and his success was signal, astonishing even to himself. Successful it
was, because it appealed to all the deepest wants of the human heart.
It told of peace to those who had been agitated by tempestuous
passion. It promised forgetfulness of past transgression to those
whose consciences smarted with self-accusing recollections. It spoke
of refuge from the wrath to come to those who had felt it a fearful
expectation to fall into the hands of an angry God. And the result of
that message, conveyed by the symbol of baptism, was that the desert
swarmed with crowds who owned the attractive spell of the power of a
new life made possible. Warriors, paupers, profligates--some admiring
the nobleness of religious life, others needing it to fill up the
empty hollow of an unsatisfied heart; the penitent, the heart-broken,
the worldly, and the disappointed, all came. And with them there came
two other classes of men, whose approach roused the Baptist to
astonishment.
The formalist, not satisfied with his formality, and the infidel,
unable to rest on his infidelity--they came too--startled, for one
hour at least, to the real significance of life, and shaken out of
unreality. The Baptist's message wrung the confession from their
souls. "Yes, our system will not do. We are not happy after all; we
are miserable. Prophet, whose solitary life, far away there in the
desert, has been making to itself a home in the mysterious and the
invisible, what hast thou got to tell us from that awful other world?
What are we to do?"
These things belong to a period of John's life anterior to the text.
The prophet has been hitherto in a self-selected solitude, the free
wild desert, opening his heart to the strange sights and sounds
through which the grand voice of oriental nature speaks of God to the
soul, in a way that books cannot speak.
We have arrived at the third period of his history. We are now to
consider him as the tenant of a _compelled_ solitude, in the dungeon
of a capricious tyrant. Hitherto, by that rugged energy with which he
battled with the temptations of this world, he has been shedding a
glory round human life. We are now to look at him equally alone;
equally majestic, shedding by martyrdom, almost a brighter glory round
human death. He has hitherto been receiving the homage of almost
unequalled popularity. We are now to observe him reft of every
admirer, every soother, every friend. He has been hitherto overcoming
the temptations of existence by entire seclusion from them all. We are
now to ask how he will stem those seductions when he is brought into
the very midst of them, and the whole outward aspect of his life has
laid aside its distinctive and peculiar character; when he has ceased
to be the anchorite, and has become the idol of a court.
Much instruction, brethren, there ought to be in all this, if we only
knew rightly how to bring it out, or even to paint in anything like
intelligible colours the picture which our own minds have formed.
Instructive, because human life must ever be instructive. How a human
spirit contrived to get its life accomplished in this confused world:
what a man like us, and yet no common man, felt, did, suffered; how he
fought, and how he conquered; if we could only get a clear possession
and firm grasp of _that_, we should have got almost all that is worth
having in truth, with the technicalities stripped off, for what is the
use of truth except to teach man how to live? There is a vast value in
genuine biography. It is good to have real views of what Life is, and
what Christian Life may be. It is good to familiarize ourselves with
the history of those whom God has pronounced the salt of the earth. We
cannot help contracting good from such association.
And just one thing respecting this man whom we are to follow for some
time to-day. Let us not be afraid of seeming to rise into a mere
enthusiastic panegyric of a man. It is a rare man we have to deal
with, one of God's heroic ones, a true conqueror; one whose life and
motives it is hard to understand without feeling warmly and
enthusiastically about them. One of the very highest characters,
rightly understood, of all the Bible. Panegyric such as we can give,
what is it after he has been stamped by his Master's eulogy, "A
prophet? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet. Among them that
are born of women there hath not risen a greater than John the
Baptist." In the verse which is to serve us for our guidance on this
subject there are two branches which will afford us fruit of
contemplation. It is written, "Herod being _reproved_ by John for
Herodias."
Here is our first subject of thought. The truthfulness of Christian
character.
And then next, he "shut up John in prison."
Here is our second topic. The apparent failure of religious life.
The point which we have to look at in this section of the Baptist's
life is the truthfulness of religious character. For the prophet was
now in a sphere of life altogether new. He had got to the third act of
his history. The first was performed right manfully in the
desert--that is past. He has now become a known man, celebrated
through the country, brought into the world, great men listening to
him, and in the way, if he chooses it, to become familiar with the
polished life of Herod's court. For this we read: Herod observed John,
that is, cultivated his acquaintance, paid him marked attention, heard
him, did many things at his bidding, and heard him gladly.
For thirty long years John had lived in that far-off desert, filling
his soul with the grandeur of solitude, content to be unknown, not
conscious, most likely, that there was anything supernatural in
him--living with the mysterious God in silence. And then came the day
when the qualities, so secretly nursed, became known in the great
world: men felt that there was a greater than themselves before them,
and then came the trial of admiration, when the crowds congregated
round to listen. And all that trial John bore uninjured, for when
those vast crowds dispersed at night, he was left alone with God and
the universe once more. That prevented his being spoilt by flattery.
But now comes the great trial. John is transplanted from the desert to
the town: he has quitted simple life: he has come to artificial life.
John has won a king's attention, and now the question is, Will the
diamond of the mine bear polishing without breaking into shivers? Is
the iron prophet melting into voluptuous softness? Is he getting the
world's manners and the world's courtly insincerity? Is he becoming
artificial through his change of life? My Christian brethren, we find
nothing of the kind. There he stands in Herod's voluptuous court the
prophet of the desert still, unseduced by blandishment from his high
loyalty, and fronting his patron and his prince with the stern
unpalatable truth of God.
It is refreshing to look on such a scene as this--the highest, the
very highest moment, I think, in all John's history; higher than his
ascetic life. For after all, ascetic life such as he had led before,
when he fed on locusts and wild honey, is hard only in the first
resolve. When you have once made up your mind to that, it becomes a
habit to live alone. To lecture the poor about religion is not hard.
To speak of unworldliness to men with whom we do not associate, and
who do not see _our_ daily inconsistencies, _that_ is not hard. To
speak contemptuously of the world when we have no power of commanding
its admiration, _that_ is not difficult. But when God has given a man
accomplishments, or powers, which would enable him to shine in
society, and he can still be firm, and steady, and uncompromisingly
true; when he can be as undaunted before the rich as before the poor;
when rank and fashion cannot subdue him into silence: when he hates
moral evil as sternly in a great man as he would in a peasant, there
is truth in that man. This was the test to which the Baptist was
submitted.
And now contemplate him for a moment; forget that he is an historical
personage, and remember that he was a man like us. Then comes the
trial. All the habits and rules of polite life would be whispering
such advice as this: "Only keep your remarks within the limits of
politeness. If you cannot approve, be silent; you can do no good by
finding fault with the great." We know how the whole spirit of a man
like John would have revolted at that. Imprisonment? Yes. Death? Well,
a man can die but once,--anything but not cowardice,--not
meanness,--not pretending what I do not feel, and disguising what I do
feel. Brethren, death is not the worst thing in this life; it is not
difficult to die--five minutes and the sharpest agony is past. The
worst thing in this life is cowardly untruthfulness. Let men be rough
if they will, let them be unpolished, but let Christian men in all
they say be sincere. No flattery, no speaking smoothly to a man before
his face, while all the time there is a disapproval of his conduct in
the heart. The thing we want in Christianity is not politeness, it is
sincerity.
There are three things which we remark in this truthfulness of John.
The first is its straightforwardness, the second is its
unconsciousness, and the last its unselfishness. The
straightforwardness is remarkable in this circumstance, that there is
no indirect coming to the point. At once, without circumlocution, the
true man speaks. "It is not lawful for thee to have her." There are
some men whom God has gifted with a rare simplicity of heart, which
make them utterly incapable of pursuing the subtle excuses which can
be made for evil. There is in John no morbid sympathy for the
offender: "It is not lawful." He does not say, "It is _best_ to do
otherwise; it is unprofitable for your own happiness to live in this
way." He says plainly, "It is wrong for you to do this evil."
Earnest men in this world have no time for subtleties and casuistry.
Sin is detestable, horrible, in God's sight, and when once it has been
made clear that it is not lawful, a Christian has nothing to do with
toleration of it. If we dare not tell our patron of his sin we must
give up his patronage. In the next place there was unconsciousness in
John's rebuke. We remark, brethren, that he was utterly ignorant that
he was doing a fine thing. There was no sidelong glance, as in a
mirror, of admiration for himself. He was not feeling, This is brave.
He never stopped to feel that after-ages would stand by, and look at
that deed of his, and say, "Well done." His reproof comes out as the
natural impulse of an earnest heart. John was the last of all men to
feel that he had done anything extraordinary. And this we hold to be
an inseparable mark of truth. No true man is conscious that he is
true; he is rather conscious of insincerity. No brave man is conscious
of his courage; bravery is _natural_ to him. The skin of Moses' face
shone after he had been with God, but Moses wist not of it.
There are many of us who would have prefaced that rebuke with a long
speech. We should have begun by observing how difficult it was to
speak to a monarch, how delicate the subject, how much proof we were
giving of our friendship. We should have asked the great man to accept
it as a proof of our devotion. John does nothing of this. Prefaces
betray anxiety about self; John was not thinking of himself. He was
thinking of God's offended law, and the guilty king's soul. Brethren,
it is a lovely and a graceful thing to see men natural. It is
beautiful to see men sincere without being haunted with the
consciousness of their sincerity. There is a sickly habit that men get
of looking into themselves, and thinking how they are appearing. We
are always unnatural when we do that. The very tread of one who is
thinking how he appears to others, becomes dizzy with affectation. He
is too conscious of what he is doing, and self-consciousness is
affectation. Let us aim at being natural. And we can only become
natural by thinking of God and duty, instead of the way in which we
are serving God and duty.
There was lastly, something exceedingly unselfish in John's
truthfulness. We do not build much on a man's being merely true. It
costs some men nothing to be true, for they have none of those
sensibilities which shrink from inflicting pain. There is a surly
bitter way of speaking truth which says little for a man's heart. Some
men have not delicacy enough to feel that it is an awkward and a
painful thing to rebuke a brother: they are in their element when they
can become censors of the great. John's truthfulness was not like
that. It was the earnest loving nature of the man which made him say
sharp things. Was it to gratify spleen that he reproved Herod for all
the evils he had done? Was it to minister to a diseased and
disappointed misanthropy? Little do we understand the depth of
tenderness which there is in a rugged, true nature, if we think that.
John's whole life was an iron determination to crush self in
everything.
Take a single instance. John's ministry was gradually superseded by
the ministry of Christ. It was the moon waning before the Sun. They
came and told him that, "Rabbi, He to whom thou barest witness beyond
Jordan baptizeth, and all men come unto Him." Two of his own personal
friends, apparently some of the last he had left, deserted him, and
went to the new teacher.
And now let us estimate the keenness of that trial. Remember John was
a man: he had tasted the sweets of influence; that influence was dying
away, and just in the prime of life he was to become _nothing_. Who
cannot conceive the keenness of that trial? Bearing that in mind--what
is the prophet's answer? One of the most touching sentences in all
Scripture--calmly, meekly, the hero recognises his destiny--"He must
increase, but I must decrease." He does more than recognise it--he
rejoices in it, rejoices to be nothing, to be forgotten, despised, so
as only Christ can be everything. "The friend of the bridegroom
rejoiceth because he heareth the bridegroom's voice, this my joy is
fulfilled." And it is _this_ man, with self so thoroughly crushed--the
outward self by bodily austerities, the inward self by Christian
humbleness--it is this man who speaks so sternly to his sovereign. "It
is not lawful." Was there any gratification of human feeling there? Or
was not the rebuke unselfish? Meant for God's honour, dictated by the
uncontrollable hatred of all evil, careless altogether of personal
consequences?
Now it is this, my brethren, that _we_ want. The world-spirit can
rebuke as sharply as the Spirit which was in John; the world-spirit
can be severe upon the great when it is jealous. The worldly man
cannot bear to hear of another's success, he cannot endure to hear
another praised for accomplishments, or another succeeding in a
profession, and the world can fasten very bitterly upon a neighbour's
faults, and say, "It is not lawful." We expect that in the world. But
that this should creep among religious men, that _we_ should be
bitter--that we, _Christians_, should suffer jealousy to enthrone
itself in our hearts--that we should find fault from spleen, and not
from love--that we should not be able to be calm and gentle, and
sweet-tempered, when we decrease, when our powers fail--_that_ is the
shame. The love of Christ is intended to make such men as John, such
high and heavenly characters. What is our Christianity worth if it
cannot teach us a truthfulness, an unselfishness, and a generosity
beyond the world's?
We are to say something in the second place of the apparent failure of
Christian life.
The concluding sentence of this verse informs us that John was shut up
in prison. And the first thought which suggests itself is, that a
magnificent career is cut short too soon. At the very outset of ripe
and experienced manhood the whole thing ends in failure. John's day of
active usefulness is over; at thirty years of age his work is done;
and what permanent effect have all his labours left? The crowds that
listened to his voice, awed into silence by Jordan's side, we hear of
them no more. Herod heard John gladly, did much good by reason of his
influence. What was all that worth? The prophet comes to himself in a
dungeon, and wakes to the bitter conviction, that his influence had
told much in the way of commanding attention, and even winning
reverence, but very little in the way of gaining souls; the bitterest,
the most crushing discovery in the whole circle of ministerial
experience. All this was seeming failure.
And this, brethren, is the picture of almost all human life. To some
moods, and under some aspects, it seems, as it seemed to the psalmist,
"Man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain." Go to
any churchyard, and stand ten minutes among the grave-stones; read
inscription after inscription recording the date of birth, and the
date of death, of him who lies below, all the trace which myriads have
left behind, of their having done their day's work on God's
earth,--that is failure or--seems so. Cast the eye down the columns of
any commander's despatch after a general action. The men fell by
thousands; the officers by hundreds. Courage, high hope,
self-devotion, ended in smoke--forgotten by the time of the next list
of slain: that is the failure of life once more. Cast your eye over
the shelves of a public library--there is the hard toil of years, the
product of a life of thought; all that remains of it is there in a
worm-eaten folio, taken down once in a century. Failure of human life
again. Stand by the most enduring of all human labours, the pyramids
of Egypt. One hundred thousand men, year by year, raised those
enormous piles to protect the corpses of the buried from rude
inspection. The spoiler's hand has been there, and the bodies have
been rifled from their mausoleum, and three thousand years have
written "failure" upon that. In all that, my Christian brethren, if we
look no deeper than the surface, we read the grave of human hope, the
apparent nothingness of human labour.
And then look at this history once more. In the isolation of John's
dying hour, there appears failure again. When a great man dies we
listen to hear what he has to say, we turn to the last page of his
biography first, to see what he had to bequeath to the world as his
experience of life. We expect that the wisdom, which he has been
hiving up for years, will distil in honeyed sweetness then. It is
generally not so. There is stupor and silence at the last. "How dieth
the wise man?" asks Solomon: and he answers bitterly, "As the fool."
The martyr of truth dies privately in Herod's dungeon. We have no
record of his last words. There were no crowds to look on. We cannot
describe how he received his sentence. Was he calm? Was he agitated?
Did he bless his murderer? Did he give utterance to any deep
reflections on human life? All that is shrouded in silence. He bowed
his head, and the sharp stroke fell flashing down. We know that, we
know no more--apparently a noble life abortive.
And now let us ask the question distinctly, Was all this indeed
failure? No, my Christian brethren, it was sublimest victory. John's
work was no failure; he left behind him no sect to which he had given
his name, but his disciples passed into the service of Christ, and
were absorbed in the Christian church. Words from John had made
impressions, and men forgot in after years _where_ the impressions
first came from, but the day of judgment will not forget. John laid
the foundations of a temple, and others built upon it He laid it in
struggle, in martyrdom. It was covered up like the rough masonry below
ground, but when we look round on the vast Christian Church, we are
looking at the superstructure of John's toil.
There is a lesson for us in all that, if we will learn it. Work, true
work, done honestly and manfully for Christ, _never_ can be a failure.
Your own work, my brethren, which God has given you to do, whatever
that is, let it be done truly. Leave eternity to show that it has not
been in vain in the Lord. Let it but be work, it will tell. True
Christian life is like the march of a conquering army into a fortress
which has been breached; men fall by hundreds in the ditch. Was their
fall a failure? Nay, for their bodies bridge over the hollow, and over
them the rest pass on to victory. The quiet religious worship that we
have this day--how comes it to be ours? It was purchased for us by the
constancy of such men as John, who freely gave their lives. We are
treading upon a bridge of martyrs. The suffering was theirs--the
victory is ours. John's career was no failure.
Yet we have one more circumstance which _seems_ to tell of failure. In
John's prison, solitude, misgiving, black doubt, seem for a time to
have taken possession of the prophet's soul. All that we know of those
feelings is this:--John while in confinement sent two of his disciples
to Christ, to say to Him, "Art thou He that should come, or do we look
for another?" Here is the language of painful uncertainty. We shall
not marvel at this, if we look steadily at the circumstances. Let us
conceive John's feelings. The enthusiastic child of Nature, who had
roved in the desert, free as the air he breathed, is now suddenly
arrested, and his strong restless heart limited to the four walls of a
narrow dungeon. And there he lay startled. An eagle cleaving the air
with motionless wing, and in the midst of his career brought from the
black cloud by an arrow to the ground, and looking round with his
wild, large eye, stunned, and startled there; just such was the free
prophet of the wilderness, when Herod's guards had curbed his noble
flight, and left him alone in his dungeon.
Now there is apparent failure here, brethren; it is not the thing
which we should have expected. We should have expected that a man who
had lived so close to God all his life, would have no misgivings in
his last hours. But, my brethren, it is not so. It is the strange
truth that some of the highest of God's servants are tried with
darkness on the dying bed. Theory would say, when a religious man is
laid up for his last struggles, now he is alone for deep communion
with his God. Fact very often says, "No--now he is alone, as his
Master was before him, in the wilderness to be tempted of the devil."
Look at John in imagination, and you would say, "Now his rough
pilgrimage is done. He is quiet, out of the world, with the rapt
foretaste of heaven in his soul." Look at John in fact. He is
agitated, sending to Christ, not able to rest, grim doubt wrestling
with his soul, misgiving for one last black hour whether all his hope
has not been delusion.
There is one thing we remark here by the way. Doubt often comes from
inactivity. We cannot give the philosophy of it, but this is the fact,
Christians who have nothing to do but to sit thinking of themselves,
meditating, sentimentalising, are almost sure to become the prey of
dark, black misgivings. John struggling in the desert needs no proof
that Jesus is the Christ. John shut up became morbid and doubtful
immediately. Brethren all this is very marvellous. The history of a
human soul _is_ marvellous. We are mysteries, but here is the
practical lesson of it all. For sadness, for suffering, for misgiving,
there is no remedy but stirring and doing.