wonderful passages in our blessed Saviour’s whole stay on earth, namely,
His transfiguration. The story, as told by the different Evangelists, is
this,—That our Lord took Peter, and John, and James his brother, and led
them up into a high mountain apart, which mountain may be seen to this
very day. It is a high peaked hill, standing apart from all the hills
around it, with a small smooth space of ground upon the top, very fit,
from its height and its loneliness, for a transaction like the
transfiguration, which our Lord wished no one but these three to behold.
There the apostles fell asleep; while our blessed Lord, who had deeper
thoughts in His heart than they had, knelt down and prayed to _His_
Father and _our_ Father, which is in heaven. And as He prayed, the form
of His countenance was changed, and His raiment became shining, white as
the light; and there appeared Moses and Elijah talking with Him. They
talked of matters which the angels desire to look into, of the greatest
matters that ever happened in this earth since it was made; of the
redemption of the world, and of the death which Christ was to undergo at
Jerusalem. And as they were talking, the apostles awoke, and found into
what glorious company they had fallen while they slept. What they felt
no mortal man can tell—that moment was worth to them all the years they
had lived before. When they had gone up with Jesus into the mount, He
was but the poor carpenter’s son, wonderful enough to _them_, no doubt,
with His wise, searching words, and His gentle, loving looks, that drew
to Him all men who had hearts left in them, and wonderful enough, too,
from all the mighty miracles which they had seen Him do, but still He was
merely a man like themselves, poor, and young, and homeless, who felt the
heat, and the cold, and the rough roads, as much as they did. They could
feel that He spake as never man spake—they could see that God’s spirit
and power was on Him as it had never been on any man in their time. God
had even enlightened their reason by His Spirit, to know that He was the
Christ, the Son of the living God. But still it does seem they did not
fully understand who and what He was; they could not understand how the
Son of God should come in the form of a despised and humble man; they did
not understand that His glory was to be a spiritual glory. They expected
His kingdom to be a kingdom of this world—they expected His glory to
consist in palaces, and armies, and riches, and jewels, and all the
magnificence with which Solomon and the old Jewish kings were adorned;
they thought that He was to conquer back again from the Roman emperor all
the inestimable treasures of which the Romans had robbed the Jews, and
that He was to make the Jewish nation, like the Roman, the conquerors and
masters of all the nations of the earth. So that it was a puzzling thing
to their minds why He should be King of the Jews at the very time that He
was but a poor tradesman’s son, living on charity. It was to shew them
that His kingdom was the kingdom of heaven that He was transfigured
before them.
They saw His glory—the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full
of grace and truth. The form of His countenance was changed; all the
majesty, and courage, and wisdom, and love, and resignation, and pity,
that lay in His noble heart, shone out through His face, while He spoke
of His death which He should accomplish at Jerusalem—the Holy Ghost that
was upon Him, the spirit of wisdom, and love, and beauty—the spirit which
produces every thing that is lovely in heaven and earth: in soul and
body, blazed out through His eyes, and all His glorious countenance, and
made Him look like what He was—a God. My friends, what a sight! Would
it not be worth while to journey thousands of miles—to go through all
difficulties, dangers, that man ever heard of, for one sight of that
glorious face, that we might fall down upon our knees before it, and, if
it were but for a moment, give way to the delight of finding something
that we could utterly love and utterly adore? I say, the delight of
finding something to worship; for if there is a noble, if there is a
holy, if there is a spiritual feeling in man, it is the feeling which
bows him down before those who are greater, and wiser, and holier than
himself. I say, that feeling of respect for what is noble is a heavenly
feeling. The man who has lost it—the man who feels no respect for those
who are above him in age, above him in knowledge, above him in wisdom,
above him in goodness,—_that_ man shall in no wise enter into the kingdom
of heaven. It is only the man who is like a little child, and feels the
delight of having some one to look up to, who will ever feel delight in
looking up to Jesus Christ, who is the Lord of lords and King of kings.
It was the want of respect, it was the dislike of feeling any one
superior to himself, which made the devil rebel against God, and fall
from heaven. It will be the feeling of complete respect—the feeling of
kneeling at the feet of one who is immeasurably superior to ourselves in
every thing, that will make up the greatest happiness of heaven. This is
a hard saying, and no man can understand it, save he to whom it is given
by the Spirit of God.
That the apostles _had_ this feeling of immeasurable respect for Christ
there is no doubt, else they would never have been apostles. But they
felt more than this. There were other wonders in that glorious vision
besides the countenance of our Lord. His raiment, too, was changed, and
became all brilliant, white as the light itself. Was not _that_ a lesson
to them? Was it not as if our Lord had said to them, ‘I am a king, and
have put on glorious apparel, but whence does the glory of my raiment
come? _I_ have no need of fine linen, and purple, and embroidery, the
work of men’s hands; _I_ have no need to send my subjects to mines and
caves to dig gold and jewels to adorn my crown: the earth is mine and the
fulness thereof. All this glorious earth, with its trees and its
flowers, its sunbeams and its storms, is _mine_. _I_ made it—_I_ can do
what I will with it. All the mysterious laws by which the light and the
heat flow out for ever from God’s throne, to lighten the sun, and the
moon, and the stars of heaven—they are mine. _I_ am the light of the
world—the light of men’s bodies as well of their souls; and here is my
proof of it. Look at Me. I am He that “decketh Himself with light as it
were with a garment, who layeth the beams of His chambers in the waters,
and walketh upon the wings of the wind.” This was the message which
Christ’s glory brought the apostles—a message which they could never
forget. The spiritual glory of His countenance had shewn them that He
was a spiritual king—that His strength lay in the spirit of power, and
wisdom, and beauty, and love, which God had given Him without measure;
and it shewed them, too, that there was such a thing as a spiritual body,
such a body as each of us some day shall have if we be found in Christ at
the resurrection of the just—a body which shall not hide a man’s spirit,
when it becomes subject to the wear and tear of life, and disease, and
decay; but a spiritual body—a body which shall be filled with our
spirits, which shall be perfectly obedient to our spirits—a body through
which the glory of our spirits shall shine out, as the glory of Christ’s
spirit shone out through His body at the transfiguration. “Brethren, we
know not yet what we shall be, but this we do know, that when He shall
appear, we shall be _like Him_, for we shall see Him as He is.” (1 John,
iii. 3.)
Thus our Lord taught them by His appearance that there is such a thing as
a spiritual body, while, by the glory of His raiment, in addition to His
other miracles, He taught them that He had power over the laws of nature,
and could, in His own good time, “change the bodies of their humiliation,
that they might be made like unto His glorious body, according to the
mighty working by which He is able to subdue all things to Himself.”
But there was yet another lesson which the apostles learnt from the
transfiguration of our Lord. They beheld Moses and Elijah talking with
Him:—Moses the great lawgiver of their nation, Elijah the chief of all
the Jewish prophets. We must consider this a little to find out the
whole depth of its meaning. You remember how Christ had spoken of
Himself as having come, not to destroy the Law and the Prophets, but to
fulfil them. You remember, too, how He had always said that He was the
person of whom the Law and the Prophets had spoken.
Here was an actual sign and witness that His words were true—here was
Moses, the giver of the Law, and Elijah, the chief of the Prophets,
talking with Him, bearing witness to Him in their own persons, and
shewing, too, that it was His death and His perfect sacrifice that they
had been shadowing forth in the sacrifices of the law and in the dark
speeches of prophecy. For they talked with Him of His death, which He
was to accomplish at Jerusalem. What more perfect testimony could the
apostles have had to shew them that Jesus of Nazareth, their Master, was
He of whom the Law and the Prophets spoke—that He was indeed the Christ
for whom Moses and Elijah, and all the saints of old, had looked; and
that He was come not to destroy the Law and the Prophets, but to fulfil
them? We can hardly understand the awe and the delight with which the
disciples must have beheld those blessed Three—Moses, and Elias, and
Jesus Christ, their Lord, talking together before their very eyes. For
of all men in the world, Moses and Elias were to them the greatest. All
true-hearted Israelites, who knew the history of their nation, and
understood the promises of God, must have felt that Moses and Elias were
the two greatest heroes and saviours of their nation, whom God had ever
yet raised up. And the joy and the honour of thus seeing them face to
face, the very men whom they had loved and reverenced in their thoughts,
whom they had heard and read of from their childhood, as the greatest
ornaments and glories of their nation—the joy and the honour, I say, of
that unexpected sight, added to the wonderful majesty which was suddenly
revealed to their transfigured Lord, seemed to have been too much for
them—they knew not what to say. Such company seemed to them for the
moment heaven enough; and St. Peter first finding words exclaimed, “Lord,
it is good for us to be here. If thou wilt let us build three
tabernacles, one for Thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.” Not, I
fancy, that they intended to worship Moses and Elias, but that they felt
that Moses and Elias, as well as Christ, had each a divine message, which
must be listened to; and therefore, they wished that each of them might
have his own tabernacle, and dwell among men, and each teach his own
particular doctrine and wisdom in his own school. It may seem strange
that they should put Moses and Elias so on an equality with Christ, but
the truth was, that as yet they understood Moses and Elias better than
they did Christ. They had heard and read of Moses and Elijah all their
lives—they were acquainted with all their actions and words—they knew
thoroughly what great and noble men the Spirit of God had made them, but
they did _not_ understand Christ in like manner. They did not yet _feel_
that God had given Him the Spirit without measure—they did not understand
that He was not only to be a lawgiver and a prophet, but a sacrifice for
sin, the conqueror of death and hell, who was to lead captivity captive,
and receive inestimable gifts for men. Much less did they think that
Moses and Elijah were but His servants—that all _their_ spirit and
_their_ power had been given by Him. But this also they were taught a
moment afterwards; for a bright cloud overshadowed them, hiding from them
the glory of God the Father, whom no man hath seen or can see, who dwells
in the light which no man can approach unto; and out of that cloud, a
voice saying, “This is my beloved Son; hear ye Him;” and then, hiding
their faces in fear and wonder, they fell to the ground; and when they
looked up, the vision and the voice had alike passed away, and they saw
no man but Christ alone. Was not that enough for them? Must not the
meaning of the vision have been plain to them? They surely understood
from it that Moses and Elijah were, as they had ever believed them to be,
great and good, true messengers of the living God; but that their message
and their work was done—that Christ, whom they had looked for, was
come—that all the types of the law were realised, and all the prophecies
fulfilled, and that henceforward Christ, and Christ alone, was to be
their Prophet and their Lawgiver. Was not this plainly the meaning of
the Divine voice? For when they wished to build three tabernacles, and
to honour Moses and Elijah, the Law and the Prophets, as separate from
Christ—that moment the heavenly voice warned them: ‘_This—this_ is my
beloved Son—hear ye _Him_, and Him only, henceforward.’ And Moses and
Elijah, their work being done, forthwith vanished away, leaving Christ
alone to fulfil the Law and the prophets, and all other wisdom and
righteousness that ever was or shall be. This is another lesson which
Christ’s transfiguration was meant to teach and us, that Christ alone is
to be henceforward our guide; that no philosophies or doctrines of any
sort which are not founded on a true faith in Jesus Christ, and His life
and death, are worth listening to; that God has manifested forth His
beloved Son, and that Him, and Him only, we are to hear. I do not mean
to say that Christ came into the world to put down human learning. I do
not mean that we are to despise human learning, as so many are apt to do
nowadays; for Christ came into the world not to destroy human learning,
but to fulfil it—to sanctify it—to make human learning true, and strong,
and useful, by giving it a sure foundation to stand upon, which is the
belief and knowledge of His blessed self. Just as Christ came not to
destroy the Law and the Prophets, but to fulfil them—to give them a
spirit and a depth in men’s eyes which they never had before—just so, He
came to fulfil all true philosophies, all the deep thoughts which men had
ever thought about this wonderful world and their own souls, by giving
_them_ a spirit and a depth which _they_ never had before. Therefore let
no man tempt you to despise learning, for it is holy to the Lord.
There is one more lesson which we may learn from our Lord’s
transfiguration; when St. Peter said, “_Lord_! it is good for us to be
here,” he spoke a truth. It _was_ good for him to be there;
nevertheless, Christ did not listen to his prayer. He and his two
companions were not allowed to _stay_ in that glorious company. And why?
Because they had a work to do. They had glad tidings of great joy to
proclaim to every creature, and it was, after all, but a selfish prayer,
to wish to be allowed to stay in ease and glory on the mount while the
whole world was struggling in sin and wickedness below them: for there is
no meaning in a man’s calling himself a Christian, or saying that he
loves God, unless he is ready to hate what God hates, and to fight
against that which Christ fought against, that is, sin. No one has any
right to call himself a servant of God, who is not trying to do away with
some of the evil in the world around him. And, therefore, Christ was
merciful, when, instead of listening to St. Peter’s prayer, He led the
apostles down again from the mount, and sent them forth, as He did
afterwards, to preach the Gospel of the kingdom to all nations. For
Christ put a higher honour on St. Peter by that than if He had let him
stay on the mount all his life, to behold His glory, and worship and
adore. And He made St. Peter more like Himself by doing so. For what
was Christ’s life? Not one of deep speculations, quiet thoughts, and
bright visions, such as St. Peter wished to lead; but a life of fighting
against evil; earnest, awful prayers and struggles within, continual
labour of body and mind without, insult and danger, and confusion, and
violent exertion, and bitter sorrow. This was Christ’s life—this is the
life of almost every good man I ever heard of;—this was St. Peter, and
St. James, and St. John’s life afterwards. This was Christ’s cup, which
they were to drink of as well as He;—this was the baptism of fire with
which they were to be baptised of as well as He;—this was to be their
fight of faith;—this was the tribulation through which they, like all
other great saints, were to enter into the kingdom of heaven; for it is
certain that the harder a man fights against evil, the harder evil will
fight against him in return: but it is certain, too, that the harder a
man fights against evil, the more he is like his Saviour Christ, and the
more glorious will be his reward in heaven. It is certain, too, that
what was good for St. Peter is good for us. It is good for a man to have
holy and quiet thoughts, and at moments to see into the very deepest
meaning of God’s word and God’s earth, and to have, as it were, heaven
opened before his eyes; and it is good for a man sometimes actually to
_feel_ his heart overpowered with the glorious majesty of God, and to
_feel_ it gushing out with love to his blessed Saviour: but it is not
good for him to stop there, any more than it was for the apostles; they
had to leave that glorious vision and come down from the mount, and do
Christ’s work; and _so have we_; for, believe me, one word of warning
spoken to keep a little child out of sin,—one crust of bread given to a
beggar-man, because he is your brother, for whom Christ died,—one angry
word checked, when it is on your lips, for the sake of Him who was meek
and lowly in heart; in short, any, the smallest endeavour of this kind to
lessen the quantity of evil, which is in yourselves, and in those around
you, is worth all the speculations, and raptures, and visions, and
frames, and feelings in the world; for those are the good _fruits_ of
faith, whereby alone the tree shall be known whether it be good or evil.
SERMON XVI.
THE CRUCIFIXION.
ISAIAH, liii. 7.
“He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter.”
ON this day, my friends, was offered up upon the cross the Lamb of
God,—slain in eternity and heaven before the foundation of the world, but
slain in time and space upon this day. All the old sacrifices, the lambs
which were daily offered up to God in the Jewish Temple, the lambs which
Abel, and after him the patriarchs offered up, the Paschal Lamb slain at
the Passover, our Eastertide, all these were but figures of Christ—tokens
of the awful and yet loving law of God, that without shedding of blood
there is no remission of sin. But the blood of dumb animals could not
take away sin. All mankind had sinned, and it was, therefore, necessary
that all mankind should suffer. Therefore He suffered, the new Adam, the
Man of all men, in whom all mankind were, as it were, collected into one
and put on a new footing with God; that henceforward to be a man might
mean to be a holy being, a forgiven being, a being joined to God, wearing
the likeness of the Son of God—the human soul and body in which He
offered up all human souls and bodies on the cross. For man was
originally made in Christ’s likeness; He was the Word of God who walked
in the garden of Eden, who spoke to Adam with a human voice; He was the
Lord who appeared to the patriarchs in a man’s figure, and ate and drank
in Abraham’s tent, and spoke to him with a human voice; He was the God of
Israel, whom the Jewish elders saw with their bodily eyes upon Mount
Sinai, and under His feet a pavement as of a sapphire stone. From Him
all man’s powers came—man’s speech, man’s understanding. All that is
truly noble in man was a dim pattern of Him in whose likeness man was
originally made. And when man had fallen and sinned, and Christ’s image
was fading more and more out of him, and the likeness of the brutes
growing more and more in him year by year, then came Christ, the head and
the original pattern of all men, to claim them for His own again, to do
in their name what they could never do for themselves, to offer Himself
up a sacrifice for the sins of the whole world: so that He is the real
sacrifice, the real lamb; as St. John said when he pointed Him out to his
disciples, “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the
world!”
Oh, think of that strong and patient Lamb, who on this day shewed Himself
perfect in fortitude and nobleness, perfect in meekness and resignation.
Think of Him who, in His utter love to us, endured the cross, despising
the shame. And what a cross! Truly said the prophet, “His visage was
marred more than any man, and His form more than the sons of men:” in
hunger and thirst, in tears and sighs, bruised and bleeding, His forehead
crowned with thorns, His sides torn with scourges, His hands and feet
gored with nails, His limbs stretched from their sockets, naked upon the
shameful cross, the Son of God hung, lingering slowly towards the last
gasp, in the death of the felon and the slave! The most shameful sight
that this earth ever saw, and yet the most glorious sight. The most
shameful sight, at which the sun in heaven veiled his face, as if
ashamed, and the skies grew black, as if to hide those bleeding limbs
from the foul eyes of men; and yet the noblest sight, for in that death
upon the cross shone out the utter fullness of all holiness, the utter
fullness of all fortitude, the utter fullness of that self-sacrificing
love, which had said, “The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which
was lost;” the utter fullness of obedient patience, which could say,
“Father, not My will but Thine be done;” the utter fullness of generous
forgiveness, which could pray, “Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do;” the utter fullness of noble fortitude and endurance, which
could say at the very moment when a fearful death stared Him in the face,
“Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to the Father, and He will send me
at once more than twelve armies of angels? But how then would the
Scriptures be fulfilled that thus it must be?”
Oh, my friends, look to Him, the author and perfecter of all faith, all
trust, all loyal daring for the sake of duty and of God! Look at His
patience. See how He endured the cross, despising the shame. See how He
endured—how patience had her perfect work in Him—how in all things He was
more than conqueror. What gentleness, what calmness, what silence, what
infinite depths of Divine love within Him! A heart which neither shame,
nor torture, nor insult, could stir from its Godlike resolution. When
looking down from that cross He beheld none almost but enemies, heard no
word but mockery; when those who passed by reviled Him, wagging their
heads and saying, “He saved others, Himself He cannot save;” His only
answer was a prayer for forgiveness for that besotted mob who were
yelling beneath Him like hounds about their game. Consider Him, and then
consider ourselves, ruffled and put out of temper by the slightest cross
accident, the slightest harsh word, too often by the slightest pain—not
to mention insults, for we pride ourselves in not bearing them. Try, my
friends, if you can, even in the dimmest way, fancy yourselves for one
instant in His place this day 1815 years. Fancy yourselves hanging on
that cross—fancy that mocking mob below—fancy—but I dare not go on with
the picture. Only think—think what would have been _your_ temper there,
and then you may get some slight notion of the boundless love and the
boundless endurance of the Saviour whom _we_ love so little, for whose
sake most of us will not endure the trouble of giving up a single sin.
And then consider that it was all of His own free will; that at any
moment, even while He was hanging upon the cross, He might have called to
earth and sun, to heaven and to hell, “Stop! thus far, but no further,”
and they would have obeyed Him; and all that cross, and agony, and the
fierce faces of those furious Jews, would have vanished away like a
hideous dream when one awakes. For they lied in their mockery. Any
moment He might have been free, triumphant, again in His eternal bliss,
but He would not. He Himself kept Himself on that cross till His
Father’s will was fulfilled, and the sacrifice was finished, and we were
saved. And then at last, when there was no more human nobleness, no more
agony left for Him to fulfil, no gem in the crown of holiness which He
had not won as His own, no drop in the cup of misery which He had not
drained as His own; when at last He was made perfect through suffering,
and His strength had been made perfect in weakness, then He bowed that
bleeding, thorn-crowned head, and said, “It is finished. Father, into
Thy hands I commend my spirit.” And so He died.
How can our poor words, our poor deeds, thank Him? How mean and paltry
our deepest gratitude, our highest loyalty, when compared with Him to
whom it is due—that adorable victim, that perfect sin-offering, who this
day offered up Himself upon the altar of the cross, in the fire of His
own boundless zeal for the kingdom of God, His Father, and of His
boundless love for us, His sinful brothers! “Oh, thou blessed Jesus!
Saviour, agonising for us! God Almighty, who did make Thyself weak for
the love of us! oh, write that love upon our hearts so deeply that
neither pleasure nor sorrow, life nor death, may wipe it away! Thou hast
sacrificed Thyself for us, oh, give us the hearts to sacrifice ourselves
for Thee! Thou art the Vine, we are the branches. Let Thy priceless
blood shed for us on this day flow like life-giving sap through all our
hearts and minds, and fill us with Thy righteousness, that we may be
sacrifices fit for Thee. Stir us up to offer to Thee, O Lord, our
bodies, our souls, our spirits, in all we love and all we learn, in all
we plan and all we do, to offer our labours, our pleasures, our sorrows,
to Thee; to work for Thy kingdom through them, to live as those who are
not their own, but bought with Thy blood, fed with Thy body; and enable
us now, in Thy most holy Sacrament, to offer to Thee our repentance, our
faith, our prayers, our praises, living, reasonable, and spiritual
sacrifices,—Thine from our birth-hour, Thine now, and Thine for ever!”
SERMON XVII.
THE RESURRECTION.
LUKE, xxiv. 6.
“He is not here—He is risen.”