Love to the Uttermost Part 15

Let us remember that Christ's own conception of the unity of His Church is that which is the result of the indwelling of the one Spirit. Such unity is already a fact in the eye of G.o.d, though undiscerned as yet in all its fullness by men. Let us thank G.o.d that this marvellous request has been already so largely realized, and let us dare to hold fellows.h.i.+p as Christians with all those who are indwelt by the Spirit of the Life, which is also in Christ Jesus.

XXIII

The Love that Bound Christ to the Cross

"Jesus, therefore, knowing all things that should come upon Him, went forth, and said unto them, Whom seek ye?"--JOHN xviii. 4.

The Cedron was never more than a mountain brook, and it is now dry.

Its stony bed alone shows where it used to flow through the valley that separated Mount Zion from the Mount of Olives. The main road which led from the city gate, over the Mount of Olives to Bethany and Jericho, crossed it by an ancient bridge, from which, on this especial night, a fair scene must have presented itself.

Above, the Pa.s.sover moon was s.h.i.+ning in full-orbed splendor turning night into day. Beneath, the little stream was brawling down the valley, catching the moonlight on its wavelets. On the one slope dark, thick woods, above which rose the ancient walls and gates of the city, on the other, the swelling slopes of Olivet. Presently the Lord emerged out of the shadow, engaged in earnest converse with the apostles; crossed the bridge, but, instead of pursuing the path as it wound upward toward Bethany and Bethphage, they all turned into a large enclosure, well-known as the garden of the oil-press, and which we know best as Gethsemane. Somewhere, no doubt, within its enclosure stood the rock-hewn trough in which the rich juicy olives were trodden by naked feet. "When Jesus had spoken these words, He went forth with His disciples over the brook Cedron, where was a garden, into which He entered, and His disciples."

The sequel was so fully narrated by the other evangelists that there was no need for the writer of this narrative to tell of the awful anguish, the broken cries, the b.l.o.o.d.y sweat, the running to and fro of the disciples, the sleep of the chosen three, the strengthening angel.

He confines himself almost entirely to the circ.u.mstances of the Lord's arrest.

Two hours only had pa.s.sed since Judas left the supper-table; but that had given him all the time needed for the completion of his plan.

Hastening to the authorities, he had told them that the favorable moment had arrived for his Master's arrest; that he knew the lonely spot to which He was wont to resort for meditation and prayer; and that he had need of an armed band to overpower all possible resistance on the part of Himself or His followers. This they were able to supply from the guards and custodians of the Temple. They were going against One who was deserted and defenceless; yet the soldiers were armed with sticks and staves. They were about to arrest One who would make no attempt at flight or concealment, and the moon was full; yet, lest He should make His escape to some limestone grotto, or amid the deep shadows, they carried torches and lanterns.

The Lord had just awoke His disciples for the third and last time, when probably His ear detected the tread of hurrying feet, the m.u.f.fled clank of swords, the stifled murmur of an advancing crowd; perhaps He saw also the glancing lights, as they advanced through the garden shrubs, and began to encircle the place where He had prayed. By such signs, and especially by the inner intimation of the Holy Spirit, He knew all things that should come upon Him, and without waiting for His enemies to reach Him, with calm and dignified composure He went forth to meet the rabble band, stepping out into the moonlight and saluting them with the inquiry, "Whom seek ye?"

There are some deep and memorable suggestions here as to the

VOLUNTARINESS OF CHRIST'S DEATH.

In order to His death having any value it must be free. If it could be shown that He had no choice than to die, because His own purpose was overmastered by the irresistible force of circ.u.mstances, His death could not have met the claims of a broken law, or inaugurated a new code of morals to His Church. But there are several points in this narrative which make it clear that He laid down His life of Himself, that none took it from Him, that He had power to lay it down, and power to take it again.

(1) When Jesus asked them the question, "Whom seek ye?" there were, no doubt, many in the band who knew Him well enough, and that He was the object of their midnight raid; but not one of them had the courage to answer, "Thee." A paralyzing awe had already commenced to cast its spell over their spirits. Those who knew Him shrank from identifying Him, and were content to answer generally, "Jesus of Nazareth." But when He answered, "I am He," what was it that so suddenly affected them? Did some stray beams of concealed glory burst forth from their confinement to indicate His majesty? Did they dread the putting-forth of that power which had been so often exerted to save and bless? Or, was there a direct miracle of Divine power, which secured their discomfiture? We cannot tell. But, whatever the cause, the crowd suddenly fell back in confusion, and were flung to the ground.

Here, for a moment, the would-be captors lay, as though pinioned to the dust by some unseen hand. The spell was soon withdrawn, and they were again on their feet, cursing themselves for their needless panic.

But--and this is the point--the power that sent that rough hireling band reeling backward to the ground could easily have held them there, or plunged them as Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, into living graves. "One flash came forth to tell of the sleeping lightning which He would not use"; and then, having revealed the might, which could have delivered Him from their puny arms, He returned to His att.i.tude of willing self-surrender. Who, then, shall say that our Saviour's death was not His own act and deed?

(2) When that rabble crew were again on their feet, confronting Jesus, He asked them a second time, _Whom seek ye_? Again they replied, "Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus answered, "I have told you that I am He; if, therefore, ye seek me, let these go their way." And, forthwith, He put forth such a power over His own as secured their freedom from arrest.

It is evident that it was no part of His foes' purpose beforehand to let them go; for, on their way back they arrested a young man, probably Mark himself, whom curiosity had drawn from his bed, and whom they took for one of His disciples. He escaped with great difficulty from their hands. It is hardly doubtful that if some special power had not been exerted over them, they would have treated the whole of the followers of Jesus as they sought to treat Him. Is it not evident, then, that the power which secured the safety of His disciples could have secured that of the Master Himself; or that He might have pa.s.sed away through the midst of them, as He did through the infuriated crowd which proposed to cast Him headlong over the precipice near Nazareth at the commencement of His ministry? Every arm might have been struck nerveless, every foot paralyzed with lameness. Who, then, shall deny that Christ's death was His own act?

(3) But again, when Jesus had spoken thus there seemed some wavering among His captors, perhaps a hesitation as to who should first lay hand on Him. At this juncture, when the whole enterprise threatened to miscarry, Judas felt that he must, at all hazards, show how safe it was to touch the person of his Master; so, though the bold challenge of Jesus had made the preconcerted signal needless, he resolved still to give it, that the spell of that presence might be broken. The traitor, therefore, stepped up and kissed the Lord.

Encouraged by this sacrilegious act, His myrmidons now laid hands on Jesus, grasping His sacred person as they might have done Barabbas, or some other member of his gang. They then proceeded to bind Him after the merciless Roman fas.h.i.+on. Peter could not bear to see this. He sprang forth from the covert of the shadow, drew his sword, and cut at the nearest a.s.sailant's head. But the blade, glancing off the helmet, cut off the ear.

It was an unwelcome interference with the behavior of the meek and gentle Lord, whose hand was already bound. It could not be permitted.

"Suffer ye thus far," He said to the rude soldier who was binding Him, and with His own finger touched the ear, stanched the flowing blood, and healed it. It has been remarked that this was the only act of healing wrought on one for whom it was neither asked of Him, and who had no faith in His beneficent power. But, surely, the hand that could work that miracle could have broken from the bonds that held it as easily as Samson from the two new cords which burned as flax in the flame. The power with which Jesus saved others might have saved Himself. Who, then, shall say that His death was not His own free act?

Listen, moreover, to His own words. Then said Jesus unto Peter, "Put up thy sword into the sheath; the cup which My Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?" "Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to My Father, and He shall presently give Me more than twelve legions of angels; but how then shall the Scripture be fulfilled that thus it must be?"

As, then, we view the death of the Cross we must ever remember the voluntariness of that supreme act, which is all the more conspicuous as the agony of the Garden reminds us how greatly the Lord's spirit dreaded the awful pressure of the world's sin, which made Him cry: "My G.o.d, My G.o.d, why hast Thou forsaken Me?" How greatly He must have loved us! It was love, and only love, that kept Him standing at the bar of Pilate, bending beneath the scourge of the soldiers, hanging in apparent helplessness on the cross. Not the iron hand of relentless fate; not the overpowering numbers or closely-woven plots of His foes; not the nails that pierced His quivering flesh. No, it was none of these. It was not even the compulsion of the Divine purpose. It was His own choice, because of a love that would bear all things if only it might achieve redemption for those whom He loved more than Himself.

"He loved me, and gave Himself for me."

Surely we may trust that love. If it moved Him to endure the Cross and despise the shame, is there anything that it will withhold, anything that it will not do? His love is stronger than death, and mightier than the grave. Strong waters cannot quench it, floods cannot drown it. It silences all praise, and beggars all recompense. To believe and accept it is eternal life. To dwell within its embrace is the foretaste of everlasting joy. To be filled by it is to be transfigured into the image of G.o.d Himself.

XXIV

Drinking the Cup

"The cup which My Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?"--JOHN xviii. 1-14.

In our Master's arrest the one feature which stands out in unique splendor is its voluntariness. He went into the garden "knowing all things that should come upon Him." Even at the last moment He might have evaded the kiss of the traitor, and the binding thong with which Malchus sought to manacle His gracious hands. The spell of His intrinsic n.o.bleness and glory, which had flung His captors to the ground, might have held them there; the power that could heal the wounded ear might have destroyed with equal ease the entire band.

The reason for all this hardly needs explaining. His life and death were not merely a sacrifice, but a self-sacrifice. He freely gave Himself up for us all. Each believer may dare to appropriate the words of the apostle: "He loved me, and gave Himself for me." It was through the Eternal Spirit that He offered Himself without spot to G.o.d. It was from His own invincible love that He gave Himself for the Church, His Bride. "From beginning to end the moving spring of all His actions was deliberate self-devotedness to the good of men, and the fulfillment of G.o.d's will, for these are equivalents. And His death as the crowning act of this career was to be conspicuously a death embodying and exhibiting the spirit of self-sacrifice." Let us learn:

I. THE SUPREME n.o.bILITY OF SURRENDER TO THE EVITABLE.--It is, of course, most n.o.ble, when the martyr goes to his death without a murmur of complaint; allowing his enemies to wreak their vengeance without recrimination or threatening; bowing the meek head to the block; extending the hand to the hungry flame. He has no alternative but to die; there are no legions waiting under arms to obey his summons; no John of Gaunt to stand beside him, as beside Wycliffe, to see him fairly tried and insist on his acquittal. Then, there is nothing for it but to evince the patience and gentleness of Christ in being led as a lamb to the slaughter.

But though this spectacle stirs the hearts of men, there is one still more ill.u.s.trious--when the sufferer bends to a fate which he might easily avoid, but confronts for the sake of others. The former is submission to the inevitable, this to the evitable. That is bearing a yoke which is imposed by superior authority; this taking a yoke which might be evaded without blame, as judged by the tribunal of public opinion. And this is the sublimest spectacle on which the eye of man or angel can rest; for thus the sacrifice of Christ finds its n.o.blest counterpart and fulfillment.

When a missionary, with ample means and loving friends, deliberately spends among squalid and repulsive conditions, the precious years which might have been pa.s.sed among congenial society and luxurious comfort in the homeland; chooses a lot from which nature inevitably shrinks instead of that to which every conclusion but one points, and stays at his post, though his return, so far from being resented, would actually be favored by all whose opinion is of weight--this is a voluntary submission to the evitable.

When a home pastor stays by his poor flock because they need him so sorely, and sets his face toward grinding poverty and irksome toil when the city church invites him to a larger stipend and wealthier surroundings--this again is a voluntary surrender to the evitable.

When a wealthy bachelor is willing to forego the ease and quiet of his beautiful home in order to welcome the orphans of his deceased brother, who might have been sent to some charitable inst.i.tution or cast on strangers, that they may be beneath his personal supervision, and have a better chance in life--this again is voluntary submission to the evitable.

In each such case, it is not inevitable that the cross should be borne, and the hands yielded to the binding thong. The tongue of scandal could hardly find cause for criticism if the easier path were chosen.

Perhaps the soul hardly realizes the kindredness of its resolve with the loftiest that this world has seen. But it is superlatively beautiful, nevertheless. And let it never be forgotten, that nothing short of this will satisfy the standard of Christ. No Christian has a right to use all his rights. None can claim immunity from the duty of seeking the supreme good of others, though it involve the supreme cost to himself.

II. THE RECOGNITION OF G.o.d'S WILL IN HIS PERMISSIONS.--In the bitter anguish which had immediately preceded the arrest, our Lord had repeatedly referred to His cup. "If this cup," He said, "may not pa.s.s from Me, except I drink it, Thy will be done." The cup evidently referred to all the anguish caused to His holy nature in being numbered among the transgressors, and having to bear the sin of the world.

Whether it was the anguish of the body, beneath which He feared He would succ.u.mb, as some think; or the dread of being made a sin-offering, a scape-goat laden with sin, as others, or the chill of the approaching eclipse, which extorted the cry of forsakenness, as seems to me the more likely--is not pertinent to our present consideration. It is enough to know that, whilst there was much that cried, "Back!" there was more that cried, "On!"--and that He chose from the profoundest depths of His nature, to do the Father's will, to execute His part in the compact into which they had entered before the worlds were made, and to drink to the dregs the cup which His Father had placed in His hands.

But here we note that to all appearances the cup was mingled, prepared, and presented by the malignity and hate of man. The High Priests had long resolved to put Him to death, because His success with the people, His fresh and living comments on the law, His opposition to their hypocrisies and pretensions had exasperated them to madness. Judas also seemed to have had a conspicuous share in his discovery and arrest. Had we been left to our unaided reasonings we might have supposed that the most bitter ingredients of His cup had been supplied by the ingrat.i.tude of His own, the implacable rancor of the priests, and the treachery of Judas; but, see, He recognizes none but the Father--it is always _the Father_, always the cup which the Father had given.

There had been times in our lives when we may have been tempted to distinguish between G.o.d's appointments and permissions, and to speak of the former as being manifestly His will for us, whilst we suspended our judgment about the latter, and questioned if we were authorized in accounting them as being equally from Heaven. But such distinctions are fatal to peace. Our souls were kept in constant perturbation, as we accounted ourselves the shuttlec.o.c.k of rival powers, now G.o.d's, now man's. And we ended in ruling G.o.d out of more than half our life, and regarding ourselves as the hapless prey of strong and malicious forces to which we were sold, as Joseph to the Ishmaelites.

A deeper reading of Scripture has led us to a truer conclusion. There is no such distinction there. What G.o.d permits is as equally His will as what He appoints. Joseph tells his brethren that it was not they who sent him to Egypt, but G.o.d. David listens meekly to s.h.i.+mei's shameful words, because he felt that G.o.d allowed them to be spoken.

And here Jesus refuses to see the hand of His foes in His sufferings, but pa.s.ses beyond the hand which bore the cup to His lips to the Father who was permitting it to be presented, and reposed absolutely in the choice of Him of One who loved Him with a love that was before the foundation of the world.

Oh, sufferer! whether by those strokes, which, like sickness or bereavement, seem to come direct from heaven, or by those which, like malicious speeches or oppressive acts, seem to emanate from man, look up into the face of G.o.d, and say, "My Father, this is Thy will for me; Thine angels would have delivered me had it been best. But since they have not interposed, I read Thy choice for Thy child, and I am satisfied. It is sweet to drink the cup which Thy hands have prepared."

III. THE DEEP LAW OF SUBSt.i.tUTION.--Some of the rabble crowd had probably shown signs of a disposition to arrest some of Christ's followers. He, therefore, interfered, and reminded them of their own admission, that _He_ was the object to their midnight raid, and bade them allow _these_ to go their way. Is it surprising that the evangelist generalizes this act, finding in it an ill.u.s.tration of His Master's ceaseless interposition on behalf of His own--that of those whom the Father had given Him He should lose none.

In brief, this scene affords a conspicuous and striking ill.u.s.tration of the great doctrine of subst.i.tution. As the Good Shepherd steps to the front and sheathes the swords of His foes in His own breast, while He demands the release of the cowering flock, He is doing on a small scale what He did once and forever on Calvary; when, exposing Himself to the penalty due to sin, and braving the concentrated antagonism of a broken law, the drawn sword of inviolable justice, the sharpness of death, the shame of the cross, and the humiliation of the grave, He said, "If ye seek Me, let these go their way."

Christ sheltered us without reckoning the cost to Himself. He stood to the front, and bore the extreme brunt of all that was to be borne. He subst.i.tuted His suffering for ours, His wounds for our pain, His death for our sins. If you are fearing the just recompense of your sins, like a band of arresting soldiers lurking in the dark shadows and threatening to drag you forth to pay the uttermost farthing, take heart; Jesus has met, and will meet, them for you. Listen to His majestic voice, saying, "Take Me, but let this soul, who clings to the skirts of My robe, go his way." He is arrested, and led away; thou art free--that in thy freedom thou shouldest give thyself to be His very slave.