own accounts of debt to God: no neighbour is empowered to record the
items, and sum them up, and keep a record of their amount against you.
The Romish priesthood attempt to usurp this prerogative, but in its
purpose it is boldly unjust, and in its results miserably ineffectual.
They ought not, in point of principle, to make the attempt; and they are
not able, in point of fact, to accomplish their object. Every man keeps
his own account book; and no other man dare or can look into it, except
in as far as the owner opens it of his own accord for the inspection of
his neighbour.
Some teachers adopt this principle, with good effect, in the discipline
of children at school. Each child has a book in which he marks, from day
to day and from hour to hour, his own successes and his own failures;
and according to this record the prizes are awarded or withheld. When
the child is put upon his honour, it is expected that he will be
honourable. Probably a large balance of advantage results from this
contrivance where it is judiciously managed; but it is capable of
telling two ways, and does tell in opposite ways with different persons.
If the child deal fairly, the principle of truth within him will be
strengthened by habit; but if he cheat, all of the sense of honesty that
remained within him will soon be worn away. "To him that hath shall be
given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be
taken, even that which he hath."
But while each man is permitted to keep the account of his own sins
against God, and no human being can rightfully possess a duplicate,
there is a duplicate: another record is kept in the Book of God. That
record is true; and woe to the self-deceiver who made false entries in
his own favour all his life, when it is found that the two accounts will
not tally in the great day.
Simon the entertainer kept account of his own debt to God--his sins of
omission and commission--and balanced them from time to time against a
column of merits which he possessed. The balance, he confesses, was
against himself, and the difference he set down as the amount due: it is
expressed by fifty. The woman, on the other hand, had during a course of
wickedness lost all reckoning, both of her own sins and of God's
mercies. Lately she had obtained a copy of the missing documents. A
reflection of the charge had been suddenly thrown down from the archives
of the Judge, upon the tablet of her own conscience. Without attempting
to tax the account in her own favour, she accepted it in full, and
expressed it by five hundred--ten times as much as the Pharisee had laid
to his own charge. He, taking his own reckoning for authority, counted
his liability light: she, taking her data from God's law, counted her
liability heavy.
In the story, as it is constructed by the Lord for the instruction and
reproof of Simon, the love of both servants to their master is caused,
and consequently measured by, the forgiveness which they had received:
one having obtained the remission of a small debt, loved the forgiver a
little; the other, having obtained the remission of a great debt, loved
the forgiver much. In any such case, however, love springs up strong in
proportion, not to the absolute amount of the debt remitted, but to the
estimate of its amount which the debtor himself has formed. This
principle must be kept in view when we apply the lesson of the parable
to Simon. The Scripture does not concede that the amount of forgiveness
that he needed and obtained was in respect to that of the poor woman as
fifty to five hundred: the Scripture does not even determine that Simon
was, in point of fact, forgiven at all. In its application to the case
in hand, the Lord's instruction is equivalent to the conditional
formula, If you have been forgiven fifty pence, and she five hundred,
whether will she or you experience the more fervent gratitude to your
common benefactor? This, I think, is the only true and consistent method
of applying the parable to the experience of the woman and the Pharisee.
The point on which all the weight should lean is not the absolute amount
of guilt incurred by the sinner and forgiven by God, but the estimate
made by the sinner of his own sin, and his consequent appreciation of
the boon he receives when it is unconditionally blotted out. This view,
besides being in itself right, possesses this practical advantage, that
it steers entirely clear of the entangling question, If the greatest
sinner, when forgiven, loves his Forgiver most, will not he be happiest
at last who is the guiltiest now? There is no place here or elsewhere in
the Scriptures for such a speculation: it is not admissible in any
form. The conception which the parable produces when legitimately
applied is at once beautiful and beneficent: love to the Saviour rises
in the heart of a saved man in proportion to the sense which he
entertains of his own sinfulness on the one hand, and the mercy of God
on the other. Thus the height of a saint's love to the Lord is as the
depth of his own humility: as this root strikes down unseen in the
ground, that blossoming branch rises higher in the sky.
The woman did not speak of her own acts, either within herself or to her
neighbours; but her acts are, notwithstanding, proclaimed and recorded.
They are minutely catalogued (ver. 44-46), by the Lord himself. Nothing
is lost on him; his ear is open, and his eye. As in providence not a
sparrow falls to the ground without our Father's permission and regard,
so in the new covenant not a tear falls for sin indulged, not a sigh
rises for deliverance from its pollution, without attracting the notice
and obtaining the approval of the Sinner's Friend. Love, burning as a
night lamp silently in a penitent's breast, or bursting forth in
impetuous praise, or calmly supplying the motive power of a useful
life--love in the heart of the forgiven sinner, serves and pleases the
forgiving Redeemer.
One point still remains unnoticed, needing indeed some notes of
explanation, but capable of being easily and fully explained; it lies in
these words of Jesus: "Wherefore I say unto thee, Her sins which are
many are forgiven; for she loved much." A question has been raised here,
Did the woman's love to the Lord cause him to forgive her, or did his
pardon freely bestowed cause the forgiven woman to love him? To state
the question is in effect to answer it. This announcement which Jesus
makes in the close of his exposition is obviously meant to run in the
line of the parable; but if you understand it to represent the woman's
love as the procuring cause of pardon from the Lord, it runs right in
the face of the parable from first to last. The love of the servants,
the lesser as well as the larger love, is not the cause but the effect
of the Master's kindness; and it would not only be out of harmony with
the parable, but in sheer opposition to it in letter and in spirit, to
understand it as countenancing the doctrine that the sinner's
spontaneous love to God merits and obtains forgiveness.
Although, in sentences of this form, it is more common to express the
effect in the first clause, and the cause, introduced by a For in the
latter; yet the converse method is frequently employed and perfectly
correct. You may say, Tan-waste is strewn on the street opposite this
mansion, for a member of the family lies within it sick; or, A member of
the family lies sick within this mansion, for tan-waste is strewn on the
contiguous street. In the first instance you place the cause last, and
in the second instance the effect, using precisely the same formula in
both. Nor is it difficult to perceive why Jesus places the effect of
forgiveness in the prominent position here, for it is the only thing
that is visible to the Pharisee whom he desires to instruct. The pardon
which this woman had obtained Simon did not and could not see; but her
love being embodied in action was palpable to his senses. The energetic
act of adoration was evidence of the heart-love from which it sprang. To
this love accordingly Jesus points, and thence infers the existence of
the great forgiveness which prompted it. In the end, He confirms and
seals, by his own lips, the pardon which the repenting sinner had
already secretly received. The Redeemer's forgiving love to sinners is
the only cause of all their love to him. "We love him because he first
loved us." Have you seen a broad, straight path of silver brightness
lying by night upon a smooth sea, and stretching from your feet away
until it was lost in the distance--a path that seemed to have been
trodden by the feet of all the saints who have ever passed through a
shifting world to their eternal home. Oh that silver path by night
across the sea,--it glittered much: but it was not its brightness that
lighted up the moon in the sky. Neither was it the love to Jesus
trembling in a believer's heart, that kindled forgiving love in him. We
love him because he first loved us; the love that makes bright a
forgiven sinner's path across the world was kindled by the light of life
in the face of Jesus; from him and to him are all things.
There is a peculiarly wise and tender adaptation to our need in that
feature of our Lord's character, which consists in his desiring and
appreciating our love. He is not a distant, cold, omnipotence. He
lavishes love on the world, but he is disappointed when the world does
not throw back a reflection of his own love, as the rippling sea throws
up to heaven again, the light it got from heaven. When the ten lepers
were cleansed, and one returned to lavish love on his healer, that
healer, while he enjoyed the single penitent's devotion, permitted a
sigh to escape his lips, articulated in the sad pensive question, "Where
are the nine?" I love the Lord for uttering that complaint. It proves to
me that he counts it no intrusion when we burst in upon him with our
glad thanksgiving. In the bold in-bursting of this woman; in her
premeditated anointing, and unpremeditated tears, the Lord Jesus
sees--tastes of the travail of his soul and is satisfied.
XVII.
THE GOOD SAMARITAN.
"And Jesus answering said, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to
Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment,
and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance
there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he
passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at
the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side.
But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and
when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and
bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own
beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the
morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the
host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou
spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee. Which now of
these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among
the thieves? And he said, He that showed mercy on him. Then said
Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise."--LUKE x. 30-37.
Logically this parable may be conveniently associated with that of the
unmerciful servant. They constitute a pair; that teaches us to forgive
the injurer; and this to help the injured.
On the almost pictured page of the evangelic history you may often
observe two persons, sometimes in presence of a multitude, and sometimes
far apart, engaged in close and earnest conversation. In most cases you
discover, when you approach, that one of them is the Lord Jesus, and the
other one of the lost whom he came to save. At one time it is a rich
Jewish ruler, and at another a poor woman of Samaria; now, it is
Nicodemus in a private house, and then Pilate in the judgment hall; here
the Saviour, suffering, converses with the thief on the cross, and there
the Saviour, reigning, calls to Saul as he is entering Damascus. Many
of the precious words of Jesus which now constitute the heritage of the
Church, were at first spoken in answer to friends or foes, during the
period of his ministry on earth, or after he ascended into heaven.
Thus the Lord's word frequently took its form from the the character and
conduct of those with whom he conversed. On their ignorance, or
simplicity, or malice, his wisdom and goodness were cast for keeping
till the end of time. The temper, and conceptions, and tricks of those
Jews, like sand in a foundry, constituted the mould in which the pure
gold of our Redeemer's instructions was poured; and like the sand, when
they had served that purpose, they were allowed to fall asunder, as
being of no further use.
Here is a case in which the question of a self-righteous Jew elicits and
gives shape to the subsequent discourse of the Lord; here, accordingly,
the meaning of the discourse depends, in a great measure, on the history
in which it grows. At some pause in the Lord's discourse, while the
multitude still remained on the spot expecting further instruction, a
certain lawyer who was watching his opportunity, interposed with the
demand, "Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?"[61] The
question was not put in simplicity, with a view to obtain information,
it was employed knowingly as an experiment and a test.
[61] "How eagerly would the critics seize on this passage, and
pronounce the question of a certain lawyer to be identical with the
narrative contained in Matt. xix. 16, only differently reported--if
St. Luke had not himself subsequently narrated that second incident
(xviii. 18)! This once more shows that many things could naturally,
and would necessarily, occur more than once in the life of
Jesus."--_Stier_.
Very many such questions were addressed to the Lord Jesus during the
period of his public ministry by different persons, and with different
motives. We may safely gather from the whole spirit of the narrative
that this example, as to the character and motive of the questioner, was
neither one of the best nor one of the worst. This scribe was not, on
the one hand, like Nicodemus, a meek receptive disciple, prepared to
drink the sincere milk of the word that he might grow thereby, nor was
he like some, both of the Pharisaic and Sadducean parties, who came with
cunning questions to ensnare and destroy. This man seems to have been
from his own view point sincere and fair: his tempting aimed not to
catch and betray, but simply to put the skill of the new Nazarene
prophet to the test. The man was full, not of conscious malice against
Jesus, but of ignorant confidence in himself.
The scribe's question is cast in the mould of the most unmitigated
self-righteousness: "What shall _I do_ that _I may inherit_?" &c. No
glimpse had he ever gotten of his own sinfulness, no conception did he
ever entertain of the publican's prayer, "God be merciful to me a
sinner."
Taking the man on his own terms, and meeting him on his own path, the
Lord replies by the question, "What is written? and refers him to the
law." The lawyer, a professed theologian, answers well. He gave a
correct epitome of all moral duty, showing that love is the fulfilling
of the law,--"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and
with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind, and
thy neighbour as thyself."
The Lord approved the answer, seemed to require as to profession, not
another word, and closed for the time the colloquy with the simple
announcement, "This do and thou shalt live." A very great question
crosses our path here, but we must not discuss it fully lest we should
be diverted too far from our immediate object. This answer of the Lord
we accept in all simplicity as the great universal cardinal truth in the
case. Life was offered at first, and life is offered still as the reward
of obedience. It is not safe, it is not needful to apologize for this
statement or to explain it away; it is not in any sense contrary to
evangelical doctrine. It is really true that the fulfilling of God's law
will secure his favour. Nor is this a thing merely to be admitted in its
own place when it comes up; it is the truth that lies at the foundation,
and on which all other truth leans. The basis of all is,--Obedience
deserves life, and disobedience deserves death. Mankind have disobeyed;
we have all sinned, and are therefore all under condemnation. Nothing
but a perfect obedience can gain God's favour. Hence the covenant, and
hence the incarnation and sacrifice of Christ; hence the substitution of
the just for the unjust. The Gospel is not an exception to the Law,
"This do and thou shalt live;" the Gospel is founded on that Law. This
Law Christ came not to destroy but to fulfil.
"This _do_ and thou shalt live:" whether by an emphasis on the word, or
by an expressive glance at the moment in the speaker's eye, or by the
simple majesty of the truth declared, the scribe's conscience was
aroused and arrested. The questioner was not altogether comforted by the
result of the conversation; he could not allow the matter to drop there.
The reason why he continued the dialogue is expressly given; he was
"willing to justify himself." Justify himself! But who accused him? Not
the Lord: he had only said, "This do and thou shalt live." The man's own
conscience was awakened and at work: well he knew at that moment that he
had not done what his lips confessed he should do; he had not loved God
with all his heart, and his neighbour as himself.
It is interesting to notice the principle on which he proceeds to defend
himself: conscious that love to neighbours is in his heart a very narrow
thing, he conducts his argument so as to justify its narrowness. If he
can show that his neighbours are limited to a small circle of relatives,
with the addition perhaps of some chosen individuals beyond the line of
blood, he may yet be able to live on good terms with himself as a keeper
of the law; accordingly, in order to form a basis for his own defence,
he inquires, "Who is my neighbour?"
The parable constitutes the answer. But before we proceed to examine its
contents, it is of great importance to observe that it is not a direct
answer to the scribe's question. It is the answer which the Lord saw
meet to give, but it is not a decision on the case which had been
submitted for adjudication. In his question the scribe contemplated
other people, and speculated upon who had the right to receive kindness:
the answer of Jesus, on the contrary, contemplates the scribe himself,
and inquires whether he is prepared to bestow kindness. As to those who
should receive our love there is no limit: the real subject of inquiry
concerns the man who bestows it. The question is not, Who is my
neighbour? but, Am I neighbourly? This is the line in which the parable
proceeds. It does not supply the scribe with an answer to the question
which he had put; but it supplies him with another question which he
desired to evade. He is not permitted to ride off upon a speculative
inquiry about the abstract rights of other men; he is pinned down to a
personal practical duty. "A certain man went down from Jerusalem," &c.
It is a narrow, dreary mountain pass. By nature it is fitted to be a
haunt of robbers; if there are any robbers in the country, they will
certainly gravitate to this spot. In point of fact it was notoriously
unsafe for travellers in that day, and it is equally dangerous still. A
particular portion of the road acquired the name of the _path of blood_,
and under the feeble government of the Turks, as well as in more ancient
times, it has well deserved its appellation. The scene of the event
therefore is laid in a place which is eminently suitable to its
character: the audience who heard the story first would at once and
fully recognise its appropriateness.
Robbers assailed the solitary traveller, and after plundering him of his
money, left him so severely wounded that he could do nothing to help
himself, and must soon have died if he had not obtained help. Although
it is not expressly stated, it appears from the whole complexion of the
narrative that this man was a Jew. Indeed this is so obvious and so
necessary that the point of the parable would be lost if it were
otherwise: I think the nationality of the unfortunate sufferer is not
stated, precisely because it could not be mistaken.
"And by chance there came down a certain priest that way," &c. By chance
is an unfortunate translation here. It was not by chance that the priest
came down by that road at that time, but by a specific arrangement, and
in exact fulfilment of a plan; not the plan of the priest, not the plan
of the wounded traveller, but the plan of God. By "coincidence" ([Greek:
kata synkyrian]) the priest came down: that is, by the conjunction of
two things, in fact, which were previously constituted a pair in the
providence of God. In the result they fell together according to the
omniscient designer's plan. This is the true theory of the divine
government, and this is the account of the matter which the parable
contains.[62]
[62] The analogy between the meetings exhibited in this parable and
the meeting of Philip with the Ethiopian (Acts viii.) is interesting
and instructive. In both cases the place is a desert, in both a man
in great need and a man who has the means of supplying that need
meet each other there. Here the want and its supply are material and
temporal, there they are moral and spiritual. The man who fell among
thieves on the way to Jericho suffered from bodily wounds, and the
Samaritan who came to his relief appropriately applied material
remedies: the Ethiopian treasurer, in that way towards Gaza which is
desert, suffered in his soul, and the name of Christ was the
ointment which Philip the evangelist poured into his wound. These
two cases are indeed diverse, but as we learn from the Scriptures
throughout, they proceed, both as to disease and cure, upon
analogous principles, so that the knowledge of the one throws light
upon the meaning of the other. The meeting in the desert near Gaza
did not happen by chance, it was a tryst duly made and exactly kept,
for "the angel of the Lord spake unto Philip, saying, Arise and go
toward the south," &c. (Acts viii. 26). The appointment for the
meetings in the valley between Jerusalem and Jericho was as
certainly made, although it has not been as expressly recorded.
By previous appointment and actual exact coincidence that meeting took
place between the hale comfortable priest and the wounded half-dead
traveller in the bloody path between Jerusalem and Jericho. It is thus
that all meetings take place between man and man. "The poor ye have
always with you," said Jesus to his disciples. It is not only that once
for all the poor and the rich are placed in the same world: but day by
day, as life's current flows, by divine unerring purpose those who need
are placed in the way of those who have plenty, and the strong are led
to the spot where the feeble lie. We are accustomed to admire the wisdom
and foresight that spread layers of iron ore and layers of coal near
each other in the crust of the earth that the one might give the melting
heat which the other needed; but the divine government is a much more
minute and pervading thing. The same omniscient provider has appointed
each meeting between those who are in want and those who have
abundance; and for the same reason, that the one may give what the other
needs, and that both may be blessed in the deed. But he who lays the
plan watches its progress, and is displeased when men do not take the
opportunity that has been given. When he has brought the strong to the
spot where the weak are lying he is displeased to see them pass by on
the other side. "Lo, I am with you alway even unto the end of the
world." Is that a pleasant promise? No; if after the Lord has led you to
the spot where the needy are perishing, you pass by on the other side;
it is a dreadful thing to have him beside us, looking on in such a case
as this.