(Preached before the Queen.)
Matthew xvii. 2 and 9. And he was transfigured before them. . . .
And he charged them, saying, Tell the vision to no man, until the
Son of Man be risen again from the dead.
Any one who will consider the gospels, will see that there is a
peculiar calm, a soberness and modesty about them, very different
from what we should have expected to find in them. Speaking, as
they do, of the grandest person who ever trod this earth, of the
grandest events which ever happened upon this earth--of the events,
indeed, which settled the future of this earth for ever,--one would
not be surprised at their using grand words--the grandest they could
find. If they had gone off into beautiful poetry; if they had
filled pages with words of astonishment, admiration, delight; if
they had told us their own thoughts and feelings at the sight of our
Lord; if they had given us long and full descriptions of our Lord's
face and figure, even (as forged documents have pretended to do) to
the very colour of his hair, we should have thought it but natural.
But there is nothing of the kind in either of the four gospels, even
when speaking of the most awful matters. Their words are as quiet
and simple and modest as if they were written of things which might
be seen every day. When they tell of our Lord's crucifixion, for
instance, how easy, natural, harmless, right, as far as we can see,
it would have been to have poured out their own feelings about the
most pitiable and shameful crime ever committed upon earth; to have
spoken out all their own pity, terror, grief, indignation; and to
have stirred up ours thereby. And yet all they say is,--'And they
crucified him.' They feel that is enough. The deed is too dark to
talk about. Let it tell its own story to all human hearts.
So with this account of the Lord's transfiguration. 'And he took
Peter, and James, and John, his brother, up into a high mountain,
apart, and was transfigured before them; and his face did shine as
the sun; and his raiment was white as the light; . . . and while he
yet spake a bright cloud overshadowed them; and, behold, a voice out
of the cloud, which said: This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well
pleased. Hear ye him.'
How soberly, simply, modestly, they tell this strange story. How
differently they might have told it. A man might write whole poems,
whole books of philosophy, about that transfiguration, and yet never
reach the full depth of its beauty and of its meaning. But the
evangelists do not even try to do that. As with the crucifixion, as
with all the most wonderful passages of our Lord's life, they simply
say what happened, and let the story bring its own message home to
our hearts.
What may we suppose is the reason of this great stillness and
soberness of the gospels? I believe that it may be explained thus.
The men who wrote them were too much _awed_ by our Lord, to make
more words about him than they absolutely needed.
Our Lord was too utterly _beyond_ them. They felt that they could
not understand him; could not give a worthy picture of him. He was
too noble, too awful, in spite of all his tenderness, for any words
of theirs, however fine. We all know that the holiest things, the
deepest feelings, the most beautiful sights, are those about which
we talk least, and least like to hear others talk. Putting them
into words seems impertinent, profane. No one needs to gild gold,
or paint the lily. When we see a glorious sunset; when we hear the
rolling of the thunder-storm; we do not _talk_ about them; we do not
begin to cry, How awful, how magnificent; we admire them in silence,
and let them tell their own story. Who that ever truly loved his
wife talked about his love to her? Who that ever came to Holy
Communion in spirit and in truth, tried to put into words what he
felt as he knelt before Christ's altar? When God speaks, man had
best keep silence.
So it was, I suppose, with the writers of the gospels. They had
been in too grand company for them to speak freely of what they felt
there. They had seen such sights, and heard such words, that they
were inclined to be silent, and think over it all, and only wrote
because they must write. They felt that our Lord, as I say, was
utterly beyond them, too unlike any one whom they had ever met
before; too perfect, too noble, for them to talk about him. So they
simply set down his words as he spoke them, and his works as he did
them, as far as they could recollect, and left them to tell their
own story. Even St. John, who was our Lord's beloved friend, who
seems to have caught and copied exactly his way of speaking, seems
to feel that there was infinitely more in our Lord than he could put
into words, and ends with confessing,--'And there are also many more
things which Jesus did, the which if they should be written every
one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the
books that should be written.'
The first reason then, I suppose, for the evangelists' modesty, was
their awe and astonishment at our Lord. The next, I think, may have
been that they wished to copy him, and so to please him. It surely
must have been so, if, as all good Christians believe, they were
inspired to write our Lord's life. The Lord would inspire them to
write as he would like his life to be written, as he would have
written it (if it be reverent to speak of such a thing) himself.
They were inspired by Christ's Spirit; and, therefore, they wrote
according to the Spirit of Christ, soberly, humbly, modestly,
copying the character of Christ.
Think upon that word _modestly_. I am not sure that it is the best;
I only know that it is the best which I can find, to express one
excellence which we see in our Lord, which is like what we call
modesty in common human beings.
We all know how beautiful and noble modesty is; how we all admire
it; how it raises a man in our eyes to see him afraid of boasting;
never showing off; never requiring people to admire him; never
pushing himself forward; or, if his business forces him to go into
public, not going for the sake of display, but simply because the
thing has to be done; and then quietly withdrawing himself when the
thing is done, content that none should be staring at him or
thinking of him. This is modesty; and we admire it not only in
young people, or those who have little cause to be proud: we admire
it much more in the greatest, the wisest, and the best; in those who
have, humanly speaking, most cause to be proud. Whenever, on the
other hand, we see in wise and good men any vanity, boasting,
pompousness of any kind, we call it a weakness in them, and are
sorry to see them lowering themselves by the least want of divine
modesty.
Now, this great grace and noble virtue should surely be in our Lord,
from whom all graces and virtues come; and I think we need not look
far through the gospels to find it.
See how he refused to cast himself down from the temple, and make
himself a sign and a wonder to the Jews. How he refused to show the
Pharisees a sign. How, in this very text, when it seemed good to
him to show his glory, he takes only three favourite apostles, and
commands them to tell no man till he be risen again. See, again,
how when the Jews wanted to take him by force, and make him a king,
he escaped out of their hands. How when He had been preaching to,
or healing the multitude, so that they crowded on him, and became
excited about him, he more than once immediately left them, and
retired into a desert place to pray.
See, again, how when he did tell the Jews who he was, in words most
awfully unmistakeable, the confession was, as it were, drawn from
him, at the end of a long argument, when he was forced to speak out
for truth's sake. And, even then, how simple, how modest (if I dare
so speak), are his words. 'Before Abraham was, I am.' The most
awful words ever spoken on earth; and yet most divine in their very
simplicity. The Maker of the world telling his creatures that he is
their God! What might he _not_ have said at such a moment? What
might we not fancy his saying? What words, grand enough, awful
enough, might not the evangelists have put into his mouth, if they
had not been men full of the spirit of truth? And yet what does the
Lord say? 'Before Abraham was, I am.' Could he say more? If you
think of the matter, No. But could he say less? If you think of
the manner, No, likewise.
Truly, 'never man spake as he spake:' because never man was like
him. Perfect strength, wisdom, determination, endurance; and yet
perfect meekness, simplicity, sobriety. Zeal and modesty. They are
the last two virtues which go together most seldom. In him they
went together utterly; and were one, as he was one in spirit.
Him some of the evangelists saw, and by him all were inspired; and,
therefore, they toned their account of him to his likeness, and, as
it were, took their key-note from him, and made the very manner and
language of their gospels a pattern of his manners and his life.
And, if we wanted a fresh proof (as, thank God, needs not) that the
gospels are true, I think we might find it in this. For when a man
is inventing a wonderful story out of his own head, he is certain to
dress it up in fine words, fancies, shrewd reflections of his own,
in order to make people see, as he goes on, how wonderful it all is.
Whereas, no books on earth which describe wonderful events, true or
false, are so sober and simple as the gospels, which describe the
most wonderful of all events. And this is to me a plain proof (as I
hope it will be to you) that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were not
inventing but telling a plain and true story, and dared not alter it
in the least; and, again, a story so strange and beautiful, that
they dared not try to make it more strange, or more beautiful, by
any words of their own.
They had seen a person, to describe whom passed all their powers of
thought and memory, much more their power of words. A person of
whom even St. Paul could only say, 'that he was the brightness of
his Father's glory, and the express image of his person.'
Words in which to write of him failed them; for no words could
suffice. But the temper of mind in which to write of him did not
fail them; for, by gazing on the face of the Lord, they had been
changed, more or less, into the likeness of his glory; into that
temper, simplicity, sobriety, gentleness, modesty, which shone forth
in him, and shines forth still in their immortal words about him.
God grant that it may shine forth in us. God grant it truly. May
we read their words till their spirit passes into us. May we (as
St. Paul expresses it) looking on the face of the Lord, as into a
glass, be changed into his likeness, from glory to glory. May he
who inspired them to write, inspire us to think and work, like our
Lord, soberly, quietly, simply. May God take out of us all pride
and vanity, boasting and forwardness; and give us the true courage
which shows itself by gentleness; the true wisdom which show itself
by simplicity; and the true power which show itself by modesty.
Amen.