the subject of the subsequent discourse, till it finds its fullest
expansion and expression in the prayer of the 17th chapter. But it was
necessary that He should set before them once again the nature of the
mystery, and the way to the knowledge of it, lest they should lose
themselves in abortive efforts to embrace it. '_He that hath my
commandments_,' He says, '_and keepeth them, He it is that loveth me:
and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love
him, and will manifest myself to him_.' The love of the Father for the
Son, and of the Son for the Father, was the ground of their union. He
who would remember Christ's commandments that they should love one
another, and would watch over them and cherish them in his heart, he
would show his love to Christ; and to him the love of the Father would
be manifested, to him the Son would manifest Himself.
This idea of a secret manifestation which the world could not share
in, may have seemed merely astonishing to some of the disciples,--may
have awakened certain feelings of vanity, as if they would be His
exclusive favourites, in others of them. Either feeling might have
been in Jude, or both might have been mixed, when he said, '_Lord, how
is it that thou wilt manifest thyself unto us, and not unto the
world?_' The answer is one which, if it were taken in, would destroy
all exclusiveness, but would not diminish wonder: '_Jesus answered and
said unto him, If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father
will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.
He that loveth me not keepeth not my words: and the word which ye hear
is not mine, but the Father's which sent me._' If a man loved Christ,
he would hold fast those words of His in which He said that God
'_loved the world, and gave His only-begotten Son for it_;' that God
'_sent not His Son to condemn the world, but that the world through
Him might be saved_.' And then, because these words were dear to him,
and he wished to live in the spirit of them, the Father who loved the
world would come and make His abode with him, would impart to him His
own likeness, and enable him in a measure to enter into His love. But
one who cared nothing for Christ, would not care for these words of
His, would not keep them in his heart, would not really believe them,
would not desire to have his own mind fashioned in accordance with
them. And seeing that Christ's word is not His, but the Father's who
sent Him, that Father would remain to such a person always hidden and
unknown.
'_These things_,' He adds, '_have I spoken unto you, being yet present
with you. But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father
will send in my name, He shall teach you all things, and bring all
things to your remembrance._' It may be hypercritical to complain of
our translators for rendering μένων by '_being yet present_;' but I
cannot help thinking that 'remaining,' or 'while I remain with you,'
would have diminished the likelihood of a misapprehension which must
make much of what He says here and afterwards unintelligible. That He
was going away He had told them; only one day longer He would remain
among them as their visible Teacher. But, assuredly, He declares
solemnly that He shall not cease to be present with them; it is the
express object of His conversation to give them that assurance.
Nowhere does it come forth more strongly than in this sentence. What
He said to them while they could look into His face, while they could
see His lips moving, was but poorly apprehended by them; only a small
portion of its meaning passed into them. Their real learning would
come hereafter,--the vital recollection and understanding of the very
words they were listening to then. Did they not feel that they wanted
some one to fix the sense in their hearts, before the sounds mingled
with the common air? Did they not want an interpreter, who should not
translate one set of phrases by another, but should translate phrases
into realities, and should open the spirit to entertain them? Were
they not conscious of a hebetude and dulness, which the divinest
wisdom could not penetrate as long as it remained on the outside of
them? Did not the dulness hinder their intercourse with each other?
Did any know exactly what the other meant? Did they not talk of
trifles, because they despaired of breaking through the ice which
enclosed their neighbour's heart, and had not even learnt the secret
of thawing their own?
Yes; in this way they were taught that they must have a Spirit such as
He spoke of, to be with them, not occasionally, but continually; to be
with them, not as separate creatures, but as fellow-men; to be the
Inspirer of their memories, their understandings, their affections; to
be their Deliverer from shallowness; to be their Guide to that well of
living water at the bottom of which truth lies. It was thus that they
learnt, however imperfectly, that this Spirit must be a Divine
Person,--could not be a mere vague and floating influence. It was thus
that they sprung to the conviction, however hard it might be, which
our Lord had expressed, and which He repeated in another form of words
here, that the Spirit must bring Him near to them, must come in His
name, must bind them together in His name. It was thus they learnt
that a Spirit, which did not proceed from a Father and testify of a
Father, could not be the Spirit of truth or the Spirit of peace.
He had been described already by one of these names. Our Lord now
fixed the thoughts of His disciples upon the other. '_Peace I leave
with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I
unto you._' It was the legacy which they needed above all others. But
how could it be received? How can a treasure which all experience
proclaims to be open to thefts, lessened by a thousand accidents,
dependent upon mental and bodily temperament,--how can this be
actually left, not to one, two, or three, upon certain conditions, but
to a whole body permanently and not capriciously, '_as the world
giveth_?' Christ's words imported this; the Apostles must have felt
that He was deceiving them if less than this was meant or was
performed. Only a Spirit to abide for ever with them; a Paraclete to
whom they could have recourse when fightings were most terrible
without; One whom they might find beneath all the wars and fightings
within themselves; one who could unite them to each other, because He
united them to the Father;--only such a Spirit could be the gift of
peace which Christ bestowed; only concerning such a Spirit could He
have said, 'This is my peace.'
He repeats the words He had used a short time before. He said, '_Let
not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid_.' He could utter
them now with a new and mightier force; for now, far better than
before, He could remove that cause of trouble, the dread that He was
going away from them. '_Ye have heard how I said unto you, I go away,
and come again unto you. If ye loved me ye would rejoice, because I
said, I go unto the Father: for my Father is greater than I._'
The explanation of His going is the same as before. It is the return
to a Father's house,--a house with many mansions,--a house for them as
for Him. But, since the promise of the Spirit has been given, He can
say, '_I come again unto you_.' 'It is not merely that you will know I
am in a home which you cannot see, in a home which is out of the reach
of the tumults and distractions that surround you--a home of peace,
and truth, and love; it is that here, in the midst of this earth,
peace and truth and love shall abide with you. It is that I have a
kingdom in this world; it is that my Spirit will be with you, to
enable you to make continual inroads upon the world which "_sees me
not, neither knows me_," to bring fresh portions of it under my
government.' This coming again into the regions of earth--coming as a
king and conqueror, yet still as a fellow-sufferer to bear the cross
with His disciples, is a new element of consolation. But it does not
displace the former. The celestial house is still to be the object and
final resting-place of their thoughts and hopes. They were to rejoice
that their Lord was there, in His proper and eternal dwelling, united
as a Son to a Father, doing homage as a Son to a Father, confessing
there, as He did on earth, His own glory to be derived from the
Father. They were to rejoice for His sake, because they loved Him; and
that rejoicing for His sake would be the greatest elevation, and the
highest satisfaction to themselves. They would look through Christ to
the Father; they would see all things issuing from Him, and tending to
their fruition and perfection in Him.
'_And now_,' He concludes, '_I have told you before it come to pass,
that, when it is come to pass, ye might believe. Hereafter I will not
talk much with you: for the prince of this world cometh, and hath
nothing in me. But that the world may know that I love the Father; and
as the Father gave me commandment, even so I do. Arise, let us go
hence_.'
That which was coming to pass, we can have no doubt, was the death of
the Son of Man, His ascension, the gift of the Spirit; for of all
these He has discoursed, as if they were inseparably connected. Each
event would be imperfectly understood till the next came to expound
it. When the Spirit was given, there would be a flood of light upon
all the acts of Christ; all the lines of the world's history would be
seen to be converging towards Him. But an hour of darkness must
precede this illumination, an hour in which the living Word, the
upholder of all things, would be almost silent; the hour, He calls it,
of the prince of this world, the hour when righteousness would seem to
be put down for ever, when the priestly tyrants of Judæa, and the
imperial tyrants of Rome, would seem to have established their
supremacy. But their master had _nothing in Jesus_. The cross upon
which they raised Him would stand forth as the perfect opposite of his
selfishness the perfect manifestation of the Divine love. For the
world's sake, that cross would be set up; for the world's sake, He
spoke these things to His disciples. He would have the world know that
He loved the Father, and that He was fulfilling His Father's
commandment in dying for it. What a wonderful conclusion to a
discourse which He had addressed to His own, whom He had chosen out of
the world! What a wonderful preparation for that discourse concerning
the vine and the branches, which He seems to have spoken as He walked
with His disciples towards the Garden of Gethsemane!
DISCOURSE XXIV.
THE VINE AND THE BRANCHES.
[Lincoln's Inn, 9th Sunday after Trinity, July 20, 1856.]
ST. JOHN XV. 1.
_I am the true Vine, and my Father is the Husbandman._
The words, '_Arise, let us go hence_,' with which the 14th chapter
concludes, have been taken by some to indicate that our Lord was about
to lead His disciples into a higher region of thought and of hope than
they had yet visited. The feeling is a very natural one that
everything in these conversations must have a sublime sense, that no
words can be used in them in their common earthly sense. But it is not
an altogether healthy feeling. It may lead us to forget that the
disciples were sitting in an actual room, at an actual supper; it may
give us the notion that we have been transported into some fantastical
world. That is a heavy price to pay for a refined or spiritual
interpretation. It may make the whole life of the Son of Man
unintelligible to us.
From the beginning of the 13th chapter, our Lord has been preparing
them to '_arise and go hence_.' He has been leading them towards that
Father's house, whither He is going and to which He is the way. We
might say that He reaches the mountain summit, in His prayer in the
17th chapter; yet even that must be said with caution, because His
death and ascension were yet to come, and the Spirit had not yet been
poured upon them. But though nothing which He ever spoke is deeper, or
has had a mightier effect on mankind, than the passage of which I am
about to speak, we do not conceive of it rightly if we describe it as
a departure from earthly facts or earthly images. We are about to be
told of the discipline which is necessary for those who are upon earth
fighting, not transfigured, and how the discipline will be
administered. The old form of speaking by parables, which the
disciples might easily have thought was intended only for the
multitude, and might be discarded in the more advanced stages of their
education, is resorted to again. The forms of earth are still claimed
as interpreters of the kingdom of heaven.
I think it is better, therefore, to take the words in their simplest
sense,--to suppose that our Lord and His disciples did arise from the
supper as He spoke, and that the first object which they saw as they
walked towards the Mount of Olives was a _vine_. That tree had been
the old lesson-book of Prophets. They had watched its growth; had
wondered at the life which circulated through its branches; had
thought of the care which was needful in the choice of a place to
plant it in; of the incessant vigilance which must be bestowed upon it
after it had grown. '_Thou hast brought_,' they said in their songs,
'_a vine out of Egypt, and planted it_.' '_The house of Israel_,' they
said in their discourses, '_is the Lord's vineyard, and Judah His
pleasant plant_.' Then the question arose, 'Why does it bring forth
wild grapes? Will it never fill the land?' Which led to the other
deeper questions, 'How is it that these comparisons _must_ be true in
spite of all experience which seems to prove them deceitful? What
makes our nation one,--what gives it life, though we seem a mere set
of loose, wretched, dead sticks, trying to be separate?'
Here was the answer, '_I am the true Vine_.' As the words, '_I am the
good Shepherd_,' explained all the previous uses of _that_ symbol, and
showed why they were not fictitious, so this sentence interprets all
the passages of the Old Testament which connect the life of trees with
the life of man. 'You have been told that you were the branches of a
vine; that God was pruning you, and lopping off dead boughs from you.
Now, look into the heart of this mystery. In me you have been made
one; from me you have drawn life. _My Father_ Himself has been, and
_is_, the _Husbandman_. It was over His own Son that He was watching.
It was the branches in ME which were not bearing fruit that He was
taking away. It was every branch in ME that beareth fruit which He was
purging, that it might bring forth more fruit.' Here was the
interpretation of the unity of the nation; for here is the
interpretation of the unity of man. We shall find no wider, or deeper,
or more practical one. The more we apply it to all the circumstances
of our lives, and to all the problems of history, the more
satisfactory it will appear to us. But first, as always, Christ
Himself applies it to the persons immediately before Him.
'_Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you.
Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself,
except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me. I
am the Vine, ye are the branches. He that abideth in me, and I in him,
the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do
nothing._' The words in the 13th chapter, '_Ye are clean, but not
all_,' led me to anticipate what I should say about these, '_Ye are
clean through the word which I have spoken unto you_.' I said that He
treated them as a pure and holy body, and that the unclean person was
he who would not belong to the body, but chose to dwell in his own
isolation. What is added to that statement here is, that Christ's word
was that which purified them. They had no unity of their own, or
purity of their own. He spoke to them in their inmost hearts, claimed
them as His. That quickening, uniting, purifying word, going forth
from Him, was the source of their life, their purity, their unity.
What they had to do was not to put forth self-willed efforts for the
sake of making themselves better, or wiser, or more united, but simply
to abide in Him, to believe that they were His, to act as if they
were. I resort to other forms of expression, as if I hoped to make
that which He chose clearer; but, in fact, that is immeasurably
plainer, and fuller, and deeper, than any I can imagine. '_Abide in
me_' at once recals the natural analogy, while it is in strictness
appropriate only to the condition of a voluntary being. It implies a
possible separation, an act of adhesion; and yet it implies that this
separation is altogether monstrous and anomalous; that this adhesion
is merely the refusal to break a cord of love with which God is
actually binding us. '_Abide in me_' is doubtless a command; but it is
supported by the other clause, '_and I in you_.' 'Rest in me as if you
were united to me; and a living power shall go forth from me to
sustain and quicken you. And all this that you may _bear fruit_.' That
part of the symbol is never for a moment lost sight of. The relation
of the branch to the stem implies the passage of a productive life
from one into the other. The secret processes within are tending to a
result which shall be visible. Christ tells them that they can bear
nothing, that they will be utterly barren and dry, unless they retain
their attachment to Him, unless He communicates a sap to them
continually. He is not satisfied with the comparison; He again puts
the doctrine into a more direct form, as if to assure them that He was
not using metaphors, that He was taking the most direct method of
bringing before them that which was not real but _the_ reality, not
_a_ fact, but _the_ fact of their existence. '_I am the Vine, ye are
the branches._' 'The energies and powers within you, when I quicken
them, shall bring forth thoughts, deeds, words, that shall be living,
and shall spread life. Without me all is dead.'
The last clause has brought the law home to the disciples themselves;
but the former was more general: '_He that abideth in me, and I in
him_.' And so is the 6th verse: '_Except a man_' (any one) '_abide in
me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and they gather
them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned_.' That 'any
one' gives the sentence a fearful significance. Let us think well of
it. Have we never felt as if, though no voice had cut us off from the
fellowship of our brethren, we had cut ourselves off? Have we never
felt an internal withering, as if the springs of life in us were all
dried up? What was the secret of this condition, which we could trace
to no outward violence? Or do we ask, 'What is the cure? How may that
separation be put an end to before it becomes fixed and everlasting?
How may that secret withering be arrested before it ends in absolute
death?' The evil is traced to its source when we are told that we have
not abided in Him; the remedy lies in that command, and in no other.
The dead sticks are gathered into a bundle and burnt. But the sap has
not gone out of the Vine; that may still make the bough to sprout and
bud.
The next verses take us a step further. '_If ye abide in me, and my
words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done
unto you. Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit; so
shall ye be my disciples._' He had said, '_Whatsoever ye shall ask in
my name, I will do it_.' He can now give the words, '_in my name_,'
their full force. It is not the name of one who may have power with
Him to whom they are pleading, but who is far from _them_. It is the
name of Him in whom they are actually dwelling, in whom they are one.
And His words are the expression of His Father's will. So far, then,
as those words dwell in them, and ascend up from them in prayer to
God, so far they are asking according to His will, and He is doing
that will in granting them their petitions. Not merely, as we render
the passage, '_It shall be done for you_,' but '_It shall become to
you_.' God's will shall work with your will, which it is moulding to
itself. And so God is glorified in the fruit which you bring forth.
The more rich you are in love and good works, the more is He Himself
manifested in you, the more are you Christ's disciples.
Thus we are brought back to the ultimate ground of this relation
between Christ and human beings. '_As the Father hath loved me, so
have I loved you: abide in my love. If ye keep my commandments, ye
shall abide in my love; as I have kept my Father's commandments, and
abide in His love._' This is the continually recurring burden of this
divine song. The love of the Father is at the root of all. The Son can
do nothing but in obedience to that. He believes it, obeys it, and so
lives in it. The law of the disciples' being is the same. They are to
believe in the love which is the manifestation and reflection of this
love, to obey it, to live in it.
And now another gift is bestowed which we expect less, on this night
of sorrow, than even that gift of peace of which I spoke last Sunday.
'_These things have I said unto you, that my joy may remain in you,
and that your joy may be full_' (or fulfilled). Remember that this was
spoken after He had been 'troubled in spirit' at the thought of His
betrayal, not long before He was to pass through the agony. If any one
says to himself,--who has not said it to himself?--'What is joy to me?
how can I ever be partaker of that?' let him think thus. 'Christ knew,
as none of us ever have known or shall know, what the death and
extinction of all joy means; what it is to be alone; what it is to
feel deserted of men and deserted of God. And yet He spoke of His joy,
and of communicating that joy to the disciples. Whence came it? What
was it? How could it be communicated? It was obedience to His Father's
commands. It came from His submitting to those commands, though they
brought Him to suffering, and desertion, and death. It is communicated
to men along with that same power of obedience and endurance. His joy
was to do a will which He knew to be a loving will, into whatsoever
heights or depths it might bring Him. That obedience with all its
consequences, He says, He will impart to us if we will receive it.'
Therefore He goes on: '_This is my commandment, That ye love one
another, as I have loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that
a man lay down his life for his friends. Ye are my friends, if ye do
whatsoever I command you. Henceforth I call you not servants; for
the servant knoweth not what his Lord doeth. But I have called you
friends; for all things which I have heard from my Father, I have made
known unto you._'
You see how earnestly He repeats those words which to many of us have
such a paradoxical sound. 'I _command_ you to love.' 'Just the thing,'
we say in our hearts, 'which cannot be commanded, which must come from
choice.' 'Just that,' He answers, 'which cannot come from choice,
which must come from submission.' If a loving Being were not the Lord
of our wills, were not the Lord of the universe, we might make mighty
efforts to love, supposing we had been taught by some visitant from
another region what love was; and every such effort would be a
rebellious struggle against our Master and our destiny. If there is a
perfect Love creating and sustaining all things, if men have a Father,
then such efforts cannot be rebellious, must be in conformity to this
law: 'Love as I have loved you.' I have said this before, while
dwelling on another part of this discourse; but I must say it again
and again, for it is the principle which underlies the whole of it,
and upon which the distinction that is made here between servants and
friends entirely depends. Christ manifests the greatest love which, He
says, can be manifested. The love which He manifests is His Father's.
He lays down His life in submission to that. They become His friends
by yielding to that love, by confessing it, by allowing it to have
dominion over them. He calls them no longer servants, but friends,
because servants only know what they are to do, without knowing why
they are to do it; whereas He has told them the very secret of His
Father's mind, the ground on which His acts and His precepts rest. It
is not that the friend is less under authority than the servant. It
is not that the one does what He is bidden, and the other may do what
he likes. It is that the friend enters into the very nature of the
command,--that it is a command which is addressed to his will, and
which moulds his will to its own likeness.