own expense, and that this must have been the habit of
His life. He sought no companion in misfortune. His desire was to save
others from suffering. This willingness to be the responsible party was
the habit of His life. It is impossible to think of Christ as in any
matter sheltering Himself behind any man or taking a second place. He is
always ready to bear the burden and the brunt. We recognise in this
action of Christ that we have to do with One who shirks nothing, fears
nothing, grudges nothing; who will substitute Himself for others
wherever possible, if danger is abroad. So far as the character and
habit of Christ go, there is unquestionably here manifest a good
foundation for His substitution in our stead wheresoever such
substitution is possible.
It is also in this scene, probably more than in any other, that we see
that the work Christ had come to do was one which He must do entirely by
Himself. It is scarcely exaggeration to say He could employ no assistant
even in its minor details. He did indeed send forth men to proclaim His
kingdom, but it was to proclaim what He _alone did_. In His miracles He
did not use His disciples as a surgeon uses His assistants. Here in the
garden He explicitly puts the disciples aside and says that this
question of the Messiahship is solely His affair. This separate,
solitary character of Christ’s work is important: it reminds us of the
exceptional dignity and greatness of it; it reminds us of the unique
insight and power possessed by Him who alone conceived and carried it
through.
There is no question, then, of Christ’s willingness to be our
substitute; the question rather is, Is it possible that He should suffer
for our sin and so save us from suffering? and does this scene in the
garden help us to answer that question? That this scene, in common with
the whole work of Christ, had a meaning and relations deeper than those
that appear on the surface none of us doubts. The soldiers who arrested
Him, the judges who condemned Him, saw nothing but the humble and meek
prisoner, the bar of the Sanhedrim, the stripes of the Roman scourge,
the material cross and nails and blood; but all this had relations of
infinite reach, meaning of infinite depth. Through all that Christ did
and suffered God was accomplishing the greatest of His designs, and if
we miss this Divine intention we miss the essential significance of
these events. The Divine intention was to save us from sin and give us
eternal life. This is accomplished by Christ’s surrender of Himself to
this earthly life and all the anxiety, the temptation, the mental and
spiritual strain which this involved. By revealing the Father’s love to
us He wins us back to the Father; and the Father’s love was revealed in
the self-sacrificing suffering He necessarily endured in numbering
Himself with sinners. Of Christ’s satisfying the law by suffering the
penalty under which we lay Paul has much to say. He explicitly affirms
that Christ bore and so abolished the curse or penalty of sin. But in
this Gospel there may indeed be hints of this same idea, but it is
mainly another aspect of the work of Christ which is here presented. It
is the exhibition of Christ’s self-sacrificing love as a revelation of
the Father which is most prominent in the mind of John.
We can certainly say that Christ suffered our penalties in so far as a
perfectly holy person can suffer them. The gnawing anguish of remorse He
never knew; the haunting anxieties of the wrong-doer were impossible to
Him; the torment of ungratified desire, eternal severance from God, He
could not suffer; but other results and penalties of sin He suffered
more intensely than is possible to us. The agony of seeing men He loved
destroyed by sin, all the pain which a sympathetic and pure spirit must
bear in a world like this, the contradiction of sinners, the provocation
and shame which daily attended Him—all this He bore because of sin and
for us, that we might be saved from lasting sin and unrelieved misery.
So that even if we cannot take this scene in the garden as an exact
representation of the whole substitutionary work of Christ, we can say
that by suffering with and for us He has saved us from sin and restored
us to life and to God.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] Luke xxii. 51.
[21] Matt. xxvi. 53.
XVIII.
_PETER’S DENIAL AND REPENTANCE._
“So the band and the chief captain, and the officers of the Jews,
seized Jesus and bound Him, and led Him to Annas first; for he was
father-in-law to Caiaphas, which was high priest that year. Now
Caiaphas was he which gave counsel to the Jews, that it was
expedient that one man should die for the people. And Simon Peter
followed Jesus, and so did another disciple. Now that disciple was
known unto the high priest, and entered in with Jesus into the court
of the high priest; but Peter was standing at the door without. So
the other disciple, which was known unto the high priest, went out
and spake unto her that kept the door, and brought in Peter. The
maid therefore that kept the door saith unto Peter, Art thou also
one of this man’s disciples? He saith, I am not. Now the servants
and the officers were standing there, having made a fire of coals;
for it was cold; and they were warming themselves: and Peter also
was with them, standing and warming himself.... Now Simon Peter was
standing and warming himself. They said therefore unto him, Art thou
also one of His disciples? He denied, and said, I am not. One of the
servants of the high priest, being a kinsman of him whose ear Peter
cut off, saith, Did not I see thee in the garden with Him? Peter
therefore denied again: and straightway the cock crew.”—JOHN xviii.
12–18, 25–27.
The examination of Jesus immediately followed His arrest. He was first
led to Annas, who at once sent Him to Caiaphas, the high priest, that he
might carry out his policy of making one man a scapegoat for the
nation.[22] To John the most memorable incident of this midnight hour
was Peter’s denial of his Master. It happened on this wise. The high
priest’s palace was built, like other large Oriental houses, round a
quadrangular court, into which entrance was gained by a passage running
from the street through the front part of the house. This passage or
archway is called in the Gospels the “porch,” and was closed at the end
next the street by a heavy folding gate with a wicket for single
persons. This wicket was kept on this occasion by a maid. The interior
court upon which this passage opened was paved or flagged and open to
the sky, and as the night was cold the attendants had made a fire here.
The rooms round the court, in one of which the examination of Jesus was
proceeding, were open in front—separated, that is to say, from the
court only by one or two pillars or arches and a railing, so that our
Lord could see and even hear Peter.
When Jesus was led in bound to this palace, there entered with the crowd
of soldiers and servants one at least of His disciples. He was in some
way acquainted with the high priest, and presuming on this
acquaintanceship followed to learn the fate of Jesus. He had seen Peter
following at a distance, and after a little he goes to the gate-keeper
and induces her to open to his friend. The maid seeing the familiar
terms on which these two men were, and knowing that one of them was a
disciple of Jesus, very naturally greets Peter with the exclamation,
“Art not thou also one of this man’s disciples?” Peter, confused by
being suddenly confronted with so many hostile faces, and remembering
the blow he had struck in the garden, and that he was now in the place
of all others where it was likely to be avenged, suddenly in a moment of
infatuation, and doubtless to the dismay of his fellow-disciple, denies
all knowledge of Jesus. Having once committed himself, the two other
denials followed as matter of course.
Yet the third denial is more guilty than the first. Many persons are
conscious that they have sometimes acted under what seems an
infatuation. They do not plead this in excuse for the wrong they have
done. They are quite aware that what has come out of them must have
been in them, and that their acts, unaccountable as they seem, have
definite roots in their character. Peter’s first denial was the result
of surprise and infatuation. But an hour seems to have elapsed between
the first and the third. He had time to think, time to remember his
Lord’s warning, time to leave the place if he could do no better. But
one of those reckless moods which overtake good-hearted children seems
to have overtaken Peter, for at the end of the hour he is talking right
round the whole circle at the fire, not in monosyllables and guarded
voice, but in his own outspoken way, the most talkative of them all,
until suddenly one whose ear was finer than the rest detected the
Galilean accent, and says, “You need not deny you are one of this man’s
disciples, for your speech betrays you.” Another, a kinsman of him whose
ear Peter had cut off, strikes in and declares that he had seen him in
the garden. Peter, driven to extremities, hides his Galilean accent
under the strong oaths of the city, and with a volley of profane
language asseverates that he has no knowledge of Jesus. At this moment
the first examination of Jesus closes and He is led across the court:
the first chill of dawn is felt in the air, a cock crows, and as Jesus
passes He looks upon Peter; the look and the cock-crow together bring
Peter to himself, and he hurries out and weeps bitterly.
The remarkable feature of this sin of Peter’s is that at first sight it
seems so alien to his character. It was a lie; and he was unusually
straightforward. It was a heartless and cruel lie, and he was a man full
of emotion and affection. It was a cowardly lie, even more cowardly than
common lies, and yet he was exceptionally bold. Peter himself was quite
positive that this at least was a sin he would never commit. “Though
all men should deny Thee, yet will not I.” Neither was this a baseless
boast. He was not a mere braggart, whose words found no correspondence
in his deeds. Far from it; he was a hardy, somewhat over-venturesome
man, accustomed to the risks of a fisherman’s life, not afraid to fling
himself into a stormy sea, or to face the overwhelming armed force that
came to apprehend his Master, ready to fight for him single-handed, and
quickly recovering from the panic which scattered his fellow-disciples.
If any of his companions had been asked at what point of Peter’s
character the vulnerable spot would be found, not one of them would have
said, “He will fall through cowardice.” Besides, Peter had a few hours
before been so emphatically warned against denying Christ that he might
have been expected to stand firm this night at least.
Perhaps it was this very warning which betrayed Peter. When he struck
the blow in the garden, he thought he had falsified his Lord’s
prediction. And when he found himself the only one who had courage to
follow to the palace, his besetting self-confidence returned and led him
into circumstances for which he was too weak. He was equal to the test
of his courage which he was expecting, but when another kind of test was
applied in circumstances and from a quarter he had not anticipated his
courage failed him utterly.
Peter probably thought he might be brought bound with his Master before
the high priest, and had he been so he would probably have stood
faithful. But the devil who was sifting him had a much finer sieve than
that to run him through. He brought him to no formal trial, where he
could gird himself for a special effort, but to an unobserved, casual
questioning by a slave-girl. The whole trial was over before he knew he
was being tried. So do our most real trials come; in a business
transaction that turns up with others in the day’s work, in the few
minutes’ talk or the evening’s intercourse with friends, it is
discovered whether we are so truly Christ’s friends that we cannot
forget Him or disguise that we are His. A word or two with a person he
never saw before and would never see again brought the great trial of
Peter’s life; and as unexpectedly shall we be tried. In these battles we
must all encounter, we receive no formal challenge that gives us time to
choose our ground and our weapons; but a sudden blow is dealt us, from
which we can be saved only by habitually wearing a shirt of mail
sufficient to turn it, and which we can carry into all companies.
Had Peter distrusted himself and seriously accepted his Lord’s warning,
he would have gone with the rest; but ever thinking of himself as able
to do more than other men, faithful where others were faithless,
convinced where others hesitated, daring where others shrank, he once
again thrust himself forward, and so fell. For this self-confidence,
which might to a careless observer seem to underprop Peter’s courage,
was to the eye of the Lord undermining it. And if Peter’s true bravery
and promptitude were to serve the Church in days when fearless
steadfastness would be above all other qualities needed, his courage
must be sifted and the chaff of self-confidence thoroughly separated
from it. In place of a courage which was sadly tainted with vanity and
impulsiveness Peter must acquire a courage based upon recognition of his
own weakness and his Lord’s strength. And it was this event which
wrought this change in Peter’s character.
Frequently we learn by a very painful experience that our best qualities
are tainted, and that actual disaster has entered our life from the very
quarter we least suspected. We may be conscious that the deepest mark
has been made on our life by a sin apparently as alien to our character
as cowardice and lying were to the too venturesome and outspoken
character of Peter. Possibly we once prided ourselves on our honesty,
and felt happy in our upright character, plain-dealing, and direct
speech; but to our dismay we have been betrayed into double-dealing,
equivocation, evasive or even fraudulent conduct. Or the time was when
we were proud of our friendships; it was frequently in our mind that,
however unsatisfactory in other respects our character might be, we were
at any rate faithful and helpful friends. Alas! events have proved that
even in this particular we have failed, and have, through absorption in
our own interests, acted inconsiderately and even cruelly to our friend,
not even recognising at the time how his interests were suffering. Or we
are by nature of a cool temperament, and judged ourselves safe at least
from the faults of impulse and passion; yet the mastering combination of
circumstances came, and we spoke the word, or wrote the letter, or did
the deed which broke our life past mending.
Now, it was Peter’s salvation, and it will be ours, when overtaken in
this unsuspected sin, to go out and weep bitterly. He did not
frivolously count it an accident that could never occur again; he did
not sullenly curse the circumstances that had betrayed and shamed him.
He recognised that there was that in him which could render useless his
best natural qualities, and that the sinfulness which could make his
strongest natural defences brittle as an egg-shell must be serious
indeed. He had no choice but to be humbled before the eye of the Lord.
There was no need of words to explain and enforce his guilt: the eye can
express what the tongue cannot utter. The finer, tenderer, deeper
feelings are left to the eye to express. The clear cock-crow strikes
home to his conscience, telling him that the very sin he had an hour or
two ago judged impossible is now actually committed. That brief space
his Lord had named as sufficient to test his fidelity is gone, and the
sound that strikes the hour rings with condemnation. Nature goes on in
her accustomed, inexorable, unsympathetic round; but he is a fallen man,
convicted in his own conscience of empty vanity, of cowardice, of
heartlessness. He who in his own eyes was so much better than the rest
had fallen lower than all. In the look of Christ Peter sees the
reproachful loving tenderness of a wounded spirit, and understands the
dimensions of his sin. That he, the most intimate disciple, should have
added to the bitterness of that hour, should not only have failed to
help his Lord, but should actually at the crisis of His fate have added
the bitterest drop to His cup, was humbling indeed. There was that in
Christ’s look that made him feel the enormity of his guilt; there was
that also that softened him and saved him from sullen despair.
And it is obvious that if we are to rise clear above the sin that has
betrayed us we can do so only by as lowly a penitence. We are all alike
in this: that we have fallen; we cannot any more with justice think
highly of ourselves; we have sinned and are disgraced in our own eyes.
In this, I say, we are all alike; that which makes the difference among
us is, how we deal with ourselves and our circumstances in connection
with our sin. It has been very well said by a keen observer of human
nature that “men and women are often more fairly judged by the way in
which they bear the burden of their own deeds, the fashion in which they
carry themselves in their entanglements, than by the prime act which
laid the burden on their lives and made the entanglement fast knotted.
The deeper part of us shows in the manner of accepting consequences.”
The reason of this is that, like Peter, we are often _betrayed_ by a
weakness; the part of our nature which is least able to face difficulty
is assaulted by a combination of circumstances which may never again
occur in our life. There was guilt, great guilt it may be, concerned in
our fall, but it was not deliberate, wilful wickedness. But in our
dealing with our sin and its consequences our whole nature is concerned
and searched; the real bent and strength of our will is tried. We are
therefore in a crisis, _the_ crisis, of our life. Can we accept the
situation? Can we humbly, frankly own that, since that evil has appeared
in our life, it must have been, however unconsciously, in ourselves
first? Can we with the genuine manliness and wisdom of a broken heart
say to ourselves and to God, Yes, it is true I am the wretched, pitiful,
bad-hearted creature that was capable of doing, and did that thing? I
did not think that was my character; I did not think it was in me to
sink so very low; but now I see what I am. Do we thus, like Peter, go
out and weep bitterly?
Every one who has passed through a time such as this single night was to
Peter knows the strain that is laid upon the soul, and how very hard it
is to yield utterly. So much rises up in self-defence; so much strength
is lost by the mere perplexity and confusion of the thing; so much is
lost in the despondency that follows these sad revelations of our
deep-seated evil. What is the use, we think, of striving, if even in
the point in which I thought myself most secure I have fallen? What is
the meaning of so perplexed and deceiving a warfare? Why was I exposed
to so fatal an influence? So Peter, had he taken the wrong direction,
might have resented the whole course of the temptation, and might have
said, Why did Christ not warn me by His look before I sinned, instead of
breaking me by it after? Why had I no inkling of the enormity of the sin
before as I have after the sin? My reputation now is gone among the
disciples; I may as well go back to my old obscure life and forget all
about these perplexing scenes and strange spiritualities. But Peter,
though he was cowed by a maid, was man enough and Christian enough to
reject such falsities and subterfuges. It is true we did not see the
enormity, never do see the enormity, of the sin until it is committed;
but is it possible it can be otherwise? Is not this the way in which a
blunt conscience is educated? Nothing seems so bad until it finds place
in our own life and haunts us. Neither need we despond or sour because
we are disgraced in our own eyes, or even in the eyes of others; for we
are hereby summoned to build for ourselves a new and different
reputation with God and our own consciences—a reputation founded on a
basis of reality and not of seeming.
It may be worth while to note the characteristics and danger of that
special form of weakness which Peter here exhibited. We commonly call it
moral cowardice. It is originally a weakness rather than a positive sin,
and yet it is probably as prolific of sin and even of great crime as any
of the more definite and vigorous passions of our nature, such as hate,
lust, avarice. It is that weakness which prompts a man to avoid
difficulties, to escape everything rough and disagreeable, to yield to
circumstances, and which above all makes him incapable of facing the
reproach, contempt, or opposition of his fellow-men. It is often found
in combination with much amiability of character. It is commonly found
in persons who have some natural leanings to virtue, and who, if
circumstances would only favour them, would prefer to lead, and would
lead, at least an inoffensive and respectable, if not a very useful,
noble, or heroic life. Finely strung natures that are very sensitive to
all impressions from without, natures which thrill and vibrate in
response to a touching tale or in sympathy with fine scenery or soft
music, natures which are housed in bodies of delicate nervous
temperament, are commonly keenly sensitive to the praise or blame of
their fellows, and are therefore liable to moral cowardice, though by no
means necessarily a prey to it.
The examples of its ill-effects are daily before our eyes. A man cannot
bear the coolness of a friend or the contempt of a leader of opinion,
and so he stifles his own independent judgment and goes with the
majority. A minister of the Church finds his faith steadily diverging
from that of the creed he has subscribed, but he cannot proclaim this
change because he cannot make up his mind to be the subject of public
astonishment and remark, of severe scrutiny on the one side and still
more distasteful because ignorant and canting sympathy on the other. A
man in business finds that his expenditure exceeds his income, but he is
unable to face the shame of frankly lowering his position and curtailing
his expenses, and so he is led into dishonest appearances; and from
dishonest appearances to fraudulent methods of keeping them up the
step, as we all know, is short. Or in trade a man knows that there are
shameful, contemptible, and silly practices, and yet he has not moral
courage to break through them. A parent cannot bear to risk the loss of
his child’s good-will even for an hour, and so omits the chastisement he
deserves. The schoolboy, fearing his parents’ look of disappointment,
says he stands higher in his class than he does; or fearing to be
thought soft and unmanly by his schoolfellows, sees cruelty or a cheat
or some wickedness perpetrated without a word of honest anger or manly
condemnation. All this is moral cowardice, the vice which brings us down
to the low level which bold sinners set for us, or which at any rate
sweeps the weak soul down to a thousand perils, and absolutely forbids
the good there is in us from finding expression.
But of all the forms into which moral cowardice develops this of denying
the Lord Jesus is the most iniquitous and disgraceful. One of the
fashions of the day which is most rapidly extending and which many of us
have opportunity to resist is the fashion of infidelity. Much of the
strongest and best-trained intellect of the country ranges itself
against Christianity—that is, against Christ. No doubt the men who have
led this movement have adopted their opinions on conviction. They deny
the authority of Scripture, the divinity of Christ, even the existence
of a personal God, because by long years of painful thought they have
been forced to such conclusions. Even the best of them cannot be
acquitted of a contemptuous and bitter way of speaking of Christians,
which would seem to indicate that they are not quite at ease in their
belief. Still, we cannot but think that so far as any men can be quite
unbiassed in their opinions, they are so; and we have no right to judge
other men for their honestly formed opinions. The moral cowards of whom
we speak are not these men, but their followers, persons who with no
patience or capacity to understand their reasonings adopt their
conclusions because they seem advanced and are peculiar. There are many
persons of slender reading and no depth of earnestness who, without
spending any serious effort on the formation of their religious belief,
presume to disseminate unbelief and treat the Christian creed as an
obsolete thing merely because part of the intellect of the day leans in
that direction. Weakness and cowardice are the real spring of such
persons’ apparent advance and new position regarding religion. They are
ashamed to be reckoned among those who are thought to be behind the age.
Ask them for a reason of their unbelief, and they are either unable to
give you any, or else they repeat a time-worn objection which has been
answered so often that men have wearied of the interminable task and let
it pass unnoticed.
Such persons we aid and abet when we do either of two things: when we
either cleave to what is old as unreasoningly as they take up with what
is new, refusing to look for fresh light and better ways and acting as
if we were already perfect; or when we yield to the current and adopt a
hesitating way of speaking about matters of faith, when we _cultivate_ a
sceptical spirit and seem to connive at if we do not applaud the cold,
irreligious sneer of ungodly men. Above all, we aid the cause of
infidelity when in our own life we are ashamed to live godly, to act on
higher principles than the current prudential maxims, when we hold our
allegiance to Christ in abeyance to our fear of our associates, when we
find no way of showing that Christ is our Lord and that we delight in
opportunities of confessing Him. The confessing of Christ is a duty
explicitly imposed on all those who expect that He will acknowledge them
as His. It is a duty to which we might suppose every manly and generous
instinct in us would eagerly respond, and yet we are often more ashamed
of our connection with the loftiest and holiest of beings than of our
own pitiful and sin-infected selves, and as little practically
stimulated and actuated by a true gratitude to Him as if His death were
the commonest boon and as if we were expecting and needing no help from
Him in the time that is yet to come.[23]
FOOTNOTES:
[22] There is a difficulty in tracing the movements of Jesus at this
point. John tells us He was led to Annas first, and at ver. 24 he says
that Annas sent Him to Caiaphas. We should naturally conclude,
therefore, that the preceding examination was conducted by Annas. But
Caiaphas has been expressly indicated as chief priest, and it is by the
chief priest and in the chief priest’s palace the examination is
conducted. The name “chief priest” was not confined to the one actually
in office, but was applied to all who had held the office, and might
therefore be applied to Annas. Possibly the examination recorded vv.
19–23 was before him, and probably he was living with his son-in-law in
the palace of the chief priest.
[23] Some of the ideas in this chapter were suggested by a sermon of
Bishop Temple’s.
XIX.
_JESUS BEFORE PILATE._
“They led Jesus therefore from Caiaphas into the palace: and it was
early; and they themselves entered not into the palace, that they
might not be defiled, but might eat the Passover. Pilate therefore
went out unto them, and saith, What accusation bring ye against this
man? They answered and said unto him, If this man were not an
evil-doer, we should not have delivered Him up unto thee. Pilate
therefore said unto them, Take Him yourselves, and judge Him
according to your law. The Jews said unto him, It is not lawful for
us to put any man to death: that the word of Jesus might be
fulfilled, which He spake, signifying by what manner of death He
should die. Pilate therefore entered again into the palace, and
called Jesus, and said unto Him, Art Thou the King of the Jews?
Jesus answered, Sayest thou this of thyself, or did others tell it
thee concerning Me? Pilate answered, Am I a Jew? Thine own nation
and the chief priests delivered Thee unto me: what hast Thou done?
Jesus answered, My kingdom is not of this world: if My kingdom were
of this world, then would My servants fight, that I should not be
delivered to the Jews: but now is My kingdom not from hence. Pilate
therefore said unto Him, Art Thou a king then? Jesus answered, Thou
sayest that I am a king. To this end have I been born, and to this
end am I come into the world, that I should bear witness unto the
truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth My voice. Pilate saith
unto Him, What is truth? And when he had said this, he went out
again unto the Jews, and saith unto them, I find no crime in Him.
But ye have a custom, that I should release unto you one at the
Passover: will ye therefore that I release unto you the King of the
Jews? They cried out therefore again, saying, Not this man, but
Barabbas. Now Barabbas was a robber. Then Pilate therefore took
Jesus, and scourged Him. And the soldiers plaited a crown of thorns,
and put it on His head, and arrayed Him in a purple garment; and
they came unto Him, and said, Hail, King of the Jews! and they
struck Him with their hands. And Pilate went out again, and saith
unto them, Behold I bring Him out to you, that ye may know that I
find no crime in Him. Jesus therefore came out, wearing the crown of
thorns and the purple garment. And Pilate saith unto them, Behold,
the man! When therefore the chief priests and the officers saw Him,
they cried out, saying, Crucify Him, crucify Him. Pilate saith unto
them, Take Him yourselves, and crucify Him: for I find no crime in
Him. The Jews answered him, We have a law, and by that law He ought
to die, because He made Himself the Son of God. When Pilate
therefore heard this saying he was the more afraid; and he entered
into the palace again, and saith unto Jesus, Whence art Thou? But
Jesus gave him no answer. Pilate therefore saith unto Him, Speakest
Thou not unto me? knowest Thou not that I have power to release
Thee, and have power to crucify Thee? Jesus answered Him, Thou
wouldest have no power against Me, except it were given thee from
above: therefore he that delivered Me unto thee hath greater sin.
Upon this Pilate sought to release Him: but the Jews cried out,
saying, If thou release this man, thou art not Cæsar’s friend: every
one that maketh himself a king speaketh against Cæsar. When Pilate
therefore heard these words, he brought Jesus out, and sat down on
the judgment-seat at a place called The Pavement, but in Hebrew,
Gabbatha. Now it was the preparation of the Passover: it was about
the sixth hour. And he saith unto the Jews, Behold, your King! They
therefore cried out, Away with Him, away with Him, crucify Him.
Pilate saith unto them, Shall I crucify your King? The chief priests
answered, We have no king but Cæsar. Then therefore he delivered Him
unto them to be crucified.”—JOHN xviii. 28–xix. 16.
John tells us very little of the examination of Jesus by Annas and
Caiaphas, but he dwells at considerable length on His trial by Pilate.
The reason of this different treatment is probably to be found in the
fact that the trial before the Sanhedrim was ineffective until the
decision had been ratified by Pilate, as well as in the circumstance
noted by John that the decision of Caiaphas was a foregone conclusion.
Caiaphas was an unscrupulous politician who allowed nothing to stand
between him and his objects. To the weak councillors who had expressed a
fear that it might be difficult to convict a person so innocent as Jesus
he said with supreme contempt: “Ye know nothing at all. Do you not see
the opportunity we have of showing our zeal for the Roman Government by
sacrificing this man who claims to be King of the Jews? Innocent of
course He is, and all the better so, for the Romans cannot think He dies
for robbery or wrong-doing. He is a Galilean of no consequence,
connected with no good family who might revenge His death.” This was the
scheme of Caiaphas. He saw that the Romans were within a very little of
terminating the incessant troubles of this Judæan province by enslaving
the whole population and devastating the land; this catastrophe might
be staved off a few years by such an exhibition of zeal for Rome as
could be made in the public execution of Jesus.
So far as Caiaphas and his party were concerned, then, Jesus was
prejudged. His trial was not an examination to discover whether He was
guilty or innocent, but a cross-questioning which aimed at betraying Him
into some acknowledgment which might give colour to the sentence of
death already decreed. Caiaphas or Annas[24] invites Him to give some
account of His disciples and of His doctrines. In some cases His
disciples carried arms, and among them was one zealot, and there might
be others known to the authorities as dangerous or suspected characters.
And Annas might expect that in giving some account of His teaching the
honesty of Jesus might betray Him into expressions which could easily be
construed to His prejudice. But he is disappointed. Jesus replies that
it is not for Him, arraigned and bound as a dangerous prisoner, to give
evidence against Himself. Thousands had heard Him in all parts of the
country. He had delivered those supposed inflammatory addresses not to
midnight gatherings and secret societies, but in the most public places
He could find—in the Temple, from which no Jew was excluded, and in the
synagogues, where official teachers were commonly present. Annas is
silenced; and mortified though he is, he has to accept the ruling of his
prisoner as indicating the lines on which the trial should proceed. His
mortification does not escape the notice of one of those poor creatures
who are ever ready to curry favour with the great by cruelty towards the
defenceless, or at the best of that large class of men who cannot
distinguish between official and real dignity; and the first of those
insults is given to the hitherto sacred person of Jesus, the first of
that long series of blows struck by a dead, conventional religion
seeking to quench the truth and the life of what threatens its slumber
with awakening.
Had the Roman governor not been present in the city the high priests and
their party might have ventured to carry into effect their own sentence.
But Pilate had already shown during his six years of office that he was
not a man to overlook anything like contempt of his supremacy. Besides,
they were not quite sure of the temper of the people; and a rescue, or
even an attempted rescue, of their prisoner would be disastrous.
Prudence therefore bids them hand Him over to Pilate, who had both legal
authority to put Him to death and means to quell any popular
disturbance. Besides, the purpose of Caiaphas could better be served by
bringing before the governor this claimant to the Messiahship.
Pilate was present in Jerusalem at this time in accordance with the
custom of the Roman procurators of Judæa, who came up annually from
their usual residence at Cæsarea to the Jewish capital for the double
purpose of keeping order while the city was crowded with all kinds of
persons who came up to the feast, and of trying cases reserved for his
decision. And the Jews no doubt thought it would be easy to persuade a
man who, as they knew to their cost, set a very low value on human blood
to add one victim more to the robbers or insurgents who might be
awaiting execution. Accordingly, as soon as day dawned and they dared to
disturb the governor, they put Jesus in chains as a condemned criminal
and led Him away, all their leading men following, to the quarters of
Pilate, either in the fortress Antonia or in the magnificent palace of
Herod. Into this palace, being the abode of a Gentile, they could not
enter lest they should contract pollution and incapacitate themselves
for eating the Passover,—the culminating instance of religious
scrupulosity going hand in hand with cruel and blood-thirsty
criminality. Pilate with scornful allowance for their scruples goes out
to them, and with the Roman’s instinctive respect for the forms of
justice demands the charge brought against this prisoner, in whose
appearance the quick eye so long trained to read the faces of criminals
is at a loss to discover any index to His crime.
This apparent intention on Pilate’s part, if not to reopen the case at
least to revise their procedure, is resented by the party of Caiaphas,
who exclaim, “If He were not a malefactor we would not have delivered
Him up unto thee. Take our word for it; He is guilty; do not scruple to
put Him to death.” But if they were indignant that Pilate should propose
to revise their decision, he is not less so that they should presume to
make him their mere executioner. All the Roman pride of office, all the
Roman contempt and irritation at this strange Jewish people, come out in
his answer, “If you will make no charge against Him and refuse to allow
me to judge Him, take Him yourselves and do what you can with Him,”
knowing well that they dared not inflict death without his sanction, and
that this taunt would pierce home. The taunt they did feel, although
they could not afford to show that they felt it, but contented
themselves with laying the charge that He had forbidden the people to
give tribute to Cæsar and claimed to be Himself a king.
As Roman law permitted the examination to be conducted within the
prætorium, though the judgment must be pronounced outside in public,
Pilate re-enters the palace and has Jesus brought in, so that apart from
the crowd he may examine Him. At once he puts the direct question,
Guilty or not guilty of this political offence with which you stand
charged?—“Art Thou the King of the Jews?” But to this direct question
Jesus cannot give a direct answer, because the words may have one sense
in the lips of Pilate, another in His own. Before He answers He must
first know in which sense Pilate uses the words. He asks therefore,
“Sayest thou this thing of thyself, or did others tell it thee?” Are you
inquiring because you are yourself concerned in this question? or are
you merely uttering a question which others have put in your mouth? To
which Pilate with some heat and contempt replies, “Am I a Jew? How can
you expect me to take any personal interest in the matter? Thine own
nation and the chief priests have delivered Thee unto me.”
Pilate, that is to say, scouts the idea that he should take any interest
in questions about the Messiah of the Jews. And yet was it not possible
that, like some of his subordinates, centurions and others, he too
should perceive the spiritual grandeur of Jesus and should not be
prevented by his heathen upbringing from seeking to belong to this
kingdom of God? May not Pilate also be awakened to see that man’s true
inheritance is the world unseen? may not that expression of fixed
melancholy, of hard scorn, of sad, hopeless, proud indifference, give
place to the humble eagerness of the inquiring soul? may not the heart
of a child come back to that bewildered and world-encrusted soul? Alas!
this is too much for Roman pride. He cannot in presence of this bound
Jew acknowledge how little life has satisfied him. He finds the
difficulty so many find in middle life of frankly showing that they have
in their nature deeper desires than the successes of life satisfy. There
is many a man who seals up his deeper instincts and does violence to his
better nature because, having begun his life on worldly lines, he is too
proud now to change, and crushes down, to his own eternal hurt, the
stirrings of a better mind within him, and turns from the gentle
whisperings that would fain bring eternal hope to his heart.
It is possible that Jesus by His question meant to suggest to Pilate the
actual relation in which this present trial stood to His previous trial
by Caiaphas. For nothing could more distinctly mark the baseness and
malignity of the Jews than their manner of shifting ground when they
brought Jesus before Pilate. The Sanhedrim had condemned Him, not for
claiming to be King of the Jews, for that was not a capital offence, but
for assuming Divine dignity. But that which in their eyes was a crime
was none in the judgment of Roman law; it was useless to bring Him
before Pilate and accuse Him of blasphemy. They therefore accused Him of
assuming to be King of the Jews. Here, then, were the Jews “accusing
Jesus before the Roman governor of that which, in the first place, they
knew that Jesus denied in the sense in which they urged it, and which,
in the next place, had the charge been true, would have been so far from
a crime in their eyes that it would have been popular with the whole
nation.”
But as Pilate might very naturally misunderstand the character of the
claim made by the accused, Jesus in a few words gives him clearly to
understand that the kingdom He sought to establish could not come into
collision with that which Pilate represented: “My kingdom is not of this
world.” The most convincing proof had been given of the spiritual
character of the kingdom in the fact that Jesus did not allow the sword
to be used in forwarding His claims. “If My kingdom were of this world,
then would My servants fight, that I should not be delivered to the
Jews: but now is My kingdom not from hence.” This did not quite satisfy
Pilate. He thought that still some mystery of danger might lurk behind
the words of Jesus. There was nothing more acutely dreaded by the early
emperors than secret societies. It might be some such association Jesus
intended to form. To allow such a society to gain influence in his
province would be a gross oversight on Pilate’s part. He therefore
seizes upon the apparent admission of Jesus and pushes Him further with
the question, “Thou art a king then?” But the answer of Jesus removes
all fear from the mind of His judge. He claims only to be a king of the
truth, attracting to Himself all who are drawn by a love of truth. This
was enough for Pilate. “Aletheia” was a country beyond his jurisdiction,
a Utopia which could not injure the Empire. “Tush!” he says, “what is
Aletheia? Why speak to me of ideal worlds? What concern have I with
provinces that can yield no tribute and offer no armed resistance?”
Pilate, convinced of the innocence of Jesus, makes several attempts to
save Him. All these attempts failed, because, instead of at once and
decidedly proclaiming His innocence and demanding His acquittal, he
sought at the same time to propitiate His accusers. One generally
expects from a Roman governor some knowledge of men and some
fearlessness in his use of that knowledge. Pilate shows neither. His
first step in dealing with the accusers of Jesus is a fatal mistake.
Instead of at once going to his judgment-seat and pronouncing
authoritatively the acquittal of his Prisoner, and clearing his court of
all riotously disposed persons, he in one breath declared Jesus innocent
and proposed to treat Him as guilty, offering to release Him as a boon
to the Jews. A weaker proposal could scarcely have been made. There was
nothing, absolutely nothing, to induce the Jews to accept it, but in
making it he showed a disposition to treat with them—a disposition they
did not fail to make abundant use of in the succeeding scenes of this
disgraceful day. This first departure from justice lowered him to their
own level and removed the only bulwark he had against their insolence
and blood-thirstiness. Had he acted as any upright judge would have
acted and at once put his Prisoner beyond reach of their hatred, they
would have shrunk like cowed wild beasts; but his first concession put
him in their power, and from this point onwards there is exhibited one
of the most lamentable spectacles in history,—a man in power tossed
like a ball between his convictions and his fears; a Roman not without a
certain doggedness and cynical hardness that often pass for strength of
character, but held up here to view as a sample of the weakness that
results from the vain attempt to satisfy both what is bad and what is
good in us.
His second attempt to save Jesus from death was more unjust and as
futile as the first. He scourges the Prisoner whose innocence he had
himself declared, possibly under the idea that if nothing was confessed
by Jesus under this torture it might convince the Jews of His innocence,
but more probably under the impression that they might be satisfied when
they saw Jesus bleeding and fainting from the scourge. The Roman
scourge was a barbarous instrument, its heavy thongs being loaded with
metal and inlaid with bone, every cut of which tore away the flesh. But
if Pilate fancied that when the Jews saw this lacerated form they would
pity and relent, he greatly mistook the men he had to do with. He failed
to take into account the common principle that when you have wrongfully
injured a man you hate him all the more. Many a man becomes a murderer,
not by premeditation, but having struck a first blow and seeing his
victim in agony he cannot bear that that eye should live to reproach him
and that tongue to upbraid him with his cruelty. So it was here. The
people were infuriated by the sight of the innocent, unmurmuring
Sufferer whom they had thus mangled. They cannot bear that such an
object be left to remind them of their barbarity, and with one fierce
yell of fury they cry, “Crucify Him, crucify Him.”[25]
A third time Pilate refused to be the instrument of their inhuman and
unjust rage, and flung the Prisoner on their hands: “Take Him
yourselves, and crucify Him: for I find no crime in Him.” But when the
Jews answered that by their law He ought to die, because “He made
Himself the Son of God,” Pilate was again seized with dread, and
withdrew his Prisoner for the fourth time into the palace. Already he
had remarked in His demeanour a calm superiority which made it seem
quite possible that this extraordinary claim might be true. The books he
had read at school and the poems he had heard since he grew up had told
stories of how the gods had sometimes come down and dwelt with men. He
had long since discarded such beliefs as mere fictions. Still, there was
something in the bearing of this Prisoner before him that awakened the
old impression, that possibly this single planet with its visible
population was not the whole universe, that there might be some other
unseen region out of which Divine beings looked down upon earth with
pity, and from which they might come and visit us on some errand of
love. With anxiety written on his face and heard in his tone he asks,
“Whence art Thou?” How near does this man always seem to be to breaking
through the thin veil and entering with illumined vision into the
spiritual world, the world of truth and right and God! Would not a word
now from Jesus have given him entrance? Would not the repetition of the
solemn affirmation of His divinity which He had given to the Sanhedrim
have been the one thing wanted in Pilate’s case, the one thing to turn
the scale in the favour of Jesus? At first sight it might seem so; but
so it seemed not to the Lord. He preserves an unbroken silence to the
question on which Pilate seems to hang in an earnest suspense. And
certainly this silence is by no means easy to account for. Shall we say
that He was acting out His own precept, “Give not that which is holy to
dogs”? Shall we say that He who knew what was in man saw that though
Pilate was for the moment alarmed and in earnest, yet there was beneath
that earnestness an ineradicable vacillation? It is very possible that
the treatment He had received at Pilate’s hand had convinced Him that
Pilate would eventually yield to the Jews; and what need, then, of
protracting the process? No man who has any dignity and self-respect
will make declarations about his character which he sees will do no
good: no man is bound to be at the beck of every one to answer
accusations they may bring against him; by doing so he will often only
involve himself in miserable, petty wranglings, and profit no one. Jesus
therefore was not going to make revelations about Himself which He saw
would only make Him once again a shuttlecock driven between the two
contending parties.
Besides—and this probably is the main reason of the silence—Pilate was
now forgetting altogether the relation between himself and his Prisoner.
Jesus had been accused before him on a definite charge which he had
found to be baseless. He ought therefore to have released Him. This new
charge of the Jews was one of which Pilate could not take cognisance;
and of this Jesus reminds him by His silence. Jesus might have made
influence for Himself by working upon the superstition of Pilate; but
this was not to be thought of.
Offended at His silence, Pilate exclaims: “Speakest Thou not unto me?
Knowest Thou not that I have power to release Thee, and have power to
crucify Thee?” Here was an unwonted kind of prisoner who would not curry
favour with His judge. But instead of entreating Pilate to use this
power in His favour Jesus replies: “Thou wouldest have no power against
Me, except it were given thee from above; therefore he that delivered Me
unto thee hath greater sin.” Pilate’s office was the ordinance of God,
and therefore his judgments should express the justice and will of God;
and it was this which made the sin of Caiaphas and the Jews so great:
they were making use of a Divine ordinance to serve their own
God-resisting purposes. Had Pilate been a mere irresponsible executioner
their sin would have been sufficiently heinous; but in using an
official who is God’s representative of law, order, and justice to
fulfil their own wicked and unjust designs they recklessly prostitute
God’s ordinance of justice and involve themselves in a darker
criminality.
More impressed than ever by this powerful statement falling from the
lips of a man weakened by the scourging, Pilate makes one more effort to
save Him. But now the Jews play their last card and play it
successfully. “If thou release this man, thou art not Cæsar’s friend.”
To lay himself open to a charge of treason or neglect of the interests
of Cæsar was what Pilate could not risk. At once his compassion for the
Prisoner, his sense of justice, his apprehensions, his proud
unwillingness to let the Jews have their way, are overcome by his fear
of being reported to the most suspicious of emperors. He prepared to
give his judgment, taking his place on the official seat, which stood on
a tesselated pavement, called in Aramaic “Gabbatha,” from its elevated
position in sight of the crowds standing outside. Here, after venting
his spleen in the weak sarcasm “Shall I crucify your King?” he formally
hands over his Prisoner to be crucified. This decision was at last come
to, as John records, about noon of the day which prepared for and
terminated in the Paschal Supper.
Pilate’s vacillation receives from John a long and careful treatment.
Light is shed upon it, and upon the threat which forced him at last to
make up his mind, from the account which Philo gives of his character
and administration. “With a view,” he says, “to vex the Jews, Pilate
hung up some gilt shields in the palace of Herod, which they judged a
profanation of the holy city, and therefore petitioned him to remove
them. But when he steadfastly refused to do so, for he was a man of
very inflexible disposition and very merciless as well as very
obstinate, they cried out, ’Beware of causing a tumult, for Tiberius
will not sanction this act of yours; and if you say that he will, we
ourselves will go to him and supplicate your master.’ This threat
exasperated Pilate in the highest degree, as he feared that they might
really go to the Emperor and impeach him with respect to other acts of
his government—his corruption, his acts of insolence, his habit of
insulting people, his cruelty, his continual murders of people untried
and uncondemned, and his never-ending and gratuitous and most grievous
inhumanity. Therefore, being exceedingly angry, and being at all times a
man of most ferocious passions, he was in great perplexity, neither
venturing to take down what he had once set up nor wishing to do
anything which could be acceptable to his subjects, and yet fearing the
anger of Tiberius. And those who were in power among the Jews, seeing
this and perceiving that he was inclined to change his mind as to what
he had done, but that he was not willing to be thought to do so,
appealed to the Emperor.”[26] This sheds light on the whole conduct of
Pilate during this trial—his fear of the Emperor, his hatred of the
Jews and desire to annoy them, his vacillation and yet obstinacy; and we
see that the mode the Sanhedrim now adopted with Pilate was their usual
mode of dealing with him: now, as always, they saw his vacillation,
disguised as it was by fierceness of speech, and they knew he must yield
to the threat of complaining to Cæsar.
The very thing that Pilate feared, and to avoid which he sacrificed the
life of our Lord, came upon him six years after. Complaints against him
were sent to the Emperor; he was deposed from his office, and so
stripped of all that made life endurable to him, that, “wearied with
misfortunes,” he died by his own hand. Perhaps we are tempted to think
Pilate’s fate severe; we naturally sympathise with him; there are so
many traits of character which show well when contrasted with the
unprincipled violence of the Jews. We are apt to say he was weak rather
than wicked, forgetting that moral weakness is just another name for
wickedness, or rather is that which makes a man capable of any
wickedness. The man we call wicked has his one or two good points at
which we can be sure of him. The weak man we are never sure of. That he
has good feelings is nothing, for we do not know what may be brought to
overcome these feelings. That he has right convictions is nothing; we
may have thought he was convinced to-day, but to-morrow his old fears
have prevailed. And who is the weak man who is thus open to every kind
of influence? He is the man who is not single-minded. The single-minded,
worldly man makes no pretension to holiness, but sees at a glance that
that interferes with his real object; the single-minded, godly man has
only truth and righteousness for his aim, and does not listen to fears
or hopes suggested by the world. But the man who attempts to gratify
both his conscience and his evil or weak feelings, the man who fancies
he can so manipulate the events of his life as to secure his own selfish
ends as well as the great ends of justice and righteousness, will often
be in as great a perplexity as Pilate, and will come to as ruinous if
not to so appalling an end.
In this would-be equitable Roman governor, exhibiting his weakness to
the people and helplessly exclaiming, “What shall I do with Jesus which
is called Christ?”[27] we see the predicament of many who are suddenly
confronted with Christ—disconcerted as they are to have such a prisoner
thrown on their hands, and wishing that anything had turned up rather
than a necessity for answering this question, What shall I do with
Jesus? Probably when Jesus was led by the vacillating Pilate out and in,
back and forward, examined and re-examined, acquitted, scourged,
defended, and abandoned to His enemies, some pity for His judge mingled
with other feelings in His mind. This was altogether too great a case
for a man like Pilate, fit enough to try men like Barabbas and to keep
the turbulent Galileans in order. What unhappy fate, he might afterwards
think, had brought this mysterious Prisoner to his judgment-seat, and
for ever linked in such unhappy relation his name to the Name that is
above every name? Never with more disastrous results did the resistless
stream of time bring together and clash together the earthen and the
brazen pitcher. Never before had such a prisoner stood at any judge’s
bar. Roman governors and emperors had been called to doom or to acquit
kings and potentates of all degrees and to determine every kind of
question, forbidding this or that religion, extirpating old dynasties,
altering old landmarks, making history in its largest dimensions; but
Pilate was summoned to adjudicate in a case that seemed of no
consequence at all, yet really eclipsed in its importance all other
cases put together.
Nothing could save Pilate from the responsibility attaching to his
connection with Jesus, and nothing can save us from the responsibility
of determining what judgment we are to pronounce on this same Person.
It may seem to us an unfortunate predicament we are placed in; we may
resent being called upon to do anything decided in a matter where our
convictions so conflict with our desires; we may inwardly protest
against human life being obstructed and disturbed by choices that are so
pressing and so difficult and with issues so incalculably serious. But
second thoughts assure us that to be confronted with Christ is in truth
far from being an unfortunate predicament, and that to be compelled to
decisions which determine our whole after-course and allow fullest
expression of our own will and spiritual affinities is our true glory.
Christ stands patiently awaiting our decision, maintaining His
inalienable majesty, but submitting Himself to every test we care to
apply, claiming only to be the King of the truth by whom we are admitted
into that sole eternal kingdom. It has come to be our turn, as it came
to be Pilate’s, to decide upon His claims and to act upon our
decision—to recognise that we men have to do, not merely with pleasure
and place, with earthly rewards and relations, but above all with the
truth, with that which gives eternal significance to all these present
things, with the truth about human life, with the truth embodied for us
in Christ’s person and speaking intelligibly to us through His lips,
with God manifest in the flesh. Are we to take part with Him when He
calls us to glory and to virtue, to the truth and to eternal life, or
yielding to some present pressure the world puts upon us attempt some
futile compromise and so renounce our birthright?
Could Pilate really persuade himself he made everything right with a
basin of water and a theatrical transference of his responsibility to
the Jews? Could he persuade himself that by merely giving up the
contest he was playing the part of a judge and of a man? Could he
persuade himself that the mere words, “I am innocent of the blood of
this righteous man: see ye to it,” altered his relation to the death of
Christ? No doubt he did. There is nothing commoner than for a man to
think himself forced when it is his own fear or wickedness that is his
only compulsion. Would every man in Pilate’s circumstances have felt
himself forced to surrender Jesus to the Jews? Would even a Gallio or a
Claudius Lysias have done so? But Pilate’s past history made him
powerless. Had he not feared exposure, he would have marched his cohort
across the square and cleared it of the mob and defied the Sanhedrim. It
was not because he thought the Jewish law had any true right to demand
Christ’s death, but merely because the Jews threatened to report him as
conniving at rebellion, that he yielded Christ to them; and to seek to
lay the blame on those who made it difficult to do the right thing was
both unmanly and futile. The Jews were at least willing to take their
share of the blame, dreadful in its results as that proved to be.
Fairly to apportion blame where there are two consenting parties to a
wickedness is for us, in many cases, impossible; and what we have to do
is to beware of shifting blame from ourselves to our circumstances or to
other people. However galling it is to find ourselves mixed up with
transactions which turn out to be shameful, or to discover that some
vacillation or imbecility on our part has made us partakers in sin, it
is idle and worse to wash our hands ostentatiously and try to persuade
ourselves we have no guilt in the matter. The fact that we have been
brought in contact with unjust, cruel, heartless, fraudulent,
unscrupulous, worldly, passionate people may explain many of our sins,
but it does not excuse them. Other people in our circumstances would not
have done what we have done; they would have acted a stronger, manlier,
more generous part. And if we have sinned, it only adds to our guilt and
encourages our weakness to profess innocence now and transfer to some
other party the disgrace that belongs to ourselves. Nothing short of
physical compulsion can excuse wrong-doing.
The calmness and dignity with which Jesus passed through this ordeal,
alone self-possessed, while all around Him were beside themselves, so
impressed Pilate that he not only felt guilty in giving Him up to the
Jews, but did not think it impossible that He might be the Son of God.
But what is perhaps even more striking in this scene is the directness
with which all these evil passions of men—fear, and self-interest, and
injustice, and hate—are guided to an end fraught with blessing.
Goodness finds in the most adverse circumstances material for its
purposes. We are apt in such circumstances to despair and act as if
there were never to be a triumph of goodness; but the little seed of
good that one individual can contribute even by hopeful and patient
submission is that which survives and produces good in perpetuity, while
the passion and the hate and the worldliness cease. In so wild a scene
what availed it, we might have said, that one Person kept His
steadfastness and rose superior to the surrounding wickedness? But the
event showed that it did avail. All the rest was scaffolding that fell
away out of sight, and this solitary integrity remains as the enduring
monument. In our measure we must pass through similar ordeals, times
when it seems vain to contend, useless to hope. When all we have done
seems to be lost, when our way is hid and no further step is visible,
when all the waves and billows of an ungodly world seem to threaten with
extinction the little good we have cherished, then must we remember this
calm, majestic Prisoner, bound in the midst of a frantic and
blood-thirsty mob, yet superior to it because He was living in God.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] See note to chapter xviii.
[25] The cry according to the best reading was simply “Crucify,
crucify,” or as it might be rendered, “The cross, the cross.”
[26] Philo, _Ad Caium_, c. 38.
[27] Mark xv. 12.
XX.
_MARY AT THE CROSS._
“They took Jesus therefore: and He went out, bearing the cross for
Himself, unto the place called The place of a skull, which is called
in Hebrew Golgotha: where they crucified Him, and with Him two
others, on either side one, and Jesus in the midst. And Pilate wrote
a title also, and put it on the cross. And there was written, JESUS
OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS. This title therefore read many of
the Jews: for the place where Jesus was crucified was nigh to the
city: and it was written in Hebrew, and in Latin, and in Greek. The
chief priests of the Jews therefore said to Pilate, Write not, The
King of the Jews; but, that He said, I am King of the Jews. Pilate
answered, What I have written I have written. The soldiers
therefore, when they had crucified Jesus, took His garments, and
made four parts, to every soldier a part; and also the coat: now the
coat was without seam, woven from the top throughout. They said
therefore one to another, Let us not rend it, but cast lots for it,
whose it shall be; that the scripture might be fulfilled, which
saith, They parted My garments among them, And upon My vesture did
they cast lots. These things therefore the soldiers did. But there
were standing by the cross of Jesus His mother, and His mother’s
sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus
therefore saw His mother, and the disciple standing by, whom He
loved, He saith unto His mother, Woman, behold thy son! Then saith
He to the disciple, Behold, thy mother! And from that hour the
disciple took her unto his own home.”—JOHN xix. 17–27.
If we ask on what charge our Lord was condemned to die, the answer must
be complex, not simple. Pilate indeed, in accordance with the usual
custom, painted on a board the name and crime of the Prisoner, that all
who could understand any of the three current languages might know who
this was and why He was crucified. But in the case of Jesus the
inscription was merely a ghastly jest on Pilate’s part. It was the
coarse retaliation of a proud man who found himself helpless in the
hands of people he despised and hated. There was some relish to him in
the crucifixion of Jesus when by his inscription he had turned it into
an insult to the nation. A gleam of savage satisfaction for a moment lit
up his gloomy face when he found that his taunt had told, and the chief
priests came begging him to change what he had written.
Pilate from the first look he got of his Prisoner understood that he had
before him quite another kind of person than the ordinary zealot, or
spurious Messiah, or turbulent Galilean. Pilate knew enough of the Jews
to feel sure that if Jesus had been plotting rebellion against Rome He
would not have been informed against by the chief priests. Possibly he
knew enough of what had been going on in his province to understand
that it was precisely because Jesus would _not_ allow Himself to be made
a king in opposition to Rome that the Jews detested and accused Him.
Possibly he saw enough of the relations of Jesus to the authorities to
despise the abandoned malignity and baseness which could bring an
innocent man to his bar and charge Him with what in their eyes was no
crime at all and make the charge precisely because He was innocent of
it.
Nominally, but only nominally, Jesus was crucified for sedition. If we
pass, in search of the real charge, from Pilate’s judgment-seat to the
Sanhedrim, we get nearer to the truth. The charge on which He was in
this court condemned was the charge of blasphemy. He was indeed examined
as to His claims to be the Messiah, but it does not appear that they had
any law on which He could have been condemned for such claims. They did
not expect that the Messiah would be Divine in the proper sense. Had
they done so, then any one falsely claiming to be the Messiah would
thereby have falsely claimed to be Divine, and would therefore have been
guilty of blasphemy. But it was not for claiming to be the Christ that
Jesus was condemned; it was when He declared Himself to be the Son of
God that the high priest rent His garments and declared Him guilty of
blasphemy.
Now, of course it was very possible that many members of the Sanhedrim
should sincerely believe that blasphemy had been uttered. The unity of
God was the distinctive creed of the Jew, that which had made his
nation, and for any human lips to claim equality with the one infinite
God was not to be thought of. It must have fallen upon their ears like a
thunder-clap; they must have fallen back on their seats or started from
them in horror when so awful a claim was made by the human figure
standing bound before them. There were men among them who would have
advocated His claim to be the Messiah, who believed Him to be a man sent
from God; but not a voice could be raised in His defence when the claim
to be Son of God in a Divine sense passed His lips. His best friends
must have doubted and been disappointed, must have supposed He was
confused by the events of the night, and could only await the issue in
sorrow and wonder.
Was the Sanhedrim, then, to blame for condemning Jesus? They sincerely
believed Him to be a blasphemer, and their law attached to the crime of
blasphemy the punishment of death. It was in ignorance they did it; and
knowing only what they knew, they could not have acted otherwise. Yes,
that is true. But they were responsible for their ignorance. Jesus had
given abundant opportunity to the nation to understand Him and to
consider His claims. He did not burst upon the public with an
uncertified demand to be accepted as Divine. He lived among those who
were instructed in such matters; and though in some respects He was very
different from the Messiah they had looked for, a little openness of
mind and a little careful inquiry would have convinced them He was sent
from God. And had they acknowledged this, had they allowed themselves to
obey their instincts and say, This is a true man, a man who has a
message for us—had they not sophisticated their minds with quibbling
literalities, they would have owned His superiority and been willing to
learn from Him. And had they shown any disposition to learn, Jesus was
too wise a teacher to hurry them and overleap needed steps in conviction
and experience. He would have been slow to extort from any a confession
of His divinity until they had reached the belief of it by the working
of their own minds. Enough for Him that they were willing to see the
truth about Him and to declare it as they saw it. The great charge He
brought against His accusers was that they did violence to their own
convictions. The uneasy suspicions they had about His dignity they
suppressed; the attraction they at times felt to His goodness they
resisted; the duty to inquire patiently into His claims they refused.
And thus their darkness deepened, until in their culpable ignorance they
committed the greatest of crimes.
From all this, then, two things are apparent. First, that Jesus was
condemned on the charge of blasphemy—condemned because He made Himself
equal with God. His own words, pronounced upon oath, administered in the
most solemn manner, were understood by the Sanhedrim to be an explicit
claim to be the Son of God in a sense in which no man could without
blasphemy claim to be so. He made no explanation of His words when He
saw how they were understood. And yet, were He not truly Divine, there
was no one who could have been more shocked than Himself by such a
claim. He understood, if any man did, the majesty of God; He knew better
than any other the difference between the Holy One and His sinful
creatures; His whole life was devoted to the purpose of revealing to men
the unseen God. What could have seemed to Him more monstrous, what could
more effectually have stultified the work and aim of His life, than that
He, being a man, should allow Himself to be taken for God? When Pilate
told Him that He was charged with claiming to be a king, He explained to
Pilate in what sense He did so, and removed from Pilate’s mind the
erroneous supposition this claim had given birth to. Had the Sanhedrim
cherished an erroneous idea of what was involved in His claim to be the
Son of God, He must also have explained to them in what sense He made
it, and have removed from their minds the impression that He was
claiming to be properly Divine. He did not make any explanation; He
allowed them to suppose He claimed to be the Son of God in a sense which
would be blasphemous in a mere man. So that if any one gathers from this
that Jesus was Divine in a sense in which it were blasphemy for any
other man to claim to be, he gathers a legitimate, even a necessary,
inference.
Another reflection which is forced upon the reader of this narrative is,
that disaster waits upon stifled inquiry. The Jews honestly convicted
Christ as a blasphemer because they had dishonestly denied Him to be a
good man. The little spark which would have grown into a blazing light
they put their heel upon. Had they at the first candidly considered Him
as He went about doing good and making no claims, they would have become
attached to Him as His disciples did, and, like them, would have been
led on to a fuller knowledge of the meaning of His person and work. It
is these beginnings of conviction we are so apt to abuse. It seems so
much smaller a crime to kill an infant that has but once drawn breath
than to kill a man of lusty life and busy in his prime; but the one, if
fairly dealt with, will grow to be the other. And while we think very
little of stifling the scarcely breathed whisperings in our own heart
and mind, we should consider that it is only such whisperings that can
bring us to the loudly proclaimed truth. If we do not follow up
suggestions, if we do not push inquiry to discovery, if we do not value
the smallest grain of truth as a seed of unknown worth and count it
wicked to kill even the smallest truth in our souls, we can scarcely
hope at any time to stand in the full light of reality and rejoice in
it. To accept Christ as Divine may be at present beyond us; to
acknowledge Him as such would simply be to perjure ourselves; but can we
not acknowledge Him to be a true man, a good man, a teacher certainly
sent from God? If we do know Him to be all that and more, then have we
thought this out to its results? Knowing Him to be a unique figure among
men, have we perceived what this involves? Admitting Him to be the best
of men, do we love Him, imitate Him, ponder His words, long for His
company? Let us not treat Him as if He were non-existent because He is
not as yet to us all that He is to some. Let us beware of dismissing
_all_ conviction about Him because there are some convictions spoken of
by other people which we do not feel. It is better to deny Christ than
to deny our own convictions; for to do so is to extinguish the only
light we have, and to expose ourselves to all disaster. The man who has
put out his own eyes cannot plead blindness in extenuation of his not
seeing the lights and running the richly laden ship on the rocks.
Guided by the perfect taste which reverence gives, John says very little
about the actual crucifixion. He shows us indeed the soldiers sitting
down beside the little heap of clothes they had stripped off our Lord,
parcelling them out, perhaps already assuming them as their own wear.
For the clothes by which our Lord had been known these soldiers would
now carry into unknown haunts of drunkenness and sin, emblems of our
ruthless, thoughtless desecration of our Lord’s name with which we
outwardly clothe ourselves and yet carry into scenes the most
uncongenial. John, writing long after the event, seems to have no heart
to record the poor taunts with which the crowd sought to increase the
suffering of the Crucified, and force home upon His spirit a sense of
the desolation and ignominy of the cross. Gradually the crowd wearies
and scatters, and only here and there a little whispering group remains.
The day waxes to its greatest heat; the soldiers lie or stand silent;
the centurion sits motionless on his motionless, statue-like horse; the
stillness of death falls upon the scene, only broken at intervals by a
groan from one or other of the crosses. Suddenly through this silence
there sound the words, “Woman, behold thy son: son, behold thy
mother.”—words which remind us that all this dreadful scene which makes
the heart of the stranger bleed has been witnessed by the mother of the
Crucified. As the crowd had broken up from around the crosses, the
little group of women whom John had brought to the spot edged their way
nearer and nearer till they were quite close to Him they loved, though
their lips apparently were sealed by their helplessness to minister
consolation.
These hours of suffering, as the sword was slowly driven through Mary’s
soul, according to Simeon’s word, who shall measure? Hers was not a
hysterical, noisy sorrow, but quiet and silent. There was nothing wild,
nothing extravagant, in it. There was no sign of feminine weakness, no
outcry, no fainting, no wild gesture of uncontrollable anguish, nothing
to show that she was the exceptional mourner and that there was no
sorrow like unto her sorrow. Her reverence for the Lord saved her from
disturbing His last moments. She stood and saw the end. She saw His head
lifted in anguish and falling on His breast in weakness, and she could
not gently take it in her hands and wipe the sweat of death from His
brow. She saw His pierced hands and feet become numbed and livid, and
might not chafe them. She saw Him gasp with pain as cramp seized part
after part of His outstretched body, and she could not change His
posture nor give liberty to so much as one of His hands. And she had to
suffer this in profound desolation of spirit. Her life seemed to be
buried at the cross. To the mourning there often seems nothing left but
to die with the dying. One heart has been the light of life, and now
that light is quenched. What significance, what motive, can life have
any more?[28] We valued no past where that heart was not; we had no
future which was not concentrated upon it or in which it had no part.
But the absorption of common love must have been far surpassed in Mary’s
case. None had been blessed with such a love as hers. And now none
estimated as she did the spotless innocence of the Victim; none could
know as she knew the depth of His goodness, the unfathomable and
unconquerable love He had for all; and none could estimate as she the
ingratitude of those whom He had healed and fed and taught and comforted
with such unselfish devotedness. She knew that there was none like Him,
and that if any could have brought blessing to this earth it was He, and
there she saw Him nailed to the cross, the end actually reached. We know
not if in that hour she thought of the trial of Abraham; we know not
whether she allowed herself to think at all, whether she did not merely
suffer as a mother losing her son; but certainly it must have been with
intensest eagerness she heard herself once more addressed by Him.
Mary was commended to John as the closest friend of Jesus. These two
would be in fullest sympathy, both being devoted to Him. It was perhaps
an indication to those who were present, and through them to all, that
nothing is so true a bond between human hearts as sympathy with Christ.
We may admire nature, and yet have many points of antipathy to those who
also admire nature. We may like the sea, and yet feel no drawing to some
persons who also like the sea. We may be fond of mathematics, and yet
find that this brings us into a very partial and limited sympathy with
mathematicians. Nay, we may even admire and love the same person as
others do, and yet disagree about other matters. But if Christ is chosen
and loved as He ought to be, that love is a determining affection which
rules all else within us, and brings us into abiding sympathy with all
who are similarly governed and moulded by that love. That love indicates
a certain past experience and guarantees a special type of character. It
is the characteristic of the subjects of the kingdom of God.
This care for His mother in His last moments is of a piece with all the
conduct of Jesus. Throughout His life there is an entire absence of
anything pompous or excited. Everything is simple. The greatest acts in
human history He does on the highway, in the cottage, among a group of
beggars in an entry. The words which have thrilled the hearts and mended
the lives of myriads were spoken casually as He walked with a few
friends. Rarely did He even gather a crowd. There was no advertising, no
admission by ticket, no elaborate arrangements for a set speech at a set
hour. Those who know human nature will know what to think of this
unstudied ease and simplicity, and will appreciate it. The same
characteristic appears here. He speaks as if He were not an object of
contemplation; there is an entire absence of self-consciousness, of
ostentatious suggestion that He is now making atonement for the sins of
the world. He speaks to His mother and cares for her as He might have
done had they been in the home at Nazareth together. One despairs of
ever learning such a lesson, or indeed of seeing others learn it. How
like an ant-hill is the world of men! What a fever and excitement! what
a fuss and fret! what an ado! what a sending of messengers, and calling
of meetings, and raising of troops, and magnifying of little things!
what an absence of calmness and simplicity! But this at least we _may_
learn—that no duties, however important, can excuse us for not caring
for our relatives. They are deceived people who spend all their charity
and sweetness out of doors, who have a reputation for godliness, and are
to be seen in the forefront of this or that Christian work, but who are
sullen or imperious or quick-tempered or indifferent at home. If while
saving a world Jesus had leisure to care for His mother, there are no
duties so important as to prevent a man from being considerate and
dutiful at home.
Those who witnessed the hurried events of the morning when Christ was
crucified might be pardoned if their minds were filled with what their
eyes saw, and if little but the outward objects were discernible to
them. We are in different circumstances, and may be expected to look
more deeply into what was happening. To see only the mean scheming and
wicked passions of men, to see nothing but the pathetic suffering of an
innocent and misjudged person, to take our interpretation of these rapid
and disorderly events from the casual spectators without striving to
discover God’s meaning in them, would indeed be a flagrant instance of
what has been called “reading God in a prose translation,” rendering His
clearest and most touching utterance to this world in the language of
callous Jews or barbarous Roman soldiers. Let us open our ear to God’s
own meaning in these events, and we hear Him uttering to us all His
Divine love, and in the most forcible and touching tones. These are the
events in which His deepest purposes and tenderest love find utterance.
How He is striving to win His way to us to convince us of the reality of
sin and of salvation! To be mere spectators of these things is to
convict ourselves of being superficial or strangely callous. Scarcely
any criminal is executed but we all have our opinion on the justice or
injustice of his condemnation. We may well be expected to form our
judgment in _this_ case, and to take action upon it. If Jesus was
unjustly condemned, then we as well as His contemporaries have to do
with His claims. If these claims were true, we have something more to do
than merely to say so.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] See Faber’s _Bethlehem_.
XXI.
_THE CRUCIFIXION._
“The soldiers therefore, when they had crucified Jesus, took His
garments, and made four parts, to every soldier a part; and also the
coat: now the coat was without seam, woven from the top throughout.
They said therefore one to another, Let us not rend it, but cast
lots for it, whose it shall be: that the scripture might be
fulfilled, which saith, They parted My garments among them, And upon
My vesture did they cast lots. These things therefore the soldiers
did.... After this Jesus, knowing that all things are now finished,
that the scripture might be accomplished, saith, I thirst. There was
set there a vessel full of vinegar: so they put a sponge full of the
vinegar upon hyssop, and brought it to His mouth. When Jesus
therefore had received the vinegar, He said, It is finished: and He
bowed His head, and gave up His spirit. The Jews therefore, because
it was the Preparation, that the bodies should not remain on the
cross upon the Sabbath (for the day of that Sabbath was a high day),
asked of Pilate that their legs might be broken, and that they might
be taken away. The soldiers therefore came, and brake the legs of
the first, and of the other which was crucified with Him: but when
they came to Jesus, and saw that He was dead already, they brake not
His legs: howbeit one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side,
and straightway there came out blood and water. And he that hath
seen hath borne witness, and his witness is true: and he knoweth
that he saith true, that ye also may believe. For these things came
to pass, that the scripture might be fulfilled, A bone of Him shall
not be broken. And again another scripture saith, They shall look on
Him whom they pierced.”—JOHN xix. 23, 24, 28–37.
Possibly the account which John gives of the Crucifixion is somewhat
spoiled to some readers by his frequent reference to apparently
insignificant coincidences with Old Testament prophecy. It is, however,
to be remembered that John was himself a Jew, and was writing for a
public which laid great stress on such literal fulfilments of prophecy.
The wording of the narrative might lead us to suppose that John believed
Jesus to be intentionally fulfilling prophecy. Where he says, “After
this, Jesus knowing that all things were now accomplished, that the
scripture might be fulfilled, saith, I thirst,” it might be fancied that
John supposed that Jesus said “I thirst” in order that Scripture might
be fulfilled. This is, of course, to misconceive the Evangelist’s
meaning. Such a fulfilment would have been fictitious, not real. But
John believes that in each smallest act and word of our Lord the will of
God was finding expression, a will which had long since been uttered in
the form of Old Testament prophecy. In these hours of dismay, when Jesus
was arrested, tried, and crucified before the eyes of His disciples,
they tried to believe that this was God’s will; and long afterwards,
when they had found time to think, and when they had to deal with men
who felt the difficulty of believing in a crucified Saviour, they
pointed to the fact that even in small particulars the sufferings of the
Messiah had been anticipated and were to be expected.
The first instance of this which John cites is the manner in which the
soldiers dealt with His clothes. After fixing Jesus to the cross and
raising it, the four men who were detailed to this service sat down to
watch. Such was the custom, lest friends should remove the crucified
before death supervened. Having settled themselves for this watch, they
proceeded to divide the clothes of Jesus among them. This also was
customary among the Romans, as it has been everywhere usual that the
executioners should have as their perquisite some of the articles worn
by the condemned. The soldiers parted the garments of Jesus among them,
each of the four taking what he needed or fancied—turban, shoes,
girdle, or under-coat; while for the large seamless plaid that was worn
over all they cast lots, being unwilling to tear it. All this fulfilled
an old prediction to the letter. The reason why it had been spoken of
was that it formed a weighty element in the suffering of the crucified.
Few things can make a dying man feel more desolate than to overhear
those who sit round his bed already disposing of his effects, counting
him a dead man who can no longer use the apparatus of the living, and
congratulating themselves on the profit they make by his death. How
furious have old men sometimes been made by any betrayal of eagerness on
the part of their heirs! Even to calculate on a man’s death and make
arrangements for filling his place is justly esteemed indecorous and
unfeeling. To ask a sick man for anything he has been accustomed to use,
and must use again if he recovers health, is an act which only an
indelicate nature could be guilty of. It was a cruel addition, then, to
our Lord’s suffering to see these men heartlessly dividing among them
all He had to leave. It forced on His mind the consciousness of their
utter indifference to His feelings. His clothes were of some little
value to them: He Himself of no value. Nothing could have made Him feel
more separated from the world of the living—from their hopes, their
ways, their life—as if already He were dead and buried.
This distribution of His clothes was also calculated to make Him
intensely sensible of the reality and finality of death. Jesus knew He
was to rise again; but let us not forget that Jesus was human, liable to
the same natural fears, and moved by the same circumstances as
ourselves. He knew He was to rise again; but how much easier had it been
to believe in that future life had all the world been expecting Him to
rise! But here were men showing that they very well knew He would never
again need these clothes of His.
A comparison of this narrative with the other Gospels brings out that
the words “I thirst” must have been uttered immediately after the
fearful cry “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” For when the
soldier was mercifully pressing the sponge steeped in vinegar to His
parched lips, some of the bystanders called out, “Let be: let us see
whether Elias will come to save Him,” referring to the words of Jesus,
which they had not rightly understood. And this expression of bodily
suffering is proof that the severity of the spiritual struggle was over.
So long as that deep darkness covered His spirit He was unconscious of
His body; but with the agonised cry to His Father the darkness had
passed away; the very uttering of His desolation had disburdened His
spirit, and at once the body asserts itself. As in the wilderness at the
opening of His career He had been for many days so agitated and absorbed
in mind that He did not once think of food, but no sooner was the
spiritual strife ended than the keen sensation of hunger was the first
thing to demand His attention, so here His sense of thirst is the sign
that His spirit was now at rest.
The last act of the Crucifixion, in which John sees the fulfilment of
Old Testament prophecy, is the omission in the case of Jesus of the
common mode of terminating the life of the crucified by breaking the
legs with an iron bar. Jesus being already dead, this was considered
unnecessary; but as possibly He might only have swooned, and as the
bodies were immediately taken down, one of the soldiers makes sure of
His death by a lance thrust. Medical men and scholars have largely
discussed the causes which might produce the outflow of blood and water
which John affirms followed this spear thrust, and various causes have
been assigned. But it is a point which has apparently only physiological
interest. John indeed follows up his statement of what he saw with an
unusually strong asseveration that what he says is true. “He that saw it
bare record, and his record is true: and he knoweth that he saith true,
that ye might believe.” But this strong asseveration is introduced, not
for the sake of persuading us to believe that water as well as blood
flowed from the lance wound, but for the sake of certifying the actual
death of Jesus. The soldiers who had charge of the execution discharged
their duty. They made sure that the Crucified was actually dead. And
John’s reason for insisting on this and appending to his statement so
unusual a confirmation is sufficiently obvious. He was about to relate
the Resurrection, and he knows that a true resurrection must be preceded
by a real death. If he has no means of establishing the actual death, he
has no means of establishing the Resurrection. And therefore for the
first and only time in his narrative he departs from simple narration,
and most solemnly asseverates that he is speaking the truth and was an
eyewitness of the things he relates.
The emphatic language John uses regarding the certainty of Christ’s
death is, then, only an index to the importance he attached to the
Resurrection. He was aware that whatever virtue lay in the life and
death of Christ, this virtue became available for men through the
Resurrection. Had Jesus not risen again all the hopes His friends had
cherished regarding Him would have been buried in His tomb. Had He not
risen His words would have been falsified and doubt thrown upon all His
teaching. Had He not risen His claims would have been unintelligible and
His whole appearance and life a mystery, suggesting a greatness not
borne out—different from other men, yet subject to the same defeat. Had
He not risen the very significance of His life would have been obscured;
and if for a time a few friends cherished His memory in private, His
name would have fallen back to an obscure, possibly a dishonoured,
place.
It is not at once obvious what we are to make of the physical sufferings
of Christ. Certainly it is very easy to make too much of them. For, in
the first place, they were very brief and confined to one part of His
life. He was exempt from the prolonged weakness and misery which many
persons endure throughout life. Born, as we may reasonably suppose,
with a healthy and vigorous constitution, carefully reared by the best
of mothers, finding a livelihood in His native village and in His
father’s business, His lot was very different from the frightful doom of
thousands who are born with diseased and distorted body, in squalid and
wicked surroundings, and who never see through the misery that
encompasses them to any happy or hopeful life. And even after He left
the shelter and modest comforts of the Nazareth home His life was spent
in healthy conditions, and often in scenes of much beauty and interest.
Free to move about through the country as He pleased, passing through
vineyards and olive-groves and cornfields, talking pleasantly with His
little company of attached friends or addressing large audiences, He
lived an open-air life of a kind in which of necessity there must have
been a great deal of physical pleasure and healthful enjoyment. At times
He had not where to lay His head; but this is mentioned rather as a
symptom of His want of friends than as implying any serious physical
suffering in a climate like that of Palestine. And the suffering at the
close of His life, though extreme, was brief, and was not to be compared
in its cruelty to what many of His followers have endured for His sake.
Two things, however, the physical sufferings of Christ do secure: they
call attention to His devotedness, and they illustrate His willing
sacrifice of self. They call attention to His devotedness and provoke a
natural sympathy and tenderness of spirit in the beholder, qualities
which are much needed in our consideration of Christ. Had He passed
through life entirely exempt from suffering, in high position, with
every want eagerly ministered to, untouched by any woe, and at last
passing away by a painless decease, we should find it much harder to
respond to His appeal or even to understand His work. Nothing so quickly
rivets our attention and stirs our sympathy as physical pain. We feel
disposed to listen to the demands of one who is suffering, and if we
have a lurking suspicion that we are somehow responsible for that
suffering and are benefited by it, then we are softened by a mingled
pity, admiration, and shame, which is one of the fittest attitudes a
human spirit can assume.
Besides, it is through the visible suffering we can read the willingness
of Christ’s self-surrender. It was always more difficult for Him to
suffer than for us. We have no option: He might have rescued Himself at
any moment. We, in suffering, have but to subdue our disposition to
murmur and our sense of pain: He had to subdue what was much more
obstinate—His consciousness that He might if He pleased abjure the life
that involved pain. The strain upon His love for us was not once for all
over when He became man. He Himself intimates, and His power of working
miracles proves, that at each point of His career He might have saved
Himself from suffering, but would not.
When we ask ourselves what we are to make of these sufferings of Christ,
we naturally seek aid from the Evangelist and ask what he made of them.
But on reading his narrative we are surprised to find so little comment
or reflection interrupting the simple relation of facts. At first sight
the narrative seems to flow uninterruptedly on, and to resemble the
story which might be told of the closing scenes of an ordinary life
terminating tragically. The references to Old Testament prophecy alone
give us the clue to John’s thoughts about the significance of this
death. These references show us that he considered that in this public
execution, conducted wholly by Roman soldiers, who could not read a word
of Hebrew and did not know the name of the God of the Jews, there was
being fulfilled the purpose of God towards which all previous history
had been tending. That purpose of God in the history of man was
accomplished when Jesus breathed His last upon the cross. The cry “It is
finished” was not the mere gasp of a worn-out life; it was not the cry
of satisfaction with which a career of pain and sorrow is terminated: it
was the deliberate utterance of a clear consciousness on the part of
God’s appointed Revealer that now all had been done that could be done
to make God known to men and to identify Him with men. God’s purpose had
ever been one and indivisible. Declared to men in various ways, a hint
here, a broad light there, now by a gleam of insight in the mind of a
prophet, now by a deed of heroism in king or leader, through rude
symbolic contrivances and through the tenderest of human affections and
the highest human thoughts God had been making men ever more and more
sensible that His one purpose was to come closer and closer into
fellowship with them and to draw them into a perfect harmony with Him.
Forgiveness and deliverance from sin were provided for them, knowledge
of God’s law and will that they might learn to know and to serve
Him—all these were secured when Jesus cried, “It is finished.”
Why, then, does John just at this point of the life of Jesus see so many
evidences of the fulfilment of all prophecy? Need we ask? Is not
suffering that which is the standing problem of life? Is it not grief
and trouble and sorrow which press home upon our minds most convincingly
the reality of sin? Is it not death which is common to all men of every
age, race, station, or experience? And must not One who identifies
Himself with men identify Himself in this if in anything? It is the
cross of Jesus that stands before the mind of John as the completion of
that process of incarnation, of entrance into human experience, which
fills his Gospel; it is here he sees the completion and finishing of
that identification of God with man he has been exhibiting throughout.
The union of God with man is perfected when God submits Himself to the
last darkest experience of man. To some it seems impossible such a thing
should be; it seems either unreal, unthought-out verbiage, or blasphemy.
To John, after he had seen and pondered the words and the life of Jesus,
all his ideas of the Father were altered. He learned that God is love,
and that to infinite love, while there remains one thing to give, one
step of nearness to the loved to be taken, love has not its perfect
expression. It came upon him as a revelation that God was really in the
world. Are we to refuse to God any true participation in the strife
between good and evil? Is God to be kept out of all reality? Is He
merely to look on, to see how His creatures will manage, how this and
that man will bear himself heroically, but Himself a mere name, a lay
figure crowned but otiose, doing nothing to merit His crown, doing
nothing to warrant the worship of untold worlds, commanding others to
peril themselves and put all to the proof, but Himself well out of range
of all risk, of all conflict, of all tragedy? How can we hope to love a
God we remove to a throne remote and exalted, from which He looks down
on human life, and cannot look on it as we do from the inside! Is God to
be only a dramatist, who arranges thrilling situations for others to
pass through, and assigns to each the part he is to play, but Himself
has no real interests at stake and no actual entrance into the world of
feeling, of hope, of trial?
And if a Divine Person were in the course of things to come into this
human world, to enter into our actual experiences, and feel and bear the
actual strain that we bear, it is obvious He must come incognito—not
distinguished by such marks as would bring the world to His feet, and
make an ordinary human life and ordinary human trials impossible to Him.
When sovereigns wish to ascertain for themselves how their subjects
live, they do not proclaim their approach and send in advance an army of
protection, provision, and display; they do not demand to be met by the
authorities of each town, and to be received by artificial, stereotyped
addresses, and to be led from one striking sight to another and from one
comfortable palace to another: but they leave their robes of state
behind them, they send no messenger in advance, and they mix as one of
the crowd with the crowd, exposed to whatever abuse may be going, and
living for the time on the same terms as the rank and file. This has
been done often in sport, sometimes as matter of policy or of interest,
but never as the serious method of understanding and lifting the general
habits and life of the people. Christ came among us, not as a kind of
Divine adventure to break the tedium of eternal glory, nor merely to
make personal observations on His own account, but as the requisite and
only means available for bringing the fulness of Divine help into
practical contact with mankind. But as all filth and squalor are hidden
away in the slums from the senses of the king, so that if he is to
penetrate into the burrows of the criminal classes and see the
wretchedness of the poor, he must do it incognito, so if Christ sought
to bring Divine mercy and might within reach of the vilest, He must
visit their haunts and make Himself acquainted with their habits.
It is also obvious that such a Person would concern Himself not with art
or literature, not with inventions and discoveries, not even with
politics and government and social problems, but with that which
underlies all these and for which all these exist—with human character
and human conduct, with man’s relation to God. It is with the very root
of human life He concerns Himself.
The sufferings of Christ, then, were mainly inward, and were the
necessary result of His perfect sympathy with men. That which has made
the cross the most significant of earthly symbols, and which has
invested it with so wonderful a power to subdue and purify the heart, is
not the fact that it involved the keenest physical pain, but that it
exhibits Christ’s perfect and complete identification with sinful men.
It is this that humbles us and brings us to a right mind towards God and
towards sin, that here we see the innocent Son of God involved in
suffering and undergoing a shameful death through our sin. It was His
sympathy with men which brought Him into this world, and it was the same
sympathy which laid Him open to suffering throughout His life. The
mother suffers more in the illness of a child than in her own; the shame
of wrong-doing is often more keenly felt by a parent or friend than by
the perpetrator himself. If Paul’s enthusiasm and devoted life for men
made him truly say, “Who is weak, and I am not weak?” who shall measure
the burden Christ bore from day to day in the midst of a sinning and
suffering world? With a burning zeal for God, He was plunged into an
arctic region where thick-ribbed ice of indifference met His warmth;
consumed with devotion to God’s purposes, He saw everywhere around Him
ignorance, carelessness, self-seeking, total misunderstanding of what
the world is for; linked to men with a love which irrepressibly urged
Him to seek the highest good for all, He was on all hands thwarted;
dying to see men holy and pure and godly, He everywhere found them weak,
sinful, gross. It was this which made Him a man of sorrows and
acquainted with grief—loving God and man with a love which was the
chief element in His being, He could not get man reconciled to God. The
mere sorrows of men doubtless affected Him more than they affect the
most tender-hearted of men; but these sorrows—poverty, failure,
sickness—would pass away and would even work for good, and so might
well be borne. But when He saw men disregarding that which would save
them from lasting sorrow; when He saw them giving themselves to
trivialities with all their might, and doing nothing to recover their
right relation to God, the spring of all good; when He saw them day by
day defeating the purpose He lived to accomplish, and undoing the one
only work He thought worth doing,—who can measure the burden of shame
and grief He had to bear?
But it is not the suffering that does us good and brings us to God, but
the love which underlies the suffering. The suffering convinces us that
it is love which prompts Christ in all His life and death,—a love we
may confidently trust to, since it is staggered at no difficulty or
sacrifice; a love which aims at lifting and helping us; a love that
embraces us, not seeking to accomplish only one thing for us, but
necessarily, because it is love for us, seeking our good in all things.
The power of earthly love, of the devotedness of mother, wife, or
friend, we know;—we know what length such love will go: shall we then
deny to God the happiness of sacrifice, the joy of love? Let it not
enter our thoughts that He who is more closely related to us than any,
and who will far less disclaim this relationship than any, does not love
us in practical ways, and cannot fit us by His loving care for all that
His holiness requires.
XXII.
_THE RESURRECTION._
“Now on the first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, while
it was yet dark, unto the tomb, and seeth the stone taken away from
the tomb. She runneth therefore, and cometh to Simon Peter, and to
the other disciple, whom Jesus loved, and saith unto them, They have
taken away the Lord out of the tomb, and we know not where they have
laid Him. Peter therefore went forth, and the other disciple, and
they went toward the tomb. And they ran both together: and the other
disciple outran Peter, and came first to the tomb; and stooping and
looking in, he seeth the linen cloths lying; yet entered he not in.
Simon Peter therefore also cometh, following him, and entered into
the tomb; and he beholdeth the linen cloths lying, and the napkin,
that was upon His head, not lying with the linen cloths, but rolled
up in a place by itself. Then entered in therefore the other
disciple also, which came first to the tomb, and he saw, and
believed. For as yet they knew not the scripture, that He must rise
again from the dead. So the disciples went away again unto their own
home. But Mary was standing without at the tomb weeping: so, as she
wept, she stooped and looked into the tomb; and she beholdeth two
angels in white sitting, one at the head, and one at the feet, where
the body of Jesus had lain. And they say unto her, Woman, why
weepest thou? She saith unto them, Because they have taken away my
Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him. When she had thus
said, she turned herself back, and beholdeth Jesus standing, and
knew not that it was Jesus. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest
thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing Him to be the gardener,
saith unto Him, Sir, if thou hast borne Him hence, tell me where
thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away, Jesus saith unto her,
Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto Him in Hebrew, Rabboni;
which is to say, Master. Jesus saith to her, Touch Me not; for I am
not yet ascended unto the Father: but go unto My brethren, and say
to them, I ascend unto My Father and your Father, and My God and
your God. Mary Magdalene cometh and telleth the disciples, I have
seen the Lord; and how that He had said these things unto
her.”—JOHN xx. 1–18.
John gives no narrative of the Resurrection itself. He gives us what is
much more valuable—a brief account of the manner in which he himself
was convinced that a resurrection had taken place. His shy nature, his
modest reluctance to put himself forward or use the first person in his
narrative, does not prevent him from seeing that the testimony of one
who, like himself, was an eyewitness of the facts is invaluable; and
nothing but additional interest and reality is added to his testimony by
the varied periphrases with which he veils his identity, as “the
disciple whom Jesus loved,” “that other disciple,” and so forth.
When Mary brought the startling intelligence that the tomb was empty,
Peter and John instantly made for the spot at the top of their speed.
The older man was left behind by John, but natural reverence kept him
from entering the rocky chamber. He looked in, however, and to his
surprise saw enough to convince him that the body had not been removed
for interment elsewhere or to be cast out with the bodies of criminals.
For there were the linen cloths in which He had been wrapped, carefully
taken off and left behind. The impression made by this circumstance was
confirmed when Peter came up, and they both entered and examined the
tomb and made their inferences together. For then they saw still clearer
evidence of deliberation; the napkin which had been tied round the head
of the dead body was there in the tomb, and it was folded and laid in a
place by itself, suggesting the leisurely manner of a person changing
his clothes, and convincing them that the body had not been removed to
be laid elsewhere. At once John was convinced that a resurrection had
taken place; his Lord’s words took a new meaning in this empty tomb.
Standing and gazing at the folded cloths, the truth flashed into his
mind: Jesus has Himself risen and disencumbered Himself from these
wrappings, and has departed. It was enough for John: he visited no other
tomb; he questioned no one; he made no inquiries of his friends in the
high priest’s household,—he went to his own house, filled with
astonishment, with a thousand thoughts chasing one another through his
mind, scarcely listening to Peter’s voluble tongue, but convinced that
Jesus lived.
This simple narrative will be to many minds more convincing than an
accumulation of elaborate arguments. The style is that of an eyewitness.
Each movement and every particular is before his eye: Mary bursting,
breathless, and gasping out the startling news; the hasty springing up
of the two men, and their rapid racing along the streets and out through
the city gates to the garden; John standing panting at the rock-hewn
sepulchre, his stooping down and peering into the dark chamber; Peter
toiling up behind, but not hesitating a moment, and entering and gazing
at this and that till the dumb articles tell their story; and the two
men leave the sepulchre together, awed and convinced. And the eyewitness
who thus graphically relates what he knew of that great morning adds
with the simplicity of a truthful nature, “he saw and
believed”—believed then for the first time; for as yet they had not
seen the significance of certain scriptures which now seemed plainly
enough to point to this.
To some minds this simple narrative will, I say, carry home the
conviction of the truth of the Resurrection more than any elaborate
argumentation. There is an assuring matter-of-factness about it.
Sceptics tell us that visions are common, and that excited people are
easily deceived. But we have no word of visions here. John does not say
he saw the Lord: he tells us merely of two fishermen running; of solid,
commonplace articles such as grave-clothes; and of observations that
could not possibly be mistaken, such as that the tomb was empty and that
they two were in it. For my part I feel constrained to believe a
narrative like this, when it tells me the grave was empty. No doubt
their conclusion, that Jesus had Himself emptied the tomb, was not a
certain but only a probable inference, and, had nothing more occurred,
even John himself might not have continued so confident; but it is
important to notice how John was convinced, not at all by visions or
voices or embodied expectations of his own, but in the most
matter-of-fact way and by the very same kind of observation that we use
and rely upon in common life. And, moreover, more did occur; there
followed just such results as were in keeping with so momentous an
event.
One of these immediately occurred. Mary, exhausted with her rapid
carrying of the news to Peter and John, was not able to keep pace with
them as they ran to the tomb, and before she arrived they were gone.
Probably she missed them in the streets as she came out of the city; at
any rate, finding the tomb still empty and none present to explain the
reason of it, she stands there desolate and pours out her distress in
tears. That grave being empty, the whole earth is empty to her: the dead
Christ was more to her than a living world. She could not go as Peter
and John had gone, for she had no thought of resurrection. The rigid
form, the unanswering lips and eye, the body passive in the hands of
others, had fixed on her heart, as it commonly does, the one impression
of death. She felt that all was over, and now she had not even the poor
consolation of paying some slight additional attention. She can but
stand and lay her head upon the stone and let her tears flow from a
broken heart. And yet again in the midst of her grief she cannot believe
it true that He is lost to her; she returns, as love will do, to the
search, suspects her own eyesight, seeks again where she had sought
before, and cannot reconcile herself to a loss so total and
overwhelming. So absorbing is her grief that the vision of angels does
not astonish her; her heart, filled with grief, has no room for wonder.
Their kindly words cannot comfort her; it is another voice she longs
for. She had but the one thought, “They have taken away my Lord,”—_my_
Lord, as if none felt the bereavement as she. She supposes, too, that
all must know about the loss and understand what she is seeking, so that
when she sees the gardener she says, “Sir, if thou hast borne _Him_
hence.” What need to say who? Can any one be thinking of any other but
of Him who engrosses her thought?
In all this we have the picture of a real and profound grief, and
therefore of a real and profound love. We see in Mary the kind of
affection which a knowledge of Jesus was fitted to kindle. And to Mary
our Lord remembered His promise: “He that loveth Me shall be loved of
My Father, and I will love him and will manifest Myself to him.” None is
so unable as He to leave any who love Him without any response to their
expressions of affection. He could not coldly look on while this woman
was eagerly seeking Him; and it is as impossible that He should hide
Himself now from any who seek Him with as true a heart. Sometimes it
would seem as if real thirst for God were not at once allayed, as if
many were allowed to spend the best part of their days in seeking; but
this does not invalidate the promise, “He that seeketh, findeth.” For as
Christ is again and again removed from the view of men, and as He is
allowed to become a remote and shadowy figure, He can be restored to a
living and visible influence in the world only by this man and that man
becoming sensible of the great loss we sustain by His absence, and
working his own way to a clear apprehension of His continued life. No
experience which an honest man has in his search for the truth is
worthless; it is the solid foundation of his own permanent belief and
connection with the truth, and it is useful to other men.
Mary standing without at the sepulchre weeping is a concrete
representation of a not uncommon state of mind. She stands wondering why
she was ever so foolish, so heartless, as to leave the tomb at all—why
she had allowed it to be possible to become separated from the Lord. She
looks despairingly at the empty grave-clothes which so lately had held
all that was dear to her in the world. She might, she thinks, had she
been present, have prevented the tomb from being emptied, but now it is
empty she cannot fill it again. It is thus that those who have been
careless about maintaining communion with Christ reproach themselves
when they find He is gone. The ordinances, the prayers, the quiet hours
of contemplation, that once were filled with Him are now, like the linen
clothes and the napkin, empty, cold, pale forms, remembrances of His
presence that make His absence all the more painful. When we ask where
we can find Him, only the hard, mocking echo of the empty tomb replies.
And yet this self-reproach is itself a seeking to which He will respond.
To mourn His absence is to desire and to invite His presence; and to
invite His presence is to secure it.[29]
The Evangelist Mark saw more in the Lord’s appearance to Mary than a
response to her seeking love. He reminds his readers that this was the
woman out of whom the Lord had cast seven devils, meaning apparently to
suggest that those who have most need of encouragement from Him are
surest to get it. He had not appeared to Peter and John, though these
men were to build up His Church and be responsible for His cause. To the
man whom He loved, who had stood by Him at His trial and in His death,
who had received His mother and was now to be in His place to her, He
made no sign, but allowed him to examine the empty tomb and retire. But
to this woman He discloses Himself at once. The love which sprang from a
sense of what she owed Him kept her at the tomb and threw her in His
way. Her sense of dependence was the magnetic point on earth which
attracted and disclosed His presence. Observe the situation. Earth lay
uncertain; some manifestation is needed to guide men at this critical
time; blank disappointment or pointless waiting broods everywhere. At
what point shall the presence of Christ break through and quicken
expectation and faith? Shall He go to the high priest’s palace or to
Pilate’s prætorium and triumph over their dismay? Shall He go and lay
busy plans with this and that group of followers? On the contrary, He
appears to a poor woman who can do nothing to celebrate His triumph and
might only discredit it, if she proclaimed herself His friend and
herald. But thus continuous is the character of Jesus through death and
resurrection. The meekness, the true perception of the actual sorrows
and wants of men, the sense for spiritual need, the utter disregard of
worldly powers and glory, characterise Him now as before. The sense of
need is what always effectually appeals to Him. The soul that truly
recognises the value and longs for the fellowship and possession of
Christ’s purity, devotion to God, superiority to worldly aims and
interests, always wins His regard. When a man prays for these things not
with his lips but with his life’s effort and his heart’s true craving,
his prayer is answered. To seek Christ is to feel as Mary felt, to see
with practical constraining clearness as she saw, that He is the most
precious of all possessions, that to be like Him is the greatest of all
attainments; it is to see His character with clearness, and to be
persuaded that, if the world gives us opportunity of becoming like Him
and actually makes us like Him, it has done for us all that is vital and
permanently important.
As Mary answered the angels she heard a step behind or saw the tomb
darkened by a shadow, and on turning discerns dimly through her tears a
figure which naturally enough she supposes to be the gardener—not
because Jesus had assumed the clothes or lifted the tools of the
gardener, but because he was the likeliest person to be going about the
garden at that early hour. As the heart overburdened with grief is often
unconscious of the presence of Christ and refuses to be comforted
because it cannot see Him for its sorrow, so Mary through the veil of
her tears can see only a human form, and turns away again, unconscious
that He for whom she seeks is with her. As she turns, one word wipes the
tears from her eyes and penetrates her heart with sudden joy. The
utterance of her name was enough to tell her it was some one who knew
her that was there; but there was a responsive thrill and an awaking of
old memories and a vibration of her nature under the tone of that voice,
which told her whose alone it could be. The voice seemed a second time
to command a calm within her and turn her whole soul to Himself only.
Once before, that voice had banished from her nature the foul spirits
that had taken possession of her; she had “awaked from hell beneath the
smile of Christ,” and now again the same voice brought her out of
darkness into light. From being the most disconsolate, Mary became at a
word the happiest creature in the world.
Mary’s happiness is easily understood. No explanation is needed of the
peace and bliss she experienced when she heard herself owned as the
friend of the risen Lord, and called by her name in the familiar tone by
Him who stood now superior to all risk, assault, and evil. This perfect
joy is the reward of all in the measure of their faith. Christ rose, not
that He might bring ecstasy to Mary alone, but that He might fill all
things with His presence and His fulness, and that our joy also might be
full. Has He not called us also by name? Has He not given us at times a
consciousness that He understands our nature and what will satisfy it,
that He claims an intimacy no other can claim, that His utterance of our
name has a significance which no other lips can give it? Do we find it
difficult to enter into true intercourse with Him; do we envy Mary her
few minutes in the garden? As truly as by the audible utterance of our
name does Christ now invite us to the perfect joy there is in His
friendship; so truly as if He stood with us alone, as with Mary in the
garden, and as if none but ourselves were present; as if our name alone
filled His lips, our wants alone occupied His heart. Let us not miss
true personal intercourse with Christ. Let nothing cheat us of this
supreme joy and life of the soul. Let us not slothfully or shyly say, “I
can never be on such terms of intimacy with Christ,—I who am so unlike
Him; so full of desires He cannot gratify; so frivolous, superficial,
unreal, while He is so real, so earnest; so unloving while He is so
loving; so reluctant to endure hardness, with views of life and aims so
opposed to His; so unable to keep a pure and elevated purpose
steadfastly in my mind.” Mary was once trodden under foot of evil, a
wreck in whom none but Christ saw any place for hope. It is what is in
_Him_ that is powerful. He has won His supremacy by love, by refusing to
enjoy His private rights without our sharing them; and He maintains His
supremacy by love, teaching all to love Him, subduing to devotedness the
hardest heart—not by a remote exhibition of cold, unemotional
perfection, but by the persistence and depth of His warm and individual
love.
Mary had no time to reason and doubt. With one quick exclamation of
ecstatic recognition and joy she sprang towards Him. The one word “my
Master,”[30] uttered all her heart. It is related of George Herbert
that when he was inducted into the cure of Bemerton he said to a friend:
“I beseech God that my humble and charitable life may so win upon others
as to bring glory to my Jesus, whom I have this day taken to be my
Master and my Governor, and I am so proud of His service that I will
always call Him Jesus, my Master.” His biographer adds: “He seems to
rejoice in that word Jesus, and says that the adding these words ‘my
Master’ to it and the often repetition of them seemed to perfume his
mind.” With Mary the title was one of indefinite respect; she found in
Jesus one she could always reverence and trust. The firm, loving hand
that admits no soft evasion of duty; the steadfast step that with
equanimity ever goes straight forward; the strong heart that has always
room for the distresses of others; the union with God which made Him a
medium to earth of God’s superiority and availing compassion,—these
things had made the words “my Master” His proper designation in her
lips. And our spirit cannot be purified and elevated but by worthy love
and deserved reverence, by living in presence of that which commands our
love and lifts up our nature to what is above it. It is by letting our
heart and mind be filled by what is above us that we grow in abiding
stature and become in our turn helpful to what is at a still lower stage
than we are.
But as Mary sprang forward, and in a transport of affection made as
though she would embrace the Lord, she is met by these quick words:
“Touch Me not, for I am not yet ascended to My Father.” Various
conjectural reasons for this prohibition have been supposed,—as, that
it was indecorous, an objection which Christ did not make when at a
dinner-table a woman kissed his feet, scandalising the guests and
provoking the suspicions of the host; or, that she wished to assure
herself by touch of the reality of the appearance, an assurance which He
did not object to the disciples making, but rather encouraged them to
make, as He would also have encouraged Mary had she needed any such
test, which she did not; or, that this vehement embrace would disturb
the process of glorification which was proceeding in His body! It is
idle to conjecture reasons, seeing that He Himself gives the reason,
“for I am not yet ascended,” implying that such “touching” would no
longer be prohibited when He was ascended. Mary seems to have thought
that already the “little while” of His absence was past, and that now He
was to be always with them upon earth, helping them in the same familiar
ways and training them by His visible presence and spoken words. This
was a misconception. He must first ascend to the Father, and those who
love Him on earth must learn to live without the physical appearance,
the actual seeing, touching, hearing, of the well-known Master. There
must be no more kissing of His feet, but homage of a sterner, deeper
sort; there must be no more sitting at table with Him, and filling the
mind with His words, until they sit down with Him in the Father’s
presence. Meanwhile His friends must walk by faith, not by sight—by
their inward light and spiritual likings; they must learn the truer
fidelity that serves an absent Lord; they must acquire the independent
and inherent love of righteousness which can freely grow only when
relieved from the over-mastering pressure of a visible presence,
encouraging us by sensible expressions of favour, guaranteeing us
against defeat and danger. Thus only can the human spirit freely grow,
showing its native bent, its true tastes and convictions; thus only can
its capacities for self-development and for choosing and fulfilling its
own destiny be matured.
And if these words of Jesus seemed at first chilling and repellent, they
were followed by words of unmistakable affection: “Go to my brothers,
and say unto them, I ascend unto My Father and your Father, and to My
God and your God.” This is the message of the risen Lord to men. He has
become the link between us and all that is highest and best. We know
that He has overcome all evil and left it behind; we know that He is
worthy of the highest place, that by His righteousness and love He
merits the highest place. We know that if such an one as He cannot go
boldly to the highest heaven and claim God as His God and Father, there
is no such thing as moral worth, and all effort, conscience, hope,
responsibility, are vain and futile. We know that Christ must ascend to
the highest, and yet we know also that He will not enter where we cannot
follow. We know that His love binds Him to us as strongly as His rights
carry Him to God. We can as little believe that He will abandon us and
leave us out of His eternal enjoyment, as we can believe that God would
refuse to own Him as Son. And it is this which Christ puts in the
forefront of His message as risen and ascending: “I ascend unto My
Father and your Father.” The joy that awaits Me with God awaits you
also; the power I go to exercise is the power of your Father. This
affinity for heaven which you see in Me is coupled with affinity for
you. The holiness, the power, the victory, I have achieved and now enjoy
are yours; I am your Brother: what I claim, I claim for you.
FOOTNOTES:
[29] See Pusey’s sermon on this subject.
[30] “Rabboni” had more of reverence in it than would be conveyed by “my
Teacher,” and it is legitimate here to use “Master” in its wider sense.
XXIII.
_THOMAS’ TEST._
“When therefore it was evening, on that day, the first day of the
week, and when the doors were shut where the disciples were, for
fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in the midst, and saith unto
them, Peace be unto you. And when He had said this, He showed unto
them His hands and His side. The disciples therefore were glad, when
they saw the Lord. Jesus therefore said to them again, Peace be unto
you: as the Father hath sent Me, even so send I you. And when He had
said this, He breathed on them, and saith unto them, Receive ye the
Holy Ghost: whosesoever sins ye forgive, they are forgiven unto
them; whosesoever sins ye retain, they are retained. But Thomas, one
of the twelve, called Didymus, was not with them when Jesus came.
The other disciples therefore said unto him, We have seen the Lord.
But he said unto them, Except I shall see in His hands the print of
the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my
hand into His side, I will not believe. And after eight days again
His disciples were within, and Thomas with them. Jesus cometh, the
doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto
you. Then saith He to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and see My
hands; and reach hither thy hand, and put it into My side: and be
not faithless, but believing. Thomas answered and said unto Him, My
Lord and my God. Jesus saith unto him, Because thou hast seen Me,
thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet
have believed.”—JOHN xx. 19–29.
On the evening of the day whose dawning had been signalised by the
Resurrection, the disciples, and, according to Luke, some others, were
together. They expected that the event which had restored hope in their
own hearts would certainly excite the authorities and probably lead to
the arrest of some of their number. They had therefore carefully closed
the doors, that some time for parley and possibly for escape might be
interposed. But to their astonishment and delight, while they were
sitting thus with closed doors, the well-known figure of their Lord
appeared in their midst, and His familiar greeting, “Peace be with you,”
sounded in their ears. Further to identify Himself and remove all doubt
or dread He showed them His hands and His side; and, as St. Luke tells
us, even ate before them. There is here a strange mingling of identity
and difference between the body He now wears and that which had been
crucified. Its appearance is the same in some respects, but its
properties are different. Immediate recognition did not always follow
His manifestation. There was something baffling in His appearance,
suggesting a well-known face, and yet not quite the same. The marks on
the body, or some characteristic action or movement or utterance, were
needed to complete the identification. The properties of the body also
were not reducible to any known type. He could eat, speak, walk, yet He
could dispense with eating and could apparently pass through physical
obstacles. His body was a glorified, spiritual body, not subject to the
laws which govern the physical part of man in this life. These
characteristics are worth noticing, not only as giving us some inkling
of the type of body which awaits ourselves, but in connection with the
identification of the risen Lord. Had the appearance been the mere fancy
of the disciples, how should they have required any identification?
Having saluted them and removed their consternation, He fulfils the
object of His appearance by giving them their commission, their
equipment, and their authority as His Apostles: “As the Father hath sent
Me, even so send I you”—to fulfil still the same purpose, to complete
the work begun, to stand to Him in the same intimate relation as He had
occupied to the Father. To impart to them at once all that they required
for the fulfilment of this commission He bestows upon them the Holy
Spirit, breathing on them, to convey to them the impression that He was
actually there and then communicating to them that which constituted the
very breath of His own life. This is His first act as Lord of all power
in heaven and on earth, and it is an act which inevitably conveys to
them the assurance that His life and theirs is one life. Impulse and
power to proclaim Him as risen they did not yet experience. They must be
allowed time to settle to some composure of mind and to some clear
thoughts after all the disturbing events of these last days. They must
also have the confirmatory testimony to the Resurrection, which could
only be furnished after repeated appearances of the Lord to themselves
and to others. The gift of the Spirit, therefore, as a spirit of
powerful witness-bearing, was reserved for six weeks.
With this perfect equipment our Lord added the words: “Whosesoever sins
ye forgive, they are forgiven unto them; whosesoever sins ye retain,
they are retained.” These words have been the occasion of endless
controversy.[31] They certainly convey the ideas that the Apostles were
appointed to mediate between Christ and their fellow-men, that the chief
function they should be required to discharge in this mediation was the
forgiving and retention of sins, and that they were furnished with the
Holy Spirit to guide them in this mediation. Apparently this must mean
that the Apostles were to be the agents through whom Christ was to
proclaim the terms of admission to His kingdom. They received authority
to say in what cases sins were to be forgiven and in what to be
retained. To infer from this that the Apostles have successors, that
these successors are constituted by an external ordinance or nomination,
that they have power to exclude or admit individuals seeking entrance
into the kingdom of God, is to leave logic and reason a long way behind,
and to erect a kind of government in the Church of Christ which will
never be submitted to by those who live in the liberty wherewith His
truth has made them free. The presence of the Holy Spirit, and no bare
external appointment, is that which gives authority to those who guide
the Church of Christ. It is because they are inwardly one with Christ,
not because they happen to be able to claim a doubtful outward
connection with Him, that they have that authority which Christ’s people
own.
But when our Lord thus appeared on the day of His resurrection to His
disciples one of their number was absent. This might not have been
noticed had not the absentee been of a peculiar temper, and had not this
peculiarity given rise to another visit of the Lord and to a very
significant restoration of belief in the mind of a sceptical disciple.
The absent disciple was commonly known as Thomas or Didymus, the Twin.
On various occasions he appears somewhat prominently in the
gospel-story, and his conduct and conversation on those occasions show
him to have been a man very liable to take a desponding view of the
future, apt to see the darker side of everything, but at the same time
not wanting in courage, and of a strong and affectionate loyalty to
Jesus. On one occasion, when our Lord intimated to the disciples His
intention of returning within the dangerous frontier of Judæa, the
others expostulated, but Thomas said, “Let us also go, that we may die
with Him”—an utterance in which his devoted loyalty to his Master, his
dogged courage, and his despondent temperament are all apparent. And
when, some time afterwards, Jesus was warning His disciples that He must
shortly leave them and go to the Father, Thomas sees in the departure of
his Master the extinction of all hope; life and the way to life seem to
him treacherous phrases, he has eyes only for the gloom of death: “Lord,
we know not whither Thou goest; and how can we know the way?”
The absence of such a man from the first meeting of the disciples was to
be expected.[32] If the bare possibility of his Lord’s death had plunged
this loving and gloomy heart in despondency, what dark despair must
have preyed upon it when that death was actually accomplished! How the
figure of his dead Master had burnt itself into his soul is seen from
the manner in which his mind dwells on the print of the nails, the wound
in the side. It is by these only, and not by well-known features of face
or peculiarities of form, he will recognise and identify his Lord. His
heart was with the lifeless body on the cross, and he could not bear to
see the friends of Jesus or speak with those who had shared his hopes,
but buried his disappointment and desolation in solitude and silence.
His absence can scarcely be branded as culpable. None of the others
expected resurrection any more than himself, but his hopelessness acted
on a specially sensitive and despondent nature. Thus it was that, like
many melancholy persons, he missed the opportunity of seeing what would
effectually have scattered his darkness.
But though he might not be to blame for absenting himself, he was to
blame for refusing to accept the testimony of his friends when they
assured him they had seen Jesus risen. There is a tone of doggedness
that grates upon us in the words, “Except I shall see in His hands the
print of the nails, _and put my finger_ into the print of the nails, and
thrust my hand into His side, I will not believe.” Some deference was
due to the testimony of men whom he knew to be truthful and as little
liable to delusion as himself. We cannot blame him for not being
convinced on the spot; a man cannot compel himself to believe anything
which does not itself compel belief. But the obstinate tone sounds as if
he was beginning to nurse his unbelief, than which there is no more
pernicious exercise of the human spirit. He demands, too, what may never
be possible—the evidence of his own senses. He claims that he shall be
on the same footing as the rest. Why is he to believe on less evidence
than they? It has cost him pain enough to give up his hope: is he then
to give up his hopelessness as cheaply as all this? He is supremely
miserable; his Lord dead and life left to him—a life which already
during these few days had grown far too long, a weary, intolerable
burden. Is he in a moment and on their mere word to rise from his
misery? A man of Thomas’ temperament hugs his wretchedness. You seem to
do him an injury if you open the shutters of his heart and let in the
sunshine.
Obviously, therefore, the first inference we naturally draw from this
state of mind is that it is weak and wrong to lay hold of one difficulty
and insist that except this be removed we will not believe. Let this
difficulty about the constitution of Christ’s person, or this about the
impossibility of proving a miracle, or this about the inspiration of
Scripture be removed, and I will accept Christianity; let God grant me
_this_ petition, and I will believe that He is the hearer of prayer; let
me see this inconsistency or that explained, and I will believe He
governs the course of things in this world. The understanding begins to
take a pride in demanding evidence more absolute and strict than has
satisfied others, and seems to display acuteness and fairness in holding
to one difficulty. The test which Thomas proposed to himself seemed an
accurate and legitimate one; but that he should have proposed it shows
that he was neglecting the evidence already afforded him, the testimony
of a number of men whose truthfulness he had for years made proof of.
True, it was a miracle they required him to believe; but would his own
senses be better authentication of a miracle than the unanimous and
explicit declaration of a company of veracious men? He could have no
doubt that they believed they had seen the Lord. If they could be
deceived, ten of them, or many more, why should his senses prove more
infallible? Was he to reject their testimony on the ground that their
senses had deceived them, and accept the testimony of his own senses?
Was the ultimate test in his own case to be that very evidence which in
the case of others he maintained was insufficient?
But if this tells seriously against Thomas, we must not leave out of
account what tells in his favour. It is true he was obstinate and
unreasonable and a shade vain in his refusal to accept the testimony of
the disciples, but it is also true that he was with the little Christian
community on the second Lord’s Day. This puts it beyond a doubt that he
was not so unbelieving as he seemed. That he did not now avoid the
society of those happy, hopeful men shows that he was far from unwilling
to become, if possible, a sharer in their hope and joy. Perhaps already
he was repenting having pledged himself to unbelief, as many another has
repented. Certainly he was not afraid of being convinced that his Lord
had arisen; on the contrary, he sought to be convinced of this and put
himself in the way of conviction. He had doubted because he wished to
believe, doubted because it was the full, entire, eternal confidence of
his soul that he was seeking a resting-place for. He knew the tremendous
importance to him of this question—knew that it was literally
everything to him if Christ was risen and was now alive and to be found
by His people, and therefore he was slow to believe. Therefore also he
kept in the company of believers; it was on their side he wished to get
out of the terrible mire and darkness in which he was involved.
It is this which distinguishes Thomas and all right-minded doubters from
thorough-going and depraved unbelievers. The one wishes to believe,
would give the world to be free from doubt, will go mourning all his
days, will pine in body and sicken of life because he cannot believe:
“he _waits_ for light, but behold obscurity, for brightness, but he
walks in darkness.” The other, the culpable unbeliever, thrives on
doubt; he likes it, enjoys it, sports it, lives by it; goes about
telling people his difficulties, as some morbid people have a fancy for
showing you their sores or detailing their symptoms, as if everything
which makes them different from other men, even though it be disease,
were a thing to be proud of. Convince such a man of the truth and he is
angry with you; you seem to have done him a wrong, as the mendicant
impostor who has been gaining his livelihood by a bad leg or a useless
eye is enraged when a skilled person restores to him the use of his limb
or shows him that he can use it if he will. You may know a dishonest
doubter by the fluency with which he states his difficulties or by the
affectation of melancholy which is sometimes assumed. You may always
know him by his reluctance to be convinced, by his irritation when he is
forced to surrender some pet bulwark of unbelief. When you find a man
reading one side of the question, courting difficulties, eagerly seizing
on new objections, and provoked instead of thankful when any doubt is
removed, you may be sure that this is not a scepticism of the
understanding so much as an evil _heart_ of unbelief.
The hesitancy and backwardness, the incredulity and niggardliness of
faith, of Thomas have done as much to confirm the minds of succeeding
believers as the forward and impulsive confidence of Peter. Then, as
now, this critical intellect, when combined with a sound heart, wrought
two great boons for the Church. The doubts which such men entertain
continually provoke fresh evidence, as here this second appearance of
Christ to the Eleven seems due to the doubt of Thomas. So far as one can
gather it was solely to remove this doubt our Lord appeared. And,
besides, a second boon which attends honest and godly doubt is the
attachment to the Church of men who have passed through severe mental
conflict, and therefore hold the faith they have reached with an
intelligence and a tenacity unknown to other men.
These two things were simply brought about in Thomas’ instance. The
disciples were again assembled on the following Sunday, probably in the
same place, consecrated for ever in their memories as the place where
their risen Lord had appeared. It is doubtful whether they were more
expectant of a fresh appearance of their Lord this day than they had
been any day throughout the week, but certainly every reader feels that
it is not without significance that after a blank and uneventful week
the first day should again be singled out to have this honour put upon
it. Some sanction is felt to be given to those meetings of His followers
which ever since have been assembled on the first day of the week; and
the experience of thousands can testify that this day seems still the
favourite with our Lord for manifesting Himself to His people, and for
renewing the joy which a week’s work has somewhat dimmed. Silently and
suddenly as before, without warning, without opening of doors, Jesus
stood in their midst. But there was no terror now—exclamations only of
delight and adoration. And perhaps it was not in human nature to resist
casting a look of triumphant interrogation at Thomas, a look of inquiry
to see what he would make of this. Surprise, unutterable surprise,
undiminished by all he had been led to expect, must have been written on
Thomas’ wide-gazing eyes and riveted look. But this surprise was
displaced by shame, this eager gaze cast down, when he found that his
Lord had heard his obstinate ultimatum and had been witness of his
sullen unbelief. As Jesus repeats almost in the same words the hard,
rude, bare, material test which he had proposed, and as He holds forth
His hands for his inspection, shame and joy struggle for the mastery in
his spirit, and give utterance to the humble but glowing confession, “My
Lord and my God.” His own test is superseded; he makes no movement to
put it in force; he is satisfied of the identity of his Lord. It is the
same penetrating knowledge of man’s inmost thoughts, the same loving
treatment of the erring, the same subduing presence.
And thus it frequently happens that a man who has vowed that he will not
believe except this or that be made plain finds, when he does believe,
that something short of his own requirements has convinced him. He finds
that though he was once so express in his demands for proof, and so
clear and accurate in his declarations of the precise amount of evidence
required, at the last he believes and could scarcely tell you why, could
not at least show his belief as the fine and clean result of a logical
process. Thomas had maintained that the rest were too easily satisfied,
but at the last he is himself satisfied with precisely the same proof as
they. And it is somewhat striking that in so many cases unbelief gives
way to belief, not by the removal of intellectual difficulties, not by
such demonstration as was granted to Thomas, but by an undefinable
conquest of the soul by Christ. The glory, holiness, love of His person,
subdue the soul to Him.
The faith of Thomas is full of significance. First, it is helpful to our
own faith to hear so decisive and so full a confession coming from the
lips of such a man. John himself felt it to be so decisive that after
recording it he virtually closes the Gospel which he had undertaken to
write in order to persuade men that Jesus is the Son of God. After this
confession of Thomas he feels that no more can be said. He stops not for
want of matter; “many other signs truly did Jesus in the presence of His
disciples” which are not written in this Gospel. These seemed
sufficient. The man who is not moved by this will not be moved by any
further proof. Proof is not what such a doubter needs. Whatever we think
of the other Apostles, it is plain that Thomas at least was not
credulous. If Peter’s generous ardour carried him to a confession
unwarranted by the facts, if John saw in Jesus the reflection of his own
contemplative and loving nature, what are we to say of the faith of
Thomas? He had no determination to see only what he desired, no
readiness to accept baseless evidence and irresponsible testimony. He
knew the critical nature of the situation, the unique importance of the
matter presented to his faith. With him there was no frivolous or
thoughtless underrating of difficulties. He did not absolutely deny the
possibility of Christ’s resurrection, but he went very near doing so,
and showed that practically he considered it either impossible or
unlikely in the extreme. But in the end he believes. And the ease with
which he passes from doubt to faith proves his honesty and
sound-heartedness. As soon as evidence which to him is convincing is
produced, he proclaims his faith.
His confession, too, is fuller than that of the other disciples. The
week of painful questioning had brought clearly before his mind the
whole significance of the Resurrection, so that he does not hesitate to
own Jesus as his God. When a man of profound spiritual feeling and of
good understanding has doubts and hesitations from the very intensity
and subtlety of his scrutiny of what appears to him of transcendent
importance; when he sees difficulties unseen by men who are too little
interested in the matter to recognise them even though they stare them
in the face,—when such a man, with the care and anxiety that befit the
subject, considers for himself the claims of Christ, and as the result
yields himself to the Lord, he sees more in Christ than other men do,
and is likely to be steadier in his allegiance than if he had slurred
over apparent obstacles instead of removing them, and stifled objections
in place of answering them. It was not the mere seeing of Christ risen
which prompted the full confession of Thomas. But slowly during that
week of suspense he had been taking in the full significance of the
Resurrection, coming at the close of such a life as he knew the Lord had
lived. The very idea that such a thing was believed by the rest forced
his mind back upon the exceptional character of Jesus, His wonderful
works, the intimations He had given of His connection with God. The
sight of Him risen came as the keystone of the arch, which being wanting
all had fallen to the ground, but being inserted clenched the whole, and
could now bear any weight. The truths about His person which Thomas had
begun to explain away return upon his mind with resistless force, and
each in clear, certain verity. He saw now that his Lord had performed
all His word, had proved Himself supreme over all that affected men. He
saw Him after passing through unknown conflict with principalities and
powers come to resume fellowship with sinful men, standing with all
things under His feet, yet giving His hand to the weak disciple to make
him partake in His triumph.
This was a rare and memorable hour for Thomas, one of those moments that
mark a man’s spirit permanently. He is carried entirely out of himself,
and sees nothing but his Lord. The whole energy of his spirit goes out
to Him undoubtingly, unhesitatingly, unrestrained. Everything is before
him in the person of Christ; nothing causes the least diversion or
distraction. For once his spirit has found perfect peace. There is
nothing in the unseen world that can dismay him, nothing in the future
on which he can spend a thought; his soul rests in the Person before
him. He does not draw back, questioning whether the Lord will now
receive him; he fears no rebuke; he does not scrutinise his spiritual
condition, nor ask whether his faith is sufficiently spiritual. He
cannot either go back upon his past conduct, or analyse his present
feelings, or spend one thought of any kind upon himself. The scrupulous,
sceptical man is all devoutness and worship; the thousand objections are
swept from his mind; and all by the mere presence of Christ He is rapt
in this one object; mind and soul are filled with the regained Lord; he
forgets himself; the passion of joy with which he regains in a
transfigured form his lost Leader absorbs him quite: “he had lost a
possible king of the Jews; he finds his Lord and his God.” There can be
no question here about himself, his prospects, his interests. He can
but utter his surprise, his joy, and his worship in the cry, “My Lord
and my God.”
On such a man even the Lord’s benediction were useless. This is the
highest, happiest, rarest state of the human soul. When a man has been
carried out of himself by the clear vision of Christ’s worth; when his
mind and heart are filled with the supreme excellence of Christ; when in
His presence he feels he can but worship, bowing in his soul before
actually achieved human perfection rooted in and expressing the true
Divine glory of love ineffable; when face to face, soul to soul, with
the highest and most affecting known goodness, conscious that he now in
this very moment stands within touch of the Supreme, that he has found
and need never more lose perfect love, perfect goodness, perfect
power,—when a man is transported by such a recognition of Christ, this
is the true ecstasy, this is man’s ultimate blessedness.
And this blessedness is competent not only to those who saw with the
bodily eye, but much more to those who have not seen and yet have
believed. Why do we rob ourselves of it, and live as if it were not
so—as if such certitude and the joy that accompanies it had passed from
earth and were no more possible? We cannot apply Thomas’ test, but we
can test his test; or, like him, we can forego it, and rest on wider,
deeper evidence. Was he right in so eagerly confessing his belief? And
are we right to hesitate, to doubt, to despond? Should we have counted
it strange if, when the Lord addressed Thomas, he had sullenly shrunk
back among the rest, or merely given a verbal assent to Christ’s
identity, showing no sign of joy? And are we to accept the signs He
gives us of His presence as if it made little difference to us and did
not lift us into heaven? Have we so little sense of spiritual things
that we cannot believe in the life of Him round whom the whole fortunes
of our race revolve? Do we not know the power of Christ’s resurrection
as Thomas could not possibly know it? Do we not see as he could not see
the boundless spiritual efficacy and results of that risen life? Do we
not see the full bearing of that great manifestation of God’s nearness
more clearly? Do we not feel how impossible it was that such an one as
Christ should be holden of death, that the supremacy in human affairs
which He achieved by absolute love and absolute holiness should be
proved inferior to a physical law, and should be interrupted in its
efficacious exercise by a physical fact? If Thomas was constrained to
acknowledge Christ as his Lord and his God, much more may we do so. By
the nature of the case our conviction, implying as it does some
apprehension of spiritual things, must be more slowly wrought. Even if
at last the full conviction that human life is a joy because Christ is
with us in it, leading us to eternal partnership with Himself,—even if
this conviction flash suddenly through the spirit, the material for it
must have been long accumulating. Even if at last we awake to a sense of
the present glory of Christ with the suddenness of Thomas, yet in any
case this must be the result of purified spiritual affinities and
leanings. But on this very account is the conviction more indissolubly
intertwined with all that we truly are, forming an essential and
necessary part of our inward growth, and leading each of us to respond
with a cordial amen to the benediction of our Lord, “Blessed are they
that have not seen and yet have believed.”
FOOTNOTES:
[31] See Steitz’ article _Schlüsselgewalt_ in _Herzog_.
[32] In this chapter there are reminiscences of Trench.
XXIV.
_APPEARANCE AT SEA OF GALILEE._
“After these things Jesus manifested Himself again to the disciples
at the Sea of Tiberias; and He manifested Himself on this wise.
There were together Simon Peter, and Thomas called Didymus, and
Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, and the sons of Zebedee, and two other
of His disciples. Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a-fishing. They
say unto him, We also come with thee. They went forth, and entered
into the boat; and that night they took nothing. But when day was
now breaking, Jesus stood on the beach: howbeit the disciples knew
not that it was Jesus. Jesus therefore saith unto them, Children,
have ye aught to eat? They answered Him, No. And He said unto them,
Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and ye shall find. They
cast therefore, and now they were not able to draw it for the
multitude of fishes. That disciple therefore whom Jesus loved saith
unto Peter, It is the Lord. So when Simon Peter heard that it was
the Lord, he girt his coat about him (for he was naked), and cast
himself into the sea. But the other disciples came in the little
boat (for they were not far from the land, but about two hundred
cubits off), dragging the net full of fishes. So when they got out
upon the land, they see a fire of coals there, and fish laid
thereon, and bread. Jesus saith unto them, Bring of the fish which
ye have now taken. Simon Peter therefore went up, and drew the net
to land, full of great fishes, a hundred and fifty and three: and
for all there were so many, the net was not rent. Jesus saith unto
them, Come and break your fast. And none of the disciples durst
inquire of Him, Who art Thou? knowing that it was the Lord. Jesus
cometh, and taketh the bread, and giveth them, and the fish
likewise. This is now the third time that Jesus was manifested to
the disciples, after that He was risen from the dead.”—JOHN xxi.
1–14.
The removal of the doubts of Thomas restored the Eleven to unity of
faith, and fitted them to be witnesses of the Lord’s resurrection. And
the Gospel might naturally have closed at this point, as indeed the last
verses of the twentieth chapter suggest that the writer himself felt
that his task was done. But as throughout his Gospel he had followed the
plan of adducing such of Christ’s miracles as seemed to throw a strong
light on His spiritual power, he could not well close without mentioning
the last miracle of all, and which seemed to have only a didactic
purpose. Besides, there was another reason for John adding this chapter.
He was writing at the very close of the century. So long had he survived
the unparalleled events he narrates that an impression had gone abroad
that he would never die. It was even rumoured that our Lord had foretold
that the beloved disciple should tarry on earth till He Himself should
return. John takes the opportunity of relating what the Lord had really
said, as well as of recounting the all-important event out of which the
misreported conversation had arisen.
When the disciples had spent the Passover week at Jerusalem, they
naturally returned to their homes in Galilee. The house of the old
fisherman Zebedee was probably their rendezvous. We need not listen to
their talk as they relate what had passed in Jerusalem, in order to see
that they are sensible of the peculiarity of their situation and are in
a state of suspense.
They are back among the familiar scenes, the boats are lying on the
beach, their old companions are sitting about mending their nets as they
themselves had been doing a year or two before when summoned by Jesus to
follow Him on the moment. But though old associations are thus laying
hold of them again, there is evidence that new influences are also at
work; for with the fishermen are found Nathanael and others who were
there, not for the sake of old associations, but of the new and common
interest they had in Christ. The seven men have kept together; they
participate in an experience of which their fellow-townsmen know
nothing; but they must live. Hints have been thrown out that seven
strong men must not depend on other arms than their own for a
livelihood. And as they stand together that evening and watch boat after
boat push off, the women wishing their husbands and sons good-speed, the
men cheerily responding and busily getting their tackle in trim, with a
look of pity at the group of disciples, Peter can stand it no longer,
but makes for his own or some unoccupied boat with the words, “I go
a-fishing.” The rest were only needing such an invitation. The whole
charm and zest of the old life rushes back upon them, each takes his own
accustomed place in the boat, each hand finds itself once more at home
at the long-suspended task, and with an ease that surprises themselves
they fall back into the old routine.
And as we watch their six oars flashing in the setting sun, and Peter
steering them to the familiar fishing ground, we cannot but reflect in
how precarious a position the whole future of the world is. That boat
carries the earthly hope of the Church; and as we weigh the feelings of
the men that are in it, what we see chiefly is, how easily the whole of
Christianity might here have broken short off, and never have been heard
of, supposing it to have depended for its propagation solely on the
disciples. Here they were, not knowing what had become of Jesus, without
any plan for preserving His name among men, open to any impulse or
influence, unable to resist the smell of the fishing boats and the
freshness of the evening breeze, and submitting themselves to be guided
by such influences as these, content apparently to fall back into their
old ways and obscure village life, as if the last three years were a
dream, or were like a voyage to foreign parts, which they might think of
afterwards, but were not to repeat. All the facts they were to use for
the conversion of the world were already in their possession; the death
of Christ and His resurrection were not a fortnight old; but as yet they
had no inward impulse to proclaim the truth; there was no Holy Ghost
powerfully impelling and possessing them; they were not endued with
power from on high. One thing only they seemed to be decided and agreed
about—that they must live; and therefore they go a-fishing.
But apparently they were not destined to find even this so easy as they
expected. There was One watching that boat, following it through the
night as they tried place after place, and He was resolved that they
should not be filled with false ideas about the satisfactoriness of
their old calling. All night they toiled, but caught nothing. Every old
device was tried; the fancies of each particular kind of fish were
humoured, but in vain. Each time the net was drawn up, every hand knew
before it appeared that it was empty. Weary with the fruitless toil, and
when the best part of the night was gone, they made for a secluded part
of the shore, not wishing to land from their first attempt empty in
presence of the other fishermen. But when about one hundred yards from
the shore a voice hails them with the words, “Children”—or, as we would
say, “Lads”—“have you taken any fish?” It has been supposed that our
Lord asked this question in the character of a trader who had been
watching for the return of the boats that he might buy, or that it was
with the natural interest every one takes in the success of a person
that is fishing, so that we can scarcely pass without asking what take
they have had. The question was asked for the purpose of arresting the
boat at a sufficient distance from the shore to make another cast of the
net possible. It has this effect; the rowers turned round to see who is
calling them, and at the same time tell Him they have no fish. The
Stranger then says, “Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye
shall find”; and they do so, not thinking of a miracle, but supposing
that before any man would give them such express instructions he must
have had some good reason for believing there were fish there. But when
they found that the net was at once absolutely loaded with fish, so that
they could not draw it into the boat, John looks again at the Stranger,
and whispers to Peter, “It is the Lord.” This was no sooner heard by
Peter than he snatched up and threw over him his upper garment, and
throwing himself into the water swam or waded ashore.
In every trifling act character betrays itself. It is John who is first
to recognise Jesus; it is Peter who casts himself into the sea, just as
he had done once before on that same lake, and as he had been first to
enter the sepulchre on the morning of the Resurrection. John recognises
the Lord, not because he had better eyesight than the rest, nor because
he had a better position in the boat, nor because while the rest were
busied with the net he was occupied with the figure on the beach, but
because his spirit had a quicker and profounder apprehension of
spiritual things, and because in this sudden turn of their fortune he
recognised the same hand which had filled their nets once before and had
fed thousands with one or two little fishes.
The reason of Peter’s impetuousness on this occasion may partly have
been that their fishing vessel was now as near the land as they could
get it, and that he was unwilling to wait till they should get the small
boat unfastened. The rest, we read, came ashore, not in the large vessel
in which they had spent the night, but in the little boat they carried
with them, the reason being added, “for they were not far from
land”—that is to say, not far enough to use the larger vessel any
longer. Peter, therefore, ran no risk of drowning. But his action
reveals the eagerness of love. No sooner has he only heard from another
that his Lord is near, than the fish for which he had been watching and
waiting all night are forgotten, and for him, the master of the vessel,
the net and all its contents might have sunk to the bottom of the lake.
What this action of Peter suggested to the Lord is apparent from the
question which a few minutes later He put to him: “Lovest thou Me more
than these?”
Neither would Peter have sustained any serious loss even though his nets
had been carried away, for when he reaches the shore he finds that the
Lord was to be their host, not their guest. A fire is ready lit, fish
laid on it and bread baking. He who could so fill their nets could also
provide for His own wants. But there was to be no needless
multiplication of miracles; the fish already on the fire was not to be
multiplied in their hands when plenty were lying in the net. He directs
them, therefore, to bring of the fish they had caught. They go to the
net, and mechanically, in their old fashion, count the fish they had
taken, one hundred and fifty and three; and John, with a fisher’s memory
can tell you, sixty years after, the precise number. From these
miraculously provided fish they break their long fast.
The significance of this incident has perhaps been somewhat lost by
looking at it too exclusively as symbolical. No doubt it was so; but it
carried in the first place a most important lesson in its bare, literal
facts. We have already noticed the precarious position in which the
Church at this time was. And it will be useful to us in many ways to
endeavour to rid our mind of all fancies about the beginning of the
Christian Church, and look at the simple, unvarnished facts here
presented to our view. And the plain and significant circumstance which
first invites our attention is, that the nucleus of the Church, the men
on whom the faith of Christ depended for its propagation, were
fishermen.
This was not merely the picturesque drapery assumed by men of ability so
great and character so commanding that all positions in life were alike
to them. Let us recall to memory the group of men we have seen standing
at a corner in a fishing village or with whom we have spent a night at
sea fishing, and whose talk has been _at the best_ old stories of their
craft or legends of the water. Such men were the Apostles. They were
men who were not at home in cities, who simply could not understand the
current philosophies, who did not so much as know the names of the great
contemporary writers of the Roman world, who took only so much interest
in politics as every Jew in those troublous times was forced to
take—men who were at home only on their own lake, in their fishing
boat, and who could quite contentedly, even after all they had recently
gone through, have returned to their old occupation for life. They were
in point of fact now returning to their old life—returning to it partly
because they had no impulse to publish what they knew, and partly
because, even though they had, they must live, and did not know how they
should be supported but by fishing.
And this is the reason of this miracle; this is the reason why our Lord
so pointedly convinced them that without Him they could not make a
livelihood: that they might fish all the night through and resort to
every device their experience could contrive and yet could catch
nothing, but that He could give them sustenance as He pleased. If any
one thinks that this is a secular, shallow way of looking at the
miracle, let him ask what it is that chiefly keeps men from serving God
as they think they should, what it is that induces men to live so much
for the world and so little for God, what it is that prevents them from
following out what conscience whispers is the right course. Is it not
mainly the feeling that by doing God’s will we ourselves are likely to
be not so well off, not so sufficiently provided for. Above all things,
therefore, both we and the Apostles need to be convinced that our Lord,
who asks us to follow Him, is much better able to provide for us than we
ourselves are. They had the same transition to make as every man among
ourselves has to make; we and they alike have to pass from the natural
feeling that we depend on our own energy and skill for our support to
the knowledge that we depend on God. We have to pass from the life of
nature and sense to the life of faith. We have to come to know and
believe that the fundamental thing is God, that it is He who can support
us when nature fails, and _not_ that we must betake ourselves to nature
at many points where God fails—that we live, not by bread alone, but by
every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God, and are much safer
in doing His bidding than in struggling anxiously to make a livelihood.
And if we carefully read our own experience, might we not see, as
clearly as the Apostles that morning saw, the utter futility of our own
schemes for bettering ourselves in the world? Is it not the simple fact
that we also have toiled through every watch of the night, have borne
fatigue and deprivation, have abandoned the luxuries of life and given
ourselves to endure hardness, have tried contrivance after contrivance
to win our cherished project, and all in vain? Our net is empty and
light at the rising sun as it was at the setting. Have we not again and
again found that when every boat round was being filled we drew nothing
but disappointment? Have we not many times come back empty-handed to our
starting-place? But no matter how much we have thus lost or missed every
man will tell you it is much better so than if he had succeeded, if only
his own ill-success has induced him to trust Christ, if only it has
taught him really what he used with everybody else verbally to
say,—that in that Person dimly discerned through the light that begins
to glimmer round our disappointments there is all power in heaven and
on earth—power to give us what we have been trying to win, power to
give us greater happiness without it.
But this being so, it being the case that our Lord came this second time
and called them away from their occupations to follow Him, and showed
them how amply He could support them, they could not but remember how He
had once before in very similar circumstances summoned them to leave
their occupation as fishermen and to become fishers of men. They could
not but interpret the present by the former miracle, and read in it a
renewed summons to the work of catching men, and a renewed assurance
that in that work they should not draw empty nets. Most suitably, then,
does this miracle stand alone, the only one wrought after the
Resurrection, and most suitably does it stand last, giving the Apostles
a symbol which should continually reanimate them to their laborious
work. Their work of preaching was well symbolised by _sowing_; they
passed rapidly through the field of the world, at every step scattering
broadcast the words of everlasting life, not examining minutely the
hearts into which these words might fall, not knowing where they might
find prepared soil and where they might find inhospitable rock, but
assured that after a time whoso followed in their track should see the
fruit of their words. Not less significant is the figure of the net;
they let down the net of their good tidings, not seeing what persons
were really enclosed in it, but trusting that He who had said, “Cast
your net on the right side of the ship,” knew what souls it would fall
over. By this miracle He gave the Apostles to understand that not only
when with them in the flesh could He give them success. Even now after
His resurrection and when they did not recognise Him on the shore He
blessed their labour, that they might even when they did not see Him
believe in His nearness and in His power most effectually to give them
success.
This is the miracle which has again and again restored the drooping
faith and discouraged spirit of all Christ’s followers who endeavour to
bring men under His influence, or in any way to spread out this
influence over a wider surface. Again and again their hope is
disappointed and their labour vain; the persons they wish to influence
glide out from below the net, and it is drawn empty; new opportunities
are watched for, and new opportunities arrive and are used, but with the
same result; the patient doggedness of the fisherman long used to turns
of ill-success is reproduced in the persevering efforts of parental love
or friendly anxiety for the good of others, but often the utmost
patience is at last worn out, the nets are piled away, and the gloom of
disappointment settles on the mind. Yet this apparently is the very hour
which the Lord often chooses to give the long-sought-for success; in the
dawn, when already the fish might be supposed to see the net and more
vigilantly to elude it, our last and almost careless effort is made, and
we achieve a substantial, countable success—a success not doubtful, but
which we could accurately detail to others, which makes a mark in the
memory like the hundred and fifty and three of these fishers, and which
were we to relate to others they must acknowledge that the whole weary
night of toil is amply repaid. And it is then a man recognises who it is
that has directed his labour—it is then he for the moment forgets even
the success in the more gladdening knowledge that such a success could
only have been given by One, and that it is the Lord who has been
watching his disappointments, and at last turning them into triumph.
The Evangelist adds, “None of the disciples durst ask Him, Who art Thou?
knowing that it was the Lord”—a remark which unquestionably implies
that there was some ground for the question, Who art Thou? They knew it
was the Lord from the miracle He had wrought and from His manner of
speaking and acting; but yet there was in His appearance something
strange, something which, had it not also inspired them with awe, would
have prompted the question, Who art Thou? The question was always on
their lips, as they found afterwards by comparing notes with one
another, but none of them durst put it. There was this time no
certification of His identity further than the aid He had given, no
showing of His hands and feet. It was, that is to say, by faith now they
must know Him, not by bodily eyesight; if they wished to deny Him, there
was room for doing so, room for questioning who He was. This was in the
most delicate correspondence with the whole incident. The miracle was
wrought as the foundation and encouraging symbol of their whole vocation
as fishers of men during His bodily absence; it was wrought in order to
encourage them to lean on One whom they could not see, whom they could
at best dimly descry on another element from themselves, and whom they
could not recognise as their Lord apart from the wonderful aid He gave
them; and accordingly even when they come ashore there is something
mysterious and strange about His appearance, something that baffles
eyesight, something that would no longer have satisfied a Thomas,
something therefore which is the fit preparation for a state in which
they were to live altogether by faith and not at all by sight. This is
the state in which we now live. He who believes will know that his Lord
is near him; he who refuses to believe will be able to deny His
nearness. It is faith then that we need: we need to know our Lord, to
understand His purposes and His mode of fulfilling them, so that we may
not need the evidence of eyesight to say where He is working and where
He is not. If we are to be His followers, if we are to recognise that He
has made a new life for us and all men, if we are to recognise that He
has begun and is now carrying forward a great cause in this world, and
if we see that, let our lives deny it as they may, there is nothing else
worth living for than this cause, and if we are seeking to help it, then
let us confirm our faith by this miracle and believe that our Lord, who
has all power in heaven and on earth, is but beyond eyesight, has a
perfectly distinct view of all we are doing and knows when to give us
the success we seek.
This, then, explains why it was that our Lord appeared only to His
friends after His resurrection. It might have been expected that on His
rising from the dead He would have shown Himself as openly as before He
suffered, and would specially have shown Himself to those who had
crucified Him; but this was not the case. The Apostles themselves were
struck with this circumstance, for in one of his earliest discourses
Peter remarks that He showed Himself “not to all the people, but unto
witnesses chosen before of God, even to us who did eat and drink with
Him after He rose from the dead.” And it is obvious from the incident
before us and from the fact that when our Lord showed Himself to five
hundred disciples at once in Galilee, probably a day or two after this,
some even of them doubted—it is obvious from this that no good or
permanent effect could have been produced by His appearing to all and
sundry. It might have served as a momentary triumph, but even this is
doubtful; for plenty would have been found to explain away the miracle
or to maintain it was a deception, and that He who appeared was not the
same as He who died. Or even supposing the miracle had been admitted,
why was this miracle to produce any more profound spiritual effect in
hearts unprepared than the former miracles had produced. It was not by
any such sudden process men could become Christians and faithful
witnesses of Christ’s resurrection. “Men are not easily wrought upon to
be faithful advocates of any cause.” They advocate causes to which they
are by nature attached, or else they become alive to the merit of a
cause only by gradual conviction and by deeply impressed and often
repeated instruction. To such a process the Apostles were submitted; and
even after this long instruction their fidelity to Christ was tested by
a trial which shook to the foundations their whole character, which
threw out one of their number for ever, and which revealed the
weaknesses of others.
In other words, they needed to be able to certify Christ’s spiritual
identity as well as His physical sameness. They were so to know Him and
so to sympathise with His character that they might be able after the
Resurrection to recognise Him by the continuity of that character and
the identity of purpose He maintained. They were by daily intercourse
with Him to be gradually led to dependence upon Him, and to the
strongest attachment to His person; so that when they became witnesses
to Him they might not only be able to say, “Jesus whom you crucified
rose again,” but might be able to illustrate His character by their
own, to represent the beauty of His holiness by simply telling what
they had seen Him do and heard Him say, and to give convincing evidence
in their own persons and lives that He whom they loved on earth lives
and rules now in heaven.
And what we need now and always is, not men who can witness to the fact
of resurrection, but who can bear in upon our spirits the impression
that there is a risen Lord and a risen life through dependence on Him.
XXV.
_RESTORATION OF PETER._
“So when they had broken their fast, Jesus saith to Simon Peter,
Simon, son of John, lovest thou Me more than these? He saith unto
Him, Yea, Lord; Thou knowest that I love Thee. He saith unto him,
Feed My lambs. He saith to him again a second time, Simon, son of
John, lovest thou Me? He saith unto Him, Yea, Lord; Thou knowest
that I love Thee. He saith unto him, Tend My sheep. He saith unto
him the third time, Simon, son of John, lovest thou Me? Peter was
grieved because He said unto him the third time, Lovest thou Me? And
he said unto Him, Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I
love Thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed My sheep.”—JOHN xxi. 15–17.
To the interpretation of this dialogue between the Lord and Peter we
must bring a remembrance of the immediately preceding incident. The
evening before had found several of those who had followed Jesus
standing among the boats that lay by the sea of Galilee. Boat after boat
put out from shore; and as the familiar sights and smells and sounds
awakened slumbering instincts and stirred old associations, Peter with
characteristic restlessness and independence turned away to where his
own old boat lay, saying, “I go a-fishing.” The rest only needed the
example. And as we watch each man taking his old place at the oar or
getting ready the nets, we recognise how slight a hold the Apostolic
call had taken of these men, and how ready they were to fall back to
their old life. They lack sufficient inward impulse to go and proclaim
Christ to men; they have no plans; the one inevitable thing is that they
must earn a livelihood. And had they that night succeeded as of old in
their fishing, the charm of the old life might have been too strong for
them. But, like many other men, their failure in accomplishing their own
purpose prepared them to discern and to fulfil the Divine purpose, and
from catching fish worth so much a pound they became the most
influential factors in this world’s history. For the Lord had need of
them, and again called them to labour for Him, showing them how easily
He could maintain them in life and how full their nets would be when
cast under His direction.
When the Lord made Himself known by His miraculous action while yet the
disciples were too far off to see His features, Peter on the moment
forgot the fish he had toiled for all night, and though master of the
vessel left the net to sink or go to pieces for all he cared, and sprang
into the water to greet his Lord. Jesus Himself was the first to see the
significance of the act. This vehemence of welcome was most grateful to
Him. It witnessed to an affection which was at this crisis the most
valuable element in the world. And that it was shown not by solemn
protestations made in public or as part of a religious service, but in
so apparently secular and trivial an incident, makes it all the more
valuable. Jesus hailed with the deepest satisfaction Peter’s impetuous
abandonment of his fishing gear and impatient springing to greet Him,
because as plainly as possible it showed that after all Christ was
incomparably more to him than the old life. And therefore when the first
excitement had cooled down Jesus gives Peter an opportunity of putting
this in words by asking him, “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me more
than these?” Am I to interpret this action of yours as really meaning
what it seems to mean—that I am more to you than boat, nets, old ways,
old associations? Your letting go the net at the critical moment, and so
risking the loss of all, seemed to say that you love Me more than your
sole means of gaining a livelihood. Well, is it so? Am I to draw this
conclusion? Am I to understand that with a mind made up you do love Me
more than these things? If so, the way is again clear for Me to commit
to your care what I love and prize upon earth—to say again, “Feed My
sheep.”
Thus mildly does the Lord rebuke Peter by suggesting that in his recent
conduct there were appearances which must prevent these present
expressions of his love from being accepted as perfectly genuine and
trustworthy. Thus gracefully does He give Peter opportunity to renew the
profession of attachment he had so shamefully denied by three times over
swearing that he not only did not love Jesus, but knew nothing whatever
about the man. And if Peter at first resented the severity of the
scrutiny, he must afterwards have perceived that no greater kindness
could have been done him than thus to press him to clear and resolved
confession. Peter had probably sometimes compared himself to Judas, and
thought that the difference between his denial and Judas’ betrayal was
slight. But the Lord distinguished. He saw that Peter’s sin was
unpremeditated, a sin of surprise, while his heart was essentially
sound.
We also must distinguish between the forgetfulness of Christ, to which
we are carried by the blinding and confusing throng of this world’s ways
and fashions and temptations, and a betrayal of Christ that has in it
something deliberate. We admit that we have acted _as if_ we had no
desire to serve Christ and to bring our whole life within His kingdom;
but it is one thing to deny Christ through thoughtlessness, through
inadvertence, through sudden passion or insidious, unperceived
temptation—another thing consciously and habitually to betake ourselves
to ways which He condemns, and to let the whole form, appearance, and
meaning of our life plainly declare that our regard for Him is very
slight when compared with our regard for success in our calling or
anything that nearly touches our personal interests. Jesus lets Peter
breakfast first, He lets him settle, before He puts His question,
because it matters little what we say or do in a moment of excitement.
The question is, what is our deliberate choice and preference—not what
is our judgment, for of that there can be little question; but when we
are self-possessed and cool, when the whole man within us is in
equilibrium, not violently pulled one way or other, when we feel, as
sometimes we do, that we are seeing ourselves as we actually are, do we
then recognise that Christ is more to us than any gain, success, or
pleasure the world can offer?
There are many who when the alternative is laid before them in cold
blood choose without hesitation to abide with Christ at all costs. Were
we at this moment as conscious as Peter was when this question fell from
the lips of the living Person before him, whose eyes were looking for
his reply, that we now must give our answer, many of us, God helping us,
would say with Peter, “Thou knowest that I love Thee.” We could not say
that our old associations are easily broken, that it costs us nothing to
hang up the nets with which so skilfully we have gathered in the world’s
substance to us, or to take a last look of the boat which has so
faithfully and merrily carried us over many a threatening wave and made
our hearts glad within us. But our hearts are not set on these things;
they do not command us as Thou dost; and we can abandon whatever hinders
us from following and serving Thee. Happy the man who with Peter feels
that the question is an easily answered one, who can say, “I may often
have blundered, I may often have shown myself greedy of gain and glory,
but Thou knowest that I love Thee.”
In this restoration of Peter our Lord, then, tests not the conduct, but
the heart. He recognises that while the conduct is the legitimate and
normal test of a man’s feeling, yet there are times at which it is fair
and useful to examine the heart itself apart from present manifestations
of its condition; and that the solace which a poor soul gets after great
sin, in refusing to attempt to show the consistency of his conduct with
love to Christ, and in clinging simply to the consciousness that with
all his sin there is most certainly a surviving love to Christ, is a
solace sanctioned by Christ, and which He would have it enjoy. This is
encouraging, because a Christian is often conscious that, if he is to be
judged solely by his conduct, he must be condemned. He is conscious of
blemishes in his life that seem quite to contradict the idea that he is
animated by a regard for Christ. He knows that men who see his
infirmities and outbreaks may be justified in supposing him a
self-deceived or pretentious hypocrite, and yet in his own soul he is
conscious of love to Christ. He can as little doubt this as he can doubt
that he has shamefully denied this in his conduct. He would rather be
judged by omniscience than by a judgment that can scrutinise only his
outward conduct. He appeals in his own heart from those who know in part
to Him who knows all things. He knows perfectly well that if men are to
be expected to believe that he is a Christian he must prove this by his
conduct; nay, he understands that love must find for itself a constant
and consistent expression in conduct; but it remains an indubitable
satisfaction to be conscious that, despite all his conduct has said to
the contrary, he does in his soul love the Lord.
The determination of Christ to clear away all misunderstanding and all
doubtfulness about the relation His professed followers hold to Him is
strikingly exhibited in His subjecting Peter to a second and third
interrogation. He invites Peter to search deeply into his spirit and to
ascertain the very truth. It is the most momentous of all questions; and
our Lord positively refuses to take a superficial, careless,
matter-of-course answer. He will thus question, and thrice question, and
probe to the quick all His followers. He seeks to scatter all doubt
about our relation to Him, and to make our living connection with Him
clear to our own consciousness, and to place our whole life on this
solid basis of a clear, mutual understanding between Him and us. Our
happiness depends upon our meeting His question with care and sincerity.
Only the highest degree of human friendship will permit this persistent
questioning, this beating of us back and back on our own feelings,
deeper and deeper into the very heart of our affections, as if still it
were doubtful whether we had not given an answer out of mere politeness
or profession or sentiment. The highest degree of human friendship
demands certainty, a basis on which it can build, a love it can entirely
trust. Christ had made good His right thus to question His followers and
to require a love that was sure of itself, because on His part He was
conscious of such a love and had given proof that His affection was no
mere sentimental, unfruitful compassion, but a commanding, consuming,
irrepressible, unconquerable love—a love that left Him no choice, but
compelled Him to devote Himself to men and do them all the good in His
power.
Peter’s self-knowledge is aided by the form the question now takes. He
is no longer asked to compare the hold Christ has upon him with his
interest in other things; but he is asked simply and absolutely whether
love is the right name for that which connects him with his Lord.
“_Lovest thou Me?_” Separating yourself and Me from all others, looking
straight and simply at Me only, is “love” the right name for that which
connects us? Is it love, and not mere impulse? Is it love, and not
sentiment or fancy? Is it love, and not sense of duty or of what is
becoming? Is it love, and not mere mistake? For no mistake is more
disastrous than that which takes something else for love.
Now, to apprehend the significance of this question is to apprehend what
Christianity is. Our Lord was on the point of leaving the world; and He
left its future, the future of the sheep He loved so well and had spent
His all upon, in the keeping of Peter and the rest, and the one security
He demanded of them was the confession of love for Himself. He did not
draw up a creed or a series of articles binding them to this and that
duty, to special methods of governing the Church or to special truths
they were to teach it; He did not summon them into the house of Peter or
of Zebedee, and bid them affix their signatures or marks to such a
document. He rested the whole future of the work He had begun at such
cost on their love for Him. This security alone He took from them. This
was the sufficient guarantee of their fidelity and of their wisdom. It
is not great mental ability that is wanted for the furtherance of
Christ’s aims in the world. It is love of what is best, devotion to
goodness. No question is made about their knowledge; they are not asked
what views they have about the death of Christ; they are not required to
analyse their feelings and say whence their love has sprung—whether
from a due sense of their indebtedness to Him for delivering them from
sin and its consequence, or from the grace and beauty of His character,
or from His tender and patient consideration of them. There is no
omission of anything vital owing to His being hurried in these morning
hours. Three times over the question comes, and the third is as the
first, a question solely and exclusively as to their love. Three times
over the question comes, and three times over, when love is
unhesitatingly confessed, comes the Apostolic commission, “Feed My
sheep.” Love is enough—enough not only to save the Apostles themselves,
but enough to save the world.
The significance of this cannot be exaggerated. What is Christianity? It
is God’s way of getting hold of us, of attaching us to what is good, of
making us holy, perfect men. And the method He uses is the presentation
of goodness in a personal form. He makes goodness supremely attractive
by exhibiting to us its reality and its beauty and its permanent and
multiplying power in Jesus Christ. Absolutely simple and absolutely
natural is God’s method. The building up of systems of theology, the
elaborate organisation of churches, the various, expensive, and
complicated methods of men, how artificial do they seem when set
alongside of the simplicity and naturalness of God’s method! Men are to
be made perfect. Show them, then, that human perfection is perfect love
for them, and can they fail to love it and themselves become perfect?
That is all. The mission of Christ and the salvation of men through Him
are as natural and as simple as the mother’s caress of her child. Christ
came to earth because He loved men and could not help coming. Being on
earth, He expresses what is in Him—His love, His goodness. By His
loving all men and satisfying all their needs, men came to feel that
this was the Perfect One, and humbly gave themselves to Him. As simply
as love works in all human affairs and relationships, so simply does it
work here.
And God’s method is as effectual as it is simple. Men do learn to love
Christ. And this love secures everything. As a bond between two persons,
nothing but love is to be depended upon. Love alone carries us out of
ourselves and makes other interests than our own dear to us.
But Christ requires us to love Him and invites us to consider whether we
do now love Him, because this love is an index to all that is in us of a
moral kind. There is so much implied in our love of Him, and so much
inextricably intertwined with it, that its presence or absence speaks
volumes regarding our whole inward condition. It is quite true that
nothing is more difficult to understand than the causes of love. It
seems to ally itself with equal readiness with pity and with admiration.
It is attracted sometimes by similarity of disposition, sometimes by
contrast. It is now stirred by gratitude and again by the conferring of
favours. Some persons whom we feel we ought to love we do not draw to.
Others who seem comparatively unattractive strongly draw us. But there
are always some persons in every society who are universally beloved;
and these are persons who are not only good, but whose goodness is
presented in an attractive form—who have some personal charm, in
appearance or manner or disposition. If some churlish person does not
own the ascendency, you know that the churlishness goes deep into the
character.
But this poorly illustrates the ascendency of Christ and what our
denial of it implies. His goodness is perfect and it is complete. Not to
love Him is not to love goodness; it is to be out of sympathy with what
attracts pure and loving spirits. For whatever be the apparent or
obscure causes of love, this is certain—that we love that which best
fits and stimulates our whole nature. Love lies deeper than the will; we
cannot love because we wish to do so, any more than we can taste honey
bitter because we wish to do so. We cannot love a person because we know
that their influence is needful to forward our interests. But if love
lies deeper than the will, what power have we to love what at present
does not draw us? We have no power to do so immediately; but we can use
the means given us for altering, purifying, and elevating our nature. We
can believe in Christ’s power to regenerate us, we can faithfully follow
and serve Him, and thus we shall learn one day to love Him.
But the presence or absence in us of the love of Christ is an index not
only to our present state, but a prophecy of all that is to be. The love
of Christ was that which enabled and impelled the Apostles to live great
and energetic lives. It was this simple affection which made a life of
aggression and reformation possible to them. This gave them the right
ideas and the sufficient impulse. And it is this affection which is open
to us all and which equally now as at first impels to all good. Let the
love of Christ possess any soul and that soul cannot avoid being a
blessing to the world around. Christ scarcely needed to say to Peter,
“Feed My sheep; be helpful to those for whom I died,” because in time
Peter must have seen that this was his calling. Love gives us sympathy
and intelligence. Our conscience is enlightened by sympathy with the
person we love; through their desires, which we wish to gratify, we see
higher aims than our own, aims which gradually become our own. And
wherever the love of Christ exists, there sooner or later will the
purposes of Christ be understood, His aims be accepted, His fervent
desire and energetic endeavour for the highest spiritual condition of
the race become energetic in us and carry us forward to all good.
Indeed, Jesus warns Peter of the uncontrollable power of this affection
he expressed. “When you were younger,” He says, “you girded yourself and
walked where you would; but when you are old another shall gird you, and
carry you on to martyrdom.” For he who is possessed by the love of
Christ is as little his own master and can as little shrink from what
that love carries him to as the man that is carried to execution by a
Roman guard. Self-possession terminates when the soul can truly say,
“Thou knowest that I love Thee.” There is henceforth no choosing of ways
of our own; our highest and best self is evoked in all its power, and
asserts itself by complete abnegation of self and eager identification
of self with Christ. This new affection commands the whole life and the
whole nature. No more can the man spend himself in self-chosen
activities, in girding himself for great deeds of individual
glorification, or in walking in ways that promise pleasure or profit to
self; he willingly stretches forth his hands, and is carried to much
that flesh and blood shrink from, but which is all made inevitable,
welcome, and blessed to him through the joy of that love that has
appointed it.
But are we not thus pronouncing our own condemnation? This is, it is
easy to see, the true and natural education of the human spirit—to love
Christ, and so learn to see with His eyes and become enamoured of His
aims and grow up to His likeness. But where in us is this absorbing,
educating, impelling, irresistible power? To recognise the beauty and
the certainty of God’s method is not the difficulty; the difficulty is
to use it, to find in ourselves that which carries us into the presence
of Christ, saying, “Thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love
Thee.” Admiration we have; reverence we have; faith we have; but there
is more than these needed. None of these will impel us to life-long
obedience. Love alone can carry us away from sinful and selfish ways.
But this testing question, “Lovest thou Me?” was not the first but the
last put to Peter by our Lord. It was only put after they had passed
through many searching experiences together. And if we feel that for us
to adopt as our own Peter’s assured answer would only be to deceive
ourselves and trifle with the most serious of matters, we are to
consider that Christ seeks to win our love also, and that the ecstasy of
confessing our love with assurance is reserved even for us. It is
possible we may already have more love than we think. It is no uncommon
thing to love a person and not know it until some unusual emergency or
conjuncture of circumstances reveals us to ourselves. But if we are
neither conscious of love nor can detect any marks of it in our life, if
we know ourselves to be indifferent to others, deeply selfish, unable to
love what is high and self-sacrificing, let us candidly admit the full
significance of this, and even while plainly seeing what we are, let us
not relinquish the great hope of being at length able to give our heart
to what is best and of being bound by an ever-increasing love to the
Lord.
XXVI.
_CONCLUSION._
“Verily, verily, I say unto thee, When thou wast young, thou
girdedst thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest: but when thou
shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall
gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not. Now this he
spake, signifying by what manner of death he should glorify God. And
when He had spoken this, He saith unto him, Follow Me. Peter,
turning about, seeth the disciple whom Jesus loved following; which
also leaned back on His breast at the supper, and said, Lord, who is
he that betrayed Thee? Peter therefore seeing Him saith to Jesus,
Lord, and what shall this man do? Jesus saith unto him, If I will
that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? follow thou Me.
This saying therefore went forth among the brethren, that that
disciple should not die: yet Jesus said not unto him, that he should
not die; but, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to
thee? This is the disciple which beareth witness of these things,
and wrote these things: and we know that his witness is true. And
there are also many other things which Jesus did, the which if they
should be written every one, I suppose that even the world itself
would not contain the books that should be written.”—JOHN xxi.
18–25.
Peter, springing up in the boat, and snatching his fisher’s coat, and
girding it round him, and dashing into the water, seemed to Jesus a
picture of impetuous, inexperienced, fearless love. And as He looked
upon it another picture began to shine through it from behind and
gradually take its place—the picture of what was to be some years later
when that impetuous spirit had been tamed and chastened, when age had
damped the ardour though it had not cooled the love of youth, and when
Peter should be bound and led out to crucifixion for his Lord’s sake. As
Peter wades and splashes eagerly to the shore the eye of Jesus rests on
him with pity, as the eye of a parent who has passed through many of the
world’s darkest places rests on the child who is speaking of all he is
to do and to enjoy in life. Fresh from His own agony, our Lord knows how
different a temper is needed for prolonged endurance. But little
disposed to throw cold water on genuine, however miscalculating
enthusiasm, having it for His constant function to fan not to quench the
smoking flax, He does not disclose to Peter all His forebodings, but
merely hints, as the disciple comes dripping out of the water, that
there are severer trials of love awaiting him than those which mere
activity and warmth of feeling can overcome, “When thou wast young,
thou girdedst thyself and walkedst whither thou wouldest: but when thou
shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird
thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not.”
To a man of Peter’s impulsive and independent temperament no future
could seem less desirable than that in which he should be unable to
choose for himself and do as he pleased. Yet this was the future to
which the love he was now expressing committed him. This love, which at
present was a delightful stimulus to his activities, diffusing joy
through all his being, would gain such mastery over him that he would be
impelled by it to a course of life full of arduous undertaking and
entailing much suffering. The free, spontaneous, self-considering life
to which Peter had been accustomed; the spirit of independence and right
of choosing his own employments which had so clearly shown itself the
evening before in his words, “I go a-fishing”; the inability to own
hindrances and recognise obstacles which so distinctly betrayed itself
in his leaping into the water,—this confident freedom of action was
soon to be a thing of the past. This ardour was not useless; it was the
genuine heat which, when plunged in the chilling disappointments of
life, would make veritable steel of Peter’s resolution. But such trial
of Peter’s love did await it; and it awaits all love. The young may be
arrested by suffering, or they may be led away from the directions they
had chosen for themselves; but the chances of suffering increase with
years, and what is possible in youth becomes probable and almost certain
in the lapse of a lifetime. So long as our Christian life utters itself
in ways we choose for ourselves and in which much active energy can be
spent and much influence exerted, there is so much in this that is
pleasing to self that the amount of love to Christ required for such a
life may seem very small. Any little disappointment or difficulty we
meet with acts only as a tonic, like the chill of the waters of the lake
at dawn. But when the ardent spirit is bound in the fetters of a
disabled, sickly body; when a man has to lay himself quietly down and
stretch forth his hands on the cross of a complete failure that nails
him down from ever again doing what he would, or of a loss that makes
his life seem a living death; when the irresistible course of events
leads him past and away from the hopefulness and joy of life; when he
sees that his life is turning out weak and ineffectual, even as the
lives of others,—then he finds he has a more difficult part to play
than when he had to choose his own form of activity and vigorously put
forth the energy that was in him. To suffer without repining, to be laid
aside from the stir and interest of the busy world, to submit when our
life is taken out of our own hands and is being moulded by influences
that pain and grieve us—this is found to test the spirit more than
active duty.
The contrast drawn by our Lord between the youth and age of Peter is
couched in language so general that it throws light on the usual course
of human life and the broad characteristics of human experience. In
youth attachment to Christ will naturally show itself in such gratuitous
and yet most pardonable and even touching exhibitions of love as Peter
here made. There is a girding of oneself to duty and to all manner of
attainment. There is no hesitation, no shivering on the brink, no
weighing of difficulties; but an impulsive and almost headstrong
commital of oneself to duties unthought of by others, an honest surprise
at the laxity of the Church, much brave speaking, and much brave acting
too. Some of us, indeed, taking a hint from our own experience, may
affirm that a good deal we hear about youth being warmer in Christ’s
service than maturity is not true, and that it had been a very poor
prospect for ourselves if it had been true; and that with greater truth
it may be said that youthful attachment to Christ is often delusive,
selfish, foolish, and sadly in need of amendment. This may be so.
But however this may be, there can be no doubt that in youth we are free
to choose. Life lies before us like the unhewn block of marble, and we
may fashion it as we please. Circumstances may seem to necessitate our
departing from one line of life and choosing another; but,
notwithstanding, all the possibilities are before us. We may make ours a
high and noble career; life is not as yet spoiled for us, or determined,
while we are young. The youth is free to walk whither he will; he is not
yet irrecoverably pledged to any particular calling; he is not yet
doomed to carry to the grave the marks of certain habits, but may gird
on himself whatever habit may fit him best and leave him freest for
Christ’s service.
Peter heard the words “Follow Me,” and rose and went after Jesus; John
did the same without any special call. There are those who need definite
impulses, others who are guided in life by their own constant love. John
would always absorbedly follow. Peter had yet to learn to follow, to own
a leader. He had to learn to seek the guidance of his Lord’s will, to
wait upon that will and to interpret it—never an easy thing to do, and
least of all easy to a man like Peter, fond of managing, of taking the
lead, too hasty to let his thoughts settle and his spirit fixedly
consider the mind of Christ.
It is obvious that when Jesus uttered the words “Follow Me,” He moved
away from the spot where they had all been standing together. And yet,
coming as they did after so very solemn a colloquy, these words must
have carried to Peter’s mind a further significance than merely an
intimation that the Lord wished His company then. Both in the mind of
the Lord and of Peter there seems still to have been a vivid remembrance
of Peter’s denial; and as the Lord has given him opportunity of
confessing his love, and has hinted what this love will lead him to, He
appropriately reminds him that any penalties he might suffer for his
love were all in the path which led straight to where Christ Himself for
ever is. The superiority to earthly distresses which Christ now enjoyed
would one day be his. But while he is beginning to take in these
thoughts Peter turns and sees John following; and, with that promptness
to interfere which characterised him, he asked Jesus what was to become
of this disciple. This question betrayed a want of steadiness and
seriousness in contemplating his own duty, and met therefore with
rebuke: “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?
follow thou Me.” Peter was prone to intermeddle with matters beyond his
sphere, and to manage other people’s affairs for them. Such a
disposition always betrays a lack of devotion to our own calling. To
brood over the easier lot of our friend, to envy him his capacity and
success, to grudge him his advantages and happiness, is to betray an
injurious weakness in ourselves. To be unduly anxious about the future
of any part of Christ’s Church, as if He had omitted to arrange for that
future, to act as if we were essential to the well-being of some part of
Christ’s Church, is to intermeddle like Peter. To show astonishment or
entire incredulity or misunderstanding if a course in life quite
different from ours is found to be quite as useful to Christ’s people
and to the world as ours; to show that we have not yet apprehended how
many men, how many minds, how many methods, it takes to make a world, is
to incur the rebuke of Peter. Christ alone is broad as humanity and has
sympathy for all. He alone can find a place in His Church for every
variety of man.
Coming to the close of this Gospel, we cannot but most seriously ask
ourselves whether in our case it has accomplished its object. We have
admired its wonderful compactness and literary symmetry. It is a
pleasure to study a writing so perfectly planned and wrought out with
such unfailing beauty and finish. No one can read this Gospel without
being the better for it, for the mind cannot pass through so many
significant scenes without being instructed, nor be present at so many
pathetic passages without being softened and purified. But after all the
admiration we have spent upon the form and the sympathy we have felt
with the substance of this most wonderful of literary productions, there
remains the question: Has it accomplished its object? John has none of
the artifice of the modern teacher who veils his didactic purpose from
the reader. He plainly avows his object in writing: “These signs are
written that ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God,
and that believing ye might have life through His name.” After half a
century’s experience and consideration, he selects from the abundant
material afforded him in the life of Jesus those incidents and
conversations which had most powerfully impressed himself and which
seemed most significant to others, and these he presents as sufficient
evidence of the divinity of his Lord. The mere fact that he does so is
itself very strong evidence of his truth. Here is a Jew, trained to
believe that no sin is so heinous as blasphemy, as the worshipping more
gods than one or making any equal with God—a man to whom the most
attractive of God’s attributes was His truth, who felt that the highest
human joy was to be in fellowship with Him in whom is no darkness at
all, who knows the truth, who is the truth, who leads and enables men to
walk in the light as He is in the light. What has this hater of idolatry
and of lying found as the result of a holy, truth-seeking life? He has
found that Jesus, with whom he lived on terms of the most intimate
friendship, whose words he listened to, the working of whose feelings he
had scanned, whose works he had witnessed, was the Son of God. I say the
mere fact that such a man as John seeks to persuade us of the divinity
of Christ goes far to prove that Christ was Divine. This was the
impression His life left on the man who knew Him best, and who was,
judging from his own life and Gospel, better able to judge than any man
who has since lived. It is sometimes even objected to this Gospel that
you cannot distinguish between the sayings of the Evangelist and the
sayings of his Master. Is there any other writer who would be in the
smallest danger of having his words confounded with Christ’s? Is not
this the strongest proof that John was in perfect sympathy with Jesus,
and was thus fitted to understand Him? And it is this man, who seems
alone capable of being compared with Jesus, that explicitly sets Him
immeasurably above himself, and devotes his life to the promulgation of
this belief.
John, however, does not expect that men will believe this most
stupendous of truths on his mere word. He sets himself therefore to
reproduce the life of Jesus, and to retain in the world’s memory those
salient features which gave it its character. He does not argue nor draw
inferences. He believes that what impressed him will impress others. One
by one he cites his witnesses. In the simplest language he tells us what
Christ said and what He did, and lets us hear what this man and that man
said of Him. He tells us how the Baptist, himself pure to asceticism, so
true and holy as to command the submission of all classes in the
community, assured the people that he, though greater and felt to be
greater than any of their old prophets, was not of the same world as
Jesus. This man who stands on the pinnacle of human heroism and
attainment, reverenced by his nation, feared by princes for the sheer
purity of his character, uses every contrivance of language to make the
people understand that Jesus is infinitely above him, incomparable. He
himself, he said, was of the earth: Jesus was from above and above all;
He was from heaven, and could speak of things He had seen; He was the
Son.
The Evangelist tells us how the incredulous but guileless Nathanael was
convinced of the supremacy of Jesus, and how the hesitating Nicodemus
was constrained to acknowledge Him a teacher sent by God. And so he
cites witness after witness, never garbling their testimony, not making
all bear the one uniform testimony which he himself bears; nay, showing
with as exact a truthfulness how unbelief grew, as how faith rose from
one degree to another, until the climax is reached in Thomas’s explicit
confession, “My Lord and my God!” No doubt some of the confessions which
John records were not acknowledgments of the full and proper divinity
of Christ. The term “Son of God” cannot, wherever used, be supposed to
mean that Christ is God. We, though human, are all of us sons of God—in
one sense by our natural birth, in another by our regeneration. But
there are instances in which the interpreter is compelled to see in the
term a fuller significance, and to accept it as attributing divinity to
Christ. When, for example, John says, “No man hath seen God at any time:
the _only-begotten Son_, which is in the bosom of the Father, He hath
declared Him,” it is evident that he thinks of Christ as standing in a
unique relation to God, which separates Him from the ordinary relation
in which men stand to God. And that the disciples themselves passed from
a more superficial use of the term to a use which had a deeper
significance is apparent in the instance of Peter. When Peter in answer
to the inquiry of Jesus replied, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the
living God,” Jesus replied, “Flesh and blood hath not revealed this unto
thee”; but this was making far too much of Peter’s confession if he only
meant to acknowledge Him to be the Messiah. In point of fact, flesh and
blood did reveal the Messiahship of Jesus to Peter, for it was his own
brother Andrew who told Peter that he had found the Messiah, and brought
him to Jesus. Plainly therefore Jesus meant that Peter had now made a
further step in his knowledge and in his faith, and had learned to
recognise Jesus as not only Messiah, but as Son of God in the proper
sense.
In this Gospel, then, we have various forms of evidence. We have the
testimonies of men who had seen and heard and known Jesus, and who,
though Jews, and therefore intensely prejudiced against such a
conception, enthusiastically owned that Christ was in the proper sense
Divine. We have John’s own testimony, who writes his Gospel for the
purpose of winning men to faith in Christ’s Sonship, who calls Christ
Lord, applying to Him the title of Jehovah, and who in so many words
declares that “the Word was God”—the Word who became flesh in Jesus
Christ. And what is perhaps even more to the purpose, we have
affirmations of the same truth made by Jesus Himself: “Before Abraham
was I am”; “I and the Father are one”; “The glory which I had with Thee
before the world was”; “He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father.” Who
that listens to these sayings can marvel that the horrified Jews
considered that He was making Himself equal with God and took up stones
to stone Him for blasphemy? Who does not feel that when Jesus allowed
this accusation to be brought against Him at the last, and when He
allowed Himself to be condemned to death on the charge, He must have put
the same meaning on His words that they put? Otherwise, if He did not
mean to make Himself equal with the Father, would He not have been the
very first to unmask and protest against so misleading a use of
language? Had He not known Himself to be Divine, no member of the
Sanhedrim could have been so shocked as He to listen to such language or
to use it.
But in reading this Gospel one cannot but remark that John lays great
stress on the miracles which Christ wrought. In fact, in announcing his
object in writing it is especially to the miracles he alludes when he
says, “These signs are written that ye might believe.” In recent years
there has been a reaction against the use of miracles as evidence of
Christ’s claim to be sent by God. This reaction was the necessary
consequence of a defective view of the nature, meaning, and use of
miracles. For a long period they were considered as merely wonders
wrought in order to prove the power and authority of the Person who
wrought them. This view of miracles was so exclusively dwelt upon and
urged, that eventually a reaction came; and now this view is
discredited. This is invariably the process by which steps in knowledge
are gained. The pendulum swings first to the one extreme, and the height
to which it has swung in that direction measures the momentum with which
it swings to the opposite side. A one-sided view of the truth, after
being urged for a while, is found out and its weakness is exposed, and
forthwith it is abandoned as if it were false; whereas it is only false
because it claimed to be the whole truth. Unless it be carried with us,
then, the opposite extreme to which we now pass will in time be found
out in the same way and its deficiencies be exposed.
In regard to miracles the two truths which must be held are: first, that
they were wrought to make known the character and the purposes of God;
and, secondly, that they serve as evidence that Jesus was the revealer
of the Father. They not only authenticate the revelation; they
themselves reveal God. They not only direct attention to the Teacher;
they are themselves the lessons He teaches.
During the Irish famine agents were sent from England to the distressed
districts. Some were sent to make inquiries, and had credentials
explaining who they were and on what mission; they carried documents
identifying and authenticating them. Other agents went with money and
waggon-loads of flour, which were their own authentication. The
charitable gifts told their own story; and while they accomplished the
object the charitable senders of the mission had in view, they made it
easy of belief that they came from the charitable in England. So the
miracles of Christ were not bare credentials accomplishing nothing else
than this—that they certified that Christ was sent from God; they were
at the same time, and in the first place, actual expressions of God’s
love, revealing God to men as their Father.
Our Lord always refused to show any bare authentication. He refused to
leap off a pinnacle of the Temple, which could serve no other purpose
than to prove He had power to work miracles. He resolutely and uniformly
declined to work mere wonders. When the people clamoured for a miracle,
and cried, “How long dost Thou make us doubt?” when they pressed Him to
the uttermost to perform some marvellous work solely and merely for the
sake of proving His Messiahship or His mission, He regularly declined.
On no occasion did He admit that such authentication of Himself was a
sufficient cause for a miracle. The main object, then, of the miracles
plainly was not evidential. They were not wrought chiefly, still less
solely, for the purpose of convincing the onlookers that Jesus wielded
super-human power.
What, then, was their object? Why did Jesus so constantly work them? He
wrought them because of His sympathy with suffering men,—never for
Himself, always for others; never to accomplish political designs or to
aggrandise the rich, but to heal the sick, to relieve the mourning;
never to excite wonder, but to accomplish some practical good. He
wrought them because in His heart He bore a Divine compassion for men
and felt for us in all that distresses and destroys. His heart was
burdened by the great, universal griefs and weaknesses of men: “Himself
took our infirmities and bare our sicknesses.” But this was the very
revelation He came to make. He came to reveal God’s love and God’s
holiness, and every miracle He wrought was an impressive lesson to men
in the knowledge of God. Men learn by what they see far more readily
than by what they hear, and all that Christ taught by word of mouth
might have gone for little had it not been sealed on men’s minds by
these consistent acts of love. To tell men that God loves them may or
may not impress them, may or may not be believed; but when Jesus
declared that He was sent by God, and preached His gospel by giving
sight to the blind, legs to the lame, health to the hopeless, that was a
form of preaching likely to be effectual. And when these miracles were
sustained by a consistent holiness in Him who worked them; when it was
felt that there was nothing ostentatious, nothing self-seeking, nothing
that appealed to mere vulgar wonder in them, but that they were dictated
solely by love,—when it was found that they were thus a true expression
of the character of Him who worked them, and that that character was one
in which human judgment at least could find no stain, is it surprising
that He should have been recognised as God’s true representative?
Supposing, then, that Christ came to earth to teach men the fatherhood
and fatherliness of God—could He have more effectually taught it than
by these miracles of healing? Supposing He wished to lodge in the minds
of men the conviction that man, body and soul, was cared for by God;
that the diseased, the helpless, the wretched were valued by Him,—were
not these works of healing the most effectual means of making this
revelation? Have not these works of healing in point of fact proved the
most efficient lessons in those great truths which form the very
substance of Christianity? The miracles are themselves, then, the
revelation, and carry to the minds of men more directly than any words
or arguments the conception of a loving God, who does not abhor the
affliction of the afflicted, but feels with His creatures and seeks
their welfare.
And, as John is careful throughout his Gospel to show, they suggest even
more than they directly teach. John uniformly calls them “signs,” and on
more than one occasion explains what they were signs of. He that loved
men so keenly and so truly could not be satisfied with the bodily relief
He gave to a few. The power He wielded over disease and over nature
seemed to hint at a power supreme in all departments. If He gave sight
to the blind, was He not also the light of the world? If He fed the
hungry, was He not Himself the bread which came down from heaven?
The miracles, then, are evidences that Christ is the revealer of the
Father, because they do reveal the Father. As the rays of the sun are
evidences of the sun’s existence and heat, so are the miracles evidences
that God was in Christ. As the natural and unstudied actions of a man
are the best evidences of his character; as almsgiving that is not meant
to disclose a charitable spirit, but for the relief of the poor, is
evidence of charity; as irrepressible wit, and not clever sayings
studied for effect, is the best evidence of wit—so these miracles,
though not wrought for the sake of proving Christ’s union with the
Father, but for the sake of men, do most effectually prove that He was
one with the Father. Their evidence is all the stronger because it was
not their primary object.
But for us the question remains, What has this Gospel and its careful
picture of Christ’s character and work done for us? Are we to close the
Gospel and shut away from us this great revelation of Divine love as a
thing in which we claim no personal share? This exhibition of all that
is tender and pure, touching and hopeful, in human life—are we to look
at it and pass on as if we had been admiring a picture and not looking
into the very heart of all that is eternally real? This accessibility of
God, this sympathy with our human lot, this undertaking of our burdens,
this bidding us be of good cheer—is it all to pass by us as needless
for us? The presence that shines from these pages, the voice that sounds
so differently from all other voices—are we to turn from these? Is all
that God can do to attract us to be in vain? Is the vision of God’s
holiness and love to be without effect? In the midst of all other
history, in the tumult of this world’s ambitions and contendings,
through the fog of men’s fancies and theories, shines this clear,
guiding light: are we to go on as if we had never seen it? Here we are
brought into contact with the truth, with what is real and abiding in
human affairs; here we come into contact with God, and can for a little
look at things as He sees them: are we, then, to write ourselves fools
and blind by turning away as if we needed no such light—by saying, “We
see, and need not be taught?”
_Printed by Hazell Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
THE EXPOSITOR’S BIBLE.
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_WORKS BY THE_ REV. MARCUS DODS, D.D.
THE BOOK OF GENESIS.
_Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, price 7s. 6d._
“The execution of this (_Expositor’s Bible_) series has been
excellent. Dean Chadwick’s treatment of the Gospel of St. Mark is in
almost perfect proportion, happy in style, just and reasonable in
temper, and full of helpful and suggestive thinking. The Colossians
and Philemon, by Dr. Maclaren, finely illustrate those subtle,
spiritual gifts of intellect and imagination that have made him the
favourite teacher of so many earnest and devout readers. In the Book
of Genesis a much more difficult and thorny piece of work fell to
the lot of Dr. Marcus Dods. There are at the present moment peculiar
difficulties in the treatment of those early chapters of Bible
story. The minds of general readers are hesitating between the old
literal and somewhat secular interpretation of the narrative, and
the new, more scientific, but not always more ideal and spiritual
reading of the record. That a settlement of the problem is possible,
and indeed not far off, is the conviction of many who have most
thoroughly studied the course and meaning of current thought; and
they do not doubt that the result will be to restore to us, in the
prelude of the history of redemption, everything the heart of faith
needs and loves, perchance in a purer and nobler form. Dr. Dods has
a steady head, a practised hand, and a determined will. With
admirable address he has steered his way between the shoals and
rocks of preliminary questions, and has brought safely to port his
rich cargo of exposition, the produce of many an arduous voyage of
discovery and research.”—_Rev. Prof. W. G. Elmslie, D.D._
THE FIRST EPISTLE TO THE CORINTHIANS.
_Third Edition. Crown 8vo, price 7s. 6d._
“He shows himself to be thoroughly at home with his subject, and
that his exposition is clear, intelligent, and characterised by a
sobriety of judgment, a candour, and a sweet reasonableness which
are worthy of all praise, is only what might be expected from a
writer of Dr. Dods’ well-known abilities and culture.”—_Scotsman._
“The most varied of Paul’s Epistles demands in its expositor a
combination of qualities which is very rarely met with. He who would
read it aright from beginning to end must be theologian, casuist,
and historian all in one; he must be equally at home in the ancient
and the modern Church, in ancient and in modern life. There is
probably no man living in whom these characters are more at one than
Dr. Dods; and though the student of exegesis may sometimes look in
this book for what he will not find, the practical expositor will
recognise in it a model of what his work should be.”—_British
Weekly._
THE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, price 7s. 6d. each._
“An excellent contribution to the series (_Expositor’s Bible_). Dr.
Dods appears to us always to write with clearness and with vigour.
He has the gift of lucidity of expression, and by means of apt
illustrations he avoids the cardinal sin of dryness, so that the
interest, even of the general reader, will not flag as he smoothly
glides through these chapters.”—_Guardian._
ERASMUS AND OTHER ESSAYS.
_Second Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, price 5s._
“Professor Marcus Dods is a theologian, and much more. The essays in
this volume show him, not for the first time, as a man of much
reading, of broad and genial sympathies, refined but liberal
judgment, possessed of no little literary culture, and keenly
appreciative of literary and mental power in other men even when
they do not happen to belong to his own school. They have all more
or less permanent value. They are good literature, and make a book
worth having and reading.”—_Scotsman._
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW TESTAMENT.
_Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, price 2s. 6d._
“The compiler has placed in the hands of ordinary readers the
results of the latest scholarship respecting the authorship,
genuineness, date and place of writing, and circumstances attending
the production of all the books of the New Testament. The work is
very well done indeed.”—_English Churchman._
“When we compare it with even the best of the extant volumes on the
same subject, we are bound to acknowledge that Dr. Dods has
compressed into the 247 pages of this little book more than is to be
found in much bulkier works.”—_Christian Leader._
“It contains an admirable, brief statement of the conclusions
arrived at concerning the books of the New Testament, after the most
recent and careful investigations of modern scholars. Dr. Marcus
Dods has packed away an immense amount of information in very small
space.”—_Methodist Recorder._
“A more admirable manual we could not conceive. The student will
here find great riches in little room.”—_Baptist Magazine._
“Dr. Dods has earned the gratitude of Biblical students by the
preparation of this work. It is an invaluable manual, so compact in
form and so concise in matter as to render it specially suitable for
use in public schools and colleges as a preparation for the study of
larger works when time permits. Let any young minister master this
portable volume, and he will be well furnished indeed.”—_Methodist
New Connexion Magazine._
THE PARABLES OF OUR LORD.
As Recorded by St. Matthew.
_Seventh Thousand. Price 3s. 6d._
“Unfolded with a lucidity which ought to satisfy even Mr. Matthew
Arnold. The crisp, pointed, and graphic style of Dr. Dods is in
harmony with the keen and spiritual insight which marks him out as a
prince among the living expositors of the sacred
writings.”—_Christian Leader._
“No thoughtful reader could rise from its perusal without being
imbued with holier feelings and actuated by sublimer aspirations
than when he took the book up.”—_Liverpool Post._
“Eminently popular in style and practical in aim.”—_Christian._
“Marked alike by careful language and sober thought.”—_Guardian._
“Intelligent, reverent, and spiritual, marked by much literary
beauty, and will be read by both learned and simple.”—_British
Quarterly._
“An interesting contribution to a most important
subject.”—_Presbyterian Churchman._
THE PARABLES OF OUR LORD.
Second Series. Parables Recorded by St. Luke.
_Sixth Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d._
“Dr. Dods is a model for all expositors. He is lucid, reverent, and
suggestive. Though his style is usually somewhat austere, it
frequently blossoms into rare beauty and tenderness.”—_Sheffield
Independent._
“He offers an original exposition, marked by strong common sense and
practical exhortation. He not only makes the circumstances of the
parable stand distinctly before the reader, introduces him into the
circle that heard it, and shows distinctly how it affected the
bystanders, but he also applies it skilfully to the conduct and
practices, the views and feelings, of the men of our day, and drives
its lesson home to their very hearts. This gives a great value to
the work.”—_Literary Churchman._
THE PRAYER THAT TEACHES TO PRAY.
_Seventh Edition. Crown 8vo, price 2s. 6d._
“It is highly instructive, singularly lucid, and unmistakably for
quiet personal use.”—_Clergyman’s Magazine._
“It is very rarely that so much solid exposition can be found
compressed into so small a space. Soundly evangelical, the lectures
are at the same time luminous, refined, and practical, abounding not
only in fine glimpses of spiritual intuition, but also in keen
analysis of human character, and its sources and motives of
action.”—_Freeman._
“A work so simple in style and in structure, breathing at every
point the spirit of the Master, can hardly fail to find acceptance,
and is eminently fitted to be at once edifying and
elevating.”—_Scotsman._
ISAAC, JACOB, AND JOSEPH
_Sixth Thousand. Price 3s. 6d._
“The present volume is worthy of the writer’s reputation. He deals
with the problems of human life and character which these
biographies suggest in a candid and manly fashion, and where he
discovers a spiritual significance in them his course is always
marked by sobriety and caution, yet he is not wanting in fervour and
earnestness.”—_Spectator._
“We commend this volume to our readers as a model of popular
exposition.... For insight into the depths of the character
portrayed, an insight which amounts to _intimacy_, we have not for
many a day found any work superior to this.”—_Baptist._
“Dr. Dods has the double qualifications for writing biography. He is
at once a student of books and a student of life. For reality
therefore, for freshness, for penetration, for insight into
character, these chapters are incomparable, and for the purposes of
‘Household Exposition’ we can conceive of no healthier form of
literature coming into our families.”—_Christian._
ISRAEL’S IRON AGE:
Sketches from the Period of the Judges.
_Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d._
“The popularity of this volume is richly deserved. The sketches are
bright and forcible, and abound in moral teaching and practical
lessons for the golden age of Victoria as well as for the iron age
of Israel.”—_Evangelical Magazine._
“Powerful lectures. This is a noble volume, full of strength. Young
men especially will find in it a rich storehouse of prevailing
incentive to a godly life. Dr. Dods searches with a masterly
hand.”—_Nonconformist._
“The characters are vividly and truthfully drawn, and many practical
lessons in daily life are enforced from their virtues and
vices.”—_Standard._
MOHAMMED, BUDDHA, AND CHRIST.
_Sixth Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d._
“Four lectures by one of the most mature, competent, and able
theologians of the sister Church of Scotland. The book closes with
an essay on Christianity which is not only of much interest, but
full of thought and reverent Christian speculation. The last paper,
indeed, is a decided contribution to comparative theology, and as a
summary of the leading points on which the science of comparative
religion may be said to turn is of permanent usefulness and
worth.”—_Christian._
“Its general truth few reflecting Christians will doubt, and its
elevating tendency nobody, Christian or unbeliever, will deny. To us
this book is specially welcome, as an evidence, in addition to many
others, of a new outburst of earnest religious thought and
sentiment.”—_Spectator._
LONDON: HODDER & STOUGHTON, 27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
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