Read Isa. xl., and 1 Cor. xiii.
THE SECRET OF MAGNANIMITY.—John xiii. 12-17.
There is a contagious quality in greatness. Young hearts, generous
souls, dwelling in the vicinity of a hero, are apt to catch his
thoughts, and words, and ways. Christ's greatness is His goodness, and
that is absolute. Men look at Jesus, behold His perfection, grow to love
Him, and hardly knowing how, become like Him. We see His tranquillity,
whose minds are so perturbed by life's worries and men's wrongs. We
wonder at His infinite peace, whose hearts are so hot and restless with
the world's rivalries and ambitions. Our spirits, tired, and hurt, and
fevered, gaze wistfully at the great serenity of His gentle life, and
ere we know it a strange longing steals into our breast to learn His
secret and find rest unto our souls. Plainly the panacea does not
consist in any change outside us, for, do what we will, still in every
lot there will be crooks and crosses that cannot be haughtily brushed
aside, that can only be robbed of their sting by being humbly borne and
patiently endured. Moreover, the world was not least, but most unkind to
Him, yet could not mar His peace, nor poison the sweetness of His soul.
Within Himself lay the talisman of His charmed life, the hidden spring
of His unchanging goodness. It was the spell of a lowly, loving, and
loyal heart. This is the key to the enigma of His perfect patience. He
loved us, and He gave Himself for us. And so, whether His friends were
gentle and obedient or wayward and rebellious, whether they were kind
and sympathetic or cold, and hard, and selfish, whether they were good
or evil, He remained unchanged and unchangeable. "Having loved His own
which were in the world, He loved them unto the end."
The machinery of life is not simple, but complex and intricate. In its
working there cannot but be much friction. If the strains and jars of
social existence are to be borne without irritation and ill-will, there
must be between us and our neighbours a plentiful supply of the oil of
human kindness. The pressure and constraint that from a stranger would
be irksome or unendurable become tolerable or even gladsome when borne
for one we love. Did we, as God meant us to do, love our neighbour as
ourself, life's burdens would seem light, for love makes all things
easy. But then the difficulty just is to love our neighbour as ourself.
Here, as elsewhere, it is the first step that costs. For too often our
neighbour is not lovable, but hateful, and our own self is so much
nearer to us than any neighbour can be. Its imperious demands silence
his claims on our kindness, and drown the calls of duty. Its exuberant
growth overshadows his, and robs him of the sunshine. Its intense
acquisitiveness absorbs all our care and interest, all our sympathy and
affection, so that we have no time or heart to spare for his
exactions—no, not even for his necessities. Clearly in this inordinate
love of self is the root of the wrong and unrest of our life. Because we
love our own self too much, we love others too little to be able to be
generous and good like Christ. Wrapped up unduly in selfish anxiety for
our own happiness and dignity, we become too sensitive to the injuries
of foes, the slights of friends, the cuts and wounds of fortune. The
reason why we lack the lowliness of Jesus, and miss the blessedness of
His heavenly peace, is our refusal to take up the cross and follow Him
in the pathway of self-sacrifice. It was His detachment from self that
made Him invulnerable to wounds, imperturbable amid wrongs, good and
kind to the evil and to the froward. Because He cared much for others
and little for Himself, He was lifted above the strife and restless
emulation of our self-seeking lives. The charm that changed for Him the
storm of life into a great calm was the simple but potent spell of
self-renunciation.
The thought is one that captivates fresh hearts and noble souls with the
fascination of a revelation. It seems to unlock all doors, to break all
bars, and to lift from life its mysterious burden of perplexity and
pain. The pathway of renunciation opens before their eyes with an
indefinable charm, unfolding boundless vistas of lofty achievement,
haunted by sweet whispers of a joy and content, dreamt of many a time,
but never before attained. It is a fond delusion, that experience soon
dispels. At the outset the way glows with the rosy light of a new dawn,
and our footsteps are light with the bounding life of a fresh
springtide; but ere many miles are traversed the road becomes hard and
rough, and we, with heavy hearts, drag hot and dusty feet along a weary
way. For the way of the Cross has indeed blessedness at the end of it,
but easy it cannot be till it is ended. To curb our pride, to crush our
self-seeking, to conquer passion, to quell ambition, to crucify the
flesh—these things are not easy. They have the stern stress and strain
of battle in them. To be patient under injuries, to suffer slights and
wrongs, to take the lowest place without a murmur, are conquests that
demand a strong heart and a great mind. Where shall we learn a serenity
that can be disturbed by no trouble, where find a peace that
disappointment cannot break, where reach a goodness that no wrong can
ruffle? What is the secret of magnanimity?
The answer comes to us from John's picture of his Lord's humility. In
the forefront we behold Jesus kneeling on the ground and washing His
disciples' feet, and we wonder at such lowliness. But now John's finger
points, and our eyes rest on the heart of this lowly Saviour, and
reverently we read His thoughts. "Jesus, knowing that the Father had
given all things into His hands, and that He was come from God and went
to God," washed the disciples' feet. There is at once the marvel of His
condescension and its explanation. He was so great He could afford to
abase himself. His followers stood on their dignity, and jealously
guarded their rank. He was sure of His position. Nothing could affect
His Divine dignity. He came from God; He was going to God. What mattered
it what happened to Him, what place He held, what humiliation He
endured, in the brief snatch of earthly life between? And we, if we
would be great-minded like Him, must have the same high faith, the same
heavenly consciousness. We must know that this world, with its wrongs
and disappointments, is not all; that this life, with its pride and
pomps, is but a passing show. We must remember ever the grander world
beyond, the infinite life within, and even now, amid the glare and din
of time, live in and for eternity. Then we should no longer fret for a
thousand trifles that vex us, we should not trouble for all the wrongs
that pain and grieve us. What dignity, what grandeur, what Divine
nobility there would be in every thought, in every word, in every deed
of all our life on earth, were the consciousness ever glowing in our
hearts that we too came from God and are going back to God!