That instance occurs in the account of the healing of a man with a
withered arm, which took place in the synagogue of Capernaum (iii.
1-5). In the vivid narrative, we can see the scribes and Pharisees,
who had already questioned Him with insolent airs of authority about
His breach of the Rabbinical Sabbatic rules, sitting in the synagogue,
with their gleaming eyes 'watching Him' with hostile purpose. They
hope that He will heal on the Sabbath day. Possibly they had even
brought the powerless-handed man there, on the calculation that Christ
could not refrain from helping him when He saw his condition. They are
ready to traffic in human misery if only they can catch Him in a
breach of law. The fact of a miracle if nothing. Pity for the poor man
is not in them. They have neither reverence for the power of the
miracle-worker, nor sympathy with His tenderness of heart. The only
thing for which they have eyes is the breach of the complicated web of
restrictions which they had spun across the Sabbath day. What a
strange, awful power the pedantry of religious forms has of blinding
the vision and hardening the heart as to the substance and spirit of
religion! That Christ should heal neither made them glad nor
believing, but that He should heal on the Sabbath day roused them to a
deadly hatred. So there they sit, on the stretch of expectation,
silently watching. He bids the man stand forth--a movement, and there
the cripple stands alone in the midst of the seated congregation. Then
comes the unanswerable question which cut so deep, and struck their
consciences so hard that they could answer nothing, only sit and scowl
at Him with a murderous light gleaming in their eyes. He fronts them
with a steady gaze that travels over the whole group, and that showed
to at least one who was present an unforgettable mingling of
displeasure and pity. 'He looked round about on them with anger, being
grieved for the hardness of their hearts.' In Christ's perfect nature,
anger and pity could blend in wondrous union, like the crystal and
fire in the abyss before the throne.
The soul that has not the capacity for anger at evil wants something
of its due perfection, and goes 'halting' like Jacob after Peniel. In
Christ's complete humanity, it could not but be present, but in pure
and righteous form. His anger was no disorder of passion, or 'brief
madness' that discomposed the even motion of His spirit, nor was there
in it any desire for the hurt of its objects, but, on the contrary, it
lay side by side with the sorrow of pity, which was intertwined with
it like a golden thread. Both these two emotions are fitting to a pure
manhood in the presence of evil. They heighten each other. The
perfection of righteous anger is to be tempered by sympathy. The
perfection of righteous pity for the evildoer is to be saved from
immoral condoning of evil as if it were only calamity, by an infusion
of some displeasure. We have to learn the lesson and take this look of
Christ's as our pattern in our dealings with evildoers. Perhaps our
day needs more especially to remember that a righteous severity and
recoil of the whole nature from sin is part of a perfect Christian
character. We are so accustomed to pity transgressors, and to hear
sins spoken of as if they were misfortunes mainly due to environment,
or to inherited tendencies, that we are apt to forget the other truth,
that they are the voluntary acts of a man who could have refrained if
he had wished, and whose not having wished is worthy of blame. But we
need to aim at just such a union of feeling as was revealed in that
gaze of Christ's, and neither to let our wrath dry up our pity nor our
pity put out the pure flame of our indignation at evil.
That look comes to us too with a message, when we are most conscious
of the evil in our own hearts. Every man who has caught even a glimpse
of Christ's great love, and has learned something of himself in the
light thereof, must feel that wrath at evil sits ill on so sinful a
judge as he feels himself to be. How can I fling stones at any poor
creature when I am so full of sin myself? And how does that Lord look
at me and all my wanderings from Him, my hardness of heart, my
Pharisaism and deadness to His spiritual power and beauty? Can there
be anything but displeasure in Him? The answer is not far to seek,
but, familiar though it be, it often surprises a man anew with its
sweetness, and meets recurring consciousness of unworthiness with a
bright smile that scatters fears. In our deepest abasement we may take
courage anew when we think of that wondrous blending of anger shot
with pity.