individuals. This parable-miracle solemnly speaks to all who have only a
name to live--the foliage of outward profession--but who are destitute
of the "fruits of righteousness." It is not neglecters or despisers--the
careless--the infidel--the scorner--our Lord here addresses. He deals
with such elsewhere. It is rather vaunting hypocrites--wearing the garb
of religion--the trappings and dress of outward devotion to conceal
their inward pollution; like the ivy, screening from view by garlands of
fantastic beauty--wreaths of loveliest green--the mouldering trunk or
loathsome ruin! We may well believe none are more obnoxious to a holy
Saviour than _such_. He (Incarnate TRUTH) would rather have the naked
stem than the counterfeit blossom. He would rather have no gold than be
mocked with tinsel and base alloy! "I _would_," says He, speaking to one
of His Churches at a later time, "I would thou wert cold or hot." He
would rather a man openly avowed his enmity than that he should come in
disguise, with a traitor-heart, among the ranks of His people. Oh that
all such ungodly boasters and pretenders would bear in mind, that not
only do they inflict harm on themselves, but they do infinite damage to
the Church of God. They lower the standard of godliness. Like that
worthless Fig-tree, they help to hide out from others the glorious
sunlight. They intercept from others the refreshing dews of heaven. They
absorb in their leaves the rains as they fall. Many a tuft of tiny moss,
many a lowly plant at their feet, is pining and withering, which, _but_
for _them_, would be bathing its tints in sunshine, and filling the air
with balmy fragrance!
Solemn, then, ought to be the question with every one of us--every
Fig-tree in the Lord's plantation--How does it stand with _me_? am I
_now_ bringing forth fruit to God? for remember what we are NOW, will
fix what we _shall_ be when our Lord shall come on the Great Day of
Scrutiny! We are forming _now_ for Eternity; settling down and
consolidating in the great mould which ultimately will determine our
everlasting state; fruitless _now_, we shall be fruitless _then_. The
_principle_ in the future retribution is thus laid down--"He that is
unjust, let him be unjust still; and he which is filthy, let him be
filthy still." The demand and scrutiny of Jesus will on that day be, not
what is the number of your leaves, the height of your stem, the extent
of your branches? not whether you have grown on the wayside or in the
forest, been nurtured in solitude or in a crowd, on the mountain-height
or in the lowly valley: all will resolve itself into the _one
question_--Where is your _fruit_? What evidence is there that you have
profited by My admonitions, listened to My voice, and accepted My
salvation? Where are your proofs of love to Myself, delight in My
service, obedience to My will? Where are the sins you have crucified,
the sacrifices you have made, the new principles you have nurtured, the
amiability and love and kindness and generosity and unselfishness which
have supplanted and superseded baser affections? See that the leaves of
outward profession be not a snare to you. You may be lulling yourselves
to sleep with delusive opiates. You may be making these false coverings
an apology for resisting the "putting on of the armour of light." One
has no difficulty in persuading the tenant of a wretched hovel to
consent to have his mud-hut taken down; but the man who has the walls of
his dwelling hung with gaudy drapery, it is hard to persuade him that
his house is worthless and his foundation insecure. Think not that
privileges or creeds, or church-sect or church-membership, or the
Shibboleth of party will save you. It is to the _heart_ that God looks.
If the inner spirit be right, the outer conduct will be fruitful in
righteousness. Make it not your worthless ambition to APPEAR to be holy,
but _be_ holy! Live not a "dying life"--that blank existence which
brings neither glory to God nor good to men. Seek that _while_ you live,
the world may be the better for you, and when you die the world may miss
you. Unlike the pretentious tree in our parable-text, be it yours rather
to have the nobler character and recompense, so beautifully delineated
under a similar figure three thousand years ago--"He shall be like a
tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in
his season. His leaf, also, shall not wither, and whatsoever he doeth
shall prosper."[34]
Let us further learn, from this solemn and impressive miracle, how true
Christ is to His word. We think of Him as true to His _promises_, do we
think of Him, also, as _true to His threatenings_? Judgment, indeed, is
His strange work. Amid a multitude of other prodigies already performed
by Him, this "cursing" of the fig-tree formed the alone exception to His
miracles of _mercy_.[35] All the others were proofs and illustrations of
beneficence, compassion, love. But He seems to interpose _this_ ONE, in
case we should forget, in the affluence of benignity and kindness, that
the same God, whose name and memorial is "merciful and gracious," has
solemnly added that "He can by no means clear the guilty." He would have
us to remember that there is a point beyond which even _His_ love cannot
go, when the voice of ineffable _Goodness_ must melt and merge into
tones of stern wrath and vengeance. The guilty may, for the brief
earthly hour of their impenitence, affect to despise His divine
warnings, laugh to scorn His solemn expostulations. Sentence may not be
executed speedily; amazing patience may ward off the descending blow.
They may, from the very _forbearance_ of Jesus, take impious
encouragement to defy His threats, and rush swifter to their own
destruction. But come He _will_ and _must_ to assert His claims as "He
that is HOLY, He that is TRUE." The disciples, on the present occasion,
heard the voice of their Master. They gazed on the doomed Fig-tree, but
there seemed at the moment to be no visible change on its leaves. As
they took their final glance ere passing on their way, no blight seemed
to descend, no worm to prey on its roots. The fowls of Heaven may have
appeared soaring in the sky, eager to nestle as before on its branches,
and to bathe their plumage on the dew-drops that drenched its foliage.
But was the word of Jesus in vain? Did that fig-tree take up a
responsive parable, and say, "Who made Thee a ruler and a judge over
me?"
The Lord and His apostles passed the place a few hours afterwards on
their return to Bethany.[36] But though the Passover moon was shining on
their path, the darkness, and perhaps the distance from the highway,
veiled from their view the too truthful doom to be revealed in morning
light. As the dawn of day (Tuesday) finds them once more on their road
to Jerusalem, the eyes of the disciples wander towards the spot to see
whether the words of yesterday have proved to be indeed solemn verities.
One glance is enough! _There_ it stands in impressive memorial. One
night had done the work. No desert simoom, if it had passed over it,
could have effected it more thoroughly. Its leaves were shrivelled, its
sap dried, its glory gone. Ever and anon afterwards, as the disciples
crossed the mountain, and as they gazed on this silent "preacher," they
would be reminded that Jehovah-Jesus, their loving Master, was not "a
man that He should lie, nor the son of man that he should repent."
Ah! Reader, learn from all this, that the wrathful utterances of the
Saviour are no idle threats. He _means_ what He _says_! He is "the
Faithful and True witness;" and though "mercy and truth go continually
before His face," "justice and judgment are the habitation of His
throne." You may be scorning His message--lulling yourself into a dream
of guilty indifference. You may see in His daily dealings no sign or
symbol of coming retribution; you may be echoing the old challenge of
the presumptuous scoffer--"Where is the promise of His coming?" The fig
leaves may have lost none of their verdure--the sky may be unfretted by
one vengeful cloud--nature, around you, may be hushed and still. You can
hear no footsteps of wrath; you may be even tempted at times to think
that all is a dream--that credulity has suffered itself to be duped by a
counterfeit tale of superstitious terror! Or if, in better moments, you
awake to a consciousness of the Bible averments being stern realities,
your next subterfuge is to trust to that rope of sand to which thousands
have clung, to the wreck of their eternities--an indefinite dreamy hope
in the final _mercy_ of God! that on the Great Day the threatenings of
Jesus will undergo some modification; that He will not carry out to the
very letter the full weight of His denunciations; that the arm which
love nailed to the cross of Calvary will sheathe the sword of avenging
retribution, and proclaim a universal amnesty to the thronging myriads
at His tribunal!
"Nay! O man, who art thou that repliest against God?" Come to the
fig-tree "over against" Bethany, and let it be a dumb attesting witness
to the Saviour's unswerving and immutable truthfulness! Or, passing from
the sign to the thing symbolised, behold that nation which God has for
eighteen centuries set up in the world as a monument of His undeviating
adherence to His Word. See how, in their case, to the letter He has
fulfilled His threatenings. Is not this fulfillment intended as an awful
foreshadowing of eternal verities: if He has "spared not the natural
branches," thinkest thou He will spare _thee_? "If these things were
done in the green tree, what will be done in the dry?"
Mourners! You for whose comfort these pages are specially designed, is
there no lesson of consolation to be drawn from this solemn "memory?"
Jesus smote down that _fig-tree_--blasted and blighted it. Never again
did He come to seek fruit on it. Ten thousand other buds in the
Fig-forest around were opening their fragrant lips to drink in the
refreshing dews of spring; but the curse of perpetual sterility rested
on this!
He has smitten _you_ also, but it is only to _heal_! He has bared your
branches--stripped you of your verdure--broken "your staff and your
beautiful rod;" but the pruning hook has been used to promote the Vigour
of the tree; to lop off the redundant branches, and open the stems to
the gladsome sunlight. Murmur not! Remember, _but for_ these loppings of
affliction you might have effloresced into the rank luxuriant growth of
mere external profession. You might have rested satisfied with the
outward display of _Religiousness_, without the fruits of true
_Religion_. You might have lived and died unproductive _cumberers_,
deceiving others and deceiving yourselves. But He would not suffer you
to linger in this state of worthless barrenness. Oh! better far, surely,
these severest cuttings and incisions of the pruning knife, than to
listen to the stern words--"Ephraim is joined to his idols, let him
alone!" It is the most terrible of all judgments when God leaves a
sinner undisturbed in his sinfulness--abandons him to "the fruit of his
own ways, and to be filled with his own devices;" until, like a tree
impervious to moistening dews and fructifying heat, he dwarfs and
dwindles into the last hopeless stage of spiritual decay and death!
"If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what
son is he whom the Father chasteneth not?"
"He purgeth it (_pruneth it_), that it may bring forth MORE FRUIT."
XX.
CLOSING HOURS.
The evenings of the two succeeding days seem to have closed around our
adorable Lord at BETHANY. We may still follow Him in imagination, in the
mellow twilight, as He and His disciples crossed the bridle-path of the
holy mountain from Jerusalem to the house and village of His friend.
Much has changed since then; but the great features of unvarying nature
retain their imperishable outlines, so that what still arrests the view
of the modern traveller, in crossing the Mount of Olives, we know must
have formed the identical landscape spread out before the eyes of the
Incarnate Redeemer. It is more than allowable, therefore, to appropriate
the words of the same trustworthy recent spectator, from whose pages we
have already quoted, as presenting a truthful and veritable picture of
what the Saviour _then_ saw.
From almost every point in the journey, there would be visible "the
long purple wall of the Moab mountains, rising out of its unfathomable
depths; these mountains would then have almost the effect of a distant
view of the sea, the hues constantly changing; this or that precipitous
rock coming out clear in the evening shade--_there_ the form of what may
possibly be Pisgah, dimly shadowed out by surrounding valleys--_here_
the point of Kerak, the capital of Moab, and future fortress of the
Crusaders--and then, at times all wrapt in deep haze, the mountains
overhanging the valley of the shadow of death, all the more striking
from their contrast with the gray or green colours of the hills through
which a glimpse was caught of them."[37]
* * * * *
We have no recorded incidents in connexion with these two nights at
Bethany. We are left only to realise in thought the refreshment alike
for body and spirit our Lord enjoyed. Exhausted with the fatigues of
each day, and the advancing storm-cloud ready to burst on His devoted
head, we may well imagine how grateful repose would be in the old
homestead of congenial friendship.
The last evening He spent at the "Palm-clad Village" must in many ways
have been full of sorrowing thoughts. He had, in the afternoon, on His
return from Jerusalem, when seated with his disciples "over against the
Temple," gazing on its doomed magnificence, been discoursing on the
appalling desolation which awaited that loved and time-honoured
sanctuary. This had led Him to the more sublime and terrific theme of a
Day of Judgment. Not only did He foresee the grievous obduracy of His
own infatuated countrymen, but His Omniscient eye, travelling down to
the consummation of all things, wept over the fate of myriads, who, in
spite of atoning love and mercy, were to despise and perish.
He left the threshold, consecrated so oft by His Pilgrim steps, on the
Thursday of that week, not to return again till death had numbered Him
among its victims. On that same morning He had sent His disciples into
the city to make preparation for the keeping of the Passover Supper. He
Himself followed, probably towards the afternoon, and joined them in
"the Upper room," where, after celebrating for the last time the old
Jewish rite, he instituted the New Testament memorial of His own dying
love. Supper being ended, the disciples, probably, contemplated nothing
but a return, as on preceding evenings, by their old route to Bethany.
Singing their paschal hymn, they descended the Jehoshaphat ravine, by
the side of the Temple. The brook Kedron was crossed, and they are once
more on the Bethany path. They have reached Gethsemane; their Master
retires into the depths of the olive grove, as was often His wont, to
hold secret communion with His Father. But the crisis-hour has at last
arrived! The Shepherd is about to be smitten, and the sheep to be
scattered! Rude hands arrest Him on His way. In vain shall Lazarus and
his sisters wait for their expected Lord! For _Him_ that night there is
no voice of earthly comforter--no couch of needed rest;--when the
shadows of darkness have gathered around Bethany, and the pale passover
moon is lighting up its palm-trees, the Lord of glory is standing
buffetted and insulted in the hall of Annas.
The Remembrances of Bethany are here absorbed and overshadowed for a
time by the darker memories of Gethsemane and Calvary. Jesus may,
indeed, afterwards revisit the loved haunt of former friendship; but
meanwhile He is first to accomplish that glorious Decease, _but for
which_ the world could never have had on its surface one Bethany-home of
love, or been cheered by one ray of happiness or hope.
In vain do we try to picture, as we revert to the peaceful Village, the
feelings of Lazarus, Martha, and Mary on that day of ignominious
crucifixion! _where_ they were--_how_ they were employed! Can we imagine
that they could linger behind, unconcerned, in their dwelling, when
their Best Friend was in the hands of His murderers? We cannot think so.
We may rather well believe that among the tearful eyes of the weeping
women that followed the innocent Victim along the "Dolorous way," not
the least anguished were the two Bethany mourners; and that as He hung
upon the cross, and His languid eye saw here and there a faithful friend
lingering around him while disciples had fled, Lazarus would be among
the few who soothed and smoothed that awful death-pillow! Perhaps even
when death had sealed His eyes, and faithless apostles gave vent to
their feelings of hopeless despondency, "We trusted it had been He who
should have redeemed Israel," the family of Bethany would recollect how
oft He had spoken of this very hour of darkness and bereavement which
had now come; Mary would, in trembling emotion, (in connexion with the
humble token of her own gratitude and affection,) remember the words of
the Lord Jesus, how He said, "Let her alone, against the day of my
_burying_ hath she done this."
We need not pursue these thoughts. We may well believe, however, that
when the first day of the week had come--and the glad announcement
spread from disciple to disciple, "_The Lord is risen indeed_,"--on no
home in Judea would the tidings fall more welcome than on that of
Lazarus of Bethany. Martha and Mary had, a few weeks before, experienced
the happiness of a restored _Brother_. Now it was that of a restored
_Saviour_! Whether He revisited these, His former friends, the days
immediately after His resurrection, we cannot tell. It is more than
probable He would. May not some hallowed _unrecorded_ "Memories of
Bethany" be included in the closing words of John's gospel--"There are
also many OTHER things which Jesus did?" On the way to Emmaus He joined
Himself to two disciples, and "caused their hearts to burn within them
as He talked by the way." So may He not have joined Himself to the
friends with whom He had so oft held sacred intercourse during the days
of His humiliation--breathing on them His benediction, and discoursing
of those covenant blessings which He had died to purchase, and which He
was about to bestow, "set as king on His holy hill of Zion." With what a
new and glorious meaning to Martha must her Saviour's words have now
been invested, "_I am the Resurrection and the Life_--he that believeth
on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
As the God-man, He had power over her brother's life--He had now
demonstrated that He had "power over His own;"--"power" not only to "lay
it down," but "power to take it up again." Her Lord had "spoken _once_,
yea _twice_ had she heard this, that _power_ belongeth unto God."
The Grave of Bethany was thus in her eyes inseparably connected with the
grave at Golgotha. But for the rolling away of the stone from a more
august sepulchre, her brother must still have been slumbering in the
embrace of death. "But now had Christ risen from the dead, and become
the first-fruits of them that slept."
The Almighty Reaper had risen Himself from the tomb, with the sharp
sickle in His hand. In the person of His dearest earthly friend He
presented an earnest-sheaf of the great Resurrection-reaping-time--when
the mandate was to be carried to the four winds of heaven, "Put ye in
the sickle, for the harvest is ripe;--Multitudes--multitudes in the
Valley of Decision."
Can we participate in the joy of the family of BETHANY? Have we, like
them, followed Christ to His cross and His tomb, and listened to the
angelic announcement, "He is not here, He is risen?" Have we seen in His
death the secret of our life? Have we beheld Him as the Great Precursor
emerging from Hades, and shewing to ransomed millions the purchased path
of life--the luminous highway to glory? Let our hearts be as Bethany
dwellings, to welcome in a dying risen Jesus. Let us not expel Him from
our souls by our sins--crucifying the Lord afresh, and putting Him to
an open shame. Let not God's restoring mercies be, as, alas! often they
are to us, _unsanctified_;--receiving back our Lazarus from the brink of
the tomb, but refusing, on the return of health and prosperity, to share
in bearing our Lord's cross--to "go forth with Him without the
camp--bearing His reproach." If He has delivered our souls from death,
and our eyes from tears, be it ours to follow Him through good and
through bad report. Not alone amid the hosannahs of His people, or amid
the world's bright sunshine, but, if need be, to confront suffering, and
trial, and death for His sake. Like the Bethany family, let us mourn His
absence, and long for His return. It is but for "a little while" we
"shall _not_ see Him"--"again a little while and we _shall_ see Him."
Oh, blessed day! when the words of the old prophet will start once more
into fulfilment, and a voice from Heaven will thus address a waiting
Church--"Rejoice, O daughter of Zion, behold thy King cometh!" He
cometh!--but it is now with no badges of humiliation--with no
anticipations of sorrow and woe to mar that hour of glory. "His head
shall be crowned with many crowns"--all His saints with Him to share
His triumph and enter into His joy. May we be enabled to look forward to
that blessed season when, arrayed in white robes, with golden crowns on
our heads, and palms of victory in our hands, these shall be cast at His
feet, and the feeble Hosannahs of time shall be lost and merged in the
rapturous Hallelujahs of eternity!
XXI.
THE LAST VISIT.
What saddening thoughts are associated with our final interview with a
Beloved Friend! He was in health when we last met; we little dreamt, in
parting, we were to meet no more. Every circumstance of that interview
is stored up in the most hallowed chambers of the soul. His last
words--his last _look_--his last smile--they live there in undying
memorial! Such was now the case with the disciples. They had their last
walk together with their beloved Master. Ere another sun goes down over
the western hills of Jerusalem He will have returned from His
consummated Work to the bosom of His Father!
And what is the spot which he selects as the place of Ascension?--What
the favoured height or valley that is to listen to His farewell words?
Still it is BETHANY--the loved home of cherished friendship, where, so
lately, hours of anticipated anguish had been mitigated and soothed. The
spot which, above all others, had been witness to His tears and His
Omnipotence, is selected as that _from_ which, or _near_ to which, He is
to bid adieu to his sorrowing Church on earth. Although there seem to be
no special reasons for this selection, we cannot think it was altogether
undesigned or insignificant. Our Lord was still MAN--participating in
every tender feeling of our common nature; and just as many are known in
life to express a partiality for the place of their departure, where
they would desire their last hours to be spent, or for the sepulchre or
churchyard where they would prefer their ashes to be laid;--so may we
not imagine the Saviour, reverting in these, His last hours, to the
hallowed memories of that hallowed village, wishful that He might ascend
to heaven within view, at least, of the spot He loved so well?