inventing a figure of my own when I say this. It is the language which
our Lord Himself uses to describe their destitute condition. In our
English Bible He is made to speak of leaving them comfortless. The
words in the original are: "Leave you orphans"--"Leave you desolate,"
as it is translated in the Revised Version. They would be fatherless,
motherless, homeless, friendless--at least, so it seemed to them--when
He was gone.
No condition of life excites so keenly the compassion of the
compassionate as the helplessness of the orphan. It is not only that a
child is deprived, by its parents' death, of the means of subsistence;
its natural guardian, teacher, friend is gone. Henceforth it is a waif
on the ocean of the world. In no respect different was that void which
threatened the disciples when the Master's presence had been
withdrawn. They had left all--authority, home. They had forsaken
parents and friends, and He had become Father and Mother, and Sister
and Brother to them. They had given up houses and land, and He was
henceforth their home. Their dependence on Him was absolute. Whatever
of joy they had in the present, and what of hope they had for the
future, were alike centred in Him. They thought His thoughts and lived
His life. And now this communion of soul with soul, and of life with
life, must be ruthlessly severed.
This was the terrible shock for which Christ would prepare the minds
of His disciples. It was not only the void of earthly hopes scattered
by His death; but their Teacher, their Guide, Spirit, Friend, Christ,
their Father was withdrawn. The voice which soothed must be silent,
and the eye which gladdened must be glazed, and the hand which blessed
must be stiffened in death. Christ lay buried--lost for ever, as it
would seem to them. What joy, what strength, what comfort could they
have henceforth in life? They would stake their whole on Christ, and
Christ has failed them. Surely, never was orphanhood more helpless,
more hopeless, than the orphanhood of these poor Galileans.
It was to prepare them for this terrible trial that the promise in the
text was given. He must go; but another shall come. They should not be
without a teacher, a guide; one Advocate, one Comforter would be
withdrawn, but another would take His place. There would be a friend
still, an adviser ever near to take them by the hand, to whisper into
their ears, to prepare, to instruct, to protect, to fortify, to guide
them into all truth. Another comforter. Yes; and yet not another.
There would not be less of Christ, but more of Christ, when Christ was
gone. This is the spiritual paradox which is assured to the disciples
by the promise in the text--"He shall take of Mine, and show it unto
you. All things that the Father hath are Mine; therefore, said I, He
shall take of Mine and shall show it unto you." Another, and yet not
another. It was not Christ supplanted, not Christ superseded, not
Christ eclipsed and quenched, but a larger, higher, purer, more
abundant Christ with whom henceforth they should live. It was not now
a Christ who might be speaking at one moment and the next moment might
be hushed, but a Christ whose tongue was ever articulate and ever
audible--Christ vocal even in His very silence. It was not now a
Christ who was seen at one moment, and the next was concealed from
view by some infinite obstacle, but a Christ whose visit no darkness
could hide and whose touch no distance could detain. It was not a
Christ of now and then, not a Christ of here and there, but a Christ
of every moment and every place--a Christ as permeating as the Spirit
is permeating. "He shall take of Mine, and shall show it unto you."
"Lo, I am with you alway! I am with you even to the end of the world."
He is not lost, then. This is the promise which Christ gives to His
disciples on the eve of His departure to console them for their loss.
His departure was more than necessary. It was even expedient, it was
even advantageous for them that He should go. Did not the Saviour say
this? Nothing would have seemed more improbable in the anticipation
than that the death of Christ should have produced the effect it did
produce on His disciples. We should have predicted weakness,
depression, misery, scepticism, apostacy, despair; and yet what was
the actual result? Why, all at once they appear before us as changed
men. All at once they shake off meaner hopes; all at once their nerves
are fortified, are lifted into a higher region. On the eve of the
catastrophe they are hesitating, fearful, sense-bound, narrow in their
ideas. They are, we might almost say, "of the earth earthy." And on
the morrow they are strong, steadfast, courageous, endowed with a new
spiritual faculty which bears unto the very salvation of salvation.
Hitherto they have known Christ after the flesh. Henceforth they will
know Him so no more.
To know Christ after the flesh! What would we not have given to have
known Him after the flesh? What a source of strength it would have
been to us, we imagine, just to have listened to one of those parables
spoken by His own lips; just to have witnessed one of those miracles
of healing wrought by His own hand; just to have looked one moment on
Him as He stood silent in the judgment-hall, or bleeding on the cross!
But no! It was expedient for us, as it was expedient for the first
disciples, that He should go away. It was expedient for us; otherwise
the Spirit could not come.
To know Christ after the flesh! Did not the disciples know Him after
the flesh, and did they not forsake Him? Did not Thomas who doubted
and Peter who denied know Him after the flesh? Did not the Jewish mob
which hooted and reviled, and the Roman soldiers who scourged, know
Him after the flesh? What security was this knowledge after the flesh
against scepticism, against blasphemy, against apostacy, against
rebellion? Seeing, it is said, is believing. Yes, and hearing, too.
But it is the seeing of the spiritual eye and the hearing of the
spiritual ear--the eye that beheld the heavens open and the Son of Man
standing on the right hand of God: the hearing of the glory when He
was called into Paradise, "unspeakable words which it is not lawful
for a man to utter."
To know Christ after the flesh. Why should we desire to know Him after
the flesh? It was just to unteach the disciples themselves, whose
knowledge was only after the flesh, that Christ went away, because so
long as they were possessed of this knowledge, the Paraclete could not
come, could not take up His abode in their faith. Thus, this is the
work of the Spirit, as described by our Lord, in the text to us, as to
the disciples of old. The Spirit offers not less of Christ, but more
of Christ; for in the place of the Christ who walked on the shores of
the Galilean lake, who sat on the brink of the Samaritan well, and
shed tears over the doomed city--instead of such a Christ we have a
Christ who is ever present to us; a Christ of all times and all
places; a Christ who traverses the universe--an Omnipotent Christ.
Look at the explanation which our Lord Himself gave to the prophets:
"He shall take of Mine, and shall show it unto you." How so? Why of
Christ, and Christ only? Has the Spirit nothing else to teach us? Hear
what follows: "All things--_all things_--that the Father hath are
Mine; therefore, said I unto you, He shall take of mine and shall show
it unto you."
All things! Yes; all history, all science, all aggregation of truth in
whatever domain, and whatever kind it may be. "Think you," He seems to
say--"think you that My working is confined to a few paltry miracles
wrought in Galilee? The universe itself is My miracle. Think you My
words are restricted to a few short precepts uttered to the Jews?" We
make foolish distinctions. We imagine we erect a barrier within which
we would confine the Christ of our own imagination; but the Christ of
Christ's own teaching overleaps all such barriers of ours. We are
careful to distinguish between knowledge and revealed religion. We
separate Christ from the former and we relegate Him to the latter; but
the Christ of Christ's own teaching is the Eternal Word, through whom
the Father speaks. We draw the rigid lines of demarcation between
science and theology, between religion and language, but the Christ of
the people is the hand of the Father not less in science and language
than in religion and theology. We have our distinctions between the
secular and the spiritual, as if the two were antagonistic. We must
not use a saying of Christ, as if it taught that our duty to Caesar was
something quite apart from our duty to God; as if, forsooth, it were
possible for us to have any moral obligation to any man, or body of
men, to any child, which was not also an obligation to God in Christ.
But the Christ of the Gospel claims sovereignty over all alike--over
that which we call secular not less than that which we call spiritual.
"All things--_all things_--that the Father hath are Mine;
therefore, I say, He shall take of Mine, and show it unto you."
We speak sometimes of the revelations. Yes; revelations, indeed, not
merely of inanimate processes, not merely of blind laws, but
revelations of the eternal world, of the Eternal Son through whom the
Father works. Therefore, as Christians, we are bound to look upon
these as Christ. Therefore, if we are true to our heavenly schooling,
the Spirit will take up these and show them unto us. "He shall take of
Mine, and shall shew it unto you."
Are we diligent students of the lessons of history? Do we delight
to trace the progress of the human race from the first dawn of
civilisation to its noonday blaze? To disclose the obscure past of the
great nations of the earth? to mark the development of the arts of
government? to follow the ever-widening range of intellect? to discern
the stream of human life broadening slowly down with the force of
ages?
Then let us see the kingdom of Christ not less in the progress of
history than in the laws of science. He was in the world, and the
world knew Him not. He was the true Light that lighteth every man--the
Light ever brighter and clearer till it attained its full glory at
length in the Incarnation. Therefore the school of history is also the
school of the Holy Spirit, for it is the setting forth of Christ. "He
that hath eyes to see, let him see." "He shall take of Mine."
If you have traced Christ's footprints in the processes of Nature; if
you have heard Christ's voice in the teachings of history--then,
surely, you will not fail to see and hear Him in your own domestic and
social relations. That pure affection which has been to you a fountain
of benediction; that friendship which has been the crowning glory of
your life--can you think of it apart from Christ? If you do not find
Christ here, assuredly you will seek Him in vain elsewhere. What was
that truthfulness, that purity, that unselfishness, that devotion
which attracted you to the broken light of the Great Light, a
reflected ray from the Central Sun Himself? Yes, the Spirit took of
Christ and showed it to you when, through that affection, through that
friendship, He held up to you the nobler, because a more God-like,
idea of life. "He shall take of Mine." He shall bring all things to
your remembrance, whatsoever I have said to you.
Last and chiefest, for the crown of all these--these rays through
forest and mountain--of all other lessons, He shall set before you the
full Sun. He shall teach you the lesson of Incarnation. He shall show
unto your soul the tremendous importance of that statement which comes
from your lips as time after time you repeat your creed: "He was made
man." He shall teach you the lesson of the Passion. He shall remind
you day and night of the paramount obligation which it lays upon you.
Think--yes, think and think, and think--of that word till the love of
Christ shall constrain your whole being, shall bind you hand and foot,
and lead you captive to the will of God. He shall teach you the lesson
of the resurrection, emancipating, purifying, strengthening, exalting,
till he makes you conformable thereunto. Then you will rise from the
sepulchre in which you have lain many days, will breathe the pure air
of God's presence once more, will sit at meat when you are risen;
while, though in the world, you will be no longer of the world;
notwithstanding all disabilities and weaknesses you will live--live
even now as faithful citizens of the kingdom of heaven, which is
righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.
NOTE.--These Sermons are printed from reports.
CHRISTIANITY AND PAGANISM.[8]
I.
In the lectures which I addressed to you this last year, I took as my
subject the early history of Christianity while it was still
unrecognised by Roman law, and, therefore, treated as an enemy of the
State. On this occasion I purpose to trace the stream a little further
from its source, when Christianity has forced itself into recognition
and become the predominant religion of the empire. The struggle
between Christianity and Paganism has entirely changed its outward
character. The only weapons which the Church could wield at a former
epoch were moral and spiritual. She is now furnished with all the
appliances of political and social prestige; yet these, however
imposing, and to some extent serviceable, are not her really effective
arms. She can afford to be deprived of them for a time, and her career
of victory is unchecked. Her substantial triumphs must still be won by
the old weapons. The source of her superiority over Paganism is still
the same as before--a more enlightened faith in the will of the
unseen, a heartier devotion to the cause of humanity, a more
reverential awe for the majesty of purity, a greater readiness to do
and to suffer. The change has been as startling and as sudden as it
was momentous. All at once the Church had passed from hopeless,
helpless oppression to supremacy and power. For several years after
the opening of the fourth century the last and fiercest persecution
still raged, Christians were hunted down, tortured, put to death with
impunity and without mercy. The only limit to their sufferings was the
weariness or the caprice of their persecutors. Yet before the first
quarter of this century has drawn to a close the greatest sovereign
who had worn the imperial diadem for three hundred years is found
presiding at a council of Christian bishops discussing the most
important questions of Christian doctrine as though the fate of the
empire depended upon the result. In the short period of fifteen years
which elapsed between the death of Galerius and the Council of Nicaea,
the most stupendous revolution which the pages of history record had
been brought about. We cannot wonder that the contemporary heathen
failed altogether to recognise its completeness and its permanence.
Even to ourselves, who look back at the struggle between Christianity
and Paganism from the vantage ground of history, it is difficult to
realise the suddenness of the transition. To those who lived in the
heat of the conflict, and whose estimate of relative proportions was
necessarily confused by the nearness of this position, it was
altogether unintelligible. The one thing which most astonishes us in
heathen writers at this period is their blindness to the real
significance of the change. They ignore it, or they make light of it;
they speak of Christian sects, of Christian offices and Christian
rites, in a tone of cold indifference where they think fit to mention
them at all. Obviously they look at Christianity as a phenomenon which
it may be curious to contemplate, but which has no great practical
moment for them; they do not realise it as destined to mingle
permanently with the main stream of human life. Christianity to them
is still a mere Syrian superstition which has become the fashion of
the day, as so many other superstitions have been before it, and, like
its predecessors, will pass away when it has had its fling. The truth
is, that the revolution was not really sudden, though it seemed so. In
its social and political aspects, its victory was almost
instantaneous, but essentially it was a moral revolution; and such
revolutions are ever gradual: they provoke no notice because they are
noiseless; they advance patiently and silently, step by step; and then
only when the work is done do indifferent spectators discover that any
work has been going on. Their true type is that temple of God in whose
building neither hammer, nor axe, nor tool of iron was heard, because
the stones had been brought thither ready hewn for the building.
In this course of lectures it is my design to discuss the fall of
Paganism and the triumph of Christianity in the Roman empire; but
obviously this subject is too large for adequate treatment within the
space of three short lectures. I am obliged, therefore, to limit it in
some way or other; and it seemed to me that I could not do better than
take the reign of Julian the Apostate as the central feature in the
picture, and group around it such other facts as may be required to
explain its significance. There are many advantages in this mode of
treatment. This Paganism was never exhibited to more advantage than in
the person of this, its greatest and most energetic champion. High
personal character, no common intellectual gift, great military
renown, supreme political power, perfect knowledge of his adversary,
absolute and unflinching devotion to his own cause--all these united
to make Julian the most formidable antagonist which the Church ever
had, or might be expected to have. His career showed what Paganism
could do, and what it could not do. The ability of the champion only
exposed the helplessness of the cause. And again, a full blaze of
light is poured upon this one man and this one reign such as rarely
falls to any period of ancient history. Julian himself, devoted
friends, impartial critics, sworn foes, heathen and Christian,
orthodox and Arian--all have contributed to the completeness of the
portraiture. This strange character, half philosopher, half fanatic,
the most wary of dissemblers, and the most Quixotic of adventurers,
stands before us with a distinctness of feature which leaves nothing
to be desired.
In order to understand the man and the epoch it is necessary to take
up the course of history more than half a century before he ascended
the throne. The starting-point in our review of events is the most
remote province of the empire--the island of Britain. On the 25th of
July, 306, Constantine was proclaimed Emperor by the Roman Legionaries
at York. "Oh, happy Britain," says a heathen panegyrist, not then
foreseeing the stupendous results, "Oh, happy Britain! that it has
first seen Constantine as Caesar." This was the commencement of a long
reign, extending over more than thirty years--the longest in the
annals of Imperial Rome since Augustus. In the interval of three
centuries which separated these two remarkable men, no emperor had
reigned who deserved to be considered great as they were. And their
lives are linked together in another way. The one reign saw
Christianity cradled in the manger; the other witnessed it seated on
the throne. On October 27th, 312, some two miles from the walls of
Rome, where the Great North Road crosses the Tiber, was fought the
decisive battle of the Milvian Bridge. The routed army with its
captain and rival Emperor, the heathen champion Maxentius, perished in
the waters of the Tiber, and Constantine entered the Imperial
city--the stronghold of Paganism--in triumph. On June 15th, 313, was
signed the great charter of religious toleration--the Edict of Milan,
issued in the joint names of the Emperors Constantine and Licinius. By
this edict Christianity was recognised as a lawful religion. The
sacred places, and the property which had been taken from the
Christians during the great persecution were restored to them once
more. Every man was allowed henceforth to adopt any form of worship
which he might choose. On the 25th of July, 325, the anniversary of
his accession and the inauguration of the twentieth year of his reign,
Constantine, then sole Emperor, brought the Council of Nicaea to a
close. He had been present at several of its sittings, and throughout
had exerted himself to the utmost to secure unanimity. By a higher
inspiration, yet not without his instrumentality, the deliberations of
the assembled Bishops resulted in the Creed which was to be henceforth
and for ever the basis of unity in the Church.