CLEMENS ON THE SACRIFICE OF CHRIST
Scaurus, and not the fourth gospel, nor any other book, person, or
thing, was uppermost in my mind, when, late in the evening, I hurried
to the house of Justus to keep my engagement with Clemens. Two or three
hours ago, I had been longing for this interview. Now I would willingly
have avoided it. I seemed to see my old friend speechless on his bed in
Tusculum, saying to me with his eyes, “Do not desert me. Do not go over
to the enemy.” Not till later did I feel that Scaurus could not have
called Clemens “enemy.”
“I am tired of books”—so Scaurus had written. So was I, quite tired. I
wanted to think, not talk; or, if to talk, to talk about Scaurus, not
about gospels or books of any sort. “How glad should I be to exchange
this interview for five minutes’ chat with old Marullus!”—that was my
thought when I found myself, more than an hour after sunset, sitting face
to face with Clemens.
I returned him the book—so precious to me yesterday—with some words of
formal thanks. What should I say next? About the one subject that filled
all my thoughts I felt no desire to talk to a stranger—“yes” (I said to
myself) “a stranger to Scaurus, though a friend, a real friend, to me.”
Yet something had to be said. I began by excusing myself, at an absurd
length, for being late. Clemens acknowledged the excuse with a slight
inclination of the head. His face was questioning me, and his eyes were
reading me. But he left it to me to speak, and to open our interview if
I desired one. Then I blundered out some absurd stuff—in the way of
humour!—about the possibility that he might suppose me to have forgotten
my engagement.
Clemens did not seem in the least ruffled or even surprised. After a
pause, in which the questioning look gave place to one of sympathy, he
said, very slowly and gently, “No, my dear friend, I could not suppose
that. Nor could you think that I could suppose that. Some trouble, I
perceive, has befallen you. You felt bound to keep your engagement with
me, and you have done so. You did right. But you will not do right if you
stay longer, out of courtesy to me, when your conscience tells you that
it would be better for you to be alone.”
When I entered the room, I had distinctly preferred to be alone. Even
now, I so far desired solitude that I murmured some words of thanks
for his consideration, and rose to go. But something kept me standing
irresolute. I do not know what it was at first. Certainly it was not any
thought about the new gospel. Perhaps it was my new friend’s directness,
truthfulness and insight, in discerning and brushing aside my pretence,
and his kind and courteous way of forgiving it, that made me suddenly
feel, “This is a man that Scaurus would have liked to know. This is a man
that Scaurus would like me to know. He tells me to go if I feel that it
will be ‘better’ for me to be alone. But will it be ‘better’?”
It may have been this that checked my going. I do not know for certain.
But I do know what decided me to stay. I suddenly saw Scaurus. He was
in the library at Tusculum, with his back to me, at his writing-table,
but not writing, half risen from his seat, and looking towards the door,
which was slowly closing. As it closed, he turned and looked round at me,
with such a sadness as I had never seen on his face except once or twice,
when I had gone wrong and he was striving to lead me right. I knew what
he meant, as well as if he had said the words aloud, “Hermas is gone, and
I shall repent it through my life. Do not let your Hermas go!” I resumed
my seat and tried to collect my thoughts.
It seemed to me now only right and natural that I should tell Clemens of
Scaurus’s illness and of my intention to leave Nicopolis on the morrow.
He took my departure as a matter of course. Could he be of service,
he asked, in making arrangements for my sailing? I assured him that
everything had been done that was needful for that day. Then I told him
how Scaurus had urged me to join Epictetus’s classes, and that he wished
me afterwards to join the army. Finding him interested and sympathetic,
I gave him an account of my old friend’s life, his affection for me, his
love of research, his literary pursuits, and his study of Jewish as well
as Greek literature, not omitting his early reading of the gospels, nor
forgetting to tell him about old Hermas the Christian, his librarian. He
listened with more and more attention. “I am not surprised,” he said,
“that you love so good a friend and so honest a man.”
Presently I said, “I wonder whether it would be still possible and
right for me to join the army, if⸺” and there I stopped. “Dear friend,”
said he, “if that unmentioned thing were to come to pass, trust me that
nothing would be possible or right for you against which your conscience
cried out, and nothing wrong that your conscience permitted. Some might
condemn your decision—whether to join the army or not to join. But you
would not be bound by their condemnation. Your conscience would receive
guidance. Those who follow on that unmentioned path do not follow with
an ‘if.’ Should that path be taken, it would be, not on conditions, but
because of a friendly constraint. Let us not speak of that now. Tell me
more about your friend.” “I have his letter here,” said I, “and would
read it if you cared to hear it. But it deals freely, very freely, with
the gospels. Once, at least, I think my old friend is unfair to them.
It would perhaps pain you.” “It would not pain but please me,” said he.
“I always like to hear honest, able, and educated men speak their minds
freely about our Christian writings. The pity of it is, that we have
hitherto had few such critics. If we had had them when the gospels were
first written, perhaps they would have contained fewer things that may in
after times cause some of the faithful to stumble.”
So I began to read Scaurus’s letter to him. At first I omitted portions
here and there, either because they were personal, or because they might
hurt the feelings of a Christian. Presently, halting in the middle of a
bitter saying, I finished the sentence in my own way—somewhat awkwardly.
Clemens smiled. “Pardon me,” said he, “for interrupting you. I am not a
master of styles. Yet, if I mistake not, those last words did not come
from Æmilius Scaurus. If I am wrong, forgive me. But if I am right in
thinking that you altered something to spare my feelings, then let me
assure you again that it would trouble me that you should do this, even
though the criticism came from the bitterest enemy of the Christians. As
it is, I have learned already to esteem your friend as a genuine lover
of truth, and one from whom I have even now learned some things and
hope to learn more. The more you will allow me to learn (without giving
pain to yourself) the better shall I be pleased.” “Well then,” said I,
“we will talk about the letter afterwards. For the present, I will read
on steadily without omitting a single word, unless you stop me.” And
so I did. Clemens listened intently, without stopping me, only he now
and then, especially towards the end, expressed assent or interest, or
sympathy, by a slight movement or inarticulate murmur; till we came to
the last words, the uncompleted sentence, suggesting what might have
happened on one memorable afternoon, if he had not dismissed a “disciple
whom Jesus loved.” This I did not read, but I placed the letter before
him. “These,” said I, “were his last words, the very last.”
He read them, and turned away his face. I thought, and rightly, that he
was feeling with me. But I am sure now that he was also praying for me,
and for Scaurus too. For a time we sat in silence. I was the first to
break it, expressing my sorrow that the story of the Syrophœnician woman
should have led Scaurus to form what seemed to me a wrong conception of
Christ. “But you see,” replied Clemens, “he revolted from that wrong
conception, or was ready to revolt from it, at the last moment of all.
And I agree with you that, if he had approached that story with the
preparation that Paul gave you, he would have regarded it as you did.
I am sure Christ was never cruel to anyone. If He really uttered those
seemingly cruel words to that sorrowful woman, He was cruel in word,
only that He might be the more kind and the more helpful in deed. He
intended this gospel to be preached to all the world, though He waited
for the Father to teach Him the time and the manner of the preaching to
the Gentiles.”
“Is there anything in John’s gospel,” said I, “that resembles this
story?” “There is a dialogue,” he replied, “between Christ and a
Samaritan woman, who is described as living in sin, just as you have
suggested concerning the Syrophœnician. And Christ chides her, but with
great gentleness, and finally reveals Himself to her as Messiah. It has
occurred to me that this is one of the many instances where John steps in
to remove a misunderstanding liable to be caused by some passage in Mark,
which Luke omits.”
Then he added, “I will talk with you, if you please, about the letter or
the gospel or anything else, if you really desire it. But if you would
wish to be alone with your own thoughts (as you well might wish), do not,
I beseech you, stay longer. You have laid me under a debt by introducing
me to a genuine lover of truth on whom the Light of the World has dawned,
even though it may not be given to him to see the full day. May he find
peace!”
I was quite willing to stay now. “Do you agree with Scaurus,” said I,
“that John alludes in parts of his gospel to the teaching of Epictetus?”
“I feel sure,” replied Clemens, “that John alludes to the doctrine of
the Stoics and Cynics. Now Epictetus has been, for some years past, most
widely known among all classes, rich, poor—yes, and slaves, too—as the
representative of the Cynic doctrine. So that your friend seems to me
likely to be right.” “Scaurus,” said I, “mentions self-knowledge and
God-knowledge as if the former were inculcated by Epictetus, the latter
by John, in opposition. Is that so, in your opinion?” “Not quite,”
said he, “but nearly so. All the Stoics lay stress, as you know, on
self-knowledge. Epictetus, perhaps more than most, teaches men to look
for God within themselves. Luke also—alone of the evangelists—has one
tradition of this kind, ‘The kingdom of God is within you.’ John, feeling
that many were prevented thereby from looking for God out of themselves,
laid stress on the latter. That is to say, John paraphrased Christ’s
teaching about ‘the Father in heaven’ in such a form that it should be
more familiar to the Greeks, urging them to ‘know God.’ So Paul is said
by Luke to have taken as his text on the Areopagus an inscription TO THE
UNKNOWN GOD; and he tried to teach the philosophers that God could be
‘known.’ But neither Paul nor John would deny that self-knowledge, and
the consciousness of our own sins, and the sense of our own burdens, are
necessary if we are to have our burdens lightened, our sins forgiven, and
our souls brought into the light of the glory of the knowledge of God.”
“And as to the ‘troubling’ of Christ,” said I, “mentioned thrice in the
fourth gospel, do you agree with Scaurus that there, too, the author
is alluding to Epictetus?” “I do indeed,” said he. “I did so from the
first moment when I read the new gospel. Man is born to trouble as the
sparks fly upward. We are born to be lifted up to heaven by troubles. But
trouble of soul does not mean confusion or turbidness of soul. Trouble is
on the surface, peace is beneath, peace that is deeper than the deepest
of depths. In the world, says the Saviour, we shall have tribulation,
and tribulation brings trouble with it. But He bids us be of good cheer
amidst and beneath all our trouble, because He has overcome the world.
Perhaps, however, John emphasizes this doctrine of ‘trouble,’ not out of
hostility to the Cynic philosophy, but rather out of a friendly feeling
to it, as much as to say, ‘This notion of yours, that you must avoid
“trouble,” is the weak point in your teaching. It tends to lower you to
the level of the Epicureans. And it gives you a false and unworthy notion
of God, who is our Father, and who bears the troubles of His children’.”
From that we passed to other matters, most of which I shall omit—details
about the fourth gospel, about its authorship and about Scaurus’s view,
that it blended history with allegory. On some of these he thought that
Scaurus might be correct. But he was doubtful as to the possibility of
explaining, as Scaurus had suggested, the different order in which the
evangelists place the purification of the Temple. “For,” said he, “it
seems to me scarcely possible that, within the time from Tiberius to
Trajan, an evangelist should be led to change the order of such an event
simply because of its order in some one book—because it was placed at
what Gentiles might take to be the beginning (being really the end) of
a Hebrew gospel.” At the same time Clemens admitted that there was an
astonishing difference of opinion among Christians as to the period of
Christ’s preaching, “and,” said he, “instead of quoting statements or
referring to historical facts, they often quote prophecies, or argue from
the fitness of things. It is all very unsatisfactory.”
Of this I afterwards had experience. For, after I had become a Christian,
I found that some, even though they received the gospel of John, argued
that Christ could only have preached for one year—because Isaiah contains
the words, “to preach the acceptable year of the Lord”! On the other
hand, the young Irenæus, bitterly attacking this view, maintained that
Christ must have preached till His fortieth or fiftieth year! As I have
said above, I have actually heard him supporting this extraordinary
supposition by appealing to the authority of the elders that had seen
John!
Clemens therefore admitted that he could not feel certain as to the
order of events in John’s gospel. It might be, he said, that two events,
mentioned in different parts of the gospel as taking place at, or before,
a feast, and apparently at, or before, different feasts, might really
have taken place at, or before, the same feast. Among several details in
which he agreed with Scaurus, one was the narrative of the Walking on
the Water. Concerning this he said that, according to John, the walking
was not really _on_ the water, any more than a city is really “_on_ a
sea” when it is said to lie “_on_ the Ægean” or “_on_ the Hadriatic.”
He also agreed with Scaurus as to the story about Peter plunging into
the water to come to Christ, which might (he thought) explain Matthew’s
story, according to which Christ first walked on the water, and then
Peter attempted to walk on it towards the Lord, but failed. Both these,
he thought, might be metaphorical.
As regards what Scaurus had said concerning the ambiguity of many words
and phrases in the fourth gospel, Clemens admitted it. “But,” said he,
“my conviction is that the writer did not use them thus for the mere
purpose of being ambiguous, like the oracle ‘Aio te, Æacida.’ I do not
deny that he plays upon words, but so does Isaiah. He also repeats and
varies phrases, but so do all the prophecies and the Psalms. Similarly
he is often dark and obscure. But are there not obscurities also in
Æschylus, and Pindar, and in the deepest thoughts of Plato? And whence
do these arise? Not surely from a desire to be ambiguous, but from the
lawful feeling of a great poet, prompted to use strange language, and
sometimes dark language, that is put into his mind to express strange
and dark thoughts. So it is with John, at least in my judgment. And as
to other parts, which seem artificial—as, for example, when he repeats
things twice or thrice in a kind of refrain—I should plead in the same
way that a poet, even when most inspired, follows rules. Æschylus and
Pindar do not break the laws of Greek metre. Well, Jewish tradition also
has rules of its own, quite different from ours, and I believe John
observes them.”
Then he referred to John’s use of the word “logos.” Scaurus had described
John as leading on his readers from _logos_ to _pathos_. Clemens admitted
that this was true if _pathos_ meant the affections and included that one
affection in particular which we call “love.” And he justified John’s
course. “For,” said he, “if the Logos is related to God as word is to
thought, must we not say that ‘word’ should include every expression of
thought, and that the perfect Logos must be the expression of the perfect
thought? And what thought can be more perfect than that which Scaurus
himself suggests, in his similitude of a magnet attracting all things
to itself and causing each attracted object to attract others, so that
the multitudinous world is made one harmony? And in the region of the
affections, what is this but the highest kind of love, as your friend
himself testifies, binding men together in families, cities, nations,
and destined, in the end, to unite all as citizens of the city of the
universe, or children in the family of God?”
Then Clemens added, without any questioning from me, that he entirely
concurred with Scaurus in his feeling that the miracles or signs of
Christ, however far they might be literally true, would not be so
convincing a proof of His greatness as the power of His Spirit to infuse
peace and power, yes, and wisdom, and harmony of thought, into the minds
of those who received Him. “I do not mean to assert,” said he, “that
all who receive Christ remain steadfast in Him. Many have fallen away
through subtle temptations of the world and the flesh; some few, under
persecution and the open cruelty of the devil. But as to these last I
have noted this. Strong men have fallen while boasting ‘We can endure
every torture.’ Weak women have stood fast confessing ‘We can do nothing.
Our strength is in the Lord. Our Saviour will stand fast for us.’ Yes,
that has been the great miracle, to see slaves changed to nobles,
peasants and clowns to orators, fools become wise, and human beasts, not
worthy to be called men—ape-like and wolf-like creatures—transmuted into
citizens of the kingdom of God.
“And that reminds me of what I specially admired in your friend—the
sagacity with which he penetrated to the root of the matter, declaring
that our religion is, in reality, no religion at all (not at least
what augurs or priests would call a religion) but only union with a
personality, a Lord and Saviour and Friend, who is in us and in whom we
are, ‘a very present help in trouble.’ We have no system of sacrifices.
For He is our sacrifice offered up once visibly on the cross, and
offering Himself up invisibly and continually in the hearts of His
faithful disciples. We have no code of laws. For He is our law, uttered
by Himself once to the ears of the disciples in the two commandments
‘Love God’ and ‘Love thy neighbour,’ when He shewed them how to make all
men ‘neighbours’; and now He utters the same law to our hearts, every
moment of our lives, giving us a strong desire to do that which is best
for our ‘neighbours,’ and helping us to see what is best, and, seeing it,
to do it.”
When Clemens said, “He is our sacrifice,” I thought of Paul’s words,
“Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us,” and of “the blood of
sprinkling” about which Scaurus had written. And this led me to ask
concerning that other tradition which (Scaurus had told me) was written
in the fourth gospel alone, about blood and water issuing from Christ’s
side.
“That,” said Clemens, “was the only passage in your friend’s letter where
I was strongly moved to ask you to stop reading that we might talk of
it at once. His view was new to me. Yet I confess I had always found it
difficult to explain how the writer could call on himself to testify to
what he himself had asserted. If Æmilius Scaurus should prove right,
that difficulty of mine would be removed. Moreover I cannot but admit
that John, or any other disciple, would probably have been prevented by
the soldiers from approaching to the cross close enough to distinguish
the water from the blood flowing from His side. Yet it came on me as a
shock to believe that this particular narrative—to which I attach great
importance—was based on a vision. Now the shock is somewhat softened. I
have been thinking over your friend’s arguments. He is quite right in
saying that in John’s epistle, which may be called an epilogue to his
gospel, the words ‘He knoweth,’ as expressed in this particular emphatic
phrase, would mean ‘Jesus knoweth.’ The meaning may be the same here.
Nevertheless, even if it is so, and even if the narrative describes a
vision, I should still feel as certain as ever that this vision expressed
the real eternal truth.”
“What do you mean,” I said, “by eternal truth?” “I mean this,” replied
Clemens, “that the sacrifice of Christ on the cross appears to me
foreordained from eternity and destined to last to eternity, as the
symbol of the fundamental law of the universe, what Scaurus calls the Law
of the Magnet. Call it a dream, if you please. Then such is my dream. But
I act on it, or try to act on it, as a reality. The Father gives His life
to men in giving His Son to them. The life, says the scripture, is the
blood. Some of our brethren would not scruple to say ‘God gives His blood
to men.’ I would rather say God has been giving of His life to men from
the time when man was first created—not only as a Father and a Mother,
but also as a Servant, serving His servants, nursing His children,
‘washing their feet’ (so to speak) as a nurse does, and as Christ did.
There are two spiritual realities, or, if you like, two metaphors, to
express this spiritual reality. One is, that life or blood is to be
infused, like new blood, into our veins. The other is, that in this life,
or life-blood, we are also to bathe ourselves, that we may be born again.
I know that this will seem to you and to many others an exaggerated, or
(as I have heard it called) an ‘unsavoury and distasteful similitude.’
But these protests are outweighed, in my mind, by the faith and feeling
of multitudes of simple devout Christians of the deepest and purest
insight. One of these, a woman—the most inspired of all women known to
me with holy wisdom—continually speaks of bathing herself in the blood
of Christ crucified; and so do some of our most inspired poets. You have
spoken to me of ‘the constraining love of Christ.’ One of our poets—a
man experienced in troubles and knowing only too well what it is to feel
forsaken of God—describes it thus in the person of Christ:—
_‘Mine is an unchanging love,_
_Higher than the heights above,_
_Deeper than the depths beneath,_
_Free and faithful, strong as death.’_
Do not these words seem to you to come from the heart? Are they not
heart-realities? Yet they are metaphors. Well, this same poet speaks of
‘seeing by faith’ the ‘stream’ supplied by Christ’s ‘flowing wounds.’ Are
such visions, or metaphors, or heart-realities, lightly to be discarded?
Speaking for myself, I cannot give up this heart-fact—if I may so call
it—for fact it is to me, whether seen by the material or by the spiritual
eye. Some may think it to be spiritually false. For them it must be (in
efficacy) false, even if it were historically true. For me it is true.”
He checked himself, and then continued, “Do not suppose, dear brother
and fellow-seeker after truth, that I expect all others to see the truth
in the same form in which I see it. Only I should hope to induce them
to see the same truth in _some_ form. See here these words”—and he took
up a scroll and shewed them to me—“‘Every wise man is a ransom for the
bad.’ Do they remind you of anything?” “Yes,” said I, “they are like
the saying in Mark and Matthew, ‘The Son of man came to give his soul
a ransom for many.’ Luke omits those words.” “He does,” said Clemens.
“Luke has ‘I am among you as one that serveth.’ John combines the two
views. For first he represents Jesus as girt with a napkin like a servant
pouring forth water in a basin and washing the feet of the disciples; and
then he represents Him as pouring forth His blood and water for their
souls.”
Then Clemens told me that the words “Every wise man is a ransom for the
bad” were written by Philo of Alexandria, who, though a Jew, was also
a philosopher, and he shewed me a similar passage in the same writer,
to the effect that the good and worthy and wise are both the physicians
and the ransoms of every community in which they exist. Then he took up
Ezekiel and read to me the vision of the dry bones in the valley, and
how they come together into living bodies, being quickened by the breath
of the Lord. Next he turned to Greek literature, touching on the old
allegory of Amphion, whose music was so sweet that the very stones were
constrained by it to come together in unity building up the walls of a
great city.
“Should we be wrong,” said Clemens, “in saying that all these
metaphors (to which others might be added) from various nations and
literatures—about ‘harmony,’ and ‘service,’ and ‘ransom,’ and ‘blood,’
and ‘breath’—point to one deep truth, not exaggerated by Philo, that the
less are purified by the greater, and that the greater are intended to
sacrifice their independence and to come together with the less, in order
to create cities and nations, which are the larger families that lead men
towards the Fatherhood of God? No doubt, the greater are also purified
by the less. Every community is built up and bound together by the
self-sacrifice of all. And this binding together implies a purification
of all, a cutting away of excessive protuberances, a purging away of
selfish, isolating, schism-making qualities, so that each soul may take
its place in the wall of the City of Concord. But still, as a rule, the
less are purified by the greater; the most selfish by the least selfish;
families by the father and the mother; peoples by their true princes,
priests, and prophets. Prince, priest, prophet, each according to his
several gift, washes the feet of his inferiors, and spends his life to
increase and ennoble theirs. Looking back to our childhood, do we not
recognise this, as a matter of our own experience? How then can we call
God Father, and yet refuse to believe that He may be as loving as a human
father, and that God’s children may be purified by God Himself, giving
His own blood in the blood of His Son as a ransom for the sinful souls of
men?”
As he said these words, he stood up, extending his hand. “I have allowed
myself,” he said, “to keep you too long, when you have many things to do.
Once or twice, intending to check myself, I have broken loose again. I
will not a third time. Only this word, this one additional word. Believe
me, Æmilius Scaurus was right, in saying ‘The religion of the Christians
is a person.’ But your friend went on to say ‘_and nothing more_.’ I
should prefer to say the same thing differently. ‘Our religion is a
person—_and nothing less_.’”