Life of Christ

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Title: Life of Christ
Author: Papini, Giovanni
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Life of Christ" ***

LIFE OF CHRIST

_by_

GIOVANNI PAPINI

Freely translated from the Italian

_by_

DOROTHY CANFIELD FISHER

NEW YORK
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

The King James English version has been followed in the Bible quotations
of this translation, except in a few cases where an alteration in the
Revised Version was evidently the result of a better understanding of
the original Greek or Hebrew text.

For the form of proper names, the spelling of the Century Dictionary has
been used as a rule; for names not given in the Century, the form
current in the usual standard works. Since this book is intended to be
popular rather than either scholarly or archæological, it was thought
best to use the name-forms best known to most readers.

It will be noted that a number of the quotations are mosaics made up of
phrases taken from different parts of the Bible and put together to make
one passage. This not being the English usage in such matters, it seems
desirable to call the reader’s attention to the character of such
quotations.

The only other explanation which may be necessary is in connection with
the omission of occasional sentences, paragraphs and of one or two
chapters. In the case of individual sentences or phrases, they were
usually omitted because they contained an allusion sure to be obscure to
non-Italian readers. A characteristic example of such omissions is in
the scene of the crucifixion where Christ is described as being nailed
to the cross with outstretched arms like an owl nailed with outstretched
wings to a barn-door. This revolting country-side custom being unknown
to American readers, a reference to it could only cloud the passage.

Since translators into English who omit passages are usually accused of
suppressing valuable material which might displease too-narrow
Anglo-Saxon readers, it is perhaps as well to explain that the excision
of paragraphs here and there, and of a few chapters, is in no sense an
expurgation, because this _Life of Christ_ is very much of the same
quality throughout. It simply seemed to me that such occasional
lightening of the text would make it more acceptable to English-speaking
readers, so much less tolerant of long descriptions and minute
discussions than Italians.

I quite realize that this may seem a slight and arbitrary basis for
making actual excisions in an author’s work, and I understand that the
translator is not at all responsible for the matter which he translates,
but only for the truthfulness with which he presents the text given him
to set into another language. I was moved first by the fact that the
passages omitted are of no more importance than any other passages in
the book; and secondly by the author’s wish expressly stated in his
Introduction, to have this a readable book which will hold those who
pick it up, rather than to have it a book of exact learning or great
literature. This translation was made with the purpose of allowing the
general American reading-public to form an opinion on a book which has
aroused a great deal of discussion in modern Italy; and to carry out
this purpose, the occasional omissions mentioned and a certain freedom
in the rendering of the Italian seemed to me justifiable.

Dorothy Canfield Fisher.

INTRODUCTION

For five hundred years those who call themselves free spirits because
they prefer prison life to army service have been trying desperately to
kill Jesus a second time—to kill Him in the hearts of men.

The army of His enemies assembled to bury Him as soon as they thought
they heard the death-rattle of Christ’s second death. Presumptuous
donkeys mistaking libraries for their stables, top-heavy brains
pretending to explore the highest heavens in philosophy’s drifting
balloon, professors poisoned by the fatal strong drink of philology and
metaphysics, armed themselves. Paraphrasing the rallying-cry of Peter
the Hermit to the crusaders, they shouted “Man wills it!” as they set
out on their crusade against the Cross. Certain of them drew on their
boundless imaginations to evolve what they considered proof positive of
a fantastic theory that the story of the Gospel is no more than a legend
from which we can reconstruct the natural life of Jesus as a man,
one-third prophet, one-third necromancer, one-third demagogue, a man who
wrought no miracles except the hypnotic cure of some obsessed devotees,
who did not die on the cross, but came to Himself in the chill of the
sepulcher and reappeared with mysterious airs to delude men into
believing that He had risen from the dead.

Others demonstrated as certainly as two and two make four that Jesus was
a myth developed in the time of Augustus and of Tiberius, and that all
the Gospels can be reduced to a clumsy mosaic of prophetic texts. Others
conceived of Jesus as a good, well-meaning man, but too high-flown and
fantastic, who went to school to the Greeks, the Buddhists, and the
Essenes and patched together His plagiarisms as best He could to support
His claim to be the Messiah of Israel. Others made Him out to be an
unbalanced humanitarian, precursor of Rousseau and of divine democracy;
an excellent man for his time but who to-day would be put under the care
of an alienist. Others to get rid of the subject once for all took up
the idea of the myth again, and by dint of puzzlings and comparisons
concluded that Jesus never was born anywhere in any spot on the globe.

But who could have taken the place of the man they were trying to
dispose of? The grave they dug was deeper every day, and still they
could not bury Him from sight.

Then began the manufacture of religions for the irreligious. During the
whole of the nineteenth century they were turned out in couples and half
dozens at a time: the religion of Truth, of the Spirit, of the
Proletariat, of the Hero, of Humanity, of Nationalism, of Imperialism,
of Reason, of Beauty, of Peace, of Sorrow, of Pity, of the Ego, of the
Future and so on. Some were only new arrangements of Christianity,
uncrowned, spineless Christianity, Christianity without God; most of
them were political, or philosophic, trying to make themselves out
mystics. But faithful followers of these religions were few and their
ardor faint. Such frozen abstractions, although sometimes helped along
by social interest or literary passions, did not fill the hearts which
had renounced Jesus.

Then attempts were made to throw together facsimiles of religion which
would make a better job of offering what men looked for in religion.
Free-Masons, Spiritualists, Theosophists, Occultists, Scientists,
professed to have found the infallible substitute for Christianity. But
such mixtures of moldy superstition and worm-eaten necromancy, such a
hash of musty rationalism and science gone bad, of simian symbolism and
humanitarianism turned sour, such unskillful rearrangements of Buddhism,
manufactured-for-export, and of betrayed Christianity, contented some
thousands of leisure-class women, of condensers of the void ... and went
no further.

In the meantime, partly in a German parsonage and partly in a
professor’s chair in Switzerland, the last Anti-Christ was making ready.
“Jesus,” he said, coming down from the Alps in the sunshine, “Jesus
mortified mankind; sin is beautiful, violence is beautiful. Everything
that says ‘yes’ to Life is beautiful.” And Zarathushtra, after having
thrown into the Mediterranean the Greek texts of Leipzig and the works
of Machiavelli, began to gambol at the feet of the statue of Dionysius
with the grace that might be expected of a German, born of a Lutheran
minister, who had just stepped down from a chair in a Swiss University.
But, although his songs were sweet to the ear, he never succeeded in
explaining exactly what he meant when he spoke of this adorable “Life”
to which men should sacrifice such a living part of themselves as their
need to repress their own animal instincts: nor could he ever say in
what way Christ, the true Christ of the Gospels, opposed Himself to
life, He who wanted to make life higher and happy. And the poor
syphilitic Anti-Christ, when insanity was close upon him, signed his
last letter, “The Crucified One.”

And still Christ is not yet expelled from the earth either by the
ravages of time or by the efforts of men. His memory is everywhere: on
the walls of the churches and the schools, on the tops of bell-towers
and of mountains, in street-shrines, at the heads of beds and over
tombs, thousands of crosses bring to mind the death of the Crucified
One. Take away the frescoes from the churches, carry off the pictures
from the altars and from the houses, and the life of Christ fills
museums and picture-galleries. Throw away breviaries and missals, and
you find His name and His words in all the books of literature. Even
oaths are an involuntary remembrance of His presence.

When all is said and done, Christ is an end and a beginning, an abyss of
divine mystery between two divisions of human history. Paganism and
Christianity can never be welded together. Before Christ and After
Christ! Our era, our civilization, our life, begins with the birth of
Christ. We can seek out what comes before Christ, we can acquire
information about it, but it is no longer ours, it is signed with other
signs, limited by other systems, no longer moves our passions; it may be
beautiful, but it is dead. Cæsar was more talked about in his time than
Jesus, and Plato taught more science than Christ. People still discuss
the Roman ruler and the Greek philosopher, but who nowadays is hotly for
Cæsar or against him; and where now are the Platonists and the
anti-Platonists?

Christ, on the contrary, is still living among us. There are still
people who love Him and who hate Him. There is a passion for the love of
Christ and a passion for His destruction. The fury of so many against
Him is a proof that He is not dead. The very people who devote
themselves to denying His ideas and His existence pass their lives in
bringing His name to memory.

We live in the Christian era, and it is not yet finished. If we are to
understand the world, our life, ourselves, we must refer to Christ.
Every age must re-write its own Gospel. More than any other, our own age
has so re-written its own Gospel, and therefore the author ought perhaps
to justify himself for having written this book. But the justification,
if there is need of such, will be plain to those who read it.

There never was a time more cut off from Christ than ours, nor one which
needed Him more. But to find Him, the old books are not enough. No life
of Christ, even if it were written by an author of greater genius than
any who has ever lived, could be more beautiful and perfect than the
Gospels. The candid sobriety of the first four stories can never be
improved upon by any miracle of style and poetry. And we can add very
little to the information they give us.

But who reads the Gospels nowadays? And who could read them, even if he
set himself at it. Glosses of philologists, comments of the exegetical
experts, varying readings of erudite marginal editors, emendations of
letters, such things can provide entertainment for patient brains. But
the heart needs something more than this.

Every generation has its preoccupations and its thoughts, and its own
insanities. The old Gospels must be re-translated for the help of the
lost. If Christ is to remain alive in the life of men, eternally present
with us, it is absolutely necessary to resuscitate Him from time to
time; not to color Him with the dyes of the present day, but to
represent with new words, with references to things now happening, His
eternal truth and His never-changing story.

The world is full of such bookish resuscitations of Christ, learned or
literary: but it seems to the author of this one that many are
forgotten, and others are not suitable. To write the history of the
stories of Christ would take another book and one even longer than this
one. But it is easy to divide into two great divisions those which are
best known and most read: (1) Those written by orthodox authors for the
use of the orthodox; (2) and those written by scientists for the use of
non-believers. Neither the first nor the second can satisfy those who
are seeking in such lives for Life.

The lives of Jesus written for pious readers exhale, almost all of them,
a sort of withered mustiness, the very first page of which repels
readers used to more delicate and substantial fare. There is an odor of
burnt-out lamp-wick, a smell of stale incense and of rancid oil that
sticks in the throat. You cannot draw a long, free breath. The reader
acquainted with the biographies of great men written with greatness, and
possessing some notions of his own about the art of writing and of
poetry, who incautiously picks up one of these pious books, feels his
heart fail him as he advances into this flabby prose, torpid, tangled,
patched up with commonplaces that were alive a thousand years ago, but
which are now dead and petrified. It is even worse when these worn-out
old hacks try to break into the lyric gallop or the trot of eloquence.
Their faded graces, their ornamentations of countrified purisms, of
“fine writing” fit for provincial academies, their artificial warmth
cooled down to tepidity by unctuous dignity, discourage the endurance of
the boldest reader. And when they are not engulfed in the thorny
mysteries of scholasticism, they fall into the roaring eloquence of the
Sunday sermon. In short, these are books written for readers who believe
in Jesus, that is, for those who could, in a way, get along without
them. But ordinary people, indifferent people, irreverent people,
artists, those accustomed to the greatness of Antiquity and to the
novelty of Modernity, never look at even the best of such volumes; or if
they pick them up, let them fall at once. And yet these are the very
people whom such a book should win because they are those whom Christ
has lost, they are those who to-day form public opinion and count in the
world.

Another sort of books, those written by the learned men for the
neutrals, succeed even less in turning towards Christ the souls that
have not learned the way to Christianity. In the first place they almost
never have any intention of doing this, and in the second place they
themselves, almost all of them, are among those who ought to be brought
back to the true and living Christ. Furthermore, their method which is,
as they say, historical, scientific, critical, leads them to pause over
texts and external facts, to establish them or to eliminate them, rather
than to consider the meaning and the value and the light which, if they
would, they could find in those texts and those facts. Most of them try
to find the man in the God, the actual external facts of the miracles,
the legend in the tradition and, above all, they are on the look-out for
interpolations, for falsifications and apocrypha in the first part of
Christian literature. Those who do not go so far as to deny that Jesus
ever lived, take away from the testimony about Him everything they can,
and by dint of “ifs” and “buts” and doubts and hypotheses, so far from
writing any definite story themselves, succeed in spoiling the story
contained in the Gospels. In short, such historians with all their
confusion of fret-work and bunglings, with all the resources of textual
criticism, of mythology, of paleography, of archeology, of Greek and
Hebrew philology, only triturate and liquefy the simple life of Christ.
The most logical conclusion to draw from their rambling incoherent talk
is that Jesus never did appear on the earth, or if by chance He really
did appear, that we know nothing certain about His life. Christianity
still exists, of course, in spite of such conclusions, and Christianity
is a fact not easily disregarded. To offset this fact the best these
enemies of Christ can do is to search through the Orient and Occident
for the origins, as they say, of Christianity, their intention being
quite openly to parcel it out among its predecessors, Jewish, Greek, for
that matter Hindu and Chinese, as if to say: “You see, your Jesus at
bottom was not only a man, but a poor specimen of a man, since he said
nothing that the human race did not know by heart before his day.”

One might ask these deniers of miracles how they explain the miracle of
a syncretism of old traditions which has grown about the memory of an
obscure plagiarist, an immense movement of men, of thoughts, of
institutions, so strong, overwhelmingly strong, as to change the face of
the earth for centuries. But this question, and many others, we will not
put to them, at least for the present.

In short, when in looking for light we pass from the bad taste of the
devotional compilers to the writers who monopolize “historic truth” we
fall from pietistic boredom into sterile confusion. The pious writers
are unable to lead men to Christ, and the “historians” lose Him in
controversy. And neither one nor the other tempt men to read. They may
differ from each other in matters of faith, but they resemble each other
in the uncouthness of their style. And unctuous rhetoric is as
distasteful to cultivated minds, even superficially acquainted with the
divine idyll and divine tragedy of the Gospels, as is the
cold-heartedness of learned writers. So true is all this that even
to-day, after the passage of so many years, after so many changes of
taste and opinion, the only life of Jesus which is read by many lay
readers is that of the apostate priest, Renan, a book which all true
Christians dislike for its dilettante attitude, insulting even in
praise, and which every real historian distrusts because of its
compromises and its insufficient scholarship. But although this book of
Renan’s seems written by a skeptical romancer, wedded to philology, or
by a Semitic scholar suffering from literary nostalgia, it has the
merits of being really “written,” that is, of getting itself read, even
by those who are neither believers nor specialists.

To make itself readily read is not the only value nor the greatest which
a book can have, and the writer who contents himself with that alone and
who thinks of nothing else shows that vanity rather than ardor is his
motive-power. But let us admit that to be readable is a merit and not a
small merit for a book, especially when it is not intended as a tool for
study, but when it aims at the mark called, “moving the emotions,” or to
give it its real name, when its aim is to “transform human beings.”

The author of the present book finds—and if he is mistaken he will be
very glad to be convinced by any one who sees more clearly than he—that
in the thousands of books which tell the story of Jesus, there is not
one which seeks, instead of dogmatic proofs and learned discussions, to
give food fit for the soul, for the needs of men of our time.

The book we need is a living book, to make Christ more living, to set
Christ the Ever-Living with loving vividness before the eyes of living
men, to make us feel Him as actually and eternally present in our lives.
We need a book which would show Him in all His living and present
greatness—perennial and yet belonging intimately to us moderns—to those
who have scorned and refused Him, to those who do not love Him because
they have never seen His true face; which would show how much there is
of supernatural and symbolic in the human, obscure, simple and humble
beginning of His life, and how much familiar humanity, how much
simple-hearted plainness shines out when He becomes a Heavenly Deliverer
at the end of His life, when He becomes a martyr and rises again
divinely from the dead. We need a book which would show in that tragic
epic, written by both Heaven and earth, the many teachings suited to us,
suited to our time and to our life, which can be found there, not only
in what Christ said, but in the very succession of events which begin in
the stable at Bethlehem and end in the cloud over Bethany. A book
written by a layman for the laymen who are not Christians or who are
only superficially Christians, a book without the affectations of
professional piety and without the insipidity of scientific literature,
called “scientific” only because it perpetually fears to make the
slightest affirmation. A book, in short, written by a modern writer who
respects and understands his art, and knows how to hold the attention
even of the hostile.

The author of this book does not pretend to have written such a book;
but at least he has tried as far as his capacities can take him, to draw
near to that ideal.

Let him state at once with sincere humility that he has not written a
“scientific history.” In the first place because he could not; in any
case because he would not, even if he had possessed all the necessary
learning. He warns the reader, among other things, that this book was
written (almost all of it) in the country, in a distant and sparsely
settled countryside with very few books at hand, with no advice from
friends or revision from masters. It will, therefore, never be cited by
higher criticism or by those who scrutinize original sources with a
microscope; but that is of little importance compared to the possibility
of its doing a little good to a few souls, even to one alone. For as he
has explained, the author wishes this book to be another coming of
Christ and not another burial.

The author bases his book on the Gospels; as much, let it be understood,
on the synoptic Gospels as on the fourth. He confesses that he has no
interest in the endless dissertations and disputes over the authority of
the four Gospels, over their dates and interpolations, over their mutual
relationship, and over their probabilities and sources. We have no older
nor no other documents, contemporaneous, Jewish or Pagan, which would
permit us to correct them or to deny them. He who goes into all this
minute investigation can destroy many doctrines, but he cannot advance
the true knowledge of Christ by a single step. Christ is in the Gospels,
in the apostolic tradition, and in the Church. Outside of that is
darkness and silence. He who accepts the four Gospels must accept them
wholly, entire, syllable by syllable,—or else reject them from the first
to the last and say, “We know nothing.” To attempt in these texts to
differentiate what is sure from what is probable, what is historic from
what is legendary, what is original from what has been added, the
primitive from the dogmatic is a hopeless undertaking, which almost
always ends in defeat, in the despair of the readers, who in the midst
of this hubbub of contradictory systems, changing from one decade to
another, end by understanding nothing and by letting it all drop. The
most famous New Testament authorities agree on only one thing, that the
Church was able to select in the great mass of primitive literature the
oldest Gospels thought up to that time to be the most reliable. No more
need be asked.

In addition to the Gospels, the author of this book has had before his
eyes “the Logia and the Agrapha,” which seemed to have the most
evangelical flavor, and also some apocryphal texts used with judgment.
And finally nine or ten modern books which he had at hand.

It seems to him as well as he can judge, that he has departed sometimes
from ordinary ideas and that he has painted a Christ who has not always
the perfunctory features of the ordinary holy picture, but he is not
sure of this nor does he value any new thing which may be in this book,
written more in the hope of having it a good book than of having it a
beautiful book. It is rather more likely that he has repeated things
already said by others, of which he in his ignorance has never heard. In
these matters, the subject, which is truth, is unchangeable and there
can be nothing new except the manner of presenting it in a form more
efficacious because it may be more easily grasped.

Just as he has tried to avoid the thorns of erudite criticism on the one
hand, he has no pretensions, on the other, of going too deeply into the
mysteries of theology. He has approached Jesus with the
simple-heartedness of longing and of love, just as during His life-time
He was approached by the fishermen of Capernaum, who were, fortunately
for them, even more ignorant than the author. Holding loyally to the
words of the orthodox Gospels and to the dogmas of the Catholic Church,
he has tried to represent those dogmas and those words in unusual ways,
in a style violent with contrasts and with foreshortening, colored with
crude and vividly felt words, to see if he could startle modern souls
used to highly colored error, into seeing the truth.

The author claims the right to take to himself the words of St. Paul:
“To them that are without law, I became as without law that I might gain
them that are without law. To the weak became I as weak that I might
gain the weak; I am made all things to all men, that I might by all
means save some. And this I do for the Gospel’s sake.”

The author has tried to present not only the Hebrew world, but the world
of antiquity, hoping to show how new and how great Christ was compared
to those who preceded Him. He has not always followed the chronological
order of events, because it better suited his aims, which are not (as he
has said) entirely historical, to gather together certain groups of
thoughts and facts and to throw a stronger light on them instead of
leaving them to be scattered here and there in the course of the
narrative.

In order not to give a pedantic look to the book he has suppressed all
references to quotations and has used no foot-notes. He did not wish to
seem what he is not, a learned bibliographer, and he did not wish to
have his work smell, however faintly, of the oil of the lamp of
erudition. Those who understand these things will recognize the un-named
authorities, and the solutions which the author has chosen when
confronted with certain problems of concordance. The others, those who
are only trying to see how Christ appeared to one of them, would be
wearied by the apparatus of textual learning and by dissertations at the
bottom of the pages. One word only must be said here in connection with
the sinning woman weeping at Jesus’ feet: although it is generally
understood from the Gospel story that there were two different scenes
and two different women, the author for artistic purposes has allowed
himself to treat them as one, and he asks a pardon for this which he
hopes will be easily granted since there is no question of dogma
involved.

He must warn the reader that he refrained from developing the episodes
where the Virgin Mother appears, in order not to lengthen too greatly a
book already long, and especially because of the difficulty of showing
by passing allusions all the rich wealth of religious beauty which is in
the figure of Mary. Another volume would be necessary for that, and the
writer is tempted to try if God grants him life and sight to “say of her
what was never said of any woman.”

Those who are experienced in reading the Gospels will realize that other
things of lesser importance have been shortened and some others, on the
contrary, lengthened more than is customary. Some have seemed to the
writer more appropriate than the others for his purpose, which is, to
use an expression now out of date and distasteful to sophisticated
people, the purpose of edification.

This book is meant to be a book—the author knows how he will be jeered
at—of edification. Not in the meaning of mechanical bigotry, but in the
human and manly meaning of the “refashioning” of souls.

To build, or as the old word expressed it, to edify a house, is a great
and holy action; to make a shelter against winter and the night. But to
build up or edify a soul, to construct it with stones of truth! When
there is talk of edification you see in it only an abstract word worn
out with use. To edify in the original meaning was to construct walls.
Who of you has ever thought of all that goes into the making of a house,
a house firm on the earth, and honestly built, with well-plumbed walls,
with a good sheltering roof? Think of all that is needed to build a
house: well-squared stones, well-baked bricks, sound beams,
freshly-burned lime, fine, clean sand, cement that has not lost its
strength through age! And then patient, expert workmen to put each thing
in its place, to join the stones perfectly one by one, not to put too
much water or too much sand in the mortar, to keep the walls damp, to
know how to fill in the chinks, to smooth the rough-cast plaster! All
this so that a house may go up day by day towards heaven, a man’s house,
the house where he will bring his wife, the house where his children
will be born, where he can invite his friends.

But most people think that to make a book it is enough to have an idea
and then to take so many words and put them together. Not so. A kiln of
tiles, a pile of rocks, are not a house. To build up a house, to build
up a book, to build up a soul, are undertakings which require all of a
man’s power. The aim of this book is to build up Christian souls because
that seems to the writer at this time in this country an urgent need. He
who has written it cannot now say whether he will succeed or not. But
readers will recognize, he hopes, that it is a real book and not a
collection of scraps, not an assemblage of little pieces, a book that
may be mediocre and mistaken, but which is constructed: a work built up
as well as edifying or building up; a book with its own plan and its own
architecture, a real house with its atrium and its architraves, with its
divisions and its vaultings—and also with some openings towards heaven
and over the fields.

The author of this book is, or would fain be, an artist, and in writing
it he could not forget his own character. But he declares here that he
has not wished to create a work of Belles Lettres, or as they say now,
of “pure poetry,” because at least for this time truth is dearer to him
than beauty. But if his powers as a writer, however feeble they may be,
as a writer loving his art, are sufficient to persuade one more soul, he
will be more thankful than ever in his life for the gifts which he has
received. His inclination towards poetry has perhaps been of use to him
in rendering fresher and more vivid the picture of those things which
seem petrified in the usual hieratic consecrated wording.

The man of imagination sees everything as though it were new: every
great star, wheeling in the night, might lead you to the house hiding
the Son of God; every stable has a manger which, filled with dry hay and
clean straw, might become a cradle; every bare mountain top flaming with
light in the golden mornings above the still somber valley, might be
Sinai or Mt. Tabor: in the fires in the stubble, or in the charcoal
kilns shining on the evening hills you can see the flame lighted by God
to guide you in the desert; and the column of smoke rising from the poor
man’s hearth shows the road from afar to the returning laborer. The ass
who carries the shepherdess just come from her milking is the one ridden
towards the tents of Israel, or the one which went down towards
Jerusalem for the feast of the Passover. The dove cooing on the edge of
the slate roof is the same that announced the end of the great
punishment to the Patriarch, or the same that descended on the waters of
the Jordan. For the poet everything is of equal value and omnipresent,
and all history is sacred history.

The author begs the pardon of his austere contemporaries if rather more
than is fitting he lets himself go to what is nowadays disdainfully
dubbed eloquence, illegitimate issue of pompous rhetoric and
illegitimate mother of overemphasis and other dropsical growths of
elocution.

He knows very well that eloquence displeases moderns as bright red cloth
displeases the fine city lady, as the organ in a church displeases
minuet dancers, but he has not always succeeded in dispensing with it.
When it is not borrowed declamation, eloquence is the ardent expression
of faith, and in an era which has no faith there is no place for
eloquence. And yet the life of Jesus is such a drama and such a poem
that in place of the words, worn thread-bare, which have at our
disposition, we should use only those “torn and sentient” words of which
Passavanti speaks. Bossuet, who knew something about eloquence, once
wrote: “Plût à Dieu que nous puissions détacher de notre parole tout se
qui delecte l’esprit, tout ce qui surprend l’imagination, pour ne
laisser que la verité toute simple, la seule force et l’efficace toute
pure du Saint Esprit, nulle pensée que pour convertir.”

Very true, but difficult to achieve.

At times the author of this book would have liked to possess an
eloquence vivid and powerful enough to shake all hearts, an imagination
rich enough to transport the soul by enchantment into a world of light,
of gold and of fire. Yet at other times he almost regretted that he was
too much the artist, too much the man of letters, too much given to
inlaying and chiseling, and that he did not know how to leave things in
their powerful nudity.

Only when he has finished a book does an author know how he ought to
have written it. When he has set down the last word, he ought to turn
back, begin at the beginning, and do it all over again with the
experience acquired in the work. But who has, I do not say the energy to
do this, but even the conception that it ought to be done.

If on some of its pages this book sounds like a sermon, there is no
great harm done. In these days when for the most part only women, and an
occasional old man, go to listen to the preaching in churches, where
mediocre things are often said in a mediocre manner, but where more
often still, truths are repeated which ought not to be forgotten, we
must think of the others, of the scholarly men, of “intellectuals,” of
the sophisticated, of those who never enter a church, but sometimes step
into a book-shop. For nothing in the world would they listen to a
friar’s sermon, but they condescend to read it when it is printed in a
book. And let it be said once and for all, this book is specially
written for those who are outside the Church of Christ; the others,
those who have remained within, united to the heirs of the Apostles, do
not need my words.

The author excuses himself for having written a book with so many, with
too many pages, on only one theme. Now that most books—even his own
books—are only bundles of pages taken out of journals, or short-winded
little stories, or short notes taken from note-books, and generally do
not go beyond two or three hundred pages, to have written more than four
hundred pages on one theme will seem a tremendous presumption. The book
certainly will seem long to modern readers used to light wafers rather
than to substantial home-made loaves. But books, like days, are long or
short, according to what you put into them. And the author is not so
cured of his pride as to think that this book will remain unread on
account of its length, and he flatters himself that it may be read with
less tedium than other books that are shorter. So difficult it is to
cure oneself of conceit—even for those whose wish it is to cure others.

Some years ago the author of this book wrote another to describe the
melancholy life of a man who wished for a moment to become God. Now in
the maturity of his years and of his consciousness he has tried to write
the life of a God who made Himself man.

This same writer in those days let his mad and voluble humor run wild
along all the roads of paradox, holding that a consequence of the
negation of everything transcendental was the need to despoil oneself of
any bigotry, even profane and worldly, to arrive at integral and perfect
atheism; and he was logical as the “black cherubim” of Dante, because
there is only one choice allowed man, the choice between God and
nothingness. When man turns from God there is no valid reason to uphold
the idols of the tribe or any other of the old fetiches of reason or of
passion. In those proud and feverish days he who writes affronted Christ
as few men before him have ever done. And yet scarcely six years
afterwards (but six years of great travail and devastation without and
within his heart), after long months of agitated meditations, he
suddenly interrupted another work begun many years ago, and almost as if
urged and forced by a power stronger than himself, he began to write
this book about Christ which seems to him insufficient expiation for his
guilt. It has happened often to Christ that He has been more tenaciously
loved by the very men who hated Him at first. Hate is sometimes only
imperfect and unconscious love: and in any case it is a better
foundation for love than indifference.

How the writer came to discover Christ again, by himself, treading many
roads, which all brought him to the foot of the Mount of the Gospel,
would be too long and too hard a story to tell. But there is a
significance not perhaps wholly personal and private in the example of a
man who always from his childhood felt a repulsion for all recognized
forms of religious faith, and for all churches, and for all forms of
spiritual vassalage and who passed, with disappointments as deep as the
enthusiasms had been vivid, through many experiences, the most varied
and the most unhackneyed which he could find, who had consumed in
himself the ambitions of an epoch unstable and restless as few have
been, and who after so many wanderings, ravings and dreamings, drew near
to Christ.

He did not turn back to Christ out of weariness, because his return to
Christ made life become more difficult and responsibilities heavier to
bear; not through the fears of old age, for he can still call himself a
young man; and not through desire for worldly fame, because as things go
nowadays he would receive more commendation if he continued in his old
ideas. But this man, turning back to Christ, saw that Christ is
betrayed, and, worse than any affront to Him, that He is being
forgotten. And he felt the impulse to bring Him to mind and to defend
Him.

For not only His enemies have left Him, and despoiled Him; the very ones
who were His disciples when He was alive only half understood Him, and
deserted Him at the end; and many of those who were born in His church
disobey His commands, care more for His painted pictures than for His
living example, and when they have worn out their lips and knees in
materialistic piety, think they are quits with Him, and that they have
done what He asked of man,—what He still is asking, what He has been
asking desperately and always in vain for nineteen hundred years.

A story of Christ written to-day is an answer, a necessary reply, an
inevitable conclusion. The balance of modern public opinion is against
Christ. A book about Christ’s life is therefore a weight thrown into the
scales, in order that from the eternal war between love and hate there
may result at least the equilibrium of justice. And if the author is
called a reactionary, that is nothing to him. The man who is thought to
be behind the times often is a man born too soon. The setting sun is the
same which at that very moment colors the early morning of a distant
country. Christianity is not a piece of antiquity now assimilated, in as
far as it had anything good, by the wonderful and not-to-be-improved
modern consciousness; but it is for very many something so new that it
has not even yet begun. The world to-day seeks for peace rather than for
liberty, and the only certain peace is found under the yoke of Christ.

They say that Christ is the prophet of the weak, and on the contrary He
came to give strength to the languishing, and to raise up those trodden
under foot to be higher than kings. They say that His is the religion of
the sick and of the dying, and yet He heals the sick and brings the
sleeping to life. They say that He is against life, and yet He conquers
death; that He is the God of sadness, and yet He exhorts His followers
to be joyful and promises an everlasting banquet of joy to His friends.
They say that He introduced sadness and mortification into the world,
and on the contrary when He was alive He ate and drank, and let His feet
and hair be perfumed, and detested hypocritical fasts, and the
penitential mummeries of vanity. Many have left Him because they never
knew Him. This book is especially for such readers.

This book is written, if you will pardon the mention, by a Florentine, a
son of the only nation which ever chose Christ for its King. Savonarola
first had the idea in 1495, but could not carry it through. In spite of
a threatening siege, it was taken up in 1527 and approved by a great
majority. Over the door of the Palazzo Vecchio, between Michael Angelo’s
David and Bandinelli’s Hercules, a marble tablet was built into the
wall, with these words:

JESUS CHRISTUS REX FLORENTINI
POPULI P. DECRETO ELECTUS.

Although changed by Cosimo, this inscription is still there; the decree
was never formally abrogated and denied, and even to-day after four
hundred years of usurpations, the writer of this book is proud to call
himself a subject and soldier of Christ the King.

LIFE OF CHRIST

Jesus was born in a stable, a real stable, not the bright, airy portico
which Christian painters have created for the Son of David, as if
ashamed that their God should have lain down in poverty and dirt. And
not the modern Christmas-eve “Holy Stable” either, made of plaster of
Paris, with little candy-like statuettes, the Holy Stable, clean and
prettily painted, with a neat, tidy manger, an ecstatic Ass, a contrite
Ox, and Angels fluttering their wreaths on the roof—this is not the
stable where Jesus was born.

A real stable is the house, the prison of the animals who work for man.
The poor, old stable of Christ’s old, poor country is only four rough
walls, a dirty pavement, a roof of beams and slate. It is dark, reeking.
The only clean thing in it is the manger where the owner piles the hay
and fodder.

Fresh in the clear morning, waving in the wind, sunny, lush,
sweet-scented, the spring meadow was mown. The green grass, the long,
slim blades were cut down by the scythe; and with the grass the
beautiful flowers in full bloom—white, red, yellow, blue. They withered
and dried and took on the one dull color of hay. Oxen dragged back to
the barn the dead plunder of May and June. And now that grass has become
dry hay and those flowers, still smelling sweet, are there in the Manger
to feed the slaves of man. The animals take it slowly with their great
black lips, and later the flowering fields, changed into moist dung,
return to light on the litter which serves as bedding.

This is the real stable where Jesus was born. The filthiest place in the
world was the first room of the only Pure Man ever born of woman. The
Son of Man, who was to be devoured by wild beasts calling themselves
men, had as His first cradle the manger where the animals chewed the cud
of the miraculous flowers of Spring.

It was not by chance that Christ was born in a stable. What is the world
but an immense stable where men produce filth and wallow in it? Do they
not daily change the most beautiful, the purest, the most divine things
into excrements? Then, stretching themselves at full length on the piles
of manure, they say they are “enjoying life.” Upon this earthly pig-sty,
where no decorations or perfumes can hide the odor of filth, Jesus
appeared one night, born of a stainless Virgin armed only with
innocence.

THE OX AND THE ASS

First to worship Jesus were animals, not men. Among men He sought out
the simple-hearted: among the simple-hearted He sought out children.
Simpler than children, and milder, the beasts of burden welcomed Him.

Though humble, though servants of beings weaker and fiercer than they,
the ass and the ox had seen multitudes kneeling before them. Christ’s
own people, the people of Jehovah, the chosen people whom Jehovah had
freed from Egyptian slavery, when their leader left them alone in the
desert to go up and talk with the Eternal, did they not force Aaron to
make them a Golden Calf to worship? In Greece the ass was sacred to
Ares, to Dionysius, to Hyperborean Apollo. Balaam’s ass, wiser than the
prophet, saved him by speaking. Oxus, King of Persia, put an ass in the
temple of Ptha, and had it worshiped. And Augustus, Christ’s temporal
sovereign, had set up in the temple the brazen statue of an ass, to
commemorate the good omen of his meeting on the eve of Actium an ass
named “The Victorious.”

Up to that time the Kings of the earth and the populace craving material
things had bowed before oxen and asses. But Jesus did not come into the
world to reign over the earth, nor to love material things. He was to
bring to an end the bowing down before beasts, the weakness of Aaron,
the superstition of Augustus. The beasts of Jerusalem will murder Him,
but in the meantime the beasts of Bethlehem warm Him with their breath.
In later years, when Jesus went up to the city of death for the Feast of
the Passover, He was mounted on an ass. But He was a greater prophet
than Balaam, coming not to save the Jews alone but all men: and He did
not turn back from His path, no, not though all the mules of Jerusalem
brayed against him.

THE SHEPHERDS

After the animals came those who care for animals. Even if the Angel had
not announced the great birth, they would have gone to the stable to see
the son of the stranger woman. Shepherds live almost always alone and
far away. They know nothing of the distant world, nor of the feast-days
of the earth. They are moved by whatever happens near to them, even if
it is but a little thing.

But as they were watching their flocks in the long winter night, they
were shaken by the light and by the words of the Angel. “Fear not, for
behold I bring you good tidings of great joy.... Glory to God in the
highest and on earth peace to men of good will.” In the dim light of the
stable they saw a beautiful young woman gazing silently at her son. And
as they saw the baby with His eyes just open, His delicate rosy flesh,
His mouth which had not yet eaten, their hearts softened. The birth of a
new man, a soul just become incarnate taking upon itself to suffer with
other souls, is always a miracle so deep as to move to pity even the
simple-hearted who do not understand it. For the shepherds forewarned,
this new-born child was not just a baby, but He for whom their suffering
race had been waiting, for a thousand years.

The shepherds offered what little they had, that little which is so
great when offered with love. They carried the white offerings of their
craft, milk, cheese, wool, the lamb. Even to-day in our mountains, where
one finds the last dying traces of hospitality and fraternal feeling, as
soon as a wife is delivered of a child, the sisters, wives and daughters
of the shepherds come hurrying to her; and not one of them empty-handed.
One has three or four eggs still warm from the nest, another a cup of
freshly drawn milk, another a little cheese, another a pullet to make
broth for the new mother. A new being has begun his suffering: the
neighbors hasten to carry their offerings almost as though to console
the mother.

Themselves poor the old-time shepherds did not look down on the poor.
Simple as children they loved children. They came of a race born of the
Shepherd of Ur, saved by the Shepherd of Madian. Their first kings had
been shepherds—Saul and David—shepherds of herds before being shepherds
of tribes. But these shepherds of Bethlehem, “unknown to the hard
world,” were not proud. A poor man was born among them and they looked
on Him with affection and lovingly brought Him their poor riches. They
knew that this boy, born of poor people in poverty, born of common
people in the midst of common people, was to be the redeemer of the
humble, of those men of good will, on whom the Angel had called down
peace.

THE WISE MEN

Some days after this, three wise men came from Chaldea and knelt before
Jesus. They came perhaps from Ecbatana, perhaps from the shores of the
Caspian Sea. Mounted on their camels with their full-stuffed
saddle-bags, they had forded the Tigris and the Euphrates, crossed the
great desert of the nomad tribes, followed along the Dead Sea. They were
guided to Judea by a new star like the comet which appears every so
often in the sky to announce the birth of a prophet or the death of a
Cæsar. They had come to adore a King, and they found a nursing baby,
poorly swaddled, hidden within a stable. Almost a thousand years before
this, a Queen of the East had come on a pilgrimage to Judea, and she,
too, had carried gifts, gold, fragrant perfumes and precious stones; but
she had found on the throne the greatest king who had ever reigned in
Jerusalem and from him had learned what no one else had been able to
teach her.

The wise men found no king. They found a new-born baby, a tiny boy, who
could neither ask nor answer questions, a boy who in His maturity was to
disdain material treasures, and the learning which is based on material
things.

They were not kings, these wise men, but in Media and Persia they were
the masters of kings. The kings ruled over the people, but the wise men
directed the kings. They alone could communicate with Alma Mazda, the
good God. They alone knew the future, and Destiny. They killed with
their own hands the enemies of men and of the harvests, snakes, harmful
insects, birds of prey. They purified souls, they purified the fields.
Except from their hands God accepted no sacrifices. No king began a war
without consulting them. Theirs were the secrets of heaven and earth. In
the name of science and religion they held first rank in the nation. In
the midst of a people sunk in material things they represented the
Spirit. It was fitting that they should come to kneel before Jesus.
After the animals which are Nature, after the Shepherds which are the
common people, this third power which is knowledge knelt at the manger
in Bethlehem. The old priestly caste of the Orient made its act of
submission before the new Lord, who was to send His Gospel to the west.
The learned men knelt before Him who was to set above the learning of
words and numbers the new wisdom of love.

Symbolizing the old theology bowing before the final revelation, the
wise men at Bethlehem knelt before Innocence: Wealth prostrated itself
at the feet of Poverty.

They offered gold to Jesus: gold which He was to tread under foot. They
offered it not because Mary in her poverty might need it for the
journey, but in anticipation of the command, “Sell all that thou hast
and give it to the poor.” They offered Him frankincense, not to drown
the stench of the stable, but as a token that their own ritual was
ended; that their altars would need smoke and perfume no longer. They
offered Him myrrh knowing that this boy would die young, and His mother,
smiling now, would need spices to embalm the dead body.

Kneeling in their pontifical robes upon the bedding of straw, they, the
mighty, the learned, the soothsayers, offered themselves as pledges of
the obedience of the world.

Jesus now had received all His rightful investitures. The wise men had
scarcely gone when persecutions were begun by those who were to hate Him
to the day of His death.

OCTAVIUS AUGUSTUS

When Christ appeared upon the earth, criminals ruled the world
unopposed. He was born subject to two sovereigns, the stronger far away
at Rome, the weaker and wickeder close at hand in Judea.

One lucky adventurer after wholesale slaughter had seized the empire,
another had murdered his way to the throne of David and Solomon. Each
rose to high position through trickery, through civil wars, betrayals,
cruelty, massacres. They were born to understand one another, were, as a
matter of fact, friends and accomplices, as far as was possible between
a subordinate rascal and his rascal chief.

Son of the usurer of Velletri, Augustus showed himself cowardly in war
and vindictive in victory, false to his friends, cruel in reprisals. To
a condemned man who begged only for burial he answered, “That is the
business of the vultures.” To the Perugians begging for mercy during the
massacre he cried, “Moriendum esse!” On a mere suspicion he wanted to
tear out the eyes of the Praetor Quintus Gallius before ordering his
throat cut. Possessed of the empire, with his enemies crushed and
scattered, with the power all in his own hands, he put on a mask of
mildness and of his youthful vices kept only his lust. It was told of
him, that in his youth, he had sold his body twice, first to Cæsar, and
again in Spain to Hirtius for 300,000 sestertia. Now he amused himself
with the wives of his friends, with almost public adulteries, and with
posing as the restorer of morality.

This filthy, sickly man was sovereign of the western world when Jesus
was born, nor did he ever know that One had been born who would bring
the dissolution of all that he had founded. The facile philosophy of the
plump little plagiarist Horace was enough for him, “To-day let us enjoy
wine and love: hopeless death awaits us: there is not a day to be lost!”
In vain Virgil, the man of the countryside, friend of woods, of quiet
flocks and golden bees, he who had gone down with Æneas to see the
sufferers in Avernus and poured his restless melancholy into the music
of poetry; in vain Virgil, the loving pious Virgil, had foretold a new
era, a new order and a new race, a kingdom of heaven less spiritual,
less brilliant than that which Jesus was to announce, but infinitely
nobler and purer than the kingdom of Hell which was then making ready.
In vain, because Augustus saw in these words only a pastoral fancy and
perhaps believed that he, the corrupt master of the corrupt, was the
proclaimed Saviour and restorer of the reign of Saturn.

But his vassal of Judea, his great Oriental client, may have had a
presentiment of the birth of Jesus, of the true King, who was coming to
supplant the king of evil.

HEROD THE GREAT

Herod was a monster, one of the most perfidious monsters of the many
which have sprung from the burning deserts of the East. He was not a
Jew, nor a Greek, nor a Roman. He was an Idumean, a barbarian who
prostrated himself before Rome, and aped the Greeks the better to secure
his dominion over the Jews. Son of a traitor, he had usurped the kingdom
of his sovereign from the last unfortunate Hasmonæans. To legalize his
treachery he married their niece, Mariamne. Afterwards, on a baseless
suspicion, he had her killed. It was not his first crime. He had had his
brother-in-law, Aristobulus, treacherously drowned. He had condemned his
other brothers-in-law, Joseph and Hyrcanus the Second (last of the
conquered dynasty). Not content with having killed Mariamne, he put her
mother, Alexandra, to death as well, and finally, the sons of Baba,
merely because they were distant relatives of the Hasmonæans. In the
meantime he amused himself with burning alive Juda of Sarafaus and
Matthew of Margoloth with other heads of the Pharisees. Later, afraid
that the sons he had had by Mariamne would wish to avenge their mother,
he had them strangled. Himself at the point of death he gave the order
to kill a third son, Archelaus. Voluptuous, suspicious, impious, greedy
of gold and of glory, he never knew peace at home, in Judea or in his
own heart. In order that he might bury the recollection of his
assassinations he gave the Roman people a present of three hundred
talents to spend in festivals. He humiliated himself before Augustus to
make him the accomplice of his infamies and, dying, left him ten
thousand drachmas and, in addition, a ship of gold and one of silver for
Livia.

This half-civilized Arab attempted to conciliate the Greeks and the
Jews. He succeeded in bribing the degenerate posterity of Socrates so
that in Athens they put up a statue to him, but the Jews hated him to
the day of his death. It did him no good, in their eyes, to build up
Samaria and restore the temple of Jerusalem. He was always, for them,
the heathen and the usurper.

Apprehensive like all ageing evil-doers, and like all new-made princes,
he shivered at every fluttering leaf, every shifting shadow.
Superstitious like all Orientals, credulous of presages and soothsayers,
he readily believed the three wise men when they said, that led by a
star, they had come from the interior of Chaldea towards the country
which he had fraudulently stolen. Any pretender to the throne, even a
fantastic one, could make him tremble, and when he knew from the wise
men that a King of Judea was born, his uneasy, barbarian’s heart gave a
great leap of fear. Seeing that the astrologers did not come back to
tell him the place where the new nephew of David had appeared, he
ordered that all the boy babies of Bethlehem should be killed.

THE INNOCENTS

Nobody ever knew how many children were sacrificed to the terror of
Herod. It was not the first time in Judea that even nursing children had
been put to the sword. This same Hebrew people had punished in the olden
times cities of their enemies by the massacre of the old men, the wives,
the young men and the boys. They saved only the virgins to make them
slaves and concubines. God Himself, the jealous Jehovah, had often given
the order for the slaughter, and now the Idumean applied to the people
who had accepted him, the Mosaic law of an eye for an eye and a tooth
for a tooth.

We do not know how many of the Innocents there were, but if we can
believe Macrobius we know that among them was a little son of Herod who
was at nurse in Bethlehem. For the old King, wife-killer and son-killer,
who knows but that this was a form of retribution: who knows but that he
suffered when they brought him news of the mistake? A short time after
this he also was to die, suffering from loathsome disease. His body
began to putrefy while still alive. Worms consumed his organs. Burnt up
with fevers, gasping, he could scarcely draw his tainted breath.
Disgusting to himself, he tried to kill himself with a knife at table,
and finally died, after having given Salome orders to have many young
prisoners killed.

The massacre of the Innocents was the last act of the reeking, bloody
old man. There is a prophetic meaning in this immolation of the
Innocents around the cradle of an Innocent, this holocaust of blood for
a new-born child, a child destined to offer His blood for the pardon of
the guilty, this human sacrifice for One, who in His turn was to be
sacrificed. After His death thousands and thousands were to die for the
sole crime of having believed in His resurrection. He was born to die
for others and as if to expiate His birth, behold, here are thousands
born who die for Him.

There is a tremendous mystery in this blood-offering of the pure, in the
death of so many of His contemporaries. They belonged to the generation
which was to betray and crucify Him. But those who were killed by the
soldiers of Herod that day did not see Him, did not grow up to see their
Lord killed. They saved Him with their death, and saved themselves
forever. They were innocent and they remained innocent for all eternity.
Their fathers and their surviving brothers avenged them later, but they
will be pardoned because “they know not what they do!”

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

A Christian poet, an Italian, sang this lullaby to the new-born Jesus:

Sleep, baby, do not weep,
Sleep, heavenly babe.

Over your head, the tempests shall not dare to rage!

But the son of Mary did not make Himself man in order to sleep, and the
tempests raged, but He was not afraid.

Better than Siddharta, He deserves the name of the Awakened one. How can
He sleep in the stable, where the donkey brays, precursor of all donkeys
who will bray against Him: where the ox lows, waiting until the other
oxen speak at His presence; where the shepherds question Him; where the
wise men give Him their blessing? How can He sleep when the shuffling
steps of Herod’s assassins draw near? How can He ever sleep up to that
last night when He will agonize under the olive trees, amid the sleeping
bodies of the Eleven?

And Mary cannot sleep. In the evening as soon as the houses of Bethlehem
disappear in the darkness and the first lamps are lighted, the mother
steals away like a fugitive. She is snatching a life away from the King,
she is saving a hope for the people as she presses upon her breast her
man-child, her hope, her sorrow.

She goes towards the west, she crosses the old land of Canaan and comes
by easy stages—the days are short—to the Nile, to that country of
Mizraim which had cost so many tears to her ancestors fourteen centuries
before.

Jesus, who carried on the work of Moses and at the same time demolished
the work of Moses, goes back over the route taken by the first redeemer.
When the Jews were under the whip of the Egyptian slaves, oppressed,
mistreated, ill-used, the Shepherd of Median made himself the Shepherd
of Israel, and led his hard-headed people across the desert till they
were in sight of the Jordan and of the miraculous vineyards. The people
of Jesus left Chaldea with Abraham and came with Joseph into Egypt.
Moses led them from Egypt toward Canaan. Now the greatest of the
liberators, in danger of his life, went back to the banks of that river
where the first Saviour had been saved from the water and had saved his
brothers.

Egypt, the rich spawning-bed of all the infamies and all the
magnificences of the first epoch, that African India, where the waves of
history broke and died, where but a few years before, Pompey and Antony
had finished the dream of Empire and of life, this prodigious country,
born of water, burned by the sun, covered with the blood of many
peoples, inhabited by many animal-gods, this country, paradoxical and
supernatural, was by contrast the predestined asylum for the fugitive.

The wealth of Egypt was in mud, in the rich snake-breeding mud which the
Nile rolled out each year upon the desert. Death was the obsession of
Egypt. The soft, prosperous people of Egypt would not accept death,
denied death, thought they could conquer death with graven images, with
embalmings, with sculptured representation of flesh-and-blood bodies.
The rich, portly Egyptian, son of mud, adorer of the sacred bull, and
the dog-headed god, could not resign himself to dying. He manufactured
for his second life immense necropolises full of bandaged and perfumed
mummies, of images of wood and marble, and raised up pyramids over his
corpses, as if stone and mortar might save them from decay.

When Jesus could speak, He was to pronounce the verdict against Egypt:
the Egypt which is not only on the banks of the Nile, the Egypt which
has not yet disappeared from the face of the earth along with its kings,
its sparrow-hawks and its serpents. Christ was to give the final and
eternal answer to the terror of the Egyptians. He was to condemn the
wealth which comes from mud and returns to mud, and all the fetiches of
the pot-bellied river-dwellers of the Nile, and He was to conquer death
without sculptured tombs, without mortuary kingdoms, without statues of
granite and basalt. His victory over death is won by teaching that sin
is greedier than worms and that spiritual purity is the only aromatic
which preserves from decay.

The worshipers of mud and of animals, the servants of riches and of the
Beast, could not save themselves. Their tombs, high as mountains though
they be, decked out like queens’ palaces, white and fair to see as those
of the Pharisees, guard only ashes, dust returning again to dust, even
as the dead bodies of animals. Death cannot be conquered by copying life
in wood and stone. Stone crumbles away and turns to dust, wood rots and
turns to dust, and both of them are mud—eternal mud.

THE LOST FOUND

But the exile in Egypt was short. Jesus was brought back, held in His
mother’s arms, rocked throughout the long journey by the patient step of
the ass, to His father’s house in Nazareth, humble house and shop where
the hammer pounded and the rasp scraped until the setting of the sun.

The canonical gospels say nothing of these years: the Apocrypha give
many details but unworthy of belief. Luke, the wise doctor, is content
to set down that the boy grew and was strong; that is, that he was not
sickly and overworked. He was a boy developed as he should be: healthy,
a bearer of health, as was fitting in one who was to restore health to
others by the mere touch of His hand.

Every year, says Luke, the parents of Jesus went to Jerusalem for the
feast of unleavened bread in memory of the escape from Egypt. They went
with a crowd of neighbors, friends, and acquaintances to keep each other
company on the journey. They were cheerful like people going to a
festival rather than to a service in memory of a solemn crisis: for the
Passover had become at Jerusalem a great feast day, when all the Jews
scattered about the Empire came together.

On the twelfth Passover after the birth of Jesus, as the group from
Nazareth was returning from the holy city, Mary found that her son was
not with them. All day long she sought for Him, asking every
acquaintance, but in vain. The next morning the mother turned back,
retraced her steps over the road and went up and down the streets and
open places of Jerusalem, fixing her dark eyes on every boy she met,
asking the mothers standing in the open doors, begging her countrymen
not yet gone, to help her find her lost son. A mother who has lost her
son does not rest until she has found him; she thinks no more of
herself, she does not feel weariness, effort, hunger. She does not shake
the dust from her clothes nor arrange her hair. She cares not for the
curious glances of the passers-by. Her distracted eyes see nothing but
the image of him, who is no longer beside her.

Finally on the third day she came to the Temple, looked about in the
courts, and saw at last in the shadow of a portico a group of old men
talking. She came up timidly, for those men with long cloaks and long
beards seemed people of importance who would pay no attention to a plain
woman from Galilee, and discovered in the center of the circle the
waving hair, the shining eyes, the tanned face, the fresh lips of her
Jesus. Those old men were talking with her son of the Law and the
Prophets. They were asking Him questions and He was answering; He put
questions to them in His turn and they marveled at Him, astonished that
a boy should know the words of the Lord so well. But He remembered the
books which He had heard read out in the little Synagogue of Nazareth:
and His memory had retained every syllable.

Mary remained for a few moments gazing at Him, hardly believing her
eyes. Her heart, a moment before beating fast with fear, was now beating
fast with astonishment. But she could not restrain herself any more and
suddenly in a loud voice called Him by name. The old men took themselves
off and the mother snatched her son to her breast and silently clasped
Him to her, the tears which she had kept back till then raining down on
His face.

She clutched Him, took Him away, and then, certain that she had Him with
her, that she had not lost Him, the happy mother remembered the
despairing mother, “Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold, thy
father and I have sought thee sorrowing.”

“How is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my
Father’s business?”

Weighty words, especially when said by a twelve-year-old boy to a mother
who had sought Him for three long days.

And, the Evangelist goes on, “And they understood not the saying which
he spake unto them.” But after so many centuries of Christian experience
we can understand those words, which seemed at first sight to be hard
and proud.

How is it that ye sought me? Do you not know that I can never be lost,
that I can never be lost by any one, even those who will bury me under
the earth? I will be everywhere where any one believes in me, even if
they do not see me with their eyes. I cannot be lost from any man, by
any man, provided that he hold me in his heart. I shall not be lost
alone in the desert nor alone on the waters of the lake, nor alone in
the garden of olives, nor alone in the tomb.

“And who is this father of whom you speak to me? He is the legal father,
the human father, but my real Father is in heaven. He is the Father who
spoke to the patriarchs face to face, who put words into the mouths of
the prophets. I know what He told them of me, His eternal wishes, the
laws He has given to His people, the covenant which He has signed with
all men. If I am to do what He has commanded me, I must be busy about
what is truly His. What is a legal, temporal tie confronted with a
mystic, spiritual and eternal bond?”

THE WOODWORKER

But the hour for really leaving His home had not come for Jesus. The
voice of John had not yet been heard; and with His father and mother He
once more went along the road to Nazareth and returned to Joseph’s shop
to help him in his trade.

Jesus did not go to school to the Scribes nor to the Greeks. But He did
not lack for teachers. Three teachers He had, greater than all the
learned: work, nature and the Book.

It must never be forgotten that Jesus was a working man and the adopted
son of a working man: that He was born poor, among people who worked
with their hands; before He gave out His gospel He earned His daily
bread with the labor of His hands. Those hands which blest the
simple-hearted, which cured the lepers, which gave light to the blind,
which brought the dead to life, those hands which were pierced with
nails upon the cross, were hands which had been bathed with the sweat of
labor, hands which had known the numbness of work, hands which were
callous with work, hands which had held the tools of work, which had
driven nails into wood, the hands of a working man.

Before being a workman of the spirit, Jesus was a man who worked with
material things. He was poor before He summoned the poor to His table,
to the festival of His Kingdom. He was not born into a wealthy family,
into the house of luxury on a bed covered with purple and fine linen.
Descendant of kings, He lived in a woodworker’s shop: Son of God He was
born in a stable. He did not belong to the caste of the great, to the
aristocracy of warriors, to the circles of the rich, to the Sanhedrim of
the priests. He was born into the lowest class of the people, the class
which has below it only the vagabonds, the beggars, the fugitives, the
slaves, the criminals, the prostitutes. When He became no longer a
manual worker, He went down lower yet in the eyes of respectable folk,
and sought His friends in that miserable huddle which is even below the
common people. But until that day when Jesus, before going down into the
Inferno of the dead, went down into the Inferno of the living, His
position was that of a poor working man and nothing more, in the
hierarchy of castes which eternally separates men.

Jesus’ trade is one of the four oldest and most sacred of men’s
occupations. The trades of the peasant, the mason, the smith, and the
carpenter are, among the manual arts, those most impregnated with the
life of man, the most innocent and the most religious. The warrior
degenerates into a bandit, the sailor into a pirate, the merchant into
an adventurer, but the peasant, the mason, the smith, the carpenter do
not betray, cannot betray, do not become corrupt. They handle the most
familiar materials, and their task is to transform them visibly into
visible, solid, concrete creations, useful to all men. The peasant
breaks the clod and takes from it the bread eaten by the saint in his
grotto and the murderer in his prison; the mason squares the stone and
builds up the house of the poor man, the house of the king, the house of
God. The smith heats and fashions the iron to give a sword to the
soldier, a plowshare to the peasant, a hammer to the carpenter. The
carpenter saws and nails the wood to construct the door which protects
the house from the thieves, to make the bed on which thieves and
innocent people die.

These plain things, these common, ordinary, usual things, so usual,
common and ordinary that they pass disregarded under our eyes used to
more complicated marvels, are the simplest creations of man, but more
miraculous and essential than any later inventions.

Jesus, the carpenter, lived in His youth in the midst of these things,
made them with His hands, and for the first time by means of these
things manufactured by Him, entered into communion with the daily life
of men, with the most intimate and sacred life, home life. He made the
table around which it is so sweet to sit in the evening with one’s
friends, even if one of them is a traitor; the bed whereon man draws his
first and last breath; the chest where the country wife keeps her poor
clothes, her aprons, her handkerchiefs for festivals, and the starched
white shirts for great days. He made the kneading trough where the flour
is put, and the leaven raises it until it is ready for the oven; and the
arm-chair where the old men sit around the fire of an evening to talk of
never-returning youth.

Often while the thin, light shavings curled up under the steel of His
plane and the sawdust rained down on the ground, Jesus must have thought
of the promises of the Father, of the prophecies of old time, of what He
was to create, not with boards and rules, but with spirit and truth.

His trade taught Him that to live means to transform dead and useless
things into living and useful things: that the meanest material
fashioned and shaped can become precious, friendly, useful to men: that
the only way to bring salvation is to transform; and that just as a
child’s crib or a wife’s bed can be made out of a log of olive wood,
gnarled, knotty and earthy, so the filthy money-changer and the wretched
prostitute can be transformed into true citizens of the Kingdom of
Heaven.

FATHERHOOD

In nature where the sun shines on the good and on the bad, where wheat
ripens and grows golden to give bread to Jew and heathen, where the
stars shine on the shepherd’s cabin and the murderer’s prison; where
grape clusters turn purple and swell to give wine to the wedding banquet
and to the orgies of assassins; where the birds of the air freely
singing find their food without fatigue, where thieving foxes also have
their refuge and the lilies of the field are clad in more splendor than
kings, Jesus found the earthly confirmation of His eternal certainty
that God is not a Master who punishes one day of enjoyment by a thousand
years of reproach, nor a fierce war-like Jehovah who commands the
extermination of enemies, nor a kind of grand sultan who delights in
being served by satraps of high lineage and keeps close watch that his
servants execute to the last detail the rigorous ritualistic etiquette
of that Regia Curia, which is the Temple.

As a Son, Christ knew that God is Father: Father of all mankind and not
only of the people of Abraham. The love of a husband is strong but
carnal and jealous. The love of a brother is often poisoned with envy;
that of a son stained with rebellion; that of a friend spotted with
deceit; that of a master swollen with condescending pride; only the love
of a father towards his children is perfect love, pure, disinterested
love. The father does for his son what he would do for no one else. His
son is his creation, flesh of his flesh and of his bone, grown up by his
side day by day, a completion and a complement of his own being. The old
man lives again in the young man. The past sees itself in the future. He
who has lived sacrifices himself for him who is to live. The father
lives in the son, and feels himself exalted. This child was born to him
in a moment of passion in the arms of the woman chosen from among all
other women, born through the divine anguish of this woman, cared for
and preserved by his own tears and sweat. He has seen him grow up at his
feet, he has warmed his cold little hands between his own, he has heard
his first words, eternal miracle ever new! He has seen his first
wavering footsteps on the floor of his house. Little by little, he has
seen a soul shine out in that body created by him, a new human soul,
unique treasure beyond price! Little by little on that face he has seen
his own features and those of the child’s mother, of that woman with
whom only in this common fruit is he corporeally identified. A human
couple who long to become one body through love, attain this unity only
in a child. In the presence of this new being, his creation, he feels
himself a creator, beneficent, powerful, happy. Because the son looks to
his father for everything, and in his childhood has faith only in his
father, feels safe only near his father, his father knows that he must
live for him, suffer for him, work for him. A father is a God on earth
for a son, and a son is almost a God for the father.

In the love of a father there is no trace of a brother’s perfunctory
sense of duty, no trace of a friend’s self-interest and rivalry, of a
lover’s lustful desire, a servant’s pretense of faithfulness.

The love of a father is pure love, the only true love, the only love
rightly to be called love. Purged of any elements foreign to its
essence, it is the happiness of sacrificing oneself for the happiness of
others.

This idea of God as Father, which is one of the great new ideas of the
gospel of Christ, this profoundly renovating idea that God is Father and
loves us as a father loves his children, not as a king loves his slaves;
and gives daily bread to all his children and has a loving welcome even
for those who sin if only they return to lean their heads upon his
breast: this idea which closes the epoch of the old covenant and marks
the beginning of the new covenant, Jesus found in nature. As Son of God
and one with the Father, He had always been conscious of this paternity
scarcely glimpsed by the most luminous of the prophets. But now sharing
all human experience He saw it reflected and as it were revealed in the
universe and He was to use the most beautiful images of the natural
world to transmit to men the first of His joyful messages.

THE COUNTRY

Jesus, like all great souls, loved the country. The sinner craving
purification, the saint moved to prayer, the poet eager to create, take
refuge on the mountains in green shadows, by the sound of the water, in
the midst of fields which perfume heaven, or on steep desert hills
parched by the sun. Jesus took His language from the country: He hardly
ever uses learned words, abstract conceptions, drab and generalizing
terms. His talk blossoms with colors, is perfumed by odors of field and
of orchard, is peopled by the figures of familiar animals. He saw in His
Galilee the figs swelling and ripening under the great, dark leaves: He
saw the dry tendrils of the vine greened over with leaves, and from the
trellises the white and purple clusters hanging down for the joy of the
vintage; He saw from the invisible seed, the mustard raise itself up
with its rich light branches, He heard in the night the mournful rustle
of the reeds shaken by the wind along the ditches: He saw the seed of
grain buried in the earth and its resurrection in the form of a full
ear; when the air first began to be warm, He saw the beautiful red,
yellow and purple lilies in the midst of the tender green of the wheat:
He saw the fresh tufts of grass, luxuriant to-day and to-morrow dried
and cast into the oven; He saw the peaceful animals and the harmful
animals, the dove a little vain of its brilliant neck, cooing of love on
the roof, the eagle swooping down with widespread wings upon its prey;
the swallows of the air which like kings cannot fall if it is not God’s
wish: the crows tearing flesh from carrion with their beaks; the loving
mother-hen calling the chickens under her wings when the sky darkens and
thunders; the treacherous fox, after its kill, slinking back into its
dark lair; and the dogs under the table of their masters begging for
scraps that fall to the ground. He saw the serpent writhing through the
grass and the dark viper hiding among the scattered stones of the tombs.

Born among the shepherds, He who was to become shepherd of men knew and
loved the flocks; the ewes searching for the lost lamb, the lambs
bleating weakly, and sucking, almost hidden under their mother’s woolly
bodies, the flocks sweltering on the thin hot pastures of their hills;
He loved with equal love the tiny seed which you can scarcely see on the
palm of your hand and the ancient fig tree, casting its shade over the
poor man’s house; the birds of the air which sow not neither do they
reap; the fish silvering the meshes of the nets to feed His faithful;
and raising His eyes in the sultry evenings of gathering storm, He saw
the lightning flashing out of the east and shattering the darkness of
the night, even into the west.

But Jesus did not read only in the open many-colored book of the world.
He knew that God spoke to men through angels, patriarchs and prophets.
His words, His laws, His victories are written in the Book. Jesus knew
the magic black signs by which the dead pass on to those not yet born,
the thoughts and memories of olden times. Jesus read only the books
where His ancestors had set down the story of His people, the will of
the Lord, the vision of the Prophets, but He knew them in the letter and
spirit better than the scribes and the doctors: and that knowledge gave
Him the right to leave off being scholar and to become teacher.

THE OLD COVENANT

Among all peoples the Jew was the most happy and the most unhappy. His
story is a mystery which begins with the idyl in the Garden of Eden and
ends with the tragedy of the hill of Golgotha. His first parents were
molded by the luminous hands of God, were made masters of Paradise, the
country of eternal, fertile summer, set in the midst of rivers, where
the rich Oriental fruits hung down ready to their hand, heavy with pulp
in the shade of the new young leaves. The new-created sky, not yet
sullied by clouds, not yet riven by lightning, or harassed by winds,
watched over the first two with all its stars.

The first couple had as their duty to love God and to love each other.
This was the First Covenant. Weariness unknown, grief unknown, unknown
death and its terror! The first disobedience brought the first exile;
the man was condemned to work, the woman to bring forth her young in
pain. Work is painful, but it brings the reward of harvests; to give
birth means suffering, but it brings the consolation of children. And
yet even these inferior and imperfect felicities passed away like leaves
devoured by worms. For the first time brother killed brother: human
blood fallen on the earth became corrupt, gave forth an exhalation of
sin: the daughters of men united themselves with demons and from them
were born giants, fierce hunters and slayers of men, who turned the
world into a bloody hell.

Then God sent His second punishment: to purify the world in an
exterminating baptism He drowned in the waters of the flood all men and
their crimes. One only, a righteous man, was saved and with him God
signed the Second Covenant.

With Noah there began the happy days of antiquity, the epoch of the
patriarchs, nomad shepherds, centenarians who wandered between Chaldea
and Egypt searching for grazing lands, for wells, and for peace. They
had no fixed country, no houses, no cities. They brought along in
caravans, numerous as armies, their fruitful wives, their loving sons,
their docile daughters-in-law, their innumerable descendants, obedient
man-servants and maid-servants, goring, bellowing bulls, cows with
hanging udders, playful calves, rams and strong smelling he-goats, mild
sheep laden with wool, great earth-colored camels, mares with round
cruppers, she-goats holding their heads high and stamping impatiently;
and hidden in the saddle-bags, vases of gold and silver, domestic idols
of stone and metal.

Arrived at their destination, they spread their tents near a cistern,
and the patriarch sat out under the shade of the oaks and sycamores
contemplating the great camp from which rose up the smoke of the fires,
the sound of the bustling steps of the women and herdsmen, the mooings,
the brayings, the bleating of the animals. And the patriarch’s heart was
filled with content to see all this progeny issued from his seed, all
these, his herds, the human increase and the animal increase multiplying
year by year.

In the evening, he raised his eyes to greet the first punctual star
which shone like white fire on the summit of the hill; and sometimes his
curled white beard shone in the white light of the moon, which for more
than a century he was wont to see in the sky at night.

Sometimes an angel of the Lord came to visit him, and before giving the
message with which he was charged, ate at his table. Or, in the heat of
the day, the Lord Himself, in the garb of a pilgrim, came and sat down
with the old man in the shadow of the tent where they talked with each
other, face to face, like two old friends who come together to discuss
their affairs. The head of the tribe, master of the servants, became a
servant in his turn, listened to the commands and counsels and promises
and prophecies of his divine master. And between Jehovah and Abraham was
signed the Third Covenant, more solemn than the other two.

The son of a patriarch, sold by his brothers as a slave, rises to power
in Egypt, and calls his race to him. The Jews think that they have found
a fatherland and grow great in numbers and riches. But they allow
themselves to be seduced by the gods of Egypt, and Jehovah prepares the
third punishment. The envious Egyptians reduce them to abject slavery.
That the punishment may be longer, Jehovah hardens the heart of Pharaoh,
but finally raises up the second Saviour, who leads them forth from
their sufferings and from the mud of Egypt.

Their trials are not yet finished: for forty years they wander in the
desert. A pillar of cloud guides them by day and a pillar of fire by
night. God has assured them a Land of Promise, with rich grazing lands,
well-watered, shaded by grape-vines and olives. But in the meantime they
have neither water to drink nor bread to eat, and they yearn for the
flesh-pots of Egypt. God brings water gushing from a rock; and manna and
quails fall from heaven; but tired and uneasy, the Jews betray their
God, make a calf of gold and worship it. Moses, saddened like all
prophets, misunderstood like all saviours, followed unwillingly like all
discoverers of new lands, falls back of the restive and rebellious crowd
and begs God to let him lie down forever. But at any cost, Jehovah
desires to sign the Fourth Covenant with His people. Moses goes down
from the smoke-capped thundering mountain, with the two tables of stone
whereon the very finger of God has written the Ten Commandments.

Moses is not to see the Promised Land, the new Paradise to be
reconquered in place of the lost Paradise. But the divine pledge is
kept: Joshua and the other heroes cross the Jordan, enter into the land
of Canaan, and conquer the people; the cities fall at the breath of
their trumpets; Deborah can sing her song of triumph. The people carry
with them the God of battles, hidden behind the tents, on a cart drawn
by oxen. But the enemies are numerous and have no mind to give way to
the newcomers. The Jews wander here and there, shepherds and brigands,
victorious when they maintain the covenants of the Law, defeated when
they forget them.

A giant with unshorn hair kills, single-handed, thousands of Philistines
and Amalekites, but a woman betrays him; enemies blind him and set him
to turn a mill. Heroes alone are not enough. Kings are needed. A young
man of the tribe of Benjamin, tall and well-grown, while looking for his
father’s strayed asses, is met by a Prophet who anoints him with the
sacred oil, and makes him king of all the people. Saul becomes a
powerful warrior, overcomes the Ammonites and Amalekites and founds a
military kingdom, dreaded by neighboring tribes. But the same prophet
who made him king, now aroused against him, raises up a rival. David,
the boy shepherd, kills the king’s giant foe, tempers with his harp the
black rages of the king, is loved by the king’s oldest son, marries the
daughter of the king, is among the king’s captains. But Saul, suspicious
and unbalanced, wishes to kill him. David hides himself in the caves of
the mountains, becomes a robber chief. He goes into the service of the
Philistines, and when they conquer and kill Saul on the hills of Gilboa,
he becomes in his turn king of all Israel. The bold sheep-tender, great
as poet and as king, yet cruel and lustful, founds his house in
Jerusalem, and with the aid of his gibborim, or body-guard, overcomes
and subjugates the surrounding kingdoms. For the first time, the Jew is
feared: for centuries after this he was to long for the return of David,
and to hope for a descendant of David to save him from his abject
subjugation.

David is the King of the sword and of song. Solomon is the King of gold
and of wisdom. Gold is brought to him as a tribute: he decks with gold
the first sumptuous house of Jehovah. He sends ships to faraway Ophir in
search of gold; the Queen of Sheba lays down sacks of gold at his feet.
But all the splendor of gold and the wisdom of Solomon are not enough to
save the king from impurity and his kingdom from ruin. He takes strange
women to wife and worships strange gods. The Lord pardons his old age,
in memory of his youth, but at his death the kingdom is divided and the
dark and shameful centuries of the decadence begin. Plots in the palace,
murders of kings, revolts of chiefs, wretched civil wars, periods of
idol-worship followed by passing reforms, fill the period of the
separation. Prophets appear and admonish, but the kings turn a deaf ear
or drive them away. The enemies of Israel grow more powerful. The
Phœnicians, the Egyptians, the Assyrians, the Babylonians, one after
another, invade the two kingdoms, extort tribute and finally, about 600
years before the birth of Jesus, Jerusalem is destroyed, the temple of
Jehovah is demolished and the Jews are led as slaves to the rivers of
Babylon. The cup of their infidelity and of their sins runs over and the
same God who liberated them from the slavery of the Egyptians gives them
over as slaves to the Babylonians. This is the fourth punishment and the
most terrible of all because it is to have no end. From that time on,
the Jews were always to be dispersed among strangers and subject to
foreigners. Some of them were to return to reconstruct Jerusalem and its
temple, but the country, invaded by the Scythians, tributary to the
Persians, conquered by the Greeks, was after the last attempt of the
Maccabeans finally given over to the hands of a dynasty of Arab
barbarians, subject to the Romans.

This race, which for so many years lived rich and free in the desert,
and for a day was master of kingdoms and believed itself, under the
protection of its God, the first people of the earth, was now reduced in
numbers, spurned and commanded by foreigners, was the laughing-stock of
the nations, the Job among peoples. After the death of Jesus, its fate
was to be harder yet: Jerusalem destroyed for the second time: in the
devastated province only Greeks and Romans holding sway, and the last
fragments of Israel scattered over the earth like dust of the street
driven before the sirocco.

Never were people so loved nor so dreadfully chastised by their God.
Chosen to be the first, they were the servants of the last. Aspiring to
have a victorious country of their own, they were exiles and slaves in
other men’s lands.

Although more pastoral than warlike, they never were at peace either
with themselves or with others. They fought with their neighbors, with
their guests, with their leaders. They fought with their prophets and
with their God Himself.

Breeding-ground of corruption, governed by men guilty of homicide,
treachery, adultery, incest, robbery, simony and idolatry, yet their
women gave birth to the most perfect saints of the Orient, upright,
admonishing, solitary prophets; and finally from this race was born the
Father of the new saints, He who had been awaited by all the Prophets.

This people which created no metaphysics nor science, nor music, nor
sculpture, nor art, nor architecture of its own, wrote the grandest
poetry of antiquity, glowing with sublimity in the Psalms and in the
Prophets, inimitably tender in the stories of Joseph and Ruth, burning
with voluptuous passion in the Song of Songs.

Grown up in the midst of the cults of local rustic gods, they conceived
the love of God, the one universal Father. Rich in gold and lands, they
could boast in their prophets of the first defenders of the poor, and
they conceived of the negation of riches. The same people who had cut
the throat of human victims on their altars, and massacred whole cities
of guiltless people, gave disciples to Him who preached love for our
enemies. This people, jealous of their jealous God, always betrayed Him
to run after other gods. Of their temple, three times built and three
times destroyed, nothing remains but a piece of a wall, barely enough so
that a line of mourners may lean their heads against it to hide their
tears.

But this perplexing and contradictory people, superhuman and wretched,
the first and the last of all, the happiest and the most unhappy of all,
although it serves other nations, still dominates other nations with its
money and with its Bible. Although without a country of its own for
centuries, it is among the owners of all countries. Although it
crucified its greatest Son with His blood, it divided the history of the
world into two parts: and the progeny of those god-killers has become
the most infamous but the most sacred of all the peoples.

THE PROPHETS

Never was a people so warned as were the Jews, from the beginning of the
temporal kingdom to its dismemberment: in the great days of the
victorious Kings, in the sorrowful days of exile, in the evil days of
slavery, in the tragic days of the dispersion.

India has its ascetics, who hide themselves in the wilderness to conquer
the body and drown the soul in the infinite. China had its familiar
sages, peaceful grandfathers who taught civic morality to working people
and emperors. Greece had her philosophers, who in their shady porticos
contrived harmonious systems and dialectic pitfalls. Rome had its
lawgivers who recorded on bronze for the peoples and the centuries the
rules of the highest justice attainable to those who command and
possess. The Middle Ages had their preachers, who wore themselves out in
the effort to arouse drowsy Christianity to a remembrance of the Passion
and the terror of Hell. The Jewish people had the Prophets.

The Prophets did not give forth their prophecies in caves, spitting out
saliva and words together from their tripods. They spoke of the future,
but not merely of the future. They foretold things not yet happened, but
they also brought to mind the past. They possessed time in its three
phases; deciphering the past, illuminating the present and threatening
the future.

The Jewish Prophet is a voice speaking, or a hand writing, a voice
speaking in the palace of the King or in the caves of the mountains, on
the steps of the Temple and in the precincts of the capitol. He is a
voice that prays, a prayer that threatens, a threat that breaks out into
divine hope. His heart is afflicted, his mouth is full of bitterness,
his arm is raised, pointing out punishment to come; he suffers for his
people; because he loves his people, he vituperates them: he punishes
them that they may be purified; and after massacres and flames, he
teaches the resurrection and the life, triumph and blessedness, the
reign of the new David and the Covenant not to be broken.

The Prophet leads the idolater back to the true God, reminds the
perjurer of his oath, recalls charity to the oppressor, purity to the
corrupt, mercy to the fierce, justice to kings, obedience to rebels,
punishment to sinners, humbleness to the proud. He goes before the king
and reproaches him, he goes down among the dregs of the people and
scourges them: he greets priests with blame; presents himself to the
rich and brings them to confusion. He announces consolation to the poor,
recompense to the afflicted, health to the sick, liberation to enslaved
peoples, the coming of the conqueror to the humiliated nation.

He is not a king, nor a prince, nor a priest, nor a scribe: he is only a
man, a poor, unarmed man, without investitures and without followers. He
is a solitary voice, a lamenting voice grieving, a puissant voice
howling and calling down shame, a voice which calls to repentance and
promises eternity.

The Prophet is not a philosopher; it matters little to him whether the
world be made of water or of fire, if water and fire cannot purify men’s
souls.

He is a poet, but without will or consciousness that he is, when the
fullness of his indignation and the splendor of his vision create
powerful images which rhetoricians never could invent. He is not a
priest, for he has never been anointed in the temple by the mercenary
guardians of the Book; he is not a King, for he does not command armed
men, and as sword has only the Word which comes from on high; he is not
a soldier, but he is ready to die for his God and his people.

The prophet is a voice speaking in the name of God; a hand writing at
God’s dictation; he is a messenger sent by God to warn those wandering
from the right path, who have forgotten the Covenant. He is the
secretary, the interpreter, and the delegate of God, and thus superior
to the King who does not obey God, superior to the priest who does not
understand God, to the people who have deserted God to run after idols
of wood and stone!

The Prophet is the man who sees with a troubled heart but with clear
eyes the evil which reigns to-day, the punishment which will come
to-morrow, and the kingdom of happiness which will follow punishment and
repentance.

He speaks in the name of the mute, he is a hand for him who cannot
write, a defender for the people scattered and oppressed, an advocate
for the poor, an avenger for the humble who cry out under the heel of
the powerful. He is not on the side of those who tyrannize, but of those
who are trodden under foot. He does not seek out the satiated and the
greedy, but the hungry and the wretched.

A troublesome importunate and inopportune voice, hated by the great, out
of favor with the crowd, not always understood even by his disciples.
Like a hyena scenting from far the stench of carrion, like a raven
always croaking out the same cry, like a hungry wolf howling on the
mountain top, the prophet goes up and down the streets of Israel
followed by suspicion and malediction. Only the poor and the oppressed
bless him; but the poor are weak and the oppressed can only listen in
silence. Like all loud truthtellers, who disturb the slumbering
majority, who unsettle the sordid peace of the masters, he is avoided
like a leper, persecuted like an enemy. Kings can barely tolerate him,
priests regard him as an enemy, the rich detest him.

Elijah is forced to flee before the wrath of Jezebel, slayer of
prophets; Amos is banished beyond Israel by Amaziah, priest of Bethel;
Isaiah is killed by the order of Manesseh; Urijah cut down by King
Jehoiakim; Zacharias stoned between the temple and the altar; Jonah
thrown into the sea; the sword is prepared for the neck of John, and the
cross is ready from which Jesus will hang. The Prophet is an accuser,
but men are not willing to admit that they are guilty. He is an
intercessor, but the blind are not willing to be guided by the
enlightened. He is an announcer, but the deaf do not hear his promises.
He is a saviour, but men rotting in fatal diseases delight in their
maladies and refuse to be cured. Yet the word of the Prophets shall be
the eternal testimony in favor of this race which exterminated them but
was capable of generating them. And the death of a prophet, who is more
than all the prophets, shall suffice to expiate the crimes of all the
other peoples who grub about in the dirt of the earth.

HE WHO WILL COME

In the house at Nazareth Jesus meditates on the Commandments of the Law,
and in the fiery laments of the Prophets He recognizes His destiny. The
promises are insistent like knocking on obstinately closed doors. They
are repeated, reiterated, never denied, always confirmed. Precise,
minute with irrefutable testimony, they foretell the story. When Jesus
at the beginning of His thirtieth year presents Himself to men as the
Son of Man, He knows what awaits Him, even to the last: His life to come
is already set down day by day in pages written before His earthly
birth.

He knows that God promised Moses a new prophet, “I will raise them up a
prophet from among their brethren, like unto thee, and will put my words
in his mouth; and he shall speak unto them all that I shall command
him.” God will make a new covenant with His people. “Not according to
the covenant that I made with their fathers ... but I will put my law in
their inward parts, and write it in their hearts.... I will forgive
their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.” A covenant
inscribed upon souls and not upon stone; a covenant of forgiveness and
not of punishment!

The Messiah will have a precursor to announce Him. “Behold, I will send
my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me.”

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government
shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful,
Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of
Peace.” But the people will be blind to Him and will not listen to Him:
“Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears heavy, and shut
their eyes: lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and
understand with their hearts, and convert, and be healed.”

“And he shall be a stone of stumbling and for a rock of offence to both
the houses of Israel, for a gin and for a snare to the inhabitants of
Jerusalem.”

He will not magnify and flaunt Himself: He will not come in proud
triumph, “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.”

He will bring justice and will lift up the unhappy; “... because the
Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent
me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; ... to comfort all
that mourn.” “The meek also shall increase their joy in the Lord, and
the poor among men shall rejoice in the Holy One of Israel. For the
terrible one is brought to naught, and the scorner is consumed, and all
that watch for iniquity are cut off.”

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf
shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the
tongue of the dumb sing.”

“I, the Lord, have called thee in righteousness ... to open the blind
eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in
darkness from the prison-house.”

But He will be vilified and tortured by the very people He comes to
save: “he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there
is no beauty that we should desire him. He is despised and rejected of
men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were
our faces from him; he was despised and we esteemed him not.

“Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows: yet we did
esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

“But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our
iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his
stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have
turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the
iniquity of us all.

“He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth: he
is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her
shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth ... for he was cut off out
of the land of the living: for the transgression of my people was he
stricken.

“Yet it pleased the Lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief: when
thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin, he shall see his seed, he
shall prolong his days, and the pleasure of the Lord shall prosper in
his hand. He shall see of the travail of his soul and shall be
satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for
he shall bear their iniquities. Therefore will I divide him a portion
with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because
he hath poured out his soul unto death; and he was numbered with the
transgressors; and he bare the sins of many, and made intercession for
the transgressors.”

He will not draw back before the vilest insults. “I gave my back to the
smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked off the hair: I hid not my
face from shame and spitting.”

All will be against Him in the supreme moment. “They have spoken against
me with a lying tongue. They compassed me about also with words of
hatred; and fought against me without a cause. For my love they are my
adversaries.”

The son cries to the Father:

“Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my dishonor: mine
adversaries are all before thee.

“Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness: and I looked
for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I
found none.

“They gave me also gall for my meat; and in my thirst they gave me
vinegar to drink.”

They pierce Him with nails and divide His clothes among themselves.

“For dogs have compassed me: the assembly of the wicked have inclosed
me: they pierced my hands and my feet

“... they look and stare upon me. They part my garments among them, and
cast lots upon my vesture.”

Too late they will understand what they have done and will repent.

“... and they shall look upon me whom they have pierced, and they shall
mourn for him, as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in
bitterness for him, as one that is in bitterness for his first born.”

“Yea, all kings shall bow down before him: all nations shall serve him.

“For he shall deliver the needy when he crieth; the poor also, and him
that hath no helper. He shall spare the poor and needy, and shall save
the souls of the needy.”

“The sons also of them that afflicted thee shall come bending unto thee;
and all they that despised thee shall bow themselves down at the soles
of thy feet.”

“For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the
people: but the Lord shall arise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen
upon thee.

“And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness
of thy rising.

“Lift up thine eyes round about, and see: all they gather themselves
together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from far, and thy
daughters shall be nursed at thy side.”

“Behold, I have given him for a witness to the people, a leader and
commander to the people. Behold, thou shalt call a nation that thou
knowest not, and nations that knew not thee shall run into thee because
of the Lord thy God.”

These and other words are remembered by Jesus in the vigil before His
departure. He foresees it all and does not turn away from it. From now
on He knows His fate, the ingratitude of heart, the deafness of His
friends, the hatred of the powerful, the scourgings, the spittings,
insults, scoffings, obloquy, piercing of the hands and feet, tortures
and death. He knows that the Jews, carnal-minded materialists embittered
by humiliation, full of rancor and evil thoughts, are not awaiting a
poor, gentle, despised Messiah. They all, except a few of clear and
prophetic vision, are dreaming of a terrestrial Messiah, an armed King,
a second David, a warrior who will shed real blood, the red blood of
enemies, who will rebuild more splendidly than ever the palace of
Solomon and the Temple. All the kings will bring tribute to Him, not
tribute of love and reverence, but of massy gold and silver coin. This
earthly King will revenge Himself on the enemies of Israel, on those who
make Israel suffer, who hold the people of Israel in slavery. The slaves
will be masters and the masters slaves, and all the countries of the
world will have their capital at Jerusalem and crowned kings will kneel
before the throne of the new king of Israel. The fields of Israel will
be more fertile than all the others, their pastures richer, their flocks
will multiply endlessly, wheat and barley will be harvested twice a
year, the ears of wheat will be heavier than in the past, and two men
will bend under the weight of a single bunch of grapes. There will not
be enough wine-skins to contain the vintage nor enough jars to hold all
the oil, and honey will be found in the hollows of the trees and in the
hedges of the roads. The branches of the trees will break under the
weight of the fruit, and the fruit will be pulpy and sweet as it never
was before.

This is the Messiah expected by the Jews who surround Jesus. He knows He
cannot give them what they seek, that He cannot be the victorious
warrior and the proud king towering up among subject kings. He knows
that His kingdom is not of this earth and that He will be able to offer
only a little bread, all His blood and all His love. They will not
believe in Him, will torture Him and will kill Him as a false pretender.
He knows all that. He knows it as if He had seen it with His eyes and
endured it with His body and soul. But He knows that the seed of His
word thrown into the earth among thistles and thorns, trampled under
foot by assassins, will start into life when spring comes. At first
beaten down by the wind, little by little it will grow, until finally it
becomes a tree stretching its branches up to the sky, covering the earth
with the boughs. And all men can sit round about it, remembering the
death of Him who planted it.

THE PROPHET OF FIRE

While Jesus, in the poor little work-shop at Nazareth, was handling the
ax and the square, a voice was raised in the desert towards Jordan and
the Dead Sea. Last of the Prophets, John the Baptist called the Jews to
repent, announced the approach of the Kingdom of Heaven, predicted the
coming of the Messiah, reproved the sinners who came to him, and plunged
them into the water of the river, that this outer washing might be the
beginning of an inner purification.

In that dark age of the Herods, old Judea profaned by the Idumean
usurpers, contaminated by Greek infiltration, scorned by the Roman
soldiery; without King, without unity, without glory; already half
dispersed throughout the world; betrayed by their own priests; always
remembering the grandeur of their earthly kingdom of a thousand years
ago; always obstinately hoping for a great vengeance, for a miraculous
resurrection, for a return of victory in a triumph of its God, in the
coming of a Saviour, of a liberator, of an anointed one who should reign
in a new Jerusalem stronger and more beautiful than that of Solomon, and
from Jerusalem dominate all the peoples, overcome all other monarchs,
conquer all empires and bring happiness to its nation and to all
men,—old Judea hating its masters, robbed by the publicans, plagued by
the mercenary scribes and by the hypocritical Pharisees, old Judea
divided, humiliated, plundered and yet in spite of all its shame full of
faith for the future, willingly lent an ear to the voice of the desert,
and hastened to the banks of the Jordan.

John’s figure was one to conquer the imagination. A child sprung by a
miracle from parents of great age, he was set apart from his birth to be
Nazir—pure. He had never cut his hair, had never tasted wine or cider,
had never touched a woman nor known any love except that for God. While
he was still young, he had left his parents’ home and buried himself in
the desert. There he lived for many years alone, without a house,
without a tent, without servants, with nothing of his own except what he
had on his back. Wrapped in his camel’s skin, his flanks girt by a
leather belt, tall, bony, baked by the sun, his chest hairy, his hair
hanging long on his shoulders, his long beard almost covering his face,
his piercing eyes flashed like lightning from under his busy eyebrows
when from his mouth hidden by his beard burst out the tremendous words
of his maledictions.

This hypnotic wild man, solitary as a Yogi, despising pleasure like a
stoic, seemed to those whom he baptized the last hope of a despairing
people.

Jesus heard the people talk of those “washed ones” who returned from
Jordan and took up their former lives, as in the morning a garment is
resumed which was thrown away with relief the evening before; and He
understood that His day grew near. He was now in His thirtieth year, the
right and destined age. Before he is thirty, a man is only a sketch, an
approximation, dominated by the common sentiments and common loves of
all. He does not know men well, and hence cannot love them with that
love, sweet with compassion, with which they should be loved. And
without knowing them or knowing how to love them, he cannot speak with
authority, cannot make himself heard, has not the power of saving them.

THE FIRST ANNUNCIATION

The desert sun burned John’s body and his fiery longing for the Kingdom
burned like a flame in his soul. He was the foreteller of fire. He saw
in the Messiah, soon to appear, the master of flame. The New King will
be a fierce husbandman. Every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit
is hewn down and cast into the fire. He will thoroughly purge His floor
and gather His wheat into the garner, but He will burn up the chaff with
unquenchable fire. He will be a baptizer who will baptize with fire.

Rigid, wrathful, harsh, shaggy, quick to insult, impatient and
impetuous, John was not gentle with those who came to him. He took no
satisfaction in having drawn them to take this first step towards
repentance. When Pharisees and Sadducees, notable men, learned in the
Scriptures, esteemed by the crowd, of authority in the temple came to be
baptized, he shamed them more than the others. “O generation of vipers,
who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bring forth
therefore fruits meet for repentance: And think not to say within
yourselves, We have Abraham for our father: for I say unto you, that God
is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham.”

You who lock yourselves up into houses of stone as vipers hide
themselves under the rocks, you Pharisees and Sadducees, are harder than
stone: your minds are petrified in the letter and the rites of the law:
your selfish hearts are stony: to the hungry who ask bread of you, you
give a stone, and you throw the stone at him who has sinned less than
you. You Pharisees and Sadducees, you are haughty statues of stone which
only fire can conquer, since water poured over you is quickly dried up.
But God, who from a handful of earth made Adam, could make from stones
from the shore, with rocks from the cliff, other men, other living
beings, other sons for Himself. He could change granite into flesh and
soul, while you have changed soul and flesh into granite. It is not
enough therefore to bathe in the Jordan. That ablution is holy and
salutary. Change your life, do the opposite of what you have done until
now, if you do not wish to be burned up by Him, who will baptize by
fire. “And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do then? He
answereth and saith unto them, He that hath two coats, let him impart to
him that hath none, and he that hath meat, let him do likewise.”

“Then came also publicans to be baptized and said unto him, Master, what
shall we do? And he said unto them, Exact no more than that which is
appointed you.

“And the soldiers likewise demanded of him, saying, And what shall we
do? And he said unto them, Do violence to no man, neither accuse any
falsely; and be content with your wages.”

Compelling, almost superhuman when he announced the terrible separation
of the good from the bad, John becomes commonplace when he descends to
particulars and falls, one might say, exactly into the Pharisean
tradition. His only advice is to give alms, to give away the
superfluous. From the publicans he asks only strict justice: let them
take what has been allotted and nothing more. To the fierce, thieving
tribe of soldiers, he recommends only discretion! “Be satisfied with
your pay and do not rob.” This is nothing more or less than the Mosaic
law. Long before him, Amos and Isaiah had gone further.

Now is the time for the accuser of the Dead Sea to give way to the
liberator of the Sea of Tiberias. The lot of precursors is hard: they
know, but are not permitted to see; they arrive on the banks of the
Jordan, but do not enjoy the promised land; they make plain the path for
him who comes after them, but will pass beyond them. They prepare the
throne and do not seat themselves on it. They are servants of the master
whom often they do not meet face to face. Perhaps the fierceness of John
is justified by this consciousness of being an ambassador and nothing
more. A consciousness which is never envious, but which leaves a tinge
of sadness, even in his humility. They came from Jerusalem to ask him
who he was, “What then? Art thou Elias?”

“No. I am not.”

“Art thou that Prophet?”

“And he answered, No.”

“Art thou the Christ?”

“No.... He said, I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.... He
it is, who coming after me is preferred before me, whose shoe’s latchet
I am not worthy to unloose.”

At Nazareth, in the meantime, an unknown working man was lacing up His
shoes with His own hands to go out to the wilderness, resounding with
the voice which three times had thundered, “No.”

THE VIGIL

John called sinners to wash in the river before repenting. Jesus
presented Himself to John to be baptized. Did He then acknowledge
Himself a sinner?

The texts are explicit: the prophet preached the baptism of repentance
in remission of sins. He who went to him acknowledged himself a sinner;
he who goes to wash, feels himself polluted.

The fact that we know nothing of the life of Jesus from His twelfth to
His thirtieth year, exactly the years of fallible adolescence, of
hot-blooded youth, has given rise to the idea that He was in that
period, or at least held Himself to have been, a sinner like other men.
The three remaining years of His life are the most brightly lighted by
the words of the four Gospels because in thinking of the dead, what we
most vividly remember are their words and deeds during the last days of
their lives. Nothing of what we know of those three years gives any
indication of this supposed existence of sin in Christ’s life between
the innocence of its beginning and the glory of its ending.

There is not even the appearance of a conversion in Christ’s life. His
first words have the same accent as the last. The spring from which they
run is clear from the first day; there is no muddy sediment of evil. He
begins with frank absolute certainty, with the recognizable authority of
purity. You can feel that He has left nothing turbid back of Him. His
voice is clear and limpid, a melodious song not roughened by the sour
lees of voluptuous pleasure, or by the hoarseness of repentance. The
transparent serenity of His look, of His smile and of His thought is not
the calm which comes after the clouds of the tempest, or the uncertain
whiteness of the dawn which slowly conquers the malign shadow of the
night: it is the clearness of Him who was born only once, and remained a
youth even into His maturity: the limpidity, the transparency, the
tranquillity, the peace of a day which ends in night, but is not
darkened until evening: eternal day, childhood intact and untarnished
until death.

He goes about among the impure with the natural simplicity of the poor
among sinners, with the natural strength of the sound man among the
sick, with the natural boldness of health. On the other hand, the man
who has been converted is always at the back of his mind a little
troubled. A single drop of bitterness, a light shadow of impurity, a
fleeting suggestion of temptation is enough to drive him back into
anguish. He always feels a doubt that he may not have rid himself wholly
of the old Adam, that he may not have wholly destroyed but only stunned
the Other, who lived in his body. He has paid so much for his salvation,
and it seems to him so precious but so frail, that he is always afraid
of putting it into jeopardy or of losing it. He does not shun sinners,
but he approaches them with an involuntary shudder, with a scarcely
confessed fear of fresh contagion, a dread lest the sight of the
vileness where he also took delight will renew unbearably the
recollection of his shame, will drive him to despair of his ultimate
salvation. When a servant becomes a master he is never on familiar terms
with his servants. When a poor man becomes rich he is not generous with
the poor. A converted sinner is not always a friend of sinners. That
remnant of pride which sticks fast in the hearts even of saints mingles
with his compassion. Why do sinners not do what he has done? The way is
open to all, even to the wickedest, the most hardened: the prize is
great, why do they remain down there, plunged in black Hell?

And when the converted sinner speaks to his brothers to convert them, he
cannot refrain from dwelling on his own experience, his fall, his
liberation. It may be only that he wishes to be helpful, rather than to
vaunt himself, but in any case he is always eager to point to himself as
a living and present example of the sweetness of salvation.

The past can be renounced, but not destroyed. It reveals itself almost
unconsciously in the very men who begin life with a second birth of
repentance. In the story of Jesus no sign of a different way of life
before conversion ever shows itself in any allusion or in any implicit
meaning, is not recognizable in the smallest of His acts, in the most
obscure of His words. His love for sinners has nothing of the feverish
obstinacy of the proselytizing penitent. It is a natural love, not a
dutiful love. It is brotherly love without any implications of reproach,
spontaneous friendly fraternity needing to make no effort to overcome
repugnance. It is the attraction towards the impure of the pure who has
no fear of being soiled and knows that He can cleanse—disinterested
love—love felt by the saints in the supreme moments of their
holiness—love beside which all other love seems vulgar—such love as no
man saw before Jesus! Love which is rarely found again, and only in
memory and in imitation of His love—love which will always be called
Christian, and by any other name—never! Divine love—Christ’s love! Love!

Jesus came among the sinners, but He was no sinner. He came to bathe in
the water running before John, but He had no inner stain. The soul of
Jesus was that of a child, so childlike as to outdo sages in wisdom and
saints in sanctity.

He was no rigorous Puritan. He never felt the terror of the morally
shipwrecked man barely saved from destruction. He was no overscrupulous
Pharisee. He knew what was sin and what was right and He did not lose
the spirit in the labyrinth of the letter. He knew life; He did not
refuse life which though not a good in itself is a prerequisite
condition of all good things. Eating and drinking are not wrong, nor
looking at people, nor sending a friendly look to the thief lurking in
the shade, nor to the woman who has colored her lips to hide the traces
of unasked kisses.

THE BAPTISM

And yet Jesus came in the midst of a crowd of sinners to immerse Himself
in the Jordan. The problem is not mysterious for him who sees something
beyond the most familiar meaning in the rite reinstituted by John. The
case of Jesus is unique. The baptism of Jesus is like others
superficially, but is justified in other ways. Baptism is not only a
washing of the flesh as a symbol of the will to cleanse the soul, a
remnant of the primitive analogy of water which washed away material
stains and can wash away spiritual stains. This physical metaphor is
useful to the symbolism of the crowd, is a necessary ceremony for the
carnal eye of the many who need a material help to believe in the
immaterial. But it was not made for Jesus.

He went to John that the prophecy of the precursor might be fulfilled.
His kneeling down before the prophet of fire was a recognition of John’s
quality of true announcer, of his worth as a loyal ambassador who has
done his duty who can say now that his work is finished. Jesus
submitting Himself to this symbolical investiture really invests John
with the legitimate title of precursor.

Jesus, about to begin a new epoch of His life, His true life, bore
witness by His immersion in water to His willingness to die, but at the
same time to His certainty that He would rise again. He did not go down
to the Jordan to cleanse Himself, but to show that His second life was
beginning and that He will not die, but only seem to die, just as He
only seemed to be purified by the waters of the Jordan.

THE DESERT

As soon as Jesus emerged from the water He went into the desert. From
the multitude to solitude! Until then He had lived among the waters and
the fields of Galilee and in the green meadows along the Jordan. Now He
went up on the rocky mountains whence no springs arise, where no seed
sprouts, where the only living creatures are snakes. Until then He had
lived among the working men of Nazareth, among John’s penitents; now He
goes up on the solitary mountains where no human face is seen, where no
human voice is heard. The New Man puts the desert between himself and
humanity.

The person who says, “woe to the solitary!” only gives the measure of
his own cowardice. Society is a sacrifice, meritorious in proportion to
its hardness. For those rich in soul, solitude is a prize and not an
expiation, a period of sure value, a time when inner beauty is created,
a reconciliation with the absent. Only in solitude do we live with our
peers, with those solitary souls who think the great-hearted thoughts
which console us in the absence of other consolations.

The people who cannot endure solitude are the mediocre and the mean.
They have nothing to offer, they are afraid of themselves, of their own
emptiness. They are condemned to the eternal solitude of their own
minds, a desolate inner desert where the poisonous plants of waste lands
are the only things to grow. They are restless, unquiet, dejected when
they cannot forget themselves in others, deafen themselves with the
words of others. They delude themselves with the factitious life of
others who are in their turn deluded by it. They cannot live without
mingling, a passive atom, in the streams which overflow every morning
from the sewers of the cities.

Jesus lived among men and He was to return among men because He loved
them. But in the years to come He often hid Himself, to be alone, far
even from His disciples. To love men, you need from time to time to
depart from them: far from them, we draw near to them. The small soul
remembers only the evil they have done him. His night is restless with
bitterness and his mouth poisoned with anger. The great soul remembers
benefits alone, and thankful for a few good deeds, forgets the great
evils he has endured. Even those which were not pardoned at the moment
are blotted out from his heart, and having renewed his original love for
his brothers, he goes back to men.

For Jesus these forty days of solitude are the last of His preparation.
For forty years the Jewish people (prophetic symbol of Christ) wandered
in the desert before entering into the kingdom promised by God. For
forty days Moses remained close to God to hear His laws; for forty days
Elijah wandered in the desert fleeing the vengeance of the wicked queen.

So also the time allotted to the new liberator before announcing the
promised kingdom was forty days of close communion with God to receive
the supreme inspiration. But even in the desert He was not to be
entirely alone: about Him throughout the vigil will be animals and
angels; beings inferior to man and beings superior; those who pull man
down and those who lift him up; beings all matter, beings all spirit.

Born an animal, man struggles to become an angel. He is matter changing
by slow transmutation into spirit. If the animal gets the upper hand,
man descends below the level of the beasts because he puts the remnants
of his intelligence at the service of bestiality: if the angel conquers,
man becomes the equal of angels, and instead of being a mere soldier in
the army of God, partakes of divinity itself. But the fallen angel
condemned to wear the form of a beast is the astute and tenacious enemy
of all men who wish to climb that height from which he was cast down.
Jesus is the enemy of the material world, of the bestial life of the
many. He was born into the world in order that beasts should become men,
and men become angels. He was born to change the world and to conquer
it, to fight with the king of the world, that enemy of God and of men,
the malign, the suborner, the seducer. He was born to drive Satan from
the earth as His father drove him from Heaven.

Therefore at the end of the forty days, Satan came into the desert to
tempt his enemy.

THE ADVERSARY

Our slavery to matter is branded on our lives by the daily need of our
bodies for food, and Jesus wished to conquer our slavery to matter.
Whenever He shared human lives, He consented to eat and drink, because
His friends did, because it is right to give to the flesh that which
belongs to the flesh, and finally as a visible protest against the
hypocritical fasts of the Pharisees. The last act of His earthly mission
was a supper, but the first after His baptism was a fast. Alone where
His abstinence could not shame His simple-hearted companions, where it
could not be confused with ostentatious piety, He forgot to eat.

But after forty days He was hungry. Satan, tenacious and invisible, was
waiting for this moment of material need, and seized on it. The
Adversary spoke: “If thou be the Son of God command this stone that it
be made bread.”

The reproof was prompt: “It is written that man shall not live by bread
alone, but by every word of God.”

Satan did not admit a defeat, and from the top of a mountain showed Him
all the kingdoms of the earth: “All this power will I give thee, and the
glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I
give it. If thou therefore wilt adore me, all shall be thine.”

And Jesus answered, “Get thee behind me, Satan: for it is written thou
shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.”

Then Satan took Him to Jerusalem and set Him on the pinnacle of the
Temple, “If thou be the Son of God cast thyself down from hence.”

But Jesus answered quickly: “It is written; thou shalt not tempt the
Lord thy God.”

“And when the Devil had completed every temptation,” Luke goes on, “he
departed from him for a season.” We shall see his return and his last
effort.

This dialogue seems at first sight only a bandying about of Scriptural
texts. Satan and Jesus do not use their own words, but compete by means
of quotations from the Scriptures. We seem to be listening to a
theological dispute; but as a matter of fact it is the first Parable of
the Gospels acted out and not put into words.

It is not surprising that Satan should have come with the absurd hope of
causing Jesus to fall. It is not surprising that Jesus since He was a
man should have undergone temptation. Satan only tempts the great and
pure. To the others he does not need even to murmur a word of
invitation. They are already his, from their childhood on. He need give
himself no trouble to win their allegiance, they are in his arms before
he summons them. And yet many of them do not know that he exists. He
never has presented himself to them because they obey him from a
distance. Thus, not having known him, they are ready to deny him. The
devil’s cohorts do not believe in the devil. It was said of old that the
devil’s shrewdest ruse was to spread abroad the rumor of his death. He
takes all forms, so beautiful sometimes that no one recognizes him. The
Greeks, for instance, marvels of intelligence and elegance, had no place
for Satan in their mythology, because all their Gods, when closely
examined, show the horns of Satan under their crowns of laurel and grape
leaves. Satanical is tyrannical and lustful Jove, adulterous Venus,
Apollo the flayer, murderous Mars, drunken Dionysius. They were so
astute, the gods of Greece, that they gave the people love-potions and
distilled perfumes to keep them from detecting the stench of the evil
that consumes the world.

But if many do not know him and laugh at him as at a specter invented in
church for the needs of penitents, there are some who cry out upon those
who know him but do not follow him. He seduced the innocence of the
first two created beings, he suborned David the strong, corrupted
Solomon the wise, accused Job the righteous before the throne of God.
Satan tempts and always will tempt all the saints who hide themselves in
the desert, all those who love God. The more we go away from him the
closer he is; the higher we are, the more he rages to bring us low; he
can soil only that which is clean and he gives no care to the filth
which spontaneously ferments under the hot breath of animality. To be
tempted by Satan is a proof of purity, a sign of greatness, and shows a
man that he is on the upward path. He who has known Satan and has seen
him face to face, may well have hope for himself. More than any other,
Jesus merited this consecration. Satan challenged Him twice and tempted
Him once. He asked Him to transform dead matter into matter that gives
life and to cast Himself down from a height so that God by saving Him
should proclaim Him as His true son. He offered Him the possession and
the glory of earthly kingdoms on condition that instead of serving God
Jesus should promise to serve the Demon. He asks material bread and a
material miracle of Him and promises Him material power. Jesus does not
take up the challenge and refuses what is offered.

He is not the fleshly, temporal Messiah, desired by the Jewish crowd,
the material Messiah such as the Tempter in his baseness imagines Him.
He did not come to bring food to bodies but food to souls,—truth, that
living food. When His brothers, far from home, lack bread enough for
their hunger, He will break the few loaves which His disciples bring and
all will have enough and they will fill baskets with the remnants. But
except in cases of necessity He will not be the distributor of that
bread which comes from the earth and returns to earth. If He should
change the stones of the street into bread, every one would follow Him
through love of his own body and would pretend to believe everything He
said. Even the dogs would come to His banquet. But this He does not
wish. Those who follow Him must believe in His word in spite of hunger,
grief and poverty. Thus those who wish to follow Him must leave behind
them fertile fields, they must leave behind them money which can be
changed into bread. They must go with Him without knapsack or payment,
with one garment, and live like the birds of the air, husking ears of
grain in the fields, or begging alms at house doors. One can live
without terrestrial bread: a fig left on the tree among the leaves, a
fish drawn from the lake can take the place of bread. But no man can
live without heavenly bread, if he wishes to escape eternal death, which
is the portion of those who have never tasted it. Man does not live by
bread alone, but by love, fervor, and truth. Jesus is ready to transform
the Kingdom of Earth into the Kingdom of Heaven, furious bestiality into
happy sanctity, but He does not deign to transform stones into bread,
matter into other matter.

For similar reasons Jesus refused the other challenge. Men love the
wonderful, the visibly wonderful, the prodigy, the physical
impossibility made possible before their eyes. They hunger and thirst
after portents. They are ready to prostrate themselves before the
wonder-worker even if he is an evil man or a charlatan. From Jesus they
all asked for a Sign, meaning by that, a gigantic juggling feat; but He
always refused. He did not wish to persuade by means of the miraculous.
He consented to cure the sick—especially those sick in spirit and
sinners—but He often avoided the occasion even for these miracles, and
He begged those cured not to speak the name of their healer. And He
never used this power for His own safety, not even at Gethsemane when
Satan tempted Him to put away the cup of death from His lips, nor when
He was nailed to the cross and Satan repeated his challenge by the mouth
of the Jews. “If thou art the Son of God, come down from the cross and
save thyself.” In the night of His vigil and in the high noon of His
death, He resisted Satan and had recourse to no miracle to save Himself.
Men must believe Him in spite of all contrary evidence, believe in His
divinity even when confronted with what seems His common humanity. It is
no fit deed for Jesus needlessly to throw Himself down from the Temple;
to bring an end to the pain of another with the sole purpose of
conquering men, and fascinating them with wonder and terror; to put God
to a test, to force Him as it were, to accomplish a rash and superfluous
miracle, only in order that Satan may not win the infamous wager founded
on sarcasm and on arrogance. Loving, it is to human hearts He wishes to
speak; sublime in character, He wishes to bring sublimity into human
lives; a pure spirit, He wishes to purify other spirits; deep-hearted,
to light the flame of love in others; a great spirit, to bring greatness
to little, mean, neglected souls. Instead of throwing Himself like a
vulgar magician from the precipice which is below the Temple, He will go
up from the Temple upon the Mount to give out from on high the
beatitudes of the Kingdom of Heaven.

The offer of the Kingdoms of the Earth must have been horrible to Him,
and still more the price that Satan asked. Satan has the right to offer
what is his. The Kingdoms of the Earth are founded on force and
maintained with deceit. They are Satan’s own country, they are his
Paradise regained. Satan sleeps every night on the pillows of the
powerful. They pay material tribute to him, and give him daily offerings
in thought and deed. But Jesus could have taken away their Kingdoms from
the Kings without bending knee to the Adversary. He had only to offer
men bread without work. If like a juggling mountebank He had opened a
public theater of popular miracles, the multitude would have acclaimed
Him. Had He wished to seem the Messiah for whom the Jews had been
longing during their dreary slavery, He could have corrupted them with
plenty and with marvels, He could have made of every land a country of
grace and enchantment and He could have occupied at once every seat of
the procurators of Satan.

But Jesus does not wish to be the restorer of the fallen kingdom, the
conqueror of hostile empires. Authority is of little importance to Him
and glory still less. The Kingdom which He announces and prepares has
nothing in common with the Kingdoms of the Earth. His Kingdom is
destined rather to bring to naught the Kingdoms of the Earth. The
Kingdom of Heaven is in us. Any day when a soul has turned to
righteousness the Kingdom of Heaven is enlarged because it has acquired
a new citizen, snatched from the Kingdom of Earth. When every one is
good and righteous, when all love their brothers as fathers love their
sons, when even enemies love one another (if there still are enemies),
when no one thinks of amassing treasure, and instead of taking away from
others, every one gives bread to the hungry and clothing to those who
are cold,—where on that day will be the Kingdom of the Earth? Where will
be the need for soldiers when no one wishes to enlarge his own land by
stealing that of his neighbor? What need will there be for Kings when
every one has his law in his conscience and when there are no armies to
command nor judges to select? What need will there be for money and for
tribute when every one is sure of his living and satisfied with it, and
there are no wages to be paid to soldiers and servants? When every one’s
soul is transformed, those so-called foundations of life which are named
Society, Country and Justice will vanish like the hallucinations of a
long night. The word of Christ needs neither money nor armies. And if it
really becomes the universal life of the conscience, everything that
binds and blinds men, necessary unjust power, the criminal glory of
battles, will fall like morning mists before sunlight and wind. The
Kingdom of Heaven within is One and it will take the place of the
Kingdoms of Earth, which are many. The liberated spirit will scarcely
remember despotic matter. Men will no longer be divided into Kings and
subjects, masters and slaves, rich and poor, the arrogantly virtuous,
the humble sinners, free and prisoners. The sun of God will shine on
all, the citizens of the Kingdom will be one family of fathers and
brothers and the gates of Paradise will be open again to the sons of
Adam become as gods.

Jesus conquered Satan in Himself and now came out of the desert to
conquer him among men.

THE RETURN

As soon as Jesus came again among men, He learned that the Tetrarch
(second husband of Herodias) had imprisoned John in the fortress of
Machaerus. The voice crying in the wilderness was stilled and pilgrims
to the Jordan saw no more the long shadow of the wild Baptizer fall
across the water.

He had done his work and was now to give way to a more powerful voice.
John waited in the blackness of the prison until his bloody head was
carried on a golden platter to the banquet—almost the last dish served
to that evil woman, betrayer of men.

Now Jesus understands that His day is at hand, and crossing Samaria He
returns into Galilee to announce at once the coming of the Kingdom. He
does not go to Jerusalem, the city of the great king, the capital. Jesus
comes to destroy that Jerusalem of stone and arrogance, proud on its
three hills, hard of heart like the stones. The men whom Jesus comes to
combat are precisely those who glory in great cities, in the capitals,
in the Jerusalems of the world.

At Jerusalem live the powerful of the world, the Romans, masters of the
world and of Judea, with their soldiers in arms. Jerusalem is ruled by
the representatives of the Cæsars; of Tiberius, the drunken assassin,
the perfidious heir of Augustus, the hypocritical voluptuary, and of
Julius the adulterous spendthrift. At Jerusalem live the High Priests,
the old custodians of the Temple, the Pharisees, Sadducees, Scribes, the
Levites and their guards, the descendants of those who pursued and
killed the prophets, the petrifiers of the Law, the bigots of the
letter, the haughty depositories of arid fanaticism. At Jerusalem are
the treasurers of God, the treasurers of Cæsar, the guardians of the
treasure, the lovers of wealth; the Publicans with their excisemen and
parasites, the rich with their servants and their concubines, the
merchants with their crowded shops; money bags clinking with shekels in
the warmth of the bosom above the heart.

Jesus comes to combat all these. He comes to conquer the masters of the
earth—the earth which belongs to all; to confound the masters of the
word—the word which should be spoken freely wherever God wishes; to
condemn the masters of gold, base, perishable and fatal element. He
comes to overthrow the kingdom of the soldiers of Rome who oppress
bodies; the kingdom of the priests of the Temple who oppress souls; the
kingdom of the heapers-up of money who oppress the poor. He comes to
save bodies, souls, the poor; He teaches liberty, in opposition to Rome;
setting at naught the doctrines of the Temple, He teaches love; He
teaches poverty against all the ideals of the rich.

He does not wish to begin His message in Jerusalem where His enemies,
gathered together, are the strongest. He wishes to surround the city,
take it from the outside, arrive there later with a following behind
Him, when already the Kingdom of Heaven has begun slowly to lay siege to
it. The Conquest of Jerusalem will be the last test, the supreme trial,
the great battle, the tremendous battle between the greater than the
Prophets and Jerusalem, slayer of Prophets. If He should go to Jerusalem
now (where He will enter presently as a king and whence He will be
buried as a criminal) He would be taken prisoner at once and would not
be able to sow His word on less ungrateful, less stony soil.

Jerusalem like all capitals—great sewers to which flow the refuse, the
outcasts, the rubbish of the nations—is inhabited by a mob of frivolous,
elegant, idle, skeptical and indifferent people, by a ceremonious
patrician class who have kept only the tradition of ritual and the
sterile rancor of their decadence; by an aristocracy of property owners
and speculators who belong to the herd of Mammon, and by a rebellious,
restless, ignorant crowd, controlled only by the superstition of the
Temple and the fear of the foreigner’s sword. Jerusalem was not fit soil
for the sowing of Jesus.

A man from the provinces,—therefore healthy and solitary—He goes back to
His province. He wishes to carry the tidings of good news to those who
were to be the first to receive Him, to the poor and the humble because
the tidings are specially for them, because they have long been waiting
for them, and because more than any others, they will rejoice. Jesus’
coming into the world is for the poor. Therefore leaving Jerusalem, He
arrives in Galilee, enters into the Synagogue and begins to teach.

THE REIGN OF GOD

The first words of Jesus are few and simple, very much like those of
John, “The time is accomplished; the Kingdom of God is at hand; repent
and believe the Gospel.”

Bare words, incomprehensible to moderns by their very sobriety. To
understand them and to understand the difference between the message of
John and the message of Jesus, they need to be translated into our
language, filled again with their eternally living meaning.

“The time has come!” The time for which men have been waiting, which
they have prophesied and announced. John said that a King would come
ready to found the new Kingdom, the Kingdom of Heaven. The King has come
and announces that the doors of the Kingdom are open. He is the guide,
the path, the hand, before being King in all the splendor of His
celestial glory.

When Jesus says “The time is accomplished,” he does not refer to the
exact date, to the fact that it was the fifteenth year of the reign of
Tiberius. The time of Jesus is now and always is eternity. The moment of
His appearance, the moment of His death, the moment of His return, the
moment of His perfect triumph, has not yet arrived, not even yet! And
yet, at every moment the time is accomplished, every hour is the
fullness of time, on condition that the workers are ready. Every day is
His; His era is not written down in numbers: there is no chronology in
eternity. Every time a man tries to enter into the Kingdom, confirms the
Kingdom by believing, enriches the Kingdom, consolidates, defends,
proclaims its perpetual sanctity and its perpetual rightness in
opposition to all the inferior kingdoms (inferior because they are
human, not divine, earthly not heavenly) then always the time is
accomplished. This time is called the epoch of Jesus, the Christian era,
the New Covenant. Not quite two thousand years divides us from that
time; not quite two days, because for God, and for men of understanding,
a thousand years are as a day. The time is ripe; even to-day we are in
the fullness of time. Jesus calls us even now. The second day has not
yet expired, the foundations of the Kingdom are scarcely begun. We who
live to-day, this year, in this century (and we shall not always be
alive, and we shall perhaps not see the end of this year, and certainly
we shall not see the end of this century), we, I say, the living, can
take part in this Kingdom, enter into it, live in it, enjoy it. The
Kingdom is not the worn-out fancy of a poor Jew nearly twenty centuries
ago; it is not an archaism, a dead memory, a bygone frenzy. The Kingdom
is of to-day, of to-morrow, of always; a reality of the future always
just-realized, alive, actual, ours; a work started a short time ago, a
work to which every one is free to put his hand to take it up, to carry
it on. The word seems old, the message dim with antiquity repeated by
the echoes of two thousand years, but the Kingdom—as a fact, true,
accomplished—is new, young, born yesterday, still to grow, to flower, to
prosper. Jesus threw the seed into the earth, but the seed has scarcely
germinated in two thousand years passed like a stormy winter, in the
space of sixty human generations. Is it perhaps possible that our own
time after the flood of blood is the divine and longed-for period?

What this Kingdom is, we shall learn page by page in the words of Jesus;
but we must not imagine it as a new Paradise of Delight, as a wearisome
Arcady of beatitude, as an immense choir singing Hosannahs with their
feet on the clouds and their heads among the stars.

Christ describes the Kingdom of God as opposed to the Kingdom of Satan,
as the antithesis of the Kingdom of Earth. The Kingdom of Satan is the
Kingdom of evil, of deceit, of cruelty, of pride, the Kingdom of
baseness. Therefore the Kingdom of God means the Kingdom of good, of
sincerity, of love, of humility, the Kingdom of the lofty.

The Kingdom of Earth is the Kingdom of matter and of flesh, the Kingdom
of gold, hatred, avarice, sensuality, the Kingdom of all things loved by
evil and distraught men. The Kingdom of Heaven is to be the opposite of
this: the Kingdom of the spirit and of the soul, the Kingdom of
renunciation and of purity; the Kingdom of all things valued by men who
know the worthlessness of everything else in comparison. God is Father
and Goodness; Heaven is above the earth, hence it is the spirit. Heaven
is God’s home. The spirit is the dominion of goodness. All that crawls
on the earth, grubs in the earth, takes pleasure in matter—that is
bestiality; all that lives with upraised eyes, desiring Heaven, wishing
to live forever in Heaven—that is Holiness. Most men are beasts. It is
Christ’s will that these beasts become saints. This is the simple and
ever-living meaning of the Kingdom of God, and the Kingdom of Heaven.

The Kingdom of God is of men and for men. The Kingdom of Heaven is in
us. Begin at once: it is our work, for our happiness in this life on
this earth. It depends on our will, on our response given or withheld.
Become perfect and the Kingdom will extend even on earth. The Kingdom of
God will be founded among men.

It is true that Jesus added “repent,” but the old word has been
distorted from its true and magnificent meaning. The word of
Mark—μετανοειτε—should not be translated “repent”; μετανοια means rather
the changing of the mind, the transformation of the soul. Metamorphosis
is a change of form; “metanoia,” a changing of the spirit. It ought
rather to be translated “conversion,” that is, the renewing of the inner
life of man. The idea of “repentance” is only an illustration of
Christ’s command.

As one of the conditions of the arrival of the Kingdom and at the same
time as the very substance of the new order, Jesus demands complete
conversion, a revolution of life and of the common values of life, a
transmutation of feelings, of opinions, of intentions. This He called,
speaking to Nicodemus, “the second birth.” Little by little He was to
explain in what way this total transformation of the ordinary human soul
is to be effected. All His life was devoted to this teaching and to
setting the example. But in the meantime, He contented Himself with
adding one conclusion, “Believe in the Gospel.”

By “Gospel” men nowadays mean usually the book where the quadruple story
of Jesus is printed; but Jesus neither wrote books nor thought of
volumes. By “Gospel” He meant, according to the plain and sweet meaning
of the word, “good tidings.” Jesus is a messenger (in Greek “angel”) who
brings good tidings: He brings the cheerful message that the sick will
be cured, that the blind will see, the poor will be enriched with
imperishable riches, that the sad will rejoice, that sinners will be
pardoned, the unclean purified, that the imperfect can become perfect,
that animals can become saints, and saints become angels, like unto God.

If this Kingdom is to come, if everybody is to prepare himself for its
coming, we must believe in the message, believe that the Kingdom is
possible and near. If there is no faith in this promise, no one will do
what must be done to fulfill the promise. Only the certainty of the
truth of this good tidings, only the conviction that the Kingdom is not
the lie of an adventurer or the hallucination of an obsessed zealot;
only the certainty of the sincerity and validity of the message can
arouse men to put their hands to the great work of its foundation.

With those few words, obscure to the majority of men, Jesus began His
teaching. The fullness of time, the need to begin at once! The coming of
the Kingdom, victory of spirit over matter; of good over bad, of the
saint over the beast. “Metanoia”—the total transformation of the soul.
The Gospel—the cheerful assurance that all this is true and eternally
possible.

CAPERNAUM

Jesus taught His Galileans on the threshold of their shabby little white
houses, on the small shady open places of their cities or the shore of
the lake, leaning against a beached boat, His feet on the stones,
towards evening when the sun sank red in the west, summoning men to
rest.

Many listened to Him and followed Him because, says Luke: “His word was
with authority.” The words were not wholly new, but the man was new, and
new was the warmth of His voice, and the good done by that voice,
overflowing from His heart and going straight to the hearts of others.
The accent of those words was new, and new the sense that they took in
that mouth, lighted by His look.

Here was no prophet of the mountains shouting in waste places, far from
men, solitary, distant, forcing others to come to him if they wished to
hear him. Here was a prophet living like a man among other men, a friend
of all, friendly to the unfriended, an easy-going and companionable
comrade, searching out His brothers where they work in the houses, in
the busy streets, eating their bread and drinking wine at their tables,
lending a hand with the fisherman’s nets, with a good word for every
man, for the sad, for the sick, for the beggar.

The simple-hearted, like animals and children, know instinctively who
loves them, they believe him, are happy when he comes (their very faces
suddenly transfigured) and are sad when he goes. Sometimes they cannot
bring themselves to leave him and follow him to the death.

Jesus spent His time with them walking from one region to another, or
talking, seated among His friends. Always dear to Him was the sunny
shore of the lake, along the curve of quiet clear water scarcely ruffled
by the wind from the desert, dotted with a few boats silently tacking
back and forth. The western coast of the lake was His real Kingdom;
there He found His first listeners, His first converts, His first
disciples.

If He returned to Nazareth, He stayed there but a short time. He was to
go back later, accompanied by the Twelve and preceded by the renown of
His miracles, and they were to treat Him as all the cities of the
world,—even the most renowned for amenity, Athens and Florence, have
treated those of their citizens who made them great above others. After
ridiculing Him (they had seen Him as a child, it is out of the question
that He can have become a great prophet) they tried to cast Him down
from the precipice.

In no city did He make a long stay. Jesus was a wanderer, such a man as
is called a vagabond by the pot-bellied and sedentary citizen rooted to
his threshold. His life is an eternal journey. Before that other Jew who
was condemned to immortality by one condemned to death, He is the true
Wandering Jew. He was born on a journey. Still a baby at the breast, He
was carried along the sun-parched road to Egypt; from Egypt He came back
to the waters and greenness of Galilee. From Nazareth He often went to
Jerusalem for the Passover. The voice of John called Him to the Jordan:
an inner voice drove Him out into the desert; and after the forty days
of hunger and the Temptation, He began His restless vagabond life from
city to city, from village to village, from mountain to mountain, across
Palestine. Most often we find Him in Galilee, in Capernaum, Chorazin, in
Cana, in Magdala, in Tiberias, but often He crosses Samaria to sit down
near the well of Sychar. We find Him from time to time in the Tetrarchy
of Philip at Bethsaida, at Gadara, at Cæsarea, also at Gerasa in the
Perea of Herod Antipas. In Judah He often stops at Bethany, a few miles
away from Jerusalem, or at Jericho, but He did not shrink from
journeying outside the limits of the old kingdom and from going down
among the Gentiles. We find Him in Phœnicia, in the regions of Tyre and
Sidon, and in Syria, if the transfiguration took place on the summit of
Mt. Hermon. After the resurrection He appears in Emmaus, on the banks of
His lake of Tiberias and finally at Bethany near Lazarus’ house, where
He leaves His friends forever.

He is the traveler without rest, the wanderer with no home, the wayfarer
for love’s sake, the voluntary exile in His own country; He says Himself
that He has not a stone on which to lay His head, and it is true that He
has no bed where He may lie down at night, nor a room that He can call
His own. His real home is the road which takes Him along with His first
friends in search of new friends. His bed is the furrow in a field, the
bench of a boat, the shadow of an olive tree. Sometimes He sleeps in the
houses of those who love Him, but only for short periods.

In the early days we find Him most often at Capernaum, His journeys
began there and ended there. Matthew calls it “His city.” Situated on
the caravan route which from Damascus crosses Iturea and goes towards
the sea, Capernaum had become little by little a commercial center of
some importance. Artisans, bargainers, brokers, and shopkeepers had come
there to stay. Men of finance—as flies swarm on rotten pears—had come
there; publicans, excise men and other fiscal tools. The little
settlement, half-rustic, half a fishing village, had become a mixed and
composite city where the society of the times—even to soldiers and
prostitutes—was fully represented. And yet Capernaum, lying along the
lake, freshened by the air from the near-by hills and by the breeze from
the water, was not a prey to stagnation and decay like the Syrian cities
and Jerusalem. There were still peasants who went out to their fields
every day, and fishermen who every day went forth to their boats. Good,
poor, simple, warm-hearted people who talked of other matters than money
and gear. Among them a man could draw his breath freely.

On the Sabbath Jesus went to the Synagogue. Everybody had the right to
enter there, to read aloud and also to expound what had been read. It
was a plain house, a bare room where people went with their friends and
brothers to reason together and dream of God.

Jesus stood up, had some one give Him one of the scrolls of the
Scriptures (more often the Prophets than the Law) and recited in a
tranquil voice two, three, four or more verses. Then He commenced to
speak with a bold and forceful eloquence which put the Pharisees to
confusion, touched sinners, won the poor, and enchanted women.

Suddenly the old text was transfigured, became transparent, belonged to
their own times; it seemed a new truth, a discovery they had made, a
discourse heard for the first time; the words withered by antiquity,
dried up by repetition, took on life and color; a new sun gilded them
one by one, syllable by syllable; fresh words coined at that moment,
shining before their eyes like an unexpected revelation.

POOR PEOPLE

Nobody in Capernaum could remember having heard such a Rabbi. The
Sabbaths when Jesus spoke, the Synagogue was full, the crowd overflowed
out on the street, everybody was there who could come. The gardener
comes, who for that day had left his spade, and no longer turned his
water wheel to irrigate the green rows of his garden, and the smith, the
good country smith, black with smoke and dust every day, but on the
Sabbath washed, neatly dressed, his face still a little dusky, although
scrubbed and rinsed in many waters like his hands, with his beard combed
and anointed with cheap ointment (but still perfumed like a rich man’s
beard), the smith all whose days are spent before the fire, sweaty and
dirty except this day which is the Sabbath, when he comes to the
Synagogue to hear the ancient word of the Ancient of Days, the God of
his fathers. He comes devoutly, but he comes too because his family, his
friends, his neighbors come there, and he finds them all together, and
he comes also because the day is long (all that long holiday without any
work, without any hammer in his hand, without the pincers) and in
Capernaum there is nothing to do on Sabbaths except go to the Synagogue.
The mason comes, he who has worked on this little house of the Synagogue
and made it small because the Elders—good, God-fearing people, but
inclined to be stingy—did not wish to spend too much. The mason still
feels his arms a little numb and lame from his six days’ labor, no
longer keeps track of the stones which he has laid in courses and the
trowels full of mortar which he has thrown between the stones during the
week. The mason puts on his new clothes to-day and sits down on the
ground, he who on all other days stands upright, active, watchful so
that the work may go well, and the employer be satisfied; the good mason
too has come to the house which seems to him partly his own.

The fishermen have come too, the young and the old, both of them with
faces tanned by the sun and with eyes half-shut from the constant glare
of sunlight reflected by the water. (The old man is handsomer because of
the contrast of his white hair and white beard with his weather-beaten
and wrinkled face.) The fishermen have turned over their boats on the
sand, have left them tied to a stake, have spread the nets on the roof
and have come to the Synagogue, although they are not used to being
within walls and perhaps continue to hear a confused murmur of water
lapping about the bow.

The peasants of the neighboring countryside are here too, prosperous
farmers who have put on a tunic as good as anybody’s, who are satisfied
with the harvest almost ready for the scythe. They do not mean to forget
God who brings the grain to a head and makes the grape-vine to blossom.
There are shepherds come in to town that morning, shepherds and
goat-herds with the smell of their flocks still on them, shepherds who
live all the week in the mountain-pastures without seeing a soul,
without exchanging a word, alone with their quiet animals peacefully
grazing on the new grass.

The smaller property owners, the small business men, the gentry of
Capernaum, all have come. They are men of weight and piety. They stand
in the front row, serious, their eyes cast down, satisfied with the
business of the last few days and satisfied with their conscience
because they have observed the law without failing and are not
contaminated. The line of their well-clad backs can be seen, bowed backs
but broad and masterful, employers’ backs, backs of people in harmony
with the world, and with God, backs full of authority and of religion.
There are also transient foreigners, merchants going towards Syria or
returning to Tiberias. They have come from condescension or from habit,
perhaps to try to pick up a customer, and they stare into everybody’s
face with the arrogance which money gives to poverty-stricken souls.

At the back of the room (for the Synagogue is only a long white-washed
room a little larger than a school, than an inn, than a kitchen) the
poor of the countryside are huddled together like dogs near a door, like
those who always stand in fear of being sent away. The poorest of all,
those who live by odd jobs, by ungracious charity and also—oh,
poverty!—by some discreet theft, the ragged, the vermin-ridden, the
timid, the wretched; old widows whose children are far away, young
orphans not yet able to earn a living, hump-backed old men with no
acquaintances, strengthless invalids, those who are incurably sick,
those whose wits no longer rightly serve them, who have no
understanding, who cannot work. The weak in mind, the weak in body, the
bankrupt, the rejected, the abandoned, those who one day eat and the
next day do not, who never have enough to satisfy their hunger, those
who pick up what others throw away, the pieces of dry bread, fish-heads,
fruit-cores and skins; and sleep now here and now there, and suffer from
the winter cold and every year wait for summer, paradise of the poor,
for then there are fruits to be plucked along the roads. They too, the
beggars, the wretched, the ragamuffins, the sickly and the weaklings,
when the Sabbath comes, go to the Synagogue to hear the stories of the
Bible. They cannot be sent away: they have as much right to be there as
any one, they are sons of the same Father and servants of the same Lord.
On that day they feel a little comforted in their poverty because they
can hear the same words heard by the rich and the strong. Here they are
not served with another sort of food, poorer and coarser, as happens in
the houses where the owner eats the best and the beggar on the threshold
must content himself with scraps. Here the fare is the same for the man
of possessions and him who has nothing. The words of Moses are the same,
everlastingly the same for him who owns the fattest flock and for him
who has not even a quarter of lamb on Passover day. But the words of the
Prophets are sweeter to them than those of Moses, harder on the great of
the world, but kinder for the humble. The poverty-stricken throng at the
back of the Synagogue waits every Sabbath for somebody to read a chapter
from Amos or from Isaiah because the Prophets take the part of the poor,
and announce the punishment and the new world. “And he who was clothed
with purple shall be made to handle dung.”

And behold on that Sabbath there was One who came expressly for them,
who talked for them, who had come back from the desert to announce good
tidings for the poor and the sick. No one had ever spoken of them as He
did, no one had shown so much love for them. Like the old prophets, He
had for them a special affection which offended more fortunate men, but
which filled their hearts with comfort and hope.

When Jesus had finished speaking they observed that the elders, the
bourgeois, the masters, lords, Pharisees, men who knew how to read and
make money, shook their heads forebodingly, and got up, making wry faces
and nodding among themselves, half contemptuous, half scandalized; and
as soon as they were outside, muttered a grumbling of prudent
disapprobation through their great black and silver beards. But no one
laughed.

The merchants followed them, erect, already thinking of the next day;
there remained behind the working men, the poor, the shepherds, the
peasants, the gardeners, the smiths, the fishermen, and all the herd of
beggars, orphans without inheritance, old men without health, homeless
outcasts, friendless unfortunates, penniless men, the diseased, the
maimed, the worn-out, the rejected. They could not take their eyes from
Jesus, they would have liked Him to go on speaking, to reveal the day of
the New Kingdom when they too would have their return for all this
misery, and see with their own eyes the day of reckoning. The words of
Jesus had made their bruised and weary hearts beat faster. A gleam of
light, a glimpse of the sky and of glory, the hallucination of
prosperity, of banquets, of repose and abundance, sprang up from those
great words in the rich souls of the poor. Perhaps they scarcely
understood what the Master meant to say, and perhaps the Kingdom
glimpsed by them had some resemblance to a materialistic Land of
Cockaigne. But no one loved Him as they did. No one will ever love Him
like the poor of Galilee, hungering after peace and truth. Even those
who were less destitute, the day-laborers, the fishermen, the working
men, though less hungry for bread, loved Him for the love of those poor.

And when He came out from the Synagogue all those stood waiting in the
street to see Him again. They followed Him timidly as if in a dream;
when He entered into the house of a friend to eat they were almost
jealous and some waited outside the door until He reappeared; then,
grown more bold, they accosted Him and went along together beside the
shores of the lake. Others joined them on the way, and now one and now
another (they were braver under the open sky and outside the Synagogue)
began asking questions. And Jesus paused and answered this obscure crowd
with words never to be forgotten.

THE FIRST FOUR

Among the fishermen of Capernaum, Jesus found His first disciples.
Almost every day He was on the beach of the lake; sometimes the boats
were going out, sometimes they were coming in, the sails swelling in the
breeze; and from the barks the barefooted men climbed down, wading
knee-deep in water, carrying the baskets filled with the wet silver of
dead fish piled together, good and bad, and with the old dripping nets.

They put out sometimes at nightfall when there was a moon, and came back
early in the morning just after the setting of the moon and before
sunrise. Often Jesus was waiting for them on the strand and was the
first to greet them. But the fishing was not always good, sometimes they
came back empty-handed, tired and depressed. Jesus greeted them with
words which cheered them, and the disappointed men, although they had
not slept, listened to Him willingly. One morning two boats came back
towards Capernaum while Jesus standing by the lake was talking to the
people who had gathered around Him. The fishermen disembarked and began
to arrange the nets; then Jesus entered into one of the boats and asked
them to put it out a little from the land so that He might not be
pressed upon by the crowd. Upright near the rudder He taught those who
had remained on the land, and when He had left speaking He said to
Simon, “Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught.”

And Simon, son of Jona, owner of the boat, answered, “Master, we have
toiled all the night and have taken nothing, nevertheless at thy word, I
will let down the net.”

When they were only a short distance from the bank, Simon and Andrew,
his brother, threw out into the water a large net. And when they drew it
back it was so full of fish that the meshes were almost breaking. Then
the two brothers called their partners in the other boat, that they
should come to help them, and they threw out the net again and drew it
up again full. Simon, Andrew and the others cried out “a miracle!” and
thanked Jesus, who had brought them this good luck. Simon, impulsive by
nature, threw himself at the knees of their guest crying, “Depart from
me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.”

But Jesus, smiling, said, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of
men.”

When they went back to the shore they pulled the boat up on the land,
and leaving their nets, the two brothers followed Him. And a few days
after this, Jesus saw the other two brothers, James and John, sons of
Zebedee, who were partners of Simon and Andrew, and he called them,
while they were mending the broken nets; and they too said farewell to
their father, who was in the boat with the sailors, and leaving the
broken nets half-mended, followed Him. Jesus was no longer alone: four
men, two pairs of brothers more deeply brothers in this common faith,
were ready to accompany Him wherever He wished to go, to break bread
with Him, to repeat His words, to obey Him as a father, and more than a
father. Four poor fishermen, four plain men of the lake, men who did not
know how to read, nor indeed how to speak correctly, four humble men
whom no one else would have been able to distinguish from others, were
called by Jesus to found with Him a kingdom which was to occupy all the
earth. For Him they left their faithful boats which they had put out
into the water so many times, and so many times tied up to the wharf;
they left the old fish nets which had drawn from the water thousands of
fish; they left their father, their family, their home. They left all
that to follow this man who did not promise money or lands and spoke
only of love, of poverty and perfection. Thus if their spirit always
remained too low to understand their master, always a little rustic and
common, and if sometimes they doubted and were uncertain and did not
understand His truths and His parables, and at the end abandoned Him,
all will be pardoned to them for the candid, unquestioning promptness
with which they followed Him at the first call.

Who among us to-day, among all those now living, would be capable of
imitating those four poor men of Capernaum? If a prophet should come and
say to the merchant, “Leave your bank and your counter”; and to the
Professor, “Come down from your chair and throw away your books”; and to
the statesman, “Give up your portfolios and your lies which are only
nets for catching men”; and to the working man, “Put away your tools for
I will give you other work”; and to the farmer, “Stop in the middle of
the furrow and leave your plow among the clods, for I promise you a more
wonderful harvest”; and to the factory hand, “Stop your machine and come
with me, for spirit is more precious than metal”; and to the rich, “Give
away all your goods, for you will acquire with me an inestimable
treasure”; ... if a prophet should speak thus to us, men of the present
day, how many would follow him with the simple-hearted spontaneity of
those fishermen of old? But Jesus made no sign to the merchants who
stood trafficking in the open places, and in the shops, nor to those who
observed the tiniest commands of the law and could recite by heart
verses from the Bible, nor to the farmers rooted to their land and their
live-stock, and certainly not to the affluent, surfeited, satisfied, who
care nothing about any other kingdoms because their kingdom has long
since been realized.

Not by chance did Jesus select His first companions from among
fishermen. The fisherman who lives a great part of his days in the pure
solitude of the water is the man who knows how to wait. He is the
patient, unhurried man who lets down his nets and leaves the rest to
God. The water has its caprices, the lake its fantasies, no day is like
another day; he does not know when he goes away if he will come back
with his boat full or without a single fish to cook for his dinner. He
commends himself into the hands of God, who sends abundance and famine.
He consoles himself for bad days by thinking of the good days which have
been and which will come. He does not desire sudden riches, and is glad
if he can exchange the results of his fishing for a little bread and
wine. He is pure in soul and body. He washes his hands in water and his
spirit in solitude.

Of these fishermen who would have died in the obscurity of Capernaum
without any one except their neighbors being aware of them, Jesus made
saints whom men even to-day remember and invoke. A great man creates
great men; from a somnolent people he raises up prophets; from a
debilitated people, warriors; from an ignorant race, teachers. In any
weather fires are lighted if there is a hand capable of kindling them.
When David appears he finds at once his gibborim; an Agamemnon finds his
heroes, an Arthur his knights, Charlemagne his paladins, Napoleon his
Marshals. Jesus found among the men of the people of Galilee, His
apostles.

Jesus did not seek armed warriors, men who would lay their enemies low,
conquerors of provinces. His apostles were to fight, but the good fight
of perfection against corruption, holiness against sin, health against
sickness, spirit against matter, the happy future against the past,
henceforth sterile. They were to aid Him in bringing His joyous message
to the heavy-hearted. They were to speak in His name in places where He
could not go, and in His name to carry on His work after His death.

THE MOUNT

The Sermon on the Mount is the greatest proof of the right of men to
exist in the infinite universe. It is our sufficient justification, the
patent of our soul’s worthiness, the pledge that we can lift ourselves
above ourselves to be more than men, the promise of that supreme
possibility, the hope of our rising above the beast.

If an angel come down to us from the world above should ask us what our
most precious possession is, the master-work of the Spirit at the height
of its power, we would not show him the great wonderful oiled machines
of which we foolishly boast, although they are but matter in the service
of material and superfluous needs; but we would offer him the Sermon on
the Mount, and afterwards, only afterwards, a few hundred pages taken
from the poets of all the peoples. But the Sermon would be always the
one refulgent diamond dimming with the clear splendor of its pure light
the colored poverty of emeralds and sapphires.

And if men were called before a superhuman tribunal and had to give an
account to the judges of all the inexplicable mistakes and of the
ancient infamies every day renewed, and of the massacres which last for
a thousand years, and of all the bloodshed between brothers, and of all
the tears shed by the children of men, and of our hardness of heart and
of our perfidy only equaled perhaps by our stupidity; we should not
bring before this tribunal the reasonings of the philosophers, however
learned and fine-spun; not the sciences, ephemeral systems of symbols
and recipes; nor our laws, short-sighted compromises between ferocity
and fear. The only thing we should have to show as restitution for so
much evil, as atonement for our stubborn tardiness in paying our debts,
as apology for sixty centuries of hideous history, as the one and
supreme attenuation of all those accusations, is the Sermon on the
Mount. Who has read it, even once, and has not felt at least in that
brief moment while he read, a thrill of grateful tenderness, and an ache
in his throat, a passion of love and remorse, a confused but urgent
longing to act—so that those words shall not be words alone, nor this
sermon mere sounds and signs, but so that they shall be imminent hope,
life, alive in all those who live, present truth for always and for
every one? He who has read it, if only once, and has not felt all this,
he deserves our love beyond all other men, because all the love of men
can never make up to him for what he has lost.

The Mount on which Jesus sat the day of the sermon was certainly not so
high as that from which Satan had shown Him the Kingdoms of the earth.
From it you could see only the plain, calm under the loving sunset
light; on one side the silver-green oval of the lake, and on the other
the long crest of Carmel where Elijah overcame the scullions of Baal.
But from this humble mount which only the hyperbole of the chroniclers
called mountain, from this little rocky hill scarcely rising above the
level earth, Jesus disclosed that Kingdom which has no confines or
boundaries, and wrote not on tablets of stone like Jehovah, but on
flesh-and-blood hearts, the song of the new man, the hymn of
glorification.

“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good
tidings, that publisheth peace!” Isaiah was never more a prophet than at
the moment when these words poured from his soul.

BLESSED ARE THE POOR

Jesus sat on a little hill in the midst of the first apostles surrounded
by hundreds of eyes that were watching His eyes; and some one asked Him
to whom would be allotted this Kingdom of Heaven, of which He so often
spoke. Jesus answered with the nine beatitudes.

The beatitudes, so often spelled out even nowadays by people who have
lost their meaning, are almost always misunderstood, mutilated,
deformed, cheapened, distorted. And yet they epitomize the first day of
Christ’s teaching, that glorious day!

“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Luke leaves out the words “in spirit,” seeming to mean the “poor” and
nothing else; and many people after him (some modern and malicious) have
understood him to mean the simple-minded, the silly. They see in the
words only a choice between the bankrupt and the imbecile.

When He spoke, Jesus was not thinking either of the first or the second.
Jesus had no friendship for the rich and detested with all His soul the
greedy desire for riches, the greatest obstacle to the true enrichment
of the soul; Jesus was friendly to the poor and comforted them because
they had less comfort than other people; He kept them near Him because
of their greater need to be fed by loving words. But He was not so
foolish as to think that to be poor, materially poor in the worldly
sense of the word, is a sufficient title to enjoy the Kingdom, without
any other qualifications.

Jesus never gave any sign of admiring that intelligence which is solely
the intelligence of abstraction and the memory for phrases. Purely
systematic philosophers, and metaphysical sophists, gropers in nature,
devourers of books, would never have found grace in His eyes. But
intelligence, the power of understanding the signs of the future and the
meaning of symbols—enlightened and prophetic intelligence, the loving
mastery of the truth—was a gift in His eyes also, and many times He
grieved that His listeners and His disciples showed so little of it. For
Him supreme intelligence consisted in realizing that the intelligence
alone is not enough, that all the soul must be changed to obtain
happiness, since happiness is not an absurd dream but eternally possible
and within reach. But he fully understood that intelligence ought to aid
us in this total transmutation. He could not therefore call to the
fullness of the Kingdom of God the dull and the imbecile. Poor in spirit
are those who are fully and painfully aware of their own spiritual
poverty, of the faultiness of their own souls, of the smallness of the
good that is in us all, of the moral indigence of most men. Only the
poor who realize that they are really poor suffer from their poverty,
and because they suffer from it try to escape from it. Very different
these from men apparently rich, from those blind arrogant self-satisfied
people who believe themselves fulfilled and perfected, in good standing
with God and man, who feel no eagerness to climb upward because they
delude themselves with thinking they are already on high, who will never
enrich themselves because they do not realize their own fathomless
poverty.

Those therefore who confess themselves poor and undergo suffering to
acquire that veritable wealth named perfection, will become holy as God
is holy, and theirs shall be the Kingdom of Heaven; those complacent
people on the other hand who drape themselves in self-satisfaction,
taking no heed of the foulness accumulated and hidden under their
vainglory, will not enter into the Kingdom.

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK: FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH

The earth here promised is not the literal field of clods, nor
monarchies with built-up cities. In the language of the Messiah, “to
inherit the earth” means to partake of the New Kingdom. The soldier who
fights for the earthly earth needs to be fierce; but he who fights
within himself for the conquest of the new earth and the new heaven must
not abandon himself to anger, the counselor of evil, nor to cruelty, the
negation of love. The meek are those who endure close contact with evil
men and with themselves—often harder to bear—who do not break out into
brutish rage when things go badly, but conquer their inner enemies with
that quiet perseverance which more than sudden sterile furies shows the
force of the soul. They are like water which is not hard to the touch,
which seems to give way before other substances, but slowly rises,
silently attacks, and calmly consumes, with the patience of the years,
the hardest granites.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN

Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. The afflicted,
the weeping, those who feel disgust for themselves and pity for the
world, who do not live in the supine stupidity of everyday life, who
mourn over their own unhappiness and that of their brothers, who grieve
over failures, over the blindness which delays the victory of
light—because light for men cannot come from the sky if their own eyes
do not reflect it—who grieve over the remoteness of that righteousness
dreamed-of again and again, promised a thousand times, and yet always
further away through our fault and every one’s fault; those who mourn
over an offense received instead of increasing the wrong by revenge, and
who weep over the wrong they have done and over the good they might have
done and did not; those who care little about the loss of a visible
treasure but strain after the invisible treasure; those who mourn,
hasten with their tears the day of grace, and it is right that they
shall some day be comforted.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT HUNGER AND THIRST AFTER JUSTICE: FOR THEY SHALL BE
FILLED

The justice which Jesus means is not the justice of men, obedience to
human law, conformity to codes, respect for usage and for the
established transactions of men. In the language of the psalmists, the
prophets, the saints, the just man is he who lives according to the will
of God, because God is the supreme type of all perfection. Not according
to the law written by the Scribes set down in the Bible, diluted by
Talmudic casuistries, obscured by the subtleties of the Pharisees; but
according to the one simple Law which Jesus reduces to one commandment,
“Love all men near and far, your fellow countrymen and foreigners,
strangers and enemies.” Those who hunger and thirst after this justice
shall be filled in the Kingdom of Heaven. Even if they do not succeed in
being perfect in all things, much will be pardoned for their endurance
of the long vigil.

BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL: FOR THEY SHALL OBTAIN MERCY

He who loves shall be loved, he who gives help shall find help. The law
of retaliation is nullified for evil but remains valid for good. We
constantly commit sins against the spirit and those sins will be
forgiven us only as we forgive those committed against us. Christ is in
all men and what we do to others will be done to us. “Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it
unto me.” If we have pity on others we may have pity for ourselves; God
can pardon the evil which we do to ourselves only if we pardon the evil
which others do to us.

BLESSED ARE THE PURE IN HEART: FOR THEY SHALL SEE GOD

The Pure of Heart are those who have no other wish than for perfection,
no other joy than victory over the evil which hunts us down on every
side. He who has his heart crammed with furious desires, with earthly
ambitions, with carnal pride and with all the lusts which convulse this
ant-heap of the earth, can never see God face to face, will never know
the sweetness of His magnificent felicity.

BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS: FOR THEY SHALL BE CALLED THE SONS OF GOD

These peacemakers are not the meek of the second beatitude. The meek
refrain from answering evil with evil; the peacemakers do more, they
return good for evil, they bring peace where wars are flaring up. When
Jesus said He had come to bring war and not peace, He meant war to evil,
to Satan, to the world, to evil which is wrong, to Satan who is Death,
to the world which is an eternal battle. He means, in short, war against
war. The peacemakers are those who wage war upon war, those who placate,
those who bring about concord. The origin of every war is self-love,
love which becomes love of riches, pride of possession, envy of those
more wealthy, hatred for rivals; and the new law comes to teach hatred
for oneself, contempt for measurable goods, love for all creatures, even
for those who hate us. The peacemakers who teach and practice this love
cut at the root of all war. When every man loves his brothers more than
himself there will be no more wars, neither great nor small, neither
civil nor imperial, neither of words nor of blows, between man and man,
between class and class, between people and people. The peacemakers will
have conquered the earth and they will be called the true sons of God,
and they will enter among the first into His Kingdom.

BLESSED ARE THEY WHO HAVE BEEN PERSECUTED FOR JUSTICE’ SAKE: FOR THEIRS
IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

I send you out to found this Kingdom, the Kingdom of Heaven, of that
higher justice which is love, of that fatherly goodness whose name is
God; I send you out therefore to fight against those who uphold
injustice, the servants of materialism, the proselytes of the Adversary.
They will defend themselves when attacked, and to defend themselves they
will attack you. You will be tortured in body, crucified in soul,
deprived of liberty and perhaps of life; but if you accept this
suffering cheerfully to carry to others that justice which makes you
suffer, this persecution will be for you an incontestable title to enter
into the Kingdom which you have founded as far as was in your power.

BLESSED ARE YE WHEN MEN SHALL REPROACH YOU AND PERSECUTE YOU AND SAY ALL
MANNER OF EVIL AGAINST YOU FALSELY FOR MY SAKE. REJOICE AND BE EXCEEDING
GLAD: FOR GREAT IS YOUR REWARD IN HEAVEN: FOR SO PERSECUTED THEY THE
PROPHETS WHICH WERE BEFORE YOU

Persecution is a material attack through physical, legal and political
means. The persecutors can take away your bread, and the clear light of
the sun, and divine liberty; they may break your bones, but you must
endure more than mere persecution. You must expect insult and calumny.
They will condemn you because you wish to change bestial men into
saints. Wallowing in the foulness of their bestiality, they detest the
idea of leaving their filth. But they will not be satisfied to strike
only at your body, they will strike also at your soul. They will accuse
you of all crimes, they will stone you with slander and contumely. Hogs
will say that you are filthy, asses will swear that you are ignorant,
ravens will accuse you of eating carrion, rams will drive you away as
ill-smelling, the dissolute will cry out upon the scandal of your
corruptness and thieves will denounce you for theft. But you must always
rejoice because the insult of evil men is the consecration of your own
goodness, and the mud thrown at you by the impure is the pledge of your
purity. This is, as St. Francis says, “the perfect joy.” Beyond all the
graces which Christ gives to His friends is the grace of conquering
oneself and willingly enduring injury, opprobrium, pains, discomforts.
All the other gifts of God are not ours to glory in, because they come
not from us, but from God; but in tribulation and in affliction we can
glory because that is ours. All the prophets who have ever spoken upon
the earth were insulted by men, and men will insult those who are to
come. We can recognize prophets by this, that smeared with mud and
covered with shame, they pass among men, bright-faced, speaking out what
is in their hearts. No mud can close the lips of those who must speak.
Even if the obstinate prophet is killed, they cannot silence him. His
voice multiplied by the echoes of his death will be heard in all
languages and through all the centuries.

This promise brings the beatitudes to their end.

By means of the beatitudes, Christ fully explains who are fit to be the
citizens of His new Kingdom. Those citizens are henceforth found and
sealed; every one can recognize them. The unwilling are warned, the
uncertain are reassured. The rich, the proud, the satisfied, the
violent, the unjust, the warlike, those who mock, those who do not
hunger after perfection, those who persecute and outrage, can never
enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. They cannot enter there until they are
altogether conquered and changed, and have become the opposite of what
they are now. Those who live happily according to the world, those whom
the world envies, imitates and admires, are infinitely further from true
happiness than those others whom the world scorns and hates. In this
exulting beginning Jesus has turned upside down the human hierarchy; now
as He goes on He will turn upside down the values of life, and no other
revaluation will ever be so divinely paradoxical as His.

THE DIVINE PARADOX

Emasculated Gymnosophists and the cowardly sect of the Saturnists,—these
are serious-minded men who can understand plain facts but cannot
interpret those facts but merely repeat and spoil them—have always
looked with unfriendly eyes on what is called the paradoxical. To save
themselves the trouble of distinguishing between sacred paradoxes and
those which are only a fatuous amusement, they make haste to pass
judgment on all paradox as nothing else than the overturning of
recognized old truths; hence, false and—they add, to clip the wings of
vanity—as easy as possible to invent. One would suppose it seems to them
more difficult to walk along the road already laid out, and to spell
over line by line what was written before they were born by men who
certainly had not their cowardly temperament.

But if these priests of the already-said would consider the few master
ideas on which modern thought is living, or rather on which it is dying,
they would discover that they are almost all overturnings, that is to
say, paradoxes. When Rousseau says that men are born good but that
society makes them bad, he turns inside out the accepted doctrine of
original sin; when the disciples of progress affirm that from the worse
comes the better; when the evolutionist affirms that the complex springs
out of the simple; and the monist that all diversities are but
manifestations of the One; and the Marxist that economic history is the
basis of spiritual development; when the modern mathematical
philosophers affirm that man is not as he has always been believed, the
center of the universe, but a minute animal species on one of an
infinite number of spheres scattered in the infinite; when the
Protestants cry, “The Pope is of no account but only the Scriptures”;
when the French Revolutionists say, “The Third Estate is nothing and
should be everything”—what are all these people doing except overturning
old and commonly held opinions?

But Jesus is the greatest overturner, the supreme maker of paradoxes,
radical and without fear. This is His greatness, His eternal freshness
and youth, the secret of the turning sooner or later of every great
heart toward His Gospel.

He became incarnate to recreate men sunk in error and evil; He found
error and evil in the world; how could He fail to overturn the maxims of
the world? Read over again the words of the Sermon on the Mount. At
every step it proclaims the desire of Jesus that what is low shall be
recognized as lofty; that the last shall be first; that the overlooked
shall be the preferred; that the scorned shall be reverenced, and
finally, that the old truth shall be considered as error, and ordinary
life as death and corruption. He has said to the past, benumbed in its
death agony, to Nature, too easily followed, to universal and common
opinion of mankind, the most decisive “NO” in the history of the world.

In this He is faithful to the spirit of His race which in its very
downfall always found reasons for greater hope. The most enslaved people
dreamed of dominating other peoples with the help of the Son of David.
The most despised race felt that glory was promised them, the people
most punished by God believed itself the most loved; the most sinful was
certain that it alone was to be saved. This absurd reaction of the
Hebrew conscience became in Christ a revision of values, became, because
of His superhuman origin, a divine renovation of all the principles
followed and respected by humanity.

Christ’s first discovery is like that of Buddha, “Men are unhappy, all
men—even those who seem happy.” Siddharta to put an end to pain
counseled the suppression of life itself. Jesus had another hope, more
sublime in that it appears absurd. He taught that men are unhappy
because they have not found true life. Let them become the opposite of
what they are, let them do the contrary of what they do, and the
festival of happiness on earth will begin.

Until now they have followed Nature, they have let themselves be guided
by their instincts, they have accepted and that only superficially a
provisional and insufficient law, they have worshiped lying gods, they
have thought they could find happiness in wine, in flesh, in gold, in
authority, in cruelty, in art, in learning; and the only result has been
that their suffering has become more intense. The explanation is that
they have lost the path, that they must turn straight around, renounce
what seemed good, pick up what was thrown away, worship what was burned,
and burn what was worshiped, conquer the animal instincts instead of
satisfying them, struggle with their nature instead of justifying it,
make a new law and live by it, faithfully, in the spirit. If until now
they have not obtained what they looked for, the only possible cure is
to turn their present life upside down, that is, to transform their
souls.

Our permanent unhappiness is a proof that the experiment of the old
world has failed, that Nature is hostile, that the past is wrong, that
to live like animals according to the elementary instinct of animals,
only slightly furbished up and varnished with humanity, results in
wretchedness and despair.

Those who have laughed at or wept over the infinite wretchedness of man
have seen clearly. The pessimists are right. Those who denounce our
boasting, those who scorn our strengthlessness, those who despise our
ignominy, how can they be refuted?

Whoever is not born to wriggle contentedly in the worm heap, eating his
particle of earth, he who has not only a stomach and two hands, but a
soul and a heart; he whose soul is of finer temper because it has been
so beaten upon, is bound to feel a horror of mankind. For hard, arid
natures this horror changes into repugnance and hate; for others richer
and more generous it turns to pity and love.

When we read Leopardi and consider how he lost (perhaps because of the
imperfect Christians surrounding him) his youthful love of Christ and,
eating his heart out in reasoning despair, ended with the despairing
lines, “Tiresome and bitter is life, never aught but that”; who of us
will have the insight to reply, “Be quiet, unfortunate man! If you taste
nothing but bitterness, it comes from the wormwood you are eating; if
you find life tiresome the fault is yours; you yourself have used the
infernal stone of barren reasoning to cauterize those feelings which
would have made your life cheerful or at least endurable”?

No, Leopardi was not mistaken, for when you see men as they are and have
no hope of saving them, or changing them, and you cannot live like them
because you are too different from them, and cannot succeed in loving
them because you believe them condemned to eternal unhappiness and
wickedness, when you feel that the brutes will always be brutes and the
cowards always cowards and the foul always more sunk in their foulness,
what else can you do but counsel your heart to silence, and hope for
death? There is but one question: are men unchangeable, not to be
transformed, not capable of becoming better? Or, on the other hand, can
man rise above himself and make himself holy? The answer is of terrible
importance. All our destiny is in that question. Among superior men many
have not been fully conscious of this dilemma. Many have believed and
still believe that the form of life can be changed, but not the essence;
and that to man everything will be given except to change the nature of
his spirit; that man can become yet more master of the world, richer and
more learned, but he cannot change his moral structure. His feelings,
his primary instincts will always remain as they were in the wild
occupants of the caves, in the constructors of the lake cities, in the
first barbarians and in the peoples of the most ancient kingdoms.

Others feel an equal horror of man as he has been and as he is, but
before they sink into the despair of moral nihilism they look at man as
he could be. They have a firm faith in his perfectibility of soul and
find happiness in the divine but terrible task of preparing the
happiness of their brothers.

For men who are truly men there is no other choice: either the blackest
anguish or the boldest faith; either death or salvation. The past is
horrible, the present is repellent; let us give all our life, let us
offer all our power of loving and understanding in order that to-morrow
may be better, that the future may be happy. If up to now we have erred,
and the irrefutable proof is the black past from which we have come, let
us work for the birth of a new man and a new life. There are but two
possibilities: either happiness will never be given to men or, and this
Jesus believed firmly, if happiness could be our ordinary and eternal
possession there is no other price for attaining it but to change our
course, transform our souls, create new values, deny the old, answer the
“No” of holiness to the false “Yes” of the world. If Christ _was_
mistaken, nothing remains but absolute and universal negation, resolute
faith in nothing. Either complete and rigorous atheism, not the maimed
hypocritical atheism of the cowardly sects of to-day; or active faith in
Christ who saves and resurrects us by His love.

YE HAVE HEARD

The first prophets, the earliest legislators, the leaders of young
nations, the Kings, founders of cities and institutors of justice, the
wise masters, the saints, began the domination of the beast. With spoken
and sculptured word they tamed wolfish men, domesticated the men of the
woods, held barbarians in restraint, taught those bearded children,
softened the violent, the vengeful, the inhuman. With the gentleness of
the word or the terror of punishment (Orpheus or Draco), by promises or
by threats, in the name of the gods of high heavens or the gods under
the earth, they trimmed the nails, which immediately grew long again;
put muzzles over the sharp-fanged mouths; protected the defenseless, the
victims, pilgrims, women. The old law that is found with only a few
variations in the Manava Dharmasastra, in the Pentateuch, in the Ta-Hio,
in the Avesta, in the traditions of Solon and of Numa, in the
sententious maxims of Hesiod and the Seven Wise Men, is the first
attempt, rough, imperfect and inadequate, to mold animality into a
sketch, a beginning, a simulacrum of humanity.

This law reduced itself to a few elementary rules; not to steal, not to
kill, not to perjure, not to fornicate, not to tyrannize over the weak,
not to mistreat strangers and slaves any more than was necessary. These
are the social virtues, strictly necessary for a common life, useful to
all. The legislator contented himself with naming the most ordinary
sins, asked for a minimum of inhibition. His ideal rarely surpassed a
sort of approximate justice. But the law took for granted the
predominance of evil, the sovereignty of instinct, earlier than the law
and still existing. Every precept implies its infraction, every rule the
practice of the opposite. For this reason the old law, the law of the
first peoples, is only an insufficient channeling of the brute force
eternal and triumphant. It is a collection of compromises and
half-measures between custom and justice, between nature and reason,
between the rebellious beast and the divine model.

Men of ancient time, carnal, physical, hearty, lusty, muscular,
sanguine, sturdy, solid, hairy men with ruddy faces, eaters of raw meat,
ravishers, cattle-stealers, mutilators of their enemies, fit to be
called, like Hector the Trojan, “killers of men,” strong, zestful
warriors who, having dragged by the feet their slaughtered antagonists,
refreshed themselves with fat haunches of oxen and of mutton, emptying
enormous cups of wine; these men ill-tamed, ill-subdued to the law such
as we see them in the Mahabharata, and in the Iliad, in the poem of
Izdubar, and in the book of the wars of Jehovah, such men without the
fear of punishment and of God would have been still more unrestrained
and ferocious. In times when a head was asked for an eye, an arm for a
finger, and a hundred lives for a life, a law of retaliation which asked
only an eye for an eye and a life for a life was a notable victory of
generosity, appalling though it seems after the teaching of Jesus.

But the law was more often disobeyed than observed; the strong endured
it against their will, the powerful who ought to have protected it,
evaded it; the bad violated it openly; the weak cheated it. And even if
it had been entirely obeyed by every man every day it would not have
been enough to conquer the evil perpetually boiling up, held down only
for a moment, rendered harder to enact but not impossible, condemned but
not abolished. It was a reduction of innate fierceness, not its total
extirpation. Men, shackled but reluctant, had learned to pretend
obedience, did a little good where every one could see them in order to
be more free to do wrong secretly, exaggerated the observance of
external precepts that they might the better betray the foundation and
spirit of the law.

They had come to this point when Jesus spoke on the Mount. He understood
that the old law was doomed, drowned in the stagnant swamps of
formalism; the endless work of the education of the human race was to
begin over again, the ashes must be brushed away, the flame of original
enthusiasm must be blown into it, it must be carried through to its
original destination which is always metanoia, the changing of the soul.
And for this it was necessary to terminate the old law, the dried and
burnt-out old law.

With Jesus therefore begins the new law: the old is abrogated and
declared insufficient.

He begins at every example with the words—“Ye have heard it said” ...
and at once He substitutes for the old command, which He purifies by
paradox or actually overthrows, the new command, “But I say unto
you....”

With these “buts” a new phase of the human education begins. It is not
the fault of Jesus if we are still groping along in the twilight of very
early dawn.

BUT I SAY UNTO YOU

“Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill
... but I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother ...
shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his
brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall
say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.” Jesus goes straight to
the extreme. He does not even consider the possibility of striking a
brother, much less of killing him. He does not conceive even the
intention, the wish to kill. A single moment of anger, a single abusive
word, a single offensive phrase, are for him the equivalent of
assassination. Unimaginative, mediocre people cry out, “Exaggeration.”
There can be no grandeur where there is no passion and passion is
exaggeration. Jesus has His own logic and makes no mistake. Murder is
only the final carrying out of a feeling. From anger follow evil words,
from evil words, evil deeds; from blows, murder. It is not enough
therefore to forbid the final act, the material and external act. That
is only the result of an interior process which has made it inevitable.
The right thing to do is to cut at the root of the evil to destroy the
evil plant of hate which bears the poisonous fruit.

Achilles, son of Peleus, that same Achilles who was wrathful because
they took away his concubine, and who begged the Gods to let him become
a cannibal so that he could set his teeth in his dead enemies’ flesh,
Achilles of the silver-footed mother said: “Whether they come from Gods
or from men, ill-omened are quarrels and the anger which drives even a
wise man to wrath, wrath which sweeter than honey in the mouth grows
greater in men’s hearts.” Achilles, after the massacre of his
companions, after the death of his dearest friend, discovers finally
what a thing is wrath, which kindles and burns and not even a river of
blood can quench it. The wrathful hero knows what an evil thing is
wrath, but he is not converted. And he foregoes his wrath against the
king of men only to vent the fury of his vengeance upon the murdered
body of Hector.

Anger is like fire: it can be smothered only at the first spark;
afterwards it is too late. Jesus uttered the profoundest truth when He
decreed the same penalty for the first hot words as for murder. When all
men learn to conquer at the very start their outbreaks of resentment and
to curb their imprecations, quarrels of words or of deeds will flame up
no longer between man and his brother man, and homicide will become only
a black memory of our wild-beast past.

“Ye have heard that it was said of them of old time, thou shalt not
commit adultery, but I say unto you that whoever looketh upon a woman to
lust after her hath committed adultery already in his heart.” Even here
Jesus does not stop with the material fact which seems of importance to
gross men. He always soars from the body to the soul, from flesh to
will, from the visible to the invisible. The tree is judged by its
fruit, but the seed is judged by the tree. Evil visible to all is seen
too late. In its maturity it can no longer be prevented. Sin is the
pustule which suddenly appears, but which would not have appeared if the
blood had been purged from its malignant humors in time. When a man and
another man’s wife desire each other, the betrayal is complete, they
have committed adultery whether or not they are guilty in deed. A man
marries not only the body of his wife, but her soul. If her soul is lost
to him he has lost the greater part. To lose also the lesser part may be
unendurably painful, but it is not vital. A woman overcome and forced
without her consent by a stranger not loved by her, does not commit
adultery. What counts is the intention, the feeling. He who wishes to
maintain himself pure must abstain also from the mere silent passing
look of desire, because the look of desire if not repressed is repeated
and a look passes into a word, into a kiss, and into love which spares
no lover. To think of, to imagine, to desire a betrayal is already a
betrayal. He alone who cuts the first thread can save himself from the
great net of perversity which, starting from a glance, grows until not
even death can break it. And Jesus advises expressly to pluck out the
eye and cast it away if evil comes from the eye, and to cut off the hand
and throw it away if evil comes from the hand,—advice which dismays the
cowardly and even the strong. Yet even the most cowardly, when
threatened by cancer, have their arms or legs cut off, and if a tumor
grows in the bowels, are ready to have their bodies cut open to save
their lives. Men are concerned to save the body, but grudge any
sacrifice necessary to keep in health the soul, without which the body
is only an insensate machine of flesh and blood.

“Again, ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, Thou
shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths:

“But I say unto you, Swear not at all, neither by heaven; for it is
God’s throne:

“Nor by the earth; for it is his footstool: neither by Jerusalem; for it
is the city of the great King.

“Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one
hair white or black.

“But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is
more than these cometh of evil.”

He who swears to the truth is afraid, he who swears to the false is a
traitor. The first believes that the power invoked could punish him, the
other is an impostor who profits by the faith of others the more readily
to deceive them. In both cases swearing is wrong. For us impotent men to
call on a superior power to bear witness or to be a judge in our
miserable quarrels of opposed interest, to swear by our heads or by our
sons’ heads when we cannot change the appearance of the smallest part of
our body, is an absurd challenge, a blasphemy. He who always speaks the
truth not through dread of penalties, but through natural desire of his
soul, needs no oaths. Oaths can almost always be called in question, and
never serve to give perfect security even to those who seem to be
satisfied with them. In the history of the world there are more stories
of broken oaths than of oaths kept, and he who uses most words to swear
is precisely the man who is already thinking of breaking his oath.

“Ye have heard it said, Honor thy father and thy mother, but I say unto
you, he that loveth his father and mother more than me is not worthy of
me.” And also, “If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and
mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his
own life also, he cannot be my disciple.” Here also the old precept
which ties the new order to the old order with the tether of reverence
is brusquely reversed.

Jesus does not condemn filial love, but He puts it in its right place,
which is not first of all, as the people of antiquity thought. For Him
the greatest love, the purest is paternal love. The father loves in the
son the future, what is new; the son loves in the father, the past, the
old. But Jesus comes to change the past, to destroy the old. Homage paid
to parents, shutting oneself up in tradition and in the family, is a
barrier to the renovation of the world. Love of all men is a greater
thing than love for those who gave us life. Salvation for all men is
infinitely preferable to the service of the few who make up a family. To
have the greater, one must needs abandon the less. It would be more
convenient to love only those of our family and to make this love (often
forced and simulated) an excuse for not being friendly to any one else.
But he who is devoting his life to something which transcends him has a
great undertaking which takes all his strength and every moment of his
every hour until the last. He who wishes to serve the universe with a
broad spirit must give up, and if that is not enough, deny the common
affections. He who wishes to be Father in the divine sense of the word,
even without physical paternity, cannot be merely a son. “Let the dead
bury their dead.” In the old law, and more than ever in the learned
traditions, there were hundreds of precepts for the purification of the
body, minute, tiresome, complicated precepts without any true earthly or
heavenly foundation. The Pharisees made the best part of religion
consist in the observance of these traditions because it is much less
trouble to wash a cup than your own soul. For a dead thing like a cup a
little water and a towel are enough; for the soul there must be tears of
love and the fire of desire. “Not that which goeth into the mouth
defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a
man. Do ye not understand that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth
into the belly and is cast out into the draught? But those things which
proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the
man. For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries,
fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies. These are the things
which defile a man; but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man.”

The bath with water from the well or from the fountain, the bodily and
ritual bath, does not take the place of the essential inner
purification, and it is better to eat with hands soiled with sweat than
to repel a hungry brother with hands washed in three waters. Filth
issues from the body, disappears into the vaults and enriches orchards
and fields. But there are many finely dressed gentlemen so full to the
throat with another sort of filth that the stench of it comes out with
the words from their mouths, vainly washed and rinsed. And this filth
does not disappear into underground vaults, but soils every one’s life,
poisons the air, befouls even the innocent. From these excremental men
we should stand far away, even if they are washed twelve times a day;
the soaping of the skin is not enough if the heart sends up noisome
thoughts. The sewer-cleaner, if he thinks no evil, is certainly cleaner
than the rich man who, while splashing in the perfumed water of his
marble bath tub, is meditating some new fornication or fraud.

NONRESISTANCE

But Jesus had not yet arrived at the most stupefying of His
revolutionary teachings. “Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye
for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist
not evil: But whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him
the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away
thy coat, let him have thy cloke also. And whosoever shall compel thee
to go a mile, go with him twain.”

There could be no more definite repudiation of the old law of
retaliation. The greater part of those who call themselves Christians
not only have never observed this new Commandment, but have never been
willing to pretend to approve of it. For an infinite number of believers
this principle of not resisting evil has been the unendurable and
inacceptable scandal of Christianity.

There are three answers which men can make to violence: revenge, flight,
turning the other cheek. The first is the barbarous principle of
retaliation, now smoothed over and emasculated in the legal codes, but
nevertheless prevailing in usage: evil is returned for evil, either in
one’s own person or by the means of intermediaries, representatives of
our tribal lack of civilization, called judges or executioners. To the
evil committed by the first offender are added the evils committed by
the officers of justice. Often the punishment turns on the punisher and
the terrible chain of violence from one revenge to another stretches out
interminably. Wrong is two-edged; it fails even if inflicted with the
desire of doing good, in nations, or families or individuals. A first
crime brings after it a train of expiations and punishments which are
distributed with sinister impartiality between offenders and offended.
The law of retaliation can give a bestial relief to him who is first
struck, but instead of lessening evil it multiplies it.

Flight is no better than retaliation. He who hides himself redoubles his
enemies’ courage. Fear of retaliation can on rare occasions hold back
the violent hand, but the man who takes flight invites pursuit. He who
hides invites his adversary to make an end of him. His weakness becomes
the accomplice of the ferocity of others. Here also evil begets evil.

In spite of its apparent absurdity the only way is that commanded by
Jesus. If a man gives you a blow and you return another blow, he will
answer with his fists, you in turn with kicks, weapons will be drawn and
one of you may lose your life, often for a trivial reason. If you fly,
your adversary will follow you and emboldened by his first experience
will knock you down. Turning the other cheek means not receiving the
second blow. It means cutting the chain of the inevitable wrongs at the
first link. Your adversary who expected resistance or flight is
humiliated before you and before himself. He was ready for anything but
this. He is thrown into confusion, a confusion which is almost shame. He
has the time to come to himself; your immobility cools his anger, gives
him time to reflect. He cannot accuse you of fear because you are ready
to receive the second blow, and you yourself show him the place to
strike. Every man has an obscure respect for courage in others,
especially if it is moral courage, the rarest and most difficult sort of
bravery. An injured man who feels no resentment and who does not run
away shows more strength of soul, more mastery of himself, more true
heroism than he who in the blindness of rage rushes upon the offender to
render back to him twice the evil received. Quietness, when it is not
stupidity, gentleness, when it is not cowardice, astound common souls as
do all marvelous things. They make the very brute understand that this
man is more than a man. The brute himself when not incited to follow by
a hot answer or by cowardly flight, remains paralyzed, feels almost
afraid of this new, unknown puzzling force, the more so because among
the greatest exciting factors for the man who strikes, is his
anticipated pleasure in the angry blow, in the resistance, in the
ensuing struggle. Man is a fighting animal; but with no resistance
offered, the pleasure disappears; there is no zest left. There is no
longer an adversary, but a superior who says quietly, “Is that not
enough? Here is the other cheek; strike as long as you wish. It is
better that my face should suffer than my soul. You can hurt me as much
as you wish, but you cannot force me to follow you into a mad, brutal
rage. The fact that some one has wronged me cannot force me to act
wrongly.”

Literally to follow this command of Jesus demands a mastery possessed by
few, of the blood, of the nerves, and of all the instincts of the baser
part of our being. It is a bitter and repellent command; but Jesus never
said it would be easy to follow Him. He never said it would be possible
to obey Him without harsh renunciations, without stern and continuous
inner battles; without the denial of the old Adam and the birth of the
new man. And yet the results of non-resistance, even if they are not
always perfect, are certainly superior to those of resistance or flight.
The example of so extraordinary a spiritual mastery, so impossible and
unthinkable for common men, the almost superhuman fascination of conduct
so contrary to usual customs, traditions and passions; this example,
this spectacle of power, this puzzling miracle, unexpected like all
miracles, difficult to understand like all prodigies, this example of a
strong, sane man who looks like other men, and yet who acts almost like
a God, like a being above other beings, above the motives which move
other men—this example if repeated more than once, if it cannot be laid
to supine stupidity, if it is accompanied by proofs of physical courage
when physical courage is necessary to enjoy and not to harm—this example
has an effectiveness which we can imagine, soaked though we are in the
ideas of revenge and reprisals. We imagine it with difficulty; we cannot
prove it because we have had too few of such examples to be able to cite
even partial experiments as proofs of our intuition.

But if this command of Jesus has never been obeyed or too rarely obeyed,
there is no proof that it cannot be followed, still less that it ought
to be rejected. It is repugnant to human nature, but all real moral
conquests are repugnant to our nature. They are salutary amputations of
a part of our soul—for some of us the most living part of the soul—and
it is natural that the threat of mutilation should make us shudder. But
whether it pleases us or not, only by accepting this command of Christ
can we solve the problem of violence. It is the only course which does
not add evil to evil, which does not multiply evil a hundredfold, which
prevents the infection of the wound, which cuts out the malignant growth
when it is only a tiny pustule. To answer blows with blows, evil deeds
with evil deeds, is to meet the attacker on his own ground, to proclaim
oneself as low as he. To answer with flight is to humiliate oneself
before him, and incite him to continue. To answer a furiously angry man
with reasonable words is useless effort. But to answer with a simple
gesture of acceptance, to endure for three days the bore who inflicts
himself on you for an hour, to offer your breast to the man who has
struck you on the shoulder, to give a thousand to the man who has stolen
a hundred from you, these are acts of heroic excellence, supine though
they may appear, so extraordinary that they overcome the brutal bully
with the irresistible majesty of the divine. Only he who has conquered
himself can conquer his enemies. Only the saints can charm wolves to
mildness. Only he who has transformed his own soul can transform the
souls of his brothers, and transform the world into a less grievous
place for all.

AGAINST NATURE

Nonresistance to evil is profoundly repugnant to our nature, but to obey
the teachings of Christ means that our nature will come to feel disgust
for what now pleases us, and find happiness in what now fills us with
horror. His every word takes for granted this total renovation of the
human spirit: He fearlessly contradicts our most ordinary inclinations
and the deepest of our instincts. He praises what every one avoids. He
condemns what all men seek. He not only gives the lie to what men teach
(often very different from what they really think and do), but He
contradicts what they actually think and do every day.

Jesus does not believe in the perfection of the natural soul, of the
original soul. He believes in its future perfection, only to be reached
by a complete overturning of its present nature. His task is the reform
of man; more than that, the making-over of man. With Him begins the new
race; He is the model, the arch-type, the Adam of humanity remodeled and
recast. Socrates tried to reform the mind, Moses the law, others went no
further than altering a ritual, a code, a system, a science; but Jesus
did not aim at changing one part of man but the whole man from top to
bottom, changing the inner man who is the motive-power and origin of all
the facts and the words of the world. Therefore we need not expect Him
to compromise or to wheedle. He will make no concessions to evil and
imperfect nature; He will not find specious reasons to justify it as the
philosophers do. You cannot serve Jesus and Nature. He who stands with
Jesus is against the old animal nature and is working for the higher
nature which must conquer it. Everything else is idle talk, dust and
ashes.

Nothing is more common among men than the thirst for riches. To heap up
money by any means, even the most infamous, has always seemed the
sweetest and most respectable of occupations. But he who wishes to come
with me, said Jesus, must go and sell that which he has and give it to
the poor and he shall have treasures in Heaven. Poverty is the first
requisite for the citizenship of the Kingdom.

All men anxiously take thought for the morrow. They are always afraid
lest the ground give way under their feet, lest there may not be enough
bread to last to the next harvest. They fear that they will not have
enough clothes to cover their bodies and the bodies of their children.
But Jesus teaches us, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow:
sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

Every man would like to stand first even among his equals. He wishes to
be superior to those who surround him, to command, to dominate, to seem
greater, richer, handsomer, wiser. The whole history of men is only the
terror of standing second; but Jesus teaches us, “And whosoever of you
will be the chiefest shall be servant of all.” The greatest is the
smallest, the most powerful shall serve the weakest, he who exalts
himself shall be humbled, he who humbles himself shall be exalted.

Vanity is another universal curse of men. It poisons even their good
actions, because nearly always they perform those insignificant good
actions so that they may be seen. They do evil secretly and good openly.
Jesus commands us to do just the opposite. “But when thou doest alms,
let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth;... And when thou
prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray
standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they
may be seen of men.... But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy
closet.... Moreover when ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad
countenance: for they disguise their faces, that they may appear to
fast.... But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy
face.”

The instinct of self-preservation is the strongest of all those which
dominate us. No infamy, cruelty or cowardice is too much for us to pay
for the safety of this handful of animated dust. But Jesus tells us:
“For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: but whosoever will lose
his life for my sake the same shall save it.” For what we _call_ life is
not true life and he who gives up his soul ruins also the flesh which
houses it.

Every one of us has a hankering to judge his fellows. To sit in judgment
makes us feel that we are above those judged, better, more righteous,
innocent. To accuse others is like saying, “_We_ are not thus.” As a
matter of fact it is always the hunchbacks who first cry out on those
whose shoulders are a little bent. But Jesus says, “Judge not that ye be
not judged, condemn not and ye shall not be condemned, forgive and ye
shall be forgiven.”

Every man boasts of being really manly, that is, a grave, mature, wise,
substantial, worthy person, who understands the nature of things and who
can reason and have an opinion on all subjects. A speech that is too
sincere is said to be childish; a simple person is scornfully called
childish. But when the disciples asked Him who is the greatest in the
Kingdom of Heaven, Jesus answered, “Verily I say unto you, Whosoever
shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise
enter therein.”

The serious-minded man, the devout, the pure, the Pharisee, avoids if
possible the company of sinners, of the fallen, of the defiled, and
receives as equals at his table only the righteous. But Jesus tirelessly
announces that He has come to seek for sinners and not for the
righteous, the bad and not the good, and He feels no shame in sitting
down to dinner in the house of the publican, where a prostitute anoints
his feet. The truly pure man cannot be corrupted by the corrupt, and
does not feel that for fear of soiling his garments he needs leave them
to die in their own vileness.

The avarice of men is so great that every one tries to take as much as
he can from others and to give back as little. Every one seeks to
possess; praises of generosity are only an attempt to cover professional
beggary with a decent mask; but Jesus affirms, “It is better to give
than to receive.”

All of us hate most of the people we know. We hate them because they
have more than we, because they will not give us all we would like to
have, because they do not pay enough attention to us, because they are
different from us; in a word, because they exist. We even go so far as
to hate our friends, even our benefactors. And Jesus commands us to love
men, to love them all, to love even those who hate us.

No one who disobeys this command can call himself a Christian; though he
is on the point of death if he does not love his slayer, he has no right
to call himself a Christian.

Love for ourselves, the origin of our hatred for others includes all
other tendencies and passions. He who conquers self-love, and the hatred
toward others, is already entirely transformed; the rest flows from this
as a natural consequence. Hatred toward oneself and love for enemies is
the beginning and end of Christianity. The greatest victory over the
fierce, blind, brutal man of antiquity is this and nothing else. Men
cannot be born again into the happiness of peace until they love those
who have offended against them. To love your enemies is the only way to
leave not an enemy on earth.

BEFORE LOVE

Those who refuse Christ have many easily understandable reasons for not
accepting Him: they would need to renounce their old personalities and
they cannot see that they would gain much by this renunciation; and they
are afraid of losing the dusty rubbish which seems magnificence to them.
People who deny Christ as an excuse for not following His teachings have
justified themselves of late by another reason, a learned reason: they
claim that He said nothing new. His words can be found in the Orient and
in the Occident centuries earlier. Either He stole them, or plagiarized
unconsciously. If He said nothing new, He is not great; if He is not
great, there is no need to listen to Him. Let the ignorant admire Him,
the stupid obey Him, the foolish respect Him!

However, these experts in the genealogy of ideas do not say whether the
ideals of Jesus, let them be new or old, should be accepted or rejected;
they do not dare to pretend that Christ did nothing of value when He
consecrated by His death a great truth, a forgotten, unused truth. They
do not look carefully to see whether there is a real identity of sense
and of spirit between the ideas of Jesus and those other older ideas, or
whether there is merely a simple assonance and a distant verbal
resemblance. And in the meantime, in order to avoid being misled in that
matter, they reject Christ’s law and that of the philosophers who, they
pretend, were Christ’s teachers, and they continue tranquilly to lead
their filthy lives as if the Gospels had not been addressed to them as
to other men.

After the promulgation of the old Law there was amity between blood kin;
and the citizens of the same city bore with each other and did one
another no harm; but for strangers, if they were not guests, there was
only hatred and extermination. Inside the family a little love; inside
the city an approximate justice; outside the walls and the frontiers
inextinguishable hatred. Centuries later voices were heard which asked a
little love also for the neighbor, for those who were not of the same
household but of the same nation, which asked for a little justice even
for strangers, even for enemies. This would have been a wonderful step
forward; but these voices—they were so few, so weak, so distant—were not
heard, or, if heard, were not heeded.

Four centuries before Christ a wise man of China, M’-Ti, wrote a whole
book, the Kie-Siang-Ngai, to say that men should love each other. He
wrote, “The wise man who wants to improve the world can improve it only
if he knows with certainty the origin of disorders; if he does not know
that, he cannot improve it.... Whence come disorders? They spring up
because men do not love each other. Workmen and children have no filial
feeling for their employers and parents. Children love themselves but do
not love their parents; they cheat their parents for their own purposes.
Younger brothers love themselves but do not love their older brothers;
subjects love themselves but do not love their princes; the father has
no indulgence for the son, the older brother for the younger brother,
the prince for his subjects. The father loves himself and does not love
his son; he wrongs his son to his own advantage ... thus, everywhere
brigands love their own homes and not their neighbors’ homes, and for
this they sack other men’s houses to fill their own. Thieves love their
own bodies and do not love men, wherefore they steal from men for the
good of their own bodies. If thieves considered the bodies of other men
as they do their own, who would rob? The thieves would stay their
hands.... If universal mutual love should come, countries would not
resort to blows, families would not be troubled, thieves would hold
their hands, princes, subjects, fathers and sons would be respectful and
indulgent and the world would be better.”

For M’-Ti, love, or, to translate it more exactly, benevolence composed
of respect and indulgence, is the mortar to hold citizens and the state
more closely united. It is a remedy against the evils of life-in-common,
a social panacea.

“Answer insults with courtesy,” suggests timidly the mysterious Lao-Tse;
but courtesy is prudence or mildness, not love. His contemporary, old
Confucius, according to his disciple Thseng-Tse, taught a doctrine which
consisted in uprightness of heart, and in loving one’s neighbor as
oneself (neighbor and not the distant one, the stranger, the enemy) as
much as ourselves and not more than ourselves! Confucius preached filial
love and general benevolence, necessary to the good ordering of
kingdoms, but he did not dream of condemning hate. In the same Lun-Yu,
where the words of Thseng-Tse are read, we find these other words, taken
from the oldest Confucian text, the Ta-Hio: “Only the just and human man
is capable of justly loving and hating men.”

His contemporary Gautama recommends love for men, for all men, even the
most wretched and despised. And the same love is to be felt for animals,
for the smallest among animals, for all living beings. In Buddhism love
of man for man is only a salutary exercise for the total eradication of
self-love, first and strongest prop of life. Buddha wishes to suppress
suffering; and to suppress suffering he sees no other way than to drown
personal souls and universal souls in Nirvana,—in nothingness. The
Buddhist does not love his brother out of love for his brother, but out
of self-love,—that is, to avoid suffering, to overcome egotism, to
approach absorption in the stream of life. His universal love is cold
and self-seeking, egotistical, a form of indifference, stoical in grief
as in joy.

In Egypt every dead body took with it into the tomb a copy of the book
of the dead, an anticipatory apology of the soul before the tribunal of
Osiris. The dead praises himself: he has been righteous and has given to
the needy, “I have starved no one! I have made no one weep! I have not
killed! I have not commanded treacherous murder! I have defrauded no
one! I have given bread to the hungry, water to the thirsty, clothes to
the naked, a boat to the traveler halted on his journey, sacrifices to
the gods, funeral banquets to the dead.” This is righteousness and these
are works of mercy (had they really as a matter of fact done all that
they claimed?) but we find no love here, much less love for enemies. If
we wish to know how the Egyptians treated their enemies let us read an
inscription of the great king, Phiops I Miriri: “This army went in
peace; it entered as it pleased into the country of the Hirushaitu. This
army went in peace; it laid waste the country of the Hirushaitu. This
army went in peace; they cut down all their fig trees and their grape
vines. This army went in peace; they set on fire all their houses. This
army went in peace; it massacred their soldiers by myriads. This army
went in peace; it carried away their men, women and children in great
numbers, and for this, more than for any other thing, did his Holiness
rejoice.”

Zarathushtra also leaves a law for the Iranians. This law commands the
faithful of Ahura Mazdâ to be kind to their companions in the faith.
They are to give clothes to the naked and they are not to refuse bread
to the hungry working man. We are still concerned with material charity
towards those who belong to us, who serve us, who are our neighbors.
There is no talk of love.

It has been said that Jesus added nothing to the Mosaic law, and only
repeated the old Commandments. “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for
hand, foot for foot, Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for
stripe.” Thus speaks Moses in Deuteronomy, “And thou shalt consume all
the people which the Lord thy God shall deliver thee; thine eye shalt
have no pity upon them.” Thus it is written in Deuteronomy: a step
further and we have reached Love, “Also thou shalt not oppress a
stranger: for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers
in the land of Egypt.” This is a beginning: do no wrong to strangers in
memory of the time when you also were a stranger; but the stranger who
lives with us is not an enemy, and to refrain from wronging him, does
not mean to do good to him. Exodus commands not to wrong him. Leviticus
is more generous, “And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land ye
shalt not vex him. But the stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto
you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself....”
Always the foreigner who lives with you and has become your
fellow-citizen, hence like one of your friends. In the same book we
read, “Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children
of thy people.” This is another step forward. Do no harm to him who
offends you, provided that he is of your own nation. We have come, if
not to pardon, to generous forgetfulness, although only for neighbors.

“Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” Neighbor, fellow-citizen, the
man who is your racial brother, who can help you. But your enemy? There
is also an admonition about the treatment of your enemy: “If thou meet
thine enemy’s ox or his ass going astray, thou shalt surely bring it
back to him again. If you see the ass of him that hateth thee lying
under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely
help with him.” Oh, great kindness of Jewish antiquity! It would be so
sweet to drive the ass further, so that his master would have more
trouble in finding him: and when you see the ass fallen down under his
pack-saddle, how amusing it would be to smile in your beard and pass on;
but the heart of the old Jew was not hardened to this degree: an ass was
too precious in those times and those conditions: no one could live
without at least one ass in the stable, and every one had an ass. To-day
yours has escaped and to-morrow mine may run away. Do not let us avenge
ourselves on our animals even if the master is a brute. Because if I am
that man’s enemy he is my enemy. Let us set him a good example, an
example by which we hope he will profit; let us lend him a hand to
readjust the pack-saddle of his ass; let us do to others what we hope
others will do to us, and above the crupper and the ears of the ass let
us, as merciful men, lay aside every evil thought.

This is rather too little: the old Jew has already made a tremendous
effort in caring for the animals of his enemy, but the Psalms, to make
up for it, resound at every step with outcries against enemies and with
violent demands to the Lord to persecute and destroy them. “As for the
head of those that compass me about, let the mischief of their own lips
cover them; let burning coals fall upon them ... let them be cast into
the fire; into deep pits, that they rise not up again. Let destruction
come upon him unawares; and let his net that he hath hid catch himself;
into that very destruction let him fall. And my soul shall be joyful in
the Lord!”

In such a world it is natural that Saul should be astounded that he was
not killed by his enemy David, and that Job should boast of not having
exulted in the misfortunes of an enemy. Only in the later proverbs do we
find words which forecast Jesus’ saying, “Say not thou, I will
recompense evil; but wait on the Lord, and he shall save thee.” The
enemy is to be punished, but by hands more powerful than thine. Then the
anonymous moralist of the Old Testament comes finally to charity, “If
thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give
him water to drink.” This is progress: pity does not stop with the ox,
but extends itself also to the owner. But the marvels of love of the
Sermon on the Mount cannot have sprung from these timid maxims hidden
away in a corner of the Scriptures.

But there is, they say, Hillel, the Rabbi Hillel, the great Hillel,
master of Gamaliel, Hillel Hababli or the Babylonian. This celebrated
Pharisee lived a little before Jesus and taught, they say, the same
things which Jesus afterwards taught. He was a liberal Judean, a
rational Pharisee, an intelligent rabbi; but was he therefore a
Christian? It is true that he said these words, “Do not do unto others
what is displeasing to you; this is the whole Law, the rest is only
explanation of it.” These are fine words for a master of the old law,
but how far away they are from those of the overturner of the ancient
law! This is a negative command, “Do not do.” He does not say, “Do good
to those who wrong you,” but “Do not do to others (and these others are
certainly companions, fellow-citizens, members of the family and
friends) what you feel to be evil.” He mildly forbids harmfulness; he
gives no absolute command to love. As a matter of fact, the descendants
of Hillel were those Talmudists who mired the law in the great swamp of
casuistry. The descendants of Jesus were the martyrs who blessed their
torturers.

And Philo, the Alexandrian Jew, the Platonizing metaphysician, some
twenty years older than Jesus, left a treatise on the love of men; but
Philo, with all his talents and with all his mystical and Messianic
speculations, is, like Hillel, a theorist, a man of pens and ink-pots,
of learning, of books, of systems, of abstractions, of classifications.
His dialectic strategy brings into the field thousands of words in
parade formation, but he is never inspired to pronounce the one word
that burns up in an instant all the past, the one word which brings
hearts together. He has talked of love more than Christ, but he could
never have said, and he would not have been able to understand, what
Christ said to his ignorant friends on the Mount.

ACHILLES AND PRIAM

Is it possible that in Greece, that well-spring from whence all have
drunk, there was no love for enemies? Would-be modern pagans, enemies of
the “Palestine superstition,” claim that Greek thought has everything in
it. In the spiritual life of the Occident, Greece is like China to the
East, mother of all invention.

In the Ajax of Sophocles, famous Odysseus is moved to pity at the sight
of a fallen enemy reduced to misery. In vain Athena herself, Hellenic
wisdom personified in the sacred owl, reminds him that “the most
delightful mirth is to laugh at one’s enemies.” Ulysses is not
convinced. “I pity him, although he is my enemy, because I see him so
unfortunate, bound to an evil destiny; and looking at him, I think of
myself. Because I see we are not other than ghosts, and unsubstantial
shadows, all we who live.... It is not right to do evil to a dying man
even if you hate him.” It seems to me that we are here still very far
away from love. Wily Ulysses is not wily enough to conceal the motive of
his unnatural softening. He pities his enemy because he thinks of
himself, remembers that evil could happen also to him, and he pardons
his enemy only because he sees him dying and unfortunate.

A wiser man than Ulysses, the son of Sophroniscus, the stone cutter,
asked himself, among many other questions, how the righteous man ought
to treat his enemies. But reading the texts, we discover with
astonishment two Socrates, of different opinions. The Socrates of the
Memorabilia frankly accepts the common feeling. Friends are to be
treated well and enemies ill, and thus it is better to anticipate one’s
enemies in doing ill: “The man most greatly to be praised,” he says to
Cherocrate, “is he who anticipates his enemies in hurtfulness and his
friends in helpfulness.” But Plato’s Socrates does not accept the common
opinion. He says to Crito, “Injustice should be rendered to no one in
return for injustice; nor evil for evil whatever has been the injury
that thou hast received.” And he affirms the same principle in the
Republic, adding in support that the bad are not bettered by revenge.
But the ruling idea in Socrates’ head is the thought of justice, not the
feeling of love. In no case should the righteous man do evil, out of
self-respect (notice this), not out of affection towards his enemy. The
bad man must punish himself, otherwise the judges in the lower world
will punish him after death. Aristotle, the disciple of Plato, turns
tranquilly back to the old idea: “Not to resent offenses,” he says in
the Ethics to Nicomachus, “is the mark of a base and slavish man.”

In Greece, therefore, there is little to the purpose for those who are
looking for precedents for Christianity.

But in order to make us believe that Christianity existed before Christ,
those who deny Jesus, have found a rival to Jesus even in Rome, in the
very palace of the Cæsars. Seneca, the director of conscience to young
gentlemen, leader of the fashionable cult of reformed stoicism; the
abstract aristocrat never moved by the troubles of the poor; the
proprietor who despises riches, and clutches them tightly, who affirms
the equality between free and slave, and owns slaves; the talented
anatomist of scruples, of evils, of active vices, and complacent
virtues; he who canalized the old doctrine of Chrisippus, dull but
clear, towards the estuary of preciosity; moral Seneca they claim was a
Christian without knowing it during Christ’s very lifetime. Thumbing
over his works (many were written after the death of Christ, for Seneca
waited till he was sixty-five years old before committing suicide), they
have found that “the wise man does not avenge but forgets affronts,” and
that “to imitate the Gods we should do good also to the ungrateful
because the sun shines equally on the wicked and the seas bear up the
pirate ship,” and finally that “We must succor our enemies with a
friendly hand.” But the “forgetting” of the philosopher is not
“forgiveness”; and “succor” can be philanthropy but is not love. The
imperious, the stoic, the Pharisee; the philosopher proud of his
philosophy, the righteous man complacent over his righteousness, can
despise the affronts of the small, the pricks of enemies, and through
pride of magnanimity and to win admiration can deign to give a loaf to a
hungry enemy in order to humiliate him more harshly from the heights of
perfection. But that bread was prepared with the leaven of vanity and
that would-be friendly hand could never have dried a tear or dressed a
wound.

The world of antiquity did not know love. It knew passion for a woman,
friendship for a friend, justice for the citizen, hospitality for the
foreigner; but it did not know love. Zeus protected pilgrims and
strangers; he who knocked at the Grecian door was not denied meat, a cup
of wine, and a bed. The poor were to be covered, the weak helped, the
mourning consoled with fair words; but the men of antiquity did not know
love, love that suffers, that shares another’s sorrow, love for all who
suffer and are neglected, love for the poor, the lowly, the outlawed,
the maligned, the downtrodden, the abandoned; love for all, love which
knows no difference between fellow-citizens and strangers, between fair
and foul, between criminal and philosopher, between brother and enemy.

In the last canto of the Iliad we see an old man, a mourner, a father
who kisses the hand of his most terrible enemy, of the man who has
killed his sons, who has just killed his most loved son. Priam, the old
king, head of the rich, ruined city, father of fifty sons, kneels at the
feet of Achilles, the greatest hero, and the most unhappy among the
Greeks, son of the Sea-Goddess, avenger of Patroclus, slayer of Hector.
The white head of the kneeling old man is bowed before the proud youth
of the victor, and Priam mourns for the slain, strongest, fairest, most
loved of all his fifty sons, and kisses the hand of the slayer! “Thou
also,” he says, “hast a grey-haired, failing, defenseless, far-distant
father. In the name of thy father’s love, give me back at least the dead
body of my son.”

Achilles, the fierce, the wild, the slaughterer, puts the suppliant
gently on one side and begins to weep; and both of them, the two
enemies, the conqueror and the conquered, the father bereft of his son
and the son who will never see his father again, the white-haired old
man and the golden-haired youth both weep, drawn together for the first
time by sorrow. The others round about gaze at them silent and
astounded: we ourselves after thirty centuries are shaken by their
grief.

But in the kiss of Priam there is no pardon, there is no love. This king
humbles himself to obtain a difficult and unusual favor. If a God had
not inspired him he would not have stirred from Ilium; and Achilles does
not weep for dead Hector, for weeping Priam, for the powerful man who is
brought to humble himself, for the enemy who is brought to kiss the hand
of the slayer. He weeps over his lost friend; over Patrocles, dearer to
him than all other men; over Peleus, left at Phthia; over his father,
whom he will never more embrace, for he knows that his young days are
numbered. And he gives back to the father the dead body of his son—that
body which he has dragged for so many days in the dust—because it is the
will of Zeus, not because his hunger of vengeance is stilled. Both of
them weep for themselves; the kiss of Priam is a harsh necessity, the
restitution of Achilles is obedience to the Gods. In the noblest heroic
world of antiquity there is no place for that love which destroys hate
and takes the place of hate, for love stronger than the strength of
hate, more ardent, more implacable, more faithful, for love which is not
forgetfulness of wrong, but love of wrong, because wrong is a misfortune
for him who commits it rather than for him who suffers. There is no
place for love for enemies in the world of antiquity.

Jesus was the first to speak of such love, to conceive of such love.
This love was not known till the Sermon on the Mount. This is the
greatest and the most original of Jesus’ conceptions. Of all His
teachings this was the newest to men, this is still His greatest
innovation. It is new even to us, new because it is not understood, not
imitated, not obeyed; infinitely eternal like truth.

THOU SHALT LOVE

“Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and
hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that
curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which
despitefully use you and persecute you; That ye may be the children of
your Father which is in Heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the
evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the
publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more
than others? do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even
as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect.” A few bare, plain words!
But they are the Magna Charta of the new race, of the third race, of men
not yet born. The first race was that of the animal without law, and its
name was War; the second were barbarians tamed by the Law, whose highest
perfection was justice. This is the race living now, and justice has not
yet conquered War, and the Law has not yet supplanted animality. The
third is to be the race of real men, not only upright but holy, not like
beasts but like God.

Jesus had just one aim: to transform men from beasts to saints by means
of love. Circe, the enchantress, the Satanic consort of the old
mythologies, converted heroes into beasts by means of animal pleasures.
Jesus is the anti-Satan, the anti-Circe, He who saves from animality by
a force more powerful than pleasure. This undertaking, which seems
hopeless to all animals barely risen above animality and to beings just
entering upon real humanity, must be based on the imitation of God. To
approximate sanctity one must look toward divinity: “Be holy because God
is holy. Be perfect because God is perfect.”

This is not the first time that this appeal has been made to the heart
of man. Satan said in the Garden: “You will be as gods.” Jehovah said to
His judges: “Be gods, be just as God is just.” But now there is no
question of being wise like God, nor is it even enough to be just, like
God. God is now more than wisdom and justice. With Jesus, He becomes our
Father, becomes love. His earth gives bread and flowers even to the
homicide; he who takes His name in vain sees the glorious sun every
morning, the same sun which warms the clasped hands of the laborer
praying in the field. A true father loves the son who turns from him as
he loves the son who seeks him out; a father cherishes the child who
obeys him in his house, or who vomits him out with his wine. A father
can be saddened, can suffer, can mourn, but no sinning man is capable of
making a father become like to himself. No one can induce a father to
take revenge.

And we who are so much lower than God, poor finite creatures, who are
scarcely capable of remembering yesterday, who do not know to-morrow, we
unfortunate, inferior creatures, have we not many more motives to feel
for our brothers in wretchedness what God feels for us? God is the
supreme substance of our ideal. To draw away from Him, not to be as we
pray that He may be with us, is this not to draw away from our unique
destination, to keep perpetually and despairingly out of our reach that
happiness for which we are created, which we believe to be the aim of
our lives, imagined by us, dreamed of by us, longed-for, invoked and
followed in vain through all the false felicities which are not of God?
“Let us be Gods,” cries Bossuet. “Let us be Gods. He permits it, that we
may imitate His holiness.”

Who will refuse to be like God? Dii estis. Divinity is in us; animality
hampers and constricts it, stunting our growth. Who would not wish to be
God? Oh, men, are you in very truth content to be only men? Men as you
are to-day, half-men, half-beasts? Centaurs without robustness, sirens
without sweetness, demons with fauns’ muzzles and goats’ feet? Are you
so satisfied with your bastard and imperfect humanity, with your
animality scarcely held in leash, taking no step to win holiness save to
desire it? Does it seem to you that the life of men as it has been in
the past, as it is to-day, is so dear, so happy, so contented that there
should be no effort to make it otherwise, entirely different, the
opposite of what it is, more like that which for thousands of years we
have imagined in the future and in Heaven? Is it not possible to make
another life out of this life, to change this world to a world more
divine, at last to bring down Heaven and the laws of Heaven upon earth?

This new life, this earthly but celestial world is the Kingdom of
Heaven, and to bring about the Kingdom we must transfigure and deify
ourselves; become like God, imitate God. The secret of the imitation of
God is love, the certain way of the transfiguration is love, love of man
for man, love for friend and enemy. If this love is impossible, our
salvation is impossible. If it is repugnant, it is a sign that happiness
is repugnant to us. If it is absurd, our hopes of redemption are only
absurdity. Common sense tells us that to love our enemies is insanity,
and to count such love as a prerequisite of our salvation seems simple
madness. Love for enemies is like hatred for ourselves; hence it follows
that we can only earn beatitude by hating ourselves.

This conclusion should alarm no one, for it has been proved; all the
experiments have been tried. It is not true that there has been no time
to test it. For thousands of years we have been proving and proving it,
over and over. We have tried the experiment of fierceness; and blood
answered blood. We have tried the experiment of lust; and lust has left
in the mouth the odor of corruption and a fiercer fever. We have forced
the body into the most refined and perverse pleasures and found
ourselves worn out and heavy-hearted, lying upon filth. We have tried
the experiment of the Law, and we have not obeyed the Law; we have
changed it and disobeyed it again, and Justice has not satisfied our
hearts. We have tried the experiment of intellectualism, we have taken
the census of creation, numbered the stars, described the plants, the
dead things and the living things, we have bound them together with the
thin threads of abstract ideas, we have transfigured them in the magic
clouds of metaphysics; and at the end of all this, things have remained
the same, eternally the same; they were not enough for us, they could
not be renewed; their names and their numbers did not quiet our hunger,
and the most learned men ended with weary confessions of ignorance. We
have tried the experiment of art and our feebleness has brought the
strongest to despair, because the Absolute cannot be fixed in any form;
the Many overflow from the One; the carefully wrought work of art cannot
arrest the ephemeral. We have tried the experiment of wealth and have
found ourselves poorer; the experiment of force and have come to
ourselves, weaker. In no thing has our soul found quiet. We have found
no welcoming shade, where our bodies can lie down and be at rest; and
our hearts, always seeking, always disappointed, are older, weaker, and
emptier because in nothing have they found peace, because no pleasure
has brought them joy, no conquest, happiness.

THE LAST EXPERIMENT

Jesus proposes His experiment, the only remaining possibility, the
experiment of love, that experiment which no one has made, which few
have even attempted (and that for only a few moments of their lives),
the most arduous, the most contrary to our instincts but the only one
which can give what it promises.

As he comes from the hand of Nature, Man thinks only of himself, loves
nothing but himself. Little by little, with tremendous but slow efforts,
he succeeds in loving for a while his woman, and his children, in
tolerating his accomplices in the hunt, in assassination and in war.
Very rarely is he able to love a friend; more easily he hates the man
who loves him. He does not dream of loving the man who hates him.

All this explains why Jesus commands us to love our enemies. To make
over the entire man, to create a new man, the most tenacious center of
the old man must be destroyed. From self-love come all the misfortunes,
massacres and miseries of the world. To tame the old Adam self-love must
be torn out of him, and in its place must be put the love most opposed
to his present nature, love for his enemies. The total transformation of
man is such a sublime paradox that it can be reached only by fantastic
means. It is an extraordinary undertaking, wild and unnatural, to be
accomplished only with an extraordinary exaltation, opposed to Nature.

Until now man has loved himself and hated those who hate him; the man of
the future, the inhabitant of the Kingdom, must hate himself and love
those who hate him. To love one’s neighbor as one’s self is an
insufficient formula, a concession to universal egotism. For he who
loves himself cannot perfectly love others, and finds himself perforce
in conflict with others. Only hatred for ourselves is sufficient. If we
love ourselves, we admire ourselves, we flatter ourselves too much. To
overcome this blind love, we need to see our nothingness, our baseness,
our infamy. Hatred of ourselves is humility, is the beginning of
improvement, of perfection. And only the humble shall enter into the
Kingdom of Heaven because they alone feel how far they are from it. We
are angered at others because our dear ego feels undeservedly offended,
not sufficiently served by others; we kill our brother because he seems
an obstacle to _our_ good; we steal for the love of _our_ body, we
fornicate to give pleasure to our body; envy, mother of rivalry and of
wars, is merely sorrow because another has more than we, or has what we
have not; pride is the expression of our certainty of being of more
account than others, of possessing more than others, of knowing more
than others. All the things which religions, morals, and laws call sins,
vices, and crimes begin in self-love, in the hatred for others which
springs out of that one solitary, disordered love.

What right have we to hate our enemies, when we ourselves have been
guilty of the same fault for which we think we have the right to hate
them; when we ourselves have been guilty of hatred? What right have we
to hate them, even if they have done wrong, even if we believe them
wicked, when we ourselves nearly always have done the same wrong
actions, have been defiled with the same pitch? What right have we to
hate them if nearly always we are responsible for their hate? We, who
with the endless errors of our monstrous self-love, have forced them to
hate us? And he who hates is unhappy, is the first to suffer. We ought
to respond with love to that hatred, with gentleness to that harshness
as reparation for the suffering of which we are often the real cause,
immediate or distant.

Our enemy is also our savior. We ought every day to be grateful to our
enemies; they alone see clearly and state openly what is ignoble in us;
they make us conscious of our moral poverty, the realization of which is
the only beginning for the second birth. For this service we owe them
love. For our enemy needs love, and needs our love. He who loves us
already has his joy and reward in himself. He needs no reward from us.
But he who hates is unhappy; hates because he is unhappy. His hatred is
the bitter outlet for his sufferings. We are partly guilty for this
suffering, and even if, over-confident in our innocence, we do not feel
that we are responsible, we ought nevertheless to comfort with love the
unhappiness of the man who hates, to calm him, make him better, convert
him also to the beatitudes of loving. We will know him better if we love
him, and knowing him better, we will love him more. We only love
heartily what we know well. If we love our enemy, his soul will be
transparent to us, and as we penetrate further into it, we will discover
much more to call forth our pity and our love; because every enemy is an
unrecognized brother; we often hate in him what resembles our own
natures. Something of ourselves, unknown perhaps to us, is in our enemy
and is often the cause of our hostility. When we love our enemies we
purify our spirit by understanding and lift his spirit upward. Hatred,
instead of driving men apart, may thus engender a light that liberates
men’s souls. The worst of evil may bring about the highest good.

This is the reason why Jesus commands us to reverse the ordinary and
customary relations of men. When man loves what he now hates, and hates
what he now loves, he will be the opposite of what he is to-day. And if
life now is made up of evils and despair, the new, changed life being
the opposite of what we now have, will be all goodness and consolation.
For the first time we shall know happiness; the Kingdom of Heaven will
begin on earth. We will find that eternal Paradise, lost because the
first men wished to learn the difference between good and evil. But for
absolute love like the love of God the Father, there is neither good nor
evil. Evil is overwhelmed by the good. Paradise was love, love between
man and God, between man and woman. The new earthly paradise, the
paradise regained, will be the love of every man for all men. Christ is
He who leads Adam back to the gates of the garden, teaches him how he
can enter and live there always.

The descendants of Adam have not believed Christ; they have repeated His
words but have not obeyed them, and because their hearts are stubborn,
men are still groaning in an earthly Hell, which century by century goes
on becoming more infernal. When the torments finally become unendurable,
then the damned themselves will suddenly learn to hate hatred, the dying
rebels in the extremity of their despair will learn to love their
executioners. Then, at last, from the depths of sorrowful gloom will
shine out the pure splendor of a miraculous spring.

OUR FATHER

The apostles asked Jesus for a prayer. He had told them to pray briefly
and secretly, but they were not satisfied with any prayers recommended
by the lukewarm, bookish priests of the Temple. They wanted a prayer of
their own which would be like a countersign among the fraternity of
Christ. Jesus on the Mount taught for the first time the Pater-noster,
the only prayer which He ever taught. It is one of the simplest prayers
in the world, the most profound which goes up from human homes to God, a
prayer neither literary nor theological—neither bold nor servile—the
most beautiful of all prayers. But though the Lord’s Prayer is simple,
it is not always understood. The century-old, mechanical reiteration of
tongues and lips, the formal ritual repetition, have made it almost a
string of syllables from which the original meaning has been lost.
Reading it over word for word to-day like a new text, which we read for
the first time, it loses its ritual banality, and freshens into its
first meaning.

“Our Father”; for we have sprung from Thee and love Thee as sons; from
Thee we shall receive no wrong.

“Which art in heaven”—in that which is opposed to the earth, in the
opposite sphere from matter, in spirit and in that small but eternal
part of the spirit which is our soul.

“Hallowed be Thy name”; let us not only adore Thee with words but be
worthy of Thee, drawing nearer to Thee with greater love, because Thou
art no longer the avenger, the Lord of Battles, but the Father who
teaches the joyfulness of peace.

“Thy Kingdom come”—the Kingdom of Heaven, of the spirit of love, that of
the Gospel.

“Thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven”—may Thy law of goodness
and of perfection rule both spirit and matter, both the visible and
invisible universe.

“Give us this day our daily bread”; because our material body, necessary
support of the spirit, needs every day a little material food to
maintain it. We do not ask of Thee riches, dangerous burden, but only
that small amount which permits us to live, to become more worthy of the
promised life. Man does not live by bread alone, and yet without a
morsel of bread the soul, living in the body, could not nourish itself
on other things more precious than bread.

“Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” Pardon us because we
pardon others. Thou art our eternal and infinite creditor. We can never
pay our debt to Thee, but remember that because of our weakness, it is
more of an effort for us to forgive one single debt of a single one of
our debtors than it is for Thee to sweep away the record of all that we
owe Thee.

“Lead us not into temptation.” We are weak, still snared in fleshliness
in this world which at times seems so beautiful and calls us to all the
delights of faithlessness. Help us that our struggling transformation
may not be too difficult, and that our entry into the Kingdom may not be
too long delayed.

“Deliver us from evil”—Thou who art in Heaven, who art spirit, who hast
power over evil, over stubborn and hostile matter which surrounds us
everywhere, and from which it is hard to free ourselves, Thou enemy of
Satan, negation of matter, help us! Our true greatness lies in this
victory over evil, over evil which springs up constantly because it will
not be truly conquered until all have conquered it. But this decisive
victory will be less distant if Thou helpest us with Thy alliance.

With this appeal for aid, the Lord’s Prayer ends. In it are none of the
tiresome blandishments of Oriental prayers, rigmaroles of adulation and
hyperbole which seem invented by a dog, adoring his master with his
dog’s soul, because his master permits him to exist and to eat. There
are none of the querulous, complaining supplications of the Psalmist who
asks God for every variety of aid, more often temporal than spiritual,
laments if the harvest has not been good, if his fellow-citizens do not
respect him, and calls down wounds and arrows on the enemies whom he
cannot conquer himself. In the Lord’s Prayer the only word of praise is
the word “Father”; and that praise is a pledge, a testimony of love.
From this father we ask only for a little bread, and we ask in addition
the same pardon that we give our enemies; and at the last a valid
protection in our fight with evil, the enemy of all, the great wall
which hinders our entry into the Kingdom.

He who says “Our Father” is not proud but neither is he humbled; he
speaks to his Father with the intimate quiet accent of confidence almost
as from one equal to another. He is sure of his love and he knows that
his father needs no long speeches to know his desires. “Your Father,”
says Jesus, “knoweth what things ye have need of before ye ask Him.”
Thus the most beautiful of all the prayers is a daily calling to mind of
all that we need if we are to become like God.

POWERFUL DEEDS

After He had given out the new law of the imitation of God, Jesus came
down from the Mount.

One cannot always remain on the heights. The moment we arrive on the
summit of a mountain we are fated to descend. Every ascent is a pledge
of descent, a promise to come down again. He who has something to say
must make himself heard; if he always speaks on the summits, few will
stay with him; it is cold on the summits for those who are not all on
fire; and his voice will reach few. He who has come to give, cannot ask
men, weak lungs, tired hearts, nerveless legs, to follow him upward,
hobbling along to the heights. He must follow them down to the plain,
into their houses; he must stoop to them if he is to lift them up.

Jesus knew that exalted teaching on the heights would not suffice to
spread the good news to all. He knew that men need less abstract words,
picture-making words, narrated words, words almost as tangible as facts.
And He knew that even these words would not be enough.

The simple, rustic, coarse, humble people who followed Jesus were men
whose lives were based on material things, men who could only understand
spiritual things slowly, with great effort, through material proofs,
signs and material symbols. They could not understand a spiritual truth
without its material incarnation; without evidence simple enough for
them to weigh, evidence stated in the terms of the everyday world. An
illustrative fable can lead men to moral revelation; a prodigy is to
them confirmation of a new truth, of a contested mission. Preaching,
made up of abstract axioms and aphorisms, left these imaginative
Orientals unsatisfied. Jesus had recourse to the marvelous and to
poetry: he performed miracles and spoke in parables. For many moderns
the miracles recounted by the Evangelists are a compelling reason for
turning away from Jesus and the Bible. Their shriveled brains cannot
take in the miraculous; therefore, they reason the Gospel lies, and if
it lies in so many places none of it can be believed. It is out of the
question that Jesus can ever have raised the dead: therefore, His words
have no value.

The people who reason in this way reason ill. They give to miracles a
weight and a meaning much greater than that which Jesus gave them. If
they had read the four Gospels they would have seen that Jesus is always
reluctant to perform miracles, that He does not feel this divine power
of His is of supreme importance. Every time that He finds a fair reason
for refusing, He refuses; if He yields, it is to reward the faith of the
sorrowing man or woman who calls on Him; but the Gospels show that for
Himself, for His own salvation, He never performs miracles. He performs
no miracles in the wilderness with Satan, none at Nazareth when they
wish to kill Him, none at Gethsemane when they come to arrest Him, nor
on the cross when they challenge Him to save Himself. His power is only
for others, to benefit His mortal brothers.

There are many who ask for a sign, a sign from Heaven, a sign to
persuade the unbelievers that His word is the true word: “An evil and
adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be
given to it, but the sign of the Prophet Jonas.” What is this sign? The
writers of the gospel who wrote after the resurrection thought that
Jonah emerging the third day from the whale symbolizes Jesus emerging
the third day from the tomb, but the rest of what Jesus says shows that
He meant something else. “The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with
this generation, and shall condemn it: because they repented at the
teaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.” Nineveh
did not ask for prodigies: it was converted by the word alone. Men whom
Jesus cannot convert by truths infinitely greater than those announced
by Jonah, are below the level of the men of Nineveh, idolaters,
barbarians. Faith must not rest on marvels alone, nevertheless let us
remember that faith—though it is higher and more perfect when achieved
without miracles—can by its very fervor accomplish miracles. Hardened
hearts, locked shut against truth, are not converted even by the
greatest miracles. “If they hear not Moses and the Prophets, neither
will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.” He was neglected
and rejected by the cities which were the scenes of the greatest
prodigies. “Woe unto thee, Chorazin! Woe unto thee, Bethsaida! for if
the mighty works which were done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon,
they would have repented long ago, in sack-cloth and ashes.”

Jesus never held that miracles were His exclusive privilege. When they
came to tell Him that some man was driving out Demons in His name, He
answered, “Forbid him not.” This power was not denied to the disciples.
“Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils:
freely ye have received, freely give.”

Even charlatanical wizards could perform prodigies which seemed
miracles. In His time a certain Simon was doing miracles in Samaria;
even the disciples of the Pharisees performed miracles. But miracles are
not enough to enter into the Kingdom. “Many shall say to Me in that day,
Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in Thy name and in Thy name cast out
devils, and in Thy name do many mighty works? And then will I profess
unto them, I never knew you; depart from Me, all ye workers of
iniquity.” It is not enough to cast out devils, if thou has not cast out
the devil in thee, the devil of pride and cupidity.

Even after His death men will see others perform miracles. “For there
shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great
signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall
deceive the very elect.” I have put you on your guard: do not believe in
these signs and these wonders until thou shalt see the Son of Man. The
miracles of false prophets do not prove the truth of what they say.

For all these reasons, Jesus abstained, as often as possible, from
working miracles, but He could not always resist the pleadings of the
sorrowful, and often His pity did not wait for the request. For a
miracle is an attribute of faith, and His faith is infinite, and that of
the believers very great. But often, as soon as the healing was
complete, He asked the ones He had healed to keep it secret. “See thou
tell no man; Go thy way.” Those who do not listen to the truth of
Christ, because they are troubled by the miracles, should remember the
profound saying which was addressed to Thomas, “Blessed are they that
have not seen and yet have believed.”

THE BLIND SEE

Men cannot live without three things, bread, health and hope. Deprived
of everything else men can—raging and cursing—go on living. But if they
have not at least these three, they hasten to summon Death, because
without them life is like Death. It is death with suffering added, an
aggravated, embittered, envenomed death, without even the anæsthetic of
insensibility. Hunger is the wasting away of the body; pain makes the
body hateful; despair—not to expect anything better, a relief, an
alleviation—takes the savor out of everything, takes away every reason
to be, and every reason to act. There are men who do not kill themselves
because suicide is an action.

He who wishes to draw men to him must give them bread, health and hope.
He must feed them, heal them and give them faith in a more beautiful
life.

Jesus gives this faith. To those who followed Him into the wilderness
and upon the mountains, He distributed material and spiritual bread. He
was not willing to transform stones into loaves, but He made the real
loaves of bread sufficient for thousands. And the stones which men carry
in their breasts He changed into loving hearts.

And He did not reject the sick. Jesus is no self-tormentor, no
flagellant. He does not believe that pain is necessary to conquer evil.
Evil is evil and must be driven away, but pain also is evil. Sorrow of
the soul is enough for salvation: why should the body suffer also,
needlessly? The old Jews thought of sickness as a punishment: Christians
believe it above all as an aid to conversion.

But Jesus does not believe in vengeance taken on the innocent, and does
not expect that true salvation can be won by ulcers or by hair shirts.
Render unto the body that which is the body’s due, and unto the soul
that which is the soul’s. He likes the friendly supper-table; He does
not refuse good old wine; and He does not send away women who pour
perfumes on His head and on His feet. Jesus can fast many days; He can
be satisfied with a bit of bread, with half of a broiled fish; and He
can sleep on the ground with His head on a stone; but till it is
unavoidable He does not seek out want, hunger and suffering. Health
seems to Him a good thing and the innocent pleasure of dining with
friends; a cup of wine drunk in good company, the fragrance of a vase of
nard, seem good and acceptable to Him also when such things cause no
suffering to others.

If a sick man accosts Him, He cures him. Jesus comes not to deny life,
but to affirm it, to institute a happier and more perfect life. He does
not purposely seek out the sick. His mission is to drive away spiritual
suffering, to bring spiritual joy. But if, by the way, it happens to Him
to drive out also suffering of the flesh, to quiet pain, to restore,
along with the health of the soul, the health also of the body, He
cannot refuse to do it. He shows Himself adverse to it, for the most
part, because His aim is higher; and He would not wish to appear in the
eyes of the people like a vagabond wizard, or like the worldly Messiah
whom most men were expecting. But since He wishes to conquer evil, and
there are men who know Him capable of conquering all evils, His love is
forced to drive out also those of the body.

When, on the road trodden by men of health, there come towards Him
groups of lepers, repellent, disfigured, horrible lepers, and when He
sees that swollen lividness, the scaly skin showing through the torn
clothes, that scabby, spotted, cracked skin, the withered, wrinkled skin
which deforms the mouth, half-closes the eyes, and puffs up the hands;
wretched, suffering ghosts, shunned by every one, separated from every
one, disgusting to every one, who are thankful if they have a little
bread, a saucer for their water, the roof of an old shed for a
hiding-place; when painfully bringing out the words through their
swollen, ulcerated lips they beg Him, whom they know to be powerful in
word and deed, beg Him, their only hope in their despair, for health,
for a cure, for a miracle, how could Jesus shun them, as other men did,
and ignore their prayer?

And the epileptics, who writhe in the dust, their faces twisted in a set
spasm, the froth on their lips; those possessed of devils who howl among
the ruined tombs, evil dogs of the night, disconsolate; the paralytics,
trunks which have just enough feeling left to suffer, dead bodies
inhabited by an imprisoned and suppliant soul; and the blind, the awful
blind, shut up from their birth in the night—foretaste of the blackness
of the tomb—stumbling in the midst of the fortunate men who go their way
freely, the terrified blind, who walk with their heads held high, their
eyes staring, as if the light could reach them from the depths of the
infinite, the blind, for whom the world is only a series of more or less
harsh surfaces, among which they grope; the blind, eternally alone, who
know the sun only by its warmth, by the heat on their bodies! How could
Jesus answer “No” to such wretchedness?

THE ANSWER TO JOHN

Jesus heals the sick, but He is in no way like a wizard or an exorcist.
He has no recourse to incantation, to amulets, to smoke, veils and
mystery. He does not call to His aid the powers of Heaven or Hell. For
Him a word is enough, a strong cry, a gentle accent, a caress. His will
is enough, and the faith of the petitioner. To them all He puts the
question, “Dost thou believe I can do this?” and when the cure is
accomplished, “Go, thy faith hath made thee whole.” For Jesus the
miracle is the union of two wills for good, the living contact between
the faith of the healer and the faith of the one healed. “Verily I say
unto you, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto
this mountain, Remove hence, to yonder place; and it shall remove; and
nothing shall be impossible unto you. If ye had faith as a grain of
mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamine tree, Be thou plucked up
by the root and be thou planted in the sea; and it should obey you.”
Those who have no faith, not even as much as the thousandth part of a
grain of mustard seed, swear that no man has this power, and that Jesus
is an impostor.

In the Gospels the miracles are called by three names:
“Dunameis”—forces; “Terata”—marvels; “Semeis”—signs. They are signs for
those who remember the prophecies of the Messiah; they are “marvels” for
those who look for proofs that Christ is the Messiah; but for Jesus and
in Jesus there are only “Dunameis,” mighty works, victorious
lightning-flashes from a superhuman power. The healings of Jesus are
two-fold; they are healings not only of bodies but of souls, and it is
soul-sickness which Jesus wishes especially to heal, so that the Kingdom
of Heaven may be founded also on the earth.

Most sickness is two-fold, mental and physical, and lends itself with
singular exactitude to metaphors and allegory. Jesus cured the maimed,
the halt, the fevered, a man with the dropsy, a woman with an issue of
blood. He healed also a sword-wound—Malchus’ ear struck off by Peter on
the night of Gethsemane—this only in order that His law ... “do good to
those who wrong you” ... might be observed to the very last. But Jesus
healed more often those possessed by devils, the paralytics, the lepers,
the blind, the deaf-mutes. The old name for mental diseases is
possession by devils; even Professor Aristotle believed in possession by
devils. It was believed that lunatics, epileptics, hysterical patients,
were invaded by malign spirits. The contradictory and often merely
verbal explanations of the moderns does not invalidate the fact that
demoniacs, in many cases, are such in the real sense of the word. This
learned and popular explanation lent itself admirably to that
allegorical and figurative teaching of which Jesus was so fond. He
wished to found the Kingdom of God and supplant that of Satan. It was
part of His mission to drive out demons. The difference between bodily
disorders and actual malign obsessions was of no importance: between
bodily infirmities and spiritual infirmities there is a parallelism of
nomenclature, based on real affinity. There is a likeness between the
maniac and the epileptic, between the paralytic and the slothful, the
vile and the leprous, the blind and he who cannot see the truth, the
deaf and he who will not listen to the truth, the cured and the
resurrected.

When John, shut up in prison, sent two disciples to ask Jesus if He were
the awaited prophet, or whether they should await another, Jesus
answered them, “Go your way, and tell John what things ye have seen and
heard; how that the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed,
the deaf hear, the dead are raised, to the poor the gospel is preached.”
Jesus did not separate the gospel from miraculous cures. They are
similar deeds; by that answer he meant that he had cured bodies in order
that the souls might be better disposed to receive the gospel.

Those who did not see the light of the sun can now see the light of
truth; those who did not hear even the words of men can now hear the
words of God; those who were possessed of Satan are freed from Satan;
those who were foul and ulcerated are clean as children; those who could
not move, who were strengthless and shrunken, now follow my footsteps;
those who were dead to the life of the soul have risen at a word from me
... and the poor, after the Good News, are richer than the wealthy.
These are my credentials, my letters proving my legitimacy.

Jesus, Healer and Liberator, is not what the bad faith of His modern
enemies wish to imagine Him, in order to gild once more their
comfortable paganism and to protect it against asceticism. “He is the
God,” they say, “of the sick, the weak, the dirty, the wretched, the
strengthless, the servants.” But all that Christ does is to give health,
strength, purity, wealth, and liberty. He draws near to the sick
precisely in order to drive away their sickness; to the weak to lift
them out of their weakness; to the dirty in order to cleanse them; to
slaves in order to free them. He does not love the sick only because
they are sick: He loves health, just as the men of antiquity did, and He
loves it so greatly that He longs to give it back to those who have lost
it. Jesus is the prophet of happiness, the promiser of life, of life
that is worthier to be lived. The miracles are only pledges of His
promise.

TALITHA QUMI

“The dead shall arise!” This is one of the signs which are to suffice
for John the Baptist in prison. To the good sister, to the hard-working
Martha, Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life: he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever
liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die.” The resurrection is a
rebirth in faith, immortality is the permanent affirmation of this
faith.

The Evangelists know three resurrections, historical events narrated
with a sober but explicit statement of the evidence. Jesus raised up
three who were dead: a young lad, a little girl, and a friend.

He was entering Nain, “the beautiful” set on a little hill some miles
from Nazareth, and met a funeral procession. They were carrying to the
grave the young son of a widow. She had lost her husband a short time
before; this son alone had been left to her; now they were carrying away
the son in turn for burial. Jesus saw the mother walking among the
women, weeping with the amazed and smothered grief of mothers which is
so profoundly moving. She had only two men in all the world who loved
her; the first one was dead, the second was now dead; one after the
other, both of them disappeared. She was left alone, a woman alone
without a man. Without a husband, without a son, without a help, a prop,
a comfort. Gone the love that was a memory of youth, gone the love that
was hope for declining years. Gone both those poor, simple loves. A
husband can console his wife for the loss of their son; a son can make
up for the loss of a husband. If only one had been left! Now her lips
were never to know another kiss.

Jesus had compassion on this mother; her grief was like an accusation.
“Weep not,” he said.

He went to the side of the cataleptic and touched him. The boy was lying
there stretched out, wrapped in his shroud, but with his face uncovered,
set in the stern paleness of the dead. The bearers halted; all were
silent; even the mother, startled, was quiet.

“Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.” And he that was dead sat up, and
began to speak. And He delivered him to his mother. He “delivered” him
because he was now hers. Jesus had taken him from the land of death to
give him back to her who could not live without him, that a mother might
cease from weeping.

Another day as he was returning from Gadara, a father fell at His feet.
His only little daughter lay at the point of death. The man’s name was
Jairus, and although he was a leader at the Synagogue he believed in
Jesus. They went along together. When they were half-way, a servant met
them, saying, “Thy daughter is dead; trouble not the Master.” But when
Jesus heard it, He answered him, saying, “Fear not: believe only, and
she shall be made whole.” And when He came into the house He suffered no
man to go in, save Peter, and James, and John, and the father and the
mother of the maiden. And all wept, and bewailed her: but He said, “Weep
not; she is not dead, but sleepeth.” And they laughed Him to scorn,
knowing that she was dead. And He put them all out, and took her by the
hand, and called, saying, “Maid, arise.” And her spirit came again, and
she arose straightway: and He commanded to give her meat. She was not a
visible spirit, a ghost, but a living body, awakened a little weak,
ready for a new day after feverish dreams.

LAZARUS AWAKENED

Lazarus and Jesus loved each other. More than once Jesus had eaten in
his house at Bethany with him and his sisters. Now one day Lazarus fell
ill, and sent word of it to Jesus. And Jesus answered, “This sickness is
not unto death.” Two days went by. But on the third day He said to His
disciples, “Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him
out of sleep.” He was near to Bethany when Martha came to meet Him as if
to reproach Him.

“Lord, if Thou hadst been here my brother had not died.” And a little
later Mary too said, “Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not
died.” Their repeated reproach touched Jesus, not because He feared He
had come too late, but because He was always saddened by the lack of
faith even of those dearest to Him.

“And he said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto him, Lord, come and
see.... Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave.
It was a cave and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away the
stone.”

Martha, the housekeeper, the practical, concrete character, interrupted,
“Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.” But
Jesus did not heed her, “Take away the stone.” And the stone was rolled
away. Jesus made a short prayer, His face lifted towards the sky, drew
near to the hole and called His friend in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come
forth.”

And Lazarus came forth, stumbling, for his hands and feet were shrouded
and his face covered with a napkin.

“Loose him, and let him go.”

And all four, followed by the Twelve and by a throng of thunderstruck
Jews, returned to the house. Lazarus’ eyes grew wonted again to the
light. He walked on his feet, although with pain, and used his hands.
Martha, moving rapidly, got together the best dinner she could in the
confusion after four days of demoralized sorrow—and the man come back to
life after death ate with his sister and his friends. Mary could
scarcely swallow a mouthful of food, nor take her eyes from the
conqueror of death, who, having wiped the tears from His eyes, broke His
bread and drank His wine as if this day were like any other day.

These are the resurrections narrated by the Evangelists, and from their
account we can draw some observations which will allow us to dispense
with learned, that is to say with unsuitable, commentaries. In all His
life, Jesus raised from the dead only three persons, and this He did,
not to make a show of His power and to strike the imagination of the
people, but only because He was touched by the sorrow of those who loved
the dead, to console a mother, a father, two sisters. Two of these
resurrections were public; one, that of the daughter of Jairus, was
accomplished in the presence of very few, and Jesus asked those few to
say nothing about it.

Another point, and the most important; in all these three cases Jesus
spoke to the dead person as if he were not dead but only asleep. He had
no time to say anything about the condition of the son of the widow,
because that decision was taken too rapidly, but even to him, He said,
as to a child, idly oversleeping, “Young man, I say unto thee, arise.”
When they told Him that the daughter of Jairus was dead, He answered,
“Weep not, she is not dead but sleepeth.” When they confirmed the news
of the death of Lazarus, He insisted, “He is not dead but sleepeth.” He
made no claim to bring back from the dead, only to awaken. Death for Him
was only a sleep, a deeper sleep than the common sleep of everyday, a
sleep only to be broken by a superhuman love. This love was for the
survivors more than for the dead; it was the love of one whose tears
flow at the sight of others’ tears.

THE MARRIAGE AT CANA

Jesus liked to go to weddings. For the man of the people who very seldom
gives way to lavishness and gayety, who never eats and drinks as much as
he would like, the day of his wedding is the most remarkable of all his
life, a rich passage of generous gayety in his long, drab, commonplace
existence. Wealthy people who can have banquets every evening, moderns
who gulp down in a day what would have sufficed for a week to the poor
man of olden times, no longer feel the solemn joyfulness of that day.
But the poor man in the old days, the workingman, the countryman, the
Oriental who lived all the year round on barley-bread, dried figs and a
few fish and eggs, and only on great days killed a lamb or a kid, the
man accustomed to stint himself, to calculate closely, to dispense with
many things, to be satisfied with what is strictly necessary, saw in
weddings the truest and greatest festival of his life. The other
festivals, those of the people and those of the Church, were the same
for everybody, and they are repeated every twelfth month; but a wedding
was his very own festival and only came once for him in all the cycle of
his years.

Then all the delights and splendors of the world were centered around
the bride and groom, to make the day unforgettable for them. Torches
went at night to meet the groom with singers, dancers and musicians. The
house was filled with abundance, all sorts of meats cooked in all sorts
of ways; wine-skins of wine leaning against the walls, vases of unguents
for the friends; light, music, perfumes, gayety, dancing; nothing was
lacking for the gratification of the senses. On that one day all the
things which are the daily privilege of princes and rich men triumphed
in the poor man’s house.

Jesus was pleased by this innocent joy, and touched by the exultation of
those simple souls, snatched for those few hours from the gloomy,
niggardly poverty of their everyday life. In weddings He saw more than a
mere festival. Marriage is the supreme effort of the youth of man to
conquer Fate with love, with the union of two affections, with the
joining of two loving youths. It is the affirmation of a double faith in
life, in the continuity and stability of life. The man who marries is a
hostage in the hands of human society. Making himself the head of a new
society and father of a new generation, he frees himself while he
professes to bind himself. Marriage is a promise of happiness, and an
acceptance of suffering. Illusion and conscience have their part in it.
In the shadow of tragedy, which sends over the future a trembling hope
of joy, is the heroic and holy greatness of marriage, which cannot be
dispensed with, and yet, in the light of selfish reason, should not be
accepted. Who has ever seen, except in this case, a condemnation so
eagerly longed for?

For Jesus marriage has a still deeper meaning: it is the beginning of
something eternal. Whom God hath joined, man cannot put asunder. When
hearts have been united and bodies joined, no law nor sword can sever
them. In this our human life, changeable, ephemeral, evasive, failing,
frail, there is only one thing that ought to last forever till death and
beyond death,—marriage, the only link of eternity in the perishable
chain.

Jesus often speaks of weddings and banquets. Among the most beautiful
parables is that of the King who sent out invitations to the wedding of
his son, that other of the Virgins who wait by night for the arrival of
the bridegroom’s friend; and that of the Lord who prepared a banquet.
Christ compares Himself to a bridegroom feasted by His friends when He
answers those who are scandalized because His disciples eat and drink.

He did not despise wine, and when with His Twelve, He drinks that wine
which is His blood, He thinks of the new wine of the Kingdom. It is not
surprising therefore that He should have accepted the invitation to the
wedding at Cana. Every one knows the miracle He wrought that day. Six
jars of water were changed by Jesus into wine, and into wine better than
that which had been drunk. Old rationalists say that this was a present
of wine kept hidden until then, a surprise of Jesus at the end of the
meal, in honor of the bride and groom. And six hundred quarts of wine,
they add, are a fine present, showing the liberality of the Master.

These Voltairian vermin have not noticed that only John, the man of
allegories, the philosophizer, tells of the Marriage at Cana. It was not
a sleight-of-hand trick, but a true transmutation, performed with the
power of Spirit over matter, and at the same time it is one of those
Parables in fact, instead of in words, a Parable told by actual deeds.

But whoever does not stop at the literal meaning of the story, sees that
the water turned into wine symbolizes the new epoch which begins with
the Gospel. Before the Annunciation and the vigil in the desert, water
was enough; the world was left to sorrow. But now the joyful tidings are
come, the Kingdom is at hand, happiness is near. Men are about to pass
from sadness to joy, from the widowhood of the old law to the new
marriage with the new law. The Bridegroom is with us. Now is no time for
sadness, but for enthusiasm. There will be no more fasting but
rejoicings; no more water but wine.

Remember the words of the steward to the Bridegroom, “Every man at the
beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then
that which is worse: but Thou hast kept the good wine until now.” Such
was the old usage, the usage of the Jews of old times and of the
heathen. But Jesus meant to overturn this old amphictyonic usage also.
The men of old gave the good and then the poor; He, after the good wine,
gives better. Sour, unripened wine, the poor quality which was drunk at
the beginning, symbolizes the wine of the old law, the wine that has
turned sour and can no longer be drunk. Christ’s wine, finer and
stronger, which cheers the heart and warms the blood, is the new wine of
the Kingdom, wine intended for the marriage of Heaven and earth, wine
which gives that divine intoxication which will be called later, “the
foolishness of God.”

The marriage of Cana, which in John is the first miracle, is an allegory
of the evangelical revolution.

THE ACCURSED FIG-TREE

Another parable expressed in the form of a miracle is that of the
withered fig-tree. One morning towards Easter, returning from Bethany to
Jerusalem, Jesus was hungry. He came up to a fig-tree and found only
leaves. It was too early to expect fruit, even from the earliest
species. Yet Jesus, according to Matthew and Mark, was angry at the poor
tree and cursed it.

According to Matthew, “Let no fruit grow on thee hence-forward forever.”
And presently the fig-tree withered away.

According to Mark, “No man eat fruit of thee hereafter forever.... And
in the morning, as they passed by, they saw the fig-tree dried up from
the roots.”

In the Evangelists the account of the curse is followed by a return to
the thought many times expressed by Jesus, that anything can be obtained
if asked for with powerful faith.

Others instead see here a metaphorical lament which many times returned
to Jesus’ lips. The fig-tree is Israel, the old Judaic religion, which
from now on will bear only unnourishing leaves of rites and ceremonies,
leaves fated to shrivel without nourishing men. Jesus, hungry for
justice, hungry for love, sought among the leaves for sustaining fruits
of mercy and holiness. He did not find them. Israel did not feed His
hunger nor fulfill His hope. From now on nothing can be expected from
the old trunk, leafy but sterile. May it be dead to all eternity! Other
races will henceforth be fruitful.

The miracle of the cursed fig-tree is at bottom nothing more than a very
apparent gloss of the parable of the sterile fig-tree in Luke. “A
certain man had a fig-tree planted in his vineyard; and he came and
sought fruit thereon, and found none. Then said he unto the dresser of
his vineyard, Behold, these three years I come seeking fruit on this
fig-tree and find none: cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground?”

And he answering said unto him, “Lord, let it alone this year also, till
I shall dig about it and dung it: and if it bear fruit, well: and if
not, then after that thou shalt cut it down.”

The tree was not condemned at first, but after three years of sterility,
and even then by the intercession of the workman, was given a year’s
respite, and in that year the plant was handled and treated with loving
care. That was to be the final test: only if all care was unavailing was
it to be hewn down and burned.

For three years Jesus had preached to the Jews, and He was thinking of
giving them up, and announcing the Kingdom to others. But one of His
workers, a disciple still attached to his people, asked for mercy; one
respite more. We shall see whether even great love could convert this
adulterous and bastard generation. But when they were on the road from
Bethany, Judaism had been put to the test, Christ had only His Cross to
expect. The evil fig-tree of Judaism deserved to be burned and from that
time on no one will eat its tardy, withered fruit.

BREAD AND FISHES

On two occasions there was a multiplication of bread, alike in all
details except the proportions of the quantities involved,—that is, in
exactly what give them their real spiritual meaning.

Thousands of poor people had followed Jesus into a place in the
wilderness, far from any settlements. For three days they had not eaten,
so hungry were they for the bread of life which is His word. But on the
third day, Jesus took pity on them—there were women and children among
them—and ordered His disciples to feed the multitude. But they had only
a little bread and a few fishes, and there were thousands of mouths.
Then Jesus had them all sit down on the ground on the green grass, in
circles of fifty to a hundred, He blessed the small amount of food they
had; all were satisfied, and baskets of the broken pieces were left.

The less there is of the true bread, the bread of truth, the more it
satisfies. The old law is abundant, copious, divided into innumerable
sections. There are hundreds of precepts written in the books and
thousands more invented by the Scribes and Pharisees. At first sight it
seems a gigantic table where a whole race could be satisfied. But all
these precepts, these rules and formulas are only dry leaves, shavings,
trash. No one can live on such fare. The more numerous they are, the
less they satisfy. Humble and simple people cannot satisfy their hunger
for justice with these innumerable but inedible viands. Instead, one
Word alone sums up all the words and transcends the petrified bigotry
beloved by the complacent and satiated; one Word which fills the soul,
which reconciles hearts, which calms the hunger for justice; the
multitudes will be satisfied and there will be enough to eat also for
those who were not present on that day. Spiritual bread is in itself
miraculous. A loaf of wheat bread is only enough for a very few, and
when they have finished it, there is no more for any one! But the bread
of truth, that mystic bread of Joy is never finished, can never be
finished. Give it out to thousands and it is always there; distribute it
to millions, and it is always intact. Every one has taken his part as
the men and women in the wilderness did, and as much as was given out,
so much the more remains for those who are to come.

Another day when the disciples found themselves without bread, Jesus
admonished them to beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.
And the disciples, almost always slow to understand Him, said among
themselves, “It is because we have taken no bread.” Which when Jesus
perceived he said unto them, “O ye of little faith, why reason ye among
yourselves, because ye have brought no bread? Do ye not yet understand
neither remember the five loaves of the five thousand and how many
baskets ye took up? Neither the seven loaves of the four thousand and
how many baskets ye took up? How is it that ye do not understand that I
spake it not to you concerning bread, that ye should beware of the
leaven of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees?” That is, of the blind
guardians of the degenerate law.

They are the Twelve, the chosen, the blest, the faithful, and yet they
cannot understand at once, do not sufficiently believe.

Again in the boat, the night of the tempest, Jesus was obliged to
reprove them. The Master had gone to sleep in the stern, His head on the
pillow of one of the rowers. Suddenly the wind rose, a storm came down
on the lake, the waves beat against the boat and it seemed from one
moment to the next that they would be wrecked. The disciples, alarmed,
awakened Jesus, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” And he arose,
and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, “Peace, be still.” And the
wind ceased and there was a great calm. And He said unto them, “Why are
ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?” And they feared
exceedingly, and said one to another, “What manner of man is this, that
even the wind and the sea obey him?”

There is one, Simon Peter, who has no fear. Not only does his nature
transcend the human, but great is his faith, great his love, great his
power of will. Nothing animate nor inanimate can resist these three
great qualities. A man who possesses them has renounced all that is
temporal and is victorious over time. He has renounced the good things
of the flesh, and for this reason can save the flesh; he has renounced
material things and so is master of matter. Every one can partake of
this power. Faith is sufficient, but it must not be faith only in
oneself.

A few years before Christ, a great Italian, captain in many wars,
corrupt but a fitting ruler over the putrefaction of the Republic, was
on the sea, on a real sea, in a boat with a few rowers, in search of an
army which had not come up in time to win the victory for him. The wind
began to blow, the tempest bore down on the boat and the pilot wished to
turn back to the harbor. But Cæsar, taking the hand of the pilot, said
to him, “Go forward, fear not, Cæsar is with thee and his fortune sails
with you.” These words of haughty self-confidence heartened the crew;
every one, as if a little of Cæsar’s strength had entered into his soul,
did his best to overcome the opposition of the sea. But notwithstanding
the efforts of the seamen the ship was nearly sunk and was obliged to
turn back. Cæsar’s faith was only pride and ambition, faith in himself:
Christ’s faith was all love, love for the Father, love for men.

With this love He could walk to meet the boat of the disciples tacking
against a contrary wind, and could step upon the water as on the grass
of a meadow. They thought in the darkness that it was a specter, and
once again He was obliged to reassure them, “Be of good cheer: it is I;
be not afraid.” As soon as He was in the boat, the wind fell and in a
few minutes they reached the shore. Once again they were astounded
because, says the honest Mark, “For they considered not the miracle of
the loaves: for their heart was hardened.”

This comparison may seem ingenuous, but it is revealing, for the miracle
of the loaves is the foundation of all the others. Every parable spoken
in poetic words or expressed with visible prodigies was as bread
prepared in different manners, so that His own followers, at least His
very own, should understand the one needful truth that the Spirit is the
only fare worthy of man, and that the man who is nourished on that fare
is master of the world.

NOT SECRETIVE: A POET

Jesus seems at first sight secretive. He orders those affected by
miracles to say to no man who has cured them; He wishes prayers and
charity to be done secretly; when the disciples recognize that He is the
Christ, He charges them not to repeat it; after the Transfiguration He
bids the three keep silence, and when He teaches He uses parables which
all men are not capable of understanding.

On further thought, on really considering the matter, it is apparent
that Jesus has nothing of the esoteric. He has no secret doctrine to
impart to a few acolytes. His words are public and open. He always
speaks in the public squares of cities, on the beaches of lakes, in the
Synagogue, in the midst of the people. He forbids speaking of His
miracles in order that He may not be confused with wizards and
exorcists; He commands to do good secretly in order to keep vainglory
from destroying merit; He does not wish the Twelve to proclaim Him the
Christ before His entry into Jerusalem, the public inauguration of His
Messiahship; and He speaks in parables to be better understood by the
simple who listen more willingly to a story than to a sermon, and
remember a narration better than an argument.

Three of the Evangelists report a speech of Jesus, which seems to
contradict this view. “Unto you,” He is speaking to the disciples, “it
is given to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of God, but to others it
is not given; therefore I speak to them in parables that seeing they
might not see, and hearing they might not understand.”

But Jesus means only to say this, “You understand these mysteries, but
the many do not understand them, although they have ears and spirits
like yours. And to them that they may understand I speak in
parables,—that is, in a figurative language of facts because it is
easier and more familiar.” You teach children with fables and the simple
with stories, and “the many” have remained like the simple and the
childish. To overcome the slowness of their minds I use words adapted to
their nature. They are all fancy, and little intellect; and the parables
are an appeal to the imagination more than to the reasoning powers. I do
not employ them therefore to hide the truth, but the better to reveal it
to those who could not see it in a purely rational form. For if then
they do not understand, it is the fault of their obstinacy, which often
closes the eyes and ears of the soul.

Jesus had no mysteries to dissemble. It was His wish that all, even the
most humble and ignorant, should understand Him. The parables were not
made to hide His teaching from the profane, but to make it more explicit
and understandable to every one. That sometimes even the intelligence of
the Twelve is inferior to this task is a melancholy conclusion by no
means unknown to Jesus.

The marvelous content of His message has cast into the shade His poetic
originality, not less marvelous. Jesus never wrote—once only He wrote on
the sand, and the wind destroyed forever His handwriting—but in the
midst of a people of powerful imagination, of the people who wrote the
Psalter, the story of Ruth, the book of Job, the Song of Songs, He would
have been one of the greatest poets of all times. His victorious
youthfulness of spirit, the racy, popular language of the country where
He grew up, the books He had read, few but among the richest of all
poetry—His loving communion with the life of the fields and of animals
and above all His divine and passionate yearning to give light to those
who suffer in the dark, to save those who are being lost forever, to
carry supreme happiness to the most unhappy (because true poetry does
not catch its fire from the light of the lantern but at the light of the
stars and of the sun, is not found in the writings left behind by
great-grandfathers, but in love, in sorrow in the deeply moved soul);
these things combined made of Jesus a poet, an inventor of living and
eternal images with which he achieved a miracle on which the Evangelists
make no comment,—the miracle of communicating the highest truth by the
means of stories so simple, familiar, full of grace that after twenty
centuries they shine with that unique youth which is eternity. Some of
these stories are only idyllic or epic restatements of revelations which
at other times He expounded in abstract words; but there are some which
express things never said in any other form in His teaching. The
parables are the imaginative comments on the Sermon on the Mount, such
as could be made only by a poet who merits the title of divine more
truly than any other poet ever born.

YEAST

City ladies do not make their own bread, but old countrywomen and
housewives know what yeast is. A handful of dough from the last baking
as big as a child’s hand, wet with warm water and put into the new
dough, raises even as much as three measures of flour.

Among the seeds of plants that of the mustard is among the smallest; it
can hardly be seen, but from this tiny little seed, if it is put into
good earth, springs up a fine shrub, and the fowls of the air lodge in
the branches of it. The grain of wheat is not large, the farmer throws
it into the ground and then goes on about his other affairs; he sleeps,
he goes away from home and comes back. Days pass and nights pass, no
thought is given to the seed, but underneath there in the moist, plowed
field the seed has germinated. There comes out a blade of green and at
the top of this blade an ear, at first green and graceful, then little
by little becoming golden grain. Now the field is ready for the mowing
and the farmer can commence his harvesting.

Likewise with the Kingdom of Heaven and the first news of it. A word
seems nothing. What is a word? Syllables, sounds, which come from the
lips, enter with difficulty into the ears and only when they come from
the heart find other hearts; it is a little thing, small, a breath, a
sigh, a sound which comes and goes and the wind carries it away. And yet
the word of the Kingdom is like yeast. If it goes into good flour, clean
honest flour not adulterated with other grains, it ferments and grows.
It is like the seed of the fields which germinates deep under the
ground, patient as the earth which hides it, which, when Spring comes,
grows green and strong and with the beginning of summer, lo, the harvest
is ready!

The gospel is made up of few words, “The Kingdom is at hand, change your
souls!” but if it falls into the heart of men ready for it, of simple
men who wish to become great, of righteous men who wish to become holy,
of sinners who seek in good for that happiness which they have vainly
sought in evil, then those words take root in the depths, put out buds
and shoots, flourish up in clusters and ears, and luxuriate in a summer
never to be followed by the decay of Autumn.

Only a few men of those living about Christ believed in the Kingdom and
prepared themselves for the great day. Only a few, insignificant men,
scattered like tiny particles of yeast in the midst of the divided
nations and the immense Empires, but these few dozen insignificant men
gathered together in the midst of a predestined people were to become,
through the contagion of their example, thousands upon thousands, and
only three hundred years after them, in the place of Tiberius, ruled a
man who bowed the knee before the heirs of the Apostles.

But men must renounce everything else if they are to enjoy the promised
Kingdom. Worldly-minded men do the same in their temporal affairs. If a
man working in another’s field discovers a treasure-store, he quickly
hides it again and hurries to sell all that he has to buy that field. If
a merchant looking for marvelous jewels worthy to be offered to
monarchs, finds a pearl larger and purer than any he has ever seen, he
goes and sells everything that he has, even the other pearls of less
price, to buy this unique and wonderful pearl.

If the workman and the merchant, material-minded men, who are satisfied
with frail acquisitions, are thus ready to sell all their goods to
acquire a treasure which seems to them more precious than anything they
possess, even though it is only a material and perishable treasure, how
much more reason there is for men to renounce what they hold most dear,
in order to achieve the Kingdom of God. If the laboring-man and the
merchant for a money gain, likely to be stolen or destroyed, thus
consent to a provisional sacrifice which will give them a hundred per
cent profit, ought not we for an infinitely greater, infinitely higher
profit, throw away the best we have, even if it has seemed until now of
inestimable price?

But before we make this renunciation we must take thought and be sure
that what remains to us will be enough to take us to the end of this new
undertaking. We must measure the forces of our soul, that it may not
happen to us as to the man who wished to build up a tower, a beautiful
tower which would soar up to the sky like that of Jerusalem. He took no
account of the cost but called the diggers, had the foundations
excavated; called the masons and had the four walls of the foundations
begun; but when the tower had scarcely been raised above the level of
the earth, and was not yet as high as the roof of a house, he was
obliged to stop because he had no more money to pay for the mortar, the
stones, the bricks and the working men; and the tower remained thus, low
and unsightly, in memory of his presumption: and his neighbors mocked at
him.

A king who wants to make war on another king first takes account of his
soldiers, and if he can count only on ten thousand and the other has
twenty thousand, he puts off any idea of war, and sends an embassy of
peace before his enemy can take the first hostile step. He who is not
sure of himself, of being able to conquer to the last, does not follow
Christ. For the foundation of the Kingdom is infinitely harder work than
the building of a tower, and the creation of the new man is war not less
harsh than external war, although silent and inner.

THE BANQUET

Only the clean of heart can enter into the Kingdom. The Kingdom is an
eternal feast, and only those dressed for a feast can go there. There
was a King who celebrated his son’s wedding, and those whom he invited
did not come. Then the King called in the common people, the passers-by,
the beggars, every one; but when the King came into the banqueting hall
and saw one of the guests all filthy with grease and mud, he had him
cast outside the door, to gnash his teeth in the coldness of night.

At the banquet of the Kingdom if the first called do not come, all are
accepted; even the wretched and the sinners. The King had invited first
the chosen people; but one had bought a piece of ground, another five
yoke of oxen, a third had taken a wife that day. They were all deep in
their affairs, and some did not even trouble to send an excuse. Then the
King sent his servants to pick up out of the streets the blind, the
poor, the maimed and the halt, the lowest of the rabble; and still there
was room. Then he commanded that those who passed in front of his palace
should be forced to come in, whoever they might be; and the banquet
began. It was a royal banquet, a rich and magnificent feast; but after
all, it consisted in enjoying lamb and fish, in getting drunk on wine
and cider. At the break of day the bonfire was burned out, the tables
were cleared, every one had to return to his home and to his poverty. If
some of those whom the King first invited preferred another material
pleasure to this material pleasure it was pardonable.

But the invitation to the banquet of the Kingdom is a promise of
spiritual happiness, absolute, satisfying, perpetual. Something else
than the passing amusements of terrestrial life: nauseating drunkenness,
food that distends the stomach, sensual pleasures that leave a man
bone-weary and defiled. And yet the men whom Jesus chose among all other
men, and called first of all to the divine feast of the reborn, did not
respond. They made wry faces, complained, slipped away and continued
their habitual low actions. They preferred the rubbish of carnal goods
to the splendor of high hope which is the only reasonable reason for
living.

Then all the others were called in their place: beggars instead of the
rich, sinners instead of Pharisees, women of the streets instead of fine
ladies, the sick and sorrowing instead of the strong and happy.

Even the latest arrivals if they come in time will be admitted to the
feast. The master of the vineyard saw in the marketplace certain
laborers who were waiting for work, sent them out to prune his vines,
and agreed on their wages. Later at noon-day he saw others without work
and sent also those; and still later more again, and he sent them all.
And they all worked, some at pruning and some at hoeing, and when the
evening came the master gave the same pay to all. But those who had
begun in the morning early, murmured, “Why do those who have worked less
than we receive the same payment?” But the master answered one of them
and said, “Didst not thou agree with me for a penny; why then dost thou
lament? If it is my pleasure to give the same to the working men of the
last hour, is that robbing you others?”

The apparent injustice of the master is only a more generous justice. To
all he gives what he has promised, and he who arrived last but works
with equal hope has the same right as the others to enjoy that Kingdom
for which he has labored until the night.

Woe to him who comes too late! No one knows the exact day, but after
that hour he who has not gone in will knock at the door, and it will not
be opened to him, and he will mourn in outer darkness.

The master has gone to the wedding and the servants do not know when he
will come back. Fortunate are those who have waited for him and whom he
will find awake. The master himself will seat them at the table and will
serve them. But if he find them sleeping, if no one is ready to receive
him, if they make him knock at the door before opening it, if they come
to meet him disheveled, tousled, half-clad, and if he finds in the house
no lamp lighted, no water warmed, he will take the servants by the arm
and drive them out without pity.

Every one should be ready because the Son of Man is like a thief in the
night who sends no word beforehand when he will come. Or like a
bridegroom who has been detained by some one in the street. In the house
of the bride there are ten virgins who are waiting to go to meet him
with the light of the procession. Five, the wise virgins, take oil for
their lamps, and wait to hear the voices and the steps of the
approaching bridegroom. The other five, the foolish, do not think of the
oil, and, tired of waiting, fall asleep. And suddenly there is the sound
of the nuptial procession arriving. The five wise virgins light their
lamps and run out into the street joyfully to welcome the bridegroom.
The other five wake up with a start and ask their companions to give
them a little oil. But the others say, “Why did you not provide for that
sooner? Go and buy some.” And the foolish run from one house to another
to get a little oil; but everybody is asleep, and nobody answers them,
and the shops are closed and the roaming dogs bark at their heels. They
go back to the house of the wedding, but now the door is closed. The
five wise virgins are already there and feasting with the bridegroom.
The five foolish virgins knock and beg and cry out, but no one comes to
open for them. Through the cracks in the window casings they see the
glowing lights of the supper. They hear the clatter of the dishes, the
clinking of the cups, the songs of the young men, the sound of the
musical instruments, but they cannot enter. They must stay there until
morning, in the dark, and the wind. Shut out from the pleasures of the
evening festival, they tremble and shake in terror.

THE NARROW GATE

“Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the
way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:
Because strait is the gate, narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life,
and few there be that find it.” Those who will try to enter will fail,
because the master of the house, when he has shut his door, will no
longer recognize any one.

Until the great day, until it is too late, “Ask and it shall be given to
you; seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.”
Even hard, slothful, obstinate men give way to persistent entreaty. If
even men are not always insensible to pleadings how much surer will be
the response from a Father who loves us?

A man at midnight knocks at the door of a friend and wakens him. Through
the door he says to him, “Friend, lend me three loaves; For a friend of
mine in his journey is come to me, and I have nothing to set before
him.” But the other, still half asleep, replies, “Trouble me not: for I
am tired, and I do not wish to arise. And here in my bed I have my
children who are asleep and if I get up I will wake them and chill
them.” But the other will not give up, and knocks again on the door and
raises his voice and begs with clasped hands that the other one will do
him this service, for he has no other friends near, and the hour is late
and his guest hungry and waiting for him. And he storms so at the door
that his friend gets out of bed and lets him come in and gives him as
many loaves as he needs. The friend was weak, but good-hearted. And even
the bad-hearted do as he does. There was in a certain city a judge who
cared for no one, a morose and scornful man who wanted to do everything
as it suited him best. A widow went every day before him and asked for
justice, and although her cause was just the judge always sent her away
and would not do what she wished. But the widow patiently endured all
his repulses and did not weary in her importunity. And finally the judge
to get rid of this woman who wore him out with her supplications,
pleadings, and prayers, gave the sentence and sent her in peace.

But no more must be asked than can be expected. He who has accomplished
his task will eat and drink but will not have any special place of
honor, nor will he be better served than his brother, and certainly not
so well as his superior. When the servant, having been in the field
sowing or pasturing the cattle, comes back to the house, the master does
not call him to eat at his own table, but first is served himself and
afterwards gives the servant the meal which is due him. This is a
Parable which Jesus meant for His Apostles, who were already disputing
about who would have the highest place in the Kingdom. “Doth he thank
that servant because he did the things that were commanded him? I trow
not. So likewise ye, when ye shall have done all those things which were
commanded you, say: We are unprofitable servants: we have done that
which was our duty to do.”

The only thing which counts is the actual doing. There are those who say
“yes” to orders but who after this do nothing. Such men shall be
condemned more severely than those who refused openly and then
afterwards, repentant, obeyed. A father had two sons and said to the
older, “Son, go work to-day in my vineyard.” And the son answered, “I
go, sir,” but instead of going to work in the vineyard he lay down in
the shade to sleep. And the father said to the second, “Go too and work
with your brother.” But the son answered, “No, to-day I wish to rest
because I am not well.” But later, thinking of the old man who could not
do the work himself any longer, he took back his refusal, overcame his
indolence and went to the vineyard and worked with a will till evening.

To listen to the word of the Kingdom is not enough. To consent verbally
and to live just as before, without effort to change the heart, is less
than nothing. “Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth
them, I will show you to whom he is like; He is like a man which built
an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock, and when
the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could
not shake it, for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth and
doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon
the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately
it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.”

The same teaching is in the Parable of the Sowing, “A sower went out to
sow his seed: and as he sowed, some fell by the wayside; and it was
trodden down, and the fowls of the air devoured it, and some fell upon a
rock; and as soon as it was sprung up, it withered away, because it
lacked moisture. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprang up
with it and choked it. And other fell on good ground, and sprang up and
bare fruit an hundredfold.” This is the Parable which the Twelve were
incapable of understanding. Jesus was obliged to explain it Himself. The
seed is the Word of God. Those by the wayside are they that hear, then
cometh Satan and taketh the Word out of their hearts lest they should
believe and be saved. They on the rock are they which when they hear
receive the Word with joy, and these have no root which for a while
believe and in time of temptation fall away. And that which fell among
thorns are they which when they have heard go forth and are choked with
cares and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to
perfection. But that on the good ground are they which in an honest and
good heart having heard the Word keep it and bring forth fruit with
patience. But it is not enough to hear it merely, to understand it, to
practice it. He who has received it should not keep it to himself. Who
is the man who having a lamp hides it under the bed or covers it with a
vessel? The light should stand high in the center of the room that they
which enter in may see it and be lighted.

A Lord traveling into a far country left to each of his servants ten
talents with the understanding that they should use the money to good
purpose. And when he came back he reckoned with them. And the first
delivered to him twenty talents, because with the first ten he had
earned ten other talents. And the Lord made him steward over all his
goods. And the second delivered him fifteen talents, for he had not been
able to earn more than five more. But the third presented himself
timorously and showed him, wrapped up in a napkin, the ten talents which
he had received. “Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping
where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed: And
I was afraid, and went and hid thy talents in the earth.” And the Lord
answered, “Thou wicked and slothful servant, I will judge thee by thine
own words. Take the talents and give them to him who has twenty.” But he
has already plenty. “I say unto you,” answered the Lord, “For unto every
one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him
that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.” And the
unprofitable servant was cast into outer darkness, where there was
weeping and gnashing of teeth. He who has received the Word ought to
double his wealth. He has received so great a treasure that if he leaves
it useless, he deserves to have it taken away from him. From him who
does not add to it shall be taken away even that which he has, and unto
him who has doubled his treasures shall be given even more. Those who do
not use the treasure of the Word are not poverty-stricken men who need
gifts because they are destitute, but faithless and slothful husbandmen,
to whom was entrusted the most fruitful field in all the universe. Happy
the steward whom the Master shall find attentive to act justly and to
give to all their rightful part of the harvest. But if the steward
begins to oppress the serving men and women and thinks only of eating
and getting drunk he will be scourged and punished when the Master
returns, just punishment for the faithless!

The servant who does not know what the Master wishes done, and so, not
knowing, does not carry out His wishes, shall be less punished than he
who knew, and still does the contrary, for he shall be driven out of the
house where he gave orders. The bearers of the Word have no excuse if
they are not the first to obey God’s wishes. From him to whom much was
given, much shall be required.

THE PRODIGAL SON

A man had two sons. His wife was dead, but he still had these two sons,
only two. But two are always better than one. If the first is away from
home, the second is still there; if the younger fall ill, the older
works for two; if one should die ... even children die, even the young
die, and sometimes before the old ... if one of the two should die,
there is at least one left who will care for the poor father.

This man loved his sons, not only because they were of his blood but
because he had a loving heart. He loved them both, the older and the
younger; perhaps the younger a little more than the older, but so little
that he did not realize it himself. Fathers and mothers often have a
weakness for the youngest because he is the smallest, he is the
sweetest, he is the last baby, and after his birth there was never
another one, so that his boyhood, still so recent, so prolonged,
stretches out to the sill of his young manhood like a lingering halo of
tenderness. It seems only yesterday that he was a baby at the breast,
that he took his first stumbling steps, that he sprang up to embrace his
father, or sat astride his knees.

But this man was not partial. He loved his sons like his two eyes and
his two hands, equally dear, one at the left, one at the right, and he
saw to it that both were happy. Nothing lacked for either one.

And yet, even in the case of sons of one father, it almost never happens
that two brothers have the same tastes or even similar tastes. The older
was a serious-minded young man, sedate, settled, who seemed already
grown up and mature, a husband, the head of a family. He respected his
father, but more as master than as father, without any impulsive show of
affection. He worked faithfully, but he was hard and captious with the
servants; he went through all the religious forms, but did not let the
poor come about him. Although the house was full of all possible good
things, yet for them there was never anything. He pretended to love his
brother, but his heart was full of the poison of envy. When people say
“to love like a brother” they say the contrary of what ought to be said.
Brothers very rarely love each other. Jewish history, not to speak of
any other, begins with Cain, goes on with Jacob’s cheating Esau, with
Joseph sold by his brothers, with Absalom, who killed Amon, with Solomon
who had Adonijah killed: a long bloody road of jealousy, opposition and
betrayal. It would be more correct to say “a father’s love,” rather than
a brother’s.

The second son seemed of another race. He was younger and was not
ashamed to be young. He splashed about and made merry in his youth as in
a warm lake. He had all the desires, the graces, and the defects of his
age. He was fitful with his father. One day he hurt him, the next, put
him into the seventh heaven; he was capable of not saying a word for
weeks together and then suddenly throwing himself on his father’s neck
in the highest spirits. Good times with his friends were more to his
taste than work. He refused no invitations to drink, stared at women and
dressed better than other people. But he was warmhearted; he gave money
to the needy, was charitable without boasting of it, never sent away any
one disconsolate. He was seldom seen at the synagogue, and for this and
for other reasons the middle-class people of the neighborhood, timid,
colorless people, religious and self-seeking, did not think well of him
and advised their sons to have nothing to do with him. So much the more
because the young man wanted to spend more than his father’s resources
allowed him—a good man, they said, but weak and blinded—and because he
talked recklessly and said things which were not fitting for the son of
a good family brought up as he ought to be. The little life of that
little country hole was repugnant to him; he said it was better to look
for adventure in rich countries, populous, far away, beyond the
mountains and the sea, where the big, luxurious cities are, with marble
buildings and the best wines and shops full of silk and silver, and
women dressed in fine clothes like queens fresh from aromatic baths who
lightly give themselves for a piece of gold.

There in the country you had to obey orders and work hard, and there was
no outlet for gypsy-like and nomadic tastes. His father, although he was
rich, although he was good, measured out the drachma as if they were
talents. His brother was vexed if he bought a new tunic or came home a
little tipsy; in the family all they knew was the field, the furrow, the
pasture, the stock; a life that was not a life but one long effort.

And one day (he had thought of it many times before, but had never had
the courage to say it) he hardened his heart and his face and said to
his father, “Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me,
and I will ask nothing more of thee.”

When the old man heard this, he was deeply hurt, but he made no answer,
and went away into his room that his tears should not be seen, and for a
while neither of them spoke any more of this matter. But the son
suffered, was sullen, and lost all his ardor and animation even to the
fresh color of his face. And the father, seeing his son suffer, suffered
himself, and yet suffered more at the thought of losing him. But finally
paternal love conquered self-love. The estimations and valuations of the
property were made, and the father gave to both his sons their rightful
part and kept the rest for himself. The young man lost no time, he sold
what he could not carry away, gathered together a goodly sum, and one
evening, without saying anything to any one, mounted his fine horse and
went away. The older brother was rather pleased by his departure; the
younger would never have the courage to come back; so now he was the
only son, first in command, and no one would take away the rest of his
inheritance from him.

But the father secretly wept many tears, all the tears of his old
wrinkled eyelids. Every line of his old face was washed with tears, his
aged cheeks were soaked with his grieving. His son was gone and he
needed all the love of the remaining son to make up for the sorrow of
the separation.

But he had an intuition that perhaps he had not lost his son forever,
his second-born, that before his death he would have the happiness to
kiss him again; and this idea helped him to endure the loneliness.

In the meantime the young man drew rapidly near to the rich city of
revels where he meant to live. At every turning of the road he felt of
the money-bags which hung at either side of his saddle. He soon arrived
at the city of his desire and began his feasting. It seemed to him that
those thousands of coins would last forever. He rented a fine house,
bought five or six slaves, dressed like a prince, and soon had men and
women friends who were guests at his table, and who drank his wine till
their stomachs could hold no more. He did not economize with women and
chose the most beautiful the city contained, those who knew how to dance
and sing and dress with magnificence, and undress with grace. No
presents seemed too fine or too rich to please those bodies which
abandoned themselves with such voluptuous softness, and which gave him
the wildest, most torturing pleasure. The little provincial lord from
the dull country, repressed in the most sensual period of his life, now
vented his voluptuousness, his love of luxury, in this dangerous life.

Such a life could not go on forever: the money bags of the prodigal son
were not bottomless—no money bags are—and there came a day when there
was neither gold nor silver, and not even copper, but only empty bags of
canvas and leather lying limp and flabby on the brick floor of his room.
His friends disappeared, the women disappeared, slaves, beds and
dining-tables were sold. With the proceeds he had enough to buy food,
but only for a short time. To complete his misfortune, a famine came on
the country and the prodigal son found himself hungering in the midst of
a famine-stricken people. The women had gone off to other cities where
the situation was better; the friends of his drunken night-revels had
hard work to look out for themselves.

The unfortunate man, stripped and destitute, left the city, traveling
with a lord who was going to the country where he had a fine estate. He
begged him for work, till the lord hired him as swine-herd because he
was young and strong and hardly any one was willing to be a swine-herd.
For a Jew nothing could be a greater affliction than this. Even in
Egypt, although animals were adored there, the only people forbidden to
enter the temples were swine-herds. No father would have given his
daughter to wife to a swine-herd and no man for all the gold in the
world would have married the daughter of a swine-herd.

But the prodigal son had no choice and was forced to lead the herd of
swine out to the pasture. He was given no pay and very little to eat,
because there was only a little for any one; but there was no famine for
the hogs, because they could eat anything. There were plenty of carob
beans and they gorged themselves on those. Their hungry attendant
enviously watched the pink and black animals rooting in the earth,
chewing beans and roots, and longed to fill his stomach with the same
stuff and wept, remembering the abundance of his own home and his
festivals in the great city. Sometimes overcome with hunger he took one
of the black bean-husks, from under the grunting snouts of the pigs,
tempering the bitterness of his suffering with that insipid and woody
food. And woe to him if his employer had seen him!

His dress was a dirty slave’s smock which smelt of manure, his foot-gear
a pair of worn-out sandals scarcely held together with rushes; on his
head a faded hood. His fair young face, tanned by the sun of the hills,
was thin and long, and had taken a sickly color between gray and brown.

Who was wearing now the spotless home-spun clothes, which he had left in
his brother’s chests? Where now were the fair silken tunics dyed purple
which he had sold for so little? His father’s hired servants were better
dressed than he, and they fared better than he.

Returned to his senses, he said to himself, “How many hired servants of
my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!”
Until now he had brushed away the idea of going home as soon as it had
appeared. How could he bear to go back in this condition and give in to
his brother after having despised his home, after having made his father
weep? To return without a garment, unshod, without a penny, without the
ring—the sign of liberty—uncomely, disfigured by this famished slavery,
stinking and contaminated by this abominable trade, to show that the
wise old neighbors were right, that his serious-minded brother was
right, to bow himself at the knee of the old man whom he had left
without a greeting, to return with opprobrium as a ragged fellow to the
spot from which he had departed as a king! To come back to the
soup-plate into which he had spit—into a house which contained nothing
of his!

No, there was something of his always in his home, his father! If he
belonged to his father, his father belonged also to him. He was his
creation, made of his flesh, issued from his seed in a moment of love.
Though hurt, his father would never drive away his own flesh and blood.
If he would not take him back as son, at least he would take him back as
a hired servant, as he would any stranger, like a man born of another
father. “I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him,
Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, And am no more
worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.” I do
not come back as son but as servant, a worker, and I do not ask love
from you, for I have no more right to that, but only a little bread from
your kitchen.

And the young man gave back the hogs to his master, and went towards his
own land. He begged a piece of bread from the country people, and wept
salt tears as he ate this bread of pity and charity in the shadow of the
sycamores. His sore and blistered feet could scarcely carry him. He was
barefoot now, but his faith in forgiveness led him homeward step by
step.

And finally one day at noon he arrived in sight of his father’s house;
but he did not dare to knock, nor to call any one, nor to go in. He hung
around outside to see if any one would come out. And behold, his father
appeared on the threshold. His son was no longer the same, was changed,
but the eyes of a father even dimmed by weeping could not fail to
recognize him. He ran towards him and caught him to his breast, and
kissed him and kissed him again, and could not stop from pressing his
pale, old lips on that ravaged face, on those eyes whose expression was
altered but still beautiful, on that hair, dusty but still waving and
soft, on that flesh that was his own.

The son, covered with confusion and deeply moved, did not know how to
respond to these kisses, and as soon as he could free himself from his
father’s arms he threw himself on the ground and repeated tremulously
the speech he had prepared. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and
before thee, And am no more worthy to be called thy son.”

But if the young man had brought himself to the point of refusing the
name of son, the old man never felt himself more father than at this
moment; he seemed to become a father for a second time, and without even
answering, with his eyes still clouded and soft, but with the ringing
voice of his best days, he called to the servants:

“Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his
hand, and shoes on his feet.”

The son of the master should not return home wretchedly dressed like a
beggar. The finest garment should be given him, new shoes, a ring on his
finger, and the servants must wait on him because he, too, is a master.

“And bring hither the fatted calf; and kill it, and let us eat and be
merry: For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is
found.”

The fatted calf was kept in reserve for great feast days: but what
festival can be greater for me than this one? I had wept for my son as
dead and here he is alive with me. I had lost him in the world and the
world has delivered him back to me. He was far away and now is with me,
he was a beggar at the doors of strange houses, and now is master in his
own house; he was famished and now he shall be served with a banquet at
his own table.

And the servants obeyed him and the calf was killed, skinned, cut up and
put to cook. The oldest wine was taken from the wine-cellar, and the
finest room was prepared for the dinner in celebration of the return.
Servants went to call his father’s friends and others went to summon
musicians, that there should be music. And when everything was ready,
when the son had been bathed, and his father had kissed him many times
more—almost as if to assure himself with his lips that his true son was
there with him and it was not the vision of a dream—they commenced the
banquet, the wines were mixed and the musicians accompanied the songs of
joy.

The older son was in the field, working, and in the evening when he came
back and was near to the house he heard shouts and stampings and
clapping of hands, and the footsteps of dancers. And he could not
understand. “Whatever can have happened? Perhaps my father has gone
crazy or perhaps a wedding procession has arrived unexpectedly at our
house.”

Disliking noise and new faces, he would not enter and see for himself
what it was. But he called to a boy coming out of the house and asked
him what all that clatter was.

“Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf,
because he hath received him safe and sound.”

These words were like a thrust at his heart. He turned pale, not with
pleasure, but with rage and jealousy. The old envy boiled up inside. It
seemed to him that he had all the right on his side, and he would not go
into the house, but stayed outside, angry.

Then his father went out and entreated him: “Come, for your brother has
come back and has asked after you, and will be glad to see you, and we
will feast together.”

But the serious-minded young man could not contain himself, and for the
first time in his life ventured to reprove his father to his face.

“Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any
time thy commandment; yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make
merry with my friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath
devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted
calf.”

With these few words he discloses all the ignominy of his soul hidden
until then under the Pharisaical cloak of good behavior. He reproaches
his father with his own obedience, he reproaches him with his avarice.
“You have never given me even a kid”—and he reproaches him, he, a
loveless son, for being a too-loving father. “This thy son.” He does not
say “brother.” His father may recognize him as son, but he will not
recognize him as brother. “He hath devoured thy living with harlots.
Money that was not his, with women that were not his; while I stayed
with thee sweating on thy fields with no recompense.”

But his father pardoned this son, as he did the other son. “Son, thou
art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we
should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is
alive again; and was lost, and is found.”

The father is sure that these words will be enough to silence the other.
“He was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found. What other
reasons can be needed, and what other reasons can be better than
these—grant that he has done what he has done, that he has spent my
money on women; he has dissipated as much as he could; he left me
without a greeting; he left me to weep. He could have done worse than
that and still would have been my son. He could have stolen on the
streets, could have murdered the guiltless, he could have offended me
even more, but I never could forget that he is my son, my own blood. He
was gone and has returned, was disappeared and has reappeared, was lost
and is found, was dead and is alive again. This is enough for me and to
celebrate this miracle a fatted calf seems little to me. Thou hast never
left me, I always enjoyed thee, all my kids are thine if thou asketh for
them; thou hast eaten every day at my table; but he was gone for so many
days and weeks and months! I saw him only in my dreams; he has not eaten
a single piece of bread with me in all that time. Have I not the right
to triumph at least this day?”

Jesus stopped here, He did not go on with His story. There was no need
of that, the meaning of the parable is clear with no additions. But no
story—after that of Joseph—that ever came from human lips is more
beautiful than this one or ever touched more deeply the hearts of men.
Interpreters are free to comment and explain, that the prodigal son is
the new man purified by the experience of grief, and the older son, the
Pharisee who observes the old law but does not know love. Or else that
the older son is the Jewish people who do not understand the love of the
Father welcoming the pagan, although he had wallowed in the foul loves
of paganism and had lived in the company of swine.

Jesus was no maker of riddles. He Himself says expressly that the
meaning of this and similar parables is: “More joy shall be in Heaven
over one sinner who repents than over all the righteous” who vaunt
themselves in their false righteousness; than for all the pure who are
proud of their external purity; than for all the zealots who hide the
aridity of their hearts by their apparent respect for the law.

The truly righteous will be received in the Kingdom, but no one ever
doubted them, they have made no one tremble and suffer and there is no
need to rejoice; but for him who has been near perdition, who has gone
through deep sufferings to make himself a new soul, to overcome his
bestiality, who merits his place in the Kingdom the more because he has
had to deny all his past to obtain it, for him songs of triumph shall
arise.

“What man of you having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth
not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which
is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on
his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together
his friends and neighbors, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have
found my sheep which was lost.”

Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece,
doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till
she find it? And when she hath found it she calleth her friends and her
neighbors together, saying, “Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece
which I had lost.”

And what is a sheep compared to a son returned to life, to a man saved?
And of what value is a piece of silver compared to one astray, who finds
holiness again?

THE PARABLES OF SIN

But forgiveness creates an obligation for which there are no exceptions
allowed. Love is a fire which goes out if it does not kindle others.
Thou hast burned with joy; kindle him who comes near you if thou wilt
not become like stone, smoky but cold. He who has received must give; it
is better to give much, but it is essential to give a part at least.

A king one day wanted a reckoning with his servants and one by one he
called them before him. Among the first was one who owed him ten
thousand talents, but as he had not anything to pay this, the king
commanded that he should be sold and his wife and his children and all
that he had, in payment of a part of the debt. The servant in despair
threw himself at the feet of the king. He seemed a mere bundle of
garments crying out sobs and promises. “Have patience with me, wait a
little longer and I will pay you all, but do not have my wife and my
children separated from me, sent away like cattle, no one knows where.”

The king was moved with compassion—he also had little children—and he
sent him away free and forgave him that great debt. The servant went out
and seemed another man; but his heart, even after so much mercy shown to
him, was the same as before. And he met one of his fellow-servants who
owed him a hundred pence, a small thing compared with ten thousand
talents, and he sprang on him and took him by the throat. “Pay me what
thou owest and at once, or I will have thee bound by the guards.” The
unlucky man assaulted in this way did what his persecutor had done a
little while before in the presence of the king. He fell down at his
feet and besought him and wept and swore that he would pay him in a few
days and kissed the hem of his garment, and recalled to him their old
comradeship and begged him to wait in the name of the children who were
waiting for him in his home.

But the oaf, who was a servant and not a king, had no compassion. He
took his debtor by the arm and had him cast into prison. The news spread
abroad among the other servants of the palace. They were full of
compassion, and it came quickly to the ears of the king, who called that
pitiless man and delivered him to the tormentors: “I forgave you that
great debt, shouldst thou not have had compassion on thy brother, for
his debt was so much smaller? I had pity on thee, oughtest thou not to
have had pity on him?”

Sinners when they recognize the evil which is in their hearts and abjure
it with true humility are nearer to the Kingdom than pious men who daub
themselves with the praise of their own piety.

Two men went up into the temple to pray; the one a Pharisee, the other a
Publican. The Pharisee, with his phylacteries hanging upon his forehead
and on his left arm, with the long, glittering fringes on his cloak,
erect like a man who feels himself in his own house, prayed thus: “God,
I thank thee that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust,
adulterers, or even as this Publican. I fast twice in the week, I give
tithes of all that I possess.”

But the Publican did not have the courage even to lift his eyes and
seemed ashamed to appear before his Lord. He sighed and smote on his
breast and said only these words: “God be merciful to me a sinner.”

“I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the
other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that
humbleth himself shall be exalted.”

A lawyer asked Jesus who is one’s neighbor, and Jesus told this story:
“A man, a Jew, went down from Jerusalem to Jericho through the mountain
passes. Thieves fell upon him, and after they had wounded him and taken
away his clothes, they left him upon the road half dead. A priest passed
that way, one of those who go to all the feasts and meetings, and boast
that they know the will of God from beginning to end. He saw the
unfortunate man stretched out but he did not stop, and to avoid touching
something unclean he passed by on the other side of the road. A little
after came a Levite. He also was among the most accredited of the
zealots, knew every detail of all the holy ceremonies, and seemed more
than a sacristan, seemed one of the masters of the Temple. He looked at
the bloody body and went on his way. And finally came a Samaritan. To
the Jews the Samaritans were faithless, traitors, only slightly less
detestable than the Gentiles, because they would not sacrifice at
Jerusalem and accept the reform of Nehemiah. The Samaritan, however, did
not wait to see if the unfortunate man thrown among the stones of the
street were circumcized or uncircumcized, were a Jew or a Samaritan. He
came up close to him, and seeing him in such an evil pass, he was
quickly moved to pity, took down his flasks from his saddle and poured
upon his wounds a little oil, a little wine, bound them up as well as he
could with a handkerchief, put the stranger across his ass and brought
him to an inn, had him put to bed, tried to restore him, giving him
something hot to drink, and did not leave him until he saw him come to
himself and able to speak and eat. The next day he called the host apart
and gave him two pence: ‘Take care of him, do the best thou canst and
whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.’

“The neighbor, then, is he who suffers, he who needs help, whoever he
is, of whatever nation or religion he may be; even thine enemy, if he
needs thee, even if he does not ask help, is the first of ‘thy
neighbors.’”

Charity is the most valid title for admission to the Kingdom. The
wealthy glutton knew this, he who was clothed in purple and fine linen
and fared sumptuously every day. At the gate of his palace there was
Lazarus, a poor man, hungry, covered with sores, who would have been
glad to have the crumbs and the bones which fell from the rich man’s
table. The dogs took pity on Lazarus and on his wretchedness, and did
for him all they could, which was to lick his sores. And he caressed
these gentle, loving animals with his thin hands. But the rich man had
no pity on Lazarus. It never once came into his head to call him to his
table, and he never sent him a piece of bread or the leavings of the
kitchen destined for the refuse heap, which even the scullions refused
to eat. It happened that both of them, the poor man and the rich man,
died, and the poor man was welcomed into Abraham’s bosom, and the rich
man was cast into the fire to suffer. From afar off he saw Lazarus, who
was banqueting with the patriarchs, and from the midst of the fire he
cried: “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus that he may
dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am
tormented in this flame.”

He had not given Lazarus even a tiny morsel of food when he was alive,
and now he did not ask to be let out of the fire, nor a cup of water,
nor even a draught, nor even a drop, but he was content with a little
dampness which would cling on the tip of a finger, of the smallest
finger of the poor man. But Abraham answered: “Son, remember that thou
in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil
things; but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented.” If thou hadst
given the smallest part of thy dinner to him, when thou knewest he was
hungered and was crouched at thy door in worse plight than a dog, and
even the dogs had more pity than thou, if thou hadst given him a
mouthful of bread only once, thou wouldst not need now to ask the tip of
his finger dipped in water.

The rich man delights in his property and it grieves him to have to give
away even the smallest part of it because he thinks that this life will
never end and that the future will be like the past. But death comes to
him also, and when he expects it least. There was once a landed
proprietor who had an especially profitable year in all his possessions.
He had fantastic imaginings about his new riches, and he said: “I will
pull down my barns and build greater, and there will I bestow all my
fruits and my goods, the wheat, the barley and the other grains, and I
will make other barns for the hay and the straw and other stables for
the oxen that I will buy, and still another stable where I can put all
my sheep and goats, and I will say to my soul: Thou hast much goods laid
up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.”

And the idea did not come to him even for a moment that from this
largesse of the earth he could have put aside a portion to comfort the
poor of his country. But on that very night when he had imagined so many
improvements in his property, the rich man died, and the day after, he
was buried naked and alone, under the earth, and there was no one to
intercede for him in Heaven.

He who does not make friends among the poor, who does not use wealth to
comfort poverty, must not think of entering into the Kingdom. Sometimes
the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the
children of light, understand the management of their earthly affairs
better than the children of light understand their heavenly life. Like
that steward who was out of favor with his master and was obliged to
leave his position. He called one by one his lord’s debtors to him, and
canceled a part of the debt of every one, so that when he was sent away
he had made here and there with his fraudulent stratagem so many friends
that they did not let him die of hunger. He had benefited himself and
the others by cheating and robbing his master. He was a thief, but a
shrewd thief. If men would use for the salvation of the spirit the
shrewdness which this man used for his bodily comfort, how many more
would be converted to faith in the Kingdom!

He who is not converted in time will be cut down like the unfruitful
fig-tree. And the conversion must be final, for falling from grace
injures a man’s soul a great deal more than repentance helps him. A man
had an unclean spirit in him and succeeded in driving it away. The demon
walked through dry places seeking rest; and finding none, he said: “I
will return into my house whence I came out.” It happens that this
house, the soul of that man, is empty, swept and garnished so that it is
hard to recognize it. Then the demon takes to him seven other spirits
more wicked than himself and at the head of the band he enters into his
house so that the last state of that man was worse than the first.

In the day of triumph laments and excuses will count less than the
whispering of the wind among the rushes. Then will be made the last and
irrevocable choice, like that of the fisherman who, after having pulled
up from the sea his net full of fish, sits down on the beach and puts
those fit for food into his baskets and throws away the others. A long
truce is given to sinners, that they may have all the time necessary to
change their hearts, but when that day has come he who has not arrived
at the door, or is not worthy, will remain eternally outside.

A good husbandman sowed good seed in his field, but while men slept, his
enemy came and sowed tares also among the wheat. When the blade was
sprung up, the servants of the household saw the tares and came and told
their master of it.

“Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up?” But he said, “Nay; lest
while ye gather up the tares ye root up also the wheat with them. Let
both grow together until the harvest; and in the time of harvest I will
say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in
bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn.”

Thus like a good husbandman Jesus waits for the day of the harvest. One
day an immense multitude was about Him to listen to Him, and seeing all
these men and these women who were hungering after righteousness and
thirsting after love, He was moved with compassion and said to His
disciples: “The harvest truly is plenteous but the laborers are few;
Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth
laborers into this harvest.”

His voice does not carry everywhere, not even the Twelve are enough:
others are necessary to proclaim the good news, that it may be carried
to all those who suffer and who await it.

THE TWELVE

Fate knows no better way to punish the great for their greatness than by
sending them disciples. Every disciple, just because he is a disciple,
cannot understand all that his master says, but at very best only half,
and that according to the kind of mind he has. Thus without wishing to
falsify the teaching of his master, he deforms it, vulgarizes it,
belittles it, corrupts it.

The disciple nearly always has companions and is jealous of them; he
would like to be at least first among those who are second; and
accordingly he maligns and plots against his fellows; and each one
believes that he is, or at least wishes others to believe that he is,
the only perfect interpreter of the master.

The disciple knows that he is a disciple and sometimes it shames him to
be one who eats at another’s table. Then he twists and turns the
master’s thought to make it seem that he has a thought of his own,
different and original. Or else, and this is the most graceless and
servile manner of being a disciple, he teaches exactly the opposite of
what he was taught.

In every disciple, even in those who seem most loyal, there is the seed
of a Judas. A disciple is a parasite, a middleman who robs the seller
and tricks the buyer; a dependent who, invited to dine, nibbles at the
hors d’œuvres, licks the sauces, picks at the fruit, but does not attack
the bones because he has no teeth, or only milk teeth, to crack them and
suck out the meaty marrow. The disciple paraphrases sentences, obscures
mysteries, complicates what is clear, multiplies difficulties, comments
on syllables, travesties principles, clouds evidence, magnifies
non-essentials, weakens the essential, dilutes the strong wine, and
retails this hodge-podge as elixir distilled and quintessence. Instead
of a torch which gives light and fire, he is a smoky wick giving no
light even to himself.

And yet no one has been able to dispense with these pupils and
followers, nor even to wish to. For the great man is so foreign to the
multitude, so distant, so alone, that he needs to feel some one near
him. He cannot teach without the illusion that some one understands his
words, receives his ideas, transmits them to others far away before his
death and after his death. This wanderer who has no home of his own
needs a friendly hearth. To this uprooted man who cannot have a family
of his own flesh and blood, the children of his spirit are dear. The
prophet is a captain whose soldiers spring up only after his blood has
soaked into the ground, and yet he longs to feel a little army about him
during his life-time. Here is one of the most tragic elements in all
greatness: disciples are repugnant and dangerous, but disciples, even
false ones, cannot be dispensed with. Prophets suffer if they do not
find them; they suffer, perhaps more, when they have found them.

A man’s thought is bound with a thousand threads to his soul even more
closely than a child to a parent’s heart. It is infinitely precious,
delicate, fragile, and the newer it is, the harder it is for other men
to understand. It is a tremendous responsibility, a continued torture
and suffering to confide it to another, to graft it on another’s
thought, to give it into the hands of the man incapable of respecting
it, this gift so rare, a thought new in human life. And yet every great
man longs to share with all men what he has received; and to achieve
this sharing with humanity is more than he can do single-handed. Then,
too, vanity insinuates itself even in noble breasts: and vanity needs
caressing words, needs praise, even offensive praise, needs assent, even
verbal, consecration even from the mediocre, victories even if they are
only apparent.

Christ has none of this smallness of the great, and yet in order to
share all the burdens of mankind, He accepted with the other trials of
earthly life the burden of disciples. Before being tormented by His
enemies, He gave himself over to be tormented by His friends. The
priests killed him, once and once only; the disciples made Him suffer
every day of their life with Him. The anguish of His passion would not
have been completely intolerable if it had not included the desertion of
the Apostles in addition to the Sadducees, the guards, the Romans, the
crowd.

We know who the Apostles were. A Galilean, He chose them from among the
Galileans. A poor man, He chose them from among the poor; a simple man,
but of a divine simplicity transcending all philosophies, He called
simple men whose simplicity kept them like clods. He did not wish to
choose them from among the rich, because He had come to combat the rich;
nor among the scribes and doctors, because He had come to overturn their
law; nor among the philosophers, because there were no philosophers
living in Palestine, and had there been, they would have tried to
extinguish His supernatural mysticism under the dialectic bushel.

He knew that these souls were rough but had integrity, were ignorant but
ardent, and that He could in the end mold them according to His desire,
bring them up to His level, fashion them like clay from the river, which
is only mud, and yet when modeled and baked in the kiln, becomes eternal
beauty. But flame from the Holy Ghost was needed for that
transformation; until the day of the Pentecost their imperfect nature
had too often the upper hand. To the Twelve much should be pardoned
because almost always they had faith in Him; because they tried to love
Him as He wished to be loved; and, above all, because after having
deserted Him in the Garden of Gethsemane, they never forgot Him and left
to all eternity the memory of His word and of His life.

And yet our hearts ache if we look at them closely in the Gospels, those
disciples of whom we have some knowledge. They were not always worthy of
their unique and supreme felicity, those men who were so inestimably
fortunate as to live with Christ, to walk, to eat with Him, to sleep in
the same room, to look into His face, to touch His hand, to kiss Him, to
hear His words from His very mouth; those twelve fortunate men, whom
throughout the centuries millions of souls have secretly envied.

We see them, hard of head and of heart, not able to understand the
clearest parables of the Master; not always capable of understanding,
even after His death, who Jesus had been and what sort of a new Kingdom
was proclaimed by Him; often lacking in faith, in love, in brotherly
affection; eager for pay; envying each other; impatient for the revenge
which would repay them for their long wait; intolerant of those who were
not one with them; vindictive towards those who would not receive them,
somnolent, doubtful, materialistic, avaricious, cowardly.

One of them denies Him three times; one of them delays giving Him due
reverence until He is in the sepulcher; one does not believe in His
mission because He comes from Nazareth; one is not willing to admit His
resurrection; one sells Him to His enemies, and gives Him over with His
last kiss to those who come to arrest Him. Others, when Christ’s
teachings were on a too-lofty level, “went back and walked no more with
Him.”

Many times Jesus was forced to reprove them for their slowness of mind.
He told them the parable of the sower, and they did not understand its
meaning. “Know ye not this parable, and how then will ye know all
parables?” He warns them against the leaven of the Pharisees and the
Sadducees, and they think that He is speaking of material bread. “Why
reason ye because ye have no bread, perceive ye not yet, neither
understand? Have ye your heart yet hardened? Having eyes see ye not, and
having ears hear ye not?” Like the common people they constantly feel
that Jesus should be the worldly Messiah, political, warlike, come to
restore the temporal throne of David. Even when He is about to ascend
into Heaven they continue to ask Him: “Lord, wilt thou at this time
restore again the Kingdom to Israel?” And after the resurrection, the
two disciples of Emmaus say: “But we trusted that it had been he which
should have redeemed Israel.”

They disputed among themselves to know who should have the chief place
in the new Kingdom and Jesus reproved them: “What was it that ye
disputed among yourselves by the way?” But they held their peace, for by
the way they had disputed among themselves who should be the greatest.
And He sat down and called the Twelve and saith unto them: “If any man
desires to be first, the same shall be last of all and the servant of
all.” Jealous of their privileges they denounced to Jesus one who was
casting out devils in His name: “Forbid him not,” answered Jesus, “for
there is no man which shall do a miracle in my name that can lightly
speak evil of me. For he that is not against us is on our part.” After a
talk at Capernaum many murmured at his words and said: “This is an hard
saying; who can hear it?” and they left Him.

And yet Jesus spared no warnings to those who wished to follow Him. A
Scribe said to Him that he would follow Him everywhere. “And Jesus saith
unto him: The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but
the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.” Another who was a
disciple wished first to bury his father, “But Jesus said unto him,
Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead.” And still another, “Lord,
I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell which are at
home at my house. And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand
to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of God.”

A rich young man came to Him who observed all the Commandments. “Then
Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou
lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor,
and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come take up the cross, and
follow me. And he was sad at that saying, and went away grieved: for he
had great possessions.”

To be with Him, a man must needs leave his home, his dead, his family,
his money,—all the ordinary loves, all the ordinary good things of life.
What is given in exchange is so great that it will repay every
renunciation. But few are capable of this renunciation, and some after
they have believed, falter.

Renunciation was easier for the Twelve, almost all poor men, yet even
they did not always succeed in being as Jesus wished them.

“Simon, Simon,” He said one day to Peter, “behold, Satan hath desired to
have you, that he may sift you as wheat.” In spite of the winnowing of
Christ, some evil seeds remained among his grain.

SIMON, CALLED THE ROCK

Peter before the Resurrection is like a body beside a spirit, like a
material voice which accompanies the sublimation of the soul. He is the
earth which believes in Heaven but remains earthy. In his rough man’s
imagination the Kingdom of Heaven still resembles rather too closely the
Kingdom of the Prophets’ Messiah.

When Jesus pronounced the famous words: “It is easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the
kingdom of God,” Peter thought this sweeping condemnation of wealth very
harsh. “Then answered Peter and said unto him, Behold, we have forsaken
all, and followed thee; what shall we have therefore?” He acts like a
money lender inquiring what interest he can expect. And Jesus, to
console him, promises him that he will sit upon a throne to judge one of
the tribes of Israel, that the other eleven will judge the other eleven
tribes, and adds that every one shall have a hundred times what he has
given up.

Again Peter does not understand what Christ means when He asserts that
only what comes from man himself can defile men. “Peter then answered
and said unto him: Declare unto us this parable, and Jesus said: Are ye
also without understanding? Do ye not yet understand?” Among the
disciples so slow to understand, Peter is one of the slowest. His
surname “Cefa,” stone, piece of rock, was not given him only for the
firmness of his faith, but for the hardness of his head.

He was not an alert spirit in either the literal or the figurative
meaning of the word. He easily fell asleep even at supreme moments. He
fell asleep on the Mount of the Transfiguration. He fell asleep on the
night at Gethsemane, after the last supper, where Jesus had uttered the
saying which would have kept even a Scribe everlastingly from sleep. And
yet his boldness was great. When Jesus that last evening announced that
He was to suffer and die, Peter burst out: “Lord, I am ready to go with
thee both, into prison, and to death. Although all shall be offended,
yet will not I. If I should die with thee, I will not deny Thee in any
wise.” Jesus answered him: “Verily I say unto thee that this night
before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice.”

Jesus knew him better than Peter knew himself. When he stood in the
courtyard of Caiaphas, warming himself at the brazier while the priests
were questioning and insulting his God, he denied three times that he
was one of His followers.

At the moment of the arrest he had made, against the teaching of Jesus,
an appearance of resistance: he had cut off the ear of Malchus. He had
not yet understood after years of daily comradeship with Christ that any
form of material violence was repellent to Jesus. He had not understood
that if Jesus had wished to save Himself, He could have hidden in the
wilderness unknown to all, or escaped out of the hands of the soldiers
as He had done that first time at Nazareth. So little did Jesus value
this act, contrary to His teaching, that he healed the wound at once and
reproved His untimely avenger.

That was not the first time that Peter showed himself unequal to great
events. He had like all crude personalities a tendency to see the
material dross in spiritual manifestations, the low in the lofty, the
commonplace in the tragic. On the mountain of the transfiguration, when
he was awakened and saw Jesus refulgent with white light, speaking with
two others, with two spirits, with two prophets, the first thought which
came to him, instead of worshiping and keeping silence, was to build a
tabernacle for these great personages. “Lord, it is good for us to be
here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee,
and one for Moses, and one for Elias.” Luke, the wise man, adds to
excuse him, “not knowing what he said.”

When he saw Jesus walking in all security on the lake, the idea came to
him to do the same thing. “And when Peter was come down out of the ship,
he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind
boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying,
Lord, save me” And immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand, and
caught him, and said unto him, “O thou of little faith, wherefore didst
thou doubt?” Because he was familiar with the lake and with Jesus, the
good fisherman thought he could do as his master did, and did not know
that the storm could be mastered only by a soul infinitely greater, a
faith infinitely more potent than his.

His great love for Christ, which makes up for all his weakness, led him
one day almost to rebuke Him. Jesus had told His disciples how He must
suffer and be killed. “Then Peter took him and began to rebuke him,
saying, Be it far from thee, Lord: this shall not be unto thee. But he
turned and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an
offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but
those that be of men.” No one ever pronounced such a terrible judgment
on Simon, called Peter. He was called to work for the Kingdom of God,
and he _thought as men do_. His mind, still occupied with the vulgar
idea of the triumphant Messiah, refused to conceive of a persecuted
Messiah condemned and executed. His soul had not yet kindled to the idea
of divine expiation, the idea that salvation cannot be secured without
an offering of suffering and blood, and that the great should sacrifice
His body to the ferocity of mean men in order that the mean, after being
enlightened by that life, may be saved from that death. He loved Jesus,
but although his love was warm and potent, it still had something earthy
in it, and he grew angry at the thought that his king should be reviled,
that his God should die. And yet he was the first to recognize Jesus as
the Christ; and this primacy is so great that nothing has been able to
cancel it.

SONS OF THUNDER

The two fishermen, the brothers James and John, who had left their boat
and their nets on the shore at Capernaum in order to go with Jesus, form
together with Peter a sort of favorite triumvirate. They are the only
ones who accompany Jesus into the house of Jairus, and on the Mount of
Transfiguration, and they are the ones whom He takes with Him on the
night of Gethsemane. But in spite of their long intimacy with the
Master, they never acquired sufficient humility. Jesus gave them the
surname of “Boanerges—Sons of Thunder,” an ironic surname, alluding
perhaps to their fiery, irascible character.

When they all started together towards Jerusalem, Jesus sent some of
them ahead to make ready for Him. They were crossing Samaria and were
badly received in a village. “And they did not receive him, because his
face was as though he would go to Jerusalem. And when his disciples,
James and John, saw this, they said: Lord, wilt thou that we command
fire to come down from heaven and consume them? But he turned, and
rebuked them.” For them, Galileans, faithful to Jerusalem, the
Samaritans were always enemies. In vain had they heard the Sermon on the
Mount: “Do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which
despitefully use you, and persecute you.” In vain had they received
instructions for their mission among the peoples: “And whosoever shall
not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house
or city, shake off the dust from your feet.” Angry at an affront to
Jesus they presumed to be able to command fire from Heaven. It seemed to
them a work of righteous justice to reduce to ashes the village guilty
of inhospitality. And yet far as they were from that loving rebirth of
the soul which alone constitutes the reality of the Kingdom of Heaven,
these men had the pretension to claim the first places on the day of
triumph.

“And James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came unto him, saying: Master,
we would that thou shouldest do for us whatsoever we should desire. And
he said unto them: What would ye that I should do for you? They said
unto him: Grant unto us that we may sit one on thy right hand and one on
thy left hand in thy glory. But Jesus said unto them: Ye know not what
ye ask. And when the ten heard it they began to be much displeased with
James and John. But Jesus called them to Him and saith unto them:
Whosoever will be great among you let him be your minister; and
whosoever will be the chief among you, let him be your servant, for even
the Son of Man came not to be ministered unto but to minister.”

Christ, the overturner of the old order, took this occasion to repeat
the master word to which all magnanimous souls respond. Only the
useless, the petty, the parasites, wish to be served, even by their
inferiors (if any one in the absolute meaning of the word can be
inferior to them), but any superior being is always at the service of
lesser souls precisely because he is superior.

This miraculous paradox is the proof of the fire of genius. It is
repugnant to the egotism of the self-centered, to the pretensions of
would-be supermen, and to the poverty of the avaricious because the
little that they have is not even enough for themselves. He who cannot
or will not serve shows that he has nothing to give, is a weakling,
impotent, imperfect, empty. But the genius is no true genius if he does
not exuberantly benefit his inferiors. To serve is not always the same
as to obey. A people can be served better sometimes by a man who puts
himself at their head to force them to be saved even if they do not wish
it. There is nothing servile in serving.

James and John understood this stimulating saying of Jesus. We find one
of them, John, among the nearest and most loving of the disciples. At
the Last Supper he leans his head on Jesus’ breast; and from the height
of the cross Jesus, crucified, confides the Virgin to him, that he
should be a son to her.

THE OTHERS

Thomas owes his popularity to the quality which should be his shame.
Thomas, the twin, is the guardian of modernity, as Thomas Aquinas is the
oracle of medieval life. He is the true patron saint of Spinoza and of
all the other deniers of the resurrection, the man who is not satisfied
even with the testimony of his eyes, but wishes that of his hands as
well. And yet his love for Jesus makes him pardonable. When they came to
the Master to say that Lazarus was dead, and the disciples hesitated
before going into Judea among their enemies, it was Thomas alone who
said: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” The martyrdom which he
did not find then came to him in India, after Christ’s death.

Matthew is the dearest of all the Twelve. He was a tax-gatherer, a sort
of under-publican, and probably had more education than his companions.
He followed Jesus as readily as the fishermen. “And after these things
he went forth, and saw a publican named Levi, sitting at the receipt of
custom: and he said unto him, follow me. And he left all, rose up, and
followed him. And Levi made him a great feast in his own house.” It was
not a heap of torn nets which Matthew left, but a position, a stipend,
secure and increasing earnings. Giving up riches is easy for a man who
has almost nothing. Among the Twelve Matthew was certainly the richest
before his conversion. Of no other is it told that he could offer a
great feast, and this means that he made a greater and more meritorious
sacrifice by his rising at the first call from the seat where he was
accumulating money.

Matthew and Judas were perhaps the only ones of the Disciples who knew
how to write, and to Matthew we owe the first collection of Logia or
memorable sayings of Jesus, if the testimony of Papia is true. In the
Gospel which is called by his name, we find the most complete text of
the Sermon on the Mount. Our debt to the poor excise-man is heavy:
without him many words of Jesus, and the most beautiful, might have been
lost. This handler of drachma, shekels and talents, whom his despised
trade must have predisposed to avarice, has laid up for us a treasure
worth more than all the money coined on the earth before and after his
time.

Philip of Bethsaida also knew how to reckon. When the famished multitude
pressed about Him, Jesus turned to him to ask what it would cost to buy
bread for all those people. Philip answered Him: “Two hundred pennyworth
of bread is not sufficient for them.” He was later to become a
proclaimer of his Master’s fame. He it was who announced to Nathaniel
the coming of Jesus, and it was to him that the Greeks of Jerusalem
turned when they wished to speak to the new Prophet.

Nathaniel answered Philip’s announcement with sarcasm: “Can there any
good thing come out of Nazareth?” But Philip succeeded in bringing him
to Jesus, who as soon as He saw him, exclaimed, “Behold an Israelite
indeed, in whom is no guile! Nathaniel saith unto him, Whence knowest
thou me? Jesus answered and said unto him, Before that Philip called
thee, when thou wast under the fig tree, I saw thee. Nathaniel answered
and saith unto him, Rabbi, thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of
Israel. Jesus answered and said unto him, Because I said unto thee, I
saw thee under the fig tree, believest thou? thou shalt see greater
things than these.”

Less enthusiastic and inflammable was Nicodemus, who, as a matter of
fact, never wished to be known as a disciple of Jesus. Nicodemus was
old, had been to school to the Rabbis, was a friend of the Jerusalem
Sanhedrin, but the stories of the miracles had shaken him, and he went
by night to Jesus to tell Him that he believed that He was sent by God.
Jesus answered him, “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be
born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Nicodemus did not
understand these words, or perhaps they startled him. He had come to see
a miracle worker and had found a Sybil, and with the homely good sense
of the man who wishes to avoid being taken in by a fraud he said, “How
can a man be born when he is old? can he enter the second time into his
mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus answers with words of profound
meaning, “Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot
enter into the kingdom of God.”

But Nicodemus still did not understand. “How can these things be?” Jesus
answered, “Art thou a master of Israel and knowest not these things?”

Nicodemus always respected the young Galilean, but his sympathy was as
circumspect as his visit. Once when the leaders of the priests and the
Pharisees were meditating how to capture Jesus, Nicodemus ventured a
defense: “Doth our law judge any man, before it hear him, and know what
he doeth?” He took his stand on a point of law. He spoke in the name of
“our” law, not at all in the name of the new man. Nicodemus is always
the old man, law-respecting, the prudent friend of the letter of the
law. A few words of reproof were enough to silence him. “They answered
and said unto him, Art thou also of Galilee? Search and look: for out of
Galilee ariseth no prophet!” He belonged by right to the Sanhedrin, but
there is no record that he raised his voice in favor of the accused when
He was conducted to Caiaphas. The trial was at night and probably to
avoid the contempt of his colleagues and his own remorse for the legal
assassination, Nicodemus remained in his bed. When he awoke Jesus was
dead, and then, forgetting his avarice, he bought a hundred pounds of
myrrh and aloes to embalm the body. He who brought others to life was
dead, but Nicodemus, although not literally dead, would never know that
second birth in which he could not believe.

Nicodemus is the eternal type of the luke-warm who will be spewed out of
the mouth of God on the day of wrath. He is the half-way soul who would
like to say “Yes” with his spirit, but his flesh suggests to him the
“No” of cowardice. He is the man of books, the nocturnal disciple who
would like to be a follower of the Master, but not to appear as one; who
would not mind being born again, but who does not know how to break the
withered bark of his ageing trunk; the man of inhibitions and
precautions. When the man of his admiration was martyred and killed and
His enemies were satisfied, and there was no more danger of being
compromised, then he comes with balsams to pour into those wounds which
were inflicted partly by his cowardice.

But the church to reward his posthumous piety has chosen him to become
one of her saints. And there is an old tradition that he was baptized by
Peter and put to death for having believed, too late, in Him whom he did
not save from death.

LAMBS, SERPENTS, AND DOVES

Those whom Jesus sent out to the conquest of souls were rustic
countrymen, but they could be mild as sheep, wary as serpents, simple as
doves—sheep without cowardice, serpents without poison, doves without
lustfulness.

To be stripped of everything was the first duty of such soldiers.
Seeking the poor, they should be poorer than the poor. And yet not
beggars, for the laborer is worthy of his hire; the bread of life which
they were to distribute to those hungering for justice deserved wheat
bread in return. The laborers should set out on their wonderful work
destitute of possessions, taking nothing for their journey save a staff
only, no scrip, no bread, no money in their purse. They should be shod
with sandals, clad in a single garment. The metals are a burden which
weighs down the soul. The sheen of gold makes men forget the sun’s
splendor; the sheen of silver makes them forget the splendor of the
stars; the sheen of copper makes them forget the splendor of fire. He
who deals with metals weds himself to the earth and is bound fast to the
earth. He does not know Heaven, and Heaven does not recognize him.

It is not enough to preach love of poverty to the poor, or to talk to
them about the sumptuous beauty of poverty. The poor do not believe the
words of the rich until the rich willingly become poor. The Disciples
destined to preach the beauty of poverty to both poor and rich were to
set an example of happy poverty to every man in every house on every
day. They were to carry nothing with them except the clothes on their
backs and the sandals on their feet. They were to accept nothing; only
the small piece of daily bread which they would find on the tables of
their hosts. The wandering priests of the goddess Siria and of other
Oriental divinities carried with them, along with the sacred images, the
wallet for offerings, the bag for alms, because common people do not
value things which cost them nothing. The apostles of Jesus, on the
contrary, were to refuse any gift or payment, “Freely ye have received,
freely give.” And as one of the disguises of wealth is merchandise, the
messengers of the Kingdom were to renounce even a change of garments,
sandals and staff; were to dispense with everything except the barest
essentials.

They were to enter into the houses, open to all in a country where the
locks and bolts of fear were not yet known, and which preserved some
remembrance of nomad hospitality—they were to speak to the men and the
women who lived there. Their duty was to announce that the Kingdom of
Heaven was at hand, to explain in what way the kingdom of earth could
become the Kingdom of Heaven, and to explain the one condition for this
happy fulfilling of all the prophecies,—repentance, conversion,
transformation of the soul. As a proof that they were sent by One who
had the authority to demand this change, they had power to heal the
sick, to drive away with their words unclean spirits,—that is, the
demons, and the vices which make men like demons.

They commanded men to renew their souls and at once with all the power
which had been given them they aided them to commence this renovation.
They did not leave them alone with this command, so difficult to
execute. After the prophetic word, “The Kingdom is at hand,” they began
their labors; they worked to restore, to cleanse, to make over these
souls which had been abandoned by their rightful shepherds. They
explained what it was necessary to do to be worthy of the new Heaven on
earth and they lent a hand at once to the work. In short, to complete
the paradox they assassinated and brought to life. They killed the old
Adam in every convert, but their words were the baptism of the second
birth. Pilgrims without purses or bundles, they carried with them truth
and life,—peace.

“And when ye come into an house salute it,” and this was the salutation,
“Peace be with you.” Those who received them gained peace, those who
rejected them continued their bitter warfare. Coming away from the house
or from the city which had not received them, they were to shake the
dust from their feet, not because the dust of the houses and of the
cities of those who were not willing to hear them was contaminated, but
because shaking it from their feet is a symbolic answer to their
deafness and niggardliness of soul. You have refused all, and we will
not accept anything from you, not even the dust which clings to our
sandals. Because you, made of dust and fated to return to dust as you
are, will not give a moment of your time, nor a piece of your bread, we
leave behind us the dust of your streets, down to the least grain.

SPEAK YE IN LIGHT

In their faithfulness to the sublime paradox of Him who sends them, the
apostles bring peace and at the same time war! All men are not capable
of conversion. In the same family, in the same house, there are some who
will believe and others who will not. And there will spring up between
them division and warfare, the hard price with which absolute and stable
peace can be secured. If all men should listen at the same moment to the
voice, if all could be transformed on the same day, the Kingdom of
Heaven would be founded in a twinkling of an eye, with no bloody preface
of battles.

Furthermore those who do not wish to change themselves, because they do
not understand the news, or believe themselves already perfect, will
attack the converters and accuse them before tribunals. Representatives
of wealth and of the old law will be cruel to the poor who are teaching
the new law to the poor. The rich are not willing to concede that their
wealth is dangerous poverty; the scribes are not willing to admit that
their learning is only deadly ignorance.... “They will scourge you in
their synagogues.... But when they deliver you up, take no thought of
how or what ye shall speak.” Jesus is sure that the poor fishermen,
though they have never studied in the schools of eloquence, will find
for themselves great words in their hour of accusation. One thought,
when it is a great thought and profoundly fixed in the heart, engenders
of itself all the derivatory and accessory thoughts, and with them
perfect form in which to express them. The arid-hearted man who has
nothing in himself, who has faith in nothing, who does not feel, burn,
and suffer, though he may have studied long with the sophists of Athens
and the rhetoricians of Rome, is incapable of improvising one of those
powerful and illuminating answers which trouble the conscience of the
hardest judges.

They are to speak therefore without fear and without hiding anything of
what has been taught them. “What I tell you in darkness that seek ye in
light, and what ye hear in the ear, preach ye upon the housetops.” With
these words Jesus does not ask his Disciples to be more daring than he
has been. He has spoken in the darkness, that is obscurity; He has
spoken to them, to His first faithful followers, but what He has said to
them along deserted roads and in solitary rooms they are to repeat as He
Himself has given them the example, on open squares of cities before
crowds of people. He has whispered the truth into their ears, because
the truth at first might alarm those not prepared for it, and because
there were so few of the Disciples that there was no need to cry aloud.
But this truth must be cried out now from the heights, in order that all
may hear it, in order that there may be no one to say on that Day that
he has not heard it.

Men can kill the body of the man who spreads the truth abroad, but they
cannot kill his soul; from the death of a single body thousands of new
souls will be born into life. But not even your body will die, because
there is One who protects it. “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?
and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But
the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye
are of more value than many sparrows.” The birds of the air who do not
sow, do not die of hunger; you who do not carry even a staff shall not
die at the hands of your enemies.

They have with them a secret so precious that the flesh which contains
it will not be allowed to perish. Jesus is always with them, even though
from afar. What is done to them is done to Him. A mystic identity is
created for all eternity between Him who sends them out and those
disciples who are sent. “And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of
these little ones, a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple,
verily I say unto you he shall in no wise lose his reward.”

Jesus is the fountain of living water destined to quench the thirst of
all the weary, and yet He will take account also of the cup of water
which shall have quenched the thirst of the least among His friends.
Those who carry with them the water of truth, which purifies and saves,
may need some day a cup of the stagnant water buried at the bottom of
village wells. Any person who will give them a little of this ordinary,
material water will have in exchange a well-spring which intoxicates the
soul more than the strongest wine.

The apostles who go about with one garment, with a single pair of
sandals, without belts or wallets, poor as poverty, bare as truth,
simple as joy, are, in spite of their apparent poverty, diverse forms of
a king who has come to found a kingdom greater and happier than all
kingdoms, to bring to poor people wealth which is worth more than all
measurable riches, to offer to the unhappy a joy more profound than any
fleshly pleasures. It suits this new King, as it did the kings of the
Orient, to show Himself under many forms, to appear to men in diverse
garments. But the disguises which He prefers even to-day are these
three: Poet, Poor Man, and Apostle.

MAMMON

Jesus is the poor man, infinitely and rigorously poor. Poor with an
absolute poverty! The prince of poverty! The Lord of perfect
destitution! The poor man who lives with the poor, who has come for the
poor, who speaks to the poor, who gives to the poor, who works for the
poor! Poor among the poor, destitute among the destitute, beggar among
the beggars! The poor man of a great and eternal poverty! The happy and
rich poor man, who accepts poverty, who desires poverty, who weds
himself to poverty, who chants of poverty! The beggar who gives alms!
The naked man who covers the naked! The hungry man who feeds others, the
miraculous and supernatural, who changes the men owning false riches
into poor men, and poor men into those with real wealth.

There are poor men who are poor because they were never capable of
acquiring wealth. There are other poor men who are poor because they
give away every evening what they earned that day; and the more they
give the more they have. Their wealth, the wealth of this second class
of poor men, grows greater in proportion as it is given away. It is a
pile which becomes greater as more is taken away from it.

Jesus was one of these poor men. Compared to one of them, men materially
rich, rich as the world esteems wealth, rich with their chests of
talents, mina, rupees, florins, shekels, crowns, francs, marks, and
dollars, are only lamentable beggars. The money-changers of the forum,
the great feasters of Jerusalem, the bankers of Florence and Frankfort,
the lords of London, the multi-millionaires of New York, compared to
these poor men are only unfortunate beggars, despoiled and needy; unpaid
servants of a fierce master; condemned every day to assassinate their
own souls. The wretchedness of such indigence is so terrible that they
are reduced to pick up the stones that are found in the mud of the
earth, and grope about in filth. Theirs is a poverty so repugnant that
not even the poor succeed in bestowing on them the charity of a smile.

Richness is a curse like work, but a harder and more shameful curse. He
who is marked with the sign of wealth has committed, perhaps
unconsciously, an infamous crime, one of those mysterious and
unimaginable crimes which are nameless in human language. The rich man
is either under the burden of the vengeance of God, or God wishes to put
him to the test to see if he can succeed in climbing up to divine
poverty. For the rich man has committed the greatest sin, the most
abominable and unpardonable. The rich man is the man who has fallen
because of an exchange: he could have had Heaven and he chose Earth. He
could have lived in Paradise and he has chosen Hell. He could have kept
his soul and he has exchanged it for material things. He could have
loved and he has preferred to be hated. He could have had happiness and
he has desired power. No one can save him. Wealth in his hands is a
metal which buries him alive under its icy mass; it is the tumor which
consumes him still alive in his corruption; it is the fire which burns
him and reduces him to a terrible, black mummy, a blind paralytic, black
mummy, a ghostly carrion which everlastingly holds out its empty hand in
the cemeteries of the centuries, begging in vain for the alms of
charitable remembrance.

For him there is only one salvation: to become a poor man, a true and
humble poor man; to throw away the horrible destitution of wealth in
order to enter again into poverty. But this resolution is the hardest
that the rich man can take. The rich man by the very fact that he is
sickened by wealth cannot even imagine that the entire renunciation of
wealth would be the beginning of redemption, and because he cannot
imagine such an abdication, he cannot even deliberate on it, cannot
weigh the alternatives. He is a prisoner in the impregnable prison of
himself. To liberate himself he must first be free.

The rich man does not belong to himself, but belongs to inanimate
things. He has not the time to think, to choose. Wealth is a pitiless
master who allows no other masters near him. The rich man cannot think
of his soul, bowed as he is under the care of his riches, under his
thirst to increase his riches, under the fear of losing his riches,
under the material joys which are offered to him by those pieces of
matter which are called wealth. He cannot even imagine that his sick,
suffocating, mutilated, worm-eaten soul needs to be cured. He has taken
up his abode in that part of the world which, according to contracts and
laws, he has the right to call _his_, and often he has not even the
time, the wish, or the power to enjoy it. He must serve it and take care
of it,—he cannot serve or take care of his own soul. All his power of
love is absorbed by these material things, which order him about, which
have taken the place of his soul, which have robbed him of all his
liberty. The horrible fate of the rich man lies in this double
absurdity: in order to have the power to command men he has become the
slave of dead things; in order to acquire a part (and such a very small
part!) he has lost the whole.

Nothing is ours as long as it is ours alone. Outside of himself man can
possess, actually own, nothing. The absolute secret of owning other
things is to renounce them. Everything is given to him who has refused
everything. But he who wishes to grasp for himself, for himself alone, a
part of the goods of this world, loses both what he has acquired and
everything else. And at the same moment he is incapable of knowing
himself, or possessing himself, making himself greater. He has nothing
more, not even the things which in appearance belong to him, but to
which in reality he belongs; and he has never had his own soul, the one
piece of property which is worth possessing. He is the most destitute
and despoiled beggar of all the universe. He has nothing. How then can
he love others, give to others himself and that which belongs to
himself, exercise that loving charity which would conduct him so soon to
the Kingdom? He is nothing and he has nothing. He who does not exist
cannot change. He who does not possess cannot give. How then can the
rich man, who is no longer his own, who has no longer a soul, transform
a soul, the only possession of mankind, into something nobler and more
precious?

“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and
lose his own soul?” This question of Christ’s, simple like all
revelations, expresses the exact meaning of the prophetic threat. The
rich man not only loses eternity, but, pulled down by his wealth, loses
his life here below, his present soul, the happiness of his present
earthly life.

“Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” The Spirit and Gold are two masters
who will not tolerate any division or sharing. They are jealous; they
insist on having the whole man. And even if he wishes, the man cannot
divide himself in two. He must be all here, or all beyond worldly
things. For the faithful servant of the spirit, gold is nothing; for him
who serves gold, “spirit” is a word without meaning. He who chooses the
spirit throws away gold and all the things bought by gold; he who
desires gold puts an end to the spirit and renounces all the benefits of
the spirit: peace, holiness, love, perfect joy. The first is a poor man
who can never use up his infinite wealth; the other is a rich man who
can never escape out of his infinite poverty. By the mysterious law of
renunciation the poor man possesses even that which is not his—the
entire universe; through the hard law of perpetual desire, the rich man
does not even possess that little which he believes to be his. God gives
immensely more than the immensity which He has promised. Mammon takes
away even that very little which he promises. He who renounces
everything has everything given him; he who wishes a part for himself
alone, finds himself at the end with nothing.

When the horrible mystery of wealth is deeply probed, it is easy to see
why the masters of men have considered wealth the kingdom of the Demon
himself. A thing which costs less than everything else is bought by
everything else. A thing which is nothing, the actual value of which is
nothing, is bought by giving up everything, is secured by exchanging for
it the whole of the soul, the whole of life. The most precious thing is
exchanged for the most worthless.

And yet even this infernal absurdity has its reason for being, in the
economy of the spirit. Man is so universally and naturally drawn by that
nothingness called wealth that he could only be dissuaded from his
insensate search for it by putting a price so great, so high, so out of
all proportion that the very fact of paying it would be a valid proof of
insanity and crime. But not even the conditions of the bargain, the
eternal exchanged for the ephemeral, power for servitude, sanctity for
damnation, are enough to keep men away from the absurd bargain with the
powers of evil. Poor people do not rejoice that they are poor. Their
only regret is that they cannot be rich; their souls are contaminated
and in peril like those of the wealthy. Almost all of them are
involuntarily poor men, who have not known how to make money and yet
have lost the spirit; they are only poverty-stricken rich people who
have not as yet any cash.

For poverty, voluntarily accepted, joyfully desired, is the only poverty
which gives true wealth, spiritual wealth. Absolute poverty frees men
for the conquest of the absolute. The Kingdom of Heaven does not promise
poor people that they shall become rich, it promises rich people that
they shall enter into it when they become freely poor.

SELL EVERYTHING

The tragic paradox implied in wealth justifies the advice given by Jesus
to those who wish to follow Him.

They all should give whatever they have beyond their needs to those in
want. But the rich man should give everything. To the young man who
comes up to ask Him what he ought to do to be among His followers, Jesus
answers: “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give
to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.” Giving away wealth
is not a loss or a sacrifice. Instead of this, Jesus knows and all those
know who understand mankind and wealth that it is a magnificently
profitable transaction, an incommensurable gain. “Sell whatsoever thou
hast and give to the poor and thou shalt have treasure in heaven where
neither moth nor rust doth corrupt and where thieves do not break
through nor steal; for where your treasure is, there will your heart be
also. Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow from
thee, turn not thou away, for it is more blessed to give than to
receive.”

Men must give and give without sparing, light-heartedly and without
calculation. He who gives in order to get something back is not perfect.
He who gives in order to exchange with others, or for other material
things, acquires nothing. The recompense is elsewhere, it is in us.
Things are not to be given away that they may be paid for by other
things, but by purity and contentment alone. “When thou makest a dinner
or a supper call not thy friends nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen
nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense
be made thee. But when thou makest a feast call the poor, the maimed,
the lame, the blind; and thou shalt be blest, for they cannot recompense
thee, for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.”

Even before Jesus’ time men had been advised to renounce wealth. Jesus
was not the first to find in poverty one of the steps to perfection. The
great Vaddhamana, the Jain, or triumpher, added to the commandments of
Parswa, founder of the Freed, the doctrine of the renunciation of all
possessions. Buddha, his contemporary, exhorted his disciples to a
similar renunciation. The Cynics stripped themselves of all material
goods to be independent of work and of men, and to be able to consecrate
their freed souls to truth. Crates, the Theban nobleman, disciple of
Diogenes, distributed his wealth to his fellow-citizens and turned
beggar. Plato wished the warriors in his Republic to have no
possessions. Dressed in purple and seated at tables inlaid with rare
stones, the Stoics pronounced eloquent eulogies on poverty. Aristophanes
puts blind Pluto on the stage distributing wealth to rascals alone,
almost as though wealth were a punishment.

But in Jesus the love of poverty is not an ascetic rule, nor a proud
disguise for ostentation. Timon of Athens, who was reduced to poverty
after having fed a crowd of parasites with indiscriminate generosity,
was not a poor man as Christ would have men poor. Timon was poor through
the fault of his vainglory, to feed his own desire to be called
magnanimous and liberal. He gave to everybody, even to those who were
not needy. Crates, who stripped himself of all his property to imitate
Diogenes, was the slave of pride: he wished to do something different
from others, to acquire the name of philosopher and sage. The
professional beggary of the Cynics is a picturesque form of pride. The
poverty of Plato’s warriors is a measure of political prudence. The
first republics conquered and flourished as long as the citizens
contented themselves, as in old Sparta and old Rome, with strict
poverty, and they fell as soon as they valued gold more than sober and
modest living. But men of antiquity did not despise wealth in itself.
They held it dangerous when it accumulated in the hands of the few, they
considered it unjust when it was not spent with judicious liberality.
But Plato, who desires for his citizens a condition half-way between
need and abundance, puts riches among the good things of human life. He
puts it last of all, but he does not forget it. And Aristophanes would
kneel before Pluto if the blind God should acquire his sight again and
give riches to worthy people.

In the Gospel, poverty is not a philosophical ornament nor a mystic
mode. To be poor is not enough to entitle one to citizenship in the
Kingdom. Poverty of the body is a preliminary requisite, like humility
of the spirit. He who is not convinced that his estate is low never
thinks of climbing high; no one can feel a zest for true treasures if he
is not freed from all material property,—from that winding-sheet which
blinds the eyes and binds down the wings.

When he does not suffer from his poverty, when he glories in his poverty
instead of tormenting himself to convert it into wealth, the poor man is
certainly much nearer to moral perfection than the rich man. But the
rich man who has despoiled himself in favor of the poor and has chosen
to live side by side with his new brothers is still nearer perfection
than the man who was born and reared in poverty. That he has been
touched by a grace so rare and prodigious gives him the right to hope
for the greatest blessedness. To renounce what you have never had may be
meritorious, because imagination magnifies absent things; but it is the
sign of supreme perfectibility to renounce everything that you actually
did possess, possessions that were envied by every one.

The poor man who is sober, chaste, simple and contented because he lacks
means and occasions for anything else, is inclined to look for a
recompense in pleasures which do not cost money, and as it were for a
revenge in a spiritual superiority where prosperous people cannot
compete with him. But often his virtues come from his impotence or from
his ignorance; he does not turn from the right course—he cannot afford
to do so—he does not pile up treasure because he possesses only the
strictly necessary; he is not drunken and licentious because
wine-sellers and women of the streets give no credit. His life, often
hard, servile, dark, redeems his faults. And his suffering forces him to
lift his eyes towards Heaven in search of consolation. We do so little
for the poor that we have no right to judge them. As they are, abandoned
by their brothers, kept far from those who could speak to their hearts,
avoided by those who shrink from the proximity of their sweaty bodies,
excluded from those worlds of intelligence and the arts which might make
their poverty more endurable, the poor are, in the universal
wretchedness of mankind, the least impure. If they were more loved, they
would be better men. How can those who have left them alone in their
poverty have the heart to condemn them?

Jesus loved the poor; He loved them for the compassion which He felt for
them; He loved them because He felt them nearer to His soul, more
prepared to understand Him than other men. He loved them because they
constantly gave Him the happiness of service, of giving bread to the
hungry, strength to the weak, hope to the unhappy. Jesus loved the poor
because He saw that if they were justly treated they would be the most
legitimate inhabitants of the Kingdom. He loved the poor because they
rendered the renunciation of the rich easier by the stimulus of charity;
but most of all He loved the poor men who had been rich and who for the
love of the Kingdom had become poor. Their renunciation was the greatest
act of faith in His promise. They had given that which considered
absolutely is nothing, but in the eyes of the world is everything, for
the certainty of sharing in a more perfect life. They had been obliged
to conquer in themselves one of the most profoundly rooted instincts of
man. Jesus, born a poor man among the poor, for the poor, never left his
brothers. He gave to them the fructifying abundance of His divine
property. But in His heart He sought the poor man who had not always
been poor, the rich man ready to strip himself for His love. He sought
him, perhaps He never found him. But He felt this longed-for, unknown
brother man tenderly nearer to his heart than all the docile seekers who
crowded about Him.

THE DEVIL’S DUNG

Note well, you men who are yet to be born! Jesus was never willing to
touch a coin with His hand. Those hands of His which molded the clay of
the earth as a cure for blind eyes, those hands which touched the
contaminated flesh of lepers and of the dead, those hands which clasped
the body of Judas, so much more contaminated than clay, than leprosy,
than putrefaction, those white pure healing hands which nothing could
sully, never suffered themselves to be touched by one of those metal
disks which carry in relief the profiles of the proprietors of the
world. Jesus could mention money in His parables; He could see it in the
hands of others, but touch it—no! To Him who scorned nothing, money was
disgusting. It was repugnant to Him with a repugnance that was like
horror. All His nature was in revolt at the thought of a contact with
those filthy symbols of wealth.

But one day even Jesus was constrained to look at a piece of money. They
asked Him if it was permitted to the true Israelite to pay the tribute,
and He answered at once, “Show me the tribute money.” They showed it to
Him, but He would not take it. It was a Roman coin stamped with the
hypocritical face of Augustus. But He wished to seem not to know whose
face it was. He asked, “Whose is this image and superscription?” They
answered, “Cæsar’s.” Then He threw into the faces of the wily
interrogators the answer which silenced them, “Render therefore unto
Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s; and unto God the things that are
God’s.”

Give back that which is not yours, money does not belong to us. It is
manufactured by the powerful for the needs of power. It is the property
of kings and of the kingdom, of that other kingdom which is not ours.
The king represents force and is the protector of wealth; but we have
nothing to do with violence and reject riches. Our Kingdom has no
potentates and has no rich men; the King of our Heaven does not coin
money. Money is a means for the exchange of earthly goods, but we do not
seek for earthly goods. What little is necessary for us, a little
sunshine, a little air, a little water, a piece of bread, a cloak, will
be given freely to us by God and by God’s friends. Tire yourselves out,
you other people, all your lives to gather together a great pile of
those round minted tokens. We have no use for them. For us they are
definitely superfluous. Therefore we give them back; we give them back
to him who has had them coined, to him who has had his portrait put on
them, so that all should know that they are his.

Jesus never needed to give back any money because He never possessed
any. He gave the order to His disciples not to carry bags for offerings
on their journeys. He made one single exception, and that a fearful one.
The Gospel tells us that one apostle kept the common purse. This
disciple was Judas, and even Judas felt himself forced to give back the
payment for his betrayal before disappearing in death. Judas is the
mysterious victim sacrificed to the curse of money. Money carries with
it, together with the filth of the hands which have clutched and handled
it, the inexorable contagion of crime. Among the unclean things which
men have manufactured to defile the earth and defile themselves, money
is perhaps the most unclean. These counters of coined metal which pass
and repass every day among hands still soiled with sweat or blood, worn
by the rapacious fingers of thieves, of merchants, of misers; this round
and viscid sputum of the Mint, desired by all, sought for, stolen,
envied, loved more than love and often more than life; these ugly pieces
of stamped matter, which the assassin gives to the cut-throat, the
usurer to the hungry, the enemy to the traitor, the swindler to his
partner, the simonist to the barterer in religious offices, the lustful
to the woman bought and sold, these foul vehicles of evil which persuade
the son to kill his father, the wife to betray her husband, the brother
to defraud his brother, the wicked poor man to stab the wicked rich man,
the servant to cheat his master, the highwayman to despoil the traveler;
this money, these material emblems of matter, are the most terrifying
objects manufactured by man. Money which has been the death of so many
bodies is every day the death of thousands of souls. More contagious
than the rags of a man with the pest, than the pus of an ulcer, than the
filth of a sewer, it enters into every house, shines on the counters of
the money-changers, settles down in money-chests, profanes the pillow of
sleep, hides itself in the fetid darkness of squalid back-rooms, sullies
the innocent hands of children, tempts virgins, pays the hangman for his
work, goes about on the face of the earth to stir up hatred, to set
cupidity on fire, to hasten corruption and death.

Bread, already holy on the family board, becomes on the table of the
Church the everlasting body of Christ. Money too is the visible sign of
a transubstantiation. It is the infamous Host of the Demon. He who loves
money and receives it with joy is in visible communion with the Demon.
He who touches money with pleasure touches without knowing it the filth
of the Demon. The pure cannot touch it, the holy man cannot endure it.
They know with unshakable certainty its ugly essence, and they have for
money the same horror that the rich man has for poverty.

THE KINGS OF THE NATIONS

“Whose is this image?” asks Jesus when they put the Roman money before
his eyes. He knows that face, He knows, as they all do, that Octavius by
a sequence of extraordinary good luck became the monarch of the world
with the adulatory surname of Augustus. He knows that falsely youthful
profile, that head of clustering curls, the great nose that juts forward
as if to hide the cruelty of the small mouth, the lips rigorously
closed. It is a head, like those of all kings, cut off from the body,
cut off below the neck; sinister image of a voluntary and eternal
decapitation. Cæsar is the king of the past, the head of the armies, the
coiner of silver and gold, fallible administrator of insufficient
justice. Jesus is the King of the future, the liberator of servants, the
abdicator of wealth, the master of love. There is nothing in common
between them. Jesus has come to overthrow the domination of Cæsar, to
undo the Roman Empire and every earthly empire, but not to put Himself
in Cæsar’s place. If men will listen to Him there will never be any
Cæsar again. Jesus is not the heir who conspires against the sovereign
to take his place. He has come peaceably to remove all rulers. Cæsar is
the strongest and most famous of His rivals, but also the most remote,
because his force lies in the slothfulness of men, in the weakness of
peoples. But One has come who will awaken the sleeping, open the eyes of
the blind, give back strength to the weak. When everything is fulfilled
and the Kingdom is founded—a Kingdom which needs no soldiers nor judges
nor slaves nor money, but only renewed and living souls—Cæsar’s empire
will vanish like a pile of ashes under the victorious breath of the
wind.

As long as Cæsar is there, we can give back to him what is his. For the
new man, money is nothing. We give back to Cæsar, vowed to eternal
nothingness, that silver nothingness which is none of ours. Jesus is
always looking forward with passionate longing to the arrival of the
second earthly Paradise and He takes no heed of governors because the
new land which He announces will not need governors. A people of holy
men who love each other would have no use for Kings, law-courts and
armies. On one occasion only does He speak of kings, and then only to
overturn the common established idea. “The Kings of the Gentiles,” He
says to His disciples, “exercise lordship over them, and they that
exercise authority upon them are called benefactors. But ye shall not be
so, but he that is greatest among you, let him be as the younger, and he
that is chief, as he that doth serve.” It is the theory of perfect
equality in human relationship. The great is small, the master is
servant, the King is slave. Since, according to Christ’s teachings, he
who governs must become like him who serves, the opposite is true, and
he who serves has the same rights and honors as he who governs. Among
the righteous, there may be some more ardent than others; there may be
saints who were sinners up to the last day; there may be other innocent
ones who were citizens of the Kingdom of Heaven from their birth.
Different planes of spiritual greatness may exist as variations of the
perfection common to all; but to the end of time every category of
superior and inferior, of master and subordinate, shall be abolished.
Authority presupposes, even if it is badly wielded, a flock to lead, a
minority to punish, bestiality to shackle; but when all men are holy,
there will be no more need for commands and obedience, for laws and
punishments. The Kingdom of Heaven can dispense with the commands of
Force.

In the Kingdom of Heaven men will not hate each other and will no longer
desire riches; every reason and need for government will disappear
immediately after these two great changes. The name of the path which
conducts to perfect liberty is not Destruction but Holiness. And it is
not found in the sophistries of Godwin, or of Stirner, or Proudhon, or
of Kropotkin, but only in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

SWORD AND FIRE

Every time that the sycophants of the powerful have desired to sanctify
the ambition of the ambitious, the violence of the violent, the
fierceness of the fierce, the pugnacity of the pugnacious, the conquests
of the conquerors, every time that the paid sophists or frenzied orators
have tried to reconcile pagan ferocity with Christian gentleness, to use
the Cross as the hilt of the sword, to justify blood spilt through
hatred by the blood which flowed on Calvary to teach love; every time,
in short, that people wish to use the doctrine of peace to legitimatize
war, and make Christ surety for Genghis Khan or for Bonaparte or even
through refinement of infamy, the outrider of Mahomet, you will see them
quote, with the inexorable punctuality of all commonplaces, the
celebrated gospel text, which everybody knows by heart and very few have
ever understood.

“Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send
peace, but a sword.” Some more learned add, “I am come to send fire on
the earth.” Others rush forward to present the decisive verse, “The
kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.”

What angel of eloquence, what supernatural enlightener, can ever reveal
to these hardened quoters the true meaning of the words which they
repeat with such light frivolity? They do not look at the words which
come before and after; they pay no attention to the occasion on which
they were spoken. They do not imagine for a moment that they can have
another meaning from the common one.

When Jesus says that He has come to bring a sword,—or as it is written
in the parallel passage of Luke, “Discord,” He is speaking to His
Disciples who are on the point of departing to announce the coming of
the Kingdom. And immediately after having spoken of the sword, He
explains with familiar examples what He meant to say: “For I am come to
set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her
mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. And a man’s
foes shall be they of his own household. For from henceforth there shall
be five in one house divided, three against two, and two against three.”
The sword therefore does not mean war; it is a figure of speech which
dignifies division. The sword is what divides, cuts in two, disunites;
and the preaching of the gospel shall divide men of the same family.
Because among men there are those deaf and those who hear, those who are
slow and those who are quick, those who deny and those who believe.
Until all are converted and “brothers in the Word,” discord will reign
on earth. But discord is not war, is not massacre. Those who have heard
and believe—the Christians—will not assault those who do not hear and do
not believe. They will, it is true, take up arms against their
refractory and stubborn brothers, but these arms will be preaching,
example, pardon, love. Those who are not converted perhaps will begin
real warfare, the warfare of violence and blood, but they will begin it
exactly because they are not converted, precisely because they are not
yet Christians. The triumph of the Gospel is the end of all wars, of
wars between man and man, between family and family, between caste and
caste, between people and people. If the Gospel at first is the cause of
separations and discord the fault is not in the truths taught in the
Gospel but in the fact that these truths are not yet practiced by all.

When Jesus proclaims that he comes to bring fire, only a literal-minded
barbarian can think of murderous and destructive fire, worthy auxiliary
of human warfare. “What will I if it be already kindled!” The fire
desired by the Son of Man is the fire of purification, of enthusiasm,
the ardor of sacrifice, the refulgent flame of love. Until all souls are
burning and consumed in that fire, the word of the Gospel will be but
useless sound, and the Kingdom still far away. To renew the contaminated
and hateful family of men, a wonderful outburst of grief and of passion
is needed. The complacent must suffer, the cold must burn, the
insensible must cry out, the tepid must flame like torches in the night.
All the filth accumulated in the secret life of men, all the sediments
of sin which make of every soul an offensive sewer, all the corruption
which shuts the ears and suffocates the hearts, must be burned up in
this miraculous spiritual fire, which Jesus came to kindle in our
hearts.

But to pass beyond this wall of flame there is need for strength of soul
and a boldness not possessed by all, possessed only by the valorous; and
thus Jesus can say, “The Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence and the
violent take it by force.” The word violent has as a matter of fact in
the text the evident meaning of “strong,” of men who know how to take
doors by assault without hesitating or trembling. “Sword,” “fire,”
“violence,” are words which are not to be taken in the literal sense, so
pleasing to the advocates of massacres. They are figurative words which
we are forced to use to reach the torpid imagination of the crowds. The
sword is the symbol of the divisions between those first persuaded and
those who are last in believing; fire is purifying love; violence is the
strength necessary to make oneself over and to arrive on the threshold
of the Kingdom. Any one who understands this passage in any other way
either does not know how to read, or is determined to misread.

Jesus is the man of Peace. He has come to bring Peace. The Gospels are
nothing but proclamations and instructions for Peace. The very night of
His birth celestial voices sang in the sky the prophetic augury: “Peace
on Earth to men of good will.” On the Mount one of the first promises
which flowed from the heart and from the lips of Christ is that directed
to the peacemakers, “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be
called the children of God.” When the apostles are ready to depart on
their mission He commands them to wish peace to all the houses where
they enter. To the disciples, to His friends, He counsels, “Have peace
one with another.” Drawing near to Jerusalem, He looks at it pityingly
and exclaims, “If thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day,
the things which belong unto thy peace!” and the terrible night on the
Mount of Olives, while the mercenaries armed with swords are binding
Him, He pronounces the supreme condemnation of violence, “For all they
that take the sword shall perish with the sword.” He understands the
evils of discord, “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to
desolation; and every city or house divided against itself shall not
stand.” And in His talk on the last things, in the grand apocalyptic
prophecy, He announces among the terrible signs of the end together with
famine, earthquakes and tribulation, also wars. “And ye shall hear of
wars and rumours of wars.... For nation shall rise against nation, and
kingdom against kingdom.”

For Jesus discord is an evil; war is a crime. His God is not the old
Lord of Battles. The apologists for great massacres confuse the Old and
the New Testament. But the New is new exactly because it transforms the
Old.

Only when considered as a punishment can war be thought of as divine.
War is the terrible retribution of men who have recourse to war; it is
the cruelest manifestation of the hatred which broods and boils in human
hearts, the hatred which drives men to take up arms to destroy one
another. War is at the same time a crime and its own punishment.

But when hate is abolished in every heart, war will be incomprehensible:
our most terrible punishment will disappear together with our greatest
sin. Then at last will arrive the day longed for by Isaiah when, “they
shall beat their swords into plow-shares, and their spears into
pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither
shall they learn war any more.”

That day announced by Isaiah is the day on which the Sermon on the Mount
shall become the only law recognized on earth.

ONE FLESH ONLY

Jesus sanctions the union of man and woman even in the flesh. As long as
kings remain, we are to give back to them the coins stamped with their
names; as long as men are not like angels the human race must perpetuate
itself.

The Family and the State, imperfect expedients compared with heavenly
beatitude, are necessary during our terrestrial probation; and since
they are necessary they should at least become less impure and less
imperfect. As long as rulers exist, at least the man who rules should
feel himself the equal of the man who serves. As long as marriage
exists, the union between man and woman should be eternal and faithful.

In marriage Jesus sees first of all the joining of two bodies. On this
point He ratifies the metaphor of the Old Law, “So then they are no more
twain, but one flesh.” Husband and wife are one body, inseparable. This
man shall never have another woman; this woman shall never know another
man until death divides them. The mating of male and female, when it is
not the expression of careless wantonness, or furtive fornication, when
it is the meeting of two healthy virginities, when it is preceded by
free choice, by a chaste passion, by a public and consecrated covenant,
has an almost mystic character which nothing can cancel. The choice is
irrevocable, the passion is confirmed, the compact is for eternity.
Within the two bodies clinging to each other with bodily desire, there
are two souls which recognize each other and find each other in love.
Their flesh becomes one flesh; their two souls become one soul.

The two have been fused into one, and from this communion will be born a
new creature formed of the essence of both, which will be the visible
form of their union. Love makes them like God, creators of a new and
miraculous creation.

But this Duality of the flesh and of the spirit—the most perfect among
imperfect human relations—should never be disturbed or interrupted.
Adultery corrupts it, divorce destroys it. Adultery treacherously
corrodes the union; divorce repudiates it definitely. Adultery is a
secret divorce founded upon untruth and betrayal; divorce followed by
another marriage is sanctioned adultery.

Jesus always condemns adultery and divorce in the most solemn and
absolute manner. His whole nature holds unfaithfulness in horror. There
will come a day, he warns people, in speaking of heavenly life, in which
men and women will not marry; but up to that day marriage should have at
least all the perfections possible to its imperfection. And Jesus who
always goes below the surface of things does not call adulterer only the
man who robs his brother of his wife, but also the man who looks at her
in the street with lustful eyes. The man who has underhand relations
with another man’s wife is an adulterer, but no less an adulterer is he
who, having put aside his own wife, marries another. On one occasion
alone, He seems to admit the possibility of divorce to the husband of an
adulteress; but the crime of the repudiated wife could never justify the
crime which the betrayed man would commit in taking another wife.

Confronted with a law so absolute and so rigorous, even the Disciples
took alarm. “If the case of the man be so with his wife, it is not good
to marry. But he said unto them, All men cannot receive this saying,
save they to whom it is given. For there are some eunuchs, which were so
born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs which were
made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves
eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it,
let him receive it.”

Marriage is a concession to human nature, and to the propagation of
life. “All men cannot receive this saying,” are not capable of remaining
chaste, virgin, and alone, but only “they to whom it is given.” Perfect
celibacy is a grace, a reward of the victory of the spirit over the
body.

Any man who wishes to give all his love to a great undertaking must
condemn himself to chastity. He cannot serve both humanity and the
individual. The man who has a difficult mission to carry out, demanding
all his strength up to the last of his days, cannot tie himself to a
woman. Marriage means abandoning oneself to another being—but the
Saviour must abandon himself to all other beings. The union of two souls
is not enough for him—and it would make more difficult, perhaps
impossible, union with all other souls. The responsibilities which come
with the choice of a mate, the birth of children, the creation of a
little community in the midst of the great community of the human race,
are so heavy that they would be a daily hindrance to undertakings
infinitely more serious. The man who wishes to lead other men, to
transform them, cannot bind himself for all his life to one being alone.
He would need to be faithless to his wife or to his mission. He loves
all his brothers too much to love one only of his sisters. The Hero is
solitary. Solitude is his penalty and his greatness. He renounces the
pleasures of marital love, but the love which is in his heart, when
communicated to all men, is multiplied into a sublimation of sacrifice
surpassing all earthly joys. The man with no mate is alone, but is free;
his soul, unhampered by common and material thoughts, can rise to the
heights. He does not beget children of his own flesh, but he brings to a
second birth the children of his spirit.

It is not given to every one, however, to resist and abstain. “He that
is able to receive it, let him receive it.” The foundation of the
Kingdom needs all men who will give all their souls to it; the lusts of
the flesh, even when confined to legitimate marriage, are weakening for
him who should give all his attention to the things of the spirit.

Those who will know the resurrection of the great day of triumph will
have no further temptations. In the Kingdom of Heaven the joining of man
and woman, even sanctified as it is by the permanence of marriage, will
exist no more. Its real end is the creation of new human beings, but in
that day Death will be conquered and the everlasting renewing of the
generations will no longer be necessary. “For when they shall rise from
the dead, they neither marry, nor are given in marriage; but are as the
angels which are in heaven.”

With this attainment of eternal and angelic life—the two promises and
the two certainties of Christ—what has seemed endurable will become
unthinkable, that which seemed pure will become vile, that which was
holy will become imperfect. In that supreme and happy world all the
trials of the human race will be over. A hasty mating with a stolen
woman was enough for the primitive bestial man. Man rose to the higher
level of marriage, to union with one woman alone; the saint rose higher
yet, to voluntary chastity. But the man who has become an angel in
Heaven, who is all spirit and love, will have conquered the flesh even
in memory. In a world where there will be no poor, sick, unhappy or
enemies, his love will be transfigured into a superhuman contemplation.

The cycle of births will then be closed. The Fourth Kingdom will be
forever established. The citizens of the Kingdom will be eternally the
same, themselves and no other through all the centuries. Woman will no
longer bring forth her young with suffering. The sentence of exile will
be revoked, the Serpent will be conquered; the Father will joyfully
welcome his wandering son. Paradise will be found again and will never
more be lost.

FATHERS AND SONS

Jesus was speaking in a house, perhaps at Capernaum, and men and women,
all hungering for life and justice, all needing comfort and consolation,
had filled the house, had pressed close around Him, and were looking at
Him as they would look at their Father returned to them, their Brother
healing them, their Benefactor saving them. They were so hungry for His
words, these men and women, that Jesus and His friends had not stopped
to take a mouthful of food. He had spoken for a long time, and yet they
would have liked Him to go on speaking till nightfall, without ever
stopping for an instant. They had been waiting for Him for so long!
Their fathers and their mothers had waited for Him in wretchedness and
dumb resignation for thousands of years. They themselves had waited for
Him, year after year, in dull wretchedness. Night after night they had
longed for a ray of light, a promise of happiness, a loving word. And
now before them was He who was the reward of their long vigil. Now they
could wait no longer. These men and these women crowded about Jesus like
privileged and impatient creditors who finally have before them the
Divine Debtor, for whom they have been eternally waiting; and they
claimed their share down to the last penny. He certainly should be able
to get along without eating bread just this one time—for centuries and
centuries their fathers had been forced to go without the Bread of
Truth; for years and years they themselves had not been able to satisfy
their hunger for the Bread of Hope.

Jesus therefore went on talking to the people who had filled the house.
He repeated the most touching figures of His inspiration, told the most
persuasive stories of the Kingdom, looked at them with those luminous
eyes which shone down into the soul as the morning sun penetrates the
shut-in darkness of a house.

Any one of us would give what remains of his life to be looked at by
those eyes, to gaze for a moment into those eyes shining with infinite
tenderness; to listen for a moment only to that thrilling voice,
changing the Semitic vernacular into melodious music. Those men and
women who are now dead, those poor men, those poor women, those wretched
people who to-day are dust in the air of the desert, or clay under the
hoofs of the camels, those men and those women whom in their lifetime no
one envied, and whom we the living are forced to envy after their remote
and obscure death; those men and those women heard that voice, saw those
eyes.

But there came a stir and voices were heard at the door of the house:
some one wished to come in. One of those present told Jesus, “Behold,
thy mother and thy brethren without seek for thee.” But Jesus did not
stir, “Who is my mother or my brethren?” And he looked round about on
them which sat about him, and said, “Behold my mother and my brethren!
For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother, and my
sister, and mother.”

My family is all here and I have no other family. The ties of blood do
not count unless they are confirmed in the spirit. My father is the
Father who made me like unto Him in the perfection of righteousness; my
brothers are the poor who weep; my sisters are the women who have left
their loves for Love. He did not mean with these words to deny the
Virgin of Sorrows, of whose womb He was the fruit; He meant to say that
from the day of His voluntary exile He belonged no more to the little
family of Nazareth, but only to His mission as Saviour, to the great
family of mankind.

In the new organization of salvation, spiritual affiliations surpass the
simple relationships of the flesh. “If any come to me, and hate not his
father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters,
yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.” Individual love
must disappear in universal love. We must choose between the old
affections of the old mankind and the unique love of the New Man.

The family will disappear when men, in the celestial life, shall be
better than men. In the world as it is, the family is an impediment for
him who helps others to rise to higher things. “And call no man your
father upon the earth: for one is your Father which is in heaven.” He
who leaves his family shall be infinitely rewarded. “And he said unto
them, Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or
parents, or brethren, or wife, or children for the kingdom of God’s
sake, Who shall not receive manifold more in this present time, and in
the world to come life everlasting.”

Your Heavenly Father will never forsake you, your brothers in the
Kingdom will never betray you; but the fathers and the brothers of
earthly life might become your assassins. “And ye shall be betrayed both
by parents and brethren and kinsfolks and friends; and some of you shall
they cause to be put to death.”

And yet fathers at least should be faithful, because, according to
Jesus, fathers have more duties toward their sons than sons toward their
fathers. The Old Law recognizes only the first. “Honor thy father and
thy mother,” said Moses. But he does not add, “Protect and love thy
children.” Children seemed to Moses to be the property of those who had
begotten them. Life in those times seemed so fair and precious that
children were always thought to be in debt to their parents. They were
to remain servants forever, everlastingly submissive. They should live
only for old age, by the orders of old age.

Here also the divine genius of the Overthrower sees what is lacking in
the old ideals and insists upon righting the balance. Fathers should
give without sparing and without rest; even if the children are
ungrateful, even if they abandon their father, even if they are unworthy
in the eyes of the platitudinous sagacity of the world. The Paternoster
is a prayer of sons to a Father. It is the prayer which every child
might address to his father. He asks for daily bread; the remission of
sins, pardon for his failings, and daily protection against evil.

And yet fathers, even when they give everything, are sometimes forsaken.
If their sons leave them to throw themselves into evil ways, they must
be forgiven as soon as they come back, as the Prodigal Son in the
parable was forgiven. If they leave their fathers to seek out a higher
and more perfect life—like those who are converted to the Kingdom—they
will be rewarded a thousand times in this life and the next.

But from every point of view, fathers are debtors. The tremendous
responsibility which they have accepted in giving life to a new human
being must be met. Like the Heavenly Father, they must give to those of
their children who ask and to those who keep silence, to the worthy and
the unworthy, to those who sit about the family board and to those who
are wanderers over the earth, to the good and to the bad, to the first
and to the last. They must never become weary, not even with the
children who flee from them, with those who offend against them, with
those who deny them.

“Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give
him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?” Who will
refuse to a son who departs asking nothing, the supreme gift of a love
which asks no requital?

LITTLE CHILDREN

All men are children of the Son of Man, but no one could call Him father
in the flesh. Among the disappointing joys of men perhaps the only joy
which does not disappoint is to hold in one’s arms or on one’s knees a
child whose face is rosy with blood which is also yours, who laughs at
you with the dawning splendor of his eyes, who stammers out your name,
who uncovers the springs of the lost tenderness of your childhood; to
feel against your adult flesh, hardened by winds and the sun, this fresh
smooth young flesh where the blood seems still to have kept some of the
sweetness of milk, flesh that seems made of warm, living petals. To feel
that this flesh is yours, shaped in the flesh of your mate, nourished
with the milk of her breasts; to watch the birth and slow flowering of
the soul in this flesh; to be the sole father of this unique creature,
of this flower opening in the light of the world; to recognize your own
aspect in his childish eyes, to hear your own voice through his fresh
lips; to grow young again through this child in order to be worthy of
him; to be nearer to him; to make yourself younger, better, purer; to
forget all the years which bring us silently nearer to death, to forget
the pride of manhood, the vanity of wisdom, the first wrinkles on the
face, the expiations, the ignominies of life and to become a virgin
again beside this virginity, calm beside this calmness, good with a
goodness never known before; to be in short the father of a child of
your own, this is certainly the highest human pleasure given to a man
who has a soul within his clay.

Jesus, whom no one called Father, was drawn to children as to sinners.
Lover of the absolute, He loved only extremes. Complete innocence and
complete downfall were for Him pledges of salvation. Innocence because
it does not need to be cleansed; abject degradation because it feels
more keenly the need to be cleansed. The people in danger are those
midway; men half depraved and half intact; men who are foul within and
wish to seem upright and just; those who have lost with their childhood
their native purity and do not yet recognize the filthiness of their
inner depravity.

Jesus loved children with tenderness and sinners with compassion; the
pure and those who stood in dire need of purification. His hand
willingly caressed the floating hair of the newly weaned child and did
not draw back from the perfumed tresses of the prostitute. He drew near
to sinners because they often had not the strength to come to Him; but
He called children to Him because children know by instinct who loves
them, and run willingly to him. Mothers brought their children to Him to
have Him touch them. The Disciples, with their habitual roughness, cried
out on them—and Jesus once more was obliged to reprove them, “Suffer
little children, and forbid them not to come unto me, for of such is the
kingdom of heaven.” “Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive
the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein.”

The Disciples, bearded men, proud of their authority as mature men and
as lieutenants of their future Lord, could not understand why their
Master consented to waste time with children who could not yet speak
plainly and could not understand the meaning of grown people’s words.
But Jesus set in their midst one of these children and said: “Verily I
say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye
shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall
humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom
of heaven.... And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name
receiveth me. But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which
believe in me, it were better for him that a mill-stone were hanged
about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”

Here, too, the transposition of values is complete. In the Old Law, the
child was to respect the grown man, to revere and imitate the old man.
The little child was to take the grown person as his model. Perfection
was supposed to lie in years of maturity, or, better yet, in old age.
The child was respected only as containing the hope for future manhood.
Jesus reversed these ideas; grown people were to take their example from
little children, elders were to try to become like infants, fathers were
to imitate their sons. In the world as it was, as it is, controlled by
force, where the only valued art is the art of acquiring riches and
overcoming others, children are at the most only human larvæ. In the New
World announced by Christ, which will be governed by fearless purity and
innocent love, children are the arch-types of happy citizens. The child
who seems an imperfect man is thus more perfect than the grown man. The
man who imagines that he has come into the fullness of his time and of
his soul is to turn back, despoil himself of his complacent complexities
and return to his first youth. From having been imitated he becomes an
imitator, from his position as first he becomes last.

Jesus reaffirms His own likeness to a child, and declares with no
hesitation that He is identical with the children who seek Him out, “And
whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.” The
saint, the poor man, the poet, present themselves under this new form
which sums them all up: the child, pure and candid as the saint, bare
and needy as the poor man, marveling and loving like the poet.

Jesus loves children not only as unconscious models for those who wish
to attain the perfection of the Kingdom, but as the actual mediums of
truth. Their ignorance is more illumined than the doctrines of learned
men; their ingenuousness is more powerful than the intellect which shows
itself in reasoning words. Only a clear and untarnished mirror can
reflect the images of the revelation.

“I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid
these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto
babes.” Their own wisdom stands in the way of the wise, because they
think they understand everything. Their own intelligence is an
impediment for the intelligent, because they are not capable of
understanding any other light than that of the intellect. Only the
simple can understand simplicity, the innocent, innocence, the loving,
love. The revelation of Jesus, open only to virginal souls, is all
humility, purification and love. But man, as he grows older, becomes
more complicated, more corrupt, prouder, and learns the horrible
pleasure of hatred. Every day he goes further from Paradise, becomes
less capable of finding it. He takes pleasure in his steady downfall and
glories in the useless learning which hides from him the only needful
truth.

To find the new Paradise, the Kingdom of innocence and love, it is
needful to become like children who have already what others must strive
and struggle to regain.

Jesus seeks out the company of sinners, of men and women, but He feels
Himself with his true brothers only when He lays His hands on the heads
of the children whom the Galilean mothers bring to Him as an offering.

MARTHA AND MARY

Women also loved Jesus. He who had the form and flesh of a man, who left
His mother and never had a wife, was surrounded all His life and after
His death by the warmth of feminine tenderness. The chaste wanderer was
loved by women as no man was ever loved, or ever can be loved again. The
chaste man, who condemned adultery and fornication, had over women the
inestimable prestige of innocence.

All women, who are not mere females, kneel before him who does not bow
before them. The husband with all his legal love and authority, the
satyr with all his mistresses, the eloquent adulterer, the bold
ravisher, have not so much power over the spirit of women as he who
loves them without touching them, he who saves them without asking for
even a kiss as reward. Woman, slave of her body, of her weakness, her
desire and of the desire of the male, is drawn to him who frees her, to
him who cures her, to him who loves her and asks no more from her than a
cup of water, a smile, a little silent attention.

Women loved Jesus. They stopped when they saw Him pass, they followed
Him when they saw Him speaking to His friends, they drew near to the
house where He had gone in, they brought their children to Him, they
blessed Him loudly, they touched His garment to be cured of their ills,
they were happy when they could serve Him. All of them might have cried
out to Him, like the woman who raised her voice in the midst of the
multitude: “Blessed is the womb that bare ye, and the paps which thou
hast sucked.”

Many followed Him to death. Salome, mother of the Sons of Thunder; Mary,
mother of James the less; Martha and Mary of Bethany.

They would have liked to be His sisters, His servants, His slaves; to
serve Him, to set bread before Him, to pour Him wine, to wash His
garments, to anoint His tired feet and His flowing hair. Some of them
were fortunate enough to be allowed to follow Him, and knew the still
greater good fortune of helping Him with their money ... “and the twelve
were with him, And certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits
and infirmities, Mary, called Magdalene, out of whom went seven devils,
And Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many
others, which ministered unto him of their substance.” Women, in whom
piety is a native gift of the heart before it is acquired through desire
for perfection, were, as they have always been, more generous than men.

When He appears in the house of Lazarus, two women, the two sisters of
the man brought back from death, seem distracted with joy. Martha rushes
towards Him to see what He needs, if He wishes to wash, if He wishes to
eat at once, and, bringing Him into the house, she leads Him to the
couch that He may lie down, puts over Him a blanket lest He be cold, and
runs with a pitcher to get fresh cool water. Then, on her return, she
sets to work to prepare for the pilgrim a fine meal, much more abundant
than the ordinary dinner of the family. With all haste she lights a
great fire, goes to get fresh fish, new-laid eggs, figs and olives; she
borrows from one neighbor a piece of new-killed lamb, from another a
costly perfume, from another richer than she, a flowered dish. She pulls
out from the linen-chest the newest table-cloth, and brings up from the
wine-cellar the oldest wine. And while the wood snaps and sparkles in
the fire and the water in the kettle begins to simmer, poor Martha,
bustling, flushed, hurrying, sets the table, runs between the
kneading-trough and the fire, glances at the waiting Master, at the
street to see if her brother is coming home, and at her sister, who is
doing nothing at all.

For when Jesus passed the sill of their house, Mary fell into a sort of
motionless ecstasy from which nothing could arouse her. She sees only
Jesus, hears nothing but Jesus’ voice. There is nothing else in the
world for her at that moment. She cannot have enough of looking at Him,
of listening to Him, of feeling Him there, living, close to her. If He
glances at her, she is happy to be looked at; if He does not look at
her, she fixes her eyes on Him; if He speaks, His words drop one by one
into her heart, there to remain to her death; if He is silent, she draws
from His silence a more direct revelation. And she is almost troubled by
the bustling and stepping about of her sister. Why should Martha think
that Jesus needs an elaborate dinner? Mary is seated at His feet and
does not move even if Martha or Lazarus call her. She is at the service
of Jesus, but in another way. She has given Him her soul, only her soul,
but such a loving soul! And the work of her hands would be inopportune
and superfluous. She is a contemplative soul, an adorer. She will take
action only to cover the dead body of her God with perfumes. She would
move quickly enough if He should ask of her all her life-blood. But the
rest, all this business of Martha, is only material activity which is no
concern of hers.

Women loved Him and He requited this love with compassion. No woman who
turned to Him was sent away disconsolate. The sorrow of the widow of
Nain made Him sorrow, so that He brought to life her dead son; the
prayers of the Canaanite woman, although she was a foreigner to Him,
wrought on Him to cure her daughter; the unknown woman which had a
“spirit of infirmity” eighteen years, and was bowed together and could
in no wise lift herself, was cured, although it was on the Sabbath day
and the rulers of the synagogue cried, “Sacrilege!” In the first part of
His wanderings He cured Peter’s wife’s mother of fever and the Magdalene
of evil spirits. He brought to life the daughter of Jairus, and cured
that unknown woman who had suffered for twelve years from a bloody flux.

The learned men of His time had no esteem for women in spiritual
matters. They tolerated their presence at the sacred festivals, but they
never would have thought of teaching high and secret doctrines to any
woman. “The words of the Law,” says a rabbinical proverb of that time,
“rather than teach them to a woman, burn them up!” Jesus on the other
hand did not hesitate to speak to them of the highest mysteries. When He
went alone to the well of Sichar, and the Samaritan woman who had had
five husbands came there, He did not hesitate to proclaim His message to
her, although she was a woman and an enemy of His people. “But the hour
cometh, and now is, when the true worshipers shall worship the Father in
spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such to worship him. God is
a spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in
truth.” His Disciples came up, and could not understand what the Master
was doing. “And marvelled that he talked with the woman.” They did not
yet know that the Church of Christ would make a woman the link between
the sons and the Son—the woman who unites in herself the two supreme
possibilities of Woman: the Virgin Mother who suffered for us from the
night in Bethlehem until the night of Golgotha.

WORDS WRITTEN ON THE SAND

On another occasion at Jerusalem, Jesus found Himself before a woman—the
Adulteress. A hooting crowd pushed her forward. The woman, hiding her
face with her hands and with her hair, stood before Him, without
speaking. Jesus had taught that wife and husband should be perfectly
one, and He detested adultery. But He detested still more the cowardice
of tale-bearers, the hounding by the merciless, the impudence of sinners
presuming to set themselves up as judges of sin. Jesus could not absolve
the woman who had brutally disobeyed the law of God, but He did not wish
to condemn her, because her accusers had no right to be seeking her
death. And He stooped down and with His finger wrote upon the ground. It
is the first and last time that we see Jesus lower Himself to this
trivial operation. No one has ever known what He wrote at that moment,
standing there before the woman trembling in her shame, like a deer set
upon by a pack of snarling hounds. He chose the sand on which to write
expressly that the wind might carry away the words, which would perhaps
frighten men if they could read them. But the shameless persecutors
insisted that the woman should be stoned. Then Jesus lifted Himself up,
looked deep into their eyes and souls, one by one: “He that is without
sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”

We are all of us guilty of the faults of our brothers. From the first to
the last we are all daily accomplices, although too often unpunished.
The Adulteress would not have betrayed her husband if men had not
tempted her, if her husband had made himself better loved; the thief
would not rob if the rich man’s heart were not so hard; the assassin
would not kill if he had not been harshly treated; there would be no
prostitutes if men knew how to mortify their wantonness. Only the
innocents would have the right to judge; but on this earth there are no
innocents, and even if there were, their mercy would be stronger than
justice itself.

Such thoughts had never occurred to those angry spies, but Christ’s
words troubled them. Every one of them thought of his own betrayals, his
own secret and perhaps recent sins of the flesh. Every soul there was
like a sewer which when the stone is raised exhales a fetid gust of
nauseous vapor. The old men were the first to go. Then, little by
little, all the others, avoiding each other’s eyes, scattered and
dispersed. The open place was empty. Jesus had again stooped down to
write upon the ground. The woman had heard the shuffling of the
departing feet, and heard no longer any voice crying for her death, but
she did not dare to raise her eyes because she knew that One alone had
remained, the Innocent,—the only one who had the right to throw against
her the deadly stones. Jesus for the second time lifted Himself up and
saw no one.

“Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?”

“No man, Lord.”

“Neither do I condemn thee: go and sin no more.”

And for the first time the Adulteress dared to look in the face of her
liberator. She did not understand His words. What she had done was
evidently a sin in His eyes because he commanded her to “sin no more”;
and yet he had so acted that the others did not condemn her. And now He
also did not wish to condemn her. What man was this so different from
all the others, who hated sin but forgave the sinner? She would have
wished to turn to Him with a question, to murmur a word of thanks, to
reward Him at least with a smile, because her soul was weak and her lips
beautiful. But Jesus had begun again to write on the ground of the
court, His head lowered, and she saw only the silky waves of His hair
shining in the sun, and His finger moving slowly over the sunlit earth.

THE SINNER

But no woman loved Him so much as the woman who anointed Him with nard
and bathed Him with her tears in the house of Simon the Pharisee. Every
one of us has seen that picture in imagination; the weeping woman with
her hair falling over the feet of the Wanderer; and yet the true meaning
of the episode is understood by very few, so greatly has it been
disfigured by both the ordinary and the literary interpretations. The
decadents of the last century, careful workmen in lascivious preciosity,
who swarm to the scent of corruption like flies to filth and crows to
carrion, have sought out in the Gospel those women who are redolent of
sin. And they have made such women their own, adorning them with the
velvet of adjectives, the silk of verbs, the jewelry and precious stones
of metaphors; the unknown repentant woman, named Mary Magdalene, the
unknown adulteress of Jerusalem, Salome the dancer, the sinister
Herodias.

The episode of this anointing has been profoundly misrepresented by such
writers. It is simpler and infinitely more profound. The praise of Jesus
for the woman who brought Him nard is not praise of carnal sin, or of
common love as it is commonly understood by men.

This sinning woman who silently entered the house of Simon with her box
of alabaster was no longer a sinner. She had seen Jesus, had known Him
before that day. And she was no longer a woman for hire; she had heard
Jesus speak, and was no longer the public woman, flesh on sale for
masculine desires. She had heard the voice of Jesus, had listened to His
words; His voice had troubled her, His words had shaken her. The woman
who had belonged to every one had learned that there is a love more
beautiful than lust, a poverty richer than clinking coins. When she came
to the house of Simon she was not the woman she had been, the woman whom
the men of the countryside had pointed out sneeringly, the woman whom
the Pharisee knew and despised. Her soul was changed, all her life was
changed. Now her flesh was chaste; her hand was pure; her lips no longer
knew the bitter taste of rouge, her eyes had learned to weep. From now
on, according to the promise of the King, she was ready to enter into
the Kingdom.

Without taking all this for granted it is impossible to understand the
story which follows. The sinning woman wished to reward her Saviour with
a token of her gratitude. She took one of the most costly things left to
her, a sealed box full of nard, perhaps the gift of a chance lover,
thinking to anoint her King’s head with this costly oil. Hers was an act
of public gratitude. The sinning woman wished publicly to thank Him who
had cleansed her soul, who had brought her heart to life, who had lifted
her up out of shame, who had given her a hope more glorious than all
joys.

She went into the house with her box of alabaster clasped to her breast,
timid and shrinking as a little girl on her first day of school, as a
released prisoner in his first moment outside the prison. She went in
silently with her little box of perfume, raising her eyes for only a
moment to see at a glance where Jesus was reclining. She went up to the
couch, her knees trembling under her, her hands shaking, her delicate
eyelids quivering, because she felt they were all looking at her, all
those men’s eyes were fixed on her, staring at her beautiful swaying
body, wondering what she was about to do.

She broke the seal of the little alabaster flask, and poured half the
oil on the head of Jesus. The large drops shone on His hair like
scattered gems. With loving hands she spread the transparent ointment on
the curls and did not stay her hand till every hair was softened, silky
and shining. The whole room was filled with the fragrance; every eye was
fixed on her with astonishment.

The woman, still silent, took up the opened box and knelt by the feet of
the Peace-bringer. She poured the remaining oil into her hand and
gently, gently rubbed the right foot and the left with the loving care
of a young mother who bathes her first child, for the first time. Then
she could control herself no longer, she could restrain no longer the
great burst of tenderness which filled her heart, made her throat ache
and brought tears to her eyes. She would have liked to speak, to say
that this was her thanks, her simple, pure, heartfelt thanks for the
great help she had received, for the new light which had unsealed her
eyes. But in such a moment, with all those men there, how could she find
the right words, words worthy of the wonderful grace, worthy of Him? And
besides, her lips trembled so that she could not pronounce two words
together; her speech would have been only a stammering broken by sobs.
Then not being able to speak with her lips, she spoke with her eyes: her
tears fell down one by one, swift and hot on the feet of Jesus, like so
many silent thank-offerings.

Weeping freed her heart of its oppression; the tears relaxed the
tension. She saw and felt nothing now but an inexpressible delight which
she had never known on her mother’s knees or in men’s arms; it ran
through all her blood, made her tremble, pierced her with its poignant
joy, shook all her being in that supreme ecstasy in which joy is a pain
and sorrow a joy, in which pain and joy become one mighty emotion.

She wept over her past life, the miserable life of her vigil. She
thought of her poor flesh sullied by men. She had been forced to have a
smile for them all, she had been forced to offer her luxurious bed and
her perfumed body to them all. With all of them she had been forced to
pretend a pleasure she did not feel. She had been forced to show a
smiling face to those whom she despised, to those whom she hated. She
had slept beside the thief who had stolen the money to pay her. She had
kissed the lips of the murderer and of the fugitive from justice; she
had been forced to endure the acrid breath and the repellent fancies of
the drunkard.

Never, on a kindly summer night when the eastern sky is all a flashing
splendor, had she known the welcoming kiss of a husband who had chosen
her, virgin among virgins, that she should be one with him till death.
She was outside the community and the laws. She was cut off from her
people. She was separated from them all. Women envied her and detested
her; men desired her and defamed her.

THE SECOND BAPTISM

But at the same time the tears of the weeping woman were tears of joy
and exaltation. She was weeping not only because of her shame, now
forever canceled, but because of the poignant sweetness of her life
beginning anew.

She was weeping for her virginity restored, for her soul rescued from
evil, her purity miraculously recovered, her condemnation forever
revoked. Her tears were the tears of joy at the second birth, of
exultation for truth discovered, of light-heartedness for her sudden
conversion, for the saving of her soul, for the miraculous hope which
had released her from the degradation of the material and raised her to
the illumination of the spirit. The drops of nard and her tears were so
many thank-offerings for this incredible blessing.

And yet it was not alone for her own sorrow and her own joy that she
wept. The tears which bathed the feet of Jesus were also shed for Him.

The unknown woman had anointed her King like a king of olden times. She
had anointed His head as the high priests had anointed the kings of
Judea; she had anointed His feet as the lords and guests anointed
themselves on festal days. But at the same time the weeping woman had
prepared Him for death and burial.

Jesus, about to enter Jerusalem, knew that those were the last days of
His life in the flesh. He said to His disciples, “For in that she hath
poured this ointment on my body, she did it for my burial.” Still
living, He was embalmed by a woman’s compassion.

Christ was to receive before His death a third baptism, the baptism of
infamy, the baptism of the supreme insult; prætorian soldiers were to
spit upon his face. But He had now received the baptism of glory and the
baptism of death. He was anointed like a king about to triumph in His
celestial kingdom. He was perfumed like a corpse about to be laid in the
tomb. This anointing unites the twin mysteries of His Messiahship and of
the crucifixion.

The poor sinning woman, mysteriously chosen for this prophetic rite, had
perhaps a confused presentiment of the appalling meaning of this
premonitory embalming. Love’s second-sight, stronger in women than in
men, the foresight of exalted and deep emotion, may have made her feel
that this body perfumed and caressed by her was in a few days to be an
icy, blood-stained corpse. Other women, perhaps she herself, were to go
to the tomb to cover Him for the last time with aromatics, but they
would not find Him. He who was now feasting with His friends was at that
time to be at the doors of another Hell. Feeling this presentiment, the
weeping woman let her tears fall on Jesus’ feet to the astonishment of
all the others, who did not know and did not understand.

Now the feet of the Saviour, the feet of the condemned one, are all
bathed with tears, the salt of the tears mingling with the perfume of
the nard. The poor sinning woman does not know how to dry those feet,
wet by her tears. She has no white cloth with her, and her garment does
not seem to her worthy to touch her Lord’s flesh. Then she thinks of her
hair, her long hair which has been so much admired for its fine
silkiness. She loosens the braids, slips out the pins, unclasps the
fastenings. The blue-black mass of her tresses falls over her face,
hiding her flushed face and her compassion. And taking up the masses of
these flowing curls in her hands, she slowly dries the feet which have
brought her King into that house.

Now her tears are ended. All her tears are shed and dried. Her part is
done, but only Jesus has understood her silence.

SHE LOVED MUCH

Among the men who were present at this dinner there was no one except
Jesus who understood the loving service of the nameless woman. But all,
struck with wonder, were silent. They did not understand, but they
respected obscurely the solemnity of the enigmatic ceremony. All except
two, who wished to interpret the woman’s action as an offense to the
guest. These two were the Pharisee and Judas Iscariot. The first said
nothing, but his expression spoke more clearly than words. The second,
the Traitor, presuming on his familiarity with the Master, ventured to
speak.

Simon thought to himself, “This man, if he were a prophet, would have
known who and what manner of woman this is that toucheth Him, for she is
a sinner.” The old hypocrite had for the paid woman the scorn of those
who have had much to do with them, or of those who have never known them
at all. Like his brothers he belonged to the endless cemetery of white
sepulchers, which within are full of foulness. It is enough for such men
to avoid physical contact with what they think is impure, even if their
souls are sinks of iniquity. Their morals are systems of ablutions and
washings; they would leave a wounded man to die, abandoned on the road,
for fear of staining themselves with blood; they would let a poor man
suffer hunger to avoid touching money on the Sabbath day: like all men
they commit thefts, adulteries, and murders, but they wash their hands
so many times a day that they imagine them as clean as those of babes.

He had read the Law, and there were still ringing in his ears the
execrations and anathemas of Old Israel against prostitutes. “There
shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel.... Thou shalt not bring
the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the Lord
thy God for any vow: for even both these are abomination to the Lord thy
God.” And Simon, the wise burgher, remembered with equal satisfaction
the admonition of the author of the Proverbs: “For a whore is a deep
ditch; and a strange woman is a narrow pit.... For by means of a whorish
woman a man is brought to a piece of bread.” The old Jew would perhaps
not have felt so bitterly about prostitutes, if they cost nothing! But
they are capable, those shameless women, of eating up a patrimony! The
old proprietor could not be reconciled to one of those dangerous women
in his house, to the fact that she had touched his guest. He knew that
the prostitute Rehab had made victory possible for Joshua and that she
was the only one to escape from the massacre of Jericho, but he
remembered that the invincible Samson, terror of the Philistines, had
been betrayed by a worthless woman. The Pharisee could not understand
how a man acclaimed by the people as a prophet should not have
understood what sort of woman had come to bestow on Him this
discreditable honor; but Jesus had read in the heart of the sinning
woman and in the heart of Simon, and answered with the parable of the
two debtors. “There was a certain creditor which had two debtors: the
one owed five hundred pence and the other fifty. And when they had
nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me therefore, which
of them will love him most? Simon answered and said, I suppose that he,
to whom he forgave most. And he said unto him, Thou hast rightly
judged.”

And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon: “Seest thou this woman?
I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she
hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her
head.

“Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time I came in hath
not ceased to kiss my feet.

“My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my
feet with ointment.

“Wherefore I say unto thee, Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for
she loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.

“And he said unto her, Thy sins are forgiven.... Thy faith hath saved
thee; go in peace.”

The parable and the comment of Jesus show how great, even to-day, is the
lack of understanding of this episode. Every one or nearly every one
remembers only those words: “Her sins are forgiven, for she loved much.”
An attentive reading of the text shows that this ordinary interpretation
is the opposite of the truth. It is thought that Jesus forgave her sins
because she had loved many men, or because she had shown her love for
Him with her perfume and her kisses. The parable of the two debtors
makes it clear that the meaning of Jesus’ words, badly quoted and even
more completely misunderstood, is entirely the contrary. The woman had
sinned greatly and because of her repentance she was wholly pardoned;
and because her pardon was great she greatly loved Him who had saved
her, who had forgiven her; the nard and her tears and her kisses were
the expression of that grateful love. If before going into the house
that evening the sinning woman had not already become transformed by
virtue of her pardon, she would not have obtained from Jesus forgiveness
for her past life spent in evil, not by using all the perfumes of India
and Egypt nor by all the kisses of her lips, nor by all the tears of her
eyes. Christ’s forgiveness was not the reward for those acts of homage;
those acts were her thank-offerings for her forgiveness already
received; and they were great because her forgiveness was great, as her
forgiveness had been great because great had been her sin.

Jesus would not have repelled the sinning woman even if she had still
been a sinner, but if He had not been sure of her conversion He would
not perhaps have accepted those tokens of love; from now on even the
most rigorous Pharisaical precepts permitted Him to speak with her: “Thy
faith hath saved thee; go in peace.”

Simon could think of no answer; but from the side of the disciples a
rough, angry voice was raised, well known to Jesus. It was the voice of
Judas: “Why was this waste of the ointment made, why was not this
ointment sold for three hundred pence and given to the poor?” And the
other disciples, so the Evangelists say, approved the words of Judas,
and murmured against the woman. Judas was the man who held the purse;
the basest of them all had chosen the basest element,—money.

Money was pleasing to Judas, pleasing in itself and pleasing in its
possibility of power. He spoke of the poor, but he did not think of the
poor, to whom Jesus had distributed bread in the country-solitudes, as
well as to his own companions, too poor as yet to conquer Jerusalem and
to found the empire of the Messiah where Judas hoped to be one of the
masters. And he was envious as well as grasping; envious as all misers
are. That silent anointing which was the consecration of the King and
the Messiah, those honors offered by a beautiful woman to his Leader,
made him suffer; the everlasting jealousy of man against man, when a
woman is concerned, was mingled with the disappointment of his cupidity.

But Jesus answered the words of Judas as He answered the silence of
Simon. He did not affront those who had affronted Him, but he defended
the woman at His feet. And Jesus said, “Let her alone; why trouble ye
her? she hath wrought a good work on me. For ye have the poor with you
always, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good: but me ye have not
always. She hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my
body to the burying. Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel
shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath
done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her.”

The inexpressible sadness of this prophecy escaped perhaps those who sat
about Him. They could not be persuaded that Jesus, in order to overcome,
should be overcome: that in order to triumph eternally He must die. But
Jesus felt the day drawing near, “But me ye have not always, she is come
to anoint my body to the burying.” The woman listened in terror to this
confirmation of her presentiment and another burst of tears rained down
from her eyes. Then with her face hidden in her loosened hair, she went
away as silently as she had come.

The disciples were silent, not convinced, but abashed. To hide his
chagrin Simon filled the guest’s cup with better wine, but in the yellow
light of the lamps the silent table seemed a banquet of ghosts among
whom had passed the shadow of death.

“WHO AM I?”

And yet the disciples knew. Those words of death were not the first they
had heard from Jesus’ lips. They should have remembered that day, not
long before, when on a solitary road near Cæsarea, Jesus had asked what
people said of Him. They should have remembered the answer which flashed
out like sudden flame, the impetuous outcry of belief from Peter’s
heart; and the splendor which had shone on three of them on the summit
of the mountain; and the exact prophecies of Christ as to the manner of
His death.

They had heard and they had seen, and still they hoped on,—all but one.
The truth shone out in them at moments like lightning-flashes in the
dark. Then the night fell blacker than ever. The new man in their hearts
who recognized Jesus as the Christ, the man born for the second time,
the Christian, disappeared to give way to the Jew, deaf and blind, who
saw nothing beyond the Jerusalem of bricks and stone.

The question which Jesus had put to the Twelve on the road in Cæsarea
must have been the beginning of their complete conversion to the new
truth. What need did Jesus have to know what others thought of Him? Such
a curiosity springs up only in doubtful souls, in those who do not know
themselves, in the weak who cannot read in their own hearts, in the
blind who are not sure of the ground on which they stand. For any one of
us such a question is legitimate, but not for Jesus. No one of us knows
really who he is, no one knows with any certainty what is his real
nature, his mission, and the name which he has a right to call his own,
the eternal name which fits our destiny. The name which was given to us
in infancy, together with the salt and water of baptism, the name set
down on the municipal register, and written in the records of birth and
of death, the name which the mother calls with so much gentleness in the
morning, which the sweetheart murmurs with so much desire at night, the
name which is cut for the last time on the rectangle of the tomb, that
is not our real name. Every one of us has a secret name which expresses
our invisible and authentic essence, and which we ourselves will never
know until the day of the New Birth, until the full light of the
resurrection.

Few of us dare to ask ourselves, “Who am I?” and there are still fewer
who can answer. The question “Who art thou?” is the most tremendous, the
most weighty which man can put to man. Other human beings are for each
of us a sealed mystery even in the moments of supreme passion, when two
souls desperately essay to become one. We are all of us a mystery even
to ourselves. Unknown to others, we live among others unknown to us.
Much of our wretchedness comes from this universal ignorance. Here is a
man who acts like a king and believes himself a king and in the absolute
he is really only a poor servant, predestined from the beginning of time
to dependent mediocrity. Here is another dressed and acting like a
judge; look at him well; he is born a dry-goods dealer, his real place
is in the country fair. That man there who writes poetry has not
understood his inner voice; he should be a goldsmith, because gold which
can be turned into coin suits his taste, and he is attracted by
filigree, mosaics, chasing, imitation jewels. This other man who is at
the head of an army ought to be teaching school. What an expert and
eloquent professor he might have become! And that fellow there, shouting
in the public places, heading a revolution, calling on the people to
revolt, is a gardener who has mistaken his calling; the red of tomatoes,
long lines of onions, garlic, and cabbages would be the fit reward of
his true mission. This other man here, on the contrary, who, cursing his
fate, prunes his grape-vines and spreads the manure on the cultivated
earth, should have studied in law-books the art of quibbling: no one can
invent sophisms and verbal tricks as he can, and even now, how much
eloquence he pours out in humble duels about money matters, this poor
“leading lawyer” exiled to barns and furrows.

These errors concern us because we do not know, because we have not
spiritual eyes strong enough to read in the heart which beats inside our
own breasts, and the hearts which beat under the flesh of our neighbors,
so irrevocably remote from us. Everything is in confusion because of
those Names which we do not know, illegible for us, known to genius
alone.

THOU ART THE CHRIST

But what did Jesus care what was said of Him by the men of the lake and
of the cities, Jesus who could read in their souls the thoughts hidden
even to themselves? Long before that day Jesus alone knew with ineffable
certainty what His real name was, and what was his superhuman nature. As
a matter of fact He did not ask that He might know, but, now that the
end was near, that His faithful followers might know, His real name, at
last—even they.

“Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others,
Jeremias or, one of the Prophets.”

What were these things to Him, these rudimentary guesses of the poor and
the ignorant? He wished the definite answer to come from His Disciples,
destined as they were to follow His work and to bear witness to Him
among the peoples and the centuries. Even at the last He did not wish to
impose by force a belief on those who had seen His life close at hand
and had heard Him speak. The recognition of His superb human mission,
that name which not one of them up to that time had pronounced (as if
they were afraid of it, as if it were too dangerous a secret to speak
aloud), that recognition on the part of the Twelve should be free and
spontaneous, should burst out, an impetuous confession of love, from one
of those souls, should be pronounced by one of those mouths.

“But whom say ye that I am?” And then there came to Simon Peter the
great light that was almost too great for him, and made him First to all
eternity. He could not keep back the words, they came to his lips almost
involuntarily in a cry of which he himself the moment before would have
believed himself incapable: “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living
God. Thou hast the word of eternal life, and we believe and are sure
that thou art that Christ, the Son of the living God.”

At last from Peter the Rock there sprang forth the wellspring which from
that day to this has quenched the thirst of sixty generations of men. It
was his right and his reward. Peter had been the first to follow Christ
in the divine wanderings: it was for him to be the first to recognize in
the wanderer the Proclaimer of the Kingdom, the everlasting and lawful
sovereign of that Kingdom, the Messiah whom all men had been awaiting in
the desert of the centuries, who had finally come and was there Himself,
clothed in flesh, standing before their eyes, with His feet in the dust
of the road.

The pure King, the Son of Justice, the Prince of Peace, the Son of Man
sent by God, the Saviour, the Anointed, whom the prophets had foretold
in the twilight of sorrow and affliction; who had been seen by
apocalyptic writers descending upon the earth like lightning, in the
fullness of victory and glory; for whom the poor, the wounded, the
hungry, the afflicted, had been waiting from century to century, as dry
grass waits for rain, as the flower waits for the sun, as the mouth
awaits the kiss, and the heart, consolation; the Son of God and of Man,
the Man who hid God in human flesh, the God who cloaked His divinity in
Adam’s clay, it is He, the dear Brother of every day, who looks quietly
into the astounded eyes of those chosen ones!

The period of waiting is done; ended is the vigil! Why had they not
recognized Him until that day? Whence did it come in those simple souls,
the first notion of the true name of Him who so many times had taken
them by the hand, and had spoken for their ears to hear? They could
never think that one of them—a common man like them, a workman and poor
as they were—could be the Saviour Messiah announced and awaited by
saints and by the centuries. With the intellect alone they could never
have discovered Him, nor with the mere bodily senses, nor with the
teachings of the scriptures; only with the inspiration, the intuition,
the sudden flaming illumination of the heart, as it happened that day in
the soul of Peter. “Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-Jona; for flesh and
blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in Heaven.”
Fleshly eyes would not have been able to see what they saw without a
revelation from on high.

But weighty consequences flow from the choice of Peter for this
proclamation. It is a reward which calls for other recompense, “Thou art
Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hell
shall not prevail against it. And I will give unto thee the keys of the
kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be
bound in Heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be
loosed in Heaven.”

Weighty words from which have emerged, through the patient germination
of long centuries, helped by the fire of faith and by the blood of
witnesses, one of the greatest Kingdoms which men have ever established
upon the earth; the only one of the old kingdoms which still lives on in
the same city which saw the rise and fall of the proudest and most
pompous of earthly kingdoms. For these words many men suffered, many
were tortured, many were killed. To deny or uphold, to interpret or
cancel these words, thousands of men have been killed in city squares
and in battles; kingdoms have been divided, societies have been shaken
and rent, nations have waged war, emperors and beggars have given their
all. But their meaning in Christ’s mouth is plain and simple. He means
to say, “Thou, Peter, shalt be hard and staunch as a rock, and upon the
staunchness of thy faith in me, which thou wast the first to profess, is
founded the first Christian society, the humble seed of the Kingdom.
Against this Church which to-day has only Twelve citizens but which will
be spread to the limits of the earth, the forces of evil cannot prevail,
because you are the Spirit and the Spirit cannot be overcome and dimmed
by Matter. Thou shalt close forever—and when I speak to thee I am
speaking to all those who shall succeed thee united in the same
certainty—the Gates of Hell; and thou shalt open to all those who are
chosen the Gates of Heaven. Thou shalt bind and thou shalt unloosen in
my name. What thou shalt forbid after my death shall be forbidden
to-morrow also for that new humanity which I will find on my return;
what thou shalt command shalt be justly commanded because thou wilt be
only repeating in other words what I have told and taught thee. Thou
shalt be, in thy person and in that of thy legitimate heirs, the
shepherd of the interregnum, the temporary and provisional guide who
shalt prepare, together with comrades obedient to thee, the Kingdom of
God and of Love.

“In requital for this revelation and for this promise I lay on you a
hard command: to keep silence; for the present you must tell no one who
I am. My day is near, but has not yet come; you will be witness to
events which you do not expect, which will even be the contrary of what
you expect. I know the hour in which I shall speak and in which you
shall speak. And when we break our silence, my cry and your cry shall be
heard in the most distant realms of Heaven and Earth.”

SUN AND SNOW

A man’s voice, the voice of Peter the Rock, had called Him the Son of
Man; another voice issuing from a cloud was to call Him the Son of God.

Very high is the three-peaked mountain of Hermon, covered with snow even
in the hot season, the highest mountain of Palestine, higher than Mount
Tabor. The Psalmist says, “It is the dew of Hermon that descends upon
the mountains of Zion.” Jesus became incarnate light on this mountain,
the highest mountain in the life of Christ, that life which marks its
different stages by great heights—the mountain of the Temptation, the
mountain of the Beatitudes, the mountain of the Transfiguration, the
mountain of the Crucifixion.

Three Disciples alone were with Him: he who was called Peter, and the
Sons of Thunder,—the man with the rugged, mountainous character, and the
stormy men—fitting company for the place and hour. He prayed alone,
apart from them, higher than all of them, perhaps kneeling in the snow.
All of us have seen in winter how the snow on a mountain makes any other
whiteness seem dull and drab. A pale face seems strangely dark, white
linen seems dingy, paper looks like dry clay. The contrary of all this
was seen on that day up in the gleaming, deserted height alone in the
sky.

Jesus prayed by Himself apart from the others. Suddenly His face shone
like the sun and His raiment became as white as snow in the sunshine,
white “as no fuller on earth can white them.” Over the whiteness of the
snow a more brilliant whiteness, a splendor more powerful than all known
splendors, outshone all earthly light.

The Transfiguration is the Feast and the Victory of Light. Jesus still
in the flesh—for so short a time!—took on the most subtle, the lightest
and most spiritual aspect of matter. His body awaiting its liberation
became sunlight, the light of Heaven, intellectual and supernatural
light; His soul transfigured in prayer shone out through the flesh,
pierced with its flaming whiteness the screen of His body and His
garments, like a flame consuming the walls which close it in, and
flashing through them.

But the light was not the same on His face and on His raiment. The light
of His face was like the sun; that of His garments was like the
brilliance of snow. His face, mirror of the soul, took on the color of
fire; His garments, mere material stuff, were white like ice. For the
soul is sun, fire, love; but the garments, all garments,—even that heavy
garment which is called the human body,—are opaque, cold, dead; and can
shine only by reflected light.

But Jesus, all light, His face gleaming with quiet refulgence, His
garments shining white—gold sparkling in the midst of silver—was not
alone. Two great figures, returned from death, gleaming like Him, stood
by Him, and spoke with Him, Moses and Elias. The first of the Prophets,
men of light and fire, came to bear witness to the new Light which
shines on Hermon. All those who have spoken with God remain radiant with
light. The face of Moses when he came down from Mt. Sinai had become so
resplendent that he covered it with a veil, lest he dazzle the others.
And Elias was caught up to Heaven in a chariot of fire drawn by fiery
steeds. John, the new Elias, announced the baptism of fire, but his face
was darkened by the sun and did not shine like the sun. The only
splendor which came into his life was the golden platter on which his
bloody head was carried, a kingly gift to Herod’s sinister concubine.
But on Hermon there was One whose face shone more than Moses’ and whose
ascension was to be more splendid than that of Elias,—He whom Moses had
promised and who was to come after Elias. They had come there beside
him, but they were to disappear thereafter forever. They were no longer
necessary after this last revelation. From now on the world can do
without their laws and their hopes. A luminous cloud hid the glorious
three from the eyes of the obscure three, and from the cloud came out a
voice: “This is my beloved Son: hear him.”

The cloud did not hide the light, but increased it. As from the
tempest-cloud, the lightning darts out to light up suddenly all the
country; from this cloud already shining in itself, flamed out the fire
which burned up the Old Covenant and confirmed to all eternity the New
Promise. The column of smoke which guided the fleeing Hebrews in the
desert towards Jordan, the black cloud which hid the ark in the day of
desolation and fear, had finally become a cloud of light so brilliant
that it hid even the sunlike splendor of the face which was soon to be
buffeted in the dark days, close at hand.

But when the cloud disappeared, Jesus was once more alone. The two
precursors and the two witnesses had disappeared. His face had taken on
its natural color. His garments had their everyday aspect. Christ, once
more a loving brother, turned back to his swooning companions. “Arise,
and be not afraid.... Tell the vision to no man, until the son of man be
risen again from the dead.”

The Transfiguration forecasts the Ascension; but to die in shame always
precedes rising in glory.

I SHALL SUFFER MANY THINGS

Jesus had known that He must soon die a shameful death. It was the
reward for which he was waiting and no one could have defrauded Him of
it. He who saves others is ready to lose himself; he who rescues others
necessarily pays with his person (that is, with the only value which is
really his and which surpasses and includes all other values); it is
fitting that he who loves his enemies should be hated even by his
friends; he who brings salvation to all nations must needs be killed by
his own people; it suits human ideas of the fitness of things that he
who offers his life should be put to death. Every benefaction is such an
offense to the native ingratitude of men that it can be paid for only by
the heaviest penalty. We lend ears only to voices which cry out from the
tombs, and reserve our scanty capacity for reverence for those whom we
have assassinated. The only truths which remain in the fleeting memory
of the human race are the truths written in blood.

Jesus knew what was awaiting Him at Jerusalem, and as later was said by
one worthy to portray Him, His every thought was colored by the thought
of death. Three times they had already tried to kill Him; the first time
at Nazareth when they took Him up on the summit of the mountain where
the city was built and wished to cast Him down; the second time in the
Temple, the Jews, offended by His talk, laid their hands on stones to
stone Him; and a third time at the feast of the Dedication in
winter-time, they took up the stones of the street to silence Him. But
for these three times he escaped because His hour was not yet come.

He kept His certainty of death in His own heart for Himself alone until
His last hours. For He did not wish to sadden His Disciples who would
have shrunk from following a condemned man, a man who in His own heart
knew Himself at the point of death. But after the triple consecration as
Messiah—Peter’s cry, the light of Hermon, the anointing of Bethany—He
could no longer keep silence. He knew too well the ingenuous complacency
of the Twelve. He knew that when the rare moments of enthusiasm and
illumination were gone, their thoughts were often the common thoughts of
common people, human even in their highest dreams. He knew that the
Messiah for whom they were waiting was a victorious restorer of the Age
of Gold and not the Man of Sorrows. They thought of Him as a king on his
throne and not as a criminal on the gallows; triumphant, receiving
homage and tribute, not spat upon, beaten, and insulted; come to raise
the dead and not to be executed like an assassin.

Lest the Disciples should lose this new certainty of Christ’s
Messiahship on the day of His ignominy, Christ knew that He must warn
them. They must learn from His own mouth that the Messiah would be
condemned, that the Victorious One would disappear in a dreadful
downfall, that the King of all kings would be insulted by Cæsar’s
servants, that the Son of God would be crucified by the ignorant, blind
servants of God.

Three times they had tried to put Him to death; three times after
Peter’s recognition He announced to the Twelve His imminent death. And
there were to be three kinds of men who were to bring about His death:
the Elders, the High Priests and the Scribes. The Elders were the
Patricians, the aristocrats, the lay delegates of the Hebrew
middle-classes, they represented authority and wealth, and Christ had
come to transform authority into service and to condemn the rich and
their treasures. The High Priests represented the Temple, and He had
come to destroy the Temple. The Scribes were the doctors of law, of
theology, the interpreters of the Book, the masters of the Scriptures,
and represented the authority of word and of tradition; and He had come
to transform the Word and to regenerate the tradition. These three
orders of men never could forgive Him even after they had sent Him to
Golgotha.

And there were to be three accomplices to His death: Judas who betrayed
Him, Caiaphas who sentenced Him, Pilate who permitted the execution of
the sentence. And there were to be three sorts of men to execute the
penalty: the guards who arrested Him, the Hebrews who cried “Crucify
Him!” before the procurator’s house, the Roman soldiers who nailed Him
on the cross.

There were to be three degrees of His afflictions, as He Himself told
the disciples. First He was to be spurned and outraged, then spit upon
and beaten, and finally killed. But they were not to fear nor to weep.
As life has its reward in death, death is the promise of a second life.
After three days, He was to rise from the tomb, never more to die.
Christ was to be victorious not over earthly kingdoms, but over death.
He does not bring golden treasures, nor abundance of grain, but
immortality to all those who obey Him, and the cancellation of all sins
committed by men. He was to buy this immortality and this liberation by
imprisonment and death. The price was hard and bitter, but without those
few days of His Passion and burial He could not have secured centuries
and centuries of life and freedom for men.

The Disciples were troubled at this revelation and unwilling to believe.
But Jesus had already begun His Passion, foreseeing those terrible last
days of His life and describing them. From now on the heirs of His work
knew all, and He could go on His way towards Jerusalem in order that His
words should be fulfilled to the very last.

MARANATHA

And yet for one day at least He was to be like that King awaited by the
poor every morning on the thresholds of the holy city.

Easter draws near. It was the beginning of the last week which even now
had not yet ended—since the new Sabbath has not yet dawned. But this
time Jesus does not come to Jerusalem as in other years, an obscure
wanderer mingled with the crowd of pilgrims, into the evil-smelling
metropolis huddled with its houses, white as sepulchers, under the
towering vainglory of the Temple destined to the flames. This time,
which is the last time, Jesus is accompanied by His faithful friends, by
His fellow-peasants, by the women who were later to weep, by the Twelve
who were to hide themselves, by the Galileans who come in memory of an
ancient miracle, but with the hope of seeing a new miracle. This time He
is not alone; the vanguard of the Kingdom is with Him, and He does not
come unknown: the cry of the Resurrection has preceded Him. Even in the
capital ruled by the iron of the Romans, the gold of the merchants, the
letter of the Pharisees, there are eyes which look towards the Mount of
Olives and hearts which beat faster.

This time He does not come on foot into the city which should have been
the throne of His kingdom, and which was to be His tomb. When He had
come to Bethpage, He sent two disciples to look for an ass, “Go into the
village over against you, and straightway ye shall find an ass tied, and
a colt with her; loose them, and bring them unto me. And if any man say
ought unto you, ye shall say, The Lord hath need of them.”

Even up to our days it has been said that Jesus wished to ride on an ass
as a sign of humble meekness, as if He wished to signify symbolically
that He approached His people as the Prince of Peace. It has been
forgotten that in the robust early periods of history asses were not the
submissive beasts of burden of to-day, weary bones in flogged and
ill-treated skin, brought low by many centuries of slavery, used only to
carry baskets and bags over the stones of steep hills. The ass of
antiquity was a fiery and warlike animal; handsome and bold as a horse,
fit to be sacrificed to divinities. Homer, master of metaphors, intended
no belittling of Ajax the robust, the proud Ajax, when he likened him to
an ass. The Jews moreover used untamed asses for other comparisons:
Zophar the Naamithite said to Job, “For vain man would be wise though
man be born like a wild ass’ colt.” And Daniel tells how Nebuchadnezzar,
as expiation of his tyrannies, was driven from the sons of men, and his
heart was made like the beasts, and his dwelling was with the wild
asses.

Jesus asked expressly for an ass not yet broken, never before ridden,
something like a wild ass, because on that day, the animal chosen by Him
was not a symbol of the humility of his rider but was a symbol of the
Jewish people, who were to be liberated and overcome by Christ; the
animal, unruly and restive, stiff-necked, whom no prophet and no monarch
had mastered and who to-day was tied to a post as Israel was tied with
the Roman rope; vain and foolhardy as in the Book of Job; fitting
companion for an evil king; slave to foreigners, but at the same time
rebellious to the end of time, the Hebrew people had finally found its
master. For one day only: it revolted against Him, its legitimate master
in that same week; but its revolt succeeded only for a short time. The
quarrelsome capitol was pulled down and the god-killing crowd dispersed
like the husks of the eternal Winnower over all the face of the earth.

The ass’s back is hard, and Christ’s friends throw their cloaks over it.
Stony is the slope which leads from the Mount of Olives and the
triumphant crowds throw their mantles over the rough stones. This, too,
is symbolical of self-consecration. To take off your mantle is the
beginning of stripping yourself, the beginning of that bareness which is
the desire for confession and the death of false shame; bareness of the
body, promising naked truth for the soul. The loving charity of supreme
alms-giving; to give what we have on our backs, “If any man ... shall
take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also.”

Then began the descent in the heat of the sun and of glory; in the midst
of freshly cut branches and of songs of hope. It was at the beginning of
breezy April and of the spring. The golden hour of noon lay about the
city with its green vineyards, fields and orchards. The sky, immense,
deep blue, miraculously calm, clear and joyful as the promise of divine
eyes, stretched away into the infinite. The stars could not be seen, yet
the light of our sun seemed augmented by the quiet brilliance of those
other distant suns. A warm breeze, still scented with the freshness of
heaven, gently swayed the tender tree-tops and set the young, growing
leaves a-flutter. It was one of those days when blue seems bluer, green
seems greener, light more brilliant and love more loving.

Those who accompanied Christ in that descent felt themselves swept away
by the rapture of the world and of the moment. Never before that day had
they felt themselves so bursting with hope and adoration. The cry of
Peter became the cry of the fervent little army winding its way down the
slope towards the queen-city. “Hosanna to the Son of David!” said the
voices of the young men and of the women, in the midst of this impetuous
exultation. Even the Disciples almost began to hope, although they had
been warned that this would be the last sun, although they knew that
they were accompanying a man about to die.

The procession approached the mysterious, hostile city with the roaring
tumult of a torrent that has burst its banks. These countrymen, these
people from the provinces, came forward flanked as by a moving forest,
as if they had wished to carry a little country freshness inside the
noisome walls, into the drab alleyways. The boldest had cut palm
branches along the road, boughs of myrtle, clusters of olives, willow
leaves, and they waved them on high, shouting out the impassioned words
of the Psalmist towards the shining face of Him who came in the name of
God.

Now the first Christian legion had arrived before the gates of Jerusalem
and the voices did not still their homage: “Blessed be the King that
cometh in the name of the Lord: peace in heaven, and glory in the
highest!” Their shouting reached the ears of the Pharisees, who arrived,
haughty and severe, to investigate the seditious noise. The cries
scandalized those learned ears and troubled those suspicious hearts, and
some of them, well wrapped up in their doctoral cloaks, called from
among the crowd to Jesus: “Master, rebuke thy disciples.” And then He,
without halting, “I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the
stones would immediately cry out!”

The silent, motionless stones which, according to St. John, God could
have transformed into sons of Abraham; the hot stones of the desert
which Jesus was not willing to change into loaves of bread at the
challenge of the Adversary; the hostile stones of the street which twice
had been picked up to stone Him; the hard stones of Jerusalem would have
been less hard, less icy, less insensitive than the souls of the
Pharisees.

But with this answer, Jesus had asserted His right to be called “the
Christ.” It was a declaration of war. At the very moment of His entrance
into His city, the New King gave the signal for the attack.

THE DEN OF THIEVES

He went up to the Temple where all His enemies were assembled. On the
hill-top the sacred fortress sunned its new whiteness in the
magnificence of the day. The old Ark of the nomads, drawn by oxen
through sweltering deserts and over battlefields, had halted on that
height, petrified as a defense for the royal city. The moveable cart of
the fugitives had become a heavy citadel of stone and marble, a pompous
stronghold of palaces and stairways, shady with colonnades, lighted with
courts, enclosed by walls, sheer above the valley, protected by bastions
and by towers, a fortress rather than a place of worship. It was not
only the precinct of the Holy of Holies, and the sacrificial altar, it
was no longer only the Temple, the mystic sanctuary of the people. With
its great old towers, its guardrooms, its warehouses for offerings, its
strong-boxes for deposits, its open piazzas for trade and covered
galleries for meetings and amusement, it was anything rather than a
sanctuary for meditation and prayer. It was everything, a fortress in
case of assault, a bank-vault, a market-place in time of pilgrimage and
feast-days, a bazaar on all days, a forum for the disputes of
politicians, the wranglings of doctors and the gossip of idlers; a
thoroughfare, a rendezvous, a business center. Built by a faithless King
to win over the favor of a captious and seditious people, to satisfy the
pride and avarice of the priestly caste, an instrument of war and a
market-place for trade, it must have seemed to the eyes of Jesus the
natural focus for all the enemies of His truth.

Jesus goes up to the Temple to destroy the Temple. He will leave to the
Romans of Titus the task of literally dismantling the walls, of
scattering the masses of stone, of burning down the buildings, of
stealing the bronze and gold, of reducing to a smoky and accursed ruin
the great stronghold of Herod; but He will destroy the values which the
proud Temple upheld with its piled-up blocks of ordered stone, its paved
terraces and its golden doors. Jesus goes up towards the Temple: the Man
transfigured on the mountain is set against the scribes parched and
withered among their scrolls; the Messiah of the New Kingdom against the
usurper of the kingdom defiled by compromises, corrupt with infamy; the
Gospel against the Torah; the future against the past; the fire of love
against the ashes of the Letter. The day of battle is at hand. Jesus,
among the songs of His fervent band, goes up to the sumptuous lair of
His enemies. Well does He know the street. How many times He had gone
over it as a little child led along by the hand in the crowd of
pilgrims, in the midst of noise and dust, in the band of Galileans!
Later as an unknown boy, confused by the dust and heat of the sun, tired
and bewildered, He used to look toward the walls desperately longing to
arrive at the summit, hoping to find up there in the sacred precincts a
little shade for His eyes, cool water for His mouth, a word of
consolation for His heart.

But to-day everything is transformed. He is not led along. He leads
along. He does not come to adore, but to punish. He knows that there
inside, behind the beautiful façades of the sublime sepulcher, there are
only ashes and corruption: His enemies selling ashes and feeding
themselves on corruption. The first adversary who comes before Him is
the demon of greed.

He enters into the Court of the Gentiles, the most spacious and most
densely crowded of all. The great, sunny, well-paved terrace is not the
atrium of a sanctuary, but a dirty market-place. An immense, roaring din
rises up from the vermin-like crowd of bankers, of buyers and sellers,
of money-changers who give and take money. There are herdsmen with their
oxen and their flocks of sheep; vendors of pigeons and turtle doves,
standing by the long lines of their coops; bird-sellers, with cages of
chirping sparrows; benches for money-changers, with bowls overflowing
with copper and silver. Merchants, their feet in the fresh-dropped dung,
handle the flanks of the animals destined for sacrifice; or call with
monotonous iteration women who have come there after child-birth,
pilgrims who have come to offer a rich sacrifice, lepers who offer
living birds for their cure, obtained or hoped for. Money-changers, with
a coin hung at their ears as a mark of their trade, gloatingly plunge
their greedy talons into gleaming piles; the go-betweens run about in
the swarm of the gossiping groups; niggardly, wary provincials hold
excited conferences before loosening the purse strings to change their
cash for a votive offering, and from time to time a restless ox drowns
out with his deep bellow the thin bleating of the lambs, the thrill
voices of the women, the clinking of drachma and shekels.

Christ was familiar with the spectacle. He knew that the house of God
had been turned into the house of Mammon, and that, instead of silently
invoking the Spirit, material-minded men trafficked there in the filth
of the Demon, with the priests as their accomplices. But this time He
did not restrain His scorn and His repugnance. To destroy the Temple, He
commenced with the destruction of the market-place. The Eternal
Mendicant, the poor man, accompanied by his poor friends, flung Himself
against the servitors of money. He had in His hand a length of rope,
which He knotted together like a whip, and with it He opened a
passage-way through the astonished people. The benches of the
money-changers crashed down at the first shock. The coins were scattered
on the ground amid yells of astonishment and wrath; the seats of the
bird-sellers were overturned beside their scattered pigeons. The
herdsmen began to urge towards the doors the oxen and the sheep. The
sparrow-sellers took their cages under their arms and disappeared. Cries
rose to Heaven, some scandalized, some approving; from the other
court-yards other people came running towards the disturbance. Jesus,
surrounded by the boldest of His friends, was brandishing His whip on
high, and driving the money-changers towards the door. And He repeated
in a loud voice, “My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye
have made it a den of thieves!”

And the last money-handlers disappeared from the courts like rubbish
scattered by the wind.

BUSINESS THE GOD

This action of Jesus was not only the righteous purification of the
sanctuary, but also the public manifestation of His detestation for
Mammon and the servants of Mammon. Business, that modern god, was for
Him a form of theft. A marketplace was therefore a cave of obsequious
brigands, of tolerated thieves. Among all the elements of the legalized
theft which is called commerce, none is more detestable and shameful
than the use of money. If some one gives you a sheep in exchange for
money, you can be sure that he has made you pay more money than the
sheep really cost, but at least he gives you something which is not a
hateful mineral symbol of wealth. He gives you a living being, which
will furnish you wool in the spring time, which will bear you a lamb,
and which you can eat if you like. But the exchange of money for money,
of coined metal for coined metal, is something unnatural, paradoxical
and demoniac. Everything that is known of banks, rates of exchange,
discount and usury, is a shameful and repellent mystery which has always
been the terror of simple souls, that is, of upright and deep souls. The
peasant who sows his grain, the tailor who makes a garment, the weaver
who weaves wool or linen, have up to a certain limit a real right that
their wealth should increase, because they have added something which
before was not in the world, in cloth, in wool. But that a mountain of
money should bring forth other money without labor or effort, without
production by man of any object to be seen, to be consumed, to be
enjoyed, is a scandal which goes beyond, and confounds human
imagination.

Money-changers, bankers, amassers of silver and gold, are slaves of the
witchcraft of the Demon more than all others. And it is to those men,
the men of banks and of finance, that the grateful Demon gives power on
this earth: they are the ones even to-day who rule nations, instigate
wars, who starve nations, and who, by an infernal system of their own,
suck out the life of the poor, transformed into gold, dripping with
sweat and blood.

Christ, who pitied the rich, but who hated and detested wealth, the
great wall which cuts off from men the vision of the Kingdom of Heaven,
had broken up the den of thieves and had purified the Temple where He
was to teach the last truths which remained to Him to expound. But with
that violent action, He had antagonized all the commercial middle-class
of Jerusalem. The men He had driven away demanded that their patrons
should punish the man who was ruining business on the Holy Hill. These
men of money found ready hearing with the men of Law, already embittered
for other reasons, so much the more because Jesus in disturbing the
business of the Temple had condemned and harmed the priests themselves.
The most successful bazars were the property of the sons of Annas, that
is, close relations of the High-Priest Caiaphas. All the doves which
were sold in the Court of the Gentiles were raised on the property of
Annas, and the priests who did business in them made a good income every
month out of turtle-doves alone. The money-changers, who should not have
been allowed to stay in the Temple, paid the great Sadducee families of
the priestly aristocracy a goodly tithe on the thousands of shekels
brought in every year by the exchange of foreign money into Hebrew
money. Had not the Temple itself perhaps become a great national bank
with coffers and strong boxes in treasure chambers?

Jesus had wounded the twenty thousand priests of Jerusalem in their
prestige and in their purses. He had overturned the values of the
falsified and mutilated Letter, in the name of which they commanded and
on which they fattened. More than this, He had driven out their
associates, the traffickers and bankers. If He had His way, it would
ruin them all. But the two threatened castes drew together still more
closely, to make way with the dangerous intruder. It was perhaps that
very evening that priests and merchants agreed on the purchase of a
betrayer and a cross. The bourgeoisie were to give the small amount of
money necessary; the clergy to find the religious pretext; the foreign
government, naturally desiring to be on good terms with clergy and
bourgeoisie, would lend its soldiers.

But Jesus, having left the Temple, went His way towards Bethany, passing
by the Mount of Olives.

THE VIPERS OF THE TOMBS

The next morning when he went back, the herdsmen and merchants had
squatted down outside, near the doors, but the courts were humming with
crowds of excited people.

The sentence pronounced and executed by Jesus against the honest thieves
had set gossiping Jerusalem all agog. Those blows of the whip, like so
many stones thrown into the Jerusalem frog-pond, had awakened the poor
to joyous hope and had set the lords quaking with fear.

And early in the morning, all had gone up there from the dark alleys and
from the fine houses, from the work-shops and from the public squares,
leaving all their affairs, with the restless anxiety of those who hope
for miracles, or revenge. The day-laborers had come, the weavers, the
dyers, the cobblers, the woodworkers, all those who detested the
swindlers, the stranglers, the shearers of poverty, traders who enriched
themselves at the expense of indigence. Among the first had come the
lamentable scum of the city, the dirty vermin-ridden prisoners of
eternal beggary, with leprous scabs, with their sores uncared for, with
their bones protruding through the skin to testify to their hunger.
There had also come pilgrims from outside, those of Galilee, who had
accompanied Jesus in His festal entrance; and with them Jews from the
Syrian and Egyptian colonies, dressed in their best, like distant
relatives who reappear every once in so often at the family home for a
family festival.

But there came up also, in groups of four or five, the Scribes and
Pharisees. They were fraternal colleagues, fitting companions for each
other. The Scribes were the Doctors of the Law; the Pharisees were the
Puritans of the Law. Nearly all the Scribes were Pharisees, many
Pharisees were Scribes. Imagine a professor adding religious pedantry to
his doctoral pedantry; or a religious hypocrite provided also with the
grave face of a casuistical pedagogue, and you will have the modern
equivalent of a Pharisaical Scribe, or of a Pharisee who was also a
Scribe. A Tartuffe with academic honors; an Academician, who is at the
same time a religious hypocrite; a philosophizing Quaker, are other
modern equivalents.

These men therefore went up that morning to the Temple with much show of
pride without and many evil intentions within. They came up proudly
wrapped in their long cloaks, with their fringes fluttering, their
chests thrown out, their eyes clouded, their eyebrows raised, with
sneering mouths and quivering nostrils, with a step which announced
their importance and the indignation felt by them, God’s privileged
sheriffs.

Jesus, in the midst of all these eyes turned on Him, waited for those
men. It was not the first time that they had come about Him. How many
discussions between Him and the provincial Pharisees had taken place
here and there in the country! They were Pharisees who had demanded a
sign from Heaven, a supernatural proof that He was the Messiah—because
the Pharisees, unlike the skeptical Sadducees, sunk in legalized
Epicureanism, believed in the imminent arrival of the Saviour.

But the Pharisees expected to see this Saviour as a Jew, strictly
observing all laws as they did, and they held that to be worthy to
receive Him it was enough to be clean on the outside and to avoid any
transgression of any of the trivial rules of Leviticus. The Messiah, the
son of David, would not deign to save those who had not avoided all
contact, even remote, with foreigners and with heathens, who had not
observed the smallest detail of legal purification, who had not paid all
the tithes of the Temple, who did not respect at any cost the sanctity
of the Sabbath day. In their eyes Jesus could not possibly be the Divine
Redeemer. No spectacular and magic signs had been seen: He had contented
Himself with healing the sick, with talking about love, and with loving.
They had seen Him dining with publicans and sinners, and, worse than
everything else, had heard with horror that His disciples did not always
wash their hands before sitting down to the table. But the greatest
horror, the unendurable scandal, had been His lack of respect for the
Sabbath. Jesus had not hesitated to cure the sick, even on the Sabbath,
and He held it no crime on that day to do good to His unfortunate
brothers. He even shamelessly gloried in this, claiming blasphemously
that the Sabbath was made for man, rather than man for the Sabbath.

In the minds of the Pharisees there was only one doubt about Jesus: was
He a fool or an impostor? To put the matter to the test, they had tried
many times to trap Him by theological tricks, or in dialectical
subtleties, but to no avail. As long as He went about in the provinces
drawing after Him a few dozen peasants, they had let Him alone, sure
that some day or other the last beggar, disillusioned, would leave Him.
But now the affair was becoming serious. Accompanied by a band of
excitable countrymen, He had gone so far as to enter into the Temple as
though it belonged to Him, and had seduced some ignorant unfortunates to
call Him the Messiah. More than that, usurping the place of the priests,
and almost giving Himself the airs of a king, He had roughly driven out
the honest merchants, pious people who admired the Pharisees, even if
they did not entirely imitate them. Up to that time the Pharisees had
been too easy-going and merciful towards Him. But from now on the
unequaled goodness of heart of those extremely mild and tolerant
professors would be dangerous and inopportune. The intolerable scandal,
the reiterated profanation, the public challenge, called for
condemnation and punishment. The false Christ must be disposed of and at
once. Scribes and Pharisees went up on the hill to see if He had had the
impertinence to go back to the place contaminated by His boasting.

Jesus was waiting for just those men. He wanted to say to them publicly,
with the open sky as witness, what He thought of them, what God thought
of them, the definite truth about them. The day before, with His whip,
He had condemned the animal-sellers and money-changers. Now He was
dealing with the merchants of the Word, with the usurers of the Law,
with the swindlers of Truth. The condemnation of that day did not
exterminate them: with every generation such men spring up again,
innumerable, with new names; but their faces are stamped forever with
this condemnation wherever they are born and command.

THE DESCENDANTS OF CAIN

“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!” Their sins could be
reduced to one, but that is the most poisonous, the least pardonable of
all sins: the sin against the Spirit, the sin against Truth, the
betrayal of Truth and Spirit, the laying waste of the only pure wealth
which the world possesses. Thieves steal perishable goods, assassins
kill the corruptible body, prostitutes sully flesh destined to
corruption; but the hypocrites, the Pharisees sully the Word of the
absolute, steal the promises of eternity, assassinate the soul.
Everything in them is pretense: their dress and their talk, their
teaching and their practice. What they say is contradicted by what they
do. Their inner life does not correspond to what they choose to show.
Secret swinishness gives the lie to their every claim. They are
hypocrites because they cover themselves with fringed mantles and with
wide phylacteries, to be seen in public places, and love to be called
“Master,” and all the time they have hidden the keys of knowledge and
have shut the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven, and neither go in
themselves nor suffer others to enter. Hypocrites because they make long
prayers in public and devour the houses of widows, and take advantage of
the weak and the desolate. Hypocrites because they wash and clean the
outside of the platter and the cup, and inside they are full of rapine
and extortion. Hypocrites because they give their attention to minutiæ
of rites and purifications and have no care for greater things: they
strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. Hypocrites because they observe
the smallest commandments and do not obey the only one which is of
value: they pay punctually the tithe of mint and anise and cummin and
rue, but they have not justice, mercy and faith in their hearts.
Hypocrites because they build monuments to the prophets and garnish the
sepulchers of righteous men of old times, but persecute the righteous
men of to-day, and are preparing to kill the prophets. “Ye serpents, ye
generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?
Wherefore, behold I sent unto you prophets, and wise men, and scribes:
and some of them ye shall kill and crucify; and some of them shall ye
scourge in your synagogues, and persecute them from city to city: That
upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, from the
blood of righteous Abel unto the blood of Zacharias son of Barachias,
whom ye slew between the temple, and the altar.”

They have accepted the inheritance of Cain. They are the descendants of
Cain. They kill brothers, execute saints, crucify prophets. And, like
Cain, God has stamped upon their faces a Sign—the mysterious sign of
immortality. They cannot be killed because theirs are the hands which
must kill. The fugitive fratricide was saved by this sign among early
men, and the murderous Pharisees will be saved through all the centuries
because God needs them for the high works of His justice which seems
foolishness and madness to the eyes of little-minded men. An eternal
decree, not revealed to most men, decrees death and the most atrocious
death to all who would be like God. But the simple man could never
assassinate a saint, nor even a sinner, a miraculous chrysalis of
potential sanctity. And the saint would no longer be a saint if he took
the life of another saint, the only brother given him by the Father. So
the indestructible race of the Pharisees was created for all centuries
and for all peoples, men who are never simple like children and who
never know the way of salvation, those who are not visibly sinners, but
who are from head to foot the incarnation of the ugliest sin, those who
wish to appear saints and who hate real saints. God has made them
fitting instruments of an appalling and necessary massacre, to play the
part of executioners of perfect men. Faithful to this command,
invulnerable as inhabitants of Hell, marked like Cain, immortal as
hypocrisy and cruelty, they have survived all the empires and all the
overthrows of empire. With different faces, with different garments,
with different rules and pretexts, they have covered the face of the
earth, stubborn and prolific, up to the present day. And when they have
not been able to kill with nails and with fire, with axes and with
knives, they have used tongue and pen with the utmost success.

Jesus, while He spoke to them in the great open courtyard crowded with
witnesses, knew that He spoke to His Judges, and to those who would be,
through intermediate persons, the real authors of His death. By speaking
out on this day, He justified His later silence before Caiaphas and
Pilate. He had condemned them and they would condemn Him; He had judged
them first and had nothing more to add when they wished to judge Him.

Images of death came to His lips as He described them to themselves:
vipers and tombs, treacherous black vipers, which as soon as you
approach them pour into your blood all the poison hidden in their fangs.
Whited sepulchers, fair without but within full of dead men’s bones and
all uncleanness.

The Pharisees who stood before Jesus, and all those who have
legitimately descended from them, are glad to hide themselves in the
shadow of the dead, to prepare their venom. Cold as a snake’s skin, as
the stone of a tomb, neither the heat of the sun, nor the warmth of
love, nor the fires of Hell can ever warm them. They know all the words
save one, the word of Life.

“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are as graves
which appear not, and the men that walk over them are not aware of
them.” The only one aware of this was Jesus—and it was because of this
that He was not to remain more than two days in the sepulcher which they
were preparing for Him.

ONE STONE UPON ANOTHER

The Thirteen went down from the Temple to make their daily ascent to the
Mount of Olives. One of the Disciples (who could it have been?—perhaps
John, son of Salome, still rather childish and naïvely full of wonder at
what he saw? Or Judas Iscariot, with his respect for wealth?) said to
Jesus, “Master, see what manner of stones and what buildings are here!”

The Master turned to look at the high walls faced with marble which the
ostentatious calculation of Herod had built up on the hill and said,
“Seest thou these great buildings? there shall not be left one stone
upon another, that shall not be thrown down.”

The admiring exclamation suddenly died. No one dared answer, but
perplexed and surprised, each of them continued to turn over in his mind
these words. Hard words for the ears of those carnal-minded Jews, for
the narrow hearts of those ambitious provincials. He whom they loved had
said in these last days many other hard words, hard to hear, hard to
understand, hard to believe. But they did not remember any other words
so hard as these. They knew that He was the Christ and that He was to
suffer and die, but they hoped that He would rise again at once in the
glorious victory of the new David, to give abundance to all Israel and
to award the greatest prizes and power to them, faithful to Him in the
dangerous wanderings of His poor days. But if the world was to be
commanded by Judea, Judea was to be commanded by Jerusalem, and the
seats of command were to be in the Temple of the great King. It was
occupied to-day by the faithless Sadducees, the hypocritical Pharisees,
the traitorous Scribes, but Christ was to drive them away to give their
places to His apostles. How then could the Temple be destroyed, splendid
memorial of the kingdom in the past; hoped-for rock of the new Kingdom?

This talk of stones was harder than a stone for Simon called the Rock
and for his companions. Had not John the Baptist said that God could
change the stones of the Jordan into sons of Abraham? Had not Satan said
that the Son of God could change the stones of the desert to loaves of
wheat bread? Had not Jesus Himself said while He was passing the walls
of Jerusalem that those very stones, in place of men, would have shouted
out greetings and sung hymns? And was it not He who had made the stones
fall from the hands of His enemies, the stones which they had taken up
to kill Him? And had He not made them fall from those who accused the
adulteress?

But the Disciples could not understand this talk about the stones of the
Temple. They could not and they would not understand that those great
massive stones, quarried out patiently from the mountains, drawn from
afar by oxen, squared and prepared by chisels and mallets, put one upon
another by masters of the art to make the most marvelous Temple of the
universe; that these stones, warm and brilliant in the sun, should be
torn apart once more and pulverized into ruins.

They had scarcely arrived at the Mount of Olives, and Christ had only
had time to sit down opposite to the Temple, when their curiosity burst
out:

“Tell us, when shall these things be? and what shall be the sign when
all these things shall be fulfilled?”

The answer was the discourse on the Last Things, the second Sermon on
the Mount. At the beginning of His work, He had explained how the soul
must be transformed to found the Kingdom; now at death’s door He taught
what the punishment of the stubborn would be and in what manner He would
come again.

This discourse, less understood than the other, and even more forgotten,
is not, as it is generally believed, the answer to one question only.
The Disciples had put two questions, “When shall these things be?” That
is, the ruin of the Temple; and “What shall be the signs of Thy coming?”
There are two answers to these two questions. Jesus first describes the
events which will precede the destruction of Jerusalem, and then He
describes the signs of His second appearance. The prophetic discourse,
although it is read all in one piece in the Gospels, had two parts. The
prophecies are two, quite distinct from each other; the first was
fulfilled before the end of Jesus’ generation, about forty years after
His death. The second has not yet been fulfilled, but perhaps before the
passing of our own generation the first signs will be seen.

SHEEP AND GOATS

Jesus knew the weakness of the Disciples, weakness of the spirit, and
perhaps also of the flesh, and He puts them on their guard against two
great perils: fraud and martyrdom.

“Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name,
saying, I am Christ, and shall deceive many. Then if any man shall say
unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not. For false
Christs and false prophets shall rise and shall shew signs and wonders,
to seduce, if it were possible, even the elect. Go not after them, nor
follow them.”

But although they are to flee from the frauds of the false Messiahs,
they cannot escape the persecutions of the enemies of the real Christ.
“Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and
ye shall be hated of all nations for my name’s sake. But take heed to
yourselves: for they shall deliver you up to councils; and in the
synagogues ye shall be beaten: and ye shall be brought before rulers and
kings for my sake, for a testimony against them. . . . Now the brother
shall betray the brother to death, and the father the son; and the
children shall rise up against their parents, and shall cause them to be
put to death. . . . And then shall many be offended, and shall betray
one another, and shall hate one another . . . and because iniquity shall
abound, the love of many shall wax cold. But he that shall endure to the
end, the same shall be saved.”

Then shall begin the signs of the imminent punishment, “And when ye
shall hear of wars and rumors of wars, be ye not troubled: for such
things must needs be; but the end shall not be yet. For nation shall
rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be
earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles:
these are the beginnings of sorrow.”

These are the preliminary warnings: the order of the world shall be
disturbed, the world, peaceful at the time when Christ pronounced these
words, shall see man set against man, nation against nation, and the
earth itself soaked with blood shall rise against men; shall tremble
under their steps; shall cast down their houses; shall vomit out ashes,
as if it cast out from the mouth of its mountains all its dead, and
shall deny to the fratricides the food which ripens to gold every summer
in the fields.

Then when all this shall have come to pass, the punishment will come
upon those people who would not be born again in Christ, who did not
accept the Gospel; on the city which nailed its Lord upon Golgotha and
persecuted His witnesses.

“And when ye shall see Jerusalem compassed with armies, then know that
the desolation thereof is nigh. But when ye shall see the abomination of
desolation, spoken of by Daniel, the prophet, standing where it ought
not, (let him that readeth understand,) then let them that be in Judea
flee to the mountains: and let him that is on the housetop not go down
into the house, neither enter therein, to take anything out of his
house: And let him that is in the field not turn back again for to take
up his garment. But woe to them that are with child, and to them who
give suck in those days! And pray ye that your flight be not in winter.
For in those days shall be affliction, such as was not from the
beginning of creation which God created unto this time, neither shall
be. There shall be great distress in the land, and wrath upon this
people. And they shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be led
away captive into all nations: and Jerusalem shall be trodden down of
the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled.”

This is the end of the first prophecy. Jerusalem shall be taken and
destroyed and of the Temple, defiled by the abomination of desolation,
there shall remain not one stone upon another.

But Jesus has not said all, until now has not spoken of His second
coming.

“Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles, until the times of the
Gentiles be fulfilled.” What are these “tempi dei Gentili, tempora
nationum”? The words of the Greek texts express it with greater
precision than the other languages: they are the times adapted to,
fitting, and awaiting the Gentiles, that is, those in which the non-Jews
shall be converted to the Gospel, announced to the Jews before all
others. Therefore that real end shall not come until the Gospel has been
carried into all nations, until the Gentiles, the faithless ones, tread
down the city of Jerusalem. “And this gospel of the kingdom shall be
preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall
the end come.”

The second coming of Christ from Heaven, the Parusia, will be the end of
this world and the beginning of the true world, the eternal kingdom. The
end of Judea was announced by signs human and terrestrial; this other
end will be preceded by signs divine and celestial. “The sun shall be
darkened, and the moon shall not give her light. And the stars of heaven
shall fall. And upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the
sea and the waves roaring; Men’s hearts failing them for fear, and for
looking after these things which are coming on the earth: for the powers
of heaven shall be shaken. And then shall appear the sign of the Son of
man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and
they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power
and great glory.”

For the end of Jerusalem only, the little earth was troubled; but for
this universal ending, Heaven itself is convulsed. In the great sudden
blackness only the roaring of water will be heard, and screams of
terror. It is the Day of the Lord, the day of God’s wrath described in
their times by Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Isaiah and Joel. “The day of the Lord
is at hand, and as a destruction from the Almighty shall it come. A day
of darkness and of gloominess! The land is as the garden of Eden before
them, and behind them a desolate wilderness. The people shall be much
pained: all faces shall gather blackness. Therefore shall all hands be
faint and every man’s heart shall melt. And they shall be afraid: pangs
and sorrow shall take hold of them; they shall be in pain as a woman
that travaileth; they shall be amazed one at another. Behold the day of
the Lord cometh, cruel both with wrath and fierce anger, to lay the land
desolate: and he shall destroy the sinners thereof out of it. For the
stars of heaven and the constellations thereof shall not give their
light: the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll: and all their
host shall fall down, as the leaf falleth off from the vine, and as a
falling fig from the fig tree.”

This is the day of the Father, day of blackness in the Heavens and of
terror on earth. But the day of the Son follows immediately after.

He does not appear this time hidden in a stable, but on high in Heaven,
no longer poor and wretched, but in power and splendor of glory. “And he
shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall
gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to
the other.” And when the celestial trumpets shall have awakened all
those sleeping in the tombs, the irrevocable division shall be made.

“When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels
with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:

“And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate
them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from, the goats:

“And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on his
left.

“Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed
of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation
of the world:

“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave
me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

“Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in
prison, and ye came unto me.

“Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an
hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

“When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed
thee?

“Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you,
Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,
ye have done it unto me.

“Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye
cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:

“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye
gave me no drink:

“I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not:
sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

“Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an
hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison,
and did not minister unto thee?

“Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as
ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

“And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous
into life eternal.”

Jesus, even in His glory as judge of the last Day, does not forget the
poor and unhappy whom He loved so greatly during His life on earth. He
wishes to appear as one of those “least” who hold out their hands at the
doors and on whom the “great” look down. On earth, in the time of
Tiberius, He was the man who was hungering for bread and love, thirsting
for water and martyrdom, who was like a stranger in His own country, not
recognized by His own brothers, who stripped Himself to clothe those
shaking with cold, who was sick with sorrow and suffering and no one
comforted Him, who was imprisoned in the base prison of human flesh, in
the narrow prison of earthly life. He was divinely hungering for souls,
thirsting for faith, He was the stranger come from the ineffable
fatherland, defenseless before whips and insults, the Man sick with the
holy madness of love. But on that great Day of final Judgment, He will
not be thinking of Himself, as He did not think of Himself when He was a
man among men.

The code of this dividing of good from evil men will be based on one
idea only: Compassion—Charity. During all the time which lies between
His first and second coming He has gone on living under the appearance
of the poor and the pilgrims, of the sick and persecuted, of wanderers
and slaves. And on the Last Day He pays His debts. Mercy shown to those
“least” was shown to Him, and He will reward that mercy in the name of
all. Only those who did not receive Him when He appeared in the
innumerable bodies of the poverty-stricken will be condemned to eternal
punishment, because when they drove away the unfortunate they drove away
God. When they refused bread, water and a garment to the poor man, they
condemned the Son of God to cold, thirst and hunger. The Father had no
need of your help, for all is His and He loves you even during the
moments when you curse Him. But you must love the Father in the persons
of His children. And those who did not quench the thirst of the thirsty
will themselves thirst for all eternity; those who did not warm the
naked man will suffer in fire for all eternity; those who did not
comfort the prisoner will be prisoners of Hell forever; those who did
not receive the stranger will never be received in Heaven, and those who
did not help the fever-stricken patient will shiver in the spasms of
everlasting fever.

The Great Poor Man in the day of His glory will, as justice dictates,
reward every one with His infinite riches. He who has given a little
life to the poor will have life forever; he who has left the poor in
pain will himself be in pain forever. And then the bare sky will be
peopled with other more powerful suns, with stars flaming more brightly
in the heavens and there will be a new Heaven and a new Earth, and the
Chosen will live not as we live now, like beasts, but in the likeness of
angels.

WORDS WHICH SHALL NOT PASS AWAY

But when shall these things come to pass? These are the signs, this is
the manner in which it shall happen. But the time? Shall we be still
here, we who are now under the light of the sun? Or shall the
grandchildren of our grandchildren see these events while we are dust
and ashes under the earth?

Up to the very last, the Twelve understand as little as twelve stones.
They have the truth before them and they do not see it: they have the
Light in their midst and the Light does not reach them. If only they had
been among stones like diamonds which send back, divided into reflected
rays, the light which strikes them. But these twelve men are rough
stones, scarcely dug out of the darkness of the quarry, dull stones,
opaque stones, stones which the sun can warm but not kindle, stones
which are lighted from without but do not reflect the splendor. They
have not yet understood that Jesus is not a common diviner, a student of
the Chaldeans and of the Etruscans, and that He has nothing to do with
the presumptuous pretensions of astrology. They have not understood that
a definitely dated prophecy would not work on men to create a conversion
which needs perpetual vigilance. Perhaps they have not even understood
that the Apocalyptic sayings revealed on the Mount of Olives form a
double prophecy which refers to two events, different and distant from
each other. Perhaps these provincial fishermen, for whom a lake was the
sea and Judea was the universe, confused the end of the Hebrew people
with the end of the human race, the punishment of Jerusalem with the
second coming of Christ.

But the discourse of Jesus, although it is presented as one unit in the
synoptic Gospels, shows us two distinct prophecies.

The first announces the end of the Jewish kingdom, the punishment of
Jerusalem, the destruction of the Temple; the second the end of the old
world, the reappearance of Jesus, the judgment of the merciful and of
the merciless, the beginning of the New Kingdom. The first prophecy
given is close at hand—this generation shall not pass before these
things shall have arrived—and is local and limited, since it is
concerned only with Judea and especially with Judea’s metropolis. The
hour and the day of the second are not known because certain events,
slow to take place but essential, must precede this end, which, unlike
the other, will be universal.

The first, as a matter of fact, was fulfilled to the letter, detail by
detail, about forty years after the crucifixion, while many who had
known Jesus were still living; the second coming, the triumphal Parusia,
is still awaited by those who believe what He said on that day, “Heaven
and earth shall pass away: but my words shall not pass away.”

A few years after Jesus’ death the signs of the first prophecy began to
be seen. False prophets, false Christs, false apostles, swarmed in
Judea, as snakes come out of their holes when dog-days arrive. Before
Pontius Pilate was exiled, an impostor showed himself in Samaria, who
promised to recover the sacred vessels of the Tabernacle hidden by Moses
on Mount Gerizim. The Samaritans believed that such a discovery would be
the prelude to the coming of the Messiah, and a great mob gathered
threateningly on the mountain until it was dispersed by Roman swords.

Under Cuspius Fadus, the procurator who governed from 44 to 66, there
arose a certain Theudas, who gave himself out for a great personage and
promised great prodigies. Four hundred men followed him, but he was
captured and decapitated, and those who had believed him dispersed.
After him came an Egyptian Jew, who succeeded in gathering four thousand
desperate men, and camping on the Mount of Olives announcing that at a
sign from him the walls of Jerusalem would fall. The Procurator Felix
attacked him and drove him out into the desert.

In the meantime, in Samaria, arose the notorious Simon Magus, he who
bewitched people with his prodigies and incantations and announced
himself as the Power of God. This man, seeing the miracles of Peter,
wished to turn Christian, imagining that the Gospel was only one of
those Oriental mysteries into which an initiation gave new powers.
Repelled by Peter, Magus became the father of heresies. He believed that
Ennœa first came from God and that it is now imprisoned in human beings:
according to him Ennœa (or, the first conception of the Deity), was
incarnate in Helen of Tyre, a prostitute who followed him everywhere;
and faith in him and in Helen was a necessary condition of salvation.
Cerinthus, the first Gnostic, was one of his followers, against whom
John wrote his Gospel—and Menander, who boasted that he was Saviour of
the world. Another Elxai mixed up the old and new Covenant, told stories
of many incarnations besides those of Christ, and swaggered about with
his followers, boasting of his magic powers. Hegesippus says that a
certain Tebutis through jealousy of Simon, second Bishop of Jerusalem,
formed a sect that recognized Jesus as Messiah, but in everything else
was faithful to the old Judaism. Paul, in the Epistle to Timothy, puts
the “Saints” on guard against Hymeneus, and Phyletus and Alexander. For
such are false prophets, deceitful workers transforming themselves into
the apostles of Christ, “who twisted truth and sowed the evil seed of
heresy in the early church.” A Dositheus had himself called Christ, and
a certain Nicholas began with his errors the sect of the Nicolaitans,
condemned by John in the Apocalypse: and the Zealots fomented incessant
tumults, claiming that the Romans and all the heathen should be driven
out in order that God might return to triumph with His own people.

The second sign, the persecution, arrived promptly. The Disciples had
scarcely begun to preach the Gospel in Jerusalem when Peter and John
were thrown into prison: freed, they were captured again, and beaten and
commanded to speak no more in the name of Jesus. Stephen, one of the
most ardent of the neophytes, was taken by the priests outside the city
and stoned.

Under the rule of Agrippa the tribulations began afresh. In 42 Herod’s
descendant had James the Greater, the brother of John, killed by the
sword; and for a third time Peter was imprisoned. In 62 James the
righteous, called the brother of Our Lord, was thrown from the terrace
of the Temple and killed. In 50 Claudius exiled the Christian Jews from
Rome, “Impulsore Chrestus tumultuantes.” In 58, on account of the
conversion of Pomponia Græcina, the war against converts began in the
capital of the Empire. In 64 the burning of Rome, desired and executed
by Nero, was the pretext for the first great persecution. An innumerable
multitude of Christians obtained their martyrdom in Rome and in the
Provinces. Many were crucified: others wrapped in the “tunica molesta”
lighted up the nocturnal amusement of the Cæsar: others wrapped in
animal skins were given as food to dogs: many, enforced actors in cruel
comedies, made a spectacle for amphitheaters and were devoured by lions.
Peter died on the cross, nailed head downward. Paul ended under the ax a
life which since his conversion had been one long torment. Ten years
before his death in 57 he had been flogged five times by the Jews,
beaten three times with rods by the Romans, three times imprisoned,
three times shipwrecked, stoned and left for dead at Lystra. The greater
part of the other Disciples met with similar fates. Thomas met a
martyr’s death in India, Andrew was crucified at Patras, Bartholomew was
crucified in Armenia. Simon the Zealot and Matthew, like their Master,
ended their lives on the cross.

Nor were there lacking wars and rumors of wars. When Jesus was killed,
the “peace of Augustus” still existed, but very soon nations rise
against nations and kingdoms against kingdoms. Under Nero the Britons
rebel and massacre the Romans, the Parthians revolt and force the
legions to pass under the yoke; Armenia and Syria murmur against foreign
government; Gaul rises with Julius Vindex, Nero is near his end, the
Spanish and Gallic legions proclaim Galba Emperor; Nero, fleeing from
the Golden House, succeeds in being abject even in suicide. Galba enters
Rome, but brings no peace; Nymphidius Sabinus at Rome, Capito in
Germany, Clodius Macer in Africa, dispute the power with him. All are
dissatisfied with him: on the 15th of January, 69, the Prætorians kill
him and proclaim Otho. But the German legions had already proclaimed
Vitellius and move on Rome. Conquered at Bedriacum Otho commits suicide,
but Vitellius does not rule long either; the Syrian legions choose
Vespasian, who sends Antonius Primus into Italy. The followers of
Vitellius are defeated at Cremona and at Rome; Vitellius, the voracious
hog, is killed on the 20th of December, 69. In the meanwhile
insurrection breaks out in the north, with the Batavians, with Claudius
Civilus, and the insurrection of the Jews is not stamped out in the
east. In less than two years Italy is invaded twice, Rome taken twice,
two Emperors kill themselves; two are killed. And there are wars and
rumors of wars on the Rhine and on the Danube, on the Po and on the
Tiber, on the banks of the North Sea, at the feet of Atlas and of Tabor.

The other afflictions announced by Jesus accompany in these years the
upheaval of the Empire. Caligula the Mad complained because in his reign
nothing horrible happened: he desired famines, pestilences and
earthquakes. The degenerate and incestuous epileptic did not have his
wish, but in the time of Claudius a series of poor crops brought famine
even to Rome. Under Nero pestilence was added to the famine, and at Rome
alone in one autumn the treasury of Venus Libitina registered thirty
thousand deaths.

In 61 and 62 earthquakes shook Asia, Achaia, and Macedonia: especially
the cities of Hierapolis, Laodicea and Colossæ were greatly damaged. In
63 it was Italy’s turn: at Naples, Nocera and Pompeii the earth shook.
All the Campagna was a prey to terror. And as if this were not enough,
three years later, in 66, the Campagna was devastated by cloudbursts,
which destroyed the crops and rendered more threatening the prospects of
famine. And while Galba was entering Rome (68) the earth shook under his
feet with a terrible roar. All the signs were fulfilled: now had come
the fullness of time for the punishment of Judea.

JUDEA OVERCOME

The earthquake which shook Jerusalem on the Friday of Golgotha was like
a signal for the Jewish outbreak. For forty years the country of the
god-killers had no peace, not even the peace of defeat and slavery, up
to the day, when of the Temple not one stone was left upon another.

Pilate, Cuspius Fadus and Agrippa had been forced to disperse the bands
of the false Messiahs. Under the Roman procurator, Tiberius Alexander,
the conflict began with the raging sect of the Zealots and ended with
the crucifixion of the leaders, James and Simon, sons of Judas the
Galilean. The procurator, Ventidius Cumanus, 48-52, did not have a day’s
peace: the Zealots and their allies, the Sicarii, did not lay down their
arms. Under the procurator Felix the disorders knew no truce: under
Albinus the flames of the revolt flared out more boldly. Finally at the
time of Gessius Florus, 64-66, the last procurator of Judea, the fire,
which for some time had been flickering, spread all over the country.
The Zealots took possession of the Temple: Florus was obliged to flee,
Agrippa, who went as peace-maker, was stoned, Jerusalem fell into the
power of Menahem, another son of Judas the Galilean. Zealots and Sicarii
now in power massacred the non-Jews and also those among the Jews who
seemed tepid to their fanatic eyes.

And then finally came the abomination predicted by Daniel and recorded
by Christ. The prophecy of Daniel had already been fulfilled when
Antiochus IV Epiphanes had profaned the Temple by placing there the
statue of Olympian Jove. In 39 Caligula the Mad, who had set himself up
as God and had himself adored as God in various places, had sent the
order to the procurator Petronius to put the imperial statue in the
Temple, but he died before the order was executed. But Jesus was
alluding to something quite other than statues. The holy place during
the great rebellion occupied by the Sicarii had become a refuge for
assassins, and the great courts were soaked with blood, even with
priestly blood. And the Holy City underwent also the abomination of
desolation, when in December of 66 Cestius Gallus, at the head of forty
thousand men, came to crush the insurgents, camped around Jerusalem with
those imperial insignia which the Jews held in horror as idolatrous, and
which through a concession of the Emperors had not till then been
introduced into the city.

But Cestius Gallus, finding more resistance than he had anticipated,
retreated and the retreat was turned into flight to the great jubilation
of the Zealots, who saw in this victory a sign of divine help.

In those days, between the first and second assault, when already the
double abomination had contaminated the city, the Christians of
Jerusalem, obeying the prophecy of Jesus, fled to Pela, beyond the
Jordan. But Rome had no intention of giving way to the Jews. The command
of the punitive expedition was given to Titus Flavius Vespasian, who,
gathering an army at Ptolemais in 67, advanced against Galilee and
conquered it. While the Romans were taking up winter quarters, John of
Gischala, one of the heads of the Zealots, having taken refuge in
Jerusalem at the head of a band of Idumeans, overturned the aristocratic
government and the city was full of uproar and blood.

Vespasian, going to Rome to become Emperor, gave the command to his son
Titus, who on Easter Day in the year 70, came up before Jerusalem and
began the siege. Horrible days began. Even at the height of danger, the
Zealots, carried away by wild frenzy, quarreled among themselves, and
split up into factions, who fought for the control of the city.

John of Gischala occupied the Temple, Simon Bar Giora the city, and
their partisans cut the throats of those whom the Romans had not yet
killed. In the meantime Titus had taken possession of two lines of wall
and of a part of the city: on the fifth of July the Tower of Antonia
fell into his power. To the horror of fratricidal massacre and of the
siege was added that of hunger. The famine was so great that mothers
were seen, so says Josephus, to kill their children and eat them. On the
10th of August the Temple was taken and burned, the Zealots succeeding
in shutting themselves up into the upper city, but conquered by hunger
they were obliged to surrender on the 7th of September.

The prophecies of Jesus had been fulfilled: the city by Titus’ order was
laid waste: and of the Temple already swept by fire, there remained not
one stone upon another. The Jews who had survived hunger and the swords
of the Sicarii were massacred by the victorious soldiery. Those who
still remained were deported into Egypt to work in mines, and many were
killed for the amusement of the crowd in the Amphitheaters of Cæsarea
and Berytus. Some hundreds of the handsomest were taken prisoners to
Rome to figure in the triumphal procession of Vespasian and Titus, and
there Simon Bar Giora and other heads of the Zealots were executed
before the idols which they hated.

“Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass, till all these
things be fulfilled.” It was the seventieth year of the Christian era
and His generation had not yet gone down into the tomb when these things
happened. One at least of those who heard Him on the Mount of Olives,
John, was witness of the destruction of Jerusalem and of the ruin of the
Temple. Within the destined time the words of Jesus were fulfilled,
syllable by syllable, with atrocious exactness, by a story of blood and
fire.

THE PARUSIA

The end of the god-killing people, the partial and local ending, had
taken place. According to the sentence of Christ, the statues of the
Temple were scattered among the ruined walls and the faithful of the
Temple had met their death by torture or were scattered among other
nations.

The second prophecy is left. When shall the Son of Man come on the
clouds of Heaven, preceded by darkness, announced by angels’ trumpets?
Jesus says that no one can be sure of the day of His coming. The Son of
Man is likened to lightning which flashes suddenly in the east, to a
thief who comes by stealth in the night, to a master who has gone far
away and returns suddenly to take his servants by surprise. We must be
vigilant and ready. Purify your hearts, because you do not know when He
may come; and woe to him who is not ready to appear before Him. Take
heed to yourselves lest at any time your hearts be overcharged with
surfeiting, and drunkenness, and the cares of this life; and so that day
come upon you unawares, for as a snare shall it come upon all them that
dwell on the face of the whole earth.

But if Jesus does not announce the day, He tells us what things must be
fulfilled before that day. These things are two: the Gospel of the
Kingdom shall be preached to all the nations and the Gentiles shall no
longer tread down Jerusalem. These two conditions are fulfilled in our
own time and perhaps the great day approaches. There are no longer in
the world any civilized nations or barbarous tribes where the
descendants of the Apostles have not preached the Gospel: since 1918 the
Moslems have no longer trodden down Jerusalem and there is talk of a
reëstablishment of the Jewish State. According to the words of Hosea,
the end of the time shall be near when the sons of Israel, left so long
without altar and without King, shall be converted to the Son of David
and shall turn, trembling, towards God’s goodness.

If the words of the second prophecy are true, as the words of the first
prophecy were shown to be true, the Second Coming cannot be far distant.
Once again in these years nations have risen against nations, the earth
has quaked, destroying many lives, and pestilences, famines and
seditions have decimated nations. For more than a century the words of
Christ have been translated and preached in all languages. Soldiers who
believe in Christ, although they are not all faithful to the heirs of
Peter, are in command over that city, which after its downfall was in
the power of the Romans, the Persians, the Egyptians and the Turks. And
still men do not think of Jesus and His promise. They live as if the
world were always going to continue as it has been, and they work and
mortify themselves only for their earthly and carnal interests.

“For as in the days that were before the flood, they were eating and
drinking, marrying and given in marriage, until the day that Noah
entered into the ark, And knew not until the flood came, and took them
all away: so shall also the coming of the Son of man be. Likewise also,
as it was in the days of Lot; they did eat, they drank, they bought,
they sold, they planted, they builded; But the same day that Lot went
out of Sodom it rained fire and brimstone from heaven and destroyed them
all. Even thus shall it be in the day when the Son of man is revealed.”

The same thing happens in our day in spite of the wars and the
pestilences which have cut down millions of lives in a few years. People
eat and drink, marry and have children, buy and sell, write and play.
And no one thinks of the Divine Thief who will come suddenly in the
night, no one waits for the Real Master, who will return unexpectedly,
no one looks at the sky to see if lightning is flashing from the east.

The apparent life of the living is like the delirious dream of a fatal
fever. They seem awake because they hurry about without rest, occupied
by those possessions which are clay and poison. They never look up to
Heaven—they fear only their brothers. Perhaps they are waiting to be
awakened in the last hour by those dead of old, who will rise up at the
approach of the Resurrected Christ.

UNWELCOME

While Jesus was condemning the Temple and Jerusalem, those maintained by
the Temple and the lords of Jerusalem were preparing His condemnation.

All those who possessed, taught and commanded were waiting only for the
right moment to assassinate Him, without danger to themselves. Every man
who had a name, dignity, a school, a shop, a sacred office, a little
authority was against Him. He came to oppose them and they opposed Him.
With the idiocy natural to those in power they believed that they would
save themselves by putting Him to death, and they did not know it was
exactly His death which was needed as the beginning of their punishment.

To have an idea of the hatred which the upper classes of Jerusalem felt
towards Jesus, priestly hatred, scholastic hatred and commercial hatred,
we must remember that the Holy City apparently lived by faith, but in
reality on the Faithful. Only in the Jewish metropolis could valid and
acceptable offerings be made to the Old God, and therefore every year,
especially on great feast days, streams of Israelites poured in there
from the Tetrarchates of Palestine and from all the provinces of the
Empire. The Temple was not only the one legitimate sanctuary of the
Jews, but for those who were attached to it and for all the others who
lived at its feet, it was the great nourishing breast which fed the
Capital with the products of the victims, the offerings, the tithes and,
above all, with the profits accompanying the continual influx of
visitors. Josephus says that at Jerusalem on special occasions there
were gathered together as many as three million pilgrims.

The stationary population depended all the year round on the Temple:
business for the animal-sellers, dealers in victuals, money-changers,
inn-keepers, and even artisans depended on the fortunes of the Temple.
The priestly caste, which without the Levites (and there were a great
crowd of them) numbered in Christ’s lifetime twenty thousand descendants
of Aaron—got their living from the tithes in kind, from the taxes of the
Temple, from the payments for the first-born—even the first-born of men
paid five shekels a head!—and got their food from the flesh of the
sacrificial animals, of which only the fat was burned. They were the
ones who had the pick of herds and crops; even their bread was given
them by the people, for the head of every Jewish family was obliged to
hand over to the priests the twenty-fourth part of the bread which was
baked in his house. Many of them, as we have seen, made money on the
raising of the animals which the Faithful were obliged to buy for their
offerings; others were associated with money-changers, and it is not
impossible that some of them were really bankers, because people readily
deposited their savings in the strong-boxes of the Temple.

A net-work of self-interest thus bound to the Herodian edifice all the
inhabitants of Jerusalem, down to the vendors at fairs and the
sandal-makers. The priests lived on the Temple and many of them were
merchants and rich men: the rich needed the Temple to increase their
profits and keep the common people respectful: the merchants did
business with the rich people who had money to spend, with the priests
who were their associates and with the pilgrims from every part of the
world drawn towards the Temple: the working men and the poor lived from
the scraps and leavings which fell from the tables of the rich, the
priests, the merchants and the pilgrims.

Religion was thus the greatest and perhaps the only business in
Jerusalem: any one who attacked religion, its representatives, its
visible monument (which was the most famous and fruitful seat of
religion), was necessarily considered an enemy of the people of
Jerusalem, and especially of the prosperous and well-to-do.

Jesus with His Gospel threatened directly the positions and fees of
these classes. If all the prescriptions of the Law were to be reduced to
the practice of love, there would be no more place for the Scribes and
Doctors of the Law who made their living out of their teachings. If God
did not wish animal sacrifices and asked only for purity of soul and
secret prayer, the priests might as well shut the doors of the Sanctuary
and learn a new profession: those who did business in oxen and calves
and sheep and lambs and kids and doves and sparrows would have seen
their business slacken and perhaps disappear. If to be loved by God you
needed to transform your life, if it were not enough to wash your
drinking-cups and punctually pay your tithes, the doctrine and the
authority of the Pharisees would be reduced to nothing. If in short the
Messiah had come and had declared the Primacy of the Temple fallen and
sacrifices useless, the capital of the cult would, from one day to the
next, have lost its prestige and with the passage of time would have
become an obscure settlement of impoverished men.

As a matter of course, Jesus, who preferred fishermen, if they were pure
and loving, to members of the Sanhedrin; who took the part of the poor
against the rich, who valued ignorant children more than Scribes,
blear-eyed over the mysteries of the Scriptures, drew down on His head
the hatred of the Levites, the merchants and the Doctors. The Temple,
the Academy and the Bank were against Him: when the victim was ready
they would call the somewhat reluctant, but nevertheless acquiescent
Roman sword, to sacrifice Him to their peace of mind.

For some time the life of Jesus had not been safe. The Pharisees said
that Herod had sought to kill Him from the days of His last sojourn in
Galilee. Perhaps it was the knowledge of this that sent Him into Cæsarea
Philippi, outside Galilee, where He predicted His passion.

When He came back to Jerusalem the High Priests, the Pharisees and the
Scribes gathered about Him to lay traps for Him and take down His words.
The uneasy and embittered crowd set on His track spies, destined to
become false witnesses in a few days. If we are to believe John, the
order was given to certain guards to capture Him, but they were afraid
to lay their hands upon Him. The attack with the whips on the
animal-sellers and money-changers, the loud invectives against the
Scribes and Pharisees, the allusion to the ruin of the Temple, made the
cup run over. Time pressed; Jerusalem was full of foreigners and many
were listening to Him. Some disorder, some confusion might easily spring
up, perhaps an uprising of the provincial crowds who were less attached
to the privileges and interests of the metropolis. The contagion must be
stopped at the beginning and there seemed to be no better way than to
make away with the blasphemer. The wolves of the Altar and of business
arranged a meeting of the Sanhedrin to reconcile law with assassination.

THE HIGH PRIEST CAIAPHAS

The Sanhedrin was the assembly of the chiefs, the supreme council of the
aristocracy which ruled the capital. It was composed of the priests
jealous of the clientele of the Temple which gave them their power and
their stipends: of the Scribes responsible for preserving the purity of
the law and of tradition: of the Elders who represented the interests of
the moderate, moneyed middle-class.

They were all in accord that it was essential to take Jesus on false
pretenses and to have Him killed as a blasphemer against the Sabbath and
the Lord. Only Nicodemus attempted a defense, but they were able quickly
to silence him. “What do we? for this man doeth many miracles. If we let
him thus alone, all men will believe on him: and the Romans shall come
and take away both our place and nation.” It is the Reason of State, the
Salvation of the Fatherland which political cliques always bring out to
screen with legality and ideality the defense of their particular
profit.

Caiaphas, who that year was High Priest, settled their doubts with the
maxim which has always justified in the eyes of the world the immolation
of the innocent. “Ye know nothing at all nor consider that it is
expedient that one man should die for the people and that the whole
nation perish not.” This maxim in Caiaphas’ mouth, and on this occasion,
and for what it meant, was infamous, and hypocritical like all the
speeches made by the Sanhedrin. But transposed into a higher meaning and
transferred into the Absolute, changing nation into humanity, the
President of the circumcised patriciate was expounding a principle which
Jesus Himself had accepted and which has become under another form the
crucial mystery of Christianity. Caiaphas did not know—he who had to
enter alone into the Holy of Holies to offer up to Jehovah the sins of
the people—how much his words, coarse in expression and cynical in
sentiment as they were, were in accord with his victim’s thought.

The thought that only the righteous can pay for injustice, that only the
perfect can discount the crimes of the brute, that only the pure can
cancel the debts of the ignoble, that only God in His infinite
magnificence can expiate the sins which man has committed against Him;
this thought, which seems to man the height of madness exactly because
it is the height of divine wisdom, certainly did not flash out in the
corrupt soul of the Sadducee when he threw to his sixty accomplices the
sophism destined to silence their last remorse. Caiaphas, who together
with the crown of thorns and the sponge of vinegar was to be one of the
instruments of the Passion, did not imagine in that moment that he was
bearing witness solemnly, though involuntarily, to the divine tragedy
about to begin.

And yet the principle that the innocent can pay for the guilty, that the
death of one man can be salvation for all, was not foreign to the
consciousness of ancient peoples. The heroic myths of the pagans
recognize and celebrate voluntary sacrifices of the innocent. They
record the example of Pilades, who offered himself to be punished in
place of the guilty Orestes; Macaria of the blood of Heracles, who saved
her brother’s life with her own; Alcestis, who died that she might avert
from her Admetus the vengeance of Artemis; the daughters of Erechtheus,
who sacrificed themselves that their father might escape Neptune’s
blows. The old King Codrus, who threw himself into the Ilissus, in order
that his Athenians might be victorious; and Decius Mus and his sons, who
consecrated themselves to the Manes that the Romans might triumph over
the Samnites; and Curtius, who, fully armed, cast himself into the gulf
for the salvation of his country; and Iphigenia, who offered her throat
to the knife that Agamemnon’s fleet might sail safely towards Troy. At
Athens during the Thargelian feast two men were killed to save the city
from divine wrath; Epimenides the Wise, to purify Athens, profaned by
the assassination of the followers of Cylon, had recourse to human
sacrifice over the tombs; at Curium, in Cyprus, at Terracina, at
Marseilles, every year a man threw himself into the sea as payment for
the crimes of the community, a man regarded as the Saviour of the
people.

But these sacrifices, when they were spontaneous, were for the salvation
of one being alone, or of a restricted group of men; when they were
enforced they added a new crime to those they were intended to expiate;
they were examples of individual affection or of superstitious crimes.

No man had yet appeared who would take upon his head all the sins of
men, a God who would imprison Himself in the abject wretchedness of
flesh to save all the human race and to give it the power to ascend from
bestiality to sanctity, from earthly humiliation to the Kingdom of
Heaven. The perfect man, who takes upon himself all imperfections, the
pure man who burdens himself with all infamies, the righteous man who
shoulders the unrighteousness of all men, had appeared under the aspect
of a poor fugitive from justice in the day of Caiaphas. He who was to
die for all, the Galilean working-man who was disquieting the rich and
the priests of Jerusalem, was there on the Mount of Olives only a short
distance from the Sanhedrin. The Seventy, who knew not what they did,
who did not know that they were obeying the will of the very man they
were persecuting, decided to have Him captured before the Passover; but
because they were cowardly, like all men of possessions, one thing
restrained them, the fear of the people who loved Jesus. They consulted
that they might take Jesus by subtlety and kill Him. But they said, “Not
on the feast day lest there be an uproar among the people.” To solve
their difficulty, by good fortune, there came to them the day after one
of the Twelve, he who held the purse, Judas Iscariot.

THE MYSTERY OF JUDAS

Only two creatures in the world knew the secret of Judas: Christ and the
traitor.

Sixty generations of Christians have racked their brains over it, but
the man of Iscariot, although he has drawn after him crowds of
disciples, remains stubbornly incomprehensible. His is the only human
mystery that we encounter in the Gospels. We can understand without
difficulty the depravity of Herod, the rancor of the Pharisees, the
revengeful anger of Annas and Caiaphas, the cowardly laxity of Pilate.
But we have no evidence to enable us to understand the abomination of
Judas. The Four Gospels tell us too little of him and of the reasons
which induced him to sell his King.

“Then entered Satan into Judas.” But these words are only the definition
of his crime. Evil took possession of his heart, therefore it came
suddenly. Before that day, perhaps during the dinner at Bethany, Judas
was not in the power of the Adversary. But why suddenly did he throw
himself into that power? Why did Satan enter into him and not into one
of the others?

Thirty pieces of silver are a very small sum, especially for an
avaricious man. In modern coinage it would amount to about twenty
dollars, and, granting that its effective value or as the economists say
its buying power were in those days ten times greater, two hundred
dollars seem hardly a sufficient price to induce a man whom his
companions describe as grasping to commit the basest perfidy recorded by
history. It has been said the thirty pieces of silver was the price of a
slave. But the text of Exodus states on the contrary that thirty shekels
was the compensation to be paid by the owner of an ox which had injured
a slave. The cases are too far apart for the doctors of the Sanhedrin to
have had this early precedent in mind.

The most significant indication is the office which Judas held among the
Twelve. Among them was Matthew, a former tax-collector, and it would
have seemed almost his right to handle the small amount of money
necessary for the expenses of the brotherhood. In place of Matthew, we
see the man of Iscariot as the depository of the offerings. Money is
insidious and saturated with danger. The mere handling of money, even if
it belongs to others, is poisonous. It is not surprising that John said
of Judas the thief, that he, “having the bag, took away what was put
therein.” And yet it is not probable that a man greedy for money would
have stayed a long time with a group of such poor men. If he had wished
to steal, he would have sought out a more promising position. And if he
had needed those miserable thirty pieces of silver, could he not have
procured them in another way, by running away with the purse, without
needing to propose the betrayal of Jesus to the High Priests?

These common-sense reflections about a crime so extraordinary have
induced many to seek other motives for the infamous transaction. A sect
of heretics, the Cainites, had a legend that Judas sorrowfully accepted
eternal infamy, knowing that Jesus through His will and the will of the
Father was to be betrayed to His death, that no suffering might be
lacking in the great expiation. A necessary and voluntary instrument of
the Redemption, Judas was according to them a hero and a martyr to be
revered and not reviled.

According to others, Iscariot, loving his people and hoping for their
deliverance, perhaps sharing the sentiments of the Zealots, had joined
with Jesus, hoping that he was the Messiah such as the common people
then imagined Him: the King of the revenge and restoration of Israel.
When little by little, in spite of his slowness of comprehension, it
dawned on him from the words of Jesus that he had fallen in with a
Messiah of quite another kind, he delivered Him over to His enemies to
make up for the bitterness of his disappointment. But this fancy to
which no text either canonical or apocryphal gives any support is not
enough to explain Christ’s betrayer: he could have deserted the Twelve
and gone in search of other company more to his taste, which certainly,
as we have seen, was not lacking at that time.

Others have said that the reason is to be sought in his loss of faith.
Judas had believed firmly in Jesus, and then could believe no longer.
What Jesus said about His end close at hand, the threatening hostility
of the metropolis, the delay of his victorious manifestation, had ended
by causing Judas to lose all faith in Him whom he had followed up till
then. He did not see the Kingdom approaching and he did see death
approaching. Mingling with the people to find out the temper of the day,
he had perhaps heard a rumor as to the decisions of the meeting of the
Elders and feared that the Sanhedrin would not be satisfied with one
victim alone, but would condemn all those who had long followed Jesus.
Overcome by fear—the form which Satan took to enter into him—he thought
he could ward off the danger and save his life by treachery; unbelief
and cowardice being thus the ignominious motives of his ignominy.

An Englishman celebrated as an opium-eater, has thought out a new
apology for the traitor which is the opposite of this theory. His idea
is that Judas believed: he even believed too absolutely. He was so
persuaded that Jesus was really the Christ that he wished by giving Him
up to the Tribunal to force Him finally to show Himself as the
legitimate Messiah. So strong was his hope that he could not believe
that Jesus would be killed. Or if He really were to die, he knew with
entire certainty that He would rise again at once to sit on the right
hand of the Father as King of Israel and of the world. To hasten the
great day, in which the Disciples were at last to have the reward for
their faithfulness, Judas, secure in the intangibility of his Divine
Friend, wished to force His hand and, putting Him face to face with
those whom He was to cast out, to compel Him to show Himself as the true
Son of God. According to this theory the action of Judas was not a
betrayal but a mistake due to his misunderstanding of the real meaning
of his Master’s teaching. He did not betray therefore through avarice or
revengefulness or cowardice, but through stupidity.

On the other hand others give revenge as the reason. No man betrays
another without hating him. Why did Judas hate Jesus? They remember the
dinner in the house of Simon and the nard of the weeping woman. The
reproof for his stinginess and hypocrisy must have exasperated the
disciple who perhaps had been reproved for these faults on other
occasions. To the rancor of this rebuff was added envy which always
flourishes in vulgar souls. And as soon as he could revenge himself
without danger, he went to the palace of Caiaphas.

But did he really think that his denunciation would bring Jesus to His
death or did he rather suppose that they would content themselves with
flogging Him and forbidding Him to speak to the people? The rest of the
story seems to show that the condemnation of Jesus unnerved him as a
terrible and unexpected result of his kiss. Matthew describes his
despair in a way to show that he was sincerely horrified by what had
happened through his fault. The money which he had pocketed became like
fire to him: and when the priests refused to take it back he threw it
down in the Temple. Even after this restitution he had no peace and
hastened to kill himself. He died on the same day as his victim. Luke in
the Acts sets down in another way the evil end of Judas, but the
Christian tradition prefers the story of his remorse and suicide.

In spite of all the unraveling of unsatisfied minds, mysteries are still
tangled about the mystery of Judas. But we have not yet invoked the
testimony of Him who knew better than all men, even better than Judas,
the true secret of the betrayal. Jesus alone could give us the key to
the mystery; Jesus who saw into the heart of Judas as into the hearts of
all men, and who knew what Judas was to do before he had done it.

Jesus chose Judas to be one of the Twelve and to carry the gospel to the
world along with the others. Would He have chosen him, kept him with
Him, beside Him, at His table, for so long a time if He had believed him
to be an incurable criminal? Would He have confided to him what was
dearest in the world to Him, the most precious thing in the world—the
prophecy of the Kingdom of God?

Up to the last days, up to that last evening, Jesus treated Judas
exactly like the others. To him, as to all others, He gave His body,
symbolized by bread, His soul, symbolized by wine. He washed and wiped,
with His own hands, the feet of Judas, those feet which had carried him
to the house of Caiaphas—with those hands which, through Judas’ fault,
were to be nailed to the cross on the following day. And when, in the
red light of the flickering lanterns and the flashing of swords, Judas,
under the dark shadow of the olive trees, came and kissed that face
still wet with bloody sweat, Jesus did not repel him, but said, “Friend,
wherefore art thou come?”

_Friend!_ It was the last time that Jesus spoke to Judas, and even in
that moment He would use none other than that wonted word. Judas was not
for Him the man of darkness who came in the darkness to turn Him over to
the guards, but the friend, the same who a few hours before had been
sitting with Him before the dish of lamb and herbs, and had set his lips
to His cup: the same who, so many times in hours of rest in leafy shade,
or in the shadow of walls, had listened with the others like a disciple,
like a companion, like a friend, like a brother, to the great words of
the Promise. Jesus had said at the Last Supper, “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.” But now that the traitor was before Him, that the
treachery was complete, now that Judas had added to that betrayal the
outrage of the kiss laid on the lips of Him who has commanded love for
our enemies, He answered him with the sweet and divine words of their
habitual intercourse, “Friend, wherefore art thou come?”

Thus the testimony of Him who was betrayed increases our bewilderment
instead of raising the veil of the dreadful secret. He knew that Judas
was a thief and He gave him the purse: He knew that Judas was evil and
He confided to him a treasure of truth infinitely more precious than all
the money in the universe: He knew that Judas was to betray Him and He
made him a participant of His divinity, offering him the mouthful of
bread and the sip of wine; He saw Judas leading His assailants upon Him
and He still addressed him as at first, as He always had, with the holy
name of friend.

“It had been good for that man if he had not been born.” These words
might have been, rather than a condemnation, an exclamation of pity at
the thought of a fate which could not be escaped. If Judas hated Jesus,
we see no signs that Jesus was ever repelled by Judas, because Jesus
knew that the base bargain was necessary, as the weakness of Pilate was
necessary, the rage of Caiaphas, the insults of the soldiery, the
timbers and nails of the cross. He knew that Judas must needs do what he
did and He did not curse him, as He did not curse the people who wished
His death, or the hammer which drove the nails into the cross. One
prayer alone broke from him, to beg Judas to shorten the dreadful agony,
“That thou doest, do quickly.”

The mystery of Judas is doubly tied to the mystery of the Redemption and
we lesser ones shall never solve it.

No analogy can give us light. Joseph also was sold by one of his
brothers, who, like Iscariot, was called Judas, and was sold to
Ishmaelite merchants for twenty pieces of silver, but Joseph, who
prefigured Christ, was not sold to his enemies, was not sold to be put
to death: and as a compensation for his betrayal, great good fortune was
his and he became so wealthy that he could enrich his father, and so
generous that he could pardon even his brothers.

Jesus was not only betrayed, but sold, sold for a price, sold for a
small price, bought with coins. He was the object of a bargain, a
bargain struck and paid. Judas, the man of the purse, the cashier, did
not present himself as an accuser, did not offer himself as a
cut-throat, but as a merchant doing business in blood. The Jews, who
understood bartering for blood, daily cutting the throats of victims,
and quartering them, butchers of the Most High, were the first and last
customers of Judas. The sale of Jesus was the first business done by the
merchant, just entering business; not very big business, it must be
admitted, but a real, true commercial transaction, a valid contract of
buying and selling, verbal, but honestly lived up to by the contracting
parties. If Jesus had not been sold, something would have been lacking
to the perfect ignominy of His expiation: if He had been sold for more
money, for three hundred shekels instead of thirty, for gold instead of
silver, the ignominy would have been diminished, slightly, but still
diminished. It had been destined to all eternity that He should be
bought, but bought with a small sum. In order that an infinite,
supernatural but communicable value should be made available to men, it
was needful to buy it with a small sum, and with a sum of metal, which
has no real value. Did Jesus bought by others not do the same, He who
wished to redeem with the blood of only one man all the blood shed on
the earth from the days of Cain to Caiaphas?

And if He had been sold as a slave, as so many living souls were sold in
those days in the public places, if He had been sold as redeemable
property, as human capital, as a living tool for work, the ignominy
would have been almost nothing, and the Redemption put off. But He was
sold as the calf is sold to the butcher, as the innocent animals which
the butcher buys to kill, to sell again, to distribute in morsels to
flesh-eaters. The sacred butcher, Caiaphas, never in his most successful
days had a victim so prodigious. For more than two thousand years
Christians have been fed on that victim, and it is still intact, and
those who feed are not satiated.

Every one of us has contributed his quota, an infinitesimal quota, to
buy that victim from Judas. We have all contributed towards the sum for
which the blood of the Redeemer was bought: Caiaphas was only our agent.
The field of Aceldama, bought with the price of blood, is our
inheritance, our property. And this field has grown mysteriously larger,
has spread over half the face of the earth: whole populous cities,
paved, lighted, well-ordered cities, of shops and brothels, shine
resplendent on it from north to south. And that the mystery should be
even greater, Judas’ money, also multiplied by the betrayals of so many
centuries, by the accumulation of interest, has become incalculably
great. Nothing is so fruitful and fecund as blood. The statisticians,
those soothsayers of modern days, can bear witness to the fact that all
the courts of the Temple could not contain the money engendered from
that day to this by those thirty pieces of silver cast down there in a
delirium of remorse, by the man who sold his God.

THE MAN WITH THE PITCHER

The bargain was struck, the price paid, the buyers were impatient to
finish the transaction. They had said “before the Feast day.” The great
feast day of the Passover fell on a Saturday and this was Thursday.

Jesus had but one more day of freedom, the last day.

Before leaving His friends, those who were to abandon Him that night, He
wished once more to dip His bread in the same platter with them. Before
the Syrian soldiery should have spit upon Him, before He should be
defiled by the Jewish filth, He wished to kneel down and wash the feet
of those who until the day of their death were to travel all the roads
of the earth to tell the story of His death. Before the blood dropped
from His hands, His feet, His chest, He wished to give the first fruits
to those who were to be one soul with Him until the end. Before
suffering thirst, nailed upon the cross, He wished to drink a cup of
wine with His companions. This last evening before His death was to be
like an anticipation of the banquet of the Kingdom.

On the evening of Thursday, the first day of unleavened bread, the
Disciples asked Him, “Where wilt thou that we go and prepare that thou
mayest eat the passover?”

The Son of Man, poorer than the foxes, had no home of His own. He had
left His home in Nazareth forever. The home of Simon of Capernaum, which
had been in the early days like His own, was far away; and the home of
Mary and Martha in Bethany, where He was almost Master, was too far
outside the city.

He had only enemies in Jerusalem or shame-faced friends: Joseph of
Arimathea was to receive Him as his guest only the next evening, in the
dark cave, the banquet-hall of worms.

But a condemned man on his last day has a right to any favor he may ask.
All the houses of Jerusalem were rightfully His. The Father would give
Him the house best suited to shelter His last joy. And He sent two
Disciples with this mysterious command, “Go ye into the city, and there
shall meet you a man bearing a pitcher of water; follow him. And
wheresoever he shall go in, say ye to the good man of the house, the
Master saith, My time is at hand; where is the guest chamber, where I
shall eat the passover with my disciples? And he will show you a large
upper room furnished and prepared: there make ready for us.”

It has been believed that the master of that house was a friend of Jesus
and that they had arranged this beforehand. But that cannot be. Jesus
would have sent the two Disciples straight to him, giving his name, and
would not have had recourse to the following of the man with the
pitcher.

There were many men on the morning of that feast day who must have been
coming up from Shiloah with pitchers of water. The two Disciples were to
follow the first one whom they saw before them. They did not know why
they were not to stop him instead of going after him to see where he
went in. His master, since he had a servant, certainly was not a poor
man, and in his house, as in all those of prosperous people, there would
certainly be a room suitable for serving a supper, and he would know at
least by hearsay who “the Master” was. In those days at Jerusalem there
was little talk of anything else. The request was one which could not be
refused. “The Master saith, My time is at hand.” The time which was
“His” was the hour of death. No one could shut out from his house a man
at the point of death, who wished to satisfy his hunger for the last
time. The Disciples set out, found the man with the pitcher, entered the
house, talked with the master, prepared there what was necessary for the
supper: lamb cooked on the spit, round loaves without leaven, bitter
herbs, red sauce, the wine of thanksgiving, and warm water. They set the
couches and pillows about the table and spread over it the white cloth.
On the cloth they set the few dishes, the candelabra, the pitcher full
of wine, and one cup, one cup only to which all were to set their lips.
They forgot nothing: both were experienced in this preparation. From
childhood up, in their home beside the lake, they had watched,
wide-eyed, the preparations for the most heart-warming feast of the
year. And it was not the first time since they had been with Him whom
they loved, that they had thus eaten all together of the feast of the
Passover. But for that last day—and perhaps their dull minds had at last
understood the dreadful truth that it was really the last—for this last
supper which all the thirteen were to have together, for this Passover
which was the last for Jesus and the last valid Passover for old Judaism
because a new covenant was about to begin for all countries and all
nations: for this festal banquet which was a memorial of life, and a
warning of death, the Disciples performed those humble menial tasks with
a new tenderness, with that pensive joy that almost brings tears.

With the setting of the sun, the other ten came with Jesus and placed
themselves around the table, now in readiness. All were silent as if
heavy-hearted with a presentiment which they were afraid to see
reflected in their companions’ eyes. They remembered the supper in
Simon’s house, almost funereal, the odor of the nard, the woman and her
endless weeping, and Christ’s words on that evening, and His words of
those last days; the repeated warnings of ignominy and of the end; the
signs of hatred increasing about them, and the indications, now very
plain, of the conspiracy, which with all its torches was about to come
out from the darkness.

But two of them—for opposite reasons—were more oppressed, more moved
than the others: the two for whom this was the last of their lives, the
two who were about to die: Christ and Judas, the one sold and the
seller; the Son of God and the abortion of Satan.

Judas had finished his bargain, he had the thirty pieces of silver on
his person wrapped tightly so that they would not clink. But he knew no
peace. The Enemy had entered into him, but perhaps the friend of Christ
was not yet dead in his heart. To see Him there in the midst of His
friends, calm but with the pensive expression of the man who is the only
one who knows a secret, who is aware of a crime, a betrayal; to see Him,
still at liberty in the company of those who loved Him, still alive, all
the blood still in His veins under the delicate protection of the
skin—and yet those bargainers who had paid the price refused to wait any
longer, the affair was arranged for that very night!—and they were only
waiting for Judas to act. But suppose Jesus, who must know all, had
denounced him to the eleven? And suppose they, to save their Master, had
thrown themselves on Judas to bind him, perhaps to kill him? Judas began
to feel that to betray Christ to His death was perhaps not enough to
save himself from the death, which he so greatly feared and yet which
was near upon him.

All these thoughts darkened his somber face, more and more blackly, and
at times terrified him. While the more active ones busied themselves
with the last arrangements for serving the supper, he looked furtively
at the eyes of Jesus—clear eyes scarcely veiled with the loving sadness
of parting—as if to read there the revocation of his fate, so close at
hand. Jesus broke the silence: “With desire I have desired to eat this
Passover with you before I suffer: For I say unto you, I will not any
more eat thereof, until it be fulfilled in the kingdom of God.”

Such great love had not up to that moment been expressed by any words of
Christ to His friends: such a longing for the day of perfect union, for
the feast, so ancient and destined to so great a sublimation. They knew
that He loved them; but until this evening their poor bruised hearts had
not felt how poignant His love was. He knew that this evening was the
last respite of rest and cheer before His death, and yet He had desired
it ardently as though it were a boon, with that fervor which is the mark
of passionate souls, souls on fire, loving souls, those who battle for
the love of victory, who endure all things for a high prize. He had
ardently desired to eat this Passover with them. He had eaten others: He
had eaten with them thousands of other times, seated in boats, in their
friends’ houses, in strangers’ houses, in rich men’s houses, or seated
beside the road, in mountain pastures, in the shadow of bushes on the
shore; and yet for so long He had ardently desired to eat with them this
supper which was the last! The blue skies of happy Galilee, the soft
winds of the spring just passed, the sun of the last Passover, the
waving branches of His triumphant entry, did He think of them now? Now
He saw only His first friends and His last friends, the little group
destined to be diminished by treachery, and dispersed by cowardice.
Still, for a time they were there about Him in the same room, at the
same table, sharing with Him the same overwhelming grief, but sharing
also the light of a supernatural certainty.

Up to that day He had suffered, but not for Himself; He had suffered
because of His ardent desire for this nocturnal hour, when the air was
already heavy with the tragedy of farewells. And, when He had thus told
them how great was His love, Christ’s face, soon to be buffeted, shone
with that noble sadness which is so strangely like joy.

THE WASHING OF THE FEET

Now that He was on the point of being snatched from those whom He loved,
He wished to give them a supreme proof of this love. From the time they
had begun to share His life, He had always loved them, all of them, even
Judas: He always loved them with a love surpassing all other affections,
a love so bountiful that their narrow hearts could not always contain
it; but now about to leave them, knowing that He was to be with them
again only when transfigured after death, all His hitherto unexpressed
affection overflowed in a great wave of tender sadness.

Before beginning the supper where He was the head of the family, He
wished to be kinder than a Father, humbler than a servant. He was their
King, and He would humble Himself to the service performed by slaves: He
was their Master and He would put Himself below the level of His
disciples; He was the Son of God and He would accept a position despised
of men: He was the first and He would kneel before His inferiors as if
He had been the last. So many times, to rebuke their pride and jealousy,
He had told them that the Master must serve his servants, that the Son
of Man was come to serve, that the first must be last. But His words had
not yet been assimilated by those souls, since even up to the last, they
continued to quarrel for priority and precedence.

For raw, untrained minds, action has more meaning than words. Jesus
prepared Himself to repeat, with the symbolic aspect of a humiliating
service, one of His most important instructions. John tells us, “He
riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and
girded himself. After that he poureth water into a bason and began to
wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he
was girded.”

Only a mother or a slave would have done what Jesus did that evening.
The mother would have done it for her little children, but for no one
else: the slave for his masters, but for no others. The mother would
have served joyfully because of her love, the slave would have been
resigned through obedience. But the Twelve were neither Christ’s
children nor His masters. Son of Man and of God, His love was above that
of all earthly mothers,—King of a kingdom existing in the future, but
more legitimate than all existing monarchies, He was the unrecognized
Master of all masters.

And yet He was willing to wash and wipe those twenty-four callous and
sweaty feet, in order to engrave on those unwilling hearts, still
swollen with vanity, the truth which His lips had so long vainly
pronounced; “And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he
that shall humble himself shall be exalted.”

So after He had washed their feet and taken His garments and was set
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, your Lord
and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another’s
feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done
to you. Verily, verily I say unto you, The servant is not greater than
his lord; neither is he that is sent greater than he that sent him. If
ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them.”

Jesus had not only given them a memory of complete humility, but an
example of perfect love. “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye
love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends. Ye are my friends if ye do whatsoever I command you.”

But this action, with its deep meaning hidden under the appearance of
menial service, signifies purification as well as love. “He that is
washed needeth not save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit: and
ye are clean, but not all.”

The eleven, although not of lofty character, had some right to this
cleansing service from Jesus. For many months those feet had trodden the
dusty, muddy, filthy roads of Judea to follow Him who brought life; and
after His death, year by year, they were to tread longer and harder
roads in countries the very names of which they then did not know; and
foreign clay would soil the sandaled feet of those who were to go as
pilgrims and strangers to repeat the call of the Crucified One.

TAKE—EAT

These thirteen men had apparently come together to perform the old
social rite in memory of the liberation of their people from Egyptian
slavery. They seemed to be thirteen devout men of the people, waiting
about a white table redolent of roasted lamb and wine, for the signal to
begin an intimate and festal supper.

But this was only in appearance. In reality it was a vigil of
leave-taking and separation. Two of these thirteen, He into whom God had
entered and he into whom Satan had entered, were to die terrible deaths
before the next nightfall. The very next day the others were to be
dispersed, like reapers at the first downfall of hail.

But this supper which was the viaticum of an ending, was also a
wonderful beginning. In the midst of these thirteen Jews the observance
of the Jewish Passover was about to be transfigured into something
incomparably higher and more universal, into something unequaled and
ineffable; into the great Christian mystery. The simple eating of bread
was to become actual communion with God.

For the Jews, Easter is only the feast in memory of their flight from
Egypt. They never forgot their victorious escape from their slavery,
accompanied by so many prodigies, so manifestly under God’s protection,
although they were to bear on their necks the yokes of other
captivities, and to undergo the shame of other deportations. Exodus
prescribed an annual festivity which took the name of the Passover;
Pasch, the paschal feast. It was a sort of banquet intended to bring to
mind the hastily prepared food of the fugitives. A lamb or a goat should
be roasted over the fire, that is, cooked in the simplest and quickest
way; bread without leaven, because there was no time to let yeast rise.
And they were to eat of it with their loins girded, their staves in
their hands, eating in haste, like people about to set out upon a
journey. The bitter herbs were the poor wild grasses snatched up as they
went along by the fugitives, to dull the hunger of their interminable
wanderings. The red sauce, where the bread was dipped, was in memory of
the bricks which the Jewish slaves were obliged to bake for the
Pharaohs. The wine was something added: the joy of escape, the hope of
the land of promise, the exaltation of thanksgiving to the Eternal.

Jesus changed nothing in the order of this ancient feast. After the
prayer He had them pass from hand to hand the cup of wine, calling on
God’s name. Then He gave the bitter herbs to each one and filled a
second time the cup which was to be passed around the table for each to
sip.

What taste did that wine have in the mouth of the traitor, when Jesus in
that deep silence pronounced those words of longing and hope which were
not for Judas, but only for those who could ascend to the eternal
banquet of the Father: Take this and divide it among yourselves, “but I
say unto you I will not drink henceforth of this fruit of the vine,
until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”

A sad farewell; but nevertheless the confirming of a solemn promise.
Perhaps they felt only the promise, and perhaps there flashed before
their poor men’s eyes a vision of the great Heavenly feast. They did not
believe that they would have a long time to mourn: after that other
vintage-time, after the fruit of the vine had fermented, and the sweet
wine had been poured into the flasks, the Master would return, as He had
promised, to summon them to the great wedding of Heaven and Earth, to
the everlasting banquet. They must have thought, “We are men growing
old, elderly men, more than mature, within sight of old age; if the
Bridegroom tarries too long He will not find us among the living, and
those who have believed Him will be mocked at.”

Comforted by the certainty of an early and glorious reunion, they
chanted together, as the custom was, the Psalm of the first
Thanksgiving, a chant of praise to the Father from Him who served Him.
“Tremble, thou earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of
the God of Jacob; which turned the rock into a standing water, the flint
into a fountain of waters.—He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and
lifteth the needy out of the dung-hill; that he may set him with
princes, even with the princes of his people.”

These old words, colored at that moment with a new meaning, were sung
with a joyful conviction of their truth. They, too, the Disciples, were
poor men and they would be raised out of the dust of poverty by the
intercession of the Son of God: they too were poor men and He would soon
raise them out of the misery of their beggary, to make them masters of
inconsumable wealth.

Then Jesus, who saw how insufficiently they understood, took the loaves,
blessed them, broke them and, as He gave them each a piece, set the
dreadful truth before their eyes. “Take, eat; This is my body which is
given for you: this do in remembrance of me.”

So He was not to return as quickly as they thought! After His brief stay
during the Resurrection, His second coming was to be delayed, so long
that it might be possible to forget Him and His death.

“This do in remembrance of me.” The breaking of bread at the common
table among those who await Him shall be the signal of a new
brotherhood. Every time that you break bread, I will not only be present
among you, but by that means you will be intimately united with me.
Because, as this bread is broken in my hands, my body will be broken by
my enemies. As this bread eaten to-night will be your food until
to-morrow, my body which I will offer in death to all men shall satisfy
the hunger of those who believe in me, until the day when the great
granaries of the Kingdom shall be open to all, when you shall be angels
in the presence of your Father whom you shall have found again. I will
leave you therefore not merely a memory; I will be present with a mystic
but real presence in every particle of bread consecrated to me and this
bread shall be a living necessary food for souls, and my promise to be
with you shall be fulfilled till time shall be no more.

In the meantime, this evening, eat this unleavened bread, this bread
made by the hand of man, made of water and grain, these loaves which
have felt the heat of the oven and which my hands, not yet cold in
death, have divided amongst you—and which my love has changed into my
flesh so that it may be your everlasting food. It is sweet to the heart
of a friend to see his friends eating bread at his table, bread born of
the earth, bread which was green blades with flowering lilies among
them, and then the ripe ear bending down the tall stalk with its golden
weight. You know how many efforts, how much anxiety, how much trouble,
are contained in a piece of bread; how the great oxen cultivated the
earth, how the countrymen threw great handfuls of the grain into the
fallow land in winter, how the first blade softly penetrated the damp
darkness of the earth, how the reapers all day long cut down the ripened
stalks, and then the sheaves were bound, and carried to the threshing
floor and beaten so that the ears let fall the grain. The workers must
wait for a little wind, neither too gentle nor too violent, to winnow
out the good grain from the chaff. Then they grind it, sift out the bran
from it, make a dough with warm water, heat the oven with dry grass or
twigs. All this must be done with love and patience before the father
may break a piece with his children, the friend with his friends, the
host with strangers. Plowers, sowers, reapers, winnowers, millers and
bakers sweat in the heat of the sun, in the heat of the oven, before the
golden wheat can be transformed into well-baked golden bread for our
table.

Truly it is sweet to eat good wholesome bread with friends: the soft
white crumb, covered with the crisp crust. So many times with me you
have begged bread in poor men’s houses; and all your lives you are to
beg it in my name: you will have the moldy hard crusts which dogs
refuse, the dry bits left at the bottom of the dish, the crusts gnawed
by children and old people which they have let fall upon the hearth. But
you know want, and nights of fasting and the pale face of poverty. But
you are strong; you have the powerful jaws of those who eat hard bread.
You will not lose courage, if no place is made for you at the tables of
the well-to-do.

But verily it is infinitely sweeter for Him who loves you to transform
the bread which comes from the hard earth and from hard labor into the
Body which will be eternally offered for you, into the Body which every
day will come down from Heaven as the visible means of grace.

Remember the prayer which I taught you: “Give us this day our daily
bread—” For to-day and for always your bread is this bread, my Body. He
shall never know hunger who shall eat my Body, which every morning
throughout endless centuries shall be changed into endless morsels of
transubstantiated bread. But whosoever shall refuse it, shall be
anhungered to all eternity.

WINE AND BLOOD

As soon as they had eaten the lamb with the bread and the bitter herb,
Jesus filled the common cup for the third time and gave it to the
Apostle nearest Him, “Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the
new testament, which is shed for many.”

His blood, mixed with sweat, had not yet fallen on the ground, under the
olives, and had not yet dropped from the nails upon Golgotha. But His
desire to give life with His life, to redeem with His suffering all the
sorrows of the world, to transmit at least a part of His substance to
His immediate heirs; this desire to give Himself up wholly for those
whom He loves is so great that from this moment on, He feels the
immolation complete and the gift possible. If bread is the body, blood
is in a certain sense the soul. The Lord said to Noah: “But flesh with
the life thereof, which is the blood thereof, shall ye not eat.” With
blood as visibly representing life, the God of Abraham and of Jacob had
established the covenant with His own people. When Moses had received
the law, he had sacrificed oxen, took half of the blood and put it in
basins, and half of the blood he sprinkled on the altar: “And Moses took
the blood, and sprinkled it on the people, and said, Behold the blood of
the covenant which the Lord hath made with you concerning all these
words.”

But after a trial of many centuries, God had announced by the voice of
the prophets that the Old Covenant was obliterated and abrogated, and
that another was henceforth necessary. The blood of animals sprinkled
upon stubborn heads and upon blaspheming faces had lost its virtue;
another Blood, purer and more precious, was needed for the New Covenant,
for the Last Covenant of the Father with His perjured children. In many
ways He had already tried to lead His first-born towards the narrow door
of salvation; the rain of fire on Sodom, the washings of the waters of
the flood, the Egyptian slavery, hunger in the desert, had terrified
them without reforming them.

And now there had come a Liberator at once more divine and more human
than the old Captain of Exodus. Moses also saved a people, spoke upon a
mountain, announced a promised land. But Jesus saves not only His
people, but all peoples; writes His laws not upon stone, but upon human
hearts; and His promised land is not a country of rich grazing-land and
vineyards, with great clusters of grapes, but a Kingdom of holiness and
eternal joy. Moses had killed a man, and Jesus brought the dead to life;
Moses changed water into blood and Jesus, after having changed water
into wine at the wedding banquet, changed wine into blood, into His own
blood, at the melancholy last supper of His marriage with death. Moses
died full of years and honors on a solitary mountain top, glorified by
his people; and Jesus was to die among the insults of those whom He
loved.

The blood of oxen, the impure blood of earthly animals, involuntary and
inferior victims, is no longer sufficient. The New Covenant was
established that night with the words of Christ, who under the
appearance of wine shed His own blood and His own soul: “This cup is the
new testament in my blood, which is shed for you.”

It was shed not merely for the Twelve who were there; they represent in
His eyes all of humanity alive at that time and all those to be born
thereafter. The blood which was to be shed the next day, on Golgotha,
was real blood, actual, warm blood congealing on the cross in clots
which all the tears shed by Christians can never wash away. But the
blood of the Last Supper symbolizes a soul which gave itself up to make
over into His own likeness, the souls shut up in the bodies of men:
which was given to those who asked for it and to those who fled away
from it, which had suffered for the sake of those who had received it
and for those who had blasphemed it. This baptism of blood which came
after the baptism of water by John, after the baptism of tears by the
women of Bethany, after the baptism of spitting by the Jews and by the
Romans, this baptism of blood, red as the baptism of fire announced by
the prophet of fire, and mixed with the tears shed by women over His
blood-stained body, this is the greatest sacrament, revealed to His
betrayers, by Him who was betrayed.

I have broken bread for you, daily bread for which you pray every day to
the Father, as my body will be broken to-morrow, and I offer you now my
blood in this wine which I drink for the last time on earth. If you
always do this in memory of me, you will feel no hunger, no thirst.
There is no food better than wheat-bread, and no drink better than wine,
but the bread and wine which I have given you to-night will feed you and
quench your thirst for all your lives, by virtue of my sacrifice and of
that love which makes me seek for death and which reigns beyond death.

Ulysses advised Achilles to give the Achaians, before they went into
battle, “bread and wine that they should have strength and courage.” For
the Greek the strength of his members came from bread and homicidal
courage from wine. Wine was to intoxicate men so that they should
destroy each other and bread was to strengthen their arms so that they
could battle without weakness. The bread given by Christ does not
strengthen the flesh, but the soul, and His wine gives that divine
intoxication which is Love, that Love which the Apostle, scandalizing
the descendants of Ulysses, was to call in his Epistle to the
Corinthians, “the foolishness of God.”

Judas also ate that bread and swallowed that wine, partook of that body,
in which he had trafficked, drank that blood which he was to help shed,
but he had not the courage to confess his infamy, to throw himself down
weeping at the feet of Him who would have wept with him. Then the only
friend remaining to Judas warned him, “Verily I say unto you, that one
of you shall betray me.”

The eleven were capable of leaving Him alone in the midst of Caiaphas’
guards, but they never could have brought themselves to sell Him for
money, and at this they shuddered. Every one looked in his neighbor’s
face, almost dreading to see in his companion the livid look of guilt,
and all, one after the other, said, “Lord, is it I?”

Even Judas, hiding his increasing confusion under the appearance of
offended astonishment, was able to force his voice to say, “Lord, is it
I?” But Jesus, who the next day would not defend Himself, would not even
bring an accusation and only repeated the sad prophecy in more definite
words, “He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall
betray me.” And while they all still gazed at Him in painful doubt, for
the third time He insisted, ... “The hand of him that betrayeth me is
with me on the table.” He added no more, but to follow the old customs
up to the last, He filled the cup for the fourth time and gave it to
them to drink. And once more the thirteen voices rang out in the old
hymn, the “great hallel” which ended the liturgy of the Passover. Jesus
repeated the vigorous words of the Psalmist which were like a prophetic
funeral oration for Him, pronounced before His death. “The Lord is on my
side; I will not fear; what can man do unto me?... They compassed me
about like bees: they are quenched as the fire of thorns.... I shall not
die, but live.... The Lord hath chastened me sore: but he hath not given
me over unto death. Open to me the gates of righteousness: I will go
into them, and I will praise the Lord:... The stone which the builders
refused is become the headstone of the corner.... Bind the sacrifice
with cords, even unto the horns of the altar.”

The victim was ready and the next day the inhabitants of Jerusalem were
to see a new altar of wood and iron. But perhaps the Disciples, sleepy
and confused, did not understand the new meaning both melancholy and
triumphant of the old canticles.

When the hymn was ended they left the room and the house, at once. As
soon as they had emerged from the house Judas disappeared into the
night. The remaining eleven silently followed Jesus, who, as was His
wont, made His way to the Mount of Olives.

ABBA FATHER

On the Mount there was a garden, and a place where olives were crushed,
which gave it its name, Gethsemane. Jesus and His friends had been
spending the nights there, either to avoid the odors and noise of the
great city, distasteful to them, country-bred as they were, or because
they were afraid of being treacherously captured in the midst of their
enemies’ houses.

And when He was at the place, He said to His disciples, “Sit ye here
while I go and pray yonder.”

But He was so heavy-hearted that He dreaded being alone. He took with
Him the three whom He loved the best, Simon Peter, James and John. And
when they had gone a little way from the others, He began to be
sorrowful and very heavy. “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto
death; tarry ye here, and watch with me.”

If they answered Him no one knows what they said. But we know that they
did not comfort Him with the words which come from the heart when it
shares the suffering of a loved one, for He withdrew Himself from them
alone, and went further on, to pray. He fell on the ground on His face
and prayed, saying, “Abba, Father, all things are possible unto thee; O
my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”

He was alone now, alone in the night, alone in the midst of men, alone
before God, and He could show His weakness without shame. After all, he
was a Man, too, a man of flesh and blood, a living, breathing man, who
knew that His destruction was at hand, that His body would be destroyed,
that His flesh would be pierced, that His blood would be poured out on
the ground.

This was the second temptation. After the defeat of Satan in the desert,
the Evangelist says: “he departed from him for a season.” He had left
Him till this moment. Now He was in a new desert, terribly alone in the
darkness, more alone than in the desert where the wild beasts served
Him. Cloaked and learned wild beasts were at hand now, but only to tear
Him to pieces. In that terrible nocturnal desert, Satan returned to
tempt his enemy; at first he had promised Christ, kingdoms, victories,
and prodigies, he had tried to draw Him by the bait of power. Now, on
the contrary, he counted on His weakness. At the beginning of His life,
Christ burning with confident love had not fallen into his trap, but
Christ near His end, abandoned by those nearest to Him, encompassed by
His enemies, might be conquered by fear, even though He had risen above
cupidity. The prayer to the Father was at the instigation of Satan, was
a beginning of cowardice. Jesus knew He must die, that His death was
necessary, that He had come to give life by His death, to confirm by His
death that greater life which He announced. He had made no effort to
avoid death, He had been willing to die for His friends, for all men,
for those who did not know Him, for those who hated Him, for those not
yet born. He had predicted His death to His friends, had already given
them the rewards of His death, the bread of His body, the blood of His
soul; and He had no right to ask the Father that the cup might pass from
His lips or that His death might be delayed. He had written His words on
the dust of the public place, and the wind had quickly obliterated them.
He had written them on the hearts of a few men, but He knew how easily
effaced are words written on the hearts of men. If His truth were to
remain forever on the earth so that no one could ever forget it He must
write it with His blood. Only with the blood in our veins can truth be
written permanently on the pages of earth so that it will not fade under
men’s footsteps or under the rainfall of centuries. The Cross is the
rigorously necessary consequence of the Sermon on the Mount. He who
brings love is given over to hatred, and He can only conquer hatred by
accepting condemnation. Everything must be paid for, the good at a
higher price than evil; and the greatest good, which is love, must be
paid for by the greatest evil in men’s power, assassination.

But all that faith and revelation tell us of His divinity rises up
against the idea that He can ever have been subjected to temptation. If
the torture and the end of His body had really terrified Him, was there
not yet time to save Himself? For many days He had known that they were
trying to take Him captive, and even on that night there were ways of
escaping the pack of hounds ready to fall upon Him. He would have been
safe if, either alone or with His most faithful friends, He had taken
the road back to the Jordan, and thence by hidden paths have passed
across Perea into the Tetrarchy of Philip, where He had already taken
refuge to escape the ill-will of Antipas. The Jewish police were so few
and primitive that they could scarcely have found Him. The fact that He
did not do this, did not flee, shows that He did not try to escape death
and the horrors that were to accompany it. From the point of view of our
coarse human logic His death was a suicide—a divine suicide by the hand
of others, not unlike that of the heroes of antiquity who fell upon the
sword of a friend or a slave. What sort of a life would He have had
after such a flight? To grow old obscurely, the timorous master of a
hidden sect, to die at the last, worn out, the death-rattle in His
throat like any other man! Better, infinitely better to finish the
sowing of the Gospel on the Cross and to water it with His blood. He had
spoken out His truths and now, that those truths should be everlastingly
remembered He must needs link with them the horror of His unforgettable
death. Perhaps this blood, like a stinging drink, would arouse His
disciples forever.

But if the cup that Jesus wished to pass from Him was not fear of death,
what else could it have been? Betrayal by him whom He had chosen and
loved, by the disciple whose hunger He had fed that very evening with
His body, whose thirst He had quenched with His soul? Or the denial
close at hand of the other disciple in whom after his cry at Cæsarea He
had the greatest hope? Or the desertion of all the others who would flee
like scattered lambs when the wolf sets his fangs into their mother’s
body? Or was it grief for that greater denial, the refusal of His own
people, the Jews, of the people from whom He was born and who now
despised Him like one born out of His time, and suppressed Him like a
child of shame, and did not know that the blood of Him who came to save
them would never be wiped from their foreheads? Perhaps in the darkness
of this last vigil He had a glimpse of the fate which would befall His
children later on, the bewilderment of the first saints, the dissensions
between them, the desertions, the martyrdoms, the massacres, and after
the hour of triumph the weakness of those who should have guided the
multitude, the irrepressible schisms, the dismemberment of the Church,
the wild dreaming of heretical pride, the growth of innumerable sects,
the confusion of false prophets, the boldness of rebellious reformers,
the simony and dissoluteness of those who deny Him in their actions
while glorifying Him in word and gesture: the persecutions of Christians
by Christians, the neglect of the lukewarm and the arrogant, the
dominion of new Pharisees and new Scribes, distorting and betraying His
teachings, the misunderstanding of His words, when they fall into the
hands of the hair-splitters, weighers of the immaterial, separators of
the inseparable, who, with learned vanity, eviscerate and cut to pieces
the living things they pretend to bring to life.

The cup that Jesus wished to pass from Him might therefore have been not
at all any wrong done to Him, but wrongs committed by others, those
alive then and close to Him, or those not yet born and far-distant. What
He was asking from His Father might have been not His own safety from
death, but safety from the evils, which, then and later, were to
overwhelm those who claim to believe in Him. The origin of His sadness
would have been thus not fear for Himself, but love for others.

But no one will ever know the true meaning of the words cried out by the
Son to the Father, in the black loneliness of the Olives. A great French
Christian called the story of this night the “Mystery of Jesus.” The
“Mystery of Judas” is the only human mystery in the Gospels; the prayer
of Gethsemane is the most inscrutable, divine mystery of the story of
Christ.

BLOOD AND SWEAT

And when He had prayed, He turned back to find the Disciples, who were
perhaps waiting for Him to return. But the three had gone to sleep.
Crouching on the ground, wrapped as best they could in their cloaks,
Peter, James and John, the faithful, the specially chosen, had allowed
themselves to be overcome with sleep. The obscure apprehensions, the
repeated agitations of those last few days, the oppressive melancholy of
the Supper, accompanied by words so grave, by presentiments so sad, had
plunged them into that prostration which is more like torpor than sleep.
The voice of the Master—who of us has the spiritual acuteness to realize
that the accent of that voice in the sinister black silence is speaking
also to our own hearts now?—called them: “What, could ye not watch with
me one hour? Watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation. The
spirit indeed is willing but the flesh is weak.” Did they hear these
words in their sleep? Did they answer, shamefaced, putting their hands
to their confused eyes which could not bear even the dim light of the
night? What could they answer, startled, only half awake, to the
Sleepless One who was to sleep no more?

Jesus went away again, more heavy-hearted than ever. Was the temptation
against which He had put them on guard in them alone or also in Him? Was
it the temptation to escape? To deny Himself as others were to deny Him?
To oppose violence to violence? To pay with the lives of others for His
own life, or to beg once more with a more despairing supplication that
the peril might be averted from His head?

Jesus was once more alone, more alone than ever, in a solitude complete
as infinite desolation. Until that hour He might have thought that
there, close at hand, His loved friends were keeping vigil with Him. Now
they had reached the limit of their endurance and had deserted Him
spiritually before deserting Him bodily.

They had left Him alone; they were not men enough to grant Him the last
favor which He asked, they who had received so many. In return for His
blood, and His soul, for all His promises, for all His love, He had
asked one thing only, that they should not fall asleep. And this small
favor had not been granted Him. And yet He was suffering and struggling
at that moment for the sake of those who slept. He who gave all was to
receive nothing. During that night of refusals His every prayer was
denied; both His Father and His fellow-men refused Him.

Satan also had disappeared into the darkness which is his own kingdom,
and Christ was alone, utterly alone, alone as men are alone who raise
themselves above other men, who suffer in the darkness to bring light to
all. Every hero is always the only one awake in a world of sleepers,
like the pilot watching over his ship in the solitude of the ocean and
of the night, while his companions rest.

Jesus was the most solitary of all these eternally solitary souls.
Everything slept about Him. The city slept, its white, shadow-checkered
mass sprawling beyond the Kedron; and in all the houses, in all the
cities in the world, the blind race of ephemeral men were sleeping. The
only ones awake at that hour were perhaps some woman waiting for the
call of her lover; perhaps a thief in ambush in the dark, his hand on
the hilt of his knife; perhaps a philosopher pondering the problem,
“Does God exist?”

But the leaders of the Jews and their guards were not asleep that night.
Those who should have defended Jesus, who might at least have consoled
Him, those who claimed to love Him and who in their way at times did
really love Him, were stretched in sleep. But those who hated Him, who
wished to kill Him, did not sleep. Caiaphas was not asleep and the only
Disciple awake at that moment was Judas.

Until the arrival of Judas His Master was alone with His death-like
sadness. That He might feel less alone He began to pray to His Father,
and once more those imploring words rushed to His lips. The effort to
keep them back, the conflict which convulsed His whole being—because the
divinity which was in Him accepted joyfully what it had willed, while
the ruddy clay which clothed it shuddered—this human and superhuman
effort brought to Him at last the victory. He was racked with suffering,
but He was triumphant; He was utterly spent, but He had conquered.

The spirit had once more overcome the flesh; but from now on His body
was merely a trunk which bled and died. The tension of the terrible
struggle had done so great a violence to all that was earthly in Him
that the sweat stood out on Him, as though He had achieved an impossible
task, had endured the unendurable. The sweat poured from all His person;
but not merely the natural sweat which runs down the face of the man
walking in the sun, or working in the fields or raving in fever. The
blood which He had promised to shed for men was shed first on the grass
of the garden of Gethsemane. Great drops of blood mixed with sweat fell
on the earth as a first offering of His conquered flesh. It was the
beginning of liberation, almost a relief to that humanity which was the
greatest burden of His expiation.

Then from His lips wet with tears, wet with sweat, wet with blood, arose
a new prayer: “O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me,
except I drink it, thy will be done. Not my will, but thine, be done.”

Gone now was any trace of cowardly shrinking; the will, that is the
individual, abdicated in the obedience which alone can assure the
freedom of the universal. He is no longer a man, but Man; the Man one
with God, “I wish that which Thou wisheth.” From that moment His victory
over death is assured, because he who gives himself wholly to the
Eternal cannot die. “For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and
whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.”

He stood up calmed, and turned back towards His Disciples. His sad
reproof had been vain; worn out and exhausted, the three were again
sleeping. But this time Jesus did not call them. He had found a
consolation greater than any which they could give Him—and He kneeled
down once more to repeat to the Father those great words of abnegation,
“Not my will, but thine, be done.”

God was no longer to be asked to be the servant of man. Up to that time
men had asked Him to satisfy their particular wishes in exchange for
canticles and offerings. I wish for prosperity, said the man who prayed,
for safety, for strength, for flowering fields, for the ruin of my
enemies. But now Christ, the Over-turner, has come to transpose the
common prayer, “Not what is pleasing to me, but what is pleasing to
Thee. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.” Blessedness can
only come as a result of perfect harmony between the sovereign will of
the Father and the subordinate will of man, as a result of the
convergence and identity of those two wills. What if the will of God
give me into the hands of the torturers and fastens me like an evil and
malignant beast upon two crossed beams of wood? If I believe in the
Father as a Father, I know that He loves me more than I could love
myself, and that He knows more than I could know, therefore He can wish
only for what is best for me even if that best to human eyes seems the
most dreadful evil; and I wish for what the Father wills. If His
foolishness is unimaginably more wise than our wisdom, martyrdom given
by Him will be incomparably better than any earthly pleasures.

What if the Disciples slept? What if all men slept? Christ was no longer
alone. He was content to suffer, content to die. He had found His peace
under the hammer-stroke of anguish.

Now He can listen almost longingly for the footsteps of Judas.

For a time He hears only the beating of His own heart, so much calmer
than at first, now that the horror is nearer. But after some moments, He
hears approaching the sound of cautious shuffling, and there among the
bushes which border the road red flickerings of light appear and
disappear in the darkness. They are the servants of the assassins who
are following Iscariot along the path.

Jesus turns to the Disciples, still asleep, “Behold the hour is come;
rise, let us go. Lo, he that betrayeth me is at hand.”

The eight other Disciples, sleeping farther away, are already aroused by
the noise, but have no time to answer the Master because while He is
still speaking the crowd comes up and stops.

THE HOUR OF DARKNESS

It was the rabble who swarmed around the Temple, paid by the Sanhedrin;
bunglingly made over for the time being into warriors; sweepers, and
door-keepers, the lower parasites of the sanctuary, who had taken up
swords in place of brooms and keys. There were many of them, a great
multitude, so the Evangelists say, although they knew they were going
out against only twelve men, who had only two swords. It is not credible
that there were Roman soldiers among them and certainly not “a captain,”
as John says, an officer over a thousand men. Caiaphas wished to make
Christ a prisoner before he presented Him to the procurator, and the few
forces at his disposition (the last vestiges of David’s army) with the
addition of some clients and relatives were enough to carry out the
far-from-dangerous capture.

This haphazard mob had come with torches and lanterns almost as if out
for an evening celebration. The pallid faces of the disciples, the livid
face of Judas seemed to flicker in the red lights. Christ offered His
face, stained with blood but more luminous than the lights, to Judas’
kiss. “Friend, wherefore art thou come? Betrayest thou the Son of Man
with a kiss?” He knew what Judas came to do, and He knew that this kiss
was the first of His tortures and the most unendurable. This kiss was
the signal for the guards who did not know the delinquent by sight.
“Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is He: take Him and lead Him away
safely,” the merchant of blood had told the rough crowd who followed him
as they came along the road. But that kiss was at once the first and the
most horrible sullying of those lips which had pronounced the most
heavenly words ever spoken here in the inferno of our earth. The
spitting, the buffeting, the blows of the Jewish rabble and of the Roman
soldiers, and the sponge dipped in vinegar, were to be less intolerable
than that kiss, the kiss of a mouth which had called Him friend and
Master, which had drunk from His cup, which had eaten from His dish.

As soon as the sign was given the boldest came up to their enemy.

“Whom seek ye?”

“Jesus of Nazareth.”

“I am he.” He had scarcely said “I am he” when the curs fell backward,
either at the sound of His tranquil voice or at the light of those
divine eyes. But even at such a moment Jesus took thought for His
friends “I have told you that I am He, if therefore ye seek me, let
these go their way.”

At the moment, profiting by the confusion of the guards, Simon, coming
suddenly to himself from his sleep and from his panic, laid his hand to
a sword and cut off the ear of Malchus, a servant of Caiaphas. Peter on
that night was full of contradictory impulses; after the supper he had
sworn that no matter what happened he would never leave Jesus; then in
the garden he fell asleep and could not keep himself awake; after that,
tardily he set himself up as a militant defender; and a little later he
was to deny that he had ever known his Master. Simon’s untimely and
futile action was at once repudiated by Christ: “Put up thy sword into
the sheath, for all they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.
The cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?” And He
offered His hands to the nearest rogues who made all haste to tie them
with the rope which they had brought. While they were busy tying Him,
the prisoner accused them of cowardice. “Are ye come out, as against a
thief, with swords and staves to take me? When I was daily with you in
the temple ye stretched forth no hands against me: but this is your hour
and the power of darkness.”

He is the Light of the world, and the powers of darkness seek to
extinguish it; but they can obscure it only for a short time, as on a
July noon when the sun is suddenly covered by a dark storm-cloud but an
hour afterwards shines out again, higher and more majestic than ever.
The guards, eager to return triumphantly and to receive their fees, did
not trouble to answer; they dragged Him by the rope towards the road to
Jerusalem as butchers drag the ox to the slaughter-house. Then,
confesses Matthew, “... all the disciples forsook him, and fled.” Their
Master forbade them to defend Him; instead of blasting His enemies the
Messiah offered His hands to be bound; the Saviour was powerless to save
Himself. What could they do but disappear so that they might not also be
brought before those powers which yesterday they had boasted of
overthrowing, but which now, in the flickering of the lanterns and the
swords, seemed suddenly very formidable to their distracted minds? And
only two followed the infamous procession, and they from a safe
distance. We shall see them later in the court-yard of Caiaphas’ house.

All this bustle awakened a young man who had been sleeping in the house
in the grove of olives. Inquisitive like all young men, he did not take
the time to dress, but wrapping a sheet about him, stepped out to see
what was happening. The guards thought him a disciple who had not had
time to escape, and laid hands on him, but the young man, casting off
the sheet, left it in their hands and fled from them naked.

No one has ever known the identity of this mysterious man awakened from
his sleep, who appeared suddenly in the night, and as suddenly
disappeared. Perhaps he was the youthful Mark, the only one of the
Evangelists who tells this story. If it were Mark, it is possible that
on that night the involuntary witness of the beginning of the Passion
first conceived the impulse to become, as Mark did, its first historian.

ANNAS

In a short time the criminal was taken to the house which Annas shared
with his son-in-law, the High Priest Caiaphas. Although the night was
now well advanced, and although the assembly had been warned the day
before, that Caiaphas hoped to capture the blasphemer early in the
morning, many of the Jews were still in bed and the prosecution could
not begin at once. In order that the common people might not have time
to rise in rebellion, nor Pilate to take thought, the leaders were in
haste to finish the affair that very morning. Some of the guards who
returned from the Mount of Olives were sent to awake the more important
Scribes and Elders, and in the meantime old Annas, who had not slept all
that night, set himself on his own account to question this false
Prophet.

Annas, son of Seth, had been for seven years High Priest, and though
deposed in the year 14 under Tiberius, he was still the real primate of
the Jewish Church. A Sadducee, head of one of the most aggressive and
wealthy families of the ecclesiastical patriarchate, he was still,
through his son-in-law, leader of his caste. Five of his sons were
afterwards High Priests, and one of them, also called Annas, caused
James, the brother of the Lord, to be stoned to death.

Jesus was led before him. It was the first time that the wood-worker of
Nazareth found Himself face to face with the religious head of His
people, with His greatest enemy. Up to that time He had met only the
subalterns in the Temple, the common soldiers, the Scribes and
Pharisees; now He was before the head, and He was no longer the accuser
but the accused. This was the first questioning of that day. In the
space of a few hours, four authorities examined Him; two rulers from the
Temple, Annas and Caiaphas; and two temporal rulers, Antipas and Pilate.

The first question Annas put to Jesus was to ask Him who His disciples
were. The old political priest who like all the other Sadducees gave no
credence to the foolish stories about the coming of a Messiah, wished to
know first of all who were the followers of the new Prophet, and from
what rank of society He had picked them up, so that he might determine
how far the seditious ulcer had progressed. But Jesus looked at Him
without answering. How could that dove-huckster have thought that Jesus
could betray those who had betrayed Him?

Then Annas asked about His doctrine. Jesus answered that it was not for
Him to explain: “I spake openly to the world; I ever taught in the
synagogue and in the temple, whither the Jews always resort; and in
secret have I said nothing. Why askest thou me? ask them which heard me,
what I have said unto them: behold, they know what I said.”

This was the truth. Jesus was not esoteric. Even if He sometimes said to
His Disciples words that He did not repeat in the open places of the
city, He exhorted them to cry out on the housetops what He told them in
the house. But Annas must have made a wry face at an answer which
pre-supposed an honest trial, for one of the officers standing by struck
Jesus with the palm of his hand, saying, “Answerest thou the high priest
so?”

This blow from the quick-tempered attendant was the beginning of the
insults which were henceforth rained upon Christ up to the cross. But He
who had been struck, with His cheek reddened by the boor, turned towards
the man who had struck Him, “If I have spoken evil, bear witness of the
evil: but if well, why smitest thou me?”

The rogue, abashed by such calm, found no answer. Annas began to see
that this Galilean was no common adventurer, and he was all the more
eager to get Him out of the way. Seeing, however, that he was not
succeeding in extracting anything from Him, he sent Him bound to
Caiaphas, the High Priest, so that the fiction of a legal prosecution
might begin at once.

THE COCK CROWS

Only two of the fleeing Disciples repented of their cowardice, and
trembling in the shadow of the walls, followed from afar the swaying
lanterns which accompanied Christ to the den of fratricides: Simon, son
of Jonas, and John, son of Zebedee.

John, who was known in the household of Caiaphas, went into the
courtyard of the building with Jesus, but Simon, more shamefaced, or not
so bold, did not enter and stood at the door without: then after a few
moments John, not seeing his companion, and wishing to have him at hand
for sympathy or defense, went out and persuaded the suspicious
doorkeeper to let Peter also come in. But as he stepped through the
door, the woman recognized him: “Art not thou also one of his
disciples?”

But Peter took on an offended air, “I know not, neither understand I
what thou sayest. I know him not.”

And he sat down with John near the brazier which the servants had
kindled in the courtyard because, although it was in April, the night
was cold. But the woman would not give up her idea, and coming to the
fire and looking at him earnestly, said, “Thou also wast with Jesus of
Nazareth,” and he denied again with curses, “Woman, I know him not!”

The gate-keeper, shaking her head, turned back to her gate, but the men
aroused by these heated denials looked at him more closely and said,
“Surely thou art one of them: for thou art a Galilean, and thy speech
agreeth thereto.”

Then Simon began to curse and to swear, but another, a kinsman of
Malchus whose ear Peter had cut off, cut short his testimony: “Did I not
see thee in the garden with him?”

But Peter, now hopelessly involved in lies, began again to protest that
they had mistaken him for another and that he was not one of the friends
of the Man.

At this very moment Jesus, bound among the guards, crossed the courtyard
after His colloquy with Annas, passing to the other part of the palace,
where Caiaphas lived: and He heard the words of Simon and looked at Him.
For just one moment He turned His eyes upon Simon, those eyes where
Simon, denying Him now, had once recognized the gleam of divinity. For
an instant only He looked at him with eyes whose gentleness was more
unendurable than any contempt. And this look pierced for all time the
pitiable, distracted heart of the fisherman. To the day of his death he
could never forget those sad, mild eyes fixed on him in that terrible
night; those eyes which in one flash expressed more and moved him more
than a thousand words.

“Thou also who wast the first, of whom I hoped most, the hardest but the
most zealous, the most ignorant but the most fervent, thou also, Simon,
the same who cried out my true name near Cæsarea, thou also who knowest
all my words and hast slept with thy head on my cloak and hast kissed me
so many times with those lips which now deny me, thou also, Simon Peter,
son of Jonas, deny me before those who are about to kill me! I was right
that day when I called thee a stumbling block and reproached thee with
thinking not like God but like men. Thou mightest at least have fled
away as the others did if thou hadst not the strength to drink with me
the cup of infamy which I had foretold to thee. Flee away now that I may
see thee no more until the day when I shall be truly free and thou shalt
be truly made over by faith. If thou fearest for thy life why art thou
here? If thou fearest not, why dost thou deny me? Even Judas at the last
has been more faithful than thou: he came with my enemies, but he did
not deny that he knew me. Simon, Simon, I foretold that thou wouldst
leave me like the others, but now thou art more cruel than the others. I
have pardoned thee from my heart. I am about to die, and I pardon him
who brings me to death, and thee also; and I love thee as I have always
loved thee, but canst thou forgive thyself?”

Under the weight of this look, Simon hung his head and his heart beat
furiously in his breast. Not for his very life could he have brought out
another “No.” His face burned with an intolerable heat as if the brazier
before him had been the mouth of Hell. He was torn by an unbearable
tumult of passion and of remorse; in one breath he seemed frozen, in the
next all his body flamed. A moment before he had said that he had never
known Jesus, and now it seemed to him that he had spoken truly, that at
this moment he knew Him for the first time: that he finally understood
who He was, as if those eyes full of loving grief had pierced him with a
flash like an archangel’s sword.

He was scarcely able to drag himself to his feet and to stumble out to
the door. As he went out into the street in the silent, solitary
darkness a distant cock crew. This gay, bold note was for Peter like the
cry which awakens a sleeper from his nightmare. Then in the dim light of
dawn the last stars saw a man staggering along like a drunkard, his head
hidden in his cloak, his shoulders shaken by the sobs of a despairing
lament.

Weep, Peter, now that God mercifully grants you the grace of tears, weep
for yourself and for Him, weep for Judas, your traitor brother; weep for
your fleeing brothers, weep for the death of Him who is dying to save
your poor soul, for all those who will come after you and who will do as
you have done, deny their Saviour, and who will not pay for their
redemption by repentance. Weep for all the apostates, for all the others
who will deny Him, all those who will say as you have said, “I am not
one of His disciples!” Who of us has not done at least once what Simon
Peter did? Who of us, born in the Church of Christ, having prayed to Him
with our childish lips, having knelt before His blood-stained face, has
not said, fearing a mocking smile, “I never knew Him.”

Thou at least, unfortunate Simon, although thou wast Peter the rock,
wept bitterly and hid in thy cloak thy face convulsed with remorse. And
before many days Christ risen from the dead will kiss thee once more
because thy perjured mouth has been washed clean forever by thy tears.

THEN THE HIGH PRIEST RENT HIS CLOTHES

Caiaphas’ real name was Joseph. Caiaphas is a surname and is the same
word as Cephas, Simon’s surname, that is to say, Rock. On that Friday
morning’s dawn, the Son of Man was caught between those two rocks like a
grain of wheat between two millstones. Simon Peter is the type of the
timid friends who knew not how to save Him: Joseph Peter, of His
enemies, determined at any cost to destroy Him. Between the denial of
Simon and the hatred of Joseph, between the head of the church about to
disappear and the head of the Church just coming into existence, between
those two rocks Jesus was like wheat between the mill-stones.

The Sanhedrin had already come together and was awaiting Him. Together
with Annas and Caiaphas who presided, there were John, Alexander, and
all the reeking scum of the upper classes. As a rule the Sanhedrin was
composed of twenty-three priests, twenty-three Scribes, twenty-three
Elders, and two Presidents, in all, seventy-one. But on this occasion
some were absent, those who had more fear of an uprising of the people
than hatred for the blasphemer, and those few who would not lift a
finger to condemn Him, but would not defend Him openly: among these last
were certainly Nicodemus, the nocturnal disciple, and Joseph of
Arimathea, who was devoutly to lay Jesus in His tomb.

They had come together to ratify with a cloak of legality the decree of
murder already written on their hearts. These delegates from the Temple,
from the School and the Bank, burned with impatience to confirm, each
for his own reasons, their revengeful sentence. The great room of the
council already full of people was like a den of werewolves. The new day
showed itself hesitatingly: the orange-colored tongues of the torches
were scarcely visible in the dim light of dawn. In this sinister
half-shadow the Jews were waiting: aged, portly, hook-nosed, harsh,
beetle-browed, wrapped in their white cloaks, their heads covered,
stroking their venerable beards, with choleric eyes, seated in a half
circle, they seemed a council of sorcerers awaiting a living offering.
The rest of the hall was occupied by the clients of the seated assembly,
by guards with staves in their hands, by the domestic servants of the
house. The air was heavy and dense as in a charnel house.

Jesus, His wrists still tied with ropes, was thrust into the midst of
this kennel like a condemned man thrown to the beasts of the Imperial
amphitheater. Annas had gathered together in all haste from among the
rabble some false witnesses to make an end of any discussion or defense.
The pretense of a trial began with calling these perjurers. Two of them
came forward and swore that they had heard these words: “I will destroy
this temple that is made with hands, and within three days I will build
another made without hands.”

At the time and for those hearers this accusation was a very grave one,
meaning nothing less than sacrilege and blasphemy. For in the minds of
its upholders the Temple of Jerusalem was the one intangible home of the
Lord. And to threaten the Temple was to threaten their real Master, the
Master of all the Jews. But Jesus had never said these words or at least
not in this form, nor with this meaning. It is true that He had
announced that of the Temple not one stone would remain upon another,
but not through any action of His. And the reference to the Temple not
made with hands, built up in three days, was part of another discourse
in which He had spoken figuratively of His resurrection. The false
witnesses could not even agree about these words confusedly and
maliciously repeated, and one statement from Jesus would have been
enough to confound them utterly. But Jesus held His peace.

The High Priest could not endure this silence, and standing up, cried
out, “Answerest thou nothing? What is it which these witness against
thee?”

But Jesus answered nothing.

These silences of Jesus were so weighty with magnetic eloquence that
they enraged His judges. He held His peace at the first questioning of
Annas. He was silent now at the outcry of Caiaphas and He was to be
silent with Antipas and Pilate.

He had made already, a thousand times, the statements He might have made
now, and any other answers He might have made would either have been
misunderstood by His judges, or have been used by them as new pretexts
for attacking Him. Superhuman truths are in their very nature ineffable,
and only a shadow of them can be grasped, through a loving effort by
those who already have a faint divination of that shadow; and even to
them this comes more through the heart than through faulty and defective
words.

Jesus did not speak, but looked about Him with His great calm eyes, at
the troubled and convulsed faces of His assassins, and for all eternity
judged these phantom judges. In a flash every one of them was weighed
and condemned by that look which went straight to the soul. Were they
worthy to hear His words, those flawed, self-seeking souls, empty and
inane, those of them that are not ulcerous and moribund? How could He
ever, by the most unthinkable prodigy, stoop to justify Himself before
them?

Such self-justification was attempted by the son of the midwife, the
flat-nosed student and rival of the Sophists! The seventy-year-old
arguer, who for so many years had bored the artisans and the idlers on
the market-place, was capable of reciting to the judges of Athens an
eloquent and carefully arranged oration of excuses, which, from the
limits of dialectics, descended little by little to the sophistries of
law courts. It is true that the ironical old man who had set himself to
reform the art of thinking rather than the art of living, who had not
been above usury, who, not having his fill with Xantippe, had had two
children by his concubine Myra, and who amused himself with caressing
handsome young men more than was becoming for the father of a family,
was ready to die, and knew how to die with noble firmness; but at the
bottom of his heart he would have preferred to descend into Hades by the
more natural road. Towards the end of his specious defense, he tried to
placate his judges by recalling his old age to them. “It is useless to
kill me because I will die very soon anyhow”—and offered to pay thirty
greater minæ if they would let him go in peace.

But Christ was neither a sophist nor a lawyer, Christ whom so many
posthumous Pilates have tried to belittle by comparing Him to Socrates,
so inferior to Him. Like Dante’s angel, He disdained human discussions.
He answered with silence, or if He was forced to speak, spoke candidly
and briefly. Caiaphas, exasperated by this disrespectful taciturnity,
finally hit on a way to make him speak. “I adjure thee by the living
God, that thou tell us whether thou be the Christ, the Son of God.”

As long as they conducted His trial with the usual insidious procedure,
adducing falsities or asking Him about perfectly well-known truths,
Jesus said no word; but even in the infamous mouth of the High Priest,
the invocation to the living God was irresistible. Jesus could not deny
Himself to the living God, to the God who will live eternally, and who
lives in all of us, and who was present there even in that lair of
demons. And yet He hesitated a moment before dazzling those bleared eyes
with the splendor of His formidable secret.

“If I tell you, ye will not believe: And if I also ask you, ye will not
answer me.”

Now Caiaphas was not alone in putting the question; all of them,
excited, sprang to their feet and cried out, their clawing fingers
stretched towards Him, “Art thou then the Son of God?”

Jesus could not, like Peter, deny the irrefutable certainty which was
the reason for His life and for His death. He was responsible towards
His own people and towards all men. But, as at Cæsarea, He wished others
to be the ones to pronounce His real name, and when they had said it He
did not refuse it, even though death were the penalty.

“Ye say that I am. I say unto you, Hereafter shall ye see the Son of man
sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.”

He had condemned Himself out of His own mouth. The snarling pack about
Him was frothing at the mouth with delight and anger. In the presence of
His assassins He had proclaimed what He had secretly admitted to His
most loving friends. Although they might betray Him, He had not betrayed
Himself or His father. Now He was ready for the last degradation. He had
said what He had to say.

Caiaphas was triumphant. Pretending a shocked horror which he did not
feel—because like all the Sadducees he had no faith whatever in the
apocalyptic writers and cared about nothing but the fees and honors of
the Temple—he rent his priestly garments, crying out, “He hath spoken
blasphemy! What further need have we of witnesses? behold, now ye have
heard his blasphemy. What think ye?”

And all the noisy kennel bayed out their answer, “He is guilty of
death.”

And without any further examination, without a single protest, they all
condemned Him to death as a blasphemer and false prophet.

The comedy of legal pretense was played to an end, and the cloaked
ghosts felt themselves relieved of an immense weight. It had cost the
High Priest a garment and he let the torn pieces hang like glorious
symbols of victorious battle. He did not know that on that very day a
garment more precious than any of his was to be torn, and he did not
dream that his gesture was a symbolic recognition of another
death-sentence. The priesthood of which he was the head was henceforth
disqualified and abolished forever. His successors were to be mere
semblances of priests, spurious and illegitimate, and in a few years the
sumptuous garment of marble and masonry of the Jewish sanctuary was to
be rent by the Roman rabble.

AND WHEN THEY HAD BLINDFOLDED HIM

When the tragi-comedy acted by the masters had ended in a
death-sentence, the devils’ band of subalterns had their turn. While the
high officials went apart to take counsel on the manner of securing the
ratification from the Procurator and executing the death sentence with
all speed, Jesus was thrown as prey to the rabble in the Palace, as the
offal of the slain animal is thrown to the pack which has taken part in
the hunt. The ruffians who lived upon the leavings of the Temple felt
that they had as their perquisite the right to some amusement. Man, the
beast, when he is certain of impunity, knows no more pleasing recreation
than to wreak himself upon the defenseless, especially if the
defenseless is innocent. Our bestial nature, crouching untamed at the
bottom of every human heart, rushes out bold and snarling; the face
becomes a muzzle, teeth are tusks, hands appear what they really are,
claws, the articulate sounds of human speech vanish in snarlings and
growlings. If a drop of blood reddens to the view, they jostle each
other to lick it up: there is no more intoxicating liquor than blood: it
is far more stimulating than wine, and far fairer to see, red as it is,
than the water of Pilate.

But tigerishness breaking loose readily takes the form of play; even
tigers are sportive, even children, as soon as they begin to grow strong
at all, are tigerish. The captors of Christ, waiting for foreign
authority to confirm the death sentence of the most innocent of their
brothers, meant to give Christ a humorous foretaste of His sufferings.
They had permission to jest with their King, to divert themselves with
their God. And they felt that they really deserved some amusement; they
had been awake all night long, and the night had been cold: and then the
march up to the Mount of Olives, fearing resistance, a well-grounded
fear, since one of them had had his ear stricken off; and then the long
wait, till dawn, a very tiring business especially on those festal days
when the city and the Temple were full of foreigners and there was so
much more for every one to do.

But they did not know how to begin. He was tied and his friends had
disappeared. But this man who looked at them with an expression they had
never seen till then, with a steady look which seemed beyond all earthly
things and yet searched them out within like a ray of troublesome
sunshine—this man, bound, exhausted, the fresh sweat on His face
softening the drops of dried blood on His cheeks, this insignificant
man, this defenseless provincial with no protecting patrons, condemned
to death by the highest and holiest tribunal of the Jewish people, this
human rubbish destined to the cross of slaves and thieves, this
laughingstock whom the authorities had given over to their abuse like a
puppet at the saturnalia, this man who did not speak nor complain nor
weep, but who looked on them as if He had compassion on them, as a
father might look at his sick child, as a friend might look at a
delirious friend, this man, mocked by all, inspired in their worthless
souls a mysterious reverence.

But one of the Scribes or the Elders gave the example, and spat at Jesus
as he passed by Him. He was too careful of His ritual cleanliness to
contaminate His newly washed hands, ready for the Passover, by touching
an enemy of God, who, near to death, was already impure like a corpse.
But saliva: what is saliva? Refuse of the body, contempt materialized in
a liquid.

And on that face illumined by the early morning sun and by imprisoned
divinity, on that face transfigured by the light of the sun and by
love’s light, on the golden face of Christ, the spittle of the Jews
covered the first blood of the Passion. But for the rabble of the
servants and the guards spitting was not enough, nor were they afraid of
sullying their hands. The example of the leaders had overcome the
impression made on them by the condemned man’s sad and brotherly look.
The guards who were nearest Him struck Him in the face; those who could
not strike His face rained down blows and threats, and the words which
came from the mouths of those insensate men wounded Him more cruelly
than blows.

That face, which had been white as a hawthorn blossom and shining like
sunlight, darkened into the livid purple of beaten flesh. The fair,
gracious body, reeling with blows, staggered in the midst of the heaving
crowd. Christ said no word to those who vomited out on Him the appalling
contents of their souls. He had answered the guard who had struck Him in
the presence of Annas, asking him to correct Him if He had spoken ill;
for this ribald mob let loose He had no answer. But one of them more
quick-witted or more childish than the others had an idea: he took a
dirty cloth and with it covered the bleeding, buffeted face, tying the
corners behind. And he said: “Let us play blind man’s buff. This man
boasts of being a prophet; let us see if he can guess which of us is
striking him.”

Christ’s face was covered. Was there, in the action of the ruffians, an
unconsciously compassionate desire to spare Him, at least, the sight of
His brothers become like beasts? Or was that look of suffering love
really unendurable to them? With childish cruelty, they arranged
themselves in a circle about Him and first one and then another twitched
a fold of His garment, gave Him a blow on the shoulder, thrust Him in
the back, struck Him with a staff over the head: “Prophesy! Who is it
that smote thee?”

Why did He not answer? Had He not predicted the ruin of the Temple, wars
and earthquakes, the coming of the Son of Man on clouds and many other
idle stories? How was it that now He could not make such an easy guess,
give the name of a person so close at hand? What sort of a prophet was
this? Had he lost His power all at once, or had He never had it? He
might be able to make those poor countrified Galileans believe His
stories, but here we are in Jerusalem, the city which understands
prophets and kills them when they do not show a proper spirit. Luke
adds, “And many other things blasphemously spake they against him.”

But Caiaphas and the others were in haste and thought that the servile
pack had amused itself long enough. The false king must be taken to
Pilate that his sentence be confirmed: the Sanhedrin could pronounce
judgment, but since Judea was under Roman rule, it had no longer,
unfortunately, the Jus Gladii. And the High Priests, Scribes and Elders,
set out for the Palace of the Procurator, followed by the guards leading
Jesus with ropes, and by the yelling horde which grew larger as they
went along the street.

PONTIUS PILATE

Since A. D. 26, Pontius Pilate had been Procurator in the name of
Tiberius Cæsar. Historians know nothing of him before his arrival in
Judea. If the name comes from Pileatus it may be supposed that he was a
freedman or descendant of freedmen, since the Pileo, or skull cap, was
the head gear of freed slaves.

He had been in Judea only a few years, but long enough to draw upon
himself the bitterest hate of those over whom he ruled. It is true that
all our information about him comes from Jews and Christians, who were,
of course, his declared enemies; but it appears that he finally lost
favor even with his masters, since in A. D. 36 the Governor of Syria,
Lucius Vitellius, sent him to Rome to justify himself before Tiberius.
The Emperor died before Pilate arrived in the metropolis, but according
to tradition, he was exiled by Caligula, exiled into Gaul, where he
killed himself.

In the first place the hatred of the Jews came from the profound scorn
which he showed from the start for this stiff-necked, indocile people,
who must have seemed to him, brought up in Roman ideas, like a snake pit
of venomous serpents—a low, dirty crowd, scarcely worthy to be tamed by
the cudgels of the mercenaries. To have an idea of Pilate’s personality,
make a mental picture of an English Viceroy of India, a subscriber to
the _Times_, a reader of John Stuart Mill and Shaw—with Byron and
Swinburne on his bookshelves—destined to administer the government over
a ragged, captious, hungry and turbulent people, wrangling among
themselves over a confusion of castes and mythologies and superstitions
for which their ruler feels in his heart the profoundest aversion,
looking down on them from the height of his dignity as a white man, a
European, a Briton and a Liberal. Pilate, as shown by his questions put
to Jesus, was one of those skeptics of the Roman decadence corrupted
with Pyrrhonism, a devotee of Epicurus, an encyclopedist of Hellenism
without any belief in the gods of his country, nor any belief that any
real God existed at all. The idea certainly can never have occurred to
Pilate that the true God could be found in this vermin-ridden,
superstitious mob, in the midst of this factious and jealous clergy, in
this religion which must have seemed to him like a barbarous mixture of
Syrian and Chaldean oracles. The only faith remaining to him, or which
he needed to pretend to hold because of his office, was the new Roman
religion, civic and political, concentrated on the cult of the Emperor.
The first conflict with the Jews arose in fact from this religion. When
he had changed the guard of Jerusalem, he ordered the soldiers to enter
the city by night, without taking off from their ensigns the silver
images of Cæsar. In the morning, as soon as the Jews were aware of this,
great was the horror and the uproar. It was the first time that the
Romans had lacked in external respect for the religion of their subjects
in Palestine. These figures of the deified Cæsar planted near the Temple
were for them an idolatrous provocation, the beginning of the
abomination of desolation. All the country was in an uproar; a
deputation was sent to Cæsarea to have Pilate take them away. Pilate
refused; for five days and nights they stormed about him day and night.
Finally the Procurator, to get himself out of the trouble, convoked them
in the amphitheater and treacherously had them surrounded with soldiers
with naked swords, assuring them that no one would escape if they did
not make an end of their clamor. But the Jews, instead of asking for
mercy, offered their throats to the swords, and Pilate, conquered by
this heroic stubbornness, ordered that the insignia be carried back to
Cæsarea.

But if this clemency did not diminish the hatred of the Jews for the new
Procurator, neither did it lessen Pilate’s distaste nor his desire to do
them an ill turn. A little while after this, he introduced into Herod’s
palace, where he lived when he stayed at Jerusalem, votive tablets
dedicated to the Emperor. But the priests heard of it and once more the
people were aroused to outraged and furious anger. He was asked to take
away the idolatrous objects at once. An appeal to Cæsar was threatened,
an appeal supported by evidence of the impositions and cruelties
committed by Pilate. Pilate this time also did not yield. The Jews then
made the appeal to Tiberius, who decreed that the tablets should be sent
back to Cæsarea.

Twice Pilate had had the worst of a dispute. But the third time he was
triumphant. Coming from the city of public baths and aqueducts, a
friend, as is well known, of ablutions, he noticed that Jerusalem lacked
water and he planned to have a fine large reservoir constructed and an
aqueduct several miles long. But the undertaking was expensive and to
pay for it he used a goodly sum taken from the treasury of the Temple.
The treasury was rich, for all the Jews scattered about in the Empire
came there to bring offerings, and when they could not come in person
sent them from a distance—but the priests cried out on the sacrilege,
and the people incited by them made such a commotion that when Pilate
came for the Feast of the Passover to Jerusalem, thousands of men
gathered in a tumultuous crowd in front of his Palace. But this time he
sent among the multitude a large number of disguised soldiers who at a
given signal began to lay about them so vigorously, among the most
furious of the crowd, that in a short time they all fled away, and
Pilate could enjoy in peace the water of the reservoir paid for with the
Jews’ money, and make use of it for his various ablutions.

Only a short time had passed since this last encounter and now these
very priests who three times had risen against his authority, the very
ones who had tried to obtain his deposition, the very ones who hated him
heartily, hated him as a Roman, as a symbol of the foreign dominion and
of their slavery, and hated him still more personally as Pontius Pilate,
as plotter against their religion and thief of their money—these very
High Priests were forced to have recourse to him in order to vent
another hatred, which for the moment was more bitter in their wicked
hearts. Only hard necessity drove them to it, because death sentences
could not be carried out if they were not confirmed by Cæsar’s
representative.

That Friday, at dawn, Pontius Pilate, wrapped in his toga, still sleepy
and yawning, was waiting for them in Herod’s palace, very ill-disposed
towards those tiresome trouble-makers, whose contentions had forced him
to rise earlier than usual.

WHAT IS TRUTH?

The crowd of the accusers and of the rough populace finally came out
into the open place which was before Herod’s palace, but they stopped
outside, because if they went into a house where there was leaven and
bread baked with leaven, they would be contaminated all day long and
could not eat the Passover. Innocent blood does not pollute, but leaven
does.

Pilate, warned of their coming, went out on the door-sill and asked
abruptly: “What accusation bring ye against this man?”

Those who were before him were his enemies. It appeared that this man
was their enemy and Pilate instinctively took his part. Not that he had
any pity for him—was he not a Jew like the others, and poor into the
bargain? But if he were by any chance innocent, Pilate had no mind to
lend himself to a whim of those detestable vermin.

Caiaphas answered at once as if offended: “If he were not a malefactor,
we would not have delivered him up unto you.”

Then Pilate who wished to lose no time with ecclesiastical squabbles,
and did not think that there was any question of a capital crime,
answered dryly: “Take ye him, and judge him according to your law.”

Already in these words appears his wish to save the man without being
forced to take sides openly. But the concession of the Procurator, which
in any other case would have delighted Caiaphas and his party, this time
did not suit them, because the Sanhedrin could inflict only light
sentences and now they desired the most extreme sentence of all and
could not dispense with the Roman arm. They answered: “It is not lawful
for us to put any man to death.”

Pilate suddenly understood what sentence they wished passed on the
wretched man who stood before him, and he wished to find out what crime
He had committed. What might seem worthy of a death sentence to those
bigoted rabbis might seem a venial fault in the eyes of a Roman.

The foxes of the Temple had thought of this difficulty before taking
action. They knew very well that Pilate would not be satisfied if they
told him that this man attacked the religion of their fathers and
announced the Kingdom of God. They were prepared therefore to lie. For a
man about to commit a base action, one more accessory and subordinate
infamy seems of little consequence. Pilate could be conquered only with
his own weapons, by appealing to his loyalty to Rome and to the Emperor
and to the basis of his office-holding. It was already agreed that they
would give a political color to the accusation. If they told him that
Jesus was a false Messiah, Pilate would smile. But if they said that He
was a seditious inciter of revolt, that He was trying to rouse the
common people against Rome, Pilate could not do less than put Him to
death.

“We found this fellow perverting the nation, and forbidding to give
tribute to Cæsar, saying that he himself is Christ, a King.... He
stirreth up all the people, teaching throughout all Jewry, beginning
from Galilee to this place.”

Every word was a lie. Jesus had commanded men to render unto Cæsar that
which was Cæsar’s. He paid no attention whatever to the Romans. He said
that He was Christ but not in the coarse, political meaning of a King of
the Jews: and He did not stir up the people but wished to make of an
unhappy and degraded people a blessed kingdom of saints. However grave
these accusations might have seemed to Pilate if they had been true,
they only increased his suspicions of the priests. Was it probable that
those treacherous vipers who detested him and Rome, and who had tried to
overturn him so many times and whose one dream was to sweep away the
governing pagans and foreigners, should suddenly be kindled with so much
zeal to denounce a rebel of their own nation?

Pilate was not convinced and he wished to find out for himself, by
questioning the accused man in private. He went back into the palace and
commanded that Jesus be brought to him. Disregarding the less important
accusations, he went at once to the essential: “Art thou the King of the
Jews?”

But Jesus did not answer. How could He ever make this Roman understand!
This Roman who knew nothing of God’s promises, misinformed by His
assassins, a Pyrrhonic atheist, whose only religion was the artificial
and diabolical cult of a living man—and of what a man—Tiberius!—how
could He ever explain to this freedman, a pupil of the lawyers and
rhetoricians of Rome in the most decadent of all the degenerate foulness
of that time; how could He explain that He was the King of a Kingdom not
yet founded, of a spiritual Kingdom which would abolish all human
kingdoms?

Jesus read the depths of Pilate’s soul and made no answer, as He had
kept silent at first before Annas and before Caiaphas. The Procurator
could not understand this silence on the part of a man over whom hung
the threat of death. “Hearest thou not how many things they witness
against thee?”

But Jesus answered him never a word. Pilate, who at all costs wished to
triumph over those who hated him as much as they hated this man,
insisted, hoping to extract a denial which would permit him to set Him
at liberty: “Art thou the King of the Jews?”

If Jesus denied this He would betray Himself. He had said to His
disciples and to the Jews that He was Christ. He had no wish to lie and
save Himself. The better to sound the Roman’s mind He answered Him, as
was his wont, with another question: “Sayest thou this thing of thyself,
or did others tell it thee of me?”

Pilate answered, as if offended, “Am I a Jew? Thine own nation and the
chief priests have delivered thee unto me. Art thou the King of the
Jews?”

With the exception of this contemptuous beginning, this answer of Pilate
was conciliatory. “For whom do you take me? Do you not know that I am a
Roman, that I do not believe what your enemies believe? Your accusers
are priests, not I; but they are obliged to give you into my hands: your
safety rests with me: tell me that what they say is not true and you
shall be free.”

Jesus had no wish to escape death, but still He determined to try to
shed more light on this pagan. Everything is possible to the Father: was
it not possible that Pilate might be the last convert of the dying man?

“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.”

The servant of Tiberius did not understand. The difference between “of
this world” and “my kingdom is not from hence” was obscure to him.
Pilate thought that what is the phrase “not of this world” meant the
gods above if there were really any, gods favorable or malignant to men,
and below in Hades the shadows of the dead if really there was anything
remaining of us when the body had been consumed by fire or worms: the
only reality for such a man as Pilate was “this world,” the great world
with all its kingdoms. And once more he asked: “Art thou a king then?”

There was no longer any reason to deny. He would say to this blinded man
what He had proclaimed to the others: “Thou sayest that I am a king. To
this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I
should bear witness unto the truth. Every one that is of the truth
heareth my voice.”

Then Pilate, annoyed by what seemed to him truculent mystification,
answered with the celebrated question: “What is truth?”

And without waiting for an answer, he rose to go out. The skeptical
Roman had many times been present at the endless disputes of
philosophers, and because he had heard so many contradictory
metaphysical contentions and so many sophistical quibblings, had become
convinced that truth did not exist, or if it did exist, could never be
known by men. He did not dream for a moment that this obscure Jew who
stood before him as a malefactor could tell him the truth. It was
Pilate’s destiny on that one day of his life to contemplate the face of
truth, supreme truth made man, and he could not see it. Living truth,
the truth which could have made him a new man, was before him clothed
with human flesh and rough garments, with buffeted face, and hands tied.
But in his arrogance he did not guess what prodigious good fortune was
his, a good fortune which millions of men have envied him after his
death. If any one had told him that because of this one encounter,
because to him was vouchsafed the overwhelming honor of having spoken to
Jesus and having sent Him to the cross, his name would be known,
although in infamy and malediction, through all the centuries and by all
the human race, such a prophecy would have seemed to him like the
frenzied ravings of a madman. Pilate was blind with an appalling and
incurable blindness, but Christ on that very day was to pardon even him
because the blind, even less than others, know what they do.

CLAUDIA PROCULA

Just as Pilate was preparing to go out and give his answer to the Jews,
who were muttering restlessly and impatiently before the door, a servant
sent by his wife came up to him, giving him this message: “Have thou
nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this
day in a dream because of him.”

No one in the four Gospels tells us what impression was made on the
Procurator by this unexpected intercession from his wife. We know
nothing of her except her name. According to the Gospel of Nicodemus her
name was Claudia Procula, and if this name was really hers she may have
belonged to the Gente Claudia, distinguished and powerful at Rome. We
may thus suppose that she was by birth and connections of a higher
social rank than her husband, and that Pilate, a mere freedman, may have
owed to her and her influence in Rome his post in Judea.

If all this was true, certainly the request of Claudia Procula must have
made some impression on Pilate, especially if he loved her; and that he
loved her, at least as a man of his nature could love, seems proved by
the fact that he had asked to take her with him into Asia. The Lex
Oppia, although mitigated by a decree of the Senate in the consulship of
Cethegus and Varro, forbade the pro-consuls to take their wives with
them, and Pontius Pilate had a special permit from Tiberius allowing
Claudia Procula to accompany him to Palestine.

The motives for this intercession, so briefly stated, are mysterious.
The words of Matthew refer to a dream in which she had suffered because
of Jesus: it is probable that she had heard people talking for some time
of the new Prophet; perhaps she had seen Him, and found Him very
different from the other Jews. The fact that He was neither a vulgar
demagogue nor a hypocritical Pharisee must have been pleasing to the
imagination of a fanciful Roman woman. She did not understand the
language spoken in Jerusalem, but some interpreter of the law courts
might have repeated to her some of Jesus’ words, words which would have
convinced her that He was not, as they said, a dangerous criminal.

In those days the Romans, especially Roman women, were beginning to feel
the attraction of Oriental myths and cults, which gave more satisfaction
to the longing for personal immortality than the old Latin religion, a
cold, legal, businesslike exchange of sacrifices to obtain utilitarian
and political ends. Many patrician women, even in Rome, had been
initiated into the mysteries of Mithra, Osiris and of Isis, the Great
Mother, and some showed a certain leaning towards Judaism. In that very
reign of Tiberius many Jews living in Rome were exiled from the Capital
because, according to Josephus, some of them had deceived a matron
Fulvia—converted to Judaism—and Fulvia, as we see from a reference of
Suetonius, was not the only one.

It is not impossible that Claudia Procula, living in Judea, had been
curious to know more in detail about the religion of the people governed
by her husband, and that, curious like all women about new things, she
had tried to find out what new doctrines were being preached by the
Galilean prophet of whom every one in Jerusalem was talking. It is
certain that she had become convinced that Jesus was a “just man” and
hence innocent. The dream of that night, the terrible dream—for she had
“suffered many things” in it—had confirmed her in this conviction, and
it is not surprising that relying on the influence which women have with
their husbands, even if their husbands love them no longer, she sent
this imploring message to Pilate.

It is enough for us that she called Him “That just man”—the man whom the
Jews wished to assassinate. Together with the Centurion of Capernaum and
with the Canaanite woman, Claudia Procula is the first pagan who
believed in Christ, and the Greek Church has good reason to revere her
as a Saint.

This message from his wife strengthened Pilate’s reluctance, inclined as
he already was to neutrality, if not to clemency, through his animosity
to Caiaphas, and perhaps through the words of the Accused. Claudia
Procula had not said, “Save Him”—but: “Have thou nothing to do with that
just man.” This was Pilate’s idea, also; as if he had a confused
divination of the importance of this mysterious beggar who called
Himself King. At the very first he had ordered the Jews to judge Him,
themselves, but they had not been willing to do this. Then another way
to evade the responsibility occurred to him. He went back to Jesus and
asked whether He were a Galilean.

This evasion seemed to promise success. Jesus did not belong to his
jurisdiction, but to that of Herod Antipas. By good luck Herod was there
at Jerusalem at that very time, come as was his wont for the Passover.
The Procurator had found a legitimate subterfuge to satisfy his wife—and
to free himself from this troublesome perplexity. With one stroke he
would ingratiate himself with the Jews, leaving to one of their own race
the decisive judgment, and at the same time he would do a bad turn to
the patriarch whom he hated with all his heart because he suspected him
with good reason of spying on him and tale-bearing to Tiberius. So,
losing no time, he ordered the soldiers to take Jesus before Herod.

THE WHITE CLOAK

The third judge before whom Jesus was led was a son of that
bloody-minded hog, Herod the Great, by one of his five wives. He was the
true son of his father because he wronged his brothers as his father had
wronged his sons. When his brother Archelaus, his own half-brother, was
accused by his subjects, he managed to have him exiled. He robbed his
other brother Herod of his wife. When he was seventeen years old he
began to reign as Tetrarch over Galilee and over Berea, and to
ingratiate himself with Tiberius, offered himself as a secret
tale-bearer of the sayings and doings of his brothers and of the Roman
officials in Judea. On a voyage to Rome he fell in love with Herodias,
who was both his niece and his sister-in-law, since she was the daughter
of his brother Aristobulus, and wife of his brother Herod, and not
shrinking from the double incest, he persuaded her to follow him,
together with Salome, the daughter of the adulteress. His first wife,
daughter of Aretas, king of the Nabatei, went back to her father, who
declared war on Antipas and defeated him.

This happened while John the Baptist was beginning to be talked about
among the people. The prophet let slip some words of condemnation
against these two incestuous adulterers, and this was enough for
Herodias to persuade her new husband to have him taken and shut up in
the fortress of Machærus. Every one knows how the foul Tetrarch,
inflamed by cruel Salome’s lascivious arts, and perhaps meditating a new
incest, was forced to offer her the bearded head of the Prophet of Fire
on a golden platter.

But even after his decapitation John’s shade disturbed Herod, and when
he began to hear talk of Jesus and of His miracles he said to his
courtiers, “This is John the Baptist; he is risen from the dead.”

It seems that he kept his eye on the new prophet, and that at one time
he thought of serving Him as he had his precursor; but either for
political or superstitious reasons, deciding that he would have no more
to do with prophets, he saw that the best way was to force Jesus to
leave his Tetrarchy. One day some Pharisees, very probably acting on
Herod’s instructions, went to say to Jesus: “Get thee out, and depart
hence: for Herod will kill thee.”

“And he said unto them, Go ye and tell that fox ... nevertheless I must
walk to-day, and to-morrow, and the day following; for it cannot be that
a prophet perish out of Jerusalem.”

And now at Jerusalem near His death, He appeared before that fox. That
traitor and spy, incestuous adulterer, assassin of John and enemy of the
prophets was the most fitting person to condemn innocence. But Jesus had
named him well: he was more fox than tiger, and he shrank from being a
substitute for Pilate. Luke tells us, “When Herod saw Jesus he was
exceeding glad: for he was desirous to see him of a long season, because
he had heard many things of him; and he hoped to have seen some miracle
done by him.”

The son of the Idumean and the Samaritan woman had scorched himself in
John’s fire, and he received Jesus as an old tamer of animals, with the
marks of the lion’s teeth still on his arm, looks at a new wild animal
brought for him to see. But, like all Oriental barbarians, his mind was
obsessed by prodigies, and he imagined Jesus to be a wandering wizard
who could, whenever He wished, repeat some of His sorcery. Herod hated
Him as he had hated John, but he hated Him partly because he feared Him;
the prophets had a power which Herod did not understand and which
intimidated him: perhaps the beheading of John had brought him bad luck.
He too wished Jesus to be killed, but he had no mind to be in any way
responsible for His death.

Seeing that there were no miracles to be expected, he began to put many
questions, to which Jesus made no answer. He had broken His silence for
Annas, for Caiaphas, for Pilate, but He would not for this crowned
rascal! Annas and Caiaphas were His declared enemies, Pilate was a blind
man groping along, thinking that he was saving Him, but this Herod was a
cowardly fox and did not deserve even an insult. The High Priests and
the Scribes, fearing that John’s assassin would be too cowardly to kill
Jesus, as in fact he was, had followed their victim there and vehemently
accused him. These furious accusations and the silence of the accused
man deepened the hidden rancor of Antipas, who, together with his
soldiers, abused the Man of divine silences, threw over his shoulders a
gorgeous robe, and sent Him again to Pilate.

Like Pilate, but for other reasons, he was not willing to condemn the
man baptized by John, and who perhaps was John himself returned from the
dead to avenge himself. But when he sent Him away he made Him a gift
which bears unconscious witness to the rank of the man about to die. The
mantle, shining with whiteness, was, so Josephus says, the garment of
the Jewish Kings, and Jesus was accused of wishing to make Himself King
of the Jews. Antipas, the astute, wished to ridicule the pretensions of
Jesus by ironically making him a present of the regal robe; but when he
covered Him with that whiteness, which is the symbol of innocence and of
sovereignty, the ignoble fox sent to Pilate a symbolical message which
involuntarily confirmed the message of Claudia Procula, the accusation
of Caiaphas, and what Christ Himself had said.

CRUCIFY HIM!

Pilate had thought that he had succeeded in extracting himself from the
troublesome position in which his adversaries had tried to place him.
But when he saw Jesus return wrapped in that regal white garment he
understood that he must at any cost get the matter settled.

The bitter fury of those who for so many reasons were objects of
suspicion to him, his wife’s compassion, the answers of Christ, the fact
that Antipas had refrained from action, all inclined him to refuse to
give the Jews the life for which they were asking. Perhaps while Jesus
was with the Tetrarch, Pilate had asked some one of his followers about
the pretended King, and the information confirmed him in his decision.
Jesus had never said anything that would be offensive to Pilate: rather
there was much in what He said calculated to please the Roman, or at
least that would seem advantageous to the authority of Rome.

Jesus taught love for enemies, and in Judea the Romans were considered
enemies; He called the poor blessed, hence He exhorted them to
resignation and not to revolt; He advised men to render unto Cæsar that
which was Cæsar’s, that is, to pay tribute to the Emperor; He was
opposed to the Pharisaical formalism which made the relations of the
Romans with their subjects so difficult; He did not respect the Sabbath;
He ate with publicans and with Gentiles; and finally He announced that
His Kingdom was not of this world, but of a world so metaphysical and
remote that it could never endanger Tiberius or his successors. If
Pilate knew these things, he must have said to himself with the
superficiality of all skeptics, especially when they think themselves
expert politicians, that it would be a good thing for him and for Rome
if many Jews followed Jesus, rather than fomented rebellion in the
councils of the Zealots.

He had therefore decided to save Jesus, but in this indulgence he wanted
to put a sarcastic note, something that would be offensive to the High
Priests, who three times had set themselves against him and now were
importuning him to be their hangman. Up to the last he would pretend to
treat Jesus like the King of the Jews. Here is your King, the King that
you deserve, wretched and perfidious people! A village carpenter, a
vagabond, a beggar, who vapored of reigning beyond earthly life, and who
as a matter of fact had as followers only a few fishermen and peasants
and a few silly women. See how wretched He is, how miserable! Why do you
want to kill Him? Keep Him; you deserve no better King than He. I will
follow your example, will amuse myself a little by tormenting Him, and
then I will let Him go.

And causing Jesus to be led out, Pilate went to the door and said to the
High Priests and the others who crowded about, their faces thrust
forward to hear the sentence given at last, “Ye have brought this man
unto me, as one that perverteth the people: and, behold, I, having
examined him before you, have found no fault in this man touching those
things whereof ye accuse him: No, nor yet Herod: for I sent you to him;
and lo, nothing worthy of death is done unto him. I will therefore
chastise him and release him.”

This was not the answer awaited by the ravening hounds, yelling in the
square before the Procurator’s house. A bestial cry burst out from those
gaping mouths, “Kill Him!”

A flogging would be too light a punishment for this dangerous enemy of
the God of Armies and the God of Business. Something quite different
from that was necessary to satisfy these butchers of the Temple. They
had come to ask for blood and not for pardon.

“Kill Him!” yelled Annas and Caiaphas, and with them the Pharisaical
vipers hissed, the sellers of the holy animals shrieked, the
money-changers, the men who rented beasts of burden, the porters of the
caravans. “Kill Him!” howled the Scribes, wrapped in their theological
cloaks, the vendors of the Passover fair, the tavern-keepers of the
upper city, the Levites, the servants of the Temple, the hired helpers
of the usurers, the errand boys of the priests, all the servile horde
assembled before the Procurator’s house.

As soon as this uproar was a little quieted, Pilate asked, “What will ye
then that I shall do unto him whom ye call King of the Jews?”

And they all answered, “Crucify him!”

But the Procurator resisted, “Why, what evil hath he done?”

And they cried out the more exceedingly, “Crucify him!”

Jesus, pale and calm in the whiteness of the mocking cloak, looked
quietly at the crowd, which desired to give Him what in His heart He had
been seeking. He was dying for them, with the divine hope of saving even
them by His death, and they were assailing Him, howling as if He had
wished to escape His accepted fate. His friends were not there, were
hidden; all His people wished to pierce His flesh with nails, and only a
foreigner, an idolater, defended His life. Why was Pilate not moved to
compassion? Why did He not give Him at once to the crucifiers? Did he
not realize that his false pity only lengthened and embittered the
anguish? He loved and it was fitting that He should be hated; He brought
men back from death and it was fitting that He should be killed; He
wished to save others and it was fitting that all men should wish to
destroy Him; He was innocent and it was fitting that He should be
sacrificed.

But obstinate Pilate did not surrender to the howls of the Jews nor to
Jesus’ silent prayer. At any cost he wanted to win his point. He would
not give in once more to that fierce, filthy mob. He had not succeeded
in transferring to Antipas the disagreeable responsibility of a
death-sentence; he had not succeeded in persuading this tigerish and
mulish people of the innocence of their wretched king. What they wanted
was to see a little blood; on these festival days they wanted to enjoy
the spectacle of a crucifixion. He would satisfy them with a bargain,
giving them the carcass of a murderer in exchange for the body of an
innocent man.

BARABBAS

“I find in him no fault at all. But ye have a custom, that I should
release unto you one at the passover. Whom will ye that I release unto
you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ?”

Taken by surprise, the people did not know what to answer. Until then
there had been but one name, one victim, one punishment asked for;
everything was as clear as the sky on that mid-April morning. But now,
in order to save that scandal-maker, this impertinent pagan brought into
question another name which confused the whole matter. Pilate wanted to
flog Him only, instead of crucifying Him: and now he wanted to crucify
another delinquent in His place. By good fortune the Elders, Scribes and
Priests were still there and they had no intention of letting Jesus
escape. In a flash they suggested the right reply. So that when Pilate
asked them a second time which of the two they wished him to free, they
answered with one voice, “Away with this man, and release unto us
Barabbas!”

He was not an ordinary delinquent, the man whom the Procurator offered
as blood-ransom to those men with such a morbid relish for crucifixions.
The common tradition has preserved his memory as a street ruffian, a
criminal by profession. But his surname—Bar Rabban, which means Son of
Rab, or rather disciple of the Master, since the scholars of the Rabbis
were called their sons—shows us that through birth or through study he
belonged to the caste of Doctors of Law. Mark and Luke say expressly
that he was accused of having committed murder during a sedition, hence
a political assassin. Jesus Barabbas, a student in the school of the
Scribes, lamenting over the loss of the Jewish Kingdom, and hating
Judea’s pagan masters, was probably a Zealot and had been captured in
one of the unsuccessful revolts, so common at that time. Was it likely
that such an absurd bargain would satisfy the Sadducee and Pharisee
assembly which shared the sentiments of the Zealots, even if for reasons
of state they hid them, or out of weakness of soul forgot them?

Barabbas, although an assassin, and indeed precisely because he was an
assassin—was a patriot, a martyr, persecuted by the foreigners. Jesus,
on the other hand, although He had never killed any one, had wished to
overturn the law of Moses, and to ruin the Temple. The first, in short,
was a sort of national hero, the other an enemy of the nation: there
could be no doubt about their choice. “Free Barabbas! Let this man die!”
Once more Pontius Pilate had failed to save Christ or himself. He ought
to have realized before this, that the leaders of the Jews would not
loose their hold on the flesh into which they had already set their
teeth, the only flesh which could stay their hunger. Their need for it
that day was like their need for bread and air. They would not have left
that spot, not even to eat, until they had seen that Bastard Messiah
fastened with four nails upon two beams.

Pontius Pilate was cowardly. He was afraid that he was committing an
injustice; he was afraid of displeasing his wife; he was afraid of
giving satisfaction to his enemies; but at the same time he was afraid
to put Jesus in a place of safety; he was afraid to have his soldiers
disperse that sullen, arrogant crowd; he was afraid to decide with a
clear-cut act of authority that Jesus, the innocent man, should be
released, and not Barabbas, the assassin. A real Roman, a Roman of
antiquity, of the true Roman stock, would either at once have satisfied
the demands of that turbulent crowd and would not have wasted a moment
in defending an obscure visionary; or would at once have decreed, from
the beginning, that this man was innocent and was under the august
protection of the Empire.

By his stratagems, half-measures, indolent questionings, hesitations and
partially executed maneuvers Pilate found himself slowly pushed towards
a decision he did not wish to make. The fact that he had not at once
decided the question with a yes or no had increased the insolence of the
High Priests and the excitement of the people. Now there were only two
alternatives: either to give in shamefully after resisting so long, or
to risk starting a tumult which on those days, when Jerusalem included
almost a third of the population of Judea, might become a perilous
uprising.

Undone by his cowardly wavering, deafened by the yells, the only thing
that came into his mind was to ask once more the advice of men to whom
he should have issued orders.

“What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ?”

“Crucify him, let him be crucified!”

“Why, what evil hath he done?”

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”

What affair is it of this odious foreigner if Jesus had done evil or
not? According to our faith He is an impostor, a blasphemer, an enemy of
the people and deserves death. Even if He has done no evil He deserves
death because His words are more dangerous than any wicked actions.

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”

“Take ye him and crucify him,” cried Pilate, “for I find no fault in
him.”

“We have a law, and by our law he ought to die, because he made himself
the Son of God.”

The silence of Jesus was more potent than this bestial outcry. They were
fighting for the possession of His body, and He seemed scarcely to be
aware of it. He knew that from the beginning of time His destiny was
sealed and that this was His day. The battle was so uneven! On one side
a Gentile, who knew nothing and understood nothing of Him, who did not
defend Him through love but through Hate, who did not defend Him openly
but with tricks and quibbles, who was more afraid of a revolt than of an
injustice, who was stubborn through punctilio and not because of his
certainty of Christ’s innocence. On the other hand, a threatened clergy,
a vindictive bourgeoisie, a crowd, like all crowds, easily incited to
evil deeds. It was easy enough to foresee the outcome.

But Pontius Pilate would not yield the point. He would restore Barabbas
to his accomplices, but he would not give up Jesus. His first idea came
into his head again: to have Him scourged; perhaps when they saw the
bruises and the blood dripping from His back they would be satisfied
with that punishment and would leave in peace the innocent man who
looked with equal pity on the cowardly shepherd and the unruly wolves.

The Procurator had said that he found no fault with Him, and yet he was
to have Him scourged with rods. This contradiction, this half-injustice,
this compromise, is characteristic of Pilate. But it was to be of no
avail; like his other efforts, it was merely to add one more shame to
his final defeat.

The Jews were still shrieking, “Let him be crucified!” But Pilate went
back into his house and gave Jesus over to the Roman soldiers to be
flogged.

A CROWNED KING

The mercenaries, who (in the provinces) were the majority in the
legions, had been waiting for this decision. Throughout the long dispute
the soldiers of the Procurator’s guard had been obliged to look on,
silent and motionless, at this mysterious colonial uproar, of which only
one thing seemed clear to them, that their commanding officer was not
cutting the best figure. For a while they had been amused by watching
the sinister faces, the excitability and the gesticulation of that
Jewish swarm; and they had become aware that the Procurator, somber and
perplexed, was vainly trying to unravel the tangled threads of this
early-morning quarrel. They kept their eyes on him, as dogs watch an
unskillful hunter, circling about without making up his mind to fire,
although the quarry is close at hand.

Now at last something to their taste happened. They were to have their
turn at amusing themselves. To flog a Jew, hated by the Jews themselves,
was an amusement neither dangerous nor very tiring,—just enough to
exercise their arms, to stretch the muscles contracted by the morning
chill, and to start the blood circulating.

All the company was ordered into the court-yard of the palace, and the
white cloak given by Antipas was taken from Jesus’ back—the first spoils
of the enterprise—together with part of His other clothes. The lictors
chose the rods, and the strongest among the soldiers snatched at them.
They were practical people who knew how to flog energetically and
according to the rules.

Jesus, half of His body bared, tied to a pillar, that He might not
lessen the force of the blows by bending forward, silently prayed to the
Father for the soldiers about to scourge Him. Had He not said: “Love
those who hate you, do good to those who persecute you, offer the left
cheek to him who has struck the right”? At that moment He could reward
his scourgers only by interceding with God for their forgiveness. These
soldiers were prisoners as much as He, and they knew not whom they were
flogging with such innocent heartiness. They themselves had been flogged
sometimes for small breaches of discipline, and they saw nothing out of
the way in the fact that the Procurator, a Roman officer, had them
scourge a delinquent belonging to a subject and inferior race.

Strike hard, O legionaries, for of this blood which now begins to flow,
some drops are shed for you. This was the first blood drawn by men from
the Son of Man. At the Last Supper His blood had been symbolized by the
wine, on the Mount of Olives the blood which mixed with the sweat, stood
in drops on His face, came from a suffering altogether spiritual and
inner. But now, at last, men’s hands shed blood from the veins of
Christ; knotty hands of soldiers in the service of the rich and the
powerful, hands which wield the scourge before taking up the nails. That
livid back, swollen and bloody, was ready for the cross; torn and raw as
it was, it would add to the suffering of crucifixion when they stretched
it out on the rough wood of the cross. Now they could stop, the
courtyard of the cowardly stranger was stained with blood. Servants that
very day might wash away those spots, but they would start out again on
the well-washed white hands of Pontius Pilate.

The number of blows prescribed had been duly administered, but now,
after their taste of amusement, the legionaries did not wish to let
their plaything escape at once. All they had done so far was to execute
an order; now they wished to have some entertainment of their own. This
man, so said the Jews howling out there in the public square, pretended
to be a king. Let us give Him His wish, this madman, and thus we will
enrage those who refuse Him His royal dignity.

A soldier took off his scarlet cloak, the red chlamys of the
legionaries, and threw it over those shoulders, red with blood; another
took up a handful of dry thorns, kindling for the brazier of the
night-watch, twisted a couple of them together like a crown and put it
on His head; a third had a slave give Him a reed and forced it into the
fingers of His right hand; then, roaring with laughter, they pushed Him
upon a seat. One by one, passing before Him, they bent their knees
awkwardly, crying: “Hail, King of the Jews!”

But some were not satisfied with this burlesque homage, and one of them
struck a blow at the cheek, still showing the marks of the fingers of
Caiaphas’ servants; one, snatching the reed out of His hand, gave Him a
blow on the head, so that the thorns of His crown pierced the skin and
made about His forehead a border of drops red as His cloak.

They would perhaps have thought of some other amusing diversion if the
Procurator, coming up when they were making merry, had not ordered them
to lead the scourged King outside. The jocose disguise invented by the
legionaries fitted in with the sarcastic intention of Pilate. He smiled,
and taking Jesus by the hand, led Him to the crowd of wild animals
there, and cried: “Behold the man!”

THE WASHING OF THE HANDS

“Behold the man!”

And he turned Christ’s shoulders towards that expanse of yelling muzzles
that they might see the welts left by the rods, red with oozing blood.
It was as if he said: Look at Him, your King, the only King that you
deserve, in His true majesty, tricked out as befits such a King. His
crown is of sharp thorns; His purple cloak is the chlamys of a
mercenary; His scepter is a dry reed. These are the ornaments merited by
your degraded King, unjustly rejected by a degraded people like
yourselves. Was it His blood you desired? Here is His blood; see how it
drops from the thorns of His crown. There is not much of it, but it
ought to be enough for you, since it is innocent blood. It is shed as a
great favor to you—to satisfy you. And now be off from here, for you
have troubled me long enough!

But the Jews were quieted neither by these words nor by that spectacle.
They demanded something quite other than a flogging and a masquerade
before they would go their ways. Pilate thought that he could make mock
of them, but he would realize that this was no time for feeble jokes.
They had had the best of him twice already and they would again. A few
bruises and a practical joke played by the soldiery were not enough to
punish this enemy of God as He deserved; there were trees in Judea and
nails to nail Him to them. And their hoarse voices shouted all together,
“Let him be crucified! Let him be crucified!”

Too late Pilate realized that they had driven him into a tangle from
which he could not disengage himself. All his decisions were combated
with a pertinacity he had not foreseen. By a flash of inspiration he had
pronounced the great words, “Behold the man!” But he himself did not
understand that proclamation which transcended his base soul. He did not
realize that he had found the truth he was seeking: a half-truth, but
deeper than all the teachings of the philosophers of Rome and Greece. He
did not understand how Jesus was really Man, the symbol of all humanity,
sorrowing and humiliated, betrayed by its rulers, deceived by its
masters, crucified every day by the Kings who oppress their subjects, by
the rich who cause the poor to weep, by priests who think of their
bellies rather than of God. Jesus is the Man of Sorrows announced by
Isaiah, the man without form or comeliness, despised and rejected of
men, who was to be killed for all men; He is God’s only son who had
taken on man’s flesh, and who would ascend in the glory of power and of
the new sun, in the midst of the blaring of the trumpets calling the
dead to life. But now to the eyes of Pilate, to the eyes of Pilate’s
enemies, He was only a wretched, insignificant man, flesh for rods and
for nails, a man and not Man, a mortal and not a God. Why did Pilate
lose time with those sibylline remarks before delivering Him to the
executioner?

And yet Pilate still did not yield. Standing beside that silent man, the
Roman felt his heart heavy with an oppression he had never known before.
Who could this man be whom all the people wished to kill, and whom he
could neither save nor sacrifice? He turned once more to Jesus, “Whence
art thou?”

But Jesus gave him no answer.

“Speakest thou not unto me? knowest thou not that I have power to
crucify thee, and have power to release thee?”

Then the insulted King raised His head, “Thou couldest have no power at
all against me, except it were given thee from above: therefore he that
delivered me unto thee hath the greater sin.”

Caiaphas and his associates were the guilty ones; the others were dogs
incited by Caiaphas, mere tools of Caiaphas. Even Pilate was only an
indocile instrument of priestly hatred and of the Divine will.

But the Procurator in his perplexity found no new expedient to free
himself from the net about him, and returned to his fixed idea, “Behold
your King!”

The Jews, infuriated by this repeated insult, burst out, enraged, “If
thou let this man go, thou art not Cæsar’s friend; whosoever maketh
himself a king speaketh against Cæsar.”

At last they had hit on the right words to bring pressure on weak,
cowardly Pilate. Every Roman magistrate, no matter how high his rank,
depended on Cæsar’s favor. Pilate’s reputation might be ruined by an
accusation of this sort, presented with ability, by malicious
advocates—and there were plenty of those among the Hebrews, as was shown
later by the memorial of Philo. But in spite of the threat, Pilate cried
out his last and weakest question, “Shall I crucify your king?”

The High Priests, feeling that they were on the point of winning,
answered with their last lie, “We have no king but Cæsar.”

Pilate surrendered. He was forced to yield unless he wished to start an
uproar which might set all Judea on fire. His conscience did not disturb
him: had he not tried everything possible to save this man who did not
wish to save Himself?

He had tried to save Him by referring the matter to the Sanhedrin, which
could not pronounce a death sentence; he had tried to save Him by
sending Him to Herod; he had tried to save Him by affirming that he
found no fault in Him; he had tried to save Him by offering to free Him
in the place of Barabbas; he had tried to save Him by having Him
scourged in the hope that this ignominious punishment would pacify them;
he had tried to save Him by seeking to arouse a little pity in those
hardened hearts. But all his maneuvers had failed, and he certainly did
not wish the whole province to rise on account of that unfortunate
Prophet; and even less was he willing that on His account they should
accuse him before Tiberius and have him deposed.

Pilate thought himself innocent of the blood of this innocent man. And
in order that they might all have a visible representation of that
innocence which they would not forget, he had a basin of water brought
to him and washed his hands there before them all, saying, “I am
innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.”

Then answered all the people and said, “His blood be on us, and on our
children.”

“Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus he
delivered him to be crucified.”

But the water which flowed over his hands was not enough to cleanse
them. His hands are still blood-stained, and will be to all eternity. He
might have saved Christ if he had really wished. Jesus was sent to
Golgotha by Pilate’s subterfuges, by the multiple forms taken by the
cowardice of Pilate’s soul, poisoned by the irony of skeptics. He would
have been less base if he had really believed Christ guilty and had
given his consent to the assassination. But he knew that there was no
fault in Jesus, that Jesus was a just man as Claudia Procula had said,
as he himself had repeated after her. There is no excuse for a man in
authority who, fearing for himself, allows a just man to be killed: he
holds office in order to protect the just against assassins. But Pilate
said, “I have done everything that I could to save Him from the hands of
the unjust.” That was not true; he had tried many ways, but not the only
way which could have succeeded. He had not offered himself, had not
sacrificed himself, had not been willing to risk his dignity and his
fortune. The Jews hated Jesus, but they also hated Pilate, who had
harassed and derided them so many times. Instead of proposing the
seditious Barabbas in exchange for Jesus, he ought to have proposed
himself, Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea, and perhaps the people
might have accepted the bargain. No other victim except himself would
have satisfied the rage of the Jews. It would not have been necessary
for him to die. It would have been enough to let them denounce him to
Cæsar as Cæsar’s enemy. Tiberius would have deposed him and perhaps have
banished him, but he would have taken into exile and into disgrace a
comforting certainty of innocence. Little did his shifts avail him; for
the fate he now sought to avert by giving Jesus over into the hands of
his adversaries fell upon him a few years later. The Jews and the
Samaritans accused him; the Governor of Syria deposed him, and Caligula
banished him to the frontiers of Gaul. But he was followed into his
exile by the shade of that great, silent man, assassinated with his
consent. In vain had he constructed in Jerusalem the great reservoir
full of water, in vain had he washed himself with that water before the
multitude. That water was Jewish water, turbid and ill-omened water that
did not cleanse. No washing will ever cleanse his hands from the stains
left on them by the divine blood of Christ.

GOOD FRIDAY

The sun rose higher in the clear April sky and now it was near to noon.
The contest between the flaccid defender and the furious assailants had
wasted most of the morning, and there was no time to lose. According to
Mosaic law, the bodies of executed criminals could not remain after
sunset on the place of punishment, and April days are not as long as
June days.

Moreover, Caiaphas, reënforced though he was by so many furiously
enraged partisans, could not draw a tranquil breath until the Vagabond’s
feet were forever halted, fastened with iron nails on the cross. He
remembered how, a few days before, Jesus had entered the city surrounded
with waving branches and joyful hymns. He was sure of the city itself,
but at this period it was full of provincials come from everywhere, who
had not the same interests and the same passions as the clientele
dependent on the Temple. Those Galileans especially, who had followed
Him until now, who loved Him, might make some effort at resistance and
put off, even if they did not actually prevent, the real votive offering
of that day.

Pilate, too, was in haste to have that troublesome, innocent man taken
away. He did not wish to think of Him again. He hoped that he would
forget after His death that look, those words and, above all, his own
corroding uneasiness, so painfully like remorse. Although he had washed
and dried his hands, that man in His silence, it seemed to him, was
sentencing him to a penalty worse than death itself. Before that
scourged man, at the point of death, he felt himself the guilty one. To
vent his uneasiness on those who really caused it, he dictated the
wording of the titulus or superscription, which the condemned man was to
wear about His neck until it was fastened above His head at the top of
the cross, as follows: “Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.” The
Scribe wrote these words three times in three languages in clear, red
letters on the white wood.

The leaders of the Jews, who had remained there, craning their necks, to
hasten the preparations, read this sarcastic inscription and protested.
They said to Pilate, “Write not, The King of the Jews; but that he said,
I am King of the Jews.”

But the Procurator cut them short with a dry brevity: “What I have
written I have written.”

These are the last words recorded of him, and the most profound! I am
forced to make you a present of the life of this man, but I do not deny
what I have said. Jesus is a Nazarene, which means also, saint. And He
is your King, the wretched King who fits your wretchedness. I wish all
men to know how your ill-born race treats saints and kings. It is for
this I have written these words in Latin and Greek as well as in Hebrew.
And now be off, for I have endured you long enough, “Quod scripsi,
scripsi.”

In the meantime the soldiers had put back on the King His poor man’s
garments and had tied the notice about His neck. Others had brought out
from the storerooms three massive crosses of pine, the nails, the hammer
and the pincers. The escort was ready. Pilate pronounced the usual
formula: “I lictor, expedi crucem.” And the sinister procession moved
forward.

The Centurion rode at the head, he whom Tacitus calls with terrible
brevity, “exactor mortis.” Immediately after him came, in the midst of
the armed legionaries, Jesus and the two thieves who were to be
crucified with Him. Each of them carried a cross on his shoulders,
according to the Roman rule. And behind them, the shuffling steps and
the uproar of the excited crowd, increased at every step by accomplices
and idle sight-seers.

It was Parasceve, the day of preparations, the last night before the
Passover. Thousands of lambs’ skins were stretched out on the sunlit
roofs; and from every house rose a column of smoke, delicate as a
flower-bud, which opened out in the air and then was lost in the clear,
festal sky. Old women with malignant faces, mumbling anathemas, emerged
from the dark alley-ways; dirty-faced little children trotted along with
bundles under their arms; bearded men carried on their shoulders a kid
or a cask of wine; drovers were dragging along asses with hanging heads;
children stared with impudent and melancholy eyes at the foreigners who
were walking about circumspectly, impeded by this festal bustling. In
every home the house-mother was busy, preparing everything needful for
the next day, because with the setting of the sun every one was exempt
for twenty-four hours from the curse of Adam. The lambs, skinned and
quartered, were all ready for the fire; the loaves of unleavened bread
were piled up fresh from the oven; men were decanting the wine, and the
children to lend a hand somewhere were cleaning the bitter herbs.

There was no one idle, no one whose heart was not rejoicing at the
thought of that festal day of repose, when all families would be
gathered about the father, when they would eat in peace and drink the
wine of Thanksgiving from the same cup; and God would be witness of this
cheer because the psalms of the grateful would go up to Him from every
house. On that day even the poor felt themselves almost rich; and the
rich, because of their unusual profits, felt themselves almost generous;
and children whose hopes had not yet been dashed by experience of life
felt themselves more loving; and women more loved.

Everywhere there was that peaceful confusion, that good-natured tumult,
that joyous bustle which goes before a great, popular feast-day. An odor
of hope and of Spring purified the old filth of the Jewish ant-heap. And
the great eastern sun sent down a flood of light upon the four Hills.

SIMON OF CYRENE

Under that festal sky, through that festal crowd, slow as a funeral
procession, the sinister column of the bearers of the cross made its
way. About them everything spoke of joy and of life, and they were going
to burning thirst and to death. About them all men were waiting joyfully
to spend the evening with their loved ones, to sit down at the
well-garnished table, to drink the bright, genial wine served on
feast-days, to stretch themselves out on their beds to wait for the most
longed-for Sabbath morning of the year. And the three, cut off forever
from those who loved them, would be stretched upon the cross of infamy,
would drink only a sip of bitter wine, and, cold in death, would be
thrown into the cold earth.

At the sound of the Centurion’s horse, people stepped to one side and
stopped to look at the wretched men toiling and sweating under their
terrible burden. The two thieves seemed more sturdy and callous, but the
first, the Man of Sorrows, seemed scarcely able to take another step.
Worn out by the terrible night, by His four questionings, by the
buffetings, by the beatings, by the flogging, disfigured with blood,
sweat, saliva, and by the terrible effort of this last task set Him, He
did not seem like the fearless young man who a few days before had
scourged the vermin out of the Temple. His fair, shining face was drawn
and contracted by the convulsions of pain; His eyes, red with suppressed
tears, were sunken in their sockets; on His shoulders, torn by the rods,
His clothes clung to the wounds, increasing His sufferings; His legs,
more than His other members, felt this terrible weakness, and they bent
under His weight and under that of the cross. “The spirit is willing but
the flesh is weak.” After the vigil, which had been the beginning of His
agony, how many blows had been struck upon that flesh! Judas’ kiss, the
flight of His friends, the rope on His wrists, the threats of the
judges, the blows of the guard, the cowardice of Pilate, the howling
demands for His death, the insults of the legionaries, and now this
weight of the cross, carried along amid the sneers and scoffing of those
whom He loved!

Those who saw Him pass took no notice of Him, or at the most, those who
knew how to read tried to make out the inscription which hung down on
His chest. Many, however, knew Him by sight and by name, and pointed Him
out to their neighbors with learned and complacent airs. Some of them
mingled with the crowd, following behind to enjoy to the end the
spectacle, always new, of a man’s death; and more would have followed if
it had not been a day when there was much to do at home. Those who had
begun to hope in Him now despised Him because He had not been stronger,
because He had let Himself be taken like any sneak-thief; and to
ingratiate themselves with the Priests and Elders mingled with the
crowd, they cast out at the false Messiah as He went by some neatly
phrased insult. Very few were those who felt any movement of pity to see
Him in that situation and among those few were some who did not know who
He was, who were moved merely by the natural pity which any crowd feels
for condemned men. Some few there were who still felt a little love in
their hearts for the Master who had loved the poor, who had healed the
sick, who had announced the Kingdom so much more righteous and holy than
the kingdoms then in existence and ruining the earth. But these were
few, and they were almost ashamed of that secret tenderness for one whom
they had believed to be less hated or more powerful. The greater part
laughed, satisfied and contented, as if this funeral procession had been
a part of the feast-day.

Only some women, their heads wrapped in their cloaks, came behind all
the rest, weeping, but trying to hide this seditious grief.

They had not yet come to the Gate of Gardens, but they were almost there
when Jesus, His strength utterly exhausted, fell to the ground and lay
there stretched under His cross. His face had suddenly gone white as
snow; the reddened eyelids were dropped over His eyes; He would have
seemed dead if it had not been for the painful breath coming and going
through His half-open mouth.

They all stopped, and a dense circle of jeering men stretched out their
faces and hands towards the fallen man. The Jews, who had followed Him
from Caiaphas’ house, would not listen to reason.

“He is only pretending,” they cried. “Lift Him up! He is a hypocrite! He
ought to carry the cross to the last! That is the law! Give Him a kick,
as you would to an ass, and let Him get along!”

Others said, “Look at the great King who was to conquer Kingdoms. He
cannot manage even two sticks of wood, and yet He wanted to wear armor.
He said that He was more than a man, and see, He is a womanish creature
who faints away at the first work given Him. He made paralytics walk and
He Himself cannot stand up. Give Him a cup of wine to bring back His
strength.”

But the Centurion who, like Pilate, was in great haste to finish his
distasteful task, was experienced in the handling of men, and saw
clearly that the unfortunate Jesus would never be able to drag the cross
along all the way to Golgotha. He cast his eyes about to find some one
to carry that weight. Just at that moment there came in from the country
a Cyrenian called Simon, who, at the sight of so many people, had
stepped into the crowd and was looking with an astonished and pitying
expression at the body prostrate and panting under the two beams. The
Centurion saw that he had a kindly look, and furthermore that he was
strongly built, and called to him, saying, “Take this cross and come
after us.”

Without a word the Cyrenian obeyed, perhaps out of goodness of heart,
but in any case from necessity, because the Roman soldiers in the
countries which they occupied had the right to force any one to help
them. “If a soldier gives you some task to do,” wrote Arrian, “be
careful not to resist him and not to murmur, otherwise you will be
beaten.”

We know nothing more of the merciful-hearted man who lent his broad
countryman’s shoulders to lighten Jesus’ load, but we know that his
sons, Alexander and Rufus, were Christians, and it is extremely probable
that they were converted by their father’s telling them of the death of
which he was an enforced witness.

Two soldiers helped the fallen man up on His feet, and urged Him
forward. The procession took up its way again under the noon-day sun,
but the two thieves muttered between their teeth that no one thought of
them, and that it was not right that that other man by pretending to
fall should be freed of His burden while they still were forced to carry
theirs. It was favoritism, nothing less, especially as that fellow, to
hear what the priests said about Him, was much more guilty than they.
From that moment His two companions in punishment, jealous of Him, began
to hate Him, and were to insult Him even when they were nailed at His
side on the crosses which they were then carrying on their backs.

FORGIVE THEM

The Centurion halted outside the old walled city, in the midst of the
young verdure of the suburban gardens. The city of Caiaphas did not
allow capital punishment within its walls; the air perfumed with the
virtue of the Pharisees would be polluted; and the soft hearts of the
Sadducees would be distressed; hence, condemned prisoners were expelled
from the city before their death.

They had stopped on the summit of a rounded mound of limestone
resembling a skull. This resemblance might seem to be the reason for
choosing this place for executions, but the real reason was rather
because the two great roads from Jaffa and Damascus crossed each other
close at hand, and it was well that the cross should show its terrible
warning to the traveling multitude of pilgrims, merchants and
provincials.

The sun, the benign sun of the solstice, the high noon-day sun, shone on
the white mound and on the mattocks ringing sonorously in the rock. In
the nearby gardens the spring flowers expanded in the mild air; singing
birds, hidden in the trees, rent the sky with the silver arrows of their
warblings; doves flew about in pairs in the warm, pastoral peace. It
would be sweet to live there in some well-watered garden beside a well,
in the perfume of the earth awakening and clothing itself, awaiting the
harvest moon, in company with loving friends! Days of Galilee, days of
peace, days of sunshine and friendship among the vineyards, beside the
lake, days of light and liberty, wandering with friends who listened
understandingly, days drawing to a close with the well-earned
cheerfulness of supper, days which seemed eternal, although they were so
short!

Now Thou hast no one with Thee, Jesus, called the Christ. These soldiers
preparing that appalling bed, these thieves insulting Thee, those hounds
awaiting Thy blood, are only shadows, cast by the great shadow of God.
Thou art alone as Thou wert alone at night; the sun that warms Thy
assassins is not for Thee. Before Thee lies no other day, no other
journey; ended are Thy wanderings and now at last Thou canst rest; this
skull of rock is Thy goal. A few hours hence, Thine imprisoned spirit
shall be torn from its dungeon.

God’s human face is wet with cold sweat. The blows of the mattocks ring
in His head, as if they struck at Him; the sun which He loved so much,
symbol of the Father, just even to the unjust, now falls harshly on His
aching eyes and swollen eyelids. His whole body aches with weariness,
trembles in a yearning for rest which He resists with all His soul. Has
He not promised to suffer as much as is needful up to the very last? At
the same time it seems to Him that He loves with a more intimate
tenderness those whom He is leaving, even those who are working for His
death. And from the depths of His soul, like a song of victory over the
torn and weary flesh, rise up the words, never to be forgotten by men,
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

No more divine prayer was ever raised to Heaven since men have lived and
prayed; it is not the prayer of a man, but of a God to a God. Men, who
cannot pardon even the innocence of an innocent man, had never before
that day dreamed that a man might pray for the forgiveness of those who
were putting him to death.

For they know not what they do! Wrongs consciously wrought cannot be
absolved without assurance of repentance. But the ignorance of men is so
appallingly great that only a few really know what they do.

Jesus had taught what men should know; but how many knew it? Even His
own Disciples, the only ones to know that Jesus was Christ, had been
overcome by the fear of losing this last remnant of their lives; even as
they fled away, they had shown that they did not know what they did. And
even more ignorant of what they really did were the Pharisees, fearful
of losing their preëminence; the Doctors, fearful of losing their
privileges; the rich, fearful of losing their money; Pilate, fearful of
losing his office; and most ignorant of all were the Jews, misled by
their leaders, and the soldiers obedient to orders. None of them knew
who Christ was and what He came to do, and why He was killed. Some of
them were to know it, but afterwards, and they came to know it only
through the intercession of the Man whom they were killing.

Now, at the point of death, He had confirmed His most difficult and
divine teaching, “Love for enemies,” and He could now hold out His hands
to the hammer. The crosses had been raised; now they were piling stones
about them to steady them under the weight, and were filling the holes
with earth, stamping it down with their feet.

The women of Jerusalem approached the condemned Man with a pitcher. It
contained a mixture of wine, incense and myrrh, which the executioners,
out of the goodness of their hearts, imagined would dull consciousness.
Those very people who were making Him suffer pretended as a last insult
that they had mercy on that suffering, and by reducing it by the merest
trifle they thought they had the greater right to demand that the rest
of the cup of suffering be drained. But Jesus, as soon as He had tasted
this mixture, bitter as gall, pushed it away. He would have accepted a
single word in place of the wine, but the only one on that day who could
find the word to say was one of the thieves whom they had dragged up to
the place of the skull with Him.

The incense and the myrrh which they offered Him on that day were not
perfumed like that incense and myrrh brought to Him in the stable by the
Wise Men from the distant Orient. And in place of the gold which had
lighted the dingy darkness of the stable, there was the iron of the
nails, gray now, waiting to be reddened. And that wine which seemed
poisoned so bitter was it, was not the genial nuptial wine of Cana, nor
that which He had drunk the evening before, warm and dark as blood
dripping from a wound.

FOUR NAILS

On the top of the hill of the Skull the three crosses, tall, dark, with
outspread beams like giants with outstretched arms, stood out against
the great sweep of the sweet spring sky. They threw no shadow, but they
were outlined by brilliant reflections from the sun. The beauty of the
world on that day in that hour was so great that tortures were
unthinkable; could they not, those wooden branches, blossom out with
field flowers, and be wreathed with garlands of tender green, hiding the
scaffold with verdure, in the shade of which reconciled and friendly
brothers might sit down?

But the Priests, the Scribes, the Pharisees, those who gloated over
suffering and over revenge, who had come there to satisfy their morbid
appetites with the spectacle of three deaths, were stamping with
impatience, and jeeringly hastening on the Romans.

The Centurion gave an order. Two soldiers approached Jesus and with
rapid, rough gestures removed all His clothes. The criminal condemned to
crucifixion must be entirely naked.

As soon as He was stripped, they passed two ropes under His armpits, and
hoisted Him up on the cross. Half-way up on the upright was a rough
wooden peg like a seat where the body was to find a precarious and
painful support. Another soldier leaned the ladder against one of the
arms of the cross, climbed up on it, hammer in hand, seized the hand
which had cured lepers and caressed little children’s hair, spread it
out on the wood and drove a nail into the middle of the palm. The nails
were long, and with a wide head so that they could be easily hammered.
The soldier struck a vigorous blow, which pierced the flesh at once, and
then another and a third so that the nail would hold firmly and so that
only the head would remain outside. A little blood spurted out from the
pierced hand upon the hammering hand, but the diligent workman paid no
attention to it, and continued to hammer away vigorously until his work
was properly done. Then he came down the ladder and did the same to the
other hand.

All the spectators had fallen silent, hoping to hear screams from the
condemned man. But Jesus was silent before His executioners as He had
been silent before His judges.

Now they turned their attention to the feet. This was work which could
be done standing on the ground, for the Roman crosses were set so low
that, if the bodies of the executed criminals were left on them too
long, prowling dogs and jackals could tear out their bowels and eat
them.

The soldier who was nailing Christ on the cross now lifted up His knees
so that the soles of His feet should be flat against the wood, and
taking the measure so that the iron nail should be long enough to go
through the instep, he pierced the first foot, and drove the nail home.
He did the same to the other foot, and at the end glanced up, still with
his hammer in his hand, to see if he had finished his work, and if
anything was lacking. He remembered the scroll which they had taken from
Jesus’ neck and flung down on the ground. He picked it up, climbed again
up the ladder, and with two nails fastened it on the upright of the
cross, above the thorn-crowned head.

Then he came down the ladder for the last time, threw away his hammer,
and looked to see if his companions had finished their work. The
thieves, too, were now in place and all three crosses had their
flesh-offerings. The soldiers could rest and divide the garments which
henceforth the men up there on the crosses needed no more. This was the
perquisite of the executioners and came to them by law. Four soldiers
had a right to Jesus’ clothes and they divided them into four parts.
This left the tunic, which was without seam, woven all in one piece. It
would be a sin to cut it, for after that it would be of no use to any
one; but one of them, an old gambler, took out his dice, threw them, and
the tunic was awarded by luck. From now on the only possession of the
King of the Jews was the thorns of His crown which, as a greater insult,
they had left on His head.

All was finished: the drops of blood fell slowly from His hands on the
ground and the blood from His feet reddened the cross. From now on He
was to flee no more; His blaspheming mouth was soon to be gaping in
agony, but it was to teach no more forever. The assassins might be
satisfied with themselves and with the foreign executioners. The
poisoner of the people, the enemy of the Temple and of business, was
fastened with four solid nails on the tree of ignominy. From that night
on the lords of Jerusalem could sleep more peacefully.

A clamor of demoniac laughter, of exultant exclamations, of ferocious
jests rose from the crowd about Golgotha. There He was, the bird of
ill-omen, nailed with outspread wings. The poor man, satisfied if He had
but a tunic, now was altogether naked; the vagabond, who had only a
stone on which to lay His head, now had a fine pillow of wood; the
impostor who deceived with His miracles, no longer had His hands free to
mold the clay which restored sight to the blind; the throne of the King
was a hard wooden peg; the hater of Jerusalem was hung up in sight of
the Holy City; the Master with so many disciples now had as companions
only two thieves who insulted Him, and four bored soldiers. “Call on the
Father now to save Thee, ask for a legion of angels to take Thee away
from there and disperse us with flaming swords. Then even we will
believe that Thou art the Christ, and we will fall down with our faces
in the dust to adore Thee.”

And some of the priests, shaking their heads, said: “Thou that
destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save thyself. If
thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross.”

This challenge recalls that of Satan in the desert. They, like Satan,
wished for a prodigy. They had asked so many times for a sign! “It would
be a fine sign if Thou couldst loosen the four nails and come down from
the cross, and if the power of the Father should flame out in the
Heavens destroying us as God-killers. But Thou seest well that the nails
are strong and are not loosened, and that no one appears to aid Thee
from heaven or from earth.”

The Scribes, the Elders, mocked Him in the same way, and so did even the
soldiers, although the affair was none of theirs, and even the thieves
also, suffering though they were in anguish with Him.

“He saved others; himself he cannot save. If he be the King of Israel,
let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him. He
trusted in God; let him deliver him now if he will have him: ... for he
said, I am the Son of God.”

He had announced that He came to give life, but now He could not save
Himself from death! He had boasted that He was the Son of God, but God
did not move to save His firstborn from the scaffold. Therefore, He had
always lied; it was not true that He had ever saved any one. It was not
true that God was His Father, and if He had lied about that, He had lied
about everything, and deserved this fate. There was no need of proof,
but the proof was there so clear that all could see it, and their
consciences were perfectly at rest. If any miracle were possible, He
would no longer be crucified there to agonize; but the sky was empty and
the sun, God’s light, shone clearly that all men might see more clearly
the contractions of His face and the painful heaving of His chest.

“What a pity that the Romans do not allow our old punishment for
blasphemers, for it would have relieved us to have stoned Thee one by
one. Thus every one would have had his share of pleasure, taking aim at
the head with well-directed stones, and covering Thee with bruises,
clothing Thee in a tunic of stones. Once before when the adulteress was
brought before Thee we put down our stones, but to-day no one would be
backward, and Thou wouldst have paid for Thee and for her! The cross is
well enough, but how much less satisfying for the spectators! If only
these foreigners had permitted us to give a blow of the hammer on the
nails! Thou answerest not? Hast Thou no longer any desire to preach?
Canst Thou not come down? Why dost Thou not deign to convert us also? If
we ought to love Thee, show us first that God loves Thee enough to do a
great miracle to save Thee from death!”

But the divine Sacrifice was silent. The torture of the fever, which had
begun already, was not so terrible as those words of His brothers who
were crucifying Him a second time on the cross of their appalling
ignorance.

DISMAS

The thieves who had been crucified with Jesus had begun to be hostile to
Him in the street when He was liberated from the weight of His cross.
They felt aggrieved because no one thought of them; they were to die the
same death, but no one seemed to think of this; people abused Him, but
at least they recognized that He was there, they were all thinking about
Him, running along for His sake as if He had been alone. It was for Him
that all those people were following along—important people, educated
and wealthy—it was for Him that the women were weeping and that even the
Centurion was moved to pity. He was the King of the occasion, this
country cheat, and He drew every one’s attention as if He had really
been a King. Who knew, perhaps the wine with myrrh would never have been
offered to them, if He had not been so fastidious as to refuse it.

But one of them, when he heard the great words of his envied companion,
“Forgive them; for they know not what they do,” suddenly fell silent.
That prayer was so new for him, summoned him to emotions so foreign to
his nature and all his life, that it carried him back at one stroke to
his almost forgotten childhood, when he also was innocent, and when he
knew there was a God of whom one could ask for peace as poor men beg for
bread at the rich man’s door. But in no canticle could he remember
hearing any such prayer as this, so extraordinary, so paradoxical in the
mouth of one who was at that moment being killed. And yet those
impossible words found in the thief’s withered heart an echo of
something he would have liked to believe, above all at that moment when
he was about to appear before a Judge more awful than those of the
law-courts. This prayer of Jesus’ found an unexpected echo in his own
thought, a thought beyond his power to formulate or express, but which
now seemed to him luminous in the darkness of his fate. Had he really
known what he was doing? Had other men ever thought of him? Had they
ever done for him what they could to turn him from evil? Had there ever
been any one who really loved him? Had any one given him food when he
was hungry and a cloak when he was cold, and a friendly word when
suddenly temptations laid siege to his lonely and dissatisfied soul? If
he had had a little more bread and love, would he have committed the
actions which had brought him to Golgotha? Was he not also among those
who knew not what they do, distraught by poverty, abandoned among
ambushed passions? Were they not thieves like him, the Levites who
trafficked in the offerings of the faithful, the Pharisees who cheated
widows, the rich men, who by their usury drained dry the veins of the
poverty-stricken? Those were the men who had condemned him to death; but
what right had they to kill him if they had never done anything to save
him, and if they, too, were tainted with his guilt?

All these thoughts went through his distracted heart while he waited to
be fastened to the cross. The nearness of death—and what a death!—this
unheard-of prayer of the man who was not a thief, but who was suffering
the penalty of thieves, the hate which deformed the faces of the men who
had condemned him also, moved his poor, maimed soul, and inclined him to
emotions unfelt since his boyhood, to emotions the very name of which he
did not know, but which were very like to tenderness and repentance.

When they were all on the cross, the other thief, although suffering
terribly from his pierced hands and feet, began again to insult Jesus.
He also began to vomit out the challenge of the Jews, “If thou be
Christ, save thyself and us.”

If He were really the Son of God would He not have thought of freeing
also His companions in misery? Why was He not moved to compassion?
Hence, they were right, those men down there: He was a deceiver, a man
of no account, an execrated outcast. And the anger of the raging thief
was intensified by his fury over a lost hope, an abortive hope, an
impossible dream of miraculous salvation; but a despairing man hopes
even for the impossible, and this hope withdrawn seemed to him a
betrayal.

But the Good Thief who had been listening to him, and to the other
raging voices shrieking down below, now turned to his companion. “Dost
thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we
indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this man
has done nothing amiss.”

The thief had passed from the doubt of his own blameworthiness to the
certainty of the innocence of that mysterious Pardoner at his side. “We
have committed deeds (he was not willing to call them crimes) which men
punish, but this man has done nothing amiss, and yet He is punished as
we are; why, therefore, insult Him? Hast thou no fear that God will
punish thee for having humiliated an innocent man?”

And he turned over in his mind what he had heard told about Jesus—only a
few things and those not at all clear to him—but he knew that Jesus had
spoken of a Kingdom of Peace and that He himself was to be at the head
of it. Then with impetuous faith as if he invoked the blood which fell
at the same moment from his criminal hands and from those guiltless
hands, he cried out these words, “Lord, remember me when thou comest
into thy kingdom.”

We have suffered together; wilt Thou not recognize the man who was
beside Thee on the cross, the only man who defended Thee when all were
attacking Thee?

And Jesus, who had answered no man, turned His head as well as He could
towards the pitying thief and answered him, “Verily I say unto thee,
To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”

He could promise him nothing earthly: what would it have availed him to
be unnailed from the cross and to drag himself along the roads of the
earth a few years more, crippled and needy? And unlike the other thief
he had not asked to be saved from death: he had asked only to be
remembered after his death, if Jesus should return in glory. Jesus
instead of fleshly and uncertain life promised him the eternal life of
Paradise, and that without delay—“to-day.”

He had sinned; in the eyes of men, he had gravely sinned, he had taken
away from the rich a little of their riches, perhaps he had also stolen
a little from the poor, but for sinners ailing with an illness worse
than any bodily weakness, Jesus had always a tenderness of which He made
no show, but which He was never willing to hide. Had He not come to
bring back to the warmth of the stable the flock lost among the thorns
of the countryside? Were not the wicked already sufficiently punished
with their own wickedness? And those who thought themselves righteous,
were they not perhaps often more corrupt than the wicked they condemned?
Jesus does not pardon all men. That would be injustice, holier than the
injustice of the world, but still unjust. But a single motion of
repentance, a single word of regret is enough. The prayer of the thief
was enough to absolve him.

The Good Thief was Jesus’ last convert in His corporeal existence. He
was the last Disciple and at the same time the first of the martyrs, for
Peter’s Gospel tells us that when they heard his words, the Jews were
angered against him and demanded that his legs should not be broken, in
order that he might die in greater torment. The legs of crucified men
were broken out of mercy that their sufferings might end sooner; this
shortening of his torture was refused to him because he had defended
Christ and believed in Him: like his Master, he was forced to drink his
cup to the dregs.

We know nothing more of him; only his name preserved in an apocryphal
manuscript. The Church has received him among her saints because of this
promise of Christ, with the name of Dismas.

THE DARKNESS

Jesus’ breathing was more and more like the death-rattle. His chest
heaved with convulsive efforts to breathe; loud, painful pulses hammered
at His temples. His heart beat so rapidly and so violently that it shook
Him as if it would tear Him loose; the feverish thirst of crucified men
flamed all over His body, as if His blood had become a raging molten
fire in His veins. Stretched in that painful position, nailed to the
beams and not able to move, held up by His hands, which were lacerated
if He let Himself hang by them, but which, if He held them up, exhausted
His weak and worn-out frame, that young and divine body which had
suffered so many times because it contained too great a soul, was now a
funeral pyre of suffering where all the sufferings of the world burned
together.

As ancient writers admitted, crucifixion was the cruelest and blackest
of punishments. It gave the greatest torture for the longest time. If
tetanus set in, a merciful torpor hastened death; but there were men who
held out, suffering always more and more, until the second day after
crucifixion, and even longer. The thirst of their fever, the congestion
of their hearts, the rigidity of their veins, their cramped muscles, the
dizziness and terrible pains in the head, the ever-greater agony—all
these were not enough to make an end of them. But most men died at the
end of twelve hours.

The blood from the four wounds of Jesus had clotted about the
nail-heads, but every movement made fresh blood gush out, which fell
slowly along the cross and dripped upon the ground. His head drooped on
His weary neck; His eyes, those mortal eyes, whence God had looked out
upon the earth, were glazing over in the death stupor; and His livid
lips, parched with suffering and thirst, drawn by His painful breathing,
were withered by that last kiss, the poisonous kiss of Judas.

Thus died a God, who had cooled the blood of the feverish, had given the
water of life to the thirsty, who had raised up the dead from their
tombs, who had quickened the paralyzed, cast out demons from obsessed
souls, who had wept with the weeping, who, instead of punishing the
wicked, had made them to be born again into a new life, who had taught
with poetic words and proved by miracles that glorious aspiration—the
life of perfect love—which raging beasts sunk in stupor and in blood
would never have been capable of discovering for themselves. He had
healed wounds and they wounded all His perfect body; He had pardoned
evildoers, and evildoers nailed Him, an innocent man, between two
criminals; He had infinitely loved all men, even those unworthy of His
love, and hatred had nailed Him there where hatred punished and was
punished; He had been more righteous than righteousness and they had
wreaked upon Him the most iniquitous unrighteousness; He had called mean
souls to holiness and He had fallen into the hands of vilifiers and
demons. He had brought life, and in return they gave Him the most
ignominious death.

All this was necessary that men should learn again the road to the
earthly Paradise; that they should mount above drunken bestiality and
attain the exaltation of the saints; that they should be resurrected
from their sluggish folly which seems life and is death, to the
magnificence of the Kingdom of Heaven.

The mind may bow before the dreadful mystery of this necessity, but the
heart of men can never forget the price exacted as payment of our debts.
For nineteen hundred years, men born again in Christ, worthy to know
Christ, to love Christ, and to be loved by Him, have wept, at least once
in their lives, at the memory of that day and of that suffering. But all
our tears gathered together like a bitter sea do not compensate for one
of the drops which fell, red and heavy, on Golgotha.

A barbarous king of barbarians pronounced the most vigorous words ever
spoken by Christian lips about that blood. They were reading to Clovis
the story of the Passion, and the fierce King was sighing and weeping
when suddenly, no longer able to contain himself, clapping his hand to
the hilt of his sword, he cried out, “Oh, that I had been there with my
Franks!” Ingenuous words, words of a soldier and of a violent man,
opposed to Christ’s words, spoken to Peter among the olives, but words
beautiful with all the naïve beauty of a candid and virile love. For it
is not enough to weep over Christ who gave more than tears; we must
fight, fight in us everything that divides us from Christ, fight in our
midst all of Christ’s enemies.

For, although millions of men have since wept when thinking of that day,
on that Friday around the cross, all except the women were laughing, and
those men who laughed have left sons and grandsons, many of them
baptized, and they still laugh and their descendants will continue to
laugh until the day when One alone will be able to laugh. If weeping
cannot cancel that blood, what punishment can ever expiate that awful
laughter?

Look at them therefore once more, those who are laughing about the cross
where Jesus hangs pierced by the most agonizing pain. There they are,
clustered on the slopes of Golgotha, dehumanized by hate! Look at them
well, look them in the face, one by one; you will recognize them all,
for they are immortal.

See how they thrust out their twitching muzzles, their scrawny necks,
their noses humped and hooked, their rapacious eyes, gleaming under
their bristling eyebrows. See how hideous they are, branded with the
mark of Cain. Count them over well, for they are all there, just like
the men whom we now know, brothers of the men whom we meet every day in
our streets. Not one is missing.

In the front row there are the priests, with crammed paunches, with arid
hearts, with great hairy ears, with thick-lipped, gaping mouths, craters
of blasphemy. And elbow to elbow with them, the arrogant Scribes,
blear-eyed and scrofulous, their faces of an excremental yellow,
piecers-together of lies, belching out pus and ink. And the Epulones,
thrusting out before them the obscene heaviness of their stuffed
bellies, brutes who trade on hunger, who fatten on famines, who convert
into money the patience of the poor, the beauty of virgins, the sweat of
slaves. And the money-changers, expert in illicit traffic and in
oppression, who live to wrest unlawfully from others; and the knotty
lawyers skillful at turning the law against the innocent. And behind
these high pillars of society, there is the mob of cheating scullions,
of overbearing rascals, of foul-mouthed rogues, of whining beggars, of
filthy knaves, the lower dregs of the population, famished hounds who
eat under the tables and snarl between the legs of whoever does not give
them either a mouthful or a kick.

They are the eternal enemies of Christ—they who celebrated on that day
their infamous Saturnalia; and they have vomited out on Christ’s face
their poisonous saliva, the muddy lees of their souls. This miry dross
of humanity, foul and polluted, vomited out from their filthy hearts
their hatred for Him who was saving them; they howled against Him who
was forgiving them; they insulted Christ who was agonizing for them,
Christ who was dying for them. The antithesis of good and evil,
innocence and infamy, light and darkness, was never presented with such
a dramatic and utter contrast as on that irreparable day.

Nature itself seemed to wish to hide the horror of that sight: the sky,
which all the morning had been clear, suddenly grew dark. A thick cloud,
dark as though it came from the marshes of hell, rose above the hills
and little by little spread to every corner of the horizon. Black clouds
gathered about the sun, that sweet, clear April sun, which had warmed
the hands of the murderers, encircled it, laid siege to it, and finally
covered it with a thick curtain of darkness ... “and there was a
darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour.”

LAMA SABACHTHANI

Many, alarmed by the falling of that mysterious darkness, fled away from
the Hill of the Skull, and went home, silenced. But not all; the air was
calm; no rain fell as yet, and in the obscurity, the three pallid bodies
shone out whitely; many of the spectators wished to sate themselves to
the very last on His agony; why go away from the theater until the
tragedy is finished to the last scream?

And those who remained listened in the darkness to hear if the hated
protagonist would break by some word His groaning death-rattle. Christ’s
sufferings constantly became more intolerable. His body, sensitive and
delicate by nature, exhausted by the tension of these last days,
convulsed by the struggle of the last night, worn out by the tortures of
the last hours, could endure no more. And His spirit suffered even more
than the tortured body which still for a short time was its prison. It
seemed to Him that His divinely youthful soul had become suddenly aged,
and that He was old beyond memory. Everything seemed far-distant from
Him, the companions of His happy days, the confidants of His tenderness,
the poor who looked lovingly at Him, the children whose heads He had
caressed, the healed men and women who could not bring themselves to
leave Him, His Disciples for whom He had created a new soul—they were
all far away. Close to Him there were only a gang of cannibals,
possessed by the devil, eager for Him to die.

Only the women had not deserted Him. On one side at some distance from
the cross, through fear of the howling men, Mary, His mother, Mary
Magdalene, Mary of Cleofa, Salome, mother of James and John—and perhaps
also Joanna of Cusa, and Martha—were present, terrified witnesses of His
death. He still had the strength to confide to John, the dearest and
most sacred inheritance which He left on earth—the Virgin of Sorrows.
But after this, through the veil of His suffering, He saw no one and
believed Himself alone with death, as He had ever been alone at the most
solemn moments of His life. Even the Father seemed suddenly remote,
inexplicably absent. Where was that loving Father to whom He was wont to
speak, sure that He would be answered, would be helped? Why did the
Father not help Him, give some sign of His presence, or at least show
Jesus the mercy of calling Him to God without cruel delay?

And then there was heard in the thick air, in the silence of the
darkness, these words, “Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?” that is to say: “My
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

This was the first verse of a psalm which He had repeated to Himself
many times because He had found there so many presages of His life and
of His death. He no longer had the strength to cry it all aloud as He
had in the desert, but now into His troubled spirit those sorrowing
invocations came back one by one, “My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of
my roaring?... Our fathers trusted in thee: they trusted and thou didst
deliver them. They cried unto thee, and were delivered: ... but I am a
worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. All
that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the
head, saying, He trusted on the Lord that he would deliver him: let him
deliver him, seeing he delighted in him. But thou art he that took me
out of the womb: thou didst make me hope when I was upon my mother’s
breasts. Be not far from me: for trouble is near; for there is none to
help. Many bulls have compassed me: ... they gaped upon me with their
mouths, as a ravening and a roaring lion. I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in
the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd: and my
tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of
death. For dogs have compassed me: the assembly of the wicked have
enclosed me: they pierced my hands and my feet ... they look and stare
upon me. They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my
vesture. But be thou not far from me, O Lord: O my strength, haste thee
to help me.”

The supplications of this prophetic psalm, which recall so closely the
Man of Sorrows of Isaiah, rose from the wounded heart of the crucified
Man as the last expression of His dying humanity. But certain of the
brutes nearest to the cross thought that He was calling Elias, the
immortal prophet, who in the popular imagination was to appear with
Christ. “Behold, He calleth Elias.”

One of the soldiers now took a sponge, soaked it in vinegar, put it on a
reed and held it to the lips of Christ. But the Jews said, “Let alone;
let us see whether Elias will come to take him down.”

The legionary, not wishing to make trouble, laid down the reed. But
after a little—and the time seemed infinitely long in that darkness, in
that suspense, that painful tension—Christ’s voice came down as if from
a great distance, “I thirst.”

The soldier took up the sponge again, dipped it once more in the vessel
full of the mixture of water and vinegar and once more held it to the
parched mouth which had prayed for his forgiveness. And Jesus when He
had taken the vinegar said, “It is finished.”

Christ, who had satisfied so many times the thirst of others, and who
left in the world an ever-springing fountain of life, where the weary
find strength, the corrupt find their youth, and the restless find
peace, Christ had always suffered with an unsatisfied thirst for love.
And even now in the terrible burning of His fever, His thirst was not
for water but for a pitying word which would break the oppression of His
desolate solitude. Instead of the pure water of the Galilean brooks,
instead of the heart-warming wine of the Last Supper, the Roman soldier
gave Him a little of his acid drink, but the prompt and kindly act of
that obscure slave quenched His thirst, because, although reeling in the
darkness of death, He felt that a human heart had pitied His heart.

If a stranger who had never seen Him before that day had done this,
although so small a thing, through compassion for Him, it was a sign
that the Father had not abandoned Him. The cup was finished: all the
bitterness was drunk. Eternity began. With His last strength He cried
with a loud voice in the darkness: “Father, into thy hands I commend my
spirit!”

I called Thee because it seemed to me in the darkness of my suffering
that Thou hadst left me. But now Thou hast answered. Thou hast answered
by means of this poor soldier; Thou hast answered with the peace which
dulls the last pangs of my death, the death which brings me to my
awakening with Thee. It is not true that Thou hadst abandoned me. When I
called Thee it was not I who spoke but that human blood burning in my
veins, and dropping from the nails. I know that Thou art present with
me, one with me to all eternity: Thou art my Father and I Thy Son. Into
what dearer and surer hands could I commend my soul?

And Jesus, after he had cried out with a loud voice, bowed His head and
gave up the spirit. That loud cry, so powerful that it freed the soul
from the flesh, rang out of the darkness and lost itself in the
furthermost ends of the earth. Matthew tells us that “the veil of the
temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did
quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened, and many bodies
of the saints which slept arose, and appeared unto many.” But the hearts
of the spectators were harder than rocks; none of those dead souls who
wore the outward aspect of life were reanimated at that supreme summons.

Nineteen hundred years have passed from the day when the earth echoed to
that cry, and men have intensified the tumult of their lives that they
may drown it out. But in the fog and smoke of our cities, in the
darkness, ever more profound where men light the fires of their
wretchedness, that despairing cry of joy and of liberation, that
prodigious cry which eternally summons every one of us, still rings in
the heart of every man who has not forced himself to forget.

Christ was dead. He had died on the cross in the manner which men had
willed, which the Son had chosen, to which the Father had consented. The
death-struggle was over and the Jews were satisfied. He had expiated all
up to the last, and now He was dead. Now our own expiation begins—and it
is not yet finished.

WATER AND BLOOD

Christ was dead, as the leaders of His people had wished, but not even
His last cry had awakened them. Some of them, says Luke, went away
smiting their breasts; but were there within those breasts hearts which
truly felt for the great heart which had stopped beating? They did not
speak, they hurried home to their supper,—perhaps it was more terror
than love which they were feeling.

But a foreigner, the Centurion, Petronius, who had been the silent
witness of the execution, was moved, and from his pagan mouth came the
words of Claudia Procula, “Certainly this was a righteous man.”

He did not even know the true name of the man who was dead, but he was
sure at least that He was no evildoer. He was the third Roman witness in
favor of the innocence of Christ, who was to become, through the
Apostles, eternally Roman.

The Jews had no thought of recantations. What was in their minds was the
thought that the Passover would be spoiled if the bloody corpses were
not carried away at once. Evening was close at hand and with the setting
of the sun the great Sabbath began. Therefore they sent word to Pilate
to have the condemned men’s legs broken at once and to have them buried.
The breaking of the legs was one of the cruel discoveries of cruelty to
shorten the sufferings of crucified men,—a sort of grace useful in cases
of haste. The soldiers, when they had received the order, came up to the
bad thief, who, more robust than his companions, was still alive, and
they broke his legs with a club.

They had seen Jesus die, and they could save themselves the trouble of
using the club, but John says that one of them, to make quite sure,
pierced His side with a spear, and saw with astonishment that water and
blood came out from the wound. The name of this soldier according to an
old tradition was Longinus, and it is said that some drops of that blood
fell upon his eyes which had been infected, and immediately cured them.
The history of martyrs tells of him that Longinus believed in Christ
from that day on, and was a monk for twenty-eight years at Cæsarea until
he was murdered because of his faith. Claudia Procula, the pious
legionary, who for the last time wet the lips of the dying man, the
Centurion, Petronius, and Longinus were the first Gentiles who accepted
Jesus on the very day when Jerusalem had cast Him out.

But not all the Jews had forgotten Him. Now that He was dead, really
dead, now that He was cold like all dead men, and motionless like any
other corpse, now that He was a silent, harmless, quiet corpse, a body
with no soul, a silent mouth, a heart which beat no more, see how they
come out from the houses where they had shut themselves in, the friends
of the twenty-fifth hour, the tepid followers, the secret disciples, the
anonymous admirers, who at night hide their light under a bushel, and
when the sun shines, disappear. We have all known friends like these,
cautious souls, trembling at the idea of what people will say, who
follow you but from afar; receive you—but when no one can see you
together; esteem you—but do not so much as admit this esteem to others;
love you—but not so much as to lose a single hour of sleep or a single
miserable penny to help you! But when death comes, even when it comes
through the fault or the avarice, or the cowardice of such despicable
men, then their celebration begins. They are the ones who weep more
tears and more glittering tears than any one else. They are the ones who
weave together with busy hands the flowers of the wreaths and the
flowers of funereal rhetoric; and with enthusiasm and ardor become
necrologists, epitaph writers, and memorialists. To see them you would
think that the deceased had had no more faithful, no more loving
companions than they, and good-hearted people are moved to compassion
for those unfortunate survivors who seem to have lost a half, or at the
very least, a quarter of their souls.

To His sorrow in life and in death Christ had many friends of this sort,
and two of them stepped forward in that Good Friday twilight. They were
two serious and worthy citizens, two notables of Jerusalem and of the
Council, two rich lords, in short two members of the Sanhedrin; Joseph
of Arimathea and Nicodemus.

In order not to stain their hands with the blood of Jesus, they had kept
away from the meeting of the Sanhedrin and had hidden themselves in
their houses, heaving regretful sighs, perhaps, and thinking that they
could thus save their reputation and their conscience. But they did not
reflect that even passive complicity was active help to the assassins,
and that to abstain from opposition, not even to voice their opposition,
was equivalent to consenting. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus had
therefore taken part in the murder of Christ, although they had been
absent and invisible, and their posthumous grief can diminish but by no
means cancel their responsibility.

But in the evening when they ran no risk of offending their colleagues,
when the Elders had received full satisfaction and had left Golgotha,
when there was no danger of compromising themselves in the eyes of high
clerical and middle-class society, since the dead man was dead and could
harm no one, the two nocturnal disciples, hidden, “for fear of the
Jews,” thought that they would diminish their remorse by providing for
the burial of the executed man.

The bolder of the two, Joseph, “... went in boldly unto Pilate” (Mark
noted the fact as remarkable for that toga-clad rabbit) and asked for
the body of Jesus. Pilate was astonished that He should already be dead,
since crucified men often lived for two days—and called in Petronius,
who had been charged with the execution. After Pilate had heard his
report, he “gave” the body to the Sanhedrist. The Procurator was
generous on that day because as a rule the Roman officers forced the
families of condemned men to pay for the corpses. He could not say no to
a person so respectable, and rich into the bargain. Possibly, too, this
free gift came as much from weariness as from generosity. They had
annoyed him all the morning with that troublesome King, and now he had
no peace even when He was dead!

When Joseph had received permission he took a fine white winding-sheet
and linen bands, and went towards the Hill of the Skull. There, or on
the way there, he met Nicodemus, who, having the same character, may
have been his friend, and who had come with the same thought. Nicodemus
also had not spared expense, and had brought with him on the shoulders
of a servant a hundred pounds of a mixture of myrrh and aloes.

And when they came to the cross, while the soldiers were taking down the
two thieves to throw them into the common grave of condemned men, they
prepared themselves to take down the body of Jesus.

PERFUMES IN THE ROCK

What little light had penetrated the dark cloud disappeared with the
setting of the sun. The darkness was thick and sinister. A black night
was shutting down on the world which on that day had lost the only Being
which could give it light. Against the scarcely visible whiteness of the
Hill of the Skull, the naked corpses glimmered dimly. They were obliged
to work by the red light of torches, flaming without smoke in that
windless air, and by that blood-red light they could see clearly, even
to the long streaks of blood which had run down the foot of the cross,
to the newly stirred earth.

Joseph, aided by Nicodemus and by a third helper, was scarcely able to
draw out the deep-driven nails which held the feet. The ladder was still
there. One of them, climbing up on it, took out the nails from the
hands, supporting the loosened body with his shoulder. The others helped
him to lower down the corpse, and the body was placed on the knees of
the Virgin of Sorrows who had borne Him. Then they all made their way
towards a garden near by where there was a sepulcher destined for Jesus.
The garden belonged to the rich Joseph, who had had the sepulcher hewn
out of the stone for himself and his family, for in those days every
well-to-do Jew had a family sepulcher far from all the others, and the
dead were not condemned to the promiscuity of our administrative
cemeteries; temporary, geometric, and democratic like all our modern
magnificent barbarisms.

As soon as they had arrived at the garden, the two bearers of the dead
had water brought from the well, and washed the body. Until then the
women, the three Marys—the Virgin Mary, the contemplative Mary, the
liberated Mary—had not moved from the place where He whom they loved had
died. Now, defter and more skillful than men, they began to help in
order that this burial, performed thus at night and in haste, would not
be unworthy of Him for whom they wept. They lifted from His head the
insulting crown of Pilate’s legionaries, and plucked out the thorns
which had penetrated the skin: they were the ones to smooth and arrange
the hair clotted with blood; and to close the eyes into which they had
looked so many times with pure tenderness, and that mouth which they had
never kissed. Many loving tears fell upon that face where in the calm
paleness of death the old sweetness shone once more, and their tears
washed it with water purer than that from Joseph’s well.

All His body was sullied with sweat, with dust, with blood; bloody serum
oozed out from the wounds of the hands, of the feet, of the chest. When
the washing was finished, the corpse was sprinkled with Nicodemus’
spices, and that without sparing, for they were abundant; even the black
wounds left by the nails were filled with spices. The body of Jesus had
received nothing but insults and blows after the evening when the
sinning woman with a premonition of this day had poured nard upon the
feet and upon the head of the Pardoner. But now, as then, the murdered
white body was covered with perfumes and with tears sweeter than
perfumes.

Then, when the hundred pounds of Nicodemus had covered Jesus with a
fragrant pall, the winding sheet was tied about the body with long linen
bands, the head was wrapped in a napkin and another white cloth was
spread over the face, after they had all kissed Him on the forehead.

There was space but for one body in the open sepulcher. Recently made,
it had never been used. Joseph of Arimathea, not able to save Christ
alive in any of his houses, now that the fury of the world had died
down, gave up to Him the dark subterranean habitation hewn in the rock,
and intended for his own dead body. According to the ritual the two
Sanhedrists recited aloud the mortuary psalm, and finally, after they
had placed the white-wrapped body in the cave, they closed the opening
with a great stone and went away silently, followed by the others.

But the women did not follow them. They could not bring themselves to
leave that rock which separated them forever from Him whom they loved
more than their beauty. How could they leave Him alone in the darkness,
doubly black, of the night and of the tomb, He who had been so
desperately alone in His long death agony? They whispered prayers, and
recalled to each other the memory of a day, or a gesture, or a word of
the loved one, and if one of them tried to comfort another, the second
but sobbed more bitterly. Sometimes they called Him by name as they
leaned against the rock, and spoke lovingly to Him now that His ears
were closed in death, as they had not dared while He was alive. They
poured out, at last in the damp black shade of the garden, that love
greater than love, which their poor, limited human hearts could no
longer hold back.

Then finally, chilled and terrified by the night’s blackness, they too
went away, their eyes burning, stumbling amid the bushes and the stones,
promising one another to return there as soon as the feast-day had
passed.

HE IS NOT HERE

The sun had not yet risen on the day which for us is Sunday, when the
women once more drew near to the garden; but over the eastern hills a
white hope, light as the distant reflection of an earth clothed with
lilies and silver, rose slowly in the midst of the throbbing
constellations, vanquishing little by little the sparkling brilliance of
the night. It was one of those calm dawns, suggesting innocents asleep,
and the clear benign air seemed stirred as by a recent stir of angels’
wings. It seemed one of the virginal days, ushered in with transparent
pallor, shy and cheerful with cool breezes.

In the half light, the women advanced, breathed upon by wandering airs,
lost in their sadness, under the spell of an emotion they could not have
explained. Were they returning to weep upon the rock? Or to see Him once
more, He who had captured their hearts without laying them waste? Or to
put about the body of the Immaculate One spices stronger than those of
Nicodemus? And speaking among themselves, they said, “Who shall roll us
away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?”

There were four of them, since Joanna of Cusa and Salome had joined Mary
of Magdala and Mary of Bethany, but they were women and weakened by
their sorrow.

But when they came to the rock they stood still, astounded. The opening
into the sepulcher showed black against the darkness. Not believing her
eyes, the boldest of them touched the sill with her trembling hands. In
the daylight, brightening now with every moment, they saw the stone
there beside them, leaning against the rocks.

The women, struck into silence by their fright, turned around as if
expecting some one to come to tell them what had happened in those two
nights which had passed. Mary of Magdala feared at once that the Jews,
not satisfied with what they had made Him suffer when He was alive, had
stolen away the body of Christ; or perhaps, unwilling to have the
honorable sepulcher used by a heretic, they had thrown Him into the
shameful common grave used for men stoned and crucified.

But this was no more than a presentiment. Perhaps Jesus was still lying
inside in His perfumed wrappings. Enter they dared not, yet they could
not bear to go away, not knowing what had happened. As soon as the sun,
risen at last above the summit of the hills, shone into the opening of
the sepulcher, they took courage and entered.

At first they saw nothing, but they were shaken by a new fear. At their
right, seated, was a young man clothed in a long white garment, showing
in that darkness like snow. He seemed to be awaiting them.

“Be not affrighted: he is not here: for he is risen. Why seek ye the
living among the dead? Remember how he spake unto you when he was yet in
Galilee, Saying, The Son of man must be delivered into the hands of
sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again.”

The women listened, terrified and trembling, not able to answer, but the
youth went on, “Go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from
the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye
see him.”

All four of them, quivering with terror and joy, left the grotto to
hasten where they had been sent. But after a few steps, when they were
almost outside the garden, Mary of Magdala stopped, and the others went
along the road towards the city without waiting for her. She herself did
not know why she had remained behind. Perhaps the words of the unknown
youth had not convinced her, and she remembered that they had not even
made sure that the sepulcher was really empty; perhaps the youth in
white was an accomplice of the priests who wished to deceive them?

Suddenly she turned and saw a man near her, outlined against the green
of the garden, and the sunlight; but she did not recognize Him even when
He spoke. “Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou?”

Mary thought that it might be Joseph’s gardener come early to his work.
“Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have
laid him. Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast
laid him, and I will take him away.”

The unknown man, touched by this impassioned candor, by this child-like
simplicity, answered only one word, spoke only one name, her name,
pronounced longingly, wistfully in the touching and unforgettable voice
which had called her so many times: “Mary!”

At this, as if awakened with a start, the despairing woman found her
lost Master: “Rabboni, Master!” And she fell at His feet in the dewy
grass and clasped in her hands those bare feet still showing the two red
marks of the nails.

But Jesus said to her, “Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my
Father: but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my
Father, and your Father; and to my God, and to your God.”

And at once, He withdrew from the kneeling woman, and moved away among
the plants, crowned with sunshine.

Mary watched Him until He had disappeared; then she lifted herself up
from the grass, her face convulsed, wild, blind with joy, and ran after
her companions.

They had but just come to the house where the Disciples were in hiding
and they had told hastily and breathlessly the incredible news: the
sepulcher opened, the youth clad in white, the things which he had said,
the Master risen, the message to His brothers.

But the men, still stunned by the catastrophe, and who in these
dangerous days had shown themselves more torpid and passive than the
weaker women, were not willing to believe this wildly improbable news.
Hallucinations, women’s dreams, they said. How could He be risen from
the dead after only two days? He had said that He would return, but not
at once: so many terrible things were to be seen before that day of His
return!

They believed in the resurrection of the Master, but not before the day
when all the dead would rise again, and He would come in glory to rule
His kingdom. But not now: it was too soon, it could not be true: waking
dreams of hysteric women!

But in the meantime, Mary of Magdala rushed in, breathless with haste
and agitation. What the others had said was all true. But there was
more: she herself had seen Him with her own eyes, and He had spoken to
her, and she had not known Him at once, but had recognized Him as soon
as He had called her by name: she had touched His feet with her hands,
had seen the wounds on His feet; it was He, alive once more; and He had
told her, as had the unknown youth, to go to His brethren, so that they
should know that He had risen from the dead as He had promised.

Simon and John, finally aroused, rushed out of the house and began to
run towards Joseph’s garden. John, who was younger, outran Peter and
came first to the sepulcher. He looked through the door, saw the linen
cloths lying on the ground, but did not go in. Simon came up panting and
rushed into the grotto. The linen cloths were lying on the ground, but
the napkin which had been about the head of the corpse was folded and
wrapped together in a place by itself. John also went in, saw, and
believed. And without another word they returned in all haste towards
the house, still running, as if they expected to find the Risen One in
the midst of the others whom they had left.

But Jesus, after He had left Mary, withdrew from Jerusalem.

EMMAUS

After the solemn interval of the Passover, plain, ordinary everyday life
began again for all men.

Two friends of Jesus, among those who were in the house with the
Disciples, were to go that morning on an errand to Emmaus, a hamlet
about two hours’ journey from Jerusalem. They left as soon as Simon and
John had returned from the sepulcher. All these amazing tales had shaken
them somewhat, but had not really convinced them of an event so
portentous and unexpected. Serious-minded men, they could not understand
or believe what they had heard: if the body of the Master was no longer
there, might it not have been taken away by men’s hands?

Cleopas and his companion were good Jews, men who left a place for the
ideal in their minds, burdened with many material cares. But this place
for the ideal was not to be too large, and this ideal must be
commensurate with their own natures if it were not to be expelled as an
unwelcome guest. Like almost all the Disciples, they too expected the
coming of a Liberator, but of one who would come to liberate Israel
first of all,—a Messiah, in short, who should be the son of David rather
than the Son of God, a warrior on horseback rather than a poor
pedestrian, a scourge of His enemies and not a lover of sick people and
children. The words of Christ had almost given them a glimpse of higher
truths, but the crucifixion disheartened them. They loved Jesus, and
they suffered in His suffering, but this sudden, shameful ending without
glory and without resistance was too great a contrast to what they had
expected, and especially to much of what they had hoped. They could
understand that He might be a humble Saviour, riding on gentle asses
instead of on warlike chargers, and a little more spiritual and gentle
than they would have liked; they could understand this, although with
difficulty, and endure it although grudgingly. But that the Liberator
had not known how to free either Himself or others, that the Messiah of
the Jews should have died through the will of so many Jews on the
scaffold of murderers and parricides, was too great a disappointment,—an
inexcusable scandal. They pitied the crucified leader with all their
hearts, but at the same time they were tempted to believe that they had
been deceived about His real nature. His death—and what a death!—looked
to their narrow, practical minds sadly like a failure.

They were reasoning together of all these things as they went along
under the warm noonday sun and at times the discussion grew hot, for
they did not always agree. Then suddenly they caught a glimpse of a
shadow on the ground near them. They turned around. The shadow was that
of a man who was following as if he wished to hear what they were
saying. They stopped, as was the custom, to greet him, and the traveler
joined them. His did not seem an unknown face to the two men, but look
at him as they might, they could not think who it was. The newcomer,
instead of answering their silent questions, asked them, “What manner of
communications are these that ye have one to another, as ye walk?”

Cleopas, who must have been the older, answered with a wondering
gesture, “Art thou only a stranger in Jerusalem, and hast not known the
things which are come to pass there in these days?”

“What things?” asked the unknown man.

“Concerning Jesus of Nazareth, which was a prophet mighty in deed and
word before God and all the people: And how the chief priests and our
rulers delivered him to be condemned to death, and have crucified him.
But we trusted that it had been he which should have redeemed Israel:
and beside all this, to-day is the third day since these things were
done. Yea, and certain women also of our company made us astonished,
which were early at the sepulchre; And when they found not his body,
they came, saying, that they had also seen a vision of angels, which
said that he was alive. And certain of them which were with us went to
the sepulchre and found it even so as the women had said: but him they
saw not.”

“O fools, and slow of heart,” exclaimed the stranger, “to believe all
that the prophets have spoken: Ought not Christ to have suffered these
things, and to enter into his glory?” Do you not remember how He was
predicted from Moses down to our own time? Have you not read Ezekiel and
Daniel? Do you not even know our songs of the Lord and His promises?

And almost indignantly He recited the old words and the prophecies,
recalled the description of the Man of Sorrows given by Isaiah. The two
listened, docile and attentive, without answering, because the newcomer
spoke with so much heat, and the old admonitions in His mouth took on
new warmth and a meaning so clear that it seemed almost impossible that
they had not understood them before. The talk of the newcomer gave them
the impression of being the echo of other talks like those heard in
times past, but confusedly, like a voice from the other side of a wall.

In the meantime they had arrived at the entrance of Emmaus, and the
pilgrim made as though He would have gone further. But now the two
friends were not willing to part with their mysterious companion, and
they begged Him to stay with them. The sun was going down, throwing a
warmer golden light on the countryside, and their three shadows had
lengthened on the dusty road.

“Abide with us,” they said, “for it is toward evening, and the day is
far spent.” Also thou art tired and it is the hour for food. And they
took Him by the hand and made Him come into the house where they were
going.

When they were at table, the guest who sat between them took bread, and
broke it and gave a little to one of His friends. At this action, the
eyes of Cleopas and the other man were opened, as when we are suddenly
wakened and find the sun shining. Both of them sprang to their feet,
trembling with emotion, pale, amazed, and finally knew Him, the murdered
man whom they had misunderstood and slandered. But they had no time even
to run to kiss Him, for Jesus vanished out of their sight.

They had not recognized Him when they had seen Him, not even by His
speech, although that was so like His speech in His lifetime; they had
not recognized Him even by the light of His eyes while He spoke, nor by
the sound of His voice! But when He took the bread in His hands, like a
father who shares it with His children in the evening after a day of
work or of travel, in that loving action which they had seen Him perform
so many times in their hastily arranged intimate suppers, they had
recognized His hands, His blessed and wounded hands, and the cloud
lifted and they found themselves face to face with the splendor of
Christ risen from the dead. In His first life when He was their friend
they had not understood Him; when on the road to Emmaus He had taught
them, they had not recognized Him, but at the moment when He became the
loving Master, serving His servants and giving them bread which is life
and the hope of life, then for the first time they saw Him.

And tired and fasting as they were, they went back over the road which
they had come, and after nightfall arrived at Jerusalem.

And as they went along they said almost shamefacedly, “Did not our heart
burn within us, while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened
to us the scriptures?”

The Disciples were still awake. Without drawing breath the newcomers
told of their encounter and what had been said along the way, and how
they had recognized Him only at the moment when He broke the bread. And
in answer to this new confirmation, three or four voices cried out
together, “The Lord is risen indeed, and hath appeared to Simon!”

But not all the Apostles were convinced even by these four appearances,
by the fourfold testimony. To some, this prompt, this extraordinary
resurrection, which had taken place by night in a secret and suspicious
manner, seemed more the hallucination of grief and of yearning than
actual truth. Who were the people who claimed to have seen Him? A
hysterical woman who had been possessed by a devil; a distraught man who
had not seemed himself from the moment when he had denied his Master;
and two plain fellows who were not even His real Disciples, and whom
Jesus had thus chosen, no one knew why, in preference to His closer
friends. Mary might have been deceived by a phantom; Simon, to win back
his self-respect after his baseness, was determined to do no less than
Mary; the others were perhaps impostors or, at the most, visionaries. If
Christ were really risen, would not He have been seen by them all while
they were together? Why these preferences? Why this appearance at
three-score furlongs from Jerusalem?

They believed in His resurrection, but they thought of it as one of the
signs of the ending of the world, when everything would be fulfilled.
But now that they found themselves confronted with the fact that He
alone had risen from the dead while everyday life went on as usual, they
realized that the return into life of human flesh (and of human flesh
which had not gone to sleep peacefully in the last sleep, but whose life
had been torn away by violence), that this idea of rising from the dead
not in the distant future but in the immediate present, contradicted all
the other concepts which made up the tissue of their minds. They
realized that this contradiction had always existed, but their doubt had
not risen to consciousness until this brusque encounter of two
impossible elements: a remote miracle and an actual fact.

If Jesus had risen from the dead, that would mean that He was really
God; but would a real God, a Son of God, ever have been reconciled to
allow Himself to be killed, and in so shameful a way? If He could
conquer death, why had He not stricken down the judges, put Pilate to
confusion, paralyzed the arms of those about to nail Him to the cross?
Through what paradoxical mystery had the Omnipotent allowed Himself to
be dragged through the ignominy of the weak?

They were reasoning thus among themselves, some of the Disciples who had
heard but had not understood. Prudent like all sophists, they did not
venture openly to deny the resurrection in the presence of those exalted
hearts, but they reserved judgment, turning over in their minds the
reasons for its possibility and impossibility, wishing for a manifest
confirmation, but unable to hope for one.

In the excitement of the day no one had eaten. But the women had
prepared supper, and now all sat down to the table. Simon remembered the
Last Thursday: “This do in remembrance of me.”

And a flood of tears dimmed his eyes while he broke the bread and gave
it to his friends.

HAVE YE HERE ANY MEAT?

They had scarcely eaten the last mouthfuls when Jesus appeared in the
doorway, tall and pale. He looked at them one by one, and in His
melodious voice greeted them: “Peace be unto you.”

No one answered. Their astonishment overcame their joy, even for those
who had already seen Him since His death. On their faces the Man risen
from the dead read the doubt which He knew they all felt, the question
which they did not dare express in words, “Art Thou really Thyself a
living man, or a spirit which comes from the caverns of the dead to
tempt us?”

“Why are ye troubled?” said the Man who had been betrayed, “and why do
thoughts arise in your hearts? Behold my hands and my feet, that it is
I, myself: handle me, and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as
ye see me have.”

And He stretched out His hands towards them, showed them the marks still
bloody left by the nails, opened His garment over His breast so that
they could see the mark of the lance in His side. Some of them, rising
from their couches, knelt down and saw on His bare feet the two deep
wounds, each with its livid ring around it.

But they could not bring themselves to touch Him, for they feared to see
Him disappear suddenly as He had come suddenly. If one of them had
embraced Him, would he have felt the warm solidity of a body, or would
his arms have passed through the emptiness of a mere shadow?

It was He with His face, with His voice, with the irrefutable traces of
the crucifixion, and yet there was something changed in His aspect which
they could not have described, even if they had been calm. The most
reluctant were forced to believe that the Master stood before them with
all the appearance of life begun anew, but their thoughts whirled in the
last of their doubts and they were silent as if they were afraid to
believe in their senses, as if they expected to wake up, from one moment
to another. Even Simon was silent. What could he have said without
betraying himself by tears to Him who had looked at him with those same
eyes in the courtyard of Caiaphas while he swore that he had never known
Him?

To make an end of their last doubts, Jesus asked, “Have ye here any
meat?”

He needed no longer any food except that for which He had vainly asked
all His life. But these men of the flesh needed a fleshly proof, a
material demonstration as was befitting those who believed only in
matter and nourished themselves only on matter. They had eaten together
on their last evening; this evening also, now that they were again
together, He would eat with them. “Have ye here any meat?”

A piece of broiled fish was left in a dish. Simon put it before the
Master, who sat down at the table and ate the fish with a piece of bread
while they all stared at Him as though it were the first time they had
ever seen Him eat.

And when He had finished, He raised His eyes towards them, and, “Are you
convinced now, or do you still not understand: does it seem possible to
you that a spirit can eat as I have eaten here in your presence? So many
times I have been forced to reprove your hardness of heart, and your
little faith! And behold you are still as you were at first, and you
were not willing to believe those who had seen me, and yet I had hid
nothing of what was to happen in these days. But you, deaf and
forgetful, hear and then forget, read and do not understand. When I was
with you, did I not tell you that all things which were written and
which I announced must be fulfilled; that it behooved Christ to suffer
and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and
remission of sins should be preached in His name among all nations,
beginning at Jerusalem? Now you are witnesses of these things, and
behold I send the promise of my Father upon you. Go ye into all the
world and preach the gospel to every creature. All power is given unto
me in heaven and on earth, and as the Father sent me, I send you. Go ye
therefore and teach all nations, teaching them to observe all things
whatsoever I have commanded you. He that believeth and is baptized shall
be saved, but he that believeth not shall be damned. I will remain here
a little and we shall meet again in Galilee, but I am with you always
even unto the end of the world.”

Little by little as He spoke, His Disciples’ faces lighted up with a
forgotten hope, and their eyes shone with exaltation. This was the hour
of consolation after the gloom of those dreadful days just passed. His
indubitable presence showed that the impossible was assured, that God
had not abandoned them and never would abandon them. Their enemies,
apparently victorious, were conquered; the visible truth bore out all
the prophecies. It was true that they had known already everything He
was then saying, but those truths really lived in them only when His
lips repeated them.

Their King had come back, the Kingdom was near at hand, and His
brothers, instead of being derided and persecuted, would reign with Him
through all eternity. These words had fired again the most tepid, had
brightened the memory of other words, of other sunnier days, and
suddenly they felt an exaltation, an ardor, a greater desire to embrace
each other, to love each other, never more to be separated from each
other. If the Master was risen from the dead, they themselves could not
die; if He could leave the sepulcher, His promises were the promises of
a God and He would fulfill them to the uttermost. Their faith was not in
vain, and they were no longer alone: the crucifixion had been the
darkening of one day in order that the light might shine out more
splendidly for all the days to come.

THOMAS DIDYMUS

Thomas, called Didymus, was not present when Jesus appeared, but the day
after, his friends ran to seek him, still agitated by what Jesus had
said. “We have seen the Lord!” they said. “It was really He. He talked
with us. He ate with us like a living man.”

Thomas was one of those who had been profoundly shaken by the shame of
Golgotha. He had said once that he was ready to die with his Master, but
he had fled away with the others when the lanterns of the guard had
appeared on the Mount of Olives. His faith had been darkened by the
gloom which had shut down on Golgotha. In spite of Christ’s warnings, he
had never once thought that the end of his Master could be thus. To
think of the shame into which Jesus let himself be led, with the
passivity of a feeble sheep, made him suffer, almost more than the loss
of Him who had loved him. This disappointment of all his hopes had
shocked him almost as though he had discovered that he had been cheated,
and in his eyes his disappointment excused even the shame of their
abandoning Him. Thomas, like Cleopas and his comrades, was a sensualist,
whom the exalted example of Christ had lifted high into a world which
was not his own. Faith had taken him unawares, like a contagious fervor.
But as soon as the flame which had kindled him anew every day was
buried, or seemed buried, under the shameful stoning of hate, the light
of his soul burned low, and grew cold. He took on again his first
character, his real character, which sought tangible things with the
senses, hoped for material changes in matter, and expected to find only
in material things material certainties and consolations. His eyes
refused to look at the things which his hands could not touch, and for
this he was condemned never to see the invisible,—a grace reserved only
for those who believe it possible. He hoped for the Kingdom, especially
when the words and the presence of Jesus brightened his earthly heart
with the light of Heaven, but not for a purely spiritual Kingdom
floating in the firmament among the unsubstantial islands of the clouds,
but a kingdom where living, warm-blooded men might have eaten and drunk
at solid and tangible tables, might govern with new laws a fairer earth
assigned to them by God.

Thomas, after the scandal of the crucifixion, was not at all disposed to
believe a hearsay report of the resurrection. He had seen his first
beliefs too roughly disabused to put any faith now in his equally
deceived companions. And he answered to those who joyfully brought him
the news, “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.”

He had said at first, “Except I shall see.” But he corrected himself at
once: even his eyes could deceive him, and many men were cheated by
visions. And his thoughts went on to a material test, to the coarse,
brutal proof of fact,—to put his finger there where the nails had been,
to put his hand, his whole hand, where the lance had penetrated. To do
as a blind man does who sometimes is less mistaken than men who see.

He rejected faith which is the higher vision of the soul. He even
refused to have faith in the sight of his eyes, the most divine of our
bodily senses. He put his faith only in his hands, flesh handling flesh.
This double denial left him in the dark, groping like a blind man, until
the Light made Man, through a supreme loving concession, gave him back
light for his eyes and for his heart.

But this answer of Thomas has made him one of the most famous men in the
world: for it is Christ’s eternal characteristic to immortalize even
those men who affronted Him. All those afraid to touch spiritual
concepts for fear of breaking them, all cheap skeptics, all the misers
in academic chairs, all tepid half-wits stuffed with prejudices, all the
faint-hearted, sophists, the cynics, the beggars and the retort-cleaners
of science; in short all rush-lights jealous of the sun, all geese
hissing at the flight of soaring falcons, have chosen for their
protector and patron Thomas called Didymus. They know nothing of him
except this: he does not believe in what he cannot touch. This answer
seems to them the sum-total of perfect good sense. Let anybody who
wishes claim that he sees in the darkness, hears in the silence, speaks
in solitude, lives in death; the followers of Thomas can get no such
idea into their thick, dense heads. So-called “reality” is their
stronghold, and they will not budge from it. They prefer to fill their
lives with gold which satisfies no hunger, with land in which they will
occupy so small a cavity, with glory so fleeting a whisper in the
silence of eternity, with flesh which is to become worm-eaten
corruption, and with those noisy, magic discoveries which after
enslaving men hurry them towards the formidable discovery of death.
These and other things like them are “real things,” beloved by the
devotees of Thomas. But perhaps if they had ever had the idea of reading
what happened after that answer made by Thomas, they would have their
doubts even of him who doubted the resurrection.

A week later, the Disciples were in the same house as on the first
occasion and Thomas was with them. He had hoped all that week that he
also might be permitted to see the risen Master, and sometimes he had
trembled, thinking that his answer might be the reason for Christ’s
absence; but suddenly there came a voice at the door, “Peace be unto
you.”

Jesus entered, his eyes seeking out Thomas: He came for Thomas, for him
alone, because Christ’s love for him was greater than any affront. And
He called him by name and came up to him so that he could see Him
clearly, face to face, “Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands;
and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not
faithless, but believing.”

But Thomas did not obey Him. He dared not put his finger in the nail
print nor his hand in the wound. He only said to him: “My Lord and my
God.”

With these words which seemed an ordinary greeting, Thomas admitted his
defeat, fairer than any victory; and from that moment he was wholly
Christ’s. Up to that time he had revered Him as a man more perfect than
others, now he recognized Him as God, as his God.

Then Jesus, who could not forget Thomas’ doubt, answered, “Thomas,
because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that
have not seen, and yet have believed.”

This is the last of the Beatitudes and the greatest: blessed are they
that have not seen and yet have believed, for in spite of the theories
of the dissectors of corpses, the only truths which have an absolute
value in reality are those which the eyes of the flesh cannot see and
hands of flesh and blood can never handle. These truths come from on
high and reach the soul directly: the man whose soul is locked shut
cannot receive them, and will see them only on the day in which his
body, with its five limited doorways, is like a shabby worn-out garment
left upon a bed, in the interval before men hide it underground like a
noisome afterbirth.

Thomas is one of the saints and yet he was not one of those blest by
that Beatitude. An old legend relates that up to the day of his death
his hand was red with blood, a legend true with all the truth of a
terrible symbolical meaning, if we understand from it that incredulity
can be a form of murder. The world is full of such assassins who have
begun by assassinating their own souls.

THE REJECTION OF THE RESURRECTION

Christ’s first companions were at last convinced that His second and
eternal life had begun. He who had been killed, who had slept as a
corpse sleeps, covered with the perfumes of Nicodemus and the
winding-sheet of Joseph, had after two days awakened like a God. But how
long it took them to admit the reality of His return!

And yet the enemies of Christ, to make an end to the greatest obstacles
in the way of their other negations, have accused those very astonished,
perplexed Disciples with having willingly or unwillingly invented the
myth of the resurrection. Caiaphas and his followers claimed that the
Disciples carried off the body by night and then spread around the news
of the empty sepulcher in order that weak-headed mystics might more
readily believe that Christ was risen and thus allow those cheats to
continue their pestiferous trickery in the name of the dead Trickster.
And Matthew says that the Jews bought some witnesses with “large money”
that if needful they should report that they had seen Simon and his
accomplices violate the sepulcher and carry away on their shoulders a
heavy burden wrapped in white.

But His modern enemies, through a last remnant of respect for those who
founded with their blood the indestructible Church, or rather through
their profound conviction of the simple-mindedness of the first martyrs,
have given up this idea of deceit. Neither Simon nor the others could
have acted out such a deception; they never could have kept such a piece
of trickery straight in their poor thick heads. But if they were not
consciously deceiving, they were certainly stupid victims of their own
fancy or of the knavery of others.

These enemies of Christ affirm that the Disciples hoped so vividly to
see Jesus rise from the dead as He had promised, and that the
resurrection was so urgently needed to counteract the disgrace of the
crucifixion, that they were induced, almost forced, to expect it and to
announce it as imminent. Then in that atmosphere of superstitious
suspense, the vision of a hysterical woman, the hallucination of a
dreamer, the delusion of an unbalanced man sufficed to spread the news
of the appearance of Christ about the little circle of the desolate
survivors. Some of them, unable to believe that the Master had deceived
them, easily put their faith in the affirmations of those who claimed to
have seen Him after His death. And, by dint of repeating the fantasies
of these wild dreams, they ended by taking them seriously themselves and
by convincing the more candid souls. Only on condition of such a
posthumous confirmation of the divinity of the dead man was it possible
to hold together those who had followed Him and to create the first
stable organization of the universal Church.

But those who with their accusations of stupidity or fraud try to
undermine the certainty of the first Christian generation, forget too
many things and too many essential things.

First of all is the testimony of Paul. Saul the Pharisee had been to
school to Gamaliel, and might have been present, even though at a
distance and as an enemy, at Christ’s death, and certainly knew all the
theories of his early teachers, the Jews, about the pretended
resurrection. But Paul, who received the first Gospel from the lips of
James, called the brother of the Lord, and from Simon, Paul famous in
all the churches of the Jews and the Gentiles, wrote thus in his first
letter to the Corinthians: “Christ died for our sins according to the
scriptures; And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day
according to the scriptures; and that he was seen of Cephas, then of the
twelve: After that he was seen of above five hundred brethren at once;
of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some are fallen
asleep.” The Letter to the Corinthians is recognized as authentic even
by the most disdainful and suspicious nosers-out of falsification. The
first Letter to the Corinthians cannot have been written later than the
spring of the year 58, and hence it is older than the oldest Gospel.
Many of those who had known the living Christ were still living at that
time and could easily have contradicted or undeceived the Apostle.
Corinth was at the gates of Asia, inhabited by many Asiatics, in close
relation with Judea; Paul’s letters were public messages which were
publicly read at gatherings, and copies of them were made to send to
other churches. The solemn and specific testimony of Paul must have come
to Jerusalem, where the enemies of Jesus, many of them still alive,
would have found some way to controvert them by other witnesses. If Paul
could have thought a valid confutation possible, he never would have
dared write those words. That he was able therefore, so short a time
after the event, publicly to affirm a prodigy so contrary to ordinary
beliefs and to the interests of Christ’s watchful enemies, shows that
the resurrection was not merely a phantasy of a few fanatics, but a
certainty denied with difficulty, easily proved. We have no other record
except this letter of Paul’s of the appearance of Christ to the five
hundred brothers, but we cannot even for a moment imagine that Paul, one
of the greatest and purest souls of early Christianity, could have
invented it,—he who had so long persecuted those who believed in the
reality of the resurrection. It is extremely probable that the
appearance of Christ to the five hundred happened in Galilee on the
mountain spoken of by Matthew, and that the Apostle had known one of
those who had been present at that memorable meeting.

But this is not all. The Evangelists, who set down with some
incoherence, but with the greatest frankness, the recollections of
Jesus’ first companions, admit, perhaps without wishing to, that the
Apostles themselves did not expect the resurrection and found it hard to
believe. When we read the four Gospels with attention we see that they
continued to doubt even with the risen Christ before them. When on
Sunday morning the women ran to tell the Disciples that the sepulcher
was empty and Christ alive, the Disciples accused them of raving. When
later He appeared to many in Galilee: “And when they saw him, they
worshipped him:” said Matthew; “but some doubted.” And when He appeared
at evening in the room where they were taking supper, there were some
who could not believe their own eyes and hesitated until they had seen
Him eating. Thomas still doubted after this, until the moment when his
Lord’s body was actually before his own.

So little did they expect to see Him rise again that the first effect
upon them of His appearance was fright. “They were affrighted and
supposed that they had seen a spirit.” They were therefore not so
credulous and easily fooled as their defamers would have them. And they
were so far from the idea of seeing Him return a living man among the
living that when they first saw Him they mistook Him for another. Mary
of Magdala thought that He was the gardener of Joseph of Arimathea;
Cleopas and his companions were not able to recognize Him all along the
road; Simon and the others when He came to them upon the shore of the
lake, “knew not that it was Jesus.” If they had really been expecting
Him, Himself, their minds on the alert, burning with longing, would they
have been frightened, would they not have known Him at once? When we
read the Gospels, we get the impression that Christ’s friends, far from
inventing His return, accepted it almost because they were forced, by
external coercion, and after much hesitation; the exact contrary, in
short, of what is desired to be proved by those who accuse Christ’s
friends of being deceived or of having deceived.

But why this hesitation? Because the warnings of Christ had not been
able to dislodge from those slow and indocile minds the old Jewish
repugnance to the idea of immortality. The belief in the resurrection of
the dead was for centuries and centuries foreign to the wholly material
mentality of the Jews. In a few prophets like Daniel and Hosea there are
some passing traces of the idea, but it does not appear explicitly
except in one passage of the story of the Maccabees. At the time of
Christ the common people had a confused idea of it as a distant miracle,
a part of the conceptions of the Apocalyptic writers, but they did not
think it possible before the final upheaval of the great day: the
Sadducees denied it firmly and the Pharisees admitted it as the remote
and common reward of all righteous men. When the superstitious Antipas
said that Christ was John risen from the dead, he meant to say with a
vigorous figure of speech that the new Prophet was like a second John.

Reluctance to admit such an extraordinary infraction of the laws of
death was so profoundly rooted in the Jewish people that the very
Disciples of Christ were not disposed to admit the possibility of the
resurrection without reiterated proofs, although they had seen Him raise
others from the dead and had heard Him predict His own resurrection. And
yet they had seen Him bring to life with His powerful summons the son of
the Widow of Nain, the daughter of Jairus, the brother of Martha and
Mary: the three sleepers whom Jesus had awakened because of His
compassion for the grief of a mother, of a father, of a sister. But it
was the habit and the fate of the Twelve to misunderstand and to forget.
They were too set upon their material thoughts to be ready to believe at
once such a victory over death. But when they were convinced, their
certainty was so firm and strong that from the sowing of those first
enforced witnesses has sprung up an enormous harvest of men born again
in the faith of the resurrected One—which the centuries have not yet
mowed down.

The calumnies of the Jews, the accusations of false witnesses, the
doubts of the Disciples, the plots of implacable enemies, the fallacious
sophistry of the progeny of Thomas, the fantasies of heresiarchs, the
distorted conceptions of men eager to prove Christ definitely dead, the
turns and twists of the myth-spinners, the mines and assaults of the
higher and lower criticism have not availed to wrench from the millions
of human hearts the certainty that the body taken down from the cross of
Golgotha reappeared on the third day to die no more. The people chosen
by Christ condemned Him to death, hoping to have done with Him, but
death refused Him as the Jews had refused Him, and humanity has not yet
finished its accounting with that assassinated Man who came out from the
sepulcher to show that breast where the Roman lance had forever made
visible the heart which loves those who hate Him.

The cowardly souls who will not believe in His first life, in His second
life, in His eternal life, cut themselves off from true life: from life
which is generous acceptance, spontaneous love, hope in the invisible,
certainty of the truth which passeth understanding. They themselves are
dead, although they seem living, those who refuse Him, as death refused
Him. Those who drag the weight of their still warm and breathing corpses
over the patient earth laugh at the resurrection. The second birth in
the spirit will not be granted to those who reject life, but an
appalling and inevitable resurrection will be granted to them on the
last day.

THE RETURN BY THE SEA

When the tragedy had drawn to a close with its greatest sorrow, its
greatest joy, every one turned again to his own destination, the Son to
the Father, the King to His Kingdom, the High Priest to his basins of
blood, the fishermen to their nets.

These water-soaked nets, with broken meshes, torn by the unaccustomed
weight of the great draughts, so many times mended, patched, knotted
together again, which had been left by the first fishers of men without
one backward look, on the shores of Capernaum, had finally been mended
and laid on one side, by some one with the prudence of the stay-at-home
who knows that dreams are soon over and hunger lasts for all one’s
lifetime. The wife of Simon, the father of James and John, the brother
of Thomas, had saved the casting nets and the drag-nets as tools which
might be useful, in memory of the exiles, as if a voice had said to
those who had remained at home: “They too will come back; the Kingdom is
fair, but far distant, and the lake is fair now, to-day, and full of
fish. Holy is holiness, but no man lives by the spirit alone. And a fish
on the table now is worth more to a hungry man than a throne a year from
now.”

And for a time the wisdom of the stay-at-homes, taken root in their
native countryside like moss on a stone, was vindicated. The fishermen
returned. The fishers of men appeared again in Galilee and once more
took the old nets into their hands. They had received the order of Him
who had drawn them away from there that they should be witnesses to His
shame and to His glory. They had not forgotten Him and they could never
forget Him: they always talked of Him among themselves and with all
those who were willing to listen to them. But Christ on His return had
said, “We will meet again in Galilee.” And they had gone away from
ill-omened Judea, from the mercenary city ruled by its murderous
masters, and they had trod once more the road back to their sweet, calm
fatherland, whence the loving ravisher of souls had snatched them away.
The old houses had a mellow beauty, with the white banners of newly
washed linen, and the young grass greening along the old walls, and the
tables cleaned by humble old hands, and the oven, which every week spat
out sparks from its flaming mouth. And the quiet fishing-town had
beauty, too; with its tanned naked boys, the sun high over the level
market-place, the bags and baskets in the shadow of the inns, and the
smell of fish which at dawn was wafted over it, with the morning breeze.
But more beautiful than all was the lake: a gray-blue and slate-colored
expanse on cloudy afternoons: a milky basin of opal with lines and
patches of jacinth on warm evenings; a dark shadow flecked with white on
starry nights: a silvery, heaving shadow in the moonlight. On this lake
which seemed the very spirit of the quiet, happy countryside, the
fishermen’s eyes had for the first time discovered the beauty of light
and of water, nobler than the heavy unlovely earth and kinder than fire.
The boat with its slanting sails, its worn seats, the high red rudder,
had from their childhood been dearer to them than that other home which
awaited them, stationary, whitened, four-square on the bank. Those
infinitely long hours of tedium and of hope as they gazed at the
brilliant water, the swaying of the nets, the darkening of the sky, had
filled the greater part of their poor and homely lives.

Then came the day when a Master, poorer and more powerful than they, had
called them to Himself to be workers with Him in a supernatural,
perilous undertaking. The poor souls uprooted from their usual
surroundings had done their best to be lighted by that flame, but the
new life had trodden them out like grapes in the wine-press, like olives
in the olive crusher in order that their rough hearts should yield up
tears of love and pity.

It was only after the Cross had been raised on Golgotha that they had
wept with true sorrow: and only after the Crucified Leader had returned
to break bread with them that they had been kindled anew to hope.

And now they had come home, bringing back only a few recollections, and
yet those recollections were enough to transform the world. But before
beginning the work which He had commanded, they were waiting to see Him
whom they loved in the place which He had loved. They were different men
from the men who had gone away, more restless, sadder, almost estranged,
as if they had come back from the land of the lotus-eaters and saw from
beyond with purer eyes a new earth indissolubly united with Heaven. But
the nets were there, hung up on the walls, and the boats at anchor
swayed up and down on the water. Once more the fishers of men, perhaps
out of nostalgia, perhaps out of material need, began to be lake
fishermen.

Seven Disciples of Christ were together one evening in the harbor of
Capernaum, Simon called Peter, Thomas called Didymus, Nathanael of Cana,
James, John and two others. Simon said, “I go afishing.”

His friends answered, “We also go with thee.”

They went into the boat and put off, but all that night they caught
nothing. When day came, a little depressed because of the wasted night,
they came back towards the shore. And when they were near they saw in
the faint light of the dawn a man standing on the shore, who seemed to
be waiting for them. “But the disciples knew not that it was Jesus.”

“Children, have ye any meat?” called the unknown man.

And they answered, “No.”

“Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find.”

They obeyed and in a moment the net was so full that they were scarcely
able to draw it in. And they all began to tremble because they had
guessed who it was awaiting them.

“It is the Lord,” said John to Simon.

Peter answered nothing, but hastily drew on his fisher’s coat (for he
was naked), and cast himself into the sea that he might be first on
shore. The boat was scarcely two hundred cubits from the land and in a
few moments the seven Disciples were about their Lord. And no one asked
Him, “Who art thou?”—because they had recognized Him.

On the shore there were bread and a lighted brazier with fishes broiling
on it, and Jesus said, “Bring of the fish which ye have now caught.”

And for the last time He broke the Bread and gave to them and the fish
likewise. After they had finished eating Jesus turned to Simon and under
His look the unhappy man, silent till then, turned pale: “Simon, son of
Jonas, lovest thou me more than these?”

The man who had denied Him, when he heard this question full of
tenderness, but for him so cruel, felt himself carried back to another
place beside another brazier with other questions put to him, and he
remembered the answer he had made then, and the look from Christ about
to die and his own great lamentation in the night. And he dared not
answer as he wished: “Yes” in his mouth would have been boasting and
shamelessness: “No” would have been a shameful lie.

“Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee.”

He made no claim for himself but “thou knowest that I love thee,” Thou
who knowest all and seest into the most hidden hearts. “I love thee”:
but he had not the courage to add “more than these” in the presence of
the others, who knew what he had done.

Christ said to him, “Feed my lambs.”

And for the second time He asked him: “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou
me?”

And Peter in his trouble found no other answer than, “Yea, Lord; thou
knowest that I love thee.”

Why dost Thou still make me suffer? Dost Thou not know without my
telling Thee that I love Thee, that I love Thee more than at first, as I
have never loved Thee, and that I will give up my life to affirm my
love?

Then Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.”

And for the third time He insisted, “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou
me?”

He was drawing from Peter three affirmations, three new promises to
cancel his three denials at Jerusalem. But Peter could not endure this
repeated suffering. Almost weeping, He cried out, “Lord, thou knowest
all things; thou knowest that I love thee!”

The terrible ordeal was over, and Jesus went on, “Feed my sheep. Verily,
verily I say unto thee, When thou wast young, thou girdest 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 whither
thou wouldest not.”

That is, to the cross, like the cross where they nailed me. Know,
therefore, what it means to love me. My love is brother to death.
Because I love you, they have killed me: for your love for me, they will
kill you. Think, Simon, son of Jonas, what is the covenant which you
make with me, and the fate which is before you. From now on, I shall not
be at hand to take you back, to give you the peace of forgiveness, after
coward fallings from grace. From now on defections and desertions will
be a thousand times more serious. You must answer for all the lambs
which I leave in your care and as reward at the end of your labors you
will have two crossed beams, and four nails as I had, and life eternal.
Choose: it is the last time that you can choose and it is a choice for
all time—irrevocable. For an account will be asked of you as a servant
left in the place of his master: and now that you know all and have
decided, come with me.

“Follow me!”

Peter obeyed, but turning about saw John coming after him and said,
“Lord, and what shall this man do?”

Jesus said to him, “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to
thee? follow thou me!”

For Simon the primacy and martyrdom; for John immortality and endless
waiting. He who bore the same name as the precursor of Christ’s first
coming was to prophesy His second coming. The historian of the end was
to be persecuted, a solitary prisoner, but he was to live longer than
all the others and to see with his own eyes the crumbling of the stones,
not one left upon another, of the ill-omened hill of Jerusalem. In his
sonorous blue desert, in the midst of the blinding light and the immense
blackness of the midnight sea, in his vision of the great deeds of the
last day he will rejoice and suffer. Peter followed Christ, was
crucified for Christ and left behind him the eternal dynasty of the
Vicars of Christ: but John was not permitted to find rest in death: he
waits with us, the contemporary of every generation, silent as love,
eternal as hope.

THE CLOUD

Once more they returned to Jerusalem, leaving their nets, this time
forever, travelers setting out upon a journey, the stages of which were
to be marked by blood.

In the same place where He had gone down to the city glorified by men,
in the shade of blossoming branches, He was to rise again after the
interval of His dishonor and His resurrection, in the glory of Heaven.
He remained in the midst of men, for forty days after the resurrection,
for as long a time as He had remained in the desert after His symbolic
death by water. Although His body seemed human, His life was
transfigured into the ultimate sublimination of humanity and He was
ready to enter as pure spirit, into the spirit of the Father from whom
He had been separated thirty years before, that He might cast a gleam of
heavenly light upon the shadow-darkened world.

He did not, as before, lead a life in common with the Disciples, because
He was separated now from the life of living men; but He reappeared to
them more than once to confirm His great promises, and perhaps to
explain to those most capable of receiving them those mysteries which
were not written down in any book but were passed on, under the seal of
secrecy, through all the apostolic period and the following periods, and
were imperfectly set down later under the title of Arcana Disciplina.

The last time they saw Him was on the Mount of Olives, where before His
death He had prophesied the ruin of the Temple and of the city and the
signs of His return, and where, in the darkness of night and of anguish,
Satan, before his final defeat, had left Him wet with sweat and blood.
It was one of the last evenings of May and the clouds in that golden
hour, like golden celestial islands in the gold of the setting sun,
seemed to rise from the warm earth towards near-by Heaven, like incense
from great fragrant offerings. In the fields of grain, the birds began
to call back the fledglings to the nests, and the cool breeze lightly
shook the branches and their drooping, unripened fruit. From the distant
city, still inact, from the pinnacles, the towers and the white squares
of the Temple rose a smoky cloud of dust.

And once again the Disciples asked Jesus the question which they had put
to Him in the same place on the evening of the two prophecies. Now that
He had come back as He had promised, what else were they to await?

“Lord, wilt thou at this time restore again the kingdom to Israel?”

They may have meant the Kingdom of God, which in their minds, as in the
minds of the Prophets, was one with the Kingdom of Israel, since the
divine restoration of the earth was to begin with Judea.

Christ answered: “It is not for you to know the times or the season,
which the Father hath put in his own power. But ye shall receive power,
after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses
unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto
the uttermost parts of the earth.”

And having said this, He lifted up His hands and blessed them. And while
they beheld, He was taken up from the earth and suddenly a shining cloud
as on the morning of the Transfiguration wrapped Him about and hid Him
from their sight. But they could not look away from the sky and
continued to gaze steadfastly up in their astonishment, when two men in
white apparel spoke to them: “Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up
into heaven? this same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven,
shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven.”

Then having prayed in silence, they returned to Jerusalem, glowing with
melancholy joy, thinking of the day just begun: the first day of a task
which, after two thousand years, is not yet accomplished. They were
alone now, alone against that innumerable enemy called the World. But
Heaven is not so cut off from the earth as before the coming of Christ;
the mystic ladder of Jacob is no longer a lonely man’s dream, but is set
up on the earth, on this earth which we tread, and above there is an
Intercessor who does not forget the ephemeral beings destined to eternal
life who, for a time, were His brothers. “Lo, I am with you alway, even
unto the end of the world” had been one of His last promises and the
greatest. He had ascended into Heaven, but Heaven was no longer merely
the barren dome where swift, tumultuous storm-clouds appear and
disappear; where the stars shine out silently, like the souls of saints.

He is still with us, the Son of Man, who to be nearer Heaven ascended
mountains, who was light made manifest, who died, raised above the earth
towards the blackness of Heaven, and rose from the dead to ascend into
Heaven in the peacefulness of evening, and who will return again on the
clouds of Heaven. He is still present in the world which He meant to
free. He is still attentive to our words, if they truly come from the
depths of our hearts, to our tears if they are tears of blood in our
hearts before being salt drops in our eyes. He is with us, an invisible,
benignant guest, never more to leave us, because by His wish our earthly
life is an anticipation of the Kingdom of Heaven, and is a part of
Heaven from this day on. Christ has taken to Himself as His eternal
possession that rough foster-mother of us all, that sphere which is but
a point in the infinite and yet contains hope for the infinite; and
to-day He is closer to us than when He ate the bread of our fields. No
divine promise can be blotted out: the May cloud which hid Him from
sight, still hovers near the earth, and every day we raise our weary and
mortal eyes to that same Heaven from which He will descend in the
terrible splendor of His glory.

INDEX

Abba, Father, 302

Abnegation, 309

Abraham, 42

Achilles, 100;
Priam and, 117, 120

Adam, 127

Adulteress, 223

Adultery, 101, 210

Adversary. _See_ Satan

Agrapha, 12

Aim of this book, 13, 14, 17, 20

Ajax of Sophocles, 118

Alabaster box, 224

Alms, 109

Andrew, 82

Angels, 62, 74, 212

Anger, 100

Animality, 98, 123

Animals, 22

Annas, 251, 313

Anointing, 224

Anti-Christ, 4

Anxiety for the morrow, 109

Apostles, 85, 178. _See also_ Disciples

Aquinas, Thomas, 185

Arcana Disciplina, 406

Aristophanes, 198, 199

Aristotle, 119, 136

Art, 124

Ascension, 241, 405, 407

Asking and receiving, 156

Ass, 22, 116;
Jesus riding on, 244

Augustus, 204

Author of this book, his coming to Christ, 18

Authority, 13

Avarice, 111

Awakened one, 30

Babylon, 44

Balaam, 22, 23

Banks and bankers, 250

Banquet of the Kingdom, 153, 154

Baptism, of blood, 300;
of Jesus, 57, 60;
John the Baptist, 54;
second baptism of Jesus—the tears of the woman who was a sinner, 228

Barabbas, 341

Barns, new, 174

Beatitudes, 87, 93;
last and greatest, 395

Beauty, 15

Beggars, 80, 154, 193

Behold the man!, 346

Belief, 73, 74, 395

Benevolence, 113

Bestiality, 62, 73, 92, 323

Bethany, 140

Bethlehem, 24, 25;
babies, 28

Bethpage, 244

Betrayal, 281

Betrayal of women, 102

Birth of Jesus, 21

Blasphemy, 322

Blindfolding Jesus, 325

Blindness, 133

Blood, scourging of Jesus, 345;
sweat and blood of Jesus in Gethsemane, 306;
water and, from body of Jesus, 375;
wine and, 298

Blood-offering, 29

Boyhood, 32

Bread, as the body of Christ, 296, 298;
breaking, 297;
eating, as communion with God, 295;
fishes and, 146;
material and spiritual, 66, 133, 146;
unleavened, 295, 297

Bridegroom, 155

Brothers, 161, 168, 207;
anger toward, 100;
love for, 114

Buddha, 95, 198

Buddhism, 114

Burial of Jesus, 379

Business as a God, 250

Business men, 79

But I say unto you, 100

Cæsar, faith, 148;
images, 327;
things which are Cæsar’s, 202, 204, 330

Cæsarea, 233

Cain, descendants of, 255

Cainites, 282

Caiaphas, 243, 251, 278, 287, 310, 315, 318, 348;
adjuration of Jesus, 321;
rends his garment, 322

Caligula, 270, 271

Camel and needle’s eye, 181

Cana, 141

Canaan, 43

Capernaum, 74, 76

Capital punishment, 356

Carpenter, 35;
Jesus as, 36

Catalepsy, 139

Catholic Church, 12

Celibacy, 211

Centurion, 352, 355, 356

Cerinthus, 268

Chaldea, 24

Charity, 173, 265

Chastity, 211, 212

Children, 216;
Bethlehem, 28;
Jesus’ love of, 217;
Moses and, 215;
old law and its reversal by Jesus, 218

Christ, Jesus declares himself, 247;
living to-day, 6, 408;
memory, 5;
modern opinion of, 19;
second coming, 259, 262;
Thou art the Christ, 235.
_See also_ Jesus;
Second coming

Christian era, 6, 71

Christian martyrs, 269

Christianity, precedents for, 119

Christs, false, 260, 267

Church, 396;
Catholic, 12;
Peter and, 237

Circe, 122

Claudia Procula, 333, 376

Cleopas, 384, 385, 387

Cloud, Jesus’ glorification, 405

Clovis, 369

Cock crow, 315, 317

Commerce, 250

Communion with God, 295

Confucius, 113

Conversion, 73;
in Jesus’ life, 58

Converted sinner, 59

Corinthians, letter to the, 397

Cost, counting, 153

Country, 39

Courage, 106

Court of the Gentiles, 248

Courtesy, 113

Covenants, 40

Crates, 198, 199

Criticism, 8, 12

Cross, 304, 305, 352;
Jesus and the two thieves carrying, 353;
Jesus nailed to, 360;
superscription, 351.
_See also_ Crucifixion

Crown of thorns, 346

Crucifixion, 359, 367

Crucify him!, 338, 340, 343, 347

Cynics, 198

Cyrenian, 353, 355

Daniel, 271

Darkness, at the crucifixion, 367, 370;
Jesus’ hour of, 310

David, 43, 116

Day of the Lord, 262

Dead, raising, 138

Death, 133;
Egypt’s obsession, 31;
Jewish views, 399

Death of Jesus, authors and accomplices, 242, 243;
foreknowledge, 241;
His prayer, Abba, Father, 302.
_See also_ Crucifixion

Deborah, 43

Debts, forgiving, 171, 230

Defilement, 104

Demons, 137, 175

Desert, 61, 68, 69

Devil. _See_ Satan

Didymus, 392

Disciples, 176;
duty, 189;
earliest, 75;
first four, 82;
foretold of Jesus’ death, 242;
instructions to, 188;
mystic identity with Jesus, 192;
persecutions, 268;
reappearance of Jesus to, after the resurrection, 403;
at resurrection of Jesus, 388, 389;
speaking in the light, 190;
warnings to, 180

Discord, 206

Dismas, 363, 367

Divinity, 123

Divorce, 210

Doing versus hearing, 158

Dositheus, 268

Doubt of Thomas, 392

Earthly kingdoms, 63, 65, 67, 72

Earthquakes, 270

Easter, 243, 295

Edification, 14

Education of the human race, 98

Egypt, character, 31;
death and mud, 31;
exile in, 32;
flight into, 30;
Jews in, 42

Egyptians, 114

Elder son, 167, 169

Elders, 242

Elias, 240, 373

Eloquence, 16

Elxai, 268

Emmaus, 384

End of the world, 262, 266

Enemies, Egyptians and, 114;
Greeks and, 117;
hatred of, 126;
Jewish treatment of, 115;
love of, 121

Ennœa, 267

Entreaty, 156

Epileptics, 135

Erudition, 13

Eternal life, 264, 400

Eternal punishment, 264

Eternity, 71

Evangelists on the Resurrection, 398

Evil, flight from, 105;
root of, 100

Evil for evil, 105

Exaggeration, 100

Exile in Egypt, 32

Expiation, 279

Faith, 132, 133, 136, 148

False Christs, 260, 267

False witnesses, 319

Family, 103

Farmers, 79

Father, real, 34;
universal, 45

Fatherhood of God, 37

Father’s business, 33

Fathers and sons, 213

Fatted calf, 167

Feast, 153

Feed my sheep, 404

Feet, washing of, 292

Fig tree, accursed, 144

Fire, 207;
from heaven, 184;
prophet of fire, 54

First and last, 180

First covenant, 40

Fishermen, 78;
earliest disciples, 82, 84;
return to the sea, 400

Fishers of men, 83

Flesh, conquest of, 212;
one flesh, 209

Flight from evil, 105

Flight into Egypt, 30

Flogging, 343, 344

Flood, 41

Florence, 20

Forgive them, 356, 358, 363

Forgiveness, 170;
of sin, 231

Forsaken, on the cross, 372

Forty days, 62

Fourth Covenant, 43

Frankincense, 25

Friends, Jesus and Judas, 285;
laying down life for, 294;
posthumous, 376

Friendliness, 75

Fulvia, 334

Galilee, 69, 71, 401

Gardeners, 78

Garments of Jesus, division, 361

Gate, narrow, 156

Gentiles and Jerusalem, 262

Gethsemane, 181, 183, 302

Gnostics, 268

God, 122;
as Father, 37;
imitation of, 123;
likeness to, 123;
reign of, 71;
will of, 309

Gods of Greece, 64

Gold, frankincense and myrrh, 25

Golgotha, 357

Good Friday, 350

Good thief, 363

Good tidings, 74

Gospel, 74

Gospels, 6;
authenticity, 11

Greatness, 177

Greek gods, 64

Greeks, treatment of enemies, 117

Happiness, 95, 97, 154

Harvest, 175

Hasmonæans, 27

Hatred, of enemies, 126;
of others, 111;
of ourselves, 124, 125

He is risen, 381

Health, 134, 138;
of soul, 102

Hearing versus doing, 158

Heaven, 73, 407.
_See also_ Kingdom of Heaven

Heights, 130

Heresies, 267

Hermon, Mount, 238

Herod Antipas, 335;
Jesus before, 337

Herod the Great, 27, 325

Herodias, 336

High Priests, 242;
plot against Jesus, 277, 278

Hillel, 117

Holiness, 122, 205

Horace, 26

Hosannas, 246

Hosea, 274

House on a rock, 158

Human nature, mystery, 234

Human race, education, 98

Humility, 125, 172, 293

Hungering after justice, 90

Husbandman, good, 175

Hypocrites, 255

Ideas of Jesus, antiquity of, 112

Imagination, 15, 16

Immortality, 399

Inasmuch, 264

Incest, 336

Inferno, 35

Inheriting the earth, 88

Injustice, 91

Innocents, slaughter of, 28

Insults, 92, 314, 324, 354

Intellectualism, 124

Intelligence, 87

Introduction, 3

Jairus’ daughter, 139

James, 83, 183, 184

Jericho, 172

Jerusalem, desolation, 261;
destruction, 44, 45, 271, 272;
last journey to, 244;
Passover 32;
worldly, 69

Jesus, attempts on his life, 241;
baptism of, 57, 60;
birth, 21;
blindfolded, 325;
as the Christ, 233;
condemnation, 322;
crucifixion, 359, 367;
deeds, 130;
foreknowledge, 49;
foreknowledge of death, 241;
friendliness, 75;
hatred and condemnation for, 275;
healer, 138;
Herod Antipas and, 334;
liberator, 299, 384;
nailed to the cross, 360;
nature, 233;
Pilate and, 329, 338;
Pilate’s question, 330, 332;
poverty, 193;
prosecution, 315;
resurrection, 381;
road to Emmaus, 384;
second crucifixion, 3;
sinlessness, 58;
spat on and struck, 324;
under the cross, 353;
the wanderer, 75, 76;
what men said of him, 233, 235.
_See also_ Christ

Jewish State, reëstablishment, 274

Jews, dispersal, 44, 272;
history, 40;
in Egypt, 42;
wanderings, 43

Job, 116

John, 83, 183, 184, 185, 315, 318;
at the crucifixion, 371;
at the sepulcher, 383

John the Baptist, 54;
beheading of, 336;
imprisonment and death, 69;
Jesus’ answer to him in prison, 137, 138

Jonah, 131

Jordan and John the Baptist, 54

Joseph, 34, 286

Joseph of Arimathea, 318, 377

Joshua, 43

Judas, 186, 202, 243;
Jesus’ understanding of, 284;
kiss of, 311;
at the Last Supper, 290, 301;
mystery of, 281;
sinning woman and, 229;
wasted ointment and, 232

Judea, outbreak, 270

Judging others, 110

Judgment Day, 263, 265

Justice, 118, 122, 124, 155;
hunger for, 90

King of the Jews, 330, 346, 351

Kingdom of Heaven (of God), 66, 68, 71, 93;
chief places in, 157, 184;
children—of such is the Kingdom, 217;
definition, 72;
force and, 205;
like mustard seed, 151

Kingdom of Satan, 72, 196

Kingdoms of the earth, 63, 65, 67, 72

Kings, at the birth of Jesus, 25;
of the nations, 204

Kiss of Judas, 311

Knowledge, 25

Lama sabachthani, 372

Lamps, 156

Land of Promise, 42

Lao-Tse, 113

Last and first, 180

Last judgment, 263, 265

Last Supper, 288

Last things, 259

Law, 122, 124;
old and new, 99

Lazarus, 140, 220

Lazarus, the beggar, 173

Legs, breaking, 366, 375

Leopardi, Giacomo, 95

Lepers, 135

Liberator, 299, 384

Life, 5;
eternal, 264, 400;
Jesus’ knowledge of, 60;
revaluation of, 93;
true, 110

Light, Jesus’ Transfiguration, 239

Lives of Christ, kind we need, 10;
two kinds, 7

Logia, 12, 186

Longinus, 375

Lord’s Prayer, exposition, 128

Losing one’s soul, 196

Lost found, 32

Lost sheep, 170

Love, antiquity and, 111-121;
Christ’s command, 121;
Christ’s for sinners, 59;
experiment of, 125;
filial, 103;
mutual and universal, 113;
for one another, 294;
perfect, 37;
self, 111, 125;
woman who loved much, 229

Lovest thou me?, 403

Luke-warmness, 188

Malchus, 311

Mammon, 193, 196;
Temple at Jerusalem and, 249

Man, early rules, 98;
perfectibility, 97

Manger, 21

Maranatha, 243

Mariamne, 27

Mark, 313

Marriage, 142, 209;
Cana, 141, 143

Martha, 138, 140, 219

Martyrs, 269

Mary (of Bethany), 138, 140, 219, 379

Mary (Virgin Mother), 13, 222, 371, 378, 379;
flight into Egypt, 30

Mary Magdalene, 220, 224, 379;
risen Lord and, 382

Masons, 78

Massacre of the Innocents, 29

Matthew, 185, 186, 282

Meander, 268

Meekness, 88

Memory of Christ, 5

Mental diseases, 136

Merciful, 90

Mercy, 263, 265

Messiah, 183;
material, 53, 65

Messiahship, 49

Messianic prophecies, 50

Metals, 189, 201

Miracles, 66, 67, 131, 136

Money, banks, exchange, etc., 250;
curse of, 220;
Jesus and, 201, 202;
Judas and, 282

Money-changers, 249

Mosaic law, 115

Moses, 30;
deliverance of Jews from Egypt, 42;
law and love, 115;
sprinkling of blood, 299;
with Christ on Hermon, 240

Moslems, 274

Mount, Sermon on the, 85, 94, 186

Mountain, Jesus praying on, 239

Mourning, 89

M’-Ti, 112, 113

Mud, 31

Murder, 100

Mustard seed, 151

Myrrh, 25

Mysteries, 406;
Gethsemane, 306;
human nature, 234;
of the Kingdom, 149

Nails, four, 359, 361

Names, secret and real, 234

Nard, 224

Narrow gate, 156

Nathaniel, 186

Nature, 95;
antagonism of Jesus and, 109;
Jesus and, 38;
overturning, 108

Nazarene, 351

Nazareth, any good thing out of?, 186;
boyhood of Jesus, 32;
foreknowledge of Jesus, 49;
Joseph’s shop, 34

Nazir, 54

Negative command, 117

Neighbor, 172

Nero, 269

New Covenant, 71, 299

Nicodemus, 187, 278, 318, 377

Nicolatians, 268

Nirvana, 114

Noah, 41

Nomads, 41

Nonresistance, 104, 107

Oaths, 103

Octavius Augustus, 26

Old Adam, 59, 125

Old Covenant, 40, 299

Old ideas, 112

Old law, 117

Old Testament morality, 116

Older son, 167, 169

Olives, Mount of, 244, 245, 252, 259, 302

Ophir, 44

Opinion of Christ, modern, 19

Other cheek, 105, 106

Overturnings of opinion, 94

Ox, 22

Paganism, 169

Palazzo Vecchio, 20

Palm branches, 246

Parables, 131, 149, 151

Paradise, 40, 43, 127, 213, 219;
for the penitent thief on the cross, 356

Paradox, 93

Parasceve, 352

Parusia, 259, 262, 267, 273

Passion, beginning, 243

Passover, 32, 288, 295;
night before, 352

Paternoster, 128, 215

Patriarchs, 41

Paul, 269;
testimony as to the resurrection, 397

Peace, 208

Peace and war, 190, 205

Peacemakers, 91

Peasants, 79

Persecutions, 26, 91, 260, 268

Peter, 268, 269;
the Rock, 181, 237.
_See also_ Simon Peter

Petronius, 375

Pharaoh, 42

Pharisees, 55, 104, 147, 253;
condemnation in the Temple, 255;
at Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, 246;
prayer of, and Publican, 171

Philip, 186

Philo, 117

Pilate, Pontius, 243, 325;
fate, 350;
Jesus before, 329, 338;
last recorded words, 351;
personality, 326;
subterfuges, 342, 347, 348, 349;
washing of hands, 346, 349;
wife’s dream, 333

Pitcher, man with, 288, 289

Pity, 171, 265, 354

Plato, 118, 198, 199

Pluto, 198, 199

Poet, Jesus as, 150

Poetry, 15

Poor, the, Jesus’ love of, 200;
Jesus’ teaching, 77;
rich and, 173, 189, 194;
in spirit, 87.
_See also_ Poverty

Possession by devils, 136

Poverty, 79, 109, 174;
disciples, 189;
Jesus, 193;
voluntary, 197

Prayer, 128;
Father, forgive them, 356, 358, 363;
Jesus in Gethsemane, 303, 309;
Jesus on the mountain, 239;
Lord’s prayer, 128;
Pharisee and Publican, 171

Priam, 117, 120

Priestly caste, 276

Primacy, 405

Prodigal son, 160-169

Prophecy of Jesus on Last Things, 259, 266

Prophets, 44, 45;
character, 47;
definitions, 47, 48;
description, 46

Prostitutes, 230

Proverbs, 116

Psalms, imprecations on enemies, 116

Publicans, 56;
prayer of Publican and Pharisee, 171

Punishment, eternal, 264

Pure in heart, 90

Purification, 104

Purity, 110;
of Jesus, 58

Rabboni, 382

Readiness, 155

Reed, 346, 373

Religion, as a business in Jerusalem, 276;
Roman, 327

Religions for the irreligious, 4

Renan, J. E., 9

Renunciation, 152, 180, 196, 200, 201

Repentance, 59, 73, 363, 366

Resurrection, 381;
doubts about, 388;
Evangelists’ testimony, 398;
Paul’s testimony, 397;
rejection, 395

Resurrections from the dead, 138

Retaliation, 90, 99;
Jesus’ repudiation of the old law, 105

Revenge, 105

Rich and poor, 173, 189, 194

Rich man, 194

Righteousness, 114

Risen from the dead, 381

Rock, Caiaphas and Peter, 318;
house built on, 158;
Peter, 237

Roman Emperor, 327

Roman Empire, 204;
upheaval, 269

Roman soldiers, 344, 356

Rome and the Christian martyrs, 269

Sabbath, Jesus and, 254;
Jesus at Capernaum, 77

Sacrifice, of the innocent for the guilty, 279;
pagan examples, 279

Sadducees, 55, 147

Saints, 256, 351

Salome, 336

Salvation, 194

Samaritan, the good, 172

Samaritans, 172, 184

Sanhedrin, 187, 278;
Jesus before, 318

Satan, Jesus and, 63;
Jesus and—Gethsemane, 303

Saul, 43, 116

Savonarola, 20

Scarlet cloak, 346

Scourging, 343, 344

Scribes, 242, 253;
condemnation in the Temple, 255

Second birth, 73, 187, 188

Second coming, 259, 262, 267;
date, 273;
imminence, 274

Second covenant, 41

Secret name, 234

Secretiveness, 149

Self-justification, Socrates and Jesus, 320

Self-love, 111, 125, 126

Self-preservation, 110

Sell all, 197

Selling Jesus, 286

Seneca, 119

Sepulcher, Jesus and, 378

Sepulchers, 257

Sermon on the Mount, 85, 94, 186

Sermon on the Mount, second, 259

Sermons, 17

Servant of all, 109

Service, 185

Sheba, Queen of, 44

Sheep, lost, 170

Sheep and goats, 260, 263

Shepherds, 23, 79

Sickness, 134

Signs, 131

Simon of Cyrene, 353, 355

Simon Magus, 267

Simon Peter, 82, 148, 180;
confession of Christ, 236;
contradictory acts, 311, 312;
denial, 315;
primacy and martyrdom granted to, 403, 405;
at the sepulcher, 383;
sinning woman and, 229

Simplicity, 110, 178, 219

Sin, 101, 126;
against the spirit, 255;
forgiveness of, 231;
he that is without sin, 223;
in Jesus’ life, 58;
parables of, 170;
sacrifice of the innocent for, 279

Sinlessness of Jesus, 58

Sinners, 175;
converted, 59

Skull, Hill of the, 357, 359, 371

Sleep, 181;
infant Jesus and, 30;
of the three disciples on the Mount of Olives, 306, 310

Smiths, 78

Snow and sun, 238

Socrates, 320;
on enemies, 118

Solitude, 61;
of Jesus, 307

Solomon, 44

Son of David, 246

Son of God, 236, 238;
question put to Jesus, 321

Son of Man, 236, 238, 262, 263, 273, 274

Sons, 160;
fathers and, 213

Sons of Thunder, 183

Sonship, 37

Soul, losing, 196

Sower, parable of, 158

Spinoza, 185

Spirit, 62, 196, 406;
sin against, 255;
victory over the flesh, 308

Spitting on Jesus, 324

Sponge soaked in vinegar, 373

Stable, 21

Stephen, 268

Steward, 160, 174

Stoics, 198

Stones, crying out, 247;
disciples compared to, 266;
not one upon another, 258

Suffering, 134

Sun and snow, 238

Sunday, 380

Superiority, 185

Supper, last, 288

Swearing, 102

Sweat of Jesus, 306

Swine-herds, 164

Sword, fire and, 205, 208;
not peace but a sword, 206

Talents, parable of, 159

Talitha qumi, 138

Tares and wheat, 175

Teachers of Jesus, 34

Teaching of Jesus, at Capernaum, 77;
earliest, 71, 74

Tebutis, 268

Temple, 45;
description, 247;
destruction, 272;
destruction foretold, 258, 261;
Jesus’ entry and purpose, 248;
Jesus lost and found in, 33;
place of business in Jewish life, 275;
ramification, 250;
veil, 374

Temptations of Jesus, 64, 303

Ten Commandments, 43

Theology, 12, 25

Theudas, 267

Thief on the cross, penitent, 363

Thieves, two, 352, 356, 363

Third Covenant, 42

Thirst of Jesus on the cross, 373

Thomas, 133, 185;
doubts, 392

Thomas Aquinas, 185

Thorns, 346

Tiberius, 326, 331

Time, fullness of, 71

Titus, 272

Too late, 155, 156

Transfiguration, 182, 183, 239, 241

Transformation of soul, 73, 74, 95, 97, 108, 189

Truth, 15;
sin against, 255;
what is truth?, 329, 332

Turning the other cheek, 105, 106

Twelve, the, 176. _See also_ Disciples

Ulysses, 118

Vaddhamana, 198

Vagabondage of Jesus, 76

Vanity, 109, 177

Veil of the temple, 374

Vespasian, 272

Vinegar, 373

Vineyard, laborers in, 155

Violence, 205, 208;
possible ways of meeting, 105;
solving the problem, 107

Vipers, 252, 256

Virgil, 26, 27

Virgin Mother, 13, 222, 371, 378, 379

Virgins, wise and foolish, 156

Walking on the water, 182

Wandering Jew, 76

War, 91, 122, 206, 209;
wars and rumors of wars, 269

Warnings, 260

Washing of the feet, 292

Washing of the hands, 346, 349

Watch and pray, 307

Water, blood and, from body of Jesus, 375;
of truth, 192;
turned into wine, 143;
walking on, 182

Wealth, 124, 174, 194;
ancient feeling toward, 199

Weddings, 141

What I have written, 351

Wheat and tares, 175

White cloak, 335, 337, 344

Whited sepulchers, 257

Who am I?, 233

Will of God, 309

Wind and sea obedient, 147

Wine, 143, 295, 301;
as the blood of Christ, 299;
mixture offered Jesus on the cross, 358

Wise men, 24

Witnesses, false, 319

Women, Jesus and, 219;
with Jesus on Golgotha, 371;
old law and, 222;
Roman, 334;
at the sepulcher, 380;
woman who was a sinner, 224

Woodworker, 34

Work, 35

Writing on the sand, 223

Ye have heard, 98

Yeast, 151

Zarathushtra, 5, 114

Zealots, 268, 271, 272, 341

Zebedee’s sons, 83

Zeus, 120, 121

THE EUROPEAN LIBRARY
Edited by J. E. SPINGARN

This series is intended to keep Americans in touch with the intellectual
and spiritual ferment of the continent of Europe to-day, by means of
translations that partake in some measure of the vigor and charm of the
originals. No attempt will be made to give what Americans miscall “the
best books,” if by this is meant conformity to some high and illusory
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“The first organized effort to bring into English a series of the
really significant figures in contemporary European literature....
An undertaking as creditable and as ambitious as any of its kind on
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THE WORLD’S ILLUSION. By JACOB WASSERMANN. Translated by Ludwig
Lewisohn. Two volumes.

One of the most remarkable creative works of our time, revolving about
the experiences of a man who sums up the wealth and culture of our age
yet finds them wanting.

PEOPLE. By PIERRE HAMP. Translated by James Whitall. With
Introduction by Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant.

Introducing one of the most significant writers of France, himself a
working man, in whom is incarnated the new self-consciousness of the
worker’s world.

DECADENCE, AND OTHER ESSAYS ON THE CULTURE OF IDEAS. By REMY DE
GOURMONT. Translated by William Aspenwall Bradley.

An introduction to Gourmont’s theory of the “disassociation of ideas,”
which has been called “the most fruitful and provocative theory since
Nietzsche.”

HISTORY: ITS THEORY AND PRACTICE. By BENEDETTO CROCE. Translated by
Douglas Ainslie.

A new interpretation of the meaning of history, and a survey of the
great historians, by one of the leaders of European thought.

THE NEW SOCIETY. By WALTER RATHENAU. Translated by Arthur Windham.

One of Germany’s most influential thinkers and men of action presents
his vision of the new society emerging out of the War.

THE REFORM OF EDUCATION. By GIOVANNI GENTILE. With an Introduction
by Benedetto Croce. Translated by Dino Bigongiari.

An introduction to the philosophy of a great contemporary thinker who
has an extraordinary influence on Italian life to-day.

THE REIGN OF THE EVIL ONE. By C. F. RAMUZ. Translated by James
Whitall. With an Introduction by Ernest Boyd.

“A rural fantasia comparable to Synge’s ‘Playboy,’” introducing an
interesting French-Swiss novelist.

THE GOOSE MAN. By JACOB WASSERMANN, author of “The World’s
Illusion.” Translated by Allen W. Porterfield.

A novel which raises the question whether genius can ignore the common
rules of humanity without self-destruction.

RUBÈ. By G. A. BORGESE. Translated by Isaac Goldberg.

A novel which has had a sensational success in Italy, centering on the
spiritual collapse since the War.

THE PATRIOTEER. By HEINRICH MANN. Translated by Ernest Boyd.

A German “Main Street,” describing the career of a typical product of
militarism, in school, university, business, and love.

MODERN RUSSIAN POETRY: AN ANTHOLOGY. Translated by Babette Deutsch
and A. Yarmolinsky.

Covers the whole field of Russian verse since Pushkin, with the emphasis
on contemporary poets.

LIFE OF CHRIST. By GIOVANNI PAPINI. Translated by Dorothy Canfield
Fisher.

The first biography of Christ by a great man of letters since Renan’s.

CONTEMPORARY GERMAN POETRY: AN ANTHOLOGY. Translated by Babette
Deutsch and A. Yarmolinsky. _In preparation._

Covers the whole field of twentieth century poetry in Germany down to
the latest “expressionists.”

SONATAS. By RAMÒN DEL VALLE-INCLÀN. _In preparation._

A romance by the most finished artist of modern Spain.

OTHER BOOKS ON FOREIGN LITERATURE BY THE SAME PUBLISHERS

BENEDETTO CROCE: AN INTRODUCTION TO HIS PHILOSOPHY. By RAFFAELLO
PICCOLI.

The first adequate account of Croce’s life and thought.

A GUIDE TO RUSSIAN LITERATURE. By M. J. OLGIN.

A popular handbook describing the life and works of some sixty Russian
authors.

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY

Publishers New York

● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

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