SILANUS CONVERSES WITH CLEMENS
I explained to Clemens that I had been attending the lectures of
Epictetus. He had taught us, I said, to neglect external things, and to
value virtue, as being placed by God in our own power and a possession
open to all. “This,” said I, “has strengthened me—this and the influence
of his character—in the determination to lead a life above the mere
pleasures of the flesh. But, on the other hand, Epictetus teaches us that
we are never to be troubled, not even by the troubles or misdoings of
those nearest and dearest to us. We are to say, ‘These things are nothing
to us’.” I then explained to Clemens how this doctrine had repelled me,
and how I had been led by an accident to study the letters of Paul, in
which I found a very different doctrine.
“Paul,” said I, “counts many external things as evil, and especially
the errors and transgressions of his converts. These he feels as evils
and pains to himself. Yet he always seems hopeful and helpful, full of
strength both for himself and for others. I have felt drawn towards him,
and, through him, to the prophet Jesus, or Christ, whom he calls Son of
God. Paul speaks of himself as led towards this Jesus by a ‘constraining
love’ filling the heart with joy and peace. I have felt something of
this, or at least have felt the possibility of it. In my childhood,
‘Christus’ was called one of the vilest of the vile, and I believed
it. Now I have come to regard him as—I know not what. Just now I said
‘prophet.’ But Epictetus calls Diogenes God’s ‘own son.’ Christ, in my
judgment, stands far above Diogenes and perhaps even above Socrates. When
I say ‘above Socrates,’ I do not mean in reason, but in feeling, and in
the power to draw men towards kindness and steadfast welldoing. I think I
had come almost to the point of calling this Jesus ‘God’s own son’ in a
very real sense, as being above all other men, yes, and more—more than I
could understand. And then⸺.”
“And then?” said Clemens. I had paused. He waited an instant longer,
questioning, or rather interpreting me, with his eyes. “And then,” said
he, “something threw you back?” “Yes,” said I, “something threw me back.
And what do you think it was? Paul drew me on. But the author of this
little book, he, and Matthew, and Luke—these threw me back. It happened
in many ways. I must tell you the last first. A friend, a fellow-student,
has just now left me for Corinth, crushed to the earth by the most
shameful outrages on his family. I wished to give him some comfort, to
point him towards some hope, to give him what you Christians—for surely
you are a Christian?” He assented. “Well, what you Christians call ‘good
tidings’ or ‘gospel.’
“Now if I could believe Paul, I should have a ‘gospel.’ For then the
spirit of Jesus, having risen from the dead, would be travelling about
the world everywhere at hand to strengthen His disciples, and to comfort
their hearts, and to assure them that all will be well in the end. ‘I
have prevailed over death’—so His Spirit would say to us—‘I will always
help the poor and oppressed. I will never forsake them till I have made
them sharers in my eternal kingdom.’ This it would say to each one of
us, ‘You, Gaius, or you, Marcus, I will be with you always. I will never
forsake you.’ But how can I believe these beautiful assurances, when I
find Mark declaring (and Matthew agreeing with him) that Christ’s last
articulate utterance was, ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’
How can I assure my friend that God never forsakes the oppressed, if He
forsook His own Son? And how can I deny that ‘forsaking,’ when the Son
Himself says, _Why hast thou forsaken?_? Epictetus forbade us to admit
that we are ever alone. ‘God,’ said he, ‘is always within you.’ Is not
that the better and nobler doctrine? If the better and nobler doctrine
is not true, does it not follow that the truth is bad and ignoble, and
that, in real truth, there is no good and noble power controlling the
world? Which of the two is right, Epictetus or Christ?”
“Both, I think,” said Clemens. He had been listening with attention
and manifest sympathy, but without any change in that steadfast look
of peace and trust which his face habitually wore. I seemed to read in
his countenance at once pain and faith, pain for my burden, faith that
he could help me to bear it or to cast it away. Presently he added, “Do
not suppose that by answering so briefly and quickly I wished to cut
short your objection or to deny the difficulty. Far from it. You have
asked, I think, one of the hardest questions, perhaps the very hardest,
that could be put to a worshipper of Christ. Often have I thought of it,
and I should not like to answer it hastily. You know perhaps that Luke
omits these words, and that he mentions, instead, something about the
‘sun’?” “Yes,” said I, “but that seemed to me only to shew that Luke was
willing to accept a version that removed the difficulty in the original.”
“I agree with you,” said Clemens, “and, if so, that indicates that the
difficulty was recognised before Luke compiled his gospel. Certainly,
certainly, those wonderful words were really uttered.”
Then he said, “First let me give you an explanation that is not
unreasonable and may have some truth in it. You know, I dare say, that
the words are from the Psalms?” “Yes,” I replied, “but the Psalmist
changes his mood. He goes on to say, ‘He hath not hid his face from
him, but, when he cried unto him, he heard him,’ and afterwards, ‘All
the ends of the earth shall remember and turn unto the Lord’.” “You
have mentioned,” said Clemens, “the very words that seem to some of our
brethren to answer your question; for they say that the Lord had in mind
the whole of the Psalm when He quoted the first words, and that He meant
this, ‘I cry unto thee, O Father, in the words of scripture _Why hast
thou forsaken me?_ knowing that thou hast not indeed hidden thy face from
me, but thou art hearing me: and all the ends of the earth shall remember
my crying and thy hearing and shall turn unto thee’.”
“And are not you content with this explanation?” said I. “Not quite,”
said Clemens. “For, though this may be true, more may be true. I have
read in another gospel, later than these three, that the Son did no work
on earth and uttered no word, without looking up to the Father in heaven
and listening to the Father’s voice, which told Him from time to time
what to do and to say. And I have heard one of the brethren, a man full
of spiritual understanding, and well read in the scriptures, interpret
the question as though it were a real question, not an exclamation—the
Son questioning the Father as to His will. If that were so, the Son might
be conceived as saying, ‘For what reason, O Father, hast thou forsaken
me for a while and hidden the light of thy countenance from me? Teach
me, O Father, in order that I also may be willing to be forsaken, and
may desire to be deprived of the light of thy countenance.’ And then the
Father replies, ‘I forsake thee, O my Son, because thou must needs die,
and in my presence is the fulness of life. The time hath come for thee to
give up thy life, that is, to lose my presence for a brief space, that
all men may gain for ever by thy brief loss and be saved from death by
thy sacrifice of life.’ And after this, said the brother, the Lord cried
out a second time. What He said then, Mark and Matthew have not recorded;
but they write that He then expired or sent forth His Spirit. The brother
I am speaking of believed that the Son, by crying aloud ‘Why hast thou
forsaken?’ prepared Himself to be willingly forsaken, and to be under the
darkness of this momentary forsaking just before He gave up His life as a
sacrifice for men.”
“But you say,” said I, “that Epictetus, too, is right.” “Certainly,”
replied Clemens. “Epictetus says that men, God’s children, are never
‘alone.’ And that is true. Indeed I can shew you presently a new
Christian gospel—the one I mentioned just now—which represents Christ
as saying this very thing, ‘Ye shall leave me alone—and yet I am _not
alone_, because the Father is with me.’ Look at the matter thus. Do we
not know that God may be regarded as being in all places at once, so that
to speak of Him as ‘here and not there’ is no less a metaphor than to
speak of His ‘hiding His countenance,’ or ‘bearing us in His arms’? God
therefore is, as Epictetus often affirms, ‘within us.’ But is He not also
(as I think Epictetus seldom or never affirms) ‘outside us’? Is not the
Psalmist’s metaphor right when he says that God, being outside us, hides
His face sometimes from His children? Sometimes He does this because
they have sinned, in order that they may seek His face and cease to sin.
But does He not also do this when men have not sinned, in order that the
righteous may become more righteous and the pure more pure, by longing
more than ever for the sight of His countenance and by thirsting anew for
His presence?
“I do not quite like to explain the dealings of God with men by anything
that frail human creatures do in sport. And yet there is something so
sacred (at least I think so) in the relations between parents and young
children, that I have been sometimes led to liken God hiding His face
from His children to a mother hiding her face from the babe in her arms.
She hides it, but only for a moment, only that the child may be the more
joyful afterwards. And the arms never let go their embrace.” Then, after
a pause, he added, “But perhaps you say, ‘Do not you Christians believe
that Christ was already perfectly righteous, and perfectly pure, and that
He already rejoiced to the utmost in the Father’s love? Why then should
God forsake such a Son? Why should He hide His face from the Holy One,
even for a time?’ That, I think, is the question you would like to ask?”
Reading assent in my face, he proceeded, “Some might reply that this
question has been answered by the brother above-mentioned, who says, in
effect, ‘The Son was forsaken by the Father, not that the Son might be
made purer, or freed from sin, but that He might know the Father’s will
and might prepare Himself for His imminent self-sacrifice.’ But is that—I
will not say a complete answer, for who will venture to say that he knows
completely all the purpose of the Father in causing the Son to feel
forsaken?—is it even an answer that ought rightly to satisfy us? Will you
be patient with me, my friend—for friends we are already (are we not?)
in our joint search after truth⸺” “We are indeed,” said I, “and I would
gladly hear your fullest thoughts on this matter.” “Permit me then,”
said he, “to put another thought before your mind, namely, that the Son
of God, being Son of man, may have been forsaken by the Father in order
to learn, as a man, the heights and depths of human nature, and to what
an abyss of darkness the purest and most faithful saint may sometimes
sink; and how even in that abyss, the saint may feel, through faith,
that there are still beneath him the arms of God, not indeed supporting
him but ready to support him; and that he is—as the prophets say about
Israel—‘forsaken’ yet ‘not forsaken.’ No height in saintliness is higher
than such a faith as this.
“The scriptures tell us,” he continued, “that man is to love God with
all his heart and with all his soul and with all his power, and with all
his understanding. You know this?” I nodded assent. “Consider then how
you and I will feel in the moments or hours before our departure, if God
has decreed that we shall pass away by a slow and tedious passage, with
a gradual weakening of our mental and spiritual powers, a chill of the
heart, a deadening of the understanding, and a fading away of the fire of
the soul; so that it is no longer possible for us, no longer permitted
to us by God Himself, to love Him with all our human powers, because our
powers themselves are becoming powerless. May we not then perhaps feel
our grasp on the hand of the heavenly Father loosening, and our souls
slipping back from the supporting strength of His presence, downward, and
still downward, into the darkness of the infinite abyss? Should that hour
of trial come upon us, would it not be a very present help in our trouble
to know that the Lord, the Saviour, the Eternal Son of God, in the form
of man, was troubled likewise?”
Indeed I thought it would—_if_ only I “knew” it. I suppose my face must
have shewn this, for Clemens, without waiting for an answer, continued
with a kindling countenance, “And now, dearest brother, be still more
patient with me while I put one more thought before you. You have been
talking to me about ‘trouble’ and about your friend’s ‘trouble’: and
you said that it made you, as well as your friend, feel ‘forsaken’.” I
assented. “And you were not ashamed,” he continued, “of feeling his
‘trouble’ to some extent as yours, nor was your friend ashamed of feeling
the ‘trouble’ of his family? Well, then, believe me, the Lord Jesus
Christ felt the troubles of all His disciples, friends, followers, yes,
all the troubles of all the sinful children of men, as though they were
His own troubles. And in feeling ‘troubled’ along with others I venture
to think that He also felt ‘forsaken’ along with others.
“This is sacred ground. I fear even to kneel, much less to tread upon
it. But I think the Lord Jesus meant this also, amidst a multitude of
meanings, ‘O Father, why hast thou forsaken me, making me feel one with
the sinners whom thou forsakest? Is it that thou art breaking for a time
the sensible bond between me and thee in order to bind me to them? Is it
that I may be made one with them, so as to make them one with me? Wouldst
thou make me to be sin that the world may be made to be righteousness?’”
I remembered the words of Paul, “Him that knew not sin God _made sin_ in
our behalf”: but I had never understood them before. Nor did I now, but I
thought I caught a glimpse of their meaning. It was only a glimpse, and
I sat silent, afraid as it were to move lest I should lose it. I seemed
in a new world, or rather, in a mixed world, in which the old and the new
were contending. I could neither see clearly nor move freely as yet. I
felt that light and freedom were around and very near, forcing their way
towards me, if I would but reach out my hand to them. But I could not do
it.
“I feel,” said I, “as though, in time, these hard words might become
intelligible, or rather, I should say, beautiful and full of comfort to
me. But how different they are from the last words of Socrates!” “Most
different,” replied Clemens. “Often have I pondered on the difference.
I was born in Athens, and I admire the literature and language of my
native city. But my mother was of Jewish extraction; and when I worship,
and pray, and feel sorrow, and seek consolation, it is in the thought
and phrase (though not in the language) of my mother’s people. And again
and again have I reflected on the strange contrast between the two ‘last
words,’ the Jewish and the Greek. These ‘last words’ represent last
thoughts. Socrates felt righteous, and happy, and not ‘forsaken,’ and
not at all anxious about his friends nor about his doctrine. The Lord
Jesus felt forsaken—doubly forsaken. First He sorrowed for His disciples
because He knew that they would forsake Him; and He prayed for them that
they might not utterly fail. Afterwards He Himself felt forsaken by the
Father.
“Perhaps, so far, Socrates may seem to have the advantage. But what has
followed? Socrates is enshrined in books, a companion and dear friend of
students for ever, but in books. He is not for the crowd in the street,
nor for the ploughman in the field, nor for the poor, the simple, and
the unlettered. And though he may fortify some of us against the fear
of death, he does not bring the deepest consolation to those who are
suffering under a perpetual burden of pains or sorrows. But the Spirit
of the Lord Jesus moves among all sorts and conditions of life in all
the races of mankind, bringing joy to them that rejoice righteously, and
wholesome sorrow to those that sin, and strength to the heavy laden, and
comfort to all that mourn, and freedom from all servile fear. Yes, He
brings freedom, even to those enemies against whom He makes war, turning
their consciences against themselves and making them His willing captives
to lead others captive in turn. For indeed this captivity is no captivity
but an embracing with the arms of a Father revealed in the Son according
to the words of Hosea ‘I taught Ephraim to walk. I took him in my arms.
He knew not that I healed him. I drew him with cords, with bands of
love.’ Dear friend, it is my firm conviction that those only can relieve
pain of the heart who have felt pain of the heart. Those only can save
the forsaken who have felt forsaken. It was in fact because Christ had
been forsaken that He was enabled to draw Paul towards Him with the cords
of His constraining love.”
“But,” said I, “if love was the foundation of Christ’s doctrine, how is
it that Mark hardly ever mentions it? Should I be wrong in saying that
Mark never mentions ‘love’ at all except in one place where Jesus, being
asked what is the greatest commandment, quotes from the scripture the
ancient commandment to love God and one’s neighbour?” “Alas,” replied
Clemens, “you would be only too right! Yet believe me, Christ’s doctrine
of doctrines was ‘love’—and that, too, not the old commandment, but a new
commandment, because Christ introduced into the world a new kind of love,
a more powerful love, a constraining love. This He imparted through His
blood to His disciples, as is made clear in this new gospel”—and here he
took a roll out of his garment—“about which I spoke to you lately, and in
a letter, by the same author, which is an appendix to the gospel.” And
then he read to me, from John’s gospel, the words, “A new commandment
give I unto you that ye love one another,” and “By this shall all men
know that ye are my disciples if ye have love one to another”; and he
pointed out the newness and greatness of the love, reading the words,
“Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his
friends.” Lastly, he added, from the epistle, “God is love.”
All this astonished me not a little, and I replied, “Here at last, it
seems to me, we have the only true gospel, Paul’s gospel, the gospel of
the constraining love of Christ. But how came it to pass that, whereas
this was the true gospel, such a gospel as Mark’s, full of marvels, and
portents, and exorcisms, should be the first published to the world—so I
have been told on good authority—a gospel that gives a whole column to
the dancing of the daughter of Herodias and not one line to ‘love one
another’?”
“Often and often,” replied Clemens, “have I asked myself the same
question. I think, though I am not sure, that the reason is this. After
the resurrection of the Lord, the apostles went forth to the world to
attest the resurrection, and to preach the gospel, saying, in effect,
what we find Peter and Paul actually saying in their epistles. But
perhaps you have not read Peter’s epistle?” I had not. “If you had, you
would have found that Peter, like Paul, teaches this commandment of love.
Doubtless all the apostles did the same. Consequently, before any gospels
were written, all the churches were familiar with this doctrine of love,
and with the doctrine of the resurrection. These were the important
things. These had been handed down by the apostles to the elders, and
by the first generation of the elders to the second. These, therefore,
the churches knew. But the unimportant things, as Paul deemed them, the
things that concerned Christ in the flesh, and His works of healing and
of casting out spirits, and His sayings in the flesh to the disciples,
and His discussions and controversies with the Pharisees, and how He was
delivered over to Pilate, and how He suffered this and that particular
humiliation (such as ‘spitting’ and ‘smiting’) in exact accordance with
the scriptures—these things the churches had not committed to memory in
any kind of detail. These therefore the earliest evangelist wrote down.
Hence it came to pass that he recorded, in large measure, not the most
important but the least important things.”
“I understand now,” said I, “but is it not to be regretted?” “For all
reasons but one,” replied Clemens, “I think it is to be regretted. I
am often sorry that Mark does not give us the Lord’s Prayer. I suppose
he omitted it, as being known to everybody. But, as it is, we have two
versions, and Matthew’s is very different from Luke’s. A version by Mark
might have taught us whether the two versions are from one original,
or whether the Lord gave His disciples two prayers at two different
times—perhaps one before the resurrection, one after it. Again, Mark does
not give us any account of the Lord’s resurrection. Some think that a
page of the manuscript of his gospel was lost. I, too, once thought so;
but now I am disposed to think that he stopped short here, saying, ‘Here
begins the testimony of the apostles. It is their part to testify to the
Lord’s resurrection.’ In any case it is to be regretted.”
“But,” said I, “your expression, just now, was, ‘to be regretted for _all
reasons but one_.’ What did you mean by that?” “I meant,” said Clemens,
“that if all the evangelists had agreed exactly in their reports of all
Christ’s words, there might have been, amidst many advantages, this one
disadvantage, the danger that the letter of the words of the Lord might
have become a second law, like the law of Moses, to be interpreted by
lawyers. In that case, what the Lord said about divorce, and marriage,
and about the manner of life of the evangelists, and their sustenance,
and about giving up or retaining one’s possessions—all these things might
have been collected into a small code. On this code might have been
written a large commentary; on that, perhaps, another commentary, still
larger. Thus the Church of Christ might have drifted into the legalities
of men far away from the one true law of Christ, as it is defined in
Paul’s epistles ‘Bear ye one another’s burdens,’ and (in the new gospel
that I shewed you just now) ‘Love one another with the love with which I
have loved you’.”
“Tell me more about that new gospel,” said I. “I would gladly do so,”
said Clemens, “if time permitted. But the shadows are lengthening and
the hour we were to spend together is past. Most willingly would I stay
with you, but my work calls me away. Tomorrow, however, if you would
like to come to my lodging in the house of Justus, at the corner of the
market-place, soon after sunset, I shall have returned to Nicopolis,
and you shall have a sight of the new gospel and such aid as I can give
you in explaining it.” So we parted for the time, after I had eagerly
accepted his invitation.