The Expositor’s Bible
The Gospel According to St. Mark
By The
Very Rev. G. A. Chadwick, D.D.
Dean of Armagh
Hodder & Stoughton
New York
George H. Doran Company
1900
CONTENTS
Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Footnotes
CHAPTER I.
The Beginning Of The Gospel.
“The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, Even
as it is written in Isaiah the prophet, Behold, I send My
messenger before Thy face, who shall prepare Thy way; The voice of
one crying in the wilderness, Make ye ready the way of the Lord,
Make His paths straight; John came, who baptized in the wilderness
and preached the baptism of repentance unto remission of sins. And
there went out unto him all the country of Judæa, and all they of
Jerusalem; and they were baptized of him in the river Jordan,
confessing their sins. And John was clothed with camel’s hair, and
had a leathern girdle about his loins, and did eat locusts and
wild honey.”—MARK, i. 1-6 (R.V.).
The opening of St. Mark’s Gospel is energetic and full of character. St.
Matthew traces for Jews the pedigree of their Messiah; St. Luke’s
worldwide sympathies linger with the maiden who bore Jesus, and the
village of His boyhood; and St. John’s theology proclaims the Divine
origin of the Eternal Lord. But St. Mark trusts the public acts of the
Mighty Worker to do for the reader what they did for those who first
“beheld His glory.” How He came to earth can safely be left untold: what
He was will appear by what He wrought. It is enough to record, with
matchless vividness, the toils, the energy, the love and wrath, the defeat
and triumph of the brief career which changed the world. It will prove
itself to be the career of “the Son of God.”
In so deciding, he followed the example of the Apostolic teaching. The
first vacant place among the Twelve was filled by an eye-witness,
competent to tell what Jesus did “from the baptism of John to the day when
He was received up,” the very space covered by this Gospel. That “Gospel
of peace,” which Cornelius heard from St. Peter (and hearing, received the
Holy Ghost) was the same story of Jesus “after the baptism which John
preached.” And this is throughout the substance of the primitive teaching.
The Apostles act as men who believe that everything necessary to salvation
is (implicit or explicit) in the history of those few crowded years.
Therefore this is “the gospel.”
Men there are who judge otherwise, and whose gospel is not the story of
salvation wrought, but the plan of salvation applied, how the Atonement
avails for us, how men are converted, and what privileges they then
receive. But in truth men are not converted by preaching conversion, any
more than citizens are made loyal by demanding loyalty. Show men their
prince, and convince them that he is gracious and truly royal, and they
will die for him. Show them the Prince of Life, and He, being lifted up,
will draw all men unto Him; and thus the truest gospel is that which
declares Christ and Him crucified. As all science springs from the
phenomena of the external world, so do theology and religion spring from
the life of Him who was too adorable to be mortal, and too loving to be
disobeyed.
Therefore St. Paul declares that the gospel which he preached to the
Corinthians and by which they were saved, was, that Christ died for our
sins and was buried and rose again, and was seen of sufficient witnesses
(1 Cor. xv. 1-8).
And therefore St. Mark is contented with a very brief record of those
wondrous years; a few facts, chosen with a keen sense of the intense
energy and burning force which they reveal, are what he is inspired to
call the gospel.
He presently uses the word in a somewhat larger sense, telling how Jesus
Himself, before the story of His life could possibly be unfolded, preached
as “the gospel of God” that “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God
is at hand,” and added (what St. Mark only has preserved for us), “Repent,
and believe in the gospel” (i. 14-15). So too it is part of St. Paul’s
“gospel” that “God shall judge the secrets of men by Jesus Christ” (Rom.
ii. 16). For this also is good news of God, “the gospel of the kingdom.”
And like “the gospel of Jesus Christ,” it treats of His attitude toward
us, more than ours toward Him, which latter is the result rather than the
substance of it. That He rules, and not the devil; that we shall answer at
last to Him and to none lower; that Satan lied when he claimed to possess
all the kingdoms of the earth, and to dispose of them; that Christ has now
received from far different hands “all power on earth”; this is a gospel
which the world has not yet learned to welcome, nor the Church fully to
proclaim.
Now the scriptural use of this term is quite as important to religious
emotion as to accuracy of thought. All true emotions hide their fountain
too deep for self-consciousness to find. We feel best when our feeling is
forgotten. Not while we think about finding peace, but while we approach
God as a Father, and are anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer
and supplication with thanksgiving make known our requests, is it promised
that the peace of God which passeth all understanding shall guard our
hearts and our thoughts (Phil. iv. 7). And many a soul of the righteous,
whom faith in the true gospel fills with trembling adoration, is made sad
by the inflexible demand for certain realised personal experiences as the
title to recognition as a Christian. That great title belonged at the
first to all who would learn of Jesus: the disciples were called
Christians. To acquaint ourselves with Him, that is to be at peace.
Meantime, we observe that the new movement which now begins is not, like
Judaism, a law which brings death; nor like Buddhism, a path in which one
must walk as best he may: it differs from all other systems in being
essentially the announcement of good tidings from above.
Yet “the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ” is a profound agitation
and widespread alarm. Lest the soothing words of Jesus should blend like
music with the slumber of sinners at ease in Zion, John came preaching
repentance, and what is more, a baptism of repentance; not such a
lustration as was most familiar to the Mosaic law, administered by the
worshipper to himself, but an ablution at other hands, a confession that
one is not only soiled, but soiled beyond all cleansing of his own. Formal
Judaism was one long struggle for self-purification. The dawn of a new
system is visible in the movement of all Judæa towards one who bids them
throw every such hope away, and come to him for the baptism of repentance,
and expect A Greater One, who shall baptize them with the Holy Ghost and
with fire. And the true function of the predicted herald, the best
levelling of the rugged ways of humanity for the Promised One to traverse,
was in this universal diffusion of the sense of sin. For Christ was not
come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
In truth, the movement of the Baptist, with its double aspect, gathers up
all the teaching of the past. He produced conviction, and he promised
help. One lesson of all sacred history is universal failure. The innocence
of Eden cannot last. The law with its promise of life to the man who doeth
these things, issued practically in the knowledge of sin; it entered that
sin might abound; it made a formal confession of universal sin, year by
year, continually. And therefore its fitting close was a baptism of
repentance universally accepted. Alas, not universally. For while we read
of all the nation swayed by one impulse, and rushing to the stern teacher
who had no share in its pleasures or its luxuries, whose life was
separated from its concerns, and whose food was the simplest that could
sustain existence, yet we know that when they heard how deep his censures
pierced, and how unsparingly he scourged their best loved sins, the
loudest professors of religion rejected the counsel of God against
themselves, being not baptized of Him. Nevertheless, by coming to Him,
they also had pleaded guilty. Something they needed; they were sore at
heart, and would have welcomed any soothing balm, although they refused
the surgeon’s knife.
The law did more than convict men; it inspired hope. The promise of a
Redeemer shone like a rainbow across the dark story of the past. He was
the end of all the types, at once the Victim and the Priest. To Him gave
all the prophets witness, and the Baptist brought all past attainment to
its full height, and was “more than a prophet” when he announced the
actual presence of the Christ, when he pointed out to the first two
Apostles, the Lamb of God.
At The Jordan.
“And he preached, saying, There cometh after me He that is
mightier than I, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to
stoop down and unloose. I baptized you with water; but He shall
baptize you with the Holy Ghost. And it came to pass in those
days, that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee, and was baptized
of John in the Jordan. And straightway coming up out of the water,
He saw the heavens rent asunder, and the Spirit as a dove
descending upon Him: and a voice came out of the heavens, Thou art
My Beloved Son, in Thee I am well pleased.”—MARK i. 7-11 (R.V.).
It was when all men mused in their hearts whether John was the Christ or
no, that he announced the coming of a Stronger One. By thus promptly
silencing a whisper, so honourable to himself, he showed how strong he
really was, and how unselfish “a friend of the Bridegroom.” Nor was this
the vague humility of phrase which is content to be lowly in general, so
long as no specified individual stands higher. His word is definite, and
accepts much for himself. “The Stronger One than I cometh,” and it is in
presence of the might of Jesus (whom yet this fiery reformer called a
Lamb), that he feels himself unworthy to bend to the dust and unbind the
latchets or laces of his shoe.
So then, though asceticism be sometimes good, it is consciously not the
highest nor the most effective goodness. Perhaps it is the most
impressive. Without a miracle, the preaching of John shook the nation as
widely as that of Jesus melted it, and prepared men’s hearts for His. A
king consulted and feared him. And when the Pharisees were at open feud
with Jesus, they feared to be stoned if they should pronounce John’s
baptism to be of men.
Yet is there weakness lurking even in the very quality which gives
asceticism its power. That stern seclusion from an evil world, that
peremptory denial of its charms, why are they so impressive? Because they
set an example to those who are hard beset, of the one way of escape, the
cutting off of the hand and foot, the plucking out of the eye. And our
Lord enjoins such mutilation of the life upon those whom its gifts betray.
Yet is it as the halt and maimed that such men enter into life. The
ascetic is a man who needs to sternly repress and deny his impulses, who
is conscious of traitors within his breast that may revolt if the enemy be
suffered to approach too near.
It is harder to be a holy friend of publicans and sinners, a witness for
God while eating and drinking with these, than to remain in the desert
undefiled. It is greater to convert a sinful woman in familiar converse by
the well, than to shake trembling multitudes by threats of the fire for
the chaff and the axe for the barren tree. And John confessed this. In the
supreme moment of his life, he added his own confession to that of all his
nation. This rugged ascetic had need to be baptized of Him who came eating
and drinking.
Nay, he taught that all his work was but superficial, a baptism with water
to reach the surface of men’s life, to check, at the most, exaction and
violence and neglect of the wants of others, while the Greater One should
baptize with the Holy Ghost, should pierce the depths of human nature, and
thoroughly purge His floor.
Nothing could refute more clearly than our three simple narratives, the
sceptical notion that Jesus yielded for awhile to the dominating influence
of the Baptist. Only from the Gospels can we at all connect the two. And
what we read here is, that before Jesus came, John expected his Superior;
that when they met, John declared his own need to be baptized of Him, that
he, nevertheless, submitted to the will of Jesus, and thereupon heard a
voice from the heavens which must for ever have destroyed all notion of
equality; that afterwards he only saw Jesus at a distance, and made a
confession which transferred two of his disciples to our Lord.
The criticism which transforms our Lord’s part in these events to that of
a pupil is far more wilful than would be tolerated in dealing with any
other record. And it too palpably springs from the need to find some human
inspiration for the Word of God, some candle from which the Sun of
Righteousness took fire, if one would escape the confession that He is not
of this world.
But here we meet a deeper question: Not why Jesus accepted baptism from an
inferior, but why, being sinless, He sought for a baptism of repentance.
How is this act consistent with absolute and stainless purity?
Now it sometimes lightens a difficulty to find that it is not occasional
nor accidental, but wrought deep into the plan of a consistent work. And
the Gospels are consistent in representing the innocence of Jesus as
refusing immunity from the consequences of guilt. He was circumcised, and
His mother then paid the offering commanded by the law, although both
these actions spoke of defilement. In submitting to the likeness of sinful
flesh He submitted to its conditions. He was present at feasts in which
national confessions led up to sacrifice, and the sacrificial blood was
sprinkled to make atonement for the children of Israel, because of all
their sins. When He tasted death itself, which passed upon all men, for
that all have sinned, He carried out to the utmost the same stern rule to
which at His baptism He consciously submitted. Nor will any theory of His
atonement suffice, which is content with believing that His humiliations
and sufferings, though inevitable, were only collateral results of contact
with our fallen race. Baptism was avoidable, and that without any
compromise of His influence, since the Pharisees refused it with impunity,
and John would fain have exempted Him. Here at least He was not “entangled
in the machinery,” but deliberately turned the wheels upon Himself. And
this is the more impressive because, in another aspect of affairs, He
claimed to be out of the reach of ceremonial defilement, and touched
without reluctance disease, leprosy and the dead.
Humiliating and penal consequences of sin, to these He bowed His head. Yet
to a confession of personal taint, never. And all the accounts agree that
He never was less conscience-stricken than when He shared the baptism of
repentance. St. Matthew implies, what St. Luke plainly declares, that He
did not come to baptism along with the crowds of penitents, but
separately. And at the point where all others made confession, in the hour
when even the Baptist, although filled with the Holy Ghost from his
mother’s womb, had need to be baptized, He only felt the propriety, the
fitness of fulfilling all righteousness. That mighty task was not even a
yoke to Him, it was an instinct like that of beauty to an artist, it was
what became Him.
St. Mark omits even this evidence of sinlessness. His energetic method is
like that of a great commander, who seizes at all costs the vital point
upon the battle field. He constantly omits what is subordinate (although
very conscious of the power of graphic details), when by so doing he can
force the central thought upon the mind. Here he concentrates our
attention upon the witness from above, upon the rending asunder of the
heavens which unfold all their heights over a bended head, upon the
visible descent of the Holy Spirit in His fulness, upon the voice from the
heavens which pealed through the souls of these two peerless worshippers,
and proclaimed that He who had gone down to the baptismal flood was no
sinner to be forgiven, but the beloved Son of God, in whom He is well
pleased.
That is our Evangelist’s answer to all misunderstanding of the rite, and
it is enough.
How do men think of heaven? Perhaps only as a remote point in space, where
flames a material and solid structure into which it is the highest bliss
to enter. A place there must be to which the Body of our Lord ascended and
whither He shall yet lead home His followers in spiritual bodies to be
with Him where He is. If, however, only this be heaven, we should hold
that in the revolutions of the solar system it hung just then vertically
above the Jordan, a few fathoms or miles aloft. But we also believe in a
spiritual city, in which the pillars are living saints, an all-embracing
blessedness and rapture and depth of revelation, whereinto holy mortals in
their highest moments have been “caught up,” a heaven whose angels ascend
and descend upon the Son of man. In this hour of highest consecration,
these heavens were thrown open—rent asunder—for the gaze of our Lord and
of the Baptist. They were opened again when the first martyr died. And we
read that what eye hath not seen nor ear heard nor heart conceived of the
preparation of God for them that love Him, He hath already revealed to
them by His Spirit. To others there is only cloud or “the infinite azure,”
as to the the crowd by the Jordan and the murderers of Stephen.
Now it is to be observed that we never read of Jesus being caught up into
heaven for a space, like St. Paul or St. John. What we read is, that while
on earth the Son of man is in Heaven (John iii. 13),(1) for heaven is the
manifestation of God, whose truest glory was revealed in the grace and
truth of Jesus.
Along with this revelation, the Holy Spirit was manifested wondrously. His
appearance, indeed, is quite unlike what it was to others. At Pentecost He
became visible, but since each disciple received only a portion,
“according to his several ability,” his fitting symbol was “tongues
parting asunder like as of fire.” He came as an element powerful and
pervasive, not as a Personality bestowed in all His vital force on any
one.
So, too, the phrase which John used, when predicting that Jesus should
baptize with the Holy Ghost, slightly though it differs from what is here,
implies(2) that only a portion is to be given, not the fulness. And the
angel who foretold to Zacharias that John himself should be filled with
the Holy Ghost, conveyed the same limitation in his words. John received
all that he was able to receive: he was filled. But how should mortal
capacity exhaust the fulness of Deity? And Who is this, upon Whom, while
John is but an awe-stricken beholder, the Spirit of God descends in all
completeness, a living organic unity, like a dove? Only the Infinite is
capable of receiving such a gift, and this is He in Whom dwelleth all the
fulness of the Godhead bodily. No wonder then that “in bodily form” as a
dove, the Spirit of God descended upon Him alone. Henceforward He became
the great Dispenser, and “the Spirit emanated from Him as perfume from the
rose when it has opened.”
At the same time was heard a Voice from heaven. And the bearing of this
passage upon the Trinity becomes clear, when we combine the manifestation
of the Spirit in living Personality, and the Divine Voice, not from the
Dove but from the heavens, with the announcement that Jesus is not merely
beloved and well-pleasing, but a Son, and in this high sense the only Son,
since the words are literally “Thou art the Son of Me, the beloved.” And
yet He is to bring many sons unto glory.
Is it consistent with due reverence to believe that this voice conveyed a
message to our Lord Himself? Even so liberal a critic as Neander has
denied this. But if we grasp the meaning of what we believe, that He upon
taking flesh “emptied Himself,” that He increased in wisdom during His
youth, and that there was a day and hour which to the end of life He knew
not, we need not suppose that His infancy was so unchildlike as the
realisation of His mysterious and awful Personality would make it. There
must then have been a period when His perfect human development rose up
into what Renan calls (more accurately than he knows) identification of
Himself with the object of His devotion, carried to the utmost limit. Nor
is this period quite undiscoverable, for when it arrived it would seem
highly unnatural to postpone His public ministry further. Now this
reasonable inference is entirely supported by the narrative. St. Matthew
indeed regards the event from the Baptist’s point of vision. But St. Mark
and St. Luke are agreed that to Jesus Himself it was also said, “_Thou_
art My beloved Son.” Now this is not the way to teach us that the
testimony came only to John. And how solemn a thought is this, that the
full certitude of His destiny expanded before the eyes of Jesus, just when
He lifted them from those baptismal waters in which He stooped so low.
The Temptation.
“And straightway the Spirit driveth Him forth into the wilderness.
And He was in the wilderness forty days tempted of Satan; and He
was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered unto
Him.”—MARK i. 12, 13 (R.V.).
St. Mark has not recorded the details of our Lord’s temptations, and lays
more stress upon the duration of the struggle, than the nature of the last
and crowning assaults. But he is careful, like the others, to connect it
closely with the baptism of Jesus, and the miraculous testimony then borne
to Him.
It is indeed instructive that He should have suffered this affront,
immediately upon being recognised as the Messiah. But the explanation will
not be found in the notion, which Milton has popularised, that only now
Satan was assured of the urgent necessity for attacking Him:
“That heard the adversary ... and with the voice Divine
Nigh thunderstruck, the exalted Man, to whom
Such high attest was given, awhile surveyed
With wonder.”
As if Satan forgot the marvels of the sacred infancy. As if the spirits
who attack all could have failed to identify, after thirty years of
defeat, the Greater One whom the Baptist had everywhere proclaimed. No.
But Satan admirably chose the time for a supreme effort. High places are
dizzy, and especially when one has just attained them; and therefore it
was when the voice of the herald and the Voice from the heavens were
blended in acclaim, that the Evil One tried all his arts. He had formerly
plunged Elijah into despair and a desire to die, immediately after fire
from heaven responded to the prophet’s prayer. Soon after this, he would
degrade Peter to be his mouthpiece, just when his noblest testimony was
borne, and the highest approval of his Lord was won. In the flush of their
triumphs he found his best opportunity; but Jesus remained unflushed, and
met the first recorded temptation, in the full consciousness of
Messiahship, by quoting the words which spoke to every man alike, and as
man.
It is a lesson which the weakest needs to learn, for little victories can
intoxicate little men.
It is easy then to see why the recorded temptations insist upon the
exceptional dignity of Christ, and urge Him to seize its advantages, while
He insists on bearing the common burden, and proves Himself greatest by
becoming least of all. The sharp contrast between His circumstances and
His rank drove the temptations deep into His consciousness, and wounded
His sensibilities, though they failed to shake His will.
How unnatural that the Son of God should lack and suffer hunger, how right
that He should challenge recognition, how needful (though now His sacred
Personality is cunningly allowed to fall somewhat into the background)
that He should obtain armies and splendour.
This explains the possibility of temptation in a sinless nature, which
indeed can only be denied by assuming that sin is part of the original
creation. Not because we are sinful, but because we are flesh and blood
(of which He became partaker), when we feel the pains of hunger we are
attracted by food, at whatever price it is offered. In truth, no man is
allured by sin, but only by the bait and bribe of sin, except perhaps in
the last stages of spiritual decomposition.
Now, just as the bait allures, and not the jaws of the trap, so the power
of a temptation is not its wickedness, not the guilty service, but the
proffered recompense; and this appeals to the most upright man, equally
with the most corrupt. Thus the stress of a temptation is to be measured
by our gravitation, not towards the sin, but towards the pleasure or
advantage which is entangled with that. And this may be realised even more
powerfully by a man of keen feeling and vivid imagination who does not
falter, than by a grosser nature which succumbs.
Now Jesus was a perfect man. To His exquisite sensibilities, which had
neither inherited nor contracted any blemish, the pain of hunger at the
opening of His ministry, and the horror of the cross at its close, were
not less intense, but sharper than to ours. And this pain and horror
measured the temptation to evade them. The issue never hung in the scales;
even to hesitate would have been to forfeit the delicate bloom of absolute
sinlessness; but, none the less, the decision was costly, the temptation
poignant.
St. Mark has given us no details; but there is immense and compressed
power in the assertion, only his, that the temptation lasted all through
the forty days. We know the power of an unremitting pressure, an incessant
importunity, a haunting thought. A very trifling annoyance, long
protracted, drives men to strange remedies. And the remorseless urgency of
Satan may be measured by what St. Matthew tells us, that only after the
forty days Jesus became aware of the pains of hunger. Perhaps the
assertion that He was with the wild beasts may throw some ray of light
upon the nature of the temptation. There is no intimation of bodily peril.
On the other hand it seems incredible that what is hinted is His own
consciousness of the supernatural dignity from which
“The fiery serpent fled, and noxious worm;
The lion and fierce tiger glared aloof.”
Such a consciousness would have relieved the strain of which their
presence is evidently a part. Nay, but the oppressive solitude, the waste
region so unlike His blooming Nazareth, and the ferocity of the brute
creation, all would conspire to suggest those dread misgivings and
questionings which are provoked by “the something that infects the world.”
Surely we may believe that He Who was tempted at all points like as we
are, felt now the deadly chill which falls upon the soul from the shadow
of our ruined earth. In our nature He bore the assault and overcame. And
then His human nature condescended to accept help, such as ours receives,
from the ministering spirits which are sent forth to minister to them that
shall be heirs of salvation. So perfectly was He made like unto His
brethren.
The Early Preaching And The First Disciples.
“Now after that John was delivered up, Jesus came into Galilee
preaching the gospel of God, and saying, The time is fulfilled,
and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent ye, and believe in the
gospel. And passing along by the sea of Galilee, He saw Simon and
Andrew the brother of Simon casting a net in the sea; for they
were fishers. And Jesus said unto them, Come ye after Me, and I
will make you to become fishers of men. And straightway they left
the nets, and followed Him. And going on a little further, He saw
James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother, who also were in
the boat mending the nets. And straightway He called them: and
they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired
servants, and went after Him.”—MARK i. 14-20 (R.V.).
St. Mark has shown us the Baptist proclaiming Christ. He now tells us that
when John was imprisoned, Jesus, turning from that Judean ministry which
stirred the jealousy of John’s disciples (John iii. 26), “came into
Galilee, preaching.” And one looks twice before observing that His
teaching is a distinct advance upon the herald’s. Men are still to repent;
for however slightly modern preachers may heal the hurt of souls, real
contrition is here taken over into the gospel scheme. But the time which
was hitherto said to be at hand is now fulfilled. And they are not only to
believe the gospel, but to “believe in it.” Reliance, the effort of the
soul by which it ceases equally to be self-confident and to despair,
confiding itself to some word which is a gospel, or some being who has
salvation to bestow, that is belief in its object. And it is highly
important to observe that faith is thus made prominent so early in our
Lord’s teaching. The vitalizing power of faith was no discovery of St.
Paul; it was not evolved by devout meditation after Jesus had passed from
view, nor introduced into His system when opposition forced Him to bind
men to Him in a stronger allegiance. The power of faith is implied in His
earliest preaching, and it is connected with His earliest miracles. But no
such phrase as the power of faith is ever used. Faith is precious only as
it leans on what is trustworthy. And it is produced, not by thinking of
faith itself, but of its proper object. Therefore Christ did not come
preaching faith, but preaching the gospel of God, and bidding men believe
in that.
Shall we not follow His example? It is morally certain that Abraham never
heard of salvation by faith, yet he was justified by faith when he
believed in Him Who justifieth the ungodly. To preach Him, and His gospel,
is the way to lead men to be saved by faith.
Few things are more instructive to consider than the slow, deliberate, yet
firm steps by which Christ advanced to the revelation of God in flesh.
Thirty years of silence, forty days of seclusion after heaven had
proclaimed Him, leisurely intercourse with Andrew and John, Peter and
Nathanael, and then a brief ministry in a subject nation, and chiefly in a
despised province. It is not the action of a fanatic. It exactly fulfils
His own description of the kingdom which He proclaimed, which was to
exhibit first the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear. And
it is a lesson to all time, that the boldest expectations possible to
faith do not justify feverish haste and excited longings for immediate
prominence or immediate success. The husbandman who has long patience with
the seed is not therefore hopeless of the harvest
Passing by the sea of Galilee, Jesus finds two fishermen at their toil,
and bids them follow Him. Both are men of decided and earnest character;
one is to become the spokesman and leader of the Apostolic band, and the
little which is recorded of the other indicates the same temperament,
somewhat less developed. Our Lord now calls upon them to take a decided
step. But here again we find traces of the same deliberate progression,
the same absence of haste, as in His early preaching. He does not, as
unthinking readers fancy, come upon two utter strangers, fascinate and
arrest them in a moment, and sweep their lives into the vortex of His own.
Andrew had already heard the Baptist proclaim the Lamb of God, had
followed Jesus home, and had introduced his brother, to whom Jesus then
gave the new name Cephas. Their faith had since been confirmed by
miracles. The demands of our Lord may be trying, but they are never
unreasonable, and the faith He claims is not a blind credulity.
Nor does He, even now, finally and entirely call them away from their
occupation. Some time is still to elapse, and a sign, especially
impressive to fishermen, the miraculous draught of fishes, is to burn into
their minds a profound sense of their unworthiness, before the vocation
now promised shall arrive. Then He will say, From henceforth ye shall
catch men: now He says, I will prepare you for that future, I will make
you to become fishers of men. So ungrounded is the suspicion of any
confusion between the stories of the three steps by which they rose to
their Apostleship.
A little further on, He finds the two sons of Zebedee, and calls them
also. John had almost certainly been the companion of Andrew when he
followed Jesus home, and his brother had become the sharer of his hopes.
And if there were any hesitation, the example of their comrades helped
them to decide—so soon, so inevitably does each disciple begin to be a
fisher of other men—and leaving their father, as we are gracefully told,
not desolate, but with servants, they also follow Jesus.
Thus He asks, from each group, the sacrifice involved in following Him at
an inconvenient time. The first are casting their nets and eager in their
quest. The others are mending their nets, perhaps after some large draught
had broken them. So Levi was sitting at the receipt of toll. Not one of
the Twelve was chosen to that high rank when idle.
Very charming, very powerful still is the spell by which Christ drew His
first apostles to His side. Not yet are they told anything of thrones on
which they are to sit and judge the tribes of Israel, or that their names
shall be engraven on the foundations of the heavenly city besides being
great on earth while the world stands. For them, the capture of men was
less lucrative than that of fish, and less honourable, for they suffered
the loss of all things and were made as the filth of the earth. To learn
Christ’s art, to be made helpful in drawing souls to Him, following Jesus
and catching men, this was enough to attract His first ministers; God
grant that a time may never come when ministers for whom this is enough,
shall fail. Where the spirit of self devotion is absent how can the Spirit
of Christ exist?
Teaching With Authority.
“And they go into Capernaum; and straightway on the sabbath day He
entered into the synagogue and taught. And they were astonished at
His teaching: for He taught them as having authority, and not as
the scribes.”—MARK i. 21, 22 (R.V.).
The worship of the synagogues, not having been instituted by Moses, but
gradually developed by the public need, was comparatively free and
unconventional. Sometimes it happened that remarkable and serious-looking
strangers were invited, if they had any word of exhortation, to say on
(Acts xiii. 15). Sometimes one presented himself, as the custom of our
Lord was (Luke iv. 16). Amid the dull mechanical tendencies which were
then turning the heart of Judaism to stone, the synagogue may have been
often a centre of life and rallying-place of freedom. In Galilee, where
such worship predominated over that of the remote Temple and its
hierarchy, Jesus found His trusted followers and the nucleus of the
Church. In foreign lands, St. Paul bore first to his brethren in their
synagogues the strange tidings that their Messiah had expired upon a
cross. And before His rupture with the chiefs of Judaism, the synagogues
were fitting places for our Lord’s early teaching. He made use of the
existing system, and applied it, just as we have seen Him use the teaching
of the Baptist as a starting-point for His own. And this ought to be
observed, that Jesus revolutionized the world by methods the furthest from
being revolutionary. The institutions of His age and land were corrupt
well-nigh to the core, but He did not therefore make a clean sweep, and
begin again. He did not turn His back on the Temple and synagogues, nor
outrage sabbaths, nor come to destroy the law and the prophets. He bade
His followers reverence the seat where the scribes and Pharisees sat, and
drew the line at their false lives and perilous examples. Amid that evil
generation He found soil wherein His seed might germinate, and was content
to hide His leaven in the lump where it should gradually work out its
destiny. In so doing He was at one with Providence, which had slowly
evolved the convictions of the Old Testament, spending centuries upon the
process. Now the power which belongs to such moderation has scarcely been
recognised until these latter days. The political sagacity of Somers and
Burke, and the ecclesiastical wisdom of our own reformers, had their
occult and unsuspected fountains in the method by which Jesus planted the
kingdom which came not with observation. But who taught the Carpenter? It
is therefore significant that all the Gospels of the Galilean ministry
connect our Lord’s early teaching with the synagogue.
St. Mark is by no means the evangelist of the discourses. And this adds to
the interest with which we find him indicate, with precise exactitude, the
first great difference that would strike the hearers of Christ between His
teaching and that of others. He taught with authority, and not as the
scribes. Their doctrine was built with dreary and irrational ingenuity,
upon perverted views of the old law. The shape of a Hebrew letter, words
whereof the initials would spell some important name, wire-drawn
inferences, astounding allusions, ingenuity such as men waste now upon the
number of the beast and the measurement of a pyramid, these were the
doctrine of the scribes.
And an acute observer would remark that the authority of Christ’s teaching
was peculiar in a farther-reaching sense. If, as seems clear, Jesus said,
“Ye have heard that it hath been said” (not “by,” but) “to them of old
time, but I say unto you,” He then claimed the place, not of Moses who
heard the Divine Voice, but of Him Who spoke. Even if this could be
doubted, the same spirit is elsewhere unmistakable. The tables which Moses
brought were inscribed by the finger of Another: none could make him the
Supreme arbitrator while overhead the trumpet waxed louder and louder,
while the fiery pillar marshalled their journeying, while the mysterious
Presence consecrated the mysterious shrine. Prophet after prophet opened
and closed his message with the words, “Thus saith the Lord.” ... “For the
mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.” Jesus was content with the attestation,
“Verily, I say unto you.” Blessed as a wise builder was the hearer and
doer of “these words of Mine.” Everywhere in His teaching the centre of
authority is personal. He distinctly recognises the fact that He is adding
to the range of the ancient law of respect for human life, and for purity,
veracity and kindness. But He assigns no authority for these additions,
beyond His own. Persecution by all men is a blessed thing to endure, if it
be for His sake and the gospel’s. Now this is unique. Moses or Isaiah
never dreamed that devotion to himself took rank with devotion to his
message. Nor did St. Paul. But Christ opens His ministry with the same
pretensions as at the close, when others may not be called Rabbi, nor
Master, because these titles belong to Him.
And the lapse of ages renders this “authority” of Christ more wonderful
than at first. The world bows down before something other than His
clearness of logic or subtlety of inference. He still announces where
others argue, He reveals, imposes on us His supremacy, bids us take His
yoke and learn. And we still discover in His teaching a freshness and
profundity, a universal reach of application and yet an unearthliness of
aspect, which suit so unparalleled a claim. Others have constructed
cisterns in which to store truth, or aqueducts to convey it from higher
levels. Christ is Himself a fountain; and not only so, but the water which
He gives, when received aright, becomes in the faithful heart a well of
water springing up in new, inexhaustible developments.
Miracles.
“And straightway there was in their synagogue a man with an
unclean spirit.”—MARK i. 23 (R.V.).
We have just read that Christ’s teaching astonished the hearers. He was
about to astonish them yet more, for we have now reached the first miracle
which St. Mark records. With what sentiments should such a narrative be
approached? The evangelist connects it emphatically with Christ’s
assertion of authority. Immediately upon the impression which His manner
of teaching produced, straightway, there was in the synagogue a man with
an unclean spirit. And upon its expulsion, what most impressed the people
was, that as He taught with authority, so “with authority He commandeth
even the unclean spirits, and they obey Him.”
Let us try whether this may not be a providential clue, to guide us amid
the embarrassments which beset, in our day, the whole subject of miracles.
A miracle, we are told, is an interference with the laws of nature; and it
is impossible, because they are fixed and their operation is uniform. But
these bold words need not disconcert any one who has learned to ask, In
what sense are the operations of nature uniform? Is the operation of the
laws which govern the wind uniform, whether my helm is to port or
starboard? Can I not modify the operation of sanitary laws by
deodorization, by drainage, by a thousand resources of civilization? The
truth is, that while natural laws remain fixed, human intelligence
profoundly modifies their operation. How then will the objector prove that
no higher Being can as naturally do the same? He answers, Because the sum
total of the forces of nature is a fixed quantity: nothing can be added to
that sum, nothing taken from it: the energy of all our machinery existed
ages ago in the heat of tropical suns, then in vegetation, and ever since,
though latent, in our coal beds; and the claim to add anything to that
total is subversive of modern science. But again we ask, If the physician
adds nothing to the sum of forces when he banishes one disease by
inoculation, and another by draining a marsh, why must Jesus have added to
the sum of forces in order to expel a demon or to cool a fever? It will
not suffice to answer, because His methods are contrary to experience.
Beyond experience they are. But so were the marvels of electricity to our
parents and of steam to theirs. The chemistry which analyses the stars is
not incredible, although thirty years ago its methods were “contrary” to
the universal experience of humanity. Man is now doing what he never did
before, because he is a more skilful and better informed agent than he
ever was. Perhaps at this moment, in the laboratory of some unknown
student, some new force is preparing to amaze the world. But the sum of
the forces of nature will remain unchanged. Why is it assumed that a
miracle must change them? Simply because men have already denied God, or
at least denied that He is present within His world, as truly as the
chemist is within it. If we think of Him as interrupting its processes
from without, laying upon the vast machine so powerful a grasp as to
arrest its working, then indeed the sum of forces is disturbed, and the
complaints of science are justified. This may, or it may not, have been
the case in creative epochs, of which science knows no more than of the
beginning of life and of consciousness. But it has nothing to say against
the doctrine of the miracles of Jesus. For this doctrine assumes that God
is ever present in His universe; that by Him all things consist; that He
is not far from any one of us, for in Him we live and move and have our
being, although men may be as unconscious of Him as of gravitation and
electricity. When these became known to man, the stability of law was
unaffected. And it is a wild assumption that if a supreme and vital force
exist, a living God, He cannot make His energies visible without affecting
the stability of law.
Now Christ Himself appeals expressly and repeatedly to this immanent
presence of God as the explanation of His “works.”
“My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.” “The Father loveth the Son, and
showeth Him all things that Himself doeth.” “I, by the finger of God, cast
out devils.”
Thus a miracle, even in the Old Testament, is not an interruption of law
by God, but a manifestation of God who is within nature always; to common
events it is as the lightning to the cloud, a revelation of the
electricity which was already there. God was made known, when invoked by
His agents, in signs from heaven, in fire and tempest, in drought and
pestilence, a God who judgeth. These are the miracles of God interposing
for His people against their foes. But the miracles of Christ are those of
God carrying forward to the uttermost His presence in the world, God
manifest in the flesh. They are the works of Him in Whom dwelleth all the
fulness of the Godhead bodily.
And this explains what would otherwise be so perplexing, the essentially
different nature of His miracles from those of the Old Testament.
Infidelity pretends that those are the models on which myth or legend
formed the miracles of Jesus, but the plain answer is that they are built
on no model of the kind. The difference is so great as to be startling.
Tremendous convulsions and visitations of wrath are now unknown, because
God is now reconciling the world unto Himself, and exhibiting in miracles
the presence of Him Who is not far from every one of us, His presence in
love to redeem the common life of man, and to bless, by sharing it.
Therefore His gifts are homely, they deal with average life and its
necessities, bread and wine and fish are more to the purpose than that man
should eat angels’ food, the rescue of storm-tossed fishermen than the
engulfment of pursuing armies, the healing of prevalent disease than the
plaguing of Egypt or the destruction of Sennacherib.
Such a Presence thus manifested is the consistent doctrine of the Church.
It is a theory which men may reject at their own peril if they please. But
they must not pretend to refute it by any appeal to either the uniformity
of law or the stability of force.
Men tell us that the divinity of Jesus was an afterthought; what shall we
say then to this fact, that men observed from the very first a difference
between the manner of His miracles and all that was recorded in their
Scriptures, or that they could have deemed fit? It is exactly the same
peculiarity, carried to the highest pitch; as they already felt in His
discourses. They are wrought without any reference whatever to a superior
will. Moses cried unto the Lord, saying, What shall I do? Elijah said,
Hear me O Lord, hear me. But Jesus said, I will ... I charge thee come out
... I am able to do this. And so marked is the change, that even His
followers cast out devils in His name, and say not, Where is the Lord God
of Israel? but, In the Name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. His power is
inherent, it is self-possessed, and His acts in the synoptics are only
explained by His words in St. John, “What things soever the Father doeth,
these the Son also doeth in like manner.” No wonder that St. Mark adds to
His very first record of a miracle, that the people were amazed, and
asked, What is this? a new teaching! with authority He commandeth even the
unclean spirits and they do obey Him! It was divinity which, without
recognising, they felt, implicit in His bearing. No wonder also that His
enemies strove hard to make Him say, Who gave Thee this authority? Nor
could they succeed in drawing from Him any sign from heaven. The centre
and source of the supernatural, for human apprehension, has shifted
itself, and the vision of Jesus is the vision of the Father also.
The Demoniac.
“And straightway there was in their synagogue a man with an
unclean spirit; and he cried out, saying, What have we to do with
Thee, Thou Jesus of Nazareth? art Thou come to destroy us? I know
Thee Who Thou art, the Holy One of God. And Jesus rebuked him,
saying, Hold thy peace, and come out of him. And the unclean
spirit, tearing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him.
And they were all amazed, insomuch that they questioned among
themselves, saying, What is this? a new teaching! with authority
He commandeth even the unclean spirits, and they obey Him. And the
report of Him went out straightway everywhere into all the region
of Galilee round about.”—MARK i. 23-28 (R.V.).
We have seen that belief in the stability of natural law does not forbid
us to believe in miracles.
Special objections are urged, however, against the belief in demoniacal
possession. The very existence of demons is declared to be inconsistent
with the omnipotence of God, or else with His goodness.
And it may be granted that abstract reasoning in an ideal world, thought
moving in a vacuum, would scarcely evolve a state of things so far removed
from the ideal. This, however, is an argument against the existence, not
of demons, but of evil in any shape. It is the familiar insoluble problem
of all religions, How can evil exist in the universe of God? And it is
balanced by the insoluble problem of all irreligious systems: In a
universe without God, how can either good or evil exist, as distinguished
from the advantageous and the unprofitable? Whence comes the
unquestionable difference between a lie and a bad bargain?
But the argument against evil spirits professes to be something more than
a disguised reproduction of this abstract problem. What more is it? What
is gained by denying the fiends, as long as we cannot deny the fiends
incarnate—the men who take pleasure in unrighteousness, in the seduction
and ruin of their fellows, in the infliction of torture and outrage, in
the ravage and desolation of nations? Such freedom has been granted to the
human will, for even these ghastly issues have not been judged so deadly
as coercion and moral fatalism. What presumption can possibly remain
against the existence of other beings than men, who have fallen yet
farther? If, indeed, it be certainly so much farther. For we know that men
have lived, not outcasts from society, but boastful sons of Abraham, who
willed to perform the lusts (τὰ ἐπιθυμίας) of their father the devil. Now
since we are not told that the wickedness of demons is infinite,(3) but
only that it is abysmal, and since we know that abysses of wickedness do
actually exist, what sort of vindication of Deity is this which will
believe that such gulfs are yawning only in the bosom of man?
It alarms and shocks us to think that evil spirits have power over the
human mind, and still more that such power should extend, as in cases of
possession, even to the body. Evil men, however, manifestly wield such
power. “They got rid of the wicked one,” said Goethe, “but they could not
get rid of the wicked ones.” Social and intellectual charm, high rank, the
mysterious attraction of a strong individuality, all are employed at times
to mislead and debase the shuddering, reluctant, mesmerised wills of
weaker men and women. And then the mind acts upon the body, as perhaps it
always does. Drunkenness and debauchery shake the nerves. Paralysis and
lunacy tread hard on the footsteps of excess. Experience knows no reason
for denying that when wickedness conquers the soul it will also deal
hardly with the body.
But we must not stop here. For the Gospels do not countenance the popular
notion that special wickedness was the cause of the fearful wretchedness
of the possessed. Young children suffered. Jesus often cautioned a
sufferer to sin no more lest worse results should follow than those He had
removed; but He is never known to have addressed this warning to
demoniacs. They suffered from the tyranny of Satan, rather than from his
seduction; and the analogies which make credible so frightful an outrage
upon human nature, are the wrongs done by despots and mobs, by invading
armies and persecuting religionists. Yet people who cannot believe that a
demon could throw a child upon the fire, are not incredulous of Attila,
Napoleon, and the Inquisition.
Thus it appears that such a narrative need startle no believer in God, and
in moral good and evil, who considers the unquestionable facts of life.
And how often will the observant Christian be startled at the wild
insurrection and surging up of evil thought and dark suggestions, which he
cannot believe to be his own, which will not be gainsaid nor repulsed. How
easily do such experiences fall in with the plain words of Scripture, by
which the veil is drawn aside, and the mystery of the spiritual world laid
bare. Then we learn that man is not only fallen but assaulted, not only
feeble but enslaved, not only a wandering sheep but led captive by the
devil at his will.
We turn to the narrative before us. They are still wondering at our Lord’s
authoritative manner, when “straightway,” for opportunities were countless
until unbelief arose, a man with an unclean spirit attracts attention. We
can only conjecture the special meaning of this description. A recent
commentator assumes that “like the rest, he had his dwelling among the
tombs: an overpowering influence had driven him away from the haunts of
men.” (Canon Luckock, _in loco_). To others this feature in the
wretchedness of the Gadarene may perhaps seem rather to be exceptional,
the last touch in the appalling picture of his misery. It may be that
nothing more outrageous than morbid gloom or sullen mutterings had
hitherto made it necessary to exclude this sufferer from the synagogue. Or
the language may suggest that he rushed abruptly in, driven by the frantic
hostility of the fiend, or impelled by some mysterious and lingering hope,
as the demoniac of Gadara ran to Christ.
What we know is that the sacred Presence provoked a crisis. There is an
unbelief which never can be silent, never wearies railing at the faith,
and there is a corruption which resents goodness and hates it as a
personal wrong. So the demons who possessed men were never able to
confront Jesus calmly. They resent His interference; they cry out; they
disclaim having anything to do with Him; they seem indignant that He
should come to destroy them who have destroyed so many. There is something
weird and unearthly in the complaint. But men also are wont to forget
their wrong doing when they come to suffer, and it is recorded that even
Nero had abundance of compassion for himself. Weird also and terrible is
it, that this unclean spirit should choose for his confession that pure
and exquisite epithet, the Holy One of God. The phrase only recurs in the
words of St. Peter, “We have believed and know that Thou art the Holy One
of God” (John vi. 69, R.V.). Was it not a mournful association of ideas
which then led Jesus to reply, “Have I not chosen you the Twelve, and one
of you is a devil?(4)” But although the phrase is beautiful, and possibly
“wild with all regret,” there is no relenting, no better desire than to be
“let alone.” And so Jesus, so gentle with sinful men, yet sometime to be
their judge also, is stern and cold. “Hold thy peace—be muzzled,” He
answers, as to a wild beast, “and come out of him.” Whereupon the evil
spirit exhibits at once his ferocity and his defeat. Tearing and
screaming, he came out, but we read in St. Luke that he did the man no
harm.
And the spectators drew the proper inference. A new power implied a new
revelation. Something far-reaching and profound might be expected from Him
who commanded even the unclean spirits with authority, and was obeyed.
It is the custom of unbelievers to speak as if the air of Palestine were
then surcharged with belief in the supernatural. Miracles were everywhere.
Thus they would explain away the significance of the popular belief that
our Lord wrought signs and wonders. But in so doing they set themselves a
worse problem than they evade. If miracles were so very common, it would
be as easy to believe that Jesus wrought them as that He worked at His
father’s bench. But also it would be as inconclusive. And how then are we
to explain the astonishment which all the evangelists so constantly
record? On any conceivable theory, these writers shared the beliefs of
that age. And so did the readers who accepted their assurance that all
were amazed, and that His report “went out straightway everywhere into all
the region of Galilee.” These are emphatic words, and both the author and
his readers must have considered a miracle to be more surprising than
modern critics believe they did.
Yet we do not read that any one was converted by this miracle. All were
amazed, but wonder is not self-surrender. They were content to let their
excitement die out, as every violent emotion must, without any change of
life, any permanent devotion to the new Teacher and His doctrine.
A Group Of Miracles.
“And straightway, when they were come out of the synagogue, they
came into the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now
Simon’s wife’s mother lay sick of a fever; and straightway they
tell Him of her: and He came and took her by the hand, and raised
her up; and the fever left her, and she ministered unto them. And
at even, when the sun did set, they brought unto Him all that were
sick, and them that were possessed with devils. And all the city
was gathered together at the door. And He healed many that were
sick with divers diseases, and cast out many devils; and He
suffered not the devils to speak, because they knew Him.”—MARK i.
29-34 (R.V.).
St. Matthew tells us that on leaving the synagogue they entered into
Peter’s house. St. Mark, with his peculiar sources of information, is
aware that Andrew shared the house with his brother.
Especial interest attaches to the mention of the mother-in-law of Peter,
as proving that Jesus chose a married man to be an apostle, the very
apostle from whom the celibate ministry of Rome professes to have received
the keys. The evidence does not stand alone. When St. Paul’s apostolic
authority was impugned, he insisted that he had the same right to bring
with him in his travels a believing wife, which Peter exercised. And
Clement of Alexandria tells us that Peter’s wife acted as his coadjutor,
ministering to women in their own homes, by which means the gospel of
Christ penetrated without scandal the privacy of women’s apartments. Thus
the notion of a Zenana mission is by no means modern.
The mother of such a wife is afflicted by fever of a kind which still
haunts that district. “And they tell Him of her.” Doubtless there was
solicitude and hope in their voices, even if desire did not take the shape
of formal prayer. We are just emerging from that early period when belief
in His power to heal might still be united with some doubt whether free
application might be made to Him. His disciples might still be as unwise
as those modern theologians who are so busy studying the miracles as a
sign that they forget to think of them as works of love. Any such
hesitation was now to be dispelled for ever.
It is possible that such is the meaning of the expression, and if so, it
has a useful lesson. Sometimes there are temporal gifts which we scarce
know whether we should pray for, so complex are our feelings, so entangled
our interests with those of others, so obscure and dubious the springs
which move our desire. Is it presumptuous to ask? Yet can it be right to
keep anything back, in our communion with our Father?
Now there is a curious similarity between the expression “they tell Jesus
of her” and that phrase which is only applied to prayer when St. Paul bids
us pray for all that is in our hearts. “In nothing be anxious, but in
everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests
be made known unto God.” So shall the great benediction be fulfilled: “The
peace of God which passeth all understanding, shall guard your hearts and
your thoughts” (Phil. iv. 6, 7). All that is unholy shall be purified, all
that is unwise subdued, all that is expedient granted.
If this be indeed the force of St. Mark’s phrase, Jesus felt their modest
reticence to be a strong appeal, for St. Luke says “they besought Him,”
while St. Matthew merely writes that He saw her lying. The “Interpreter of
St. Peter” is most likely to have caught the exact shade of anxiety and
appeal by which her friends drew His attention, and which was indeed a
prayer.
The gentle courtesy of our Lord’s healings cannot be too much studied by
those who would know His mind and love Him. Never does He fling a careless
blessing as coarse benefactors fling their alms; we shall hereafter see
how far He was from leaving fallen bread to be snatched as by a dog, even
by one who would have welcomed a boon thus contemptuously given to her;
and in the hour of His arrest, when He would heal the ear of a persecutor,
His courtesy appeals to those who had laid hold on Him, “Suffer ye thus
far.” Thus He went to this woman and took her by the hand and raised her
up, laying a cool touch upon her fevered palm, bestowing His strength upon
her weakness, healing her as He would fain heal humanity. For at His touch
the disease was banished; with His impulse her strength returned.
We do not read that she felt bound thereupon to become an obtrusive public
witness to His powers: that was not her function; but in her quiet home
she failed not to minister unto Him who had restored her powers. Would
that all whose physical powers Jesus renews from sickness, might devote
their energies to Him. Would that all for whom He has calmed the fever of
earthly passion, might arise and be energetic in His cause.
Think of the wonder, the gladness and gratitude of their humble feast. But
if we felt aright the sickness of our souls, and the grace which heals
them, equal gratitude would fill our lives as He sups with us and we with
Him.
Tidings of the two miracles have quickly gone abroad, and as the sun sets,
and the restraint of the sabbath is removed, all the city gathers all the
sick around His door.
Now here is a curious example of the peril of pressing too eagerly our
inferences from the expressions of an evangelist. St. Mark tells us that
they brought “all their sick and them that were possessed with devils. And
He healed” (not all, but) “many that were sick, and cast out many devils.”
How easily we might distinguish between the “all” who came, and the “many”
who were healed. Want of faith would explain the difference, and spiritual
analogies would be found for those who remained unhealed at the feet of
the good Physician. These lessons might be very edifying, but they would
be out of place, for St. Matthew tells us that He healed them all.
But who can fail to contrast this universal movement, the urgent quest of
bodily health, and the willingness of friends and neighbours to convey
their sick to Jesus, with our indifference to the health of the soul, and
our neglect to lead others to the Saviour. Disease being the cold shadow
of sin, its removal was a kind of sacrament, an outward and visible sign
that the Healer of souls was nigh. But the chillness of the shadow
afflicts us more than the pollution of the substance, and few professing
Christians lament a hot temper as sincerely as a fever.
As Jesus drove out the demons, He suffered them not to speak because they
knew Him. We cannot believe that His rejection of their impure testimony
was prudential only, whatever possibility there may have been of that
charge of complicity which was afterwards actually brought. Any help which
might have come to Him from the lips of hell was shocking and revolting to
our Lord. And this is a lesson for all religious and political partisans
who stop short of doing evil themselves, but reject no advantage which the
evil deeds of others may bestow. Not so cold and negative is the morality
of Jesus. He regards as contamination whatever help fraud, suppressions of
truth, injustice, by whomsoever wrought, can yield. He rejects them by an
instinct of abhorrence, and not only because shame and dishonour have
always befallen the purest cause which stooped to unholy alliances.
Jesus that day showed Himself powerful alike in the congregation, in the
home, and in the streets, and over evil spirits and physical disease
alike.
Jesus In Solitude.
“And in the morning, a great while before day, He rose up and went
out, and departed into a desert place, and there prayed. And Simon
and they that were with him followed after Him; and they found
Him, and say unto Him, All are seeking Thee. And He saith unto
them, Let us go elsewhere into the next towns, that I may preach
there also; for to this end came I forth. And He went into their
synagogues throughout all Galilee, and preaching casting out
devils.”—MARK i. 35-39 (R.V.).
St. Mark is pre-eminently the historian of Christ’s activities. From him
chiefly we learn to add to our thought of perfect love and gentleness that
of One whom the zeal of God’s house ate up. But this evangelist does not
omit to tell us by what secret fountains this river of life was fed; how
the active labours of Jesus were inspired in secret prayers. Too often we
allow to one side of religion a development which is not excessive, but
disproportionate, and we are punished when contemplation becomes
nerveless, or energy burns itself away.
After feeding the five thousand, St. Mark tells us that Jesus, while the
storm gathered over His disciples on the lake, went up into a mountain to
pray. And St. Luke tells of a whole night of prayer before choosing His
disciples, and how it was to pray that He climbed the mountain of
transfiguration.
And we read of Him going into a desert place with His disciples, and to
Olivet, and oft-times resorting to the garden where Judas found Him,
where, in the dead of night, the traitor naturally sought Him.
Prayer was the spring of all His energies, and His own saying indicated
the habit of His mortal life as truly as the law of His mysterious
generation: “I live by the Father.”
His prayers impress nothing on us more powerfully than the reality of His
manhood. He, Who possesses all things, bends His knees to crave, and His
prayers are definite, no empty form, no homage without sense of need, no
firing of blank cartridge without an aim. He asks that His disciples may
be with Him where He is, that Simon’s strength may fail not, that He may
Himself be saved from a dreadful hour. “Such touches” said Godet “do not
look like an artificial apotheosis of Jesus, and they constitute a
striking difference between the gospel portrait and the legendary
caricature.”
The entire evening had been passed in healing the diseases of the whole
town; not the light and careless bestowal of a boon which cost nothing,
but wrought with so much sympathy, such draining of His own vital forces,
that St. Matthew found in it a fulfilment of the prophecy that He should
Himself bear our sicknesses. And thus exhausted, the frame might have been
forgiven for demanding some indulgence, some prolongation of repose.
But the course of our Lord’s ministry was now opening up before Him, and
the hindrances becoming visible. How much was to be hoped from the great
impression already made; how much to be feared from the weakness of His
followers, the incipient envy of priest and Pharisee, and the volatile
excitability of the crowd. At such a time, to relieve His burdened heart
with Divine communion was more to Jesus than repose, as, at another time,
to serve Him was meat to eat. And therefore, in the still fresh morning,
long before the dawn, while every earthly sight was dim but the abysses of
heaven were vivid, declaring without voice, amid the silence of earth’s
discord, the glory and the handiwork of His Father, Jesus went into a
solitary place and prayed.
What is it that makes solitude and darkness dreadful to some, and
oppressive to very many?
Partly the sense of physical danger, born of helplessness and uncertainty.
This He never felt, who knew that He must walk to-day and to-morrow, and
on the third day be perfected. And partly it is the weight of unwelcome
reflection, the searching and rebukes of memory, fears that come of guilt,
and inward distractions of a nature estranged from the true nature of the
universe. Jesus was agitated by no inward discords, upbraided by no
remorse. And He had probably no reveries; He is never recorded to
soliloquise; solitude to Him was but another name for communion with God
His Father; He was never alone, for God was with Him.
This retirement enabled Him to remain undisturbed until His disciples
found Him, long after the crowds had besieged their dwelling. They had not
yet learned how all true external life must rest upon the hidden life of
devotion, and there is an accent of regret in the words, “All are seeking
Thee,” as if Jesus could neglect in self-culture any true opportunity for
service.
The answer, noteworthy in itself, demands especial attention in these
times of missions, demonstrations, Salvation Armies, and other wise and
unwise attempts to gather excited crowds around the cross.
Mere sensation actually repelled Jesus. Again and again He charged men not
to make Him known, in places where He would stay; while in Gadara, which
He had to leave, His command to the demoniac was the reverse. Deep and
real convictions are not of kin with sight-seeing and the pursuit of
wonders. Capernaum has now heard His message, has received its full share
of physical blessing, is exalted unto heaven. Those who were looking for
redemption knew the gospel, and Jesus must preach it in other towns also.
Therefore, and not to be the centre of admiring multitudes, came He forth
from His quiet home.
Such is the sane and tranquil action of Jesus, in face of the excitement
caused by His many miracles. Now the miracles themselves, and all that
depends on them, are declared to be the creation of the wildest
fanaticism, either during His lifetime or developing His legend
afterwards. And if so, we have here, in the action of human mind, the
marvel of modern physicists, ice from a red-hot retort, absolute
moderation from a dream of frenzy. And this paradox is created in the act
of “explaining” the miracles. The explanation, even were it sustained by
any evidence, would be as difficult as any miracle to believe.
The Leper.
“And there cometh to Him a leper, beseeching Him, and kneeling
down to Him, and saying unto Him, If Thou wilt, Thou canst make me
clean. And being moved with compassion, He stretched forth His
hand, and touched him, and saith unto him I will; be thou made
clean. And straightway the leprosy departed from him, and he was
made clean. And He strictly charged him, and straightway sent him
out, and saith unto him, See thou say nothing to any man: but go
thy way, show thyself to the priest, and offer for thy cleansing
the things which Moses commanded, for a testimony unto them. But
he went out, and began to publish it much, and to spread abroad
the matter insomuch that Jesus could no more openly enter into a
city, but was without in desert places: and they came to Him from
every quarter.”—MARK i. 40-45 (R.V.).
The disease of leprosy was peculiarly fearful to a Jew. In its stealthy
beginning, its irresistible advance, the utter ruin which it wrought from
the blood outward until the flesh was corroded and fell away, it was a fit
type of sin, at first so trivial in its indications, but gradually
usurping all the nature and corrupting it. And the terrible fact, that the
children of its victims were also doomed, reminded the Israelite of the
transmission of the taint of Adam.
The story of Naaman and that of Gehazi make it almost certain that the
leprosy of Scripture was not contagious, for they were intimate with
kings. But apparently to complete the type, the law gave to it the
artificial contagion of ceremonial uncleanness, and banished the unhappy
sufferer from the dwellings of men. Thus he came to be regarded as under
an especial ban, and the prophecy which announced that the illustrious Man
of Sorrows would be esteemed “stricken of God,” was taken to mean that He
should be a leper. This banishment of the leper was indeed a remarkable
exception to the humanity of the ancient law, but when his distress began
to be extreme, and “the plague was turned into white,” he was released
from his uncleanness (Lev. xiii. 17). And this may teach us that sin is to
be dreaded most while it is yet insidious; when developed it gives a
sufficient warning against itself. And now such a sufferer appeals to
Jesus. The incident is one of the most pathetic in the Gospel; and its
graphic details, and the shining character which it reveals, make it very
perplexing to moderate and thoughtful sceptics.
Those who believe that the charm of His presence was “worth all the
resources of medicine,” agree that Christ may have cured even leprosy, and
insist that this story, as told by St. Mark, “must be genuine.” Others
suppose that the leper was already cured, and Jesus only urged him to
fulfil the requirements of the law. And why not deny the story boldly? Why
linger so longingly over the details, when credence is refused to what is
plainly the mainspring of the whole, the miraculous power of Jesus? The
answer is plain. Honest minds feel the touch of a great nature; the misery
of the suppliant and the compassion of his Restorer are so vivid as to
prove themselves; no dreamer of a myth, no process of legend-building,
ever wrought after this fashion. But then, the misery and compassion being
granted, the whole story is practically conceded. It only remains to ask,
whether the “presence of the Saintly Man” could work a chemical change in
tainted blood. For it must be insisted that the man was “full of leprosy,”
and not, as one suggests, already far advanced towards cure. The contrast
between his running and kneeling at the very feet of Jesus, and the
conduct of the ten lepers, not yet released from their exclusion, who
stood afar off while they cried out (Luke xvii. 12), is sufficient
evidence of this, even if the express statement of St. Luke were not
decisive.
Repulsive, and until now despairing, only tolerated among men through the
completeness of his plague, this man pushes through the crowd which
shrinks from him, kneels in an agony of supplication, and says “If Thou
wilt, Thou canst make me clean.” If Thou wilt! The cruelty of man has
taught him to doubt the heart, even though satisfied of the power of
Jesus. In a few years, men came to assume the love, and exult in the
reflection that He was “able to keep what ‘was’ committed to Him,” “able
to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think.” It did not
occur to St. Paul that any mention of His will was needed.
Nor did Jesus Himself ask a later suppliant, “Believest thou that I am
willing,” but “Believest thou that I am able to do this?”
But the charm of this delightful incident is the manner in which our Lord
grants the impassioned prayer. We might have expected a shudder, a natural
recoil from the loathsome spectacle, and then a wonder-working word. But
misery which He could relieve did not repel Jesus; it attracted Him. His
impulse was to approach. He not only answered “I will,”—and deep is the
will to remove all anguish in the wonderful heart of Jesus,—but He
stretched forth an unshrinking hand, and touched that death in life. It is
a parable of all His course, this laying of a clean hand on the sin of the
world to cleanse it. At His touch, how was the morbid frame thrilled with
delightful pulses of suddenly renovated health. And how was the
despairing, joyless heart, incredulous of any real will to help him,
soothed and healed by the pure delight of being loved.
This is the true lesson of the narrative. St. Mark treats the miraculous
cure much more lightly than the tender compassion and the swift movement
to relieve suffering. And He is right. The warm and generous nature
revealed by this fine narrative is what, as we have seen, most impresses
the doubter, and ought most to comfort the Church. For He is the same
yesterday and to-day. And perhaps, if the divinity of love impressed men
as much as that of power, there would be less denial of the true Godhead
of our Lord.
The touch of a leper made a Jew unclean. And there is a surprising theory,
that when Jesus could no more openly enter into a city, it was because the
leper had disobediently published what implied His ceremonial defilement.
As if our Lord were one to violate the law by stealth.
But is it very remarkable that Christ, Who was born under the law, never
betrayed any anxiety about cleanness. The law of impurity was in fact an
expression of human frailty. Sin spreads corruption far more easily than
virtue diffuses purity. The touch of goodness fails to reproduce goodness.
And the prophet Haggai has laid stress upon this contrast, that bread or
pottage or wine or oil or any meat will not become holy at the touch of
one who bears holy flesh in the skirt of his garment, but if one that is
unclean by a dead body touch any of these, it shall be unclean (ii. 12,
13). Our hearts know full well how true to nature is the ordinance.
But Christ brought among us a virtue more contagious than our vices are,
being not only a living soul, but a life-imparting Spirit. And thus He
lays His hand upon this leper, upon the bier at Nain, upon the corpse of
the daughter of Jairus, and as fire is kindled at the touch of fire, so
instead of pollution to Him, the pureness of healthful life is imparted to
the defiling and defiled.
And His followers also are to possess a religion that is vitalizing, to be
the light of the world, and the salt of the earth.
If we are thus to further His cause, we must not only be zealous but
obedient, Jesus strictly charged the leper not to fan the flame of an
excitement which already impeded His work. But there was an invaluable
service which he might render: the formal registration of his cure, the
securing its official recognition by the priests, and their consent to
offer the commanded sacrifices. In many a subsequent controversy, that
“testimony unto them” might have been embarrassing indeed. But the leper
lost his opportunity, and put them upon their guard. And as through his
impulsive clamour Jesus could no more openly enter into a city, but even
in desert places was beset by excited crowds, so is He deprived today of
many a tranquil ministration and lowly service, by the zeal which despises
order and quiet methods, by the undisciplined and ill-judged
demonstrations of men and women whom He has blessed.