ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING.
During all this time Connie made no very perceptible progress--in the
recovery of her bodily powers, I mean, for her heart and mind advanced
remarkably. We held our Sunday-evening assemblies in her room pretty
regularly, my occasional absence in the exercise of my duties alone
interfering with them. In connection with one of these, I will show how
I came at length to make up my mind as to what I would endeavour to
keep before me as my object in the training of little Theodora, always
remembering that my preparation might be used for a very different end
from what I purposed. If my intention was right, the fact that it might
be turned aside would not trouble me.
We had spoken a good deal together about the infancy and childhood of
Jesus, about the shepherds, and the wise men, and the star in the east,
and the children of Bethlehem. I encouraged the thoughts of all the
children to rest and brood upon the fragments that are given us, and,
believing that the imagination is one of the most powerful of all the
faculties for aiding the growth of truth in the mind, I would ask them
questions as to what they thought he might have said or done in
ordinary family occurrences, thus giving a reality in their minds to
this part of his history, and trying to rouse in them a habit of
referring their conduct to the standard of his. If we do not thus
employ our imagination on sacred things, his example can be of no use
to us except in exactly corresponding circumstances--and when can such
occur from one end to another of our lives? The very effort to think
how he would have done, is a wonderful purifier of the conscience, and,
even if the conclusion arrived at should not be correct from lack of
sufficient knowledge of his character and principles, it will be better
than any that can be arrived at without this inquiry. Besides, the
asking of such questions gave me good opportunity, through the answers
they returned, of seeing what their notions of Jesus and of duty were,
and thus of discovering how to help the dawn of the light in their
growing minds. Nor let anyone fear that such employment of the divine
gift of imagination will lead to foolish vagaries and useless
inventions; while the object is to discover the right way--the
truth--there is little danger of that. Besides, there I was to help
hereby in the actual training of their imaginations to truth and
wisdom. To aid in this, I told them some of the stories that were
circulated about him in the early centuries of the church, but which
the church has rejected as of no authority; and I showed them how some
of them could not be true, because they were so unlike those words and
actions which we had the best of reasons for receiving as true; and how
one or two of them might be true--though, considering the company in
which we found them, we could say nothing for certain concerning them.
And such wise things as those children said sometimes! It is marvellous
how children can reach the heart of the truth at once. Their utterances
are sometimes entirely concordant with the results arrived at through
years of thought by the earnest mind--results which no mind would ever
arrive at save by virtue of the child-like in it.
Well, then, upon this evening I read to them the story of the boy Jesus
in the temple. Then I sought to make the story more real to them by
dwelling a little on the growing fears of his parents as they went from
group to group of their friends, tracing back the road towards
Jerusalem and asking every fresh company they knew if they had seen
their boy, till at length they were in great trouble when they could
not find him even in Jerusalem. Then came the delight of his mother
when she did find him at last, and his answer to what she said. Now,
while I thus lingered over the simple story, my children had put many
questions to me about Jesus being a boy, and not seeming to know things
which, if he was God, he must have known, they thought. To some of
these I had just to reply that I did not understand myself, and
therefore could not teach them; to others, that I could explain them,
but that they were not yet, some of them, old enough to receive and
understand my explanation; while others I did my best to answer as
simply as I could. But at this point we arrived at a question put by
Wynnie, to answer which aright I considered of the greatest importance.
Wynnie said:
"That is just one of the things about Jesus that have always troubled
me, papa."
"What is, my dear?" I said; for although I thought I knew well enough
what she meant, I wished her to set it forth in her own words, both for
her own sake, and the sake of the others, who would probably understand
the difficulty much better if she presented it herself.
"I mean that he spoke to his mother--"
"Why don't you say _mamma_, Wynnie?" said Charlie. "She was his own
mamma, wasn't she, papa?"
"Yes, my dear; but don't you know that the shoemaker's children down in
the village always call their mamma _mother_?"
"Yes; but they are shoemaker's children."
"Well, Jesus was one of that class of people. He was the son of a
carpenter. He called his mamma, _mother_. But, Charlie, _mother_ is the
more beautiful word of the two, by a great deal, I think. _Lady_ is a
very pretty word; but _woman_ is a very beautiful word. Just so with
_mamma_ and _mother_. _Mamma_ is pretty, but _mother_ is beautiful."
"Why don't we always say _mother_ then?"
"Just because it is the most beautiful, and so we keep it for
Sundays--that is, for the more solemn times of life. We don't want it
to get common to us with too much use. We may think it as much as we
like; thinking does not spoil it; but saying spoils many things, and
especially beautiful words. Now we must let Wynnie finish what she was
saying."
"I was saying, papa, that I can't help feeling as if--I know it can't
be true--but I feel as if Jesus spoke unkindly to his mother when he
said that to her."
I looked at the page and read the words, "How is it that ye sought me?
wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" And I sat
silent for a while.
"Why don't you speak, papa?" said Harry.
"I am sitting wondering at myself, Harry," I said. "Long after I was
your age, Wynnie, I remember quite well that those words troubled me as
they now trouble you. But when I read them over now, they seemed to me
so lovely that I could hardly read them aloud. I can recall the fact
that they troubled me, but the mode of the fact I scarcely can recall.
I can hardly see now wherein lay the hurt or offence the words gave me.
And why is that? Simply because I understand them now, and I did not
understand them then. I took them as uttered with a tone of reproof;
now I hear them as uttered with a tone of loving surprise. But really I
cannot feel sure what it was that I did not like. And I am confident it
is so with a great many things that we reject. We reject them simply
because we do not understand them. Therefore, indeed, we cannot with
truth be said to reject them at all. It is some false appearance that
we reject. Some of the grandest things in the whole realm of truth look
repellent to us, and we turn away from them, simply because we are
not--to use a familiar phrase--we are not up to them. They appear to
us, therefore, to be what they are not. Instruction sounds to the proud
man like reproof; illumination comes on the vain man like scorn; the
manifestation of a higher condition of motive and action than his own,
falls on the self-esteeming like condemnation; but it is consciousness
and conscience working together that produce this impression; the
result is from the man himself, not from the higher source. From the
truth comes the power, but the shape it assumes to the man is from the
man himself."
"You are quite beyond me now, papa," said Wynnie.
"Well, my dear," I answered, "I will return to the words of the boy
Jesus, instead of talking more about them; and when I have shown you
what they mean, I think you will allow that that feeling you have about
them is all and altogether an illusion."
"There is one thing first," said Connie, "that I want to understand.
You said the words of Jesus rather indicated surprise. But how could he
be surprised at anything? If he was God, he must have known everything."
"He tells us himself that he did not know everything. He says once that
even _he_ did not know one thing--only the Father knew it."
"But how could that be if he was God?"
"My dear, that is one of the things that it seems to me impossible I
should understand. Certainly I think his trial as a man would not have
been perfect had he known everything. He too had to live by faith in
the Father. And remember that for the Divine Sonship on earth perfect
knowledge was not necessary, only perfect confidence, absolute
obedience, utter holiness. There is a great tendency in our sinful
natures to put knowledge and power on a level with goodness. It was one
of the lessons of our Lord's life that they are not so; that the one
grand thing in humanity is faith in God; that the highest in God is his
truth, his goodness, his rightness. But if Jesus was a real man, and no
mere appearance of a man, is it any wonder that, with a heart full to
the brim of the love of God, he should be for a moment surprised that
his mother, whom he loved so dearly, the best human being he knew,
should not have taken it as a matter of course that if he was not with
her, he must be doing something his Father wanted him to do? For this
is just what his answer means. To turn it into the ordinary speech of
our day, it is just this: 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know
that I must of course be doing something my Father had given me to do?'
Just think of the quiet sweetness of confidence in this. And think what
a life his must have been up to that twelfth year of his, that such an
expostulation with his mother was justified. It must have had reference
to a good many things that had passed before then, which ought to have
been sufficient to make Mary conclude that her missing boy must be
about God's business somewhere. If her heart had been as full of God
and God's business as his, she would not have been in the least uneasy
about him. And here is the lesson of his whole life: it was all his
Father's business. The boy's mind and hands were full of it. The man's
mind and hands were full of it. And the risen conqueror was full of it
still. For the Father's business is everything, and includes all work
that is worth doing. We may say in a full grand sense, that there is
nothing but the Father and his business."
"But we have so many things to do that are not his business," said
Wynnie, with a sigh of oppression.
"Not one, my darling. If anything is not his business, you not only
have not to do it, but you ought not to do it. Your words come from the
want of spiritual sight. We cannot see the truth in common things--the
will of God in little everyday affairs, and that is how they become so
irksome to us. Show a beautiful picture, one full of quiet imagination
and deep thought, to a common-minded man; he will pass it by with some
slight remark, thinking it very ordinary and commonplace. That is
because he is commonplace. Because our minds are so commonplace, have
so little of the divine imagination in them, therefore we do not
recognise the spiritual meaning and worth, we do not perceive the
beautiful will of God, in the things required of us, though they are
full of it. But if we do them we shall thus make acquaintance with
them, and come to see what is in them. The roughest kernel amongst them
has a tree of life in its heart."
"I wish he would tell me something to do," said Charlie. "Wouldn't I do
it!"
I made no reply, but waited for an opportunity which I was pretty sure
was at hand, while I carried the matter a little further.
"But look here, Wynnie; listen to this," I said, "'And he went down
with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.' Was that
not doing his Father's business too? Was it not doing the business of
his Father in heaven to honour his father and his mother, though he
knew that his days would not be long in that land? Did not his whole
teaching, his whole doing, rest on the relation of the Son to the
Father and surely it was doing his Father's business then to obey his
parents--to serve them, to be subject to them. It is true that the
business God gives a man to do may be said to be the peculiar walk in
life into which he is led, but that is only as distinguishing it from
another man's peculiar business. God gives us all our business, and the
business which is common to humanity is more peculiarly God's business
than that which is one man's and not another's--because it lies nearer
the root, and is essential. It does not matter whether a man is a
farmer or a physician, but it greatly matters whether he is a good son,
a good husband, and so on. O my children!" I said, "if the world could
but be brought to believe--the world did I say?--if the best men in the
world could only see, as God sees it, that service is in itself the
noblest exercise of human powers, if they could see that God is the
hardest worker of all, and that his nobility are those who do the most
service, surely it would alter the whole aspect of the church. Menial
offices, for instance, would soon cease to be talked of with that
contempt which shows that there is no true recognition of the fact that
the same principle runs through the highest duty and the lowest--that
the lowest work which God gives a man to do must be in its nature
noble, as certainly noble as the highest. This would destroy
condescension, which is the rudeness, yes, impertinence, of the higher,
as it would destroy insolence, which is the rudeness of the lower. He
who recognised the dignity of his own lower office, would thereby
recognise the superiority of the higher office, and would be the last
either to envy or degrade it. He would see in it his own--only higher,
only better, and revere it. But I am afraid I have wearied you, my
children."
"O, no, papa!" said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and
said nothing.
"I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this
subject: it has such a hold of my heart and mind!--Now, Charlie, my
boy, go to bed."
But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did
not want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the
corners of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did
not move to go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the
black frost still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to
him. When he was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting
out of temper, and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to
behold; and to cure him of this, I used to make him carry a little
mirror about his neck, that the means might be always at hand of
showing himself to him: it was a sort of artificial conscience which,
by enabling him to see the picture of his own condition, which the face
always is, was not unfrequently operative in rousing his real
conscience, and making him ashamed of himself. But now the mirror I
wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in the light of which the
present would show what it was.
"Charlie," I said, "a little while ago you were wishing that God would
give you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once,
without even thinking about it."
"How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?" said Charlie, with
something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at
once because there was some sense along with the impudence.
"I know that God wants you to do what I tell you, and to do it
pleasantly. Do you think the boy Jesus would have put on such a face as
that--I wish I had the little mirror to show it to you--when his mother
told him it was time to go to bed?"
And now Charlie began to look ashamed. I left the truth to work in him,
because I saw it was working. Had I not seen that, I should have
compelled him to go at once, that he might learn the majesty of law.
But now that his own better self, the self enlightened of the light
that lighteneth every man that cometh into the world, was working, time
might well be afforded it to work its perfect work. I went on talking
to the others. In the space of not more than one minute, he rose and
came to me, looking both good and ashamed, and held up his face to kiss
me, saying, "Goodnight, papa." I bade him good-night, and kissed him
more tenderly than usual, that he might know that it was all right
between us. I required no formal apology, no begging of my pardon, as
some parents think right. It seemed enough to me that his heart was
turned. It is a terrible thing to run the risk of changing humility
into humiliation. Humiliation is one of the proudest conditions in the
human world. When he felt that it would be a relief to say more
explicitly, "Father, I have sinned," then let him say it; but not till
then. To compel manifestation is one surest way to check feeling.
My readers must not judge it silly to record a boy's unwillingness to
go to bed. It is precisely the same kind of disobedience that some of
them are guilty of themselves, and that in things not one whit more
important than this, only those things happen to be _their_ wish at the
moment, and not Charlie's, and so gain their superiority.