PAUL ON THE LOVE OF CHRIST
The lecture from which I was transcribing was on “fearlessness.” What,
it asked, makes a tyrant terrible? The answer was, “his armed guards.”
A child, or madman, not knowing what guards and weapons mean, would
not fear him. Men fear because they love life, and a tyrant can take
life. Men also love wealth, wife, children. These things, too, a tyrant
can take; so men fear him. But a madman, caring for none of these
things, and ready to throw them away as a child might throw a handful
of sand—a madman does not fear. Now came the words about “custom” and
“Galilæans” to which Arrian had called my attention: “Well, then, is not
this astonishing? Madness can now and then make a man thus fearless!
_Custom can make the Galilæans fearless!_ Yet—strange to say—reason and
demonstration cannot make anyone understand that God has made all that is
in the world, and has made the world itself, in its entirety, absolutely
complete in itself and unimpeded in its motions, and has also made its
separate parts individually for the use of all the parts collectively!”
The context made me see the force of Arrian’s remark. Epictetus appeared
to be mentioning three influences under which men might resist the
threats and tortures of a tyrant. In the first place was the “madness”
of a lunatic. In the third place was the “logic,” or demonstration, of
philosophy. In the second place, it would make good sense to suppose
that Epictetus meant “feeling,” or “passionate enthusiasm.” This passage
would then accord with the one mentioned above. Both passages would then
affirm that the Christian Jews or Galilæans can do under the influence
of “feeling” what the Greek Philosophers, or “lovers of wisdom,” cannot
do with all the aid of reason (or “_logos_”). “Custom” would not make
good sense unless the “Galilæans,” or Christians, had made a “custom” of
hardening their bodies by severe asceticism. This (I had gathered from
Arrian) was not the fact. In any case, it seemed clear that Epictetus
was here again contrasting some kind of Jew with the Greek to the
disadvantage of the latter.
Curiosity led me to read on a little further. The text dealt with Man’s
place in the Cosmos, or Universe, as follows: “All the other parts of
the Cosmos except man are far removed from the power of intelligently
following its administration. But the living being that is endowed with
_logos_, or reason, has therein a kind of ladder by which he may reason
the way up to all these things. Thus he, and he alone, can understand
that he is a part, and what kind of part, and that it is right and fit
that the parts should yield to the whole.” This reminded me of the saying
I have quoted above, “Will you not make a contribution of your leg to the
Universe?” I think he meant “Will you not offer up your lameness, as a
decreed part of the whole system of things, and as a sacrifice from you
to the Supreme?”
This reasonable part of the Cosmos, this “living being that is endowed
with _logos_,” Epictetus declared to be “_by nature_ noble, magnanimous,
and free.” Consequently, said he, it discerns that, of the things around
it, some are at its disposal, while others are not; and that, if it will
learn to find its profit and its good in the former class, it will be
perfectly free and happy, “being thankful always for all things to God.”
This puzzled me not a little. I could not understand how Epictetus
explained the means by which these “noble, magnanimous, and free”
creatures, created so “_by nature_,” had degenerated into the weaklings,
fools, profligates, and oppressors, upon whom he was constantly pouring
scorn. Was not each man a “part” of the Cosmos? Was not the Cosmos
“perfect and exempt from all disorder or impediment in any of its
motions”? Did not each “part” in it—and consequently man—partake in this
perfection and exemption, being “made for the service of the whole”? What
cause did Epictetus find for the folly, vice, and injustice that he so
often satirised and condemned as “subject to the wrath of God”? Man was a
compound of “clay” and “logos.” The fault could not lie in the “logos.”
Was it, after all, the mere “clay” that caused all this mischief? And
then, lost in thought, turning over the loose sheets of Arrian’s notes,
one after the other, I came again on the passage I have quoted above
from Epictetus, “If I could have, I would have”—laying the fault, as it
seemed, upon the “clay.” I could not help asking, “If God ‘could’ not
remedy it, how much less ‘could’ I, being ‘clay,’ remedy myself, ‘clay’?”
Musing on these things I returned to my rooms, and was sitting down to
write to Scaurus, when my servant entered with a parcel, from Rome,
he said, forwarded by Sosia our bookseller. It contained the books I
had ordered from Flaccus, with a letter from him, describing in detail
the pains he had taken in having some of the rolls of Chrysippus and
Cleanthes transcribed and ornamented, and saying that in addition to the
“curious little volume containing the epistles of Paulus,” which, as I
no doubt anticipated, were “not in the choicest Greek,” he had forwarded
an epistle to the Hebrews. “This,” he said, “does not include in the
commencement the usual mention of Paulus’s name, and it is not in his
style. But I understand that it originated from the school of Paulus.”
There was more to the same effect, for Flaccus and I were on very
friendly terms; and he was a good deal more than a mere seller of books.
But I passed over it, for I was in haste to open the parcel. At the top
were the copies of Cleanthes, Chrysippus, and others, in Flaccus’s best
style. At the bottom of all were two rolls of flimsy papyrus. The larger
and shabbier of the two fell to the ground open, and as I took it up, my
eye lit on the following passage:—“_Who shall separate us from the love
of Christ? Shall tribulation or suffering or persecution or hunger or
nakedness or peril or the sword? As it is written:_
_‘For thy sake are we done to death all the day long:_
_We were accounted as sheep of the shambles.’_
_Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that
loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels,
nor sovereignties, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers,
nor height, nor depth, nor anything in all creation, will be able to
separate us from that love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord._”
“This, at all events,” said I, “Scaurus cannot say that Epictetus has
borrowed from Paul. Never have I heard Epictetus mention the word ‘love’;
and here, in this one short passage, Paul uses it twice!” My next thought
was that Scaurus was quite right in his estimate of Paul’s style. It was
indeed terse, intense, fervid, strangely stimulating and constraining.
“There is no lack of _pathos_,” I said, “Let us now test the _logos_.” So
I sat down to study the passage, trying to puzzle out the meaning of the
separate words and phrases.
“_The love of Christ._” Well, Christus was their leader. The Christians
still loved him, and clung to his memory. That was intelligible. But
“that love of God which was in Christ” perplexed me. I read the whole
passage over again. Gradually I began to see that the passage implied
the Epictetian ideal—according to Scaurus, not Epictetian but Pauline
or Christian—of a Son of God standing fearless and erect in the face of
enemies, tyrants, oppression, death. But it also suggested invisible
enemies—“angels and sovereignties” that seemed to be against the sons of
God. And still I could not make out the expression, “that love of God
which is in Christ Jesus.”
So I turned back to the words at the bottom of the preceding column:—“_If
God is for us, who is against us? He that spared not His own Son but
delivered him up for us all, how shall He not also, with him, freely give
us all things? It is God that maketh and calleth us righteous: who is
he that shall condemn? It is Christ Jesus that died—or rather that was
raised from the dead, who is on the right hand of God, who also maketh
intercession for us._” And so, coming to the end of the column, I looked
on again to the words with which I had begun, “_Who shall separate us
from the love of Christ?_”
Now I could understand. “This,” said I, “is a great battle. There are
sovereignties of evil against the good. The Son of the good God is
supposed to devote himself to death, fighting against the hosts of evil.
Or rather the Father sends him into the battle and he goes willingly.
This Christus of the Galilæans is regarded by them as we Romans might
think of one of the Decii plunging into the ranks of the enemy and
devoting himself to death for the salvation of Rome. Philosophers might
ask inconvenient questions about the nature of the God to whom the brave
man devotes himself—whether it is Pluto, or Zeus, or Nemesis, or Fate. No
philosopher, perhaps, would approve of this theory. But, in practice, the
bravery stirs the spirits of those who believe it. Even if the sacrifice
is discreditable to the Gods accepting it, it is creditable to the man
making it.”
Turning back still further, I found that Paul imagined the Cosmos—or
“creation” as he called it—to have gone wrong. He did not explain how.
Nor did he prove it. He assumed it, looking forward, however, to a time
when the wrong would be made right, and even more right than if it had
never gone wrong: “_For I reckon that the sufferings of this present
season are not fit to be spoken of in comparison of the glory that is
destined to be revealed and to extend to us. For the earnest expectation
of the creation waiteth intently for the revealing of the sons of God.
For the creation was made subject to change, decay, corruption—not
willingly but for the sake of Him that made it thus subject—in hope, and
for hope: because even this very creation, now corrupt, shall be made
free from the slavery of corruption and brought into the freedom of the
glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole of creation
groaneth together and travaileth together—up to this present time._”
This struck me as a very different message from that of Epictetus about
Zeus. Both Paul and Epictetus seemed to agree as regards the past, that
certain things had happened that were not pleasing to God, taken by
themselves. But whereas the Greek said about God, “He would have, if He
could have; but He could not,” the Jew seemed to say, “He can, and He
will. Only wait and see. It will turn out to have been for the best.”
Reading on, I found something corresponding to Epictetus’s doctrine of
the indwelling Logos, namely, that each of us has in himself a fragment
of the Logos of God,—but Paul called it Spirit—in virtue of which we may
claim kinship with Him, being indeed God’s children. Epictetus, however,
never said that we were to pray to our Father for help. He seemed to
think that each must derive his help from such portion of the Logos as
each possessed. “Keep,” he said, “that which is your own,” “Take from
yourselves your help,” “Within each man is ruin and help,” “Seek and ye
shall find within you,” or words to that effect. Paul’s doctrine was
different, teaching that we do not at present possess salvation and help
to their full extent, but that we must look forward in hope: “_And not
only so, but we ourselves also, though possessing the firstfruits of
the Spirit—we ourselves also, I say, groan within ourselves, waiting
earnestly for the adoption, namely, the ransoming and deliverance of
our body_”—as though a time would come when that very same clay, which
(according to Epictetus) the Creator would have wished to make immortal
but could not, would be transmuted and transported in some way out of the
region of flesh into the region of the spirit.
Moreover, besides looking onward in hope, we must also (Paul said) look
upward for help. Epictetus, too, as I have said above, sometimes spoke of
looking “upward,” and of the Cynic stretching up his hands to God. That,
however, was not in prayer but in praise.
Epictetus never used the word “prayer” in my hearing except of foolish,
idle, or selfish prayers. But Paul represented the Logos, or rather the
Spirit, within us, as an emotional, not a merely reasonable power. “It
searcheth all things, yea, even the deep things of God,” he said to the
Corinthians; and by it (so he told the Romans in the passage I was just
now quoting) the children express to the Father, and the Father receives
from the children, their wants and aspirations: “_For by hope were we
saved. But hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopeth for that which
he seeth? But if we hope for that which we fail to see, then in patient
endurance we earnestly wait for it. And in the same way the Spirit also
taketh part with our weakness. For as to what we should pray for,
according to our needs, we do not know. But the Spirit itself maketh
representation in our behalf in sighings beyond speech. Now He that
searcheth the hearts knoweth what is the mind and temper of the Spirit,
because, being in union and accord with God, it maketh representation in
behalf of the saints._”
This passage I only vaguely understood. For I started with the
preconception that the spirit or breath or wind, must be only another
metaphor—like “word”—to describe a “fragment” of God (as Epictetus called
the Logos in man). I did not as yet understand that this Spirit might be
regarded as, at one and the same moment, in heaven with God and on earth
with men, representing the love and will of God to man below, and the
love and prayers of man to God above. Still I perceived that in some way
it was connected with the Christian Christ; and that the Father and the
Spirit and Christ were in some permanent relation to each other and to
man, by which relation man and God were drawn together. And this led me
back again to the words, “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”
and “We are more than conquerors through Him that loved us.”
Comparing this “love” with the friendship felt by the Epictetian Diogenes
for the whole human race, I found the latter thin and poor. The Greek
philosopher, being a “friend” of the Father of Gods and men, seemed
to me to be friendly to men in the region (so to speak) of the Logos,
“because”—I was disposed to add—“the Logos within him, in a ‘logical’
way, commanded him to be friendly to them, for consistency’s sake,
as being ‘logically’ akin to him.” Perhaps some reaction against the
constant inculcation of loyalty to the Logos during the last few weeks
led me to be a little unfair to the Epictetian ideal. But, fair or
unfair, these were my thoughts at the moment, while I was turning over
the letters addressed by this wandering Jewish Diogenes to some of the
principal cities of Greece and Asia, coming every now and then on such
sentences as these: “_I have strength for all things in Him that giveth
me inward power_”: “_Being made powerful with all power, in accordance
with the might of His glory, so that we rejoice in endurance and
longsuffering, being thankful to the Father_”: “_Be ye made powerful in
the Lord and in the might of His strength._” Here I noted that he did not
say (as Epictetus did) “take power from yourselves.” Moreover Paul added
“_Put on the panoply of God._” Then I turned back again to the Roman and
Corinthian letters; and still the same thoughts and phrases met me, about
“_power_” in various contexts, such as “_demonstration of Spirit and
power_,” and “_abounding in hope through the power of the Holy Spirit_.”
“_Love_,” too, was represented as an irresistible power. “_The love of
Christ constraineth us_,” he said. And then he added, “_One died for
all_” and “_He died for all, that the living should be living no longer
to themselves, but to Him that for their sake died and was raised up from
death._”
There was a great deal in this Roman letter that was almost total
darkness to me at first. The references to Abraham—and, still more, those
to Adam, coming abruptly in the phrases, “death reigned from Adam,” and
“the transgression of Adam”—perplexed me a great deal till I perceived
that the Jews fixed their hopes on God’s promise to their forefather
Abraham, just as Romans—if they believed Virgil—might fix theirs on the
forefather of the Julian race. As Æneas was the divine son of Anchises,
so Isaac, by promise, was the divinely given son of Abraham. Paul, I
thought, might draw a parallel between our Æneas and his Isaac, as though
both were receivers of divine promises of empire extending over all the
nations of the earth. At this Jewish fancy (so I called it) I remember
smiling at the time, and quoting Virgil from a Jew’s point of view:
“Tantæ molis erat _Judæam_ condere gentem.”
But I soon perceived, not only that Paul was in serious earnest, quite as
much as Virgil, but also that his scheme, or dream, of universal empire
for the seed of Abraham was compatible with the fact of universal empire
for the seed of Anchises. Rome, the new Troy, claimed dominion over
nothing but men’s bodies. The new Jerusalem claimed it over men’s souls.
I did not fully take all this into my mind till I had read the story of
Abraham and Isaac in the scriptures, as I shall describe later on. But,
with Virgil’s help, and Roman traditions, I partially understood it even
now; and I remember asking myself, “If Virgil were now alive, would he be
as sanguine as this Jew? Is not Rome on the wane? Ever since the Emperor
cried to Varus, ‘Give me back my legions!’ have we not had qualms of fear
lest we should be beaten back by the barbarians? Do not even the wisest
of our rulers say, ‘Let us draw the line here. Let us conquer no more’?
But this Jew sets no limits to his conquests. His projects may be mad.
But at least he has some basis of fact for them. If he has conquered so
far, why not further?”
As to “the transgression of Adam,” I remained longer in the dark. But
I perceived from other passages in the epistles (and from the Jewish
scriptures soon afterwards) that the story of Adam and Eve resembled some
versions that I had read of the story of Epimetheus and Pandora, who
caused sins and pains to come into the world, but “hope” came with them.
Adam and Eve did the same. But Paul believed that the “hope” sprang from
a promise of a higher and nobler life than would have been possible if
Adam and Eve had never gone wrong. I took this for a mere legend, but
a legend that might represent the will of Zeus—namely, that man should
not stand still, but that he should go on growing, from age to age, in
righteousness, which, as Plato says, is the attribute of man that makes
him most like God.
Thus I was led on to higher and higher inferences about Paul’s “power.”
First, it was real power, attested by facts—facts visible in great
cities of Europe and Asia. In the next place, this power was based on
faith and hope. Lastly, this faith and this hope—although they extended
to everything in heaven and earth (since everything was to be bettered,
purified, drawn onward or upward to what Plato might call its _idea_ in
God, that is, its perfection)—were themselves based on Christ, as having
once died, but now being alive for ever in heaven.
But not only in heaven. For Paul seemed to think of Christ as also still
perpetually present with, and in, his disciples on earth. Socrates
in the Phædo says “As soon as I have drunk this poison I shall be no
longer remaining among you, but shall be off at once to the isles of the
blessed.” But Paul spoke of Christ’s love, and spirit, and of Christ
himself, as still remaining amongst his followers. I knew that the common
people think of Hercules as descending from heaven now and then to do a
man a good turn; and at this I had always been disposed to laugh. But
Paul’s view of Christ as being always in heaven, and yet also always on
earth, among, or in the hearts of, those who loved him—this seemed to me
more noble and more credible; though I did not believe it.
Now I was to be led a step further. For while I was repeating Paul’s
words “one died for all,” and again, “one died,” it occurred to me
“Yes, but he does not say _how_ he died. Is he ashamed to speak of the
shamefulness of the death, the slave’s death, death upon the cross?” So
I looked through the Roman letter, right to the end, and I could find no
mention of the “cross” or of “crucifying.” But in the very next column,
where the first Corinthian letter began, I found this passage: “_Christ
sent me not to baptize but to preach the Gospel, not in wisdom of ‘logos’
(i.e. word), lest the cross of Christ should be emptied of its power. For
as to the ‘logos’ of the cross, to those indeed who are going the way of
destruction, it is folly: but to us, who are going the way of salvation,
it is the power of God. For it is written:_
_‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise_
_And the subtlety of the subtle will I bring to naught.’_
_Where is the ‘wise’? Where is the learned writer? Where is the ‘subtle’
discusser and disputer of this present age?_”
Then followed some very difficult words: “_Hath not God made foolish
the wisdom of the Cosmos? For since, in the wisdom of God, the Cosmos,
through that wisdom, recognised not God, God decreed through the
foolishness of the proclamation of the gospel to save them that go the
way of belief: for indeed Jews ask for signs and Greeks seek after
wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified; to the Jews, a stumbling block;
to the other nations, a folly; but, to the called and summoned—Christ the
power of God and the wisdom of God._”
I have translated this literally so as to leave it as obscure to the
reader as it was to me when I first read it. Even when I had read it over
two or three times, there was a great deal that I could not understand.
But it appeared to me to be ironical. It suggested that the “logos” of
God may be different from the “logos” of men, or at all events, the
“logos” of Greek philosophers. I had for some time been drawing near
to a belief that “logos” might include feeling as well as reason. But
this strange contrast between the unwise “wisdom of logos” and the wise
“logos of the cross” came upon me as (possibly) a new revelation. As
for the saying “the Greeks seek wisdom,” it reminded me how Epictetus
used to deride the man of mere logic, words without deeds, the futile
spinner of syllogisms. “Epictetus,” I said to myself, “would agree with
this accusation.” But then I reflected that Paul would perhaps class
Epictetus himself among these futile Greeks; and had not my Master
himself confessed that the Jew, by mere force of “pathos,” outclassed the
Greek in resolution and steadfastness, although the latter was backed by
“logos”? The conclusion fell upon me, like a blow, “Here is Paul boasting
as a conqueror what my Master confesses as a man conquered! Both agree
that the ‘feeling’ of the Jew is more powerful in producing courage than
the ‘reasonableness’ of the Greek!”
I did not like this turn of things. But I was intensely interested in
it; and it quite decided me to continue the investigation. The question
turned on “logos” and I quoted to myself Plato’s precept, “Follow the
logos.” Epictetus made much of “logos.” Well, I would “follow the
‘logos,’” in its fullest sense, and would try to find out whether it
did, or did not, indicate that “feeling,” as well as “reason,” may help
us towards the knowledge of God. Dawn was appearing when I rolled up the
little volume and placed it in my cabinet by the side of Scaurus’s sealed
note with WORDS OF CHRISTUS on it. That reminded me of my old friend.
What would he think of all this?
I sat down at once and wrote to him that I had not opened his note.
If I ever did, it would be, I said, because I accepted his verdict.
Epictetus really did seem to have borrowed from Paul. The subject was
very interesting to me from a historical as well as a literary point of
view; and I hoped he would not think it waste of time if I investigated
it a little further. At the same time, I sent a note to Flaccus. Æmilius
Scaurus, I said, had sent me some “words of Christus” extracted from
Christian books, and I desired to receive the books themselves. As for
the “scriptures” from which Paul so frequently quoted in their Greek
form, I knew that I should have no difficulty in procuring copies of
all or most of them from Sosia. This I resolved to do on the morrow, or
rather in the day that was now dawning. It was not a lecture-day. Even
if it had been, in the mood in which I then was, I should have thought a
lecture or two might be profitably missed.