_THE KINGDOM OF GOD._
In considering the words of Jesus, if we may not be able to measure
their depth or to scale their height, we can with absolute certainty
discover their drift, and see in what direction they move, and we shall
find that their orbit is an ellipse. Moving around the two centres, sin
and salvation, they describe what is not a geometric figure, but a
glorious reality, "the kingdom of God." It is not unlikely that the
expression was one of the current phrases of the times, a golden casket,
holding within it the dream of a restored Hebraism; for we find, without
any collusion or rehearsal of parts, the Baptist making use of the
identical words in his inaugural address, while it is certain the
disciples themselves so misunderstood the thought of their Master as to
refer His "kingdom" to that narrow realm of Hebrew sympathies and hopes.
Nor did they see their error until, in the light of Pentecostal flames,
their own dream disappeared, and the new kingdom, opening out like a
receding sky, embraced a world within its folds. That Jesus adopted the
phrase, liable to misconstruction as it was, and that He used it so
repeatedly, making it the centre of so many parables and discourses,
shows how completely the kingdom of God possessed both His mind and
heart. Indeed, so accustomed were His thoughts and words to flow in
this direction that even the valley of Death, "lying darkly between" His
two lives, could not alter their course, or turn His thoughts out of
their familiar channel; and as we find the Christ beyond the cross and
tomb, amid the resurrection glories, we hear Him speaking still of "the
things pertaining to the kingdom of God."
It will be observed that Jesus uses the two expressions "the kingdom of
God" and "the kingdom of heaven" interchangeably. But in what sense is
it the "kingdom of heaven"? Does it mean that the celestial realm will
so far extend its bounds as to embrace our outlying and low-lying world?
Not exactly, for the conditions of the two realms are so diverse. The
one is the perfected, the visible kingdom, where the throne is set, and
the King Himself is manifest, its citizens, angels, heavenly
intelligences, and saints now freed from the cumbering clay of
mortality, and for ever safe from the solicitations of evil. This New
Jerusalem does not come down to earth, except in the vision of the seer,
as it were in a shadow. And yet the two kingdoms are in close
correspondence, after all; for what is the kingdom of God in heaven but
His eternal rule over the spirits of the redeemed and of the unredeemed?
what are the harmonies of heaven but the harmonies of surrendered wills,
as, without any hesitation or discord, they strike in with the Divine
Will in absolute precision? To this extent, then, at least, heaven may
project itself upon earth; the spirits of men not yet made perfect may
be in subjection to the Supreme Spirit; the separate wills of a redeemed
humanity, striking in with the Divine Will, may swell the heavenly
harmonies with their earthly music.
And so Jesus speaks of this kingdom as being "within you." As if He
said, "You are looking in the wrong direction. You expect the kingdom of
God to be set up around you, with its visible symbols of flags and
coins, on which is the image of some new Cæsar. You are mistaken. The
kingdom, like its King, is unseen; it seeks, not countries, but
consciences; its realm is in the heart, in the great interior of the
soul." And is not this the reason why it is called, with such emphatic
repetition, "_the_ kingdom," as if it were, if not the only, at any rate
the highest kingdom of God on earth? We speak of a kingdom of Nature,
and who will know its secrets as He who was both Nature's child and
Nature's Lord? And how far-reaching a realm is that! from the motes that
swim in the air to the most distant stars, which themselves are but the
gateway to the unseen Beyond! What forces are here, forces of chemical
affinities and repulsions, of gravitation and of life! What successions
and transformations can Nature show! what infinite varieties of
substance, form, and colour! what a realm of harmony and peace, with no
irruptions of discordant elements! Surely one would think, if God has a
kingdom upon earth, this kingdom of Nature is it. But no; Jesus does not
often refer to that, except as He makes Nature speak in His parables, or
as He uses the sparrows, the grass, and the lilies as so many lenses
through which our weak human vision may see God. The kingdom of God on
earth is as much higher than the kingdom of Nature as spirit is above
matter, as love is more and greater than power.
We said just now how completely the thought of "the kingdom" possessed
the mind and heart of Jesus. We might go one step farther, and say how
completely Jesus identified Himself with that kingdom. He puts. Himself
in its pivotal centre, with all possible naturalness, and with an ease
that assumption cannot feign. He gathers up its royalties and draws them
around His own Person. He speaks of it as "My kingdom;" and this, not
alone in familiar discourse with His disciples, but when face to face
with the representative of earth's greatest power. Nor is the personal
pronoun some chance word, used in a far-off, accommodated sense; it is
the crucial word of the sentence, underscored and emphasized by a
threefold repetition; it is the word He will not strike out, nor recall,
even to save Himself from the cross. He never speaks of the kingdom but
even His enemies acknowledge the "authority" that rings in His tones,
the authority of conscious power, as well as of perfect knowledge. When
His ministry is drawing to a close He says to Peter, "I will give unto
thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven;" which language may be
understood as the official designation of the Apostle Peter to a
position of pre-eminence in the Church, as its first leader. But
whatever it may mean, it shows that the keys of the kingdom are His; He
can bestow them on whom He will. The kingdom of heaven is not a realm in
which authority and honours move upwards from below, the blossoming of
"the people's will;" it is an absolute monarchy, an autocracy, and Jesus
Himself is here King supreme, His will swaying the lesser wills of men,
and rearranging their positions, as the angel had foretold: "He shall
reign over the house of David for ever, and of His kingdom there shall
be no end." Given Him of the Father it is (xxii. 29; i. 32), but the
kingdom is His, not either as a metaphor, but really, absolutely,
inalienably; nor is there admittance within that kingdom but by Him who
is the Way, as He is the Life. We enter into the kingdom, or the kingdom
enters into us, as we find, and then crown the King, as we sanctify in
our hearts "Christ as Lord" (1 Pet. iii. 15).
This brings us to the question of citizenship, the conditions and
demands of the kingdom; and here we see how far this new dynasty is
removed from the kingdoms of this world. They deal with mankind in
groups; they look at birth, not character; and their bounds are well
defined by rivers, mountains, seas, or by accurately surveyed lines. The
kingdom of heaven, on the other hand, dispenses with all space-limits,
all physical configurations, and regards mankind as one group, a unity,
a lapsed but a redeemed world. But while opening its gates and offering
its privileges to all alike, irrespective of class or circumstance, it
is most eclective in its requirements, and most rigid in the application
of its test, its one test of character. Indeed, the laws of the heavenly
kingdom are a complete reversal of the lines of worldly policy. Take,
for instance, the two estimates of wealth, and see how different the
position it occupies in the two societies. The world makes wealth its
_summum bonum_; or if not exactly in itself the highest good, in
commercial values it is equivalent to the highest good, which is
position. Gold is all-powerful, the goal of man's vain ambitions, the
panacea of earthly ill. Men chase it in hot, feverish haste, trampling
upon each other in the mad scramble, and worshipping it in a blind
idolatry. But where is wealth in the new kingdom? The worlds first
becomes the last. It has no purchasing-power here; its golden key cannot
open the least of these heavenly gates. Jesus sets it back, far back, in
His estimate of the good. He speaks of it as if it were an encumbrance,
a dead weight, that must be lifted, and that handicaps the heavenly
athlete. "How hardly," said Jesus, when the rich ruler turned away "very
sorrowful," "shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!"
(xviii. 24); and then, by way of illustration, He shows us the picture
of the camel passing through the so-called "needle's eye" of an Eastern
door. He does not say that such a thing is impossible, for the camel
could pass through the "needle's eye," but it must first kneel down and
be stripped of all its baggage, before it can pass the narrow door,
within the larger, but now closed gate. Wealth may have its uses, and
noble uses too, within the kingdom--for it is somewhat remarkable how
the faith of the two rich disciples shone out the brightest, when the
faith of the rest suffered a temporary eclipse from the passing
cross--but he who possesses it must be as if he possessed it not. He
must not regard it as his own, but as talents given him in trust by his
Lord, their image and superscription being that of the Invisible King.
Again, Jesus sets down vacillation, hesitancy, as a disqualification for
citizenship in His kingdom. At the close of His Galilean ministry our
Evangelist introduces us to a group of embryo disciples. The first of
the three says, "Lord, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goest" (ix.
57). Bold words they were, and doubtless well meant, but it was the
language of a passing impulse, rather than of a settled conviction; it
was the coruscation of a glowing, ardent temperament. He had not counted
the cost. The large word "whithersoever" might, indeed, easily be
spoken, but it held within it a Gethsemane and a Calvary, paths of
sorrow, shame, and death he was not prepared to face. And so Jesus
neither welcomed nor dismissed him, but opening out one part of his
"whithersoever," He gave it back to him in the words, "The foxes have
holes, and the birds of the heaven have nests; but the Son of man hath
not where to lay His head." The second responds to the "Follow Me" of
Christ with the request that he might be allowed first to go and bury
his father. It was a most natural request, but participation in these
funeral rites would entail a ceremonial uncleanness of seven days, by
which time Jesus would be far away. Besides, Jesus must teach him, and
the ages after him, that His claims were paramount; that when He
commands obedience must be instant and absolute, with no interventions,
no postponement. Jesus replies to him in that enigmatical way of His,
"Leave the dead to bury their own dead: but go thou and publish abroad
the kingdom of God;" indicating that this supreme crisis of his life is
virtually a passing from death to life, a "resurrection from earth to
things above." The last in this group of three volunteers his pledge, "I
will follow Thee, Lord; but first suffer me to bid farewell to them that
are at my house" (ix. 61); but to him Jesus replies, mournfully and
sorrowfully, "No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking
back, is fit for the kingdom of God" (ix. 62). Why does Jesus treat
these two candidates so differently? They both say, "I will follow
Thee," the one in word, the other by implication; they both request a
little time for what they regard a filial duty; why, then, be treated so
differently, the one thrust forward to a still higher service,
commissioned to preach the kingdom, and afterwards, if we may accept the
tradition that he was Philip the Evangelist, passing up into the
diaconate; the other, unwelcomed and uncommissioned, but disapproved as
"not fit for the kingdom"? Why there should be this wide divergence
between the two lives we cannot see, either from their manner or their
words. It must have been a difference in the moral attitude of the two
men, and which He who heard thoughts and read motives detected at once.
In the case of the former there was the fixed, determined resolve, which
the bier of a dead father might hold back a little, but which it could
not break or bend. But Jesus saw in the other a double-minded soul,
whose feet and heart moved in diverse, opposite ways, who gave, not his
whole, but a very partial, self to his work; and this halting, wavering
one He dismissed with the words of forecasted doom, "Not fit for the
kingdom of God."
It is a hard saying, with a seeming severity about it; but is it not a
truth universal and eternal? Are any kingdoms, either of knowledge or
power, won and held by the irresolute and wavering? Like the stricken
men of Sodom, they weary themselves to find the door of the kingdom; or
if they do see the Beautiful Gates of a better life, they sit with the
lame man, outside, or they linger on the steps, hearing the music
indeed, but hearing it from afar. It is a truth of both dispensations,
written in all the books; the Reubens who are "unstable as water" can
never excel; the elder born, in the accident of years, they may be, but
the birthright passes by them, to be inherited and enjoyed by others.
But if the gates of the kingdom are irrevocably closed against the
half-hearted, the self-indulgent, and the proud, there is a sesame to
which they open gladly. "Blessed are ye poor," so reads the first and
great Beatitude: "for yours is the kingdom of God" (vi. 20); and
beginning with this present realization, Jesus goes on to speak of the
strange contrasts and inversions the perfected kingdom will show, when
the weepers will laugh, the hungry be full, and those who are despised
and persecuted will rejoice in their exceeding great reward. But who are
the "poor" to whom the gates of the kingdom are open so soon and so
wide? At first sight it would appear as if we must give a literal
interpretation to the word, reading it in a worldly, temporal sense; but
this is not necessary. Jesus was now directly addressing His disciples
(vi. 20), though, doubtless, His words were intended to pass beyond
them, to those ever-enlarging circles of humanity who in the after-years
should press forward to hear Him. But evidently the disciples were in no
weeping mood to-day; they would be elated and joyful over the recent
miracles. Neither should we call them "poor," in the worldly sense of
that word, for most of them had been called from honourable positions in
society, while some had even "hired servants" to wait upon and assist
them. Indeed, it was not the wont of Jesus to recognize the class
distinctions Society was so fond of drawing and defining. He appraised
men, not by their means, but by the manhood which was in them; and when
He found a nobility of soul--whether in the higher or the lower walks of
life it made no difference--He stepped forward to recognize and to
salute it. We must therefore give to these words of Jesus, as to so many
others, the deeper meaning, making the "blessed" of this Beatitude, who
are now welcomed to the opened gate of the kingdom, the "poor in
spirit," as, indeed, St. Matthew writes it.
What this spirit-poverty is, Jesus Himself explains, in a brief but
wonderfully realistic parable. He draws for us the picture of two men at
their Temple devotions. The one, a Pharisee, stands erect, with head
uplifted, as if it were quite on a level with the heaven he was
addressing, and with supercilious pride he counts his beads of rounded
egotisms. He calls it a worship of God, when it is but a worship of
self. He inflates the great "I," and then plays upon it, making it
strike sharp and loud, like the _tom-tom_ of a heathen fetish. Such is
the man who fancies that he is rich toward God, that he has need of
nothing, not even of mercy, when all the time he is utterly blind and
miserably poor. The other is a publican, and so presumably rich. But how
different his posture! With heart broken and contrite, self with him is
a nothing, a zero; nay, in his lowly estimate it had become a minus
quantity, less than nothing, deserving only rebuke and chastisement.
Disclaiming any good, either inherent or acquired, he puts the deep need
and hunger of his soul into one broken cry, "God be merciful to me a
sinner (xviii. 13). Such are the two characters Jesus portrays as
standing by the gate of the kingdom, the one proud in spirit, the other
"poor in spirit;" the one throwing upon the heavens the shadow of his
magnified self, the other shrinking up into the pauper, the nothing that
he was. But Jesus tells us that he was "justified," accepted, rather
than the other. With nought he could call his own, save his deep need
and his great sin, he finds an opened gate and a welcome within the
kingdom; while the proud in spirit is sent empty away, or carrying back
only the tithed mint and anise, and all the vain oblations Heaven could
not accept.
"Blessed" indeed are such "poor;" for He giveth grace unto the lowly,
while the proud He knoweth afar off. The humble, the meek, these shall
inherit the earth, ay, and the heavens too, and they shall know how
true is the paradox, having nothing, yet possessing all things. The
fruit of the tree of life hangs low, and he must stoop who would gather
it. He who would enter God's kingdom must first become "as a little
child," knowing nothing as yet, but longing to know even the mysteries
of the kingdom, and having nothing but the plea of a great mercy and a
great need. And are they not "blessed" who are citizens of the
kingdom--with righteousness, peace, and joy all their own, a peace which
is perfect and Divine, and a joy which no man taketh from them? Are they
not blessed, thrice blessed, when the bright shadow of the Throne covers
all their earthly life, making its dark places light, and weaving
rainbows out of their very tears? He who through the strait gate of
repentance passes within the kingdom finds it "the kingdom of heaven"
indeed, his earthly years the beginnings of the heavenly life.
And now we touch a point Jesus ever loved to illustrate and emphasize,
the manner of the kingdom's growth, as with ever-widening frontiers it
sweeps outward in its conquest of a world. It was a beautiful dream of
Hebrew prophecy that in the latter days the kingdom of God, or the
kingdom of the Messiah, should overlap the bounds of human empires, and
ultimately cover the whole earth. Looking through her kaleidoscope of
ever-shifting but harmonious figures, Prophecy was never weary of
telling of the Golden Age she saw in the far future, when the shadows
would lift, and a new Dawn, breaking out of Jerusalem, would steal over
the world. Even the Gentiles should be drawn to its light, and kings to
the brightness of its rising; the seas should offer their abundance as
a willing tribute, and the isles should wait for and welcome its laws.
Taking up into itself the petty strifes and jealousies of men, the
discords of earth should cease; humanity should again become a unit,
restored and regenerate fellow-citizens of the new kingdom, the kingdom
which should have no end, no boundaries either of space or time.
Such was the dream of Prophecy, the kingdom Jesus sets Himself to found
and realize upon earth. But how? Disclaiming any rivalry with Pilate, or
with his imperial master, Jesus said, "My kingdom is not of this world,"
so lifting it altogether out of the mould in which earthly dynasties are
cast. "This world" uses force; its kingdoms are won and held by metallic
processes, tinctures of iron and steel. In the kingdom of God carnal
weapons are out of place; its only forces are truth and love, and he who
takes the sword to advance this cause wounds but himself, after the vain
manner of Baal's priests. "This world" counts heads or hands; the
kingdom of God numbers its citizens by hearts alone. "This world"
believes in pomp and show, in outward visibilities and symbols; the
kingdom of God cometh not "with observation;" its voices are gentle as a
zephyr, its footsteps noiseless as the coming of spring. If man had had
the ordering of the kingdom he would have summoned to his aid all kinds
of portents and surprises; he would have arranged processions of
imposing events; but Jesus likens the coming of the kingdom to a grain
of mustard-seed cast into a garden, or to a handful of leaven hid in
three _sata_ of meal. The two parables, with minor distinctions, are one
in their import, the leading thought common to both being the contrast
between its ultimate growth and the smallness and obscurity of its
beginnings. In both the recreative force is a hidden force, buried out
of sight, in the soil or in the meal. In both the force works outward
from its centre, the invisible becoming visible, the inner life assuming
an outer, external form. In both we see the touch of life upon death;
for left to itself, the soil never would be anything more than dead
earth, as the meal would be nothing more than dust, the broken ashes of
a life that was departed. In both there is extension by assimilation,
the leaven throwing itself out among the particles of kindred meal,
while the tree attracts to itself the kindred elements of the soil. In
both there is the mediation of the human hand; but as if to show that
the kingdom offers equal privilege to male and female, with like
possibilities of service, the one parable shows us the hand of a man,
the other the hand of a woman. In both there is a perfect work, a
consummation, the one parable showing us the whole mass leavened, the
other showing us the wide-spreading tree, with the birds nesting in its
branches.
Such, in outline, is the rise and progress of the kingdom of God in the
heart of the individual man, and in the world; for the human soul is the
protoplasm, the germ-cell, out of which this world-wide kingdom is
evolved. The mass is leavened only by the leavening of the separate
units. And how comes the kingdom of God within the soul and life of man?
Not with observation or supernatural portents, but silently as the
flashing forth of light. Thought, desire, purpose, prayer--these are the
wheels of the chariot in which the Lord comes to His temple, the King
into His kingdom. And when the kingdom of God is set up "within you" the
outer life shapes itself to the new purpose and aim, the writ and will
of the King running unhindered through every department, even to its
outmost frontier, while thoughts, feelings, desires, and all the golden
coinage of the heart bear, not, as before, the image of Self, but the
image and superscription of the Invisible King--the "Not I, but Christ."
And so the honour of the kingdom is in our keeping, as the growths of
the kingdom are in our hands. The Divine Cloud adjusts its pace to our
human steps, alas, often far too slow! Shall the leaven stop with us, as
we make religion a kind of sanctified selfishness, doing nothing but
gauging the emotions and singing its little doxologies? Do we forget
that the weak human hand carries the Ark of God, and pushes forward the
boundaries of the kingdom? Do we forget that hearts are only won by
hearts? The kingdom of God on earth is the kingdom of surrendered wills
and of consecrated lives. Shall we not, then, pray, "Thy kingdom come,"
and living "more nearly as we pray," seek a redeemed humanity as
subjects of our King? So will the Divine purpose become a realization,
and the "morning" which now is always "somewhere in the world" will be
everywhere, the promise and the dawn of a heavenly day, the eternal
Sabbath!