had given him all the time needed for the completion of his plan.
Hastening to the authorities, he had told them that the favorable
moment had arrived for his Master's arrest; that he knew the lonely
spot to which He was wont to resort for meditation and prayer; and that
he had need of an armed band to overpower all possible resistance on
the part of Himself or His followers. This they were able to supply
from the guards and custodians of the Temple. They were going against
One who was deserted and defenceless; yet the soldiers were armed with
sticks and staves. They were about to arrest One who would make no
attempt at flight or concealment, and the moon was full; yet, lest He
should make His escape to some limestone grotto, or amid the deep
shadows, they carried torches and lanterns.
The Lord had just awoke His disciples for the third and last time, when
probably His ear detected the tread of hurrying feet, the muffled clank
of swords, the stifled murmur of an advancing crowd; perhaps He saw
also the glancing lights, as they advanced through the garden shrubs,
and began to encircle the place where He had prayed. By such signs,
and especially by the inner intimation of the Holy Spirit, He knew all
things that should come upon Him, and without waiting for His enemies
to reach Him, with calm and dignified composure He went forth to meet
the rabble band, stepping out into the moonlight and saluting them with
the inquiry, "Whom seek ye?"
There are some deep and memorable suggestions here as to the
VOLUNTARINESS OF CHRIST'S DEATH.
In order to His death having any value it must be free. If it could be
shown that He had no choice than to die, because His own purpose was
overmastered by the irresistible force of circumstances, His death
could not have met the claims of a broken law, or inaugurated a new
code of morals to His Church. But there are several points in this
narrative which make it clear that He laid down His life of Himself,
that none took it from Him, that He had power to lay it down, and power
to take it again.
(1) When Jesus asked them the question, "Whom seek ye?" there were, no
doubt, many in the band who knew Him well enough, and that He was the
object of their midnight raid; but not one of them had the courage to
answer, "Thee." A paralyzing awe had already commenced to cast its
spell over their spirits. Those who knew Him shrank from identifying
Him, and were content to answer generally, "Jesus of Nazareth." But
when He answered, "I am He," what was it that so suddenly affected
them? Did some stray beams of concealed glory burst forth from their
confinement to indicate His majesty? Did they dread the putting-forth
of that power which had been so often exerted to save and bless? Or,
was there a direct miracle of Divine power, which secured their
discomfiture? We cannot tell. But, whatever the cause, the crowd
suddenly fell back in confusion, and were flung to the ground.
Here, for a moment, the would-be captors lay, as though pinioned to the
dust by some unseen hand. The spell was soon withdrawn, and they were
again on their feet, cursing themselves for their needless panic.
But--and this is the point--the power that sent that rough hireling
band reeling backward to the ground could easily have held them there,
or plunged them as Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, into living graves. "One
flash came forth to tell of the sleeping lightning which He would not
use"; and then, having revealed the might, which could have delivered
Him from their puny arms, He returned to His attitude of willing
self-surrender. Who, then, shall say that our Saviour's death was not
His own act and deed?
(2) When that rabble crew were again on their feet, confronting Jesus,
He asked them a second time, _Whom seek ye_? Again they replied,
"Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus answered, "I have told you that I am He;
if, therefore, ye seek me, let these go their way." And, forthwith, He
put forth such a power over His own as secured their freedom from
arrest.
It is evident that it was no part of His foes' purpose beforehand to
let them go; for, on their way back they arrested a young man, probably
Mark himself, whom curiosity had drawn from his bed, and whom they took
for one of His disciples. He escaped with great difficulty from their
hands. It is hardly doubtful that if some special power had not been
exerted over them, they would have treated the whole of the followers
of Jesus as they sought to treat Him. Is it not evident, then, that
the power which secured the safety of His disciples could have secured
that of the Master Himself; or that He might have passed away through
the midst of them, as He did through the infuriated crowd which
proposed to cast Him headlong over the precipice near Nazareth at the
commencement of His ministry? Every arm might have been struck
nerveless, every foot paralyzed with lameness. Who, then, shall deny
that Christ's death was His own act?
(3) But again, when Jesus had spoken thus there seemed some wavering
among His captors, perhaps a hesitation as to who should first lay hand
on Him. At this juncture, when the whole enterprise threatened to
miscarry, Judas felt that he must, at all hazards, show how safe it was
to touch the person of his Master; so, though the bold challenge of
Jesus had made the preconcerted signal needless, he resolved still to
give it, that the spell of that presence might be broken. The traitor,
therefore, stepped up and kissed the Lord.
Encouraged by this sacrilegious act, His myrmidons now laid hands on
Jesus, grasping His sacred person as they might have done Barabbas, or
some other member of his gang. They then proceeded to bind Him after
the merciless Roman fashion. Peter could not bear to see this. He
sprang forth from the covert of the shadow, drew his sword, and cut at
the nearest assailant's head. But the blade, glancing off the helmet,
cut off the ear.
It was an unwelcome interference with the behavior of the meek and
gentle Lord, whose hand was already bound. It could not be permitted.
"Suffer ye thus far," He said to the rude soldier who was binding Him,
and with His own finger touched the ear, stanched the flowing blood,
and healed it. It has been remarked that this was the only act of
healing wrought on one for whom it was neither asked of Him, and who
had no faith in His beneficent power. But, surely, the hand that could
work that miracle could have broken from the bonds that held it as
easily as Samson from the two new cords which burned as flax in the
flame. The power with which Jesus saved others might have saved
Himself. Who, then, shall say that His death was not His own free act?
Listen, moreover, to His own words. Then said Jesus unto Peter, "Put
up thy sword into the sheath; the cup which My Father hath given Me,
shall I not drink it?" "Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to My
Father, and He shall presently give Me more than twelve legions of
angels; but how then shall the Scripture be fulfilled that thus it must
be?"
As, then, we view the death of the Cross we must ever remember the
voluntariness of that supreme act, which is all the more conspicuous as
the agony of the Garden reminds us how greatly the Lord's spirit
dreaded the awful pressure of the world's sin, which made Him cry: "My
God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?" How greatly He must have
loved us! It was love, and only love, that kept Him standing at the
bar of Pilate, bending beneath the scourge of the soldiers, hanging in
apparent helplessness on the cross. Not the iron hand of relentless
fate; not the overpowering numbers or closely-woven plots of His foes;
not the nails that pierced His quivering flesh. No, it was none of
these. It was not even the compulsion of the Divine purpose. It was
His own choice, because of a love that would bear all things if only it
might achieve redemption for those whom He loved more than Himself.
"He loved me, and gave Himself for me."
Surely we may trust that love. If it moved Him to endure the Cross and
despise the shame, is there anything that it will withhold, anything
that it will not do? His love is stronger than death, and mightier
than the grave. Strong waters cannot quench it, floods cannot drown
it. It silences all praise, and beggars all recompense. To believe
and accept it is eternal life. To dwell within its embrace is the
foretaste of everlasting joy. To be filled by it is to be transfigured
into the image of God Himself.
XXIV
Drinking the Cup
"The cup which My Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?"--JOHN
xviii. 1-14.
In our Master's arrest the one feature which stands out in unique
splendor is its voluntariness. He went into the garden "knowing all
things that should come upon Him." Even at the last moment He might
have evaded the kiss of the traitor, and the binding thong with which
Malchus sought to manacle His gracious hands. The spell of His
intrinsic nobleness and glory, which had flung His captors to the
ground, might have held them there; the power that could heal the
wounded ear might have destroyed with equal ease the entire band.
The reason for all this hardly needs explaining. His life and death
were not merely a sacrifice, but a self-sacrifice. He freely gave
Himself up for us all. Each believer may dare to appropriate the words
of the apostle: "He loved me, and gave Himself for me." It was through
the Eternal Spirit that He offered Himself without spot to God. It was
from His own invincible love that He gave Himself for the Church, His
Bride. "From beginning to end the moving spring of all His actions was
deliberate self-devotedness to the good of men, and the fulfillment of
God's will, for these are equivalents. And His death as the crowning
act of this career was to be conspicuously a death embodying and
exhibiting the spirit of self-sacrifice." Let us learn:
I. THE SUPREME NOBILITY OF SURRENDER TO THE EVITABLE.--It is, of
course, most noble, when the martyr goes to his death without a murmur
of complaint; allowing his enemies to wreak their vengeance without
recrimination or threatening; bowing the meek head to the block;
extending the hand to the hungry flame. He has no alternative but to
die; there are no legions waiting under arms to obey his summons; no
John of Gaunt to stand beside him, as beside Wycliffe, to see him
fairly tried and insist on his acquittal. Then, there is nothing for
it but to evince the patience and gentleness of Christ in being led as
a lamb to the slaughter.
But though this spectacle stirs the hearts of men, there is one still
more illustrious--when the sufferer bends to a fate which he might
easily avoid, but confronts for the sake of others. The former is
submission to the inevitable, this to the evitable. That is bearing a
yoke which is imposed by superior authority; this taking a yoke which
might be evaded without blame, as judged by the tribunal of public
opinion. And this is the sublimest spectacle on which the eye of man
or angel can rest; for thus the sacrifice of Christ finds its noblest
counterpart and fulfillment.
When a missionary, with ample means and loving friends, deliberately
spends among squalid and repulsive conditions, the precious years which
might have been passed among congenial society and luxurious comfort in
the homeland; chooses a lot from which nature inevitably shrinks
instead of that to which every conclusion but one points, and stays at
his post, though his return, so far from being resented, would actually
be favored by all whose opinion is of weight--this is a voluntary
submission to the evitable.
When a home pastor stays by his poor flock because they need him so
sorely, and sets his face toward grinding poverty and irksome toil when
the city church invites him to a larger stipend and wealthier
surroundings--this again is a voluntary surrender to the evitable.
When a wealthy bachelor is willing to forego the ease and quiet of his
beautiful home in order to welcome the orphans of his deceased brother,
who might have been sent to some charitable institution or cast on
strangers, that they may be beneath his personal supervision, and have
a better chance in life--this again is voluntary submission to the
evitable.
In each such case, it is not inevitable that the cross should be borne,
and the hands yielded to the binding thong. The tongue of scandal
could hardly find cause for criticism if the easier path were chosen.
Perhaps the soul hardly realizes the kindredness of its resolve with
the loftiest that this world has seen. But it is superlatively
beautiful, nevertheless. And let it never be forgotten, that nothing
short of this will satisfy the standard of Christ. No Christian has a
right to use all his rights. None can claim immunity from the duty of
seeking the supreme good of others, though it involve the supreme cost
to himself.
II. THE RECOGNITION OF GOD'S WILL IN HIS PERMISSIONS.--In the bitter
anguish which had immediately preceded the arrest, our Lord had
repeatedly referred to His cup. "If this cup," He said, "may not pass
from Me, except I drink it, Thy will be done." The cup evidently
referred to all the anguish caused to His holy nature in being numbered
among the transgressors, and having to bear the sin of the world.
Whether it was the anguish of the body, beneath which He feared He
would succumb, as some think; or the dread of being made a
sin-offering, a scape-goat laden with sin, as others, or the chill of
the approaching eclipse, which extorted the cry of forsakenness, as
seems to me the more likely--is not pertinent to our present
consideration. It is enough to know that, whilst there was much that
cried, "Back!" there was more that cried, "On!"--and that He chose from
the profoundest depths of His nature, to do the Father's will, to
execute His part in the compact into which they had entered before the
worlds were made, and to drink to the dregs the cup which His Father
had placed in His hands.
But here we note that to all appearances the cup was mingled, prepared,
and presented by the malignity and hate of man. The High Priests had
long resolved to put Him to death, because His success with the people,
His fresh and living comments on the law, His opposition to their
hypocrisies and pretensions had exasperated them to madness. Judas
also seemed to have had a conspicuous share in his discovery and
arrest. Had we been left to our unaided reasonings we might have
supposed that the most bitter ingredients of His cup had been supplied
by the ingratitude of His own, the implacable rancor of the priests,
and the treachery of Judas; but, see, He recognizes none but the
Father--it is always _the Father_, always the cup which the Father had
given.
There had been times in our lives when we may have been tempted to
distinguish between God's appointments and permissions, and to speak of
the former as being manifestly His will for us, whilst we suspended our
judgment about the latter, and questioned if we were authorized in
accounting them as being equally from Heaven. But such distinctions
are fatal to peace. Our souls were kept in constant perturbation, as
we accounted ourselves the shuttlecock of rival powers, now God's, now
man's. And we ended in ruling God out of more than half our life, and
regarding ourselves as the hapless prey of strong and malicious forces
to which we were sold, as Joseph to the Ishmaelites.
A deeper reading of Scripture has led us to a truer conclusion. There
is no such distinction there. What God permits is as equally His will
as what He appoints. Joseph tells his brethren that it was not they
who sent him to Egypt, but God. David listens meekly to Shimei's
shameful words, because he felt that God allowed them to be spoken.
And here Jesus refuses to see the hand of His foes in His sufferings,
but passes beyond the hand which bore the cup to His lips to the Father
who was permitting it to be presented, and reposed absolutely in the
choice of Him of One who loved Him with a love that was before the
foundation of the world.
Oh, sufferer! whether by those strokes, which, like sickness or
bereavement, seem to come direct from heaven, or by those which, like
malicious speeches or oppressive acts, seem to emanate from man, look
up into the face of God, and say, "My Father, this is Thy will for me;
Thine angels would have delivered me had it been best. But since they
have not interposed, I read Thy choice for Thy child, and I am
satisfied. It is sweet to drink the cup which Thy hands have prepared."
III. THE DEEP LAW OF SUBSTITUTION.--Some of the rabble crowd had
probably shown signs of a disposition to arrest some of Christ's
followers. He, therefore, interfered, and reminded them of their own
admission, that _He_ was the object to their midnight raid, and bade
them allow _these_ to go their way. Is it surprising that the
evangelist generalizes this act, finding in it an illustration of His
Master's ceaseless interposition on behalf of His own--that of those
whom the Father had given Him He should lose none.
In brief, this scene affords a conspicuous and striking illustration of
the great doctrine of substitution. As the Good Shepherd steps to the
front and sheathes the swords of His foes in His own breast, while He
demands the release of the cowering flock, He is doing on a small scale
what He did once and forever on Calvary; when, exposing Himself to the
penalty due to sin, and braving the concentrated antagonism of a broken
law, the drawn sword of inviolable justice, the sharpness of death, the
shame of the cross, and the humiliation of the grave, He said, "If ye
seek Me, let these go their way."
Christ sheltered us without reckoning the cost to Himself. He stood to
the front, and bore the extreme brunt of all that was to be borne. He
substituted His suffering for ours, His wounds for our pain, His death
for our sins. If you are fearing the just recompense of your sins,
like a band of arresting soldiers lurking in the dark shadows and
threatening to drag you forth to pay the uttermost farthing, take
heart; Jesus has met, and will meet, them for you. Listen to His
majestic voice, saying, "Take Me, but let this soul, who clings to the
skirts of My robe, go his way." He is arrested, and led away; thou art
free--that in thy freedom thou shouldest give thyself to be His very
slave.
XXV
The Hall of Annas
"They led Him away to Annas first, for he was father-in-law to
Caiaphas, which was the high priest that same year."--JOHN xviii. 13.
The band that had arrested Jesus led Him back across the Kedron bridge,
up the steep ascent, and through the ancient gateway, which at this
season of the year stood always open, even at night.
The passage of the armed men through the quiet streets must have
aroused from their slumbers many sleepers, who hurried to the windows
to see them pass below in the clear moonlight. But no one guessed who
was being taken into custody, and most of them probably thought that
the soldiers had captured some more of the Barabbas gang, who, at that
season of the year, would make a rare harvest by plundering pilgrims to
the feast.
Their destination, in the first place, was the mansion of Annas, the
head of the reigning priestly family, who was father-in-law of the
actual high priest. He was now an old man; wealthy, aristocratic, and
laden with all the honors his nation could give. For many years he had
worn the high priest's robes, and though he had now nominally retired
from that exalted office, he still kept his hand upon the reins of
government. Caiaphas, at the time of which we speak, had held the
priesthood for seventeen years under his tutelage; and he retained it
for five years after. It is easy therefore to understand why Annas is
described as the high priest. He was still the most powerful living
bearer of that title. The whole family partook of his character, and
was notorious for unwearied plotting. The gliding, deadly, snake-like
smoothness with which Annas and his sons seized their prey is said to
have won them the name of hissing vipers.
Annas and Caiaphas probably shared the same cluster of buildings, which
was presumably the official residence of the high priestly family. In
the East the houses of the great are frequently a group of buildings of
unequal height standing near each other and surrounded by the same
court, but with passages between, independent entrances, and separate
roofs. Sometimes they would form a square or quadrangle with porticos
and corridors around it, plants and fountains in the midst, and a
slight awning overhead to protect the open courtyard from the sun or
rain, the communication with the street being through a smaller
courtyard and archway, called in the Gospels "a porch." In some such
cluster of splendid buildings Annas and Caiaphas and others of their
family would live, and the whole would be called the high priest's
palace.
In one of the large reception halls Annas waited, impatient and
feverish, to know the result of the midnight expedition. He had a
nervous dread of what Jesus might do when driven to bay; and dreaded
lest the secret should leak out, and the Galilean pilgrims rise in
defence of their favorite Prophet, whom four days before they had
escorted into the city with shouts. What if Judas should not prove
true? All these disquieting thoughts chased each other like pursuing
phantoms through his mind, and it was an immense relief when the clank
of weapons in the court assured him of the safe return of Malchus'
party, and answering voices told him that Jesus was at last safe within
his power.
The prisoner was at once brought before the old man, who eagerly
scrutinized his features in the flickering light of lanterns and
flambeaux, casting shadows which a Rembrandt would have loved to paint.
One or two intimates may have stood around Him; but the main inquiry
was left to Himself, as He put the Master through a preliminary and
informal examination, in the hope of extracting from His replies
materials on which the court, which was hastily summoned for an early
hour in the morning, might proceed.
On the surface the inquiry seemed fair and innocent enough. The high
priest, we learn from verse 19, asked Jesus of His disciples and His
doctrine. But the lamb-skin hid a wolf. For the questions were so
worded as to entangle, and to provide material on which to found the
subsequent charge, which was even then being framed, that Jesus was a
disturber of the public peace, and a teacher of revolutionary doctrine.
_First, then, about His disciples._--Annas would like to be informed
what this association of men meant. Why were they formed into a
society? By what bond were they united? What secret instructions had
they received? What hidden objects had they in view? If Jesus refused
to answer these questions, might it not be made to appear that an
attempt was on foot to organize a confederation throughout the entire
country? If so, it would be easy to awaken the jealousy of the Roman
authorities, and lead them to feel that they must take immediate steps
to stamp out the plot by executing the ringleader.
_And, next, as to His doctrine._--Had not Jesus repeatedly spoken about
the Kingdom of Heaven? What did this mean? Was He contemplating the
setting up of a kingdom? Did He intend it to be understood that He was
the expected Messiah, and that He meditated revolt against Rome? Was
the manifestation of force, which had accompanied His recent entrance
into the city, at His instigation?
Our Lord at once penetrated the design of His crafty interrogator. And
in His answer He took care not to mention His disciples, speaking only
of Himself. He affirmed that He had nothing to say which He had not
already said a hundred times in the synagogues and the Temple, before
friends and foes. He had no secret doctrines for the initiated, but
had declared all that was in His heart. Between His disciples and
Himself there had been no connection other than was obvious on the
surface. No meetings under cover of night; no discussions of
revolutionary topics; nothing that could not bear the fullest scrutiny.
"I spake openly to the world; I ever taught in the synagogue and in the
temple, whither the Jews always resort; and in secret [that is, in the
sense in which you use the word] I have said nothing. Why askest thou
Me? Ask them which heard Me what I have said unto them: behold, they
know what I have said."