THE FIFTH WORD FROM THE CROSS[1]
The fourth word from the cross we looked upon both as the climax of the
struggle which had gone on in the mind of the divine Sufferer during
the three hours of silence and darkness which preceded its utterance
and as the liberation of His mind from that struggle. This view seems
to be confirmed by the terms in which St. John introduces the Fifth
Word--"After this, Jesus, knowing that all things were now
accomplished,[2] that the Scripture might be fulfilled, saith, I
thirst."
The phrase, "that the Scripture might be fulfilled," is usually
connected with the words, "I thirst," as if the meaning were that He
had said this fifth word in fulfilment of some prediction that He would
do so; and the Old Testament is ransacked, without much result, for the
prophetic words which may be supposed to be alluded to. It is better,
however, to connect the phrase with what goes before--"Jesus, knowing
that all things were now accomplished." It was only when His work,
appointed by God and prescribed in Scripture, was completed, that He
became sufficiently conscious of His bodily condition to say, "I
thirst." Intense mental preoccupation has a tendency to cause the
oblivion of bodily wants. Even the excitement of reading a fascinating
book may keep at a distance for hours the sense of requiring sleep or
food; and it is only when the reader comes out of the trance of
absorption that he realises how spent he is. During the temptation in
the wilderness Jesus was too absorbed to be aware of His bodily
necessities; but, when the spiritual strain was removed, He "was
afterward an hungered."
In the present instance, when He came out of His spiritual trance, it
was thirst He became conscious of. I remember once talking with a
German student who had served in the Franco-Prussian War. He was
wounded in an engagement near Paris, and lay on the field unable to
stir. He did not know exactly what was the nature of his wound, and he
thought that he might be dying. The pain was intense; the wounded and
dying were groaning round about him; the battle was still raging; and
shots were falling and tearing up the ground in all directions. But
after a time one agony, he told me, began to swallow up all the rest,
and soon made him forget his wound, his danger and his neighbours. It
was the agony of thirst. He would have given the world for a draught
of water. This was the supreme distress of crucifixion. The agonies
of the horrible punishment were of the most excruciating and
complicated order; but, after a time, they all gathered into one
central current, in which they were lost and swallowed up--that of
devouring thirst; and it was this that drew from our Lord the fifth
word.[3]
I.
This was the only cry of physical pain uttered by our Lord on the
cross. As was remarked in a previous chapter, it was not uncommon for
the victims of crucifixion, when the ghastly operation of nailing them
to the tree began, to writhe and resist, and to indulge either in
abject entreaties to be saved from the inevitable or in wild defiance
of their fate. But at this stage Jesus uttered never a word of
complaint. Afterwards also, in spite of the ever-increasing pain, He
preserved absolute self-control. He was absorbed either in caring for
others or in prayer to God.
It is a sublime example of patience. It rebukes our softness and
intolerance of pain. How easily we are made to cry out; how peevish
and ill-tempered we become under slight annoyances! A headache, a
toothache, a cold, or some other slight affair, is supposed to be a
sufficient justification for losing all self-control and making a whole
household uncomfortable. Suffering does not always sanctify. It sours
some tempers and makes them selfish and exacting. This is the
besetting sin of invalids--to become absorbed in their own miseries and
to make all about them the slaves of their caprices. But many triumph
nobly over their temptation; and in this they are following the example
of the suffering Saviour. There are sick-rooms which it is a privilege
to visit. You may know that the place is a scene of excruciating pain;
but on the pillow there lies a sweet, patient face; the voice is
cheerful and thankful; and, instead of being self-absorbed, the mind is
full of unselfish thoughts for others. I recall the description given
by a friend of one such invalid's chamber, which used to be filled with
the most beautiful cheerfulness and activity. At a certain time of
year you might see in it quite an exhibition of stockings, pinafores,
dresses and other pretty things, prepared for the children of a
mission-school in India. By thinking of the needs of those children
far away the invalid not only kept her own sufferings at bay, but
created for herself delightful connections with God's work and God's
people. Yet she was one who might easily have asserted the right to do
nothing, and have taxed the patience and the services of those by whom
she was surrounded.
But there is another lesson besides patience in this word of Christ.
He only uttered one word of physical pain; but He did utter one. His
self-control was not proud or sullen. There is a silence in suffering
that is mere doggedness, when we screw our courage to the
sticking-place and resolve that nobody shall hear any complaint from
us. We succeed in being silent, but it is with a bad grace: there is
no love or patience in our hearts, but only selfish determination.
This is especially a temptation when anyone has injured us and we do
not wish to let him see how much we have suffered, lest he should be
gratified. Jesus was surrounded by those who had wantonly wronged Him;
not only had they inflicted pain, but they had laughed and mocked at
His sufferings. He might have resolved not on any account to show His
feelings or at least to ask any kindness. It is sometimes more
difficult to ask a favour than to grant one; it requires more of the
spirit of forgiveness.[4] But not only did Jesus ask a favour: He
expected to receive it. Shamefully as He had been treated by those to
whom He had to appeal, He believed that there might still be some
remains of goodness at the bottom of their hearts. All His life He had
been wont to discover more good in the worst than others believed to
exist, and to the last He remained true to His own faith. The maxim of
the world is to take all men for rogues till the reverse has been
proved. Especially when people have enemies, they believe the own very
worst of them and paint their characters without a single streak of any
colour but black. To those from whom we differ in opinion we attribute
the basest motives and refuse to hear any good of them. But this is
not the way of Christ: He believed there were some drops of the milk of
human kindness even in the hard-hearted Roman soldiers; and He was not
disappointed.[5]
II.
It is impossible to hear this pathetic cry, so expressive of
helplessness and dependence, without recalling other words of our Lord
to which it stands in marked contrast. Can this be He who, standing in
Jerusalem not long before, surrounded with a great multitude, lifted up
His voice and cried, "If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and
drink"? Can it be He who, standing at the well of Jacob with the
Samaritan woman and pointing to the springing fountain at their feet,
said, "Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but
whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never
thirst; but the water that I shall give shall be in him a well of water
springing up into everlasting life"? Can He who in words like these
offered to quench the thirst of the world be the same who now whispers
in mortal exhaustion, "I thirst"?
It is the same; and this is a contrast which runs through His whole
life, the contrast between inward wealth and outward poverty. He was
able to enrich the whole world, yet He had to be supported by the
contributions of the women who followed Him; He could say, "I am the
bread of life," yet He sometimes hungered for a meal; He could promise
thrones and many mansions to those who believed on Him, yet He said
Himself, "Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, yet
the Son of man hath not where to lay His head."
In a materialistic age, when in so many circles money is the measure of
the man, and when people are so excessively concerned about what they
shall eat and what they shall drink and wherewithal they shall be
clothed, it is worth while to bear this contrast in mind. Seldom have
the noblest specimens of humanity been those who have been able to
wallow in luxury; and the men who have enriched the world with the
treasures of the mind have not infrequently been hardly able to procure
daily bread. Our older boys may have seen on some of their
school-books the name of Heyne. His is an immortal name in classical
scholarship; but when he was a student, and even when he was enriching
the literature of his country with splendid editions of the ancient
writers, he was literally starving, and had sometimes to subsist on
skins of apples and other offal picked up from the streets. Our own
Samuel Johnson, to whose wisdom the whole globe is now a debtor, when
engaged on some of his greatest works, had not shoes in which to go
out, and did not know where his dinner was to come from. It would be
easy from history to multiply instances of those who, though poor, yet
have made many rich.
The inference is not, that one must be poor externally if one desires
to be inwardly rich. The materially poor are not all spiritually rich
by any means; multitudes of them, alas, are as poverty-stricken in mind
and character as in physical condition. Perhaps one might even go so
far as to say that as a rule the inwardly rich enjoy at least a
competent portion of the good things of this life; for intelligence and
character have even a market value, Money, too, can be made subservient
to the highest aims of the soul. But what it is essential to remember
is, that the inward is the true wealth, and that we must seek and
obtain it, even, if necessary, at the sacrifice of the outward. If
life is not to be impoverished and materialised, some in every age must
make the choice between the inward and the outward wealth; and no one
is worthy to be the servant of scholarship, art or religion who is not
prepared for the choice should it fall to him. It is by the possession
of intelligence, generosity and spiritual power that we enter into the
higher ranks of manhood; and the most Christlike trait of all is to
have the will and the ability to overflow in influences and activities
which sweeten and elevate the lives of others.
III.
It would appear that some of those round the cross were opposed to
granting the request of Jesus. Misunderstanding the fourth word,[6]
they supposed He was calling for Elijah; and they proposed not to help
Him even with a drink of water, in order to see whether or not Elijah
would come to the rescue. But in one man the impulse of humanity was
too strong, and he gave Jesus what He desired. We almost love the man
for it, and we envy his office.
But the Saviour is still saying, "I thirst." How and where? Listen!
"I was thirsty, and ye gave Me drink." "Lord, when saw we Thee athirst
and gave Thee drink?" "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of
these My brethren, ye did it unto Me." Wherever the brothers and
sisters of Jesus are suffering, sitting in lonely rooms and wishing
that somebody would come and visit them, or lying on beds of pain and
needing somebody to come and ease the pillow or to reach the cup to the
dry lips, there Christ is saying, "I thirst."
Perhaps He is saying it in vain. There are multitudes of professing
Christians who never from end to end of the year visit any poor person.
They never thread the obscure streets or ascend the grimy stairs in
search of God's hidden ones. They have never acquired the art of
cheering a dark home with a flower, or a hymn, or a diet, or the touch
of a sympathetic hand and the smile of a healthy face. It would
completely alter the Christianity of many if they could begin to do
these lowly services; it would put reality into it, and it would bring
into the heart a joy and exhilaration hitherto unknown. For Christ
sees to it that none who thus serve Him lose their reward. An American
friend told me that once, when travelling on the continent of Europe,
he fell in with a fellow-countryman on board a Rhine steamer. They
talked about America and soon confided to each other from which parts
of the country they came, with other fragments of personal detail.
They continued to travel for some days together, and my informant was
so overwhelmed with kindness by his companion that at last he ventured
to ask the reason. "Well," rejoined the other, "when the War was going
on, I was serving in your native state; and one day our march lay
through the town in which you have told me you were born. The march
had been very prolonged; it was a day of intense heat; I was utterly
fatigued and felt on the point of dying for thirst, when a kind woman
came out of one of the houses and gave me a glass of cold water. And I
have been trying to repay through you, her fellow-townsman, the
kindness she showed to me." Does it not remind us of the great word of
the Son of God, "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"?
But is this not enough? Does anyone wish to get still nearer to Christ
and hold the cup not only to Him in the person of His members but to
His own very lips? Well, this is possible too. Jesus still says, "I
thirst." He thirsts for love. He thirsts for prayer. He thirsts for
service. He thirsts for holiness. Whenever the heart of a human being
turns to Him with a genuine impulse of penitence, affection or
consecration, the Saviour sees of the travail of His soul and is
satisfied.
[1] "I thirst."
[2] _tetelestai_--the very word of Jesus Himself--"It is finished--"
which may possibly have been fourth.
[3] He had by this time been on the cross for four hours or more. The
arrest took place about midnight; the ecclesiastical trial terminated
about sunrise; the proceedings before Pilate occupied perhaps from six
to nine, or rather more; the crucifixion took place towards noon; from
noon till three o'clock darkness prevailed; and between this and sunset
the death and burial took place. See Matt. xxvii. 1; Mark xv. 25, 33,
34, 42. St. John's statement of time, xix. 14, is a difficulty. He
appears to reckon from a different starting-point. See Andrews' _Life
of Our Lord_ (new edition), pp. 545 ff. In the same passage St. John
says, "It was the preparation of the passover"; does this mean the day
before the feast commenced, or the day before the Sabbath of Passover
Week? There are held to be other indications that St. John represents
the crucifixion as having taken place the day before the Passover
began, whereas the Synoptists place it the day after (especially John
xviii. 28, where the question is whether "the passover" means the
Paschal Lamb or the Chagigah, a portion of the feast belonging to the
second day). On this question there is an extensive literature. See
Andrews, 452-81, and Keim, vol. vi., pp. 195-219.
[4] "To be in too great a hurry to discharge an obligation is itself a
kind of ingratitude."--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
[5] Hoffmann says that Jesus refused the intoxicating draught, before
the crucifixion began, that His senses might be kept clear; and that
now He accepted the refreshing draught for the same purpose.
[6] "Eli, Eli," etc.