The Parables.
“And again He began to teach by the sea side. And there is
gathered unto Him a very great multitude, so that He entered into
a boat, and sat in the sea; and all the multitude were by the sea
on the land. And He taught them many things in parables, and said
unto them in His teaching....
“And when He was alone, they that were about Him with the twelve
asked of Him the parables. And He said unto them, Unto you is
given the mystery of the kingdom of God: but unto them that are
without, all things are done in parables: that seeing they may
see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear, and not
understand; lest haply they should turn again, and it should be
forgiven them. And He saith unto them, Know ye not this parable?
and how shall ye know all the parables?”—MARK iv. 1, 2, 10-13
(R.V.).
As opposition deepened, and to a vulgar ambition, the temptation to retain
disciples by all means would have become greater, Jesus began to teach in
parables. We know that He had not hitherto done so, both by the surprise
of the Twelve, and by the necessity which He found, of giving them a clue
to the meaning of such teachings, and so to “all the parables.” His own
ought to have understood. But He was merciful to the weakness which
confessed its failure and asked for instruction.
And yet He foresaw that they which were without would discern no spiritual
meaning in such discourse. It was to have, at the same time, a revealing
and a baffling effect, and therefore it was peculiarly suitable for the
purposes of a Teacher watched by vindictive foes. Thus, when
cross-examined about His authority by men who themselves professed to know
not whence John’s baptism was, He could refuse to be entrapped, and yet
tell of One Who sent His own Son, His Beloved, to receive the fruit of the
vineyard.
This diverse effect is derived from the very nature of the parables of
Jesus. They are not, like some in the Old Testament, mere fables, in which
things occur that never happen in real life. Jotham’s trees seeking a
king, are as incredible as Æsop’s fox leaping for grapes. But Jesus never
uttered a parable which was not true to nature, the kind of thing which
one expects to happen. We cannot say that a rich man in hell actually
spoke to Abraham in heaven. But if he could do so, of which we are not
competent to judge, we can well believe that he would have spoken just
what we read, and that his pathetic cry, “Father Abraham,” would have been
as gently answered, “Son, remember.” There is no ferocity in the skies;
neither has the lost soul become a fiend. Everything commends itself to
our judgment. And therefore the story not only illustrates, but appeals,
enforces, almost proves.
God in nature does not arrange that all seeds should grow: men have
patience while the germ slowly fructifies, they know not how; in all
things but religion such sacrifices are made, that the merchant sells all
to buy one goodly pearl; an earthly father kisses his repentant prodigal;
and even a Samaritan can be neighbour to a Jew in his extremity. So the
world is constructed: such is even the fallen human heart. Is it not
reasonable to believe that the same principles will extend farther; that
as God governs the world of matter so He may govern the world of spirits,
and that human helpfulness and clemency will not outrun the graces of the
Giver of all good?
This is the famous argument from analogy, applied long before the time of
Butler, to purposes farther-reaching than his. But there is this
remarkable difference, that the analogy is never pressed, men are left to
discover it for themselves, or at least, to ask for an explanation,
because they are conscious of something beyond the tale, something
spiritual, something which they fain would understand.
Now this difference is not a mannerism; it is intended. Butler pressed
home his analogies because he was striving to silence gainsayers. His Lord
and ours left men to discern or to be blind, because they had already
opportunity to become His disciples if they would. The faithful among them
ought to be conscious, or at least they should now become conscious, of
the God of grace in the God of nature. To them the world should be
eloquent of the Father’s mind. They should indeed find tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks, sermons in stones. He spoke to the sensitive
mind, which would understand Him, as a wife reads her husband’s secret
joys and sorrows by signs no stranger can understand. Even if she fails to
comprehend, she knows there is something to ask about. And thus, when they
were alone, the Twelve asked Him of the parables. When they were
instructed, they gained not only the moral lesson, and the sweet pastoral
narrative, the idyllic picture which conveyed it, but also the assurance
imparted by recognizing the same mind of God which is revealed in His
world, or justified by the best impulses of humanity. Therefore, no
parable is sensational. It cannot root itself in the exceptional, the
abnormal events on which men do not reckon, which come upon us with a
shock. For we do not argue from these to daily life.
But while this mode of teaching was profitable to His disciples, and
protected Him against His foes, it had formidable consequences for the
frivolous empty followers after a sign. Because they were such they could
only find frivolity and lightness in these stories; the deeper meaning lay
farther below the surface than such eyes could pierce. Thus the light they
had abused was taken from them. And Jesus explained to His disciples that,
in acting thus, He pursued the fixed rule of God. The worst penalty of
vice is that it loses the knowledge of virtue, and of levity that it
cannot appreciate seriousness. He taught in parables, as Isaiah
prophesied, “that seeing they may see, and not perceive, and hearing they
may hear, and not understand; lest haply they should turn again and it
should be forgiven them.” These last words prove how completely penal, how
free from all caprice, was this terrible decision of our gentle Lord, that
precautions must be taken against evasion of the consequences of crime.
But it is a warning by no means unique. He said, “The things which make
for thy peace ... are hid from thine eyes” (Luke xix. 42). And St. Paul
said, “If our gospel is veiled, it is veiled in them that are perishing”;
and still more to the point, “The natural man receiveth not the things of
the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him; and he cannot know
them, because they are spiritually discerned” (2 Cor. iv. 3; 1 Cor. ii.
14). To this law Christ, in speaking by parables, was conscious that He
conformed.
But now let it be observed how completely this mode of teaching suited our
Lord’s habit of mind. If men could finally rid themselves of His Divine
claim, they would at once recognise the greatest of the sages; and they
would also find in Him the sunniest, sweetest and most accurate
discernment of nature, and its more quiet beauties, that ever became a
vehicle for moral teaching. The sun and rain bestowed on the evil and the
good, the fountain and the trees which regulate the waters and the fruit,
the death of the seed by which it buys its increase, the provision for
bird and blossom without anxiety of theirs, the preference for a lily over
Solomon’s gorgeous robes, the meaning of a red sky at sunrise and sunset,
the hen gathering her chickens under her wing, the vine and its branches,
the sheep and their shepherd, the lightning seen over all the sky, every
one of these needed only to be re-set and it would have become a parable.
All the Gospels, including the fourth, are full of proofs of this rich and
attractive endowment, this warm sympathy with nature; and this fact is
among the evidences that they all drew the same character, and drew it
faithfully,
The Sower.
“Hearken: Behold the sower went forth to sow: and it came to pass,
as he sowed, some _seed_ fell by the way side, and the birds came
and devoured it. And other fell on the rocky _ground_, where it
had not much earth; and straightway it sprang up, because it had
no deepness of earth: and when the sun was risen, it was scorched;
and because it had no root, it withered away. And other fell among
the thorns, and the thorns grew up, and choked it, and it yielded
no fruit. And others fell into the good ground, and yielded fruit,
growing up and increasing; and brought forth, thirtyfold, and
sixtyfold, and a hundredfold. And He said, Who hath ears to hear,
let him hear....
“The sower soweth the word. And these are they by the wayside,
where the word is sown; and when they have heard, straightway
cometh Satan, and taketh away the word which hath been sown in
them. And these in like manner are they that are sown upon the
rocky _places_, who, when they have heard the word, straightway
receive it with joy; and they have no root in themselves, but
endure for a while; then, when tribulation or persecution ariseth
because of the word, straightway they stumble. And others are they
that are sown among the thorns; these are they that have heard the
word, and the cares of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches,
and the lusts of other things entering in, choke the word, and it
becometh unfruitful. And those are they that were sown upon the
good ground; such as hear the word, and accept it, and bear fruit,
thirtyfold, and sixtyfold, and a hundredfold.”—MARK iv. 3-9, 14-20
(R.V.).
“Hearken” Jesus said; willing to caution men against the danger of
slighting His simple story, and to impress on them that it conveyed more
than met their ears. In so doing He protested in advance against
fatalistic abuses of the parable, as if we were already doomed to be hard,
or shallow, or thorny, or fruitful soil. And at the close He brought out
still more clearly His protest against such doctrine, by impressing upon
all, that if the vitalising seed were the imparted word, it was their part
to receive and treasure it. Indolence and shallowness _must_ fail to bear
fruit: that is the essential doctrine of the parable; but it is not
necessary that we should remain indolent or shallow: “He that hath ears to
hear, let him hear.”
And when the Epistle to the Hebrews reproduces the image of land which
bringeth forth thorns and thistles, our Revised Version rightly brings out
the fact, on which indeed the whole exhortation depends, that the same
piece of land might have borne herbs meet for those for whose sake it is
tilled (vi. 7).
Having said “Hearken,” Jesus added, “Behold.” It has been rightly inferred
that the scene was before their eyes. Very possibly some such process was
within sight of the shore on which they were gathered; but in any case, a
process was visible, if they would but see, of which the tilling of the
ground was only a type. A nobler seed was being scattered for a vaster
harvest, and it was no common labourer, but the true sower, who went forth
to sow. “The sower soweth the word.” But who was he? St. Matthew tells us
“the sower is the Son of man,” and whether the words were expressly
uttered, or only implied, as the silence of St. Mark and St. Luke might
possibly suggest, it is clear that none of His disciples could mistake His
meaning. Ages have passed and He is the sower still, by whatever
instrument He works, for we are God’s husbandry as well as God’s building.
And the seed is the Word of God, so strangely able to work below the
surface of human life, invisible at first, yet vital, and grasping from
within and without, from secret thoughts and from circumstances, as from
the chemical ingredients of the soil and from the sunshine and the shower,
all that will contribute to its growth, until the field itself is
assimilated, spread from end to end with waving ears, a corn-field now.
This is why Jesus in His second parable did not any longer say “the seed
is the word,” but “the good seed are the sons of the kingdom” (Matt. xiii.
38). The word planted was able to identify itself with the heart.
And this seed, the Word of God, is sown broadcast as all our opportunities
are given. A talent was not refused to him who buried it. Judas was an
apostle. Men may receive the grace of God in vain, and this in more ways
than one. On some it produces no vital impression whatever; it lies on the
surface of a mind which the feet of earthly interests have trodden hard.
There is no chance for it to expand, to begin its operation by sending out
the smallest tendrils to grasp, to appropriate anything, to take root. And
it may well be doubted whether any soul, wholly indifferent to religious
truth, ever retained even its theoretic knowledge long. The foolish heart
is darkened. The fowls of the air catch away for ever the priceless seed
of eternity. Now it is of great importance to observe how Jesus explained
this calamity. We should probably have spoken of forgetfulness, the fading
away of neglected impressions, or at most of some judicial act of
providence hiding the truth from the careless. But Jesus said,
“straightway cometh Satan and taketh away the word which hath been sown in
them.” No person can fairly explain this text away, as men have striven to
explain Christ’s language to the demoniacs, by any theory of the use of
popular language, or the toleration of harmless notions. The introduction
of Satan into this parable is unexpected and uncalled for by any demand
save one, the necessity of telling all the truth. It is true therefore
that an active and deadly enemy of souls is at work to quicken the
mischief which neglect and indifference would themselves produce, that
evil processes are helped from beneath as truly as good ones from above;
that the seed which is left to-day upon the surface may be maliciously
taken thence long before it would have perished by natural decay; that men
cannot reckon upon stopping short in their contempt of grace, since what
they neglect the devil snatches quite away from them. And as seed is only
safe from fowls when buried in the soil, so is the word of life only safe
against the rapacity of hell when it has sunk down into our hearts.
In the story of the early Church, St. Paul sowed upon such ground as this
in Athens. Men who spent their time in the pursuit of artistic and
cultivated novelties, in hearing and telling some new thing, mocked the
gospel, or at best proposed to hear its preacher yet again. How long did
such a purpose last?
But there are other dangers to dread, besides absolute indifference to
truth. And the first of these is a too shallow and easy acquiescence. The
message of salvation is designed to affect the whole of human life
profoundly. It comes to bind a strong man armed, it summons easy and
indifferent hearts to wrestle against spiritual foes, to crucify the
flesh, to die daily. On these conditions it offers the noblest blessings.
But the conditions are grave and sobering. If one hears them without
solemn and earnest searching of heart, he has only, at the best,
apprehended half the message. Christ has warned us that we cannot build a
tower without sitting down to count our means, nor fight a hostile king
without reckoning the prospects of invasion. And it is very striking to
compare the gushing and impulsive sensationalism of some modern schools,
with the deliberate and circumspect action of St. Paul, even after God had
been pleased miraculously to reveal His Son in him. He went into
seclusion. He returned to Damascus to his first instructor. Fourteen years
afterwards he deliberately laid his gospel before the Apostles, lest by
any means he should be running or had run in vain. Such is the action of
one penetrated with a sense of reality and responsibility in his decision;
it is not the action likely to result from teaching men that it suffices
to “say you believe” and to be “made happy.” And in this parable, our
Saviour has given striking expression to His judgment of the school which
relies upon mere happiness. Next to those who leave the seed for Satan to
snatch away, He places them “who, when they have heard the word,
straightway receive it with joy.” They have taken the promises without the
precepts, they have hoped for the crown without the cross. Their type is
the thin layer of earth spread over a shelf of rock. The water, which
cannot sink down, and the heat reflected up from the stone, make it for a
time almost a hot bed. Straightway the seed sprang up, because it had no
deepness of earth. But the moisture thus detained upon the surface
vanished utterly in time of drought; the young roots, unable to penetrate
to any deeper supplies, were scorched; and it withered away. That
superficial heat and moisture was impulsive emotion, glad to hear of
heaven, and love, and privilege, but forgetful to mortify the flesh, and
to be partaker with Christ in His death. The roots of a real Christian
life must strike deeper down. Consciousness of sin and its penalty and of
the awful price by which that penalty has been paid, consciousness of what
life should have been and how we have degraded it, consciousness of what
it must yet be made by grace—these do not lead to joy so immediate, so
impulsive, as the growth of this shallow vegetation. A mature and settled
joy is among “the fruits of the spirit:” it is not the first blade that
shoots up.
Now because the sense of sin and duty and atonement have not done their
sobering work, the feelings, so easily quickened, are also easily
perverted: “When tribulation or persecution ariseth because of the word,
straightway they stumble.” These were not counted upon. Neither trouble of
mind nor opposition of wicked men was included in the holiday scheme of
the life Divine. And their pressure is not counter-weighted by that of any
deep convictions. The roots have never penetrated farther than temporal
calamities and trials can reach. In the time of drought they have _not_
enough. They endure, but only for a while.
St. Paul sowed upon just such soil in Galatia. There his hearers spoke of
such blessedness that they would have plucked out their eyes for him. But
he became their enemy because he told them all the truth, when only a part
was welcome. And as Christ said, Straightway they stumble, so St. Paul had
to marvel that they were so soon subverted.
If indifference be the first danger, and shallowness the second, mixed
motive is the third. Men there are who are very earnest, and far indeed
from slight views of truth, who are nevertheless in sore danger, because
they are equally earnest about other things; because they cannot resign
this world, whatever be their concern about the next; because the soil of
their life would fain grow two inconsistent harvests. Like seed sown among
thorns, “choked” by their entangling roots and light-excluding growths,
the word in such hearts, though neither left upon a hard surface nor
forbidden by rock to strike deep into the earth, is overmastered by an
unworthy rivalry. A kind of vegetation it does produce, but not such as
the tiller seeks: the word becometh unfruitful. It is the same lesson as
when Jesus said, “No man can serve two masters. Ye cannot serve God and
mammon.”
Perhaps it is the one most needed in our time of feverish religious
controversy and heated party spirit, when every one hath a teaching, hath
a revelation, hath a tongue, hath an interpretation, but scarcely any have
denied the world and taken in exchange a cross.
St. Paul found a thorny soil in Corinth which came behind in no gift, if
only gifts had been graces, but was indulgent, factious and selfish,
puffed up amid flagrant vices, one hungry and another drunken, while
wrangling about the doctrine of the resurrection.
The various evils of this parable are all of them worldliness, differently
manifested. The deadening effect of habitual forgetfulness of God,
treading the soil so hard that no seed can enter it; the treacherous
effect of secret love of earth, a buried obstruction refusing to admit the
gospel into the recesses of the life, however it may reach the feelings;
and the fierce and stubborn competition of worldly interests, wherever
they are not resolutely weeded out, against these Jesus spoke His earliest
parable. And it is instructive to review the foes by which He represented
His Gospel as warred upon. The personal activity of Satan; “tribulation or
persecution” from without, and within the heart “cares” rather for self
than for the dependent and the poor, “deceitfulness of riches” for those
who possess enough to trust in, or to replace with a fictitious importance
the only genuine value, which is that of character (although men are still
esteemed for being “worth” a round sum, a strange estimate, to be made by
Christians, of a being with a soul burning in him); and alike for rich and
poor, “the lusts of other things,” since none is too poor to covet, and
none so rich that his desires shall not increase, like some diseases, by
being fed.
Lastly, we have those on the good ground, who are not described by their
sensibilities or their enjoyments, but by their loyalty. They “hear the
word and accept it and bear fruit.” To accept is what distinguishes them
alike from the wayside hearers into whose attention the word never sinks,
from the rocky hearers who only receive it with a superficial welcome, and
from the thorny hearers who only give it a divided welcome. It is not
said, as if the word were merely the precepts, that they obey it. The
sower of this seed is not he who bade the soldier not to do violence, and
the publican not to extort: it is He who said, Repent, and believe the
gospel. He implanted new hopes, convictions, and affections, as the germ
which should unfold in a new life. And the good fruit is borne by those
who honestly “accept” His word.
Fruitfulness is never in the gospel the condition by which life is earned,
but it is always the test by which to prove it. In all the accounts of the
final judgment, we catch the principle of the bold challenge of St. James,
“Show me thy faith without thy works, and I will show thee my faith by my
works.” The talent must produce more talents, and the pound more pounds;
the servant must have his loins girt and a light in his hand; the blessed
are they who did unto Jesus the kindness they did unto the least of His
brethren, and the accursed are they who did it not to Jesus in His people.
We are not wrong in preaching that honest faith in Christ is the only
condition of acceptance, and the way to obtain strength for good works.
But perhaps we fail to add, with sufficient emphasis, that good works are
the only sufficient evidence of real faith, of genuine conversion. Lydia,
whose heart the Lord opened and who constrained the Apostle to abide in
her house, was converted as truly as the gaoler who passed through all the
vicissitudes of despair, trembling and astonishment, and belief.
“They bear fruit, thirtyfold and sixtyfold and an hundredfold.” And all
are alike accepted. But the parable of the pounds shows that all are not
alike rewarded, and in equal circumstances superior efficiency wins a
superior prize. One star differeth from another star in glory, and they
who turn many to righteousness shall shine as the sun for ever.
Lamp And Stand.
“And He said unto them, Is the lamp brought to be put under the
bushel, or under the bed? and not to be put on the stand? For
there is nothing hid, save that it should be manifested; neither
was anything made secret, but that it should come to light. If any
man hath ears to hear, let him hear. And He said unto them, Take
heed what ye hear: with what measure ye mete it shall be measured
unto you: and more shall be given unto you. For he that hath, to
him shall be given: and he that hath not, from him shall be taken
away even that which he hath.”—MARK iv. 21-25 (R.V.).
Jesus had now taught that the only good ground was that in which the good
seed bore fruit. And He adds explicitly, that men receive the truth in
order to spread it, and are given grace that they may become, in turn,
good stewards of the manifold grace of God.
“Is the lamp brought to be put under the bushel or under the bed, and not
to be put on the stand?” The language may possibly be due, as men have
argued, to the simple conditions of life among the Hebrew peasantry, who
possessed only one lamp, one corn-measure, and perhaps one bed. All the
greater marvel is it that amid such surroundings He should have announced,
and not in vain, that His disciples, His Church, should become the light
of all humanity, “the lamp.” Already He had put forward the same claim
even more explicitly, saying, “Ye are the light of the world.” And in each
case, He spoke not in the intoxication of pride or self-assertion, but in
all gravity, and as a solemn warning. The city on the hill could not be
hid. The lamp would burn dimly under the bed; it would be extinguished
entirely by the bushel. Publicity is the soul of religion, since religion
is light. It is meant to diffuse itself, to be, as He expressed it, like
leaven which may be hid at first, but cannot be concealed, since it will
leaven all the lump. And so, if He spoke in parables, and consciously hid
His meaning by so doing, this was not to withdraw His teaching from the
masses, it was to shelter the flame which should presently illuminate all
the house. Nothing was hid, save that it should be manifested, nor made
secret, but that it should come to light. And it has never been otherwise.
Our religion has no privileged inner circle, no esoteric doctrine; and its
chiefs, when men glorified one or another, asked, What then is Apollos?
And what is Paul? Ministers through whom ye believed. Agents only, for
conveying to others what they had received from God. And thus He Who now
spoke in parables, and again charged them not to make Him known, was able
at the end to say, In secret have I spoken nothing. Therefore He repeats
with emphasis His former words, frequent on His lips henceforward, and
ringing through the messages He spoke in glory to His Churches. If any man
hath ears to hear, let him hear. None is excluded but by himself.
Yet another caution follows. If the seed be the Word, there is sore danger
from false teaching; from strewing the ground with adulterated grain. St.
Mark, indeed, has not recorded the Parable of the Tares. But there are
indications of it, and the same thought is audible in this saying, “Take
heed what ye hear.” The added words are a little surprising: “With what
measure ye mete it shall be measured unto you, and more shall be given
unto you.” The last clause expresses exactly the principle on which the
forfeited pound was given to Him who had ten pounds already, the open hand
of God lavishing additional gifts upon him who was capable of using them.
But does not the whole statement seem to follow more suitably upon a
command to beware what we teach, and thus “mete” to others, than what we
hear? A closer examination finds in this apparent unfitness, a deeper
harmony of thought. To “accept” the genuine word is the same as to bring
forth fruit for God; it is to reckon with the Lord of the talents, and to
yield the fruit of the vineyard. And this is to “mete,” not indeed unto
man, but unto God, Who shows Himself froward with the froward, and from
him that hath not, whose possession is below his accountability, takes
away even that he hath, but gives exceeding abundantly above all they ask
or think to those who have, who are not disobedient to the heavenly
calling.
All this is most delicately connected with what precedes it; and the
parables, hiding the truth from some, giving it authority, and colour, and
effect to others, were a striking example of the process here announced
Never was the warning to be heedful what we hear, more needed than at
present. Men think themselves free to follow any teacher, especially if he
be eloquent, to read any book, if only it be in demand, and to discuss any
theory, provided it be fashionable, while perfectly well aware that they
are neither earnest inquirers after truth, nor qualified champions against
its assailants. For what then do they read and hear? For the pleasure of a
rounded phrase, or to augment the prattle of conceited ignorance in a
drawing-room.
Do we wonder when these players with edged tools injure themselves, and
become perverts or agnostics? It would be more wonderful if they remained
unhurt, since Jesus said, “Take heed what ye hear ... from him that hath
not shall be taken even that he hath.” A rash and uninstructed exposure of
our intellects to evil influences, is meting to God with an unjust
measure, as really as a wilful plunge into any other temptation, since we
are bidden to cleanse ourselves from all defilement of the spirit as well
as of the flesh.
The Seed Growing Secretly.
“And He said, So is the kingdom of God, as if a man should cast
seed upon the earth; and should sleep and rise night and day, and
the seed should spring up and grow, he knoweth not how. The earth
beareth fruit of herself; first the blade, then the ear, then the
full corn in the ear. But when the fruit is ripe, straightway he
putteth forth the sickle, because the harvest is come.”—MARK iv.
26-29 (R.V.).
St. Mark alone records this parable of a sower who sleeps by night, and
rises for other business by day, and knows not how the seed springs up.
That is not the sower’s concern: all that remains for him is to put forth
the sickle when the harvest is come.
It is a startling parable for us who believe in the fostering care of the
Divine Spirit. And the paradox is forced on our attention by the words
“the earth beareth fruit of herself,” contrasting strangely as it does
with such other assertions, as that the branch cannot bear fruit of
itself, that without Christ we can do nothing, and that when we live it is
not we but Christ who liveth in us.
It will often help us to understand a paradox if we can discover another
like it. And exactly such an one as this will be found in the record of
creation. God rested on the seventh day from all His work, yet we know
that His providence never slumbers, that by Him all things consist, and
that Jesus defended His own work of healing on a Sabbath day by urging
that the Sabbath of God was occupied in gracious provision for His world.
“My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.” Thus the rest of God from
creative work says nothing about His energies in that other field of
providential care. Exactly so Jesus here treats only of what may be called
the creative spiritual work, the deposit of the seed of life. And the
essence of this remarkable parable is the assertion that we are to expect
an orderly, quiet and gradual development from this principle of life, not
a series of communications from without, of additional revelations, of
semi-miraculous interferences. The life of grace is a natural process in
the supernatural sphere. In one sense it is all of God, who maketh His sun
to rise, and sendeth rain, without which the earth could bear no fruit of
herself. In another sense we must work out our own salvation all the more
earnestly because it is God that worketh in us.
Now this parable, thus explained, has been proved true in the wonderful
history of the Church. She has grown, not only in extent but by
development, as marvellously as a corn of wheat which is now a waving
wheat-stem with its ripening ear. When Cardinal Newman urged that an
ancient Christian, returning to earth, would recognise the services and
the Church of Rome, and would fail to recognise ours, he was probably
mistaken. To go no farther, there is no Church on earth so unlike the
Churches of the New Testament as that which offers praise to God in a
strange tongue. St. Paul apprehended that a stranger in such an assembly
would reckon the worshippers mad. But in any case the argument forgets
that the whole kingdom of God is to resemble seed, not in a drawer, but in
the earth, and advancing towards the harvest. It must “die” to much if it
will bring forth fruit. It must acquire strange bulk, strange forms,
strange organisms. It must become, to those who only knew it as it was,
quite as unrecognisable as our Churches are said to be. And yet the
changes must be those of logical growth, not of corruption. And this
parable tells us they must be accomplished without any special
interference such as marked the sowing time. Well then, the parable is a
prophecy. Movement after movement has modified the life of the Church.
Even its structure is not all it was. But these changes have every one
been wrought by human agency, they have come from within it, like the
force which pushes the germ out of the soil, and expands the bud into the
full corn in the ear. There has been no grafting knife to insert a new
principle of richer life; the gospel and the sacraments of our Lord have
contained in them the promise and potency of all that was yet to be
unfolded, all the gracefulness and all the fruit. And these words, “the
earth beareth fruit of herself, first the blade, then the ear, then the
full corn in the ear,” each so different, and yet so dependent on what
preceded, teach us two great ecclesiastical lessons. They condemn the
violent and revolutionary changes, which would not develop old germs but
tear them open or perhaps pull them up. Much may be distasteful to the
spirit of sordid utilitarianism; a mere husk, which nevertheless within it
shelters precious grain, otherwise sure to perish. If thus we learn to
respect the old, still more do we learn that what is new has also its
all-important part to play. The blade and the ear in turn are innovations.
We must not condemn those new forms of Christian activity, Christian
association, and Christian councils, which new times evoke, until we have
considered well whether they are truly expansions, in the light and heat
of our century, of the sacred life-germ of the ancient faith and the
ancient love.
And what lessons has this parable for the individual? Surely that of
active present faith, not waiting for future gifts of light or feeling,
but confident that the seed already sown, the seed of the word, has power
to develop into the rich fruit of Christian character. In this respect the
parable supplements the first one. From that we learned that if the soil
were not in fault, if the heart were honest and good, the seed would
fructify. From this we learn that these conditions suffice for a perfect
harvest. The incessant, all-important help of God, we have seen, is not
denied; it is taken for granted, as the atmospheric and magnetic
influences upon the grain. So should we reverentially and thankfully rely
upon the aid of God, and then, instead of waiting for strange visitations
and special stirrings of grace, account that we already possess enough to
make us responsible for the harvest of the soul. Multitudes of souls,
whose true calling is, in obedient trust, to arise and walk, are at this
moment lying impotent beside some pool which they expect an angel to stir,
and into which they fain would then be put by some one, they know not
whom—multitudes of expectant, inert, inactive souls, who know not that the
text they have most need to ponder is this: “the earth beareth fruit of
itself.” For want of this they are actually, day by day, receiving the
grace of God in vain.
We learn also to be content with gradual progress. St. John did not blame
the children and young men to whom he wrote, because they were not mature
in wisdom and experience. St. Paul exhorts us to grow up in all things
into Him which is the Head, even Christ. They do not ask for more than
steady growth; and their Master, as He distrusted the fleeting joy of
hearers whose hearts were shallow, now explicitly bids us not to be
content with any first attainment, not to count all done if we are
converted, but to develop first the blade, then the ear, and lastly the
full corn in the ear.
Does it seem a tedious weary sentence? Are we discontent for want of
conscious interferences of heaven? Do we complain that, to human
consciousness, the great Sower sleeps and rises up and leaves the grain to
fare He knows not how? It is only for a little while. When the fruit is
ripe, He will Himself gather it into His eternal garner.
The Mustard Seed.
“And He said, How shall we liken the kingdom of God? or in what
parable shall we set it forth? It is like a grain of mustard seed,
which, when it is sown upon the earth, though it be less than all
the seeds that are upon the earth, yet when it is sown, groweth
up, and becometh greater than all the herbs, and putteth out great
branches; so that the birds of the heaven can lodge under the
shadow thereof. And with many such parables spake He the word unto
them, as they were able to hear it: and without a parable spake He
not unto them: but privately to His own disciples He expounded all
things.”—MARK iv. 30-34 (R.V.).
St. Mark has recorded one other parable of this great cycle. Jesus now
invites the disciples to let their own minds play upon the subject. Each
is to ask himself a question: How shall we liken the kingdom of God? or in
what parable shall we set it forth?
A gentle pause, time for them to form some splendid and ambitious image in
their minds, and then we can suppose with what surprise they heard His own
answer, “It is like a grain of mustard seed.” And truly some Christians of
a later day might be astonished also, if they could call up a fair image
of their own conceptions of the kingdom of God, and compare it with this
figure, employed by Jesus.
But here one must observe a peculiarity in our Saviour’s use of images.
His illustrations of His first coming, and of His work of grace, which are
many, are all of the homeliest kind. He is a shepherd who seeks one sheep.
He is not an eagle that fluttereth over her young and beareth them on her
pinions, but a hen who gathereth her chickens under her wings. Never once
does He rise into that high and poetic strain with which His followers
have loved to sing of the Star of Bethlehem, and which Isaiah lavished
beforehand upon the birth of the Prince of Peace. There is no language
more intensely concentrated and glowing than He has employed to describe
the judgment of the hypocrites who rejected Him, of Jerusalem, and of the
world at last. But when He speaks of His first coming and its effects, it
is not of that sunrise to which all kings and nations shall hasten, but of
a little grain of mustard seed, which is to become “greater than all the
herbs,” and put forth great branches, “so that the birds of the heaven can
lodge under the shadow of them.” When one thinks of such an image for such
an event, of the founding of the kingdom of God, and its advance to
universal supremacy, represented by the small seed of a shrub which grows
to the height of a tree, and even harbours birds, he is conscious almost
of incongruity. But when one reconsiders it, he is filled with awe and
reverence. For this exactly expresses the way of thinking natural to One
who has stooped immeasurably down to the task which all others feel to be
so lofty. There is a poem of Shelley, which expresses the relative
greatness of three spirits by the less and less value which they set on
the splendours of the material heavens. To the first they are a
palace-roof of golden lights, to the second but the mind’s first chamber,
to the last only drops which Nature’s mighty heart drives through thinnest
veins. Now that which was to Isaiah the exalting of every valley and the
bringing low of every mountain, and to Daniel the overthrow of a mighty
image whose aspect was terrible, by a stone cut out without hands, was to
Jesus but the sowing of a grain of mustard seed. Could any other have
spoken thus of the founding of the kingdom of God? An enthusiast
over-values his work, he can think of nothing else; and he expects
immediate revolutions. Jesus was keenly aware that His work in itself was
very small, no more than the sowing of a seed, and even of the least,
popularly speaking, among all seeds. Clearly He did not over-rate the
apparent effect of His work on earth. And indeed, what germ of religious
teaching could be less promising than the doctrine of the cross, held by a
few peasants in a despised province of a nation already subjugated and
soon to be overwhelmed?
The image expresses more than the feeble beginning and victorious issue of
His work, more than even the gradual and logical process by which this
final triumph should be attained. All this we found in the preceding
parable. But here the emphasis is laid on the development of Christ’s
influence in unexpected spheres. Unlike other herbs, the mustard in
Eastern climates does grow into a tree, shoot out great branches from the
main stem, and give shelter to the birds of the air. So has the Christian
faith developed ever new collateral agencies, charitable, educational, and
social: so have architecture, music, literature, flourished under its
shade, and there is not one truly human interest which would not be
deprived of its best shelter if the rod of Jesse were hewn down. Nay, we
may urge that the Church itself has become the most potent force in
directions not its own: it broke the chains of the negro; it asserts the
rights of woman and of the poor; its noble literature is finding a
response in the breast of a hundred degraded races; the herb has become a
tree.
And so in the life of individuals, if the seed be allowed its due scope
and place to grow, it gives shelter and blessing to whatsoever things are
honest and lovely, not only if there be any virtue, but also if there be
any praise.
Well is it with the nation, and well with the soul, when the faith of
Jesus is not rigidly restricted to a prescribed sphere, when the leaves
which are for the healing of the nations cast their shadow broad and cool
over all the spaces in which all its birds of song are nestling.
A remarkable assertion is added. Although the parabolic mode of teaching
was adopted in judgment, yet its severe effect was confined within the
narrowest limits. His many parables were spoken “as they were able to
hear,” but only to His own disciples privately was all their meaning
expounded.
Four Miracles.
“And there was a great calm.”—MARK iv. 39 (R.V.).
“Behold, him that was possessed with devils, sitting, clothed and
in his right mind, _even_ him that had the legion.”—v. 15 (R.V.).
“Who touched Me?”—v. 31 (R.V.).
“Talitha cumi.”—v. 41 (R.V.).
There are two ways, equally useful, of studying Scripture, as there are of
regarding the other book of God, the face of Nature. We may bend over a
wild flower, or gaze across a landscape; and it will happen that a
naturalist, pursuing a moth, loses sight of a mountain-range. It is a
well-known proverb, that one may fail to see the wood for the trees,
losing in details the general effect. And so the careful student of
isolated texts may never perceive the force and cohesion of a connected
passage.
The reader of a Gospel narrative thinks, that by pondering it as a whole,
he secures himself against any such misfortune. But a narrative
dislocated, often loses as much as a detached verse. The actions of our
Lord are often exquisitely grouped, as becometh Him Who hath made
everything not beautiful only, but especially beautiful in its season. And
we should not be content without combining the two ways of reading
Scripture, the detailed and the rapid,—lingering at times to apprehend the
marvellous force of a solitary verse, and again sweeping over a broad
expanse, like a surveyor, who, to map a country, stretches his triangles
from mountain peak to peak.
We have reached a point at which St. Mark records a special outshining of
miraculous power. Four striking works follow each other without a break,
and it must not for a moment be supposed that the narrative is thus
constructed, certain intermediate discourses and events being sacrificed
for the purpose, without a deliberate and a truthful intention. That
intention is to represent the effect, intense and exalting, produced by
such a cycle of wonders on the minds of His disciples. They saw them come
close upon each other: we should lose the impression as we read, if other
incidents were allowed to interpose themselves. It is one more example of
St. Mark’s desire to throw light, above all things, upon the energy and
power of the sacred life.
We have to observe therefore the bearing of these four miracles on each
other, and upon what precedes, before studying them one by one.
It was a time of trial. The Pharisees had decided that He had a devil. His
relatives had said He was beside Himself. His manner of teaching had
changed, because the people should see without perceiving, and hear
without understanding. They who understood His parables heard much of seed
that failed, of success a great way off, of a kingdom which would indeed
be great at last, but for the present weak and small. And it is certain
that there must have been heavy hearts among those who left, with Him, the
populous side of the lake, to cross over into remote and semi-pagan
retirement. To encourage them, and as if in protest against His rejection
by the authorities, Jesus enters upon this great cycle of miracles.
They find themselves, as the Church has often since been placed, and as
every human soul has had to feel itself, far from shore, and
tempest-beaten. The rage of human foes is not so deaf, so implacable, as
that of wind and wave. It is the stress of adverse circumstances in the
direst form. But Jesus proves Himself to be Master of the forces of nature
which would overwhelm them.
Nay, they learn that His seeming indifference is no proof that they are
neglected, by the rebuke He speaks to their over-importunate appeals, Why
are ye so fearful? have ye not yet faith? And they, who might have been
shaken by the infidelity of other men, fear exceedingly as they behold the
obedience of the wind and the sea, and ask, Who then is this?
But in their mission as His disciples, a worse danger than the enmity of
man or convulsions of nature awaits them. On landing, they are at once
confronted by one whom an evil spirit has made exceeding fierce, so that
no man could pass by that way. It is their way nevertheless, and they must
tread it. And the demoniac adores, and the evil spirits themselves are
abject in supplication, and at the word of Jesus are expelled. Even the
inhabitants, who will not receive Him, are awe-struck and deprecatory, and
if at their bidding Jesus turns away again, His followers may judge
whether the habitual meekness of such a one is due to feebleness or to a
noble self-command.
Landing once more, they are soon accosted by a ruler of the synagogue,
whom sorrow has purified from the prejudices of his class. And Jesus is
about to heal the daughter of Jairus, when another form of need is brought
to light. A slow and secret decline, wasting the vital powers, a silent
woe, speechless, stealthily approaching the Healer—over this grief also He
is Lord. And it is seen that neither the visible actions of Jesus nor the
audible praises of His petitioners can measure the power that goes out of
Him, the physical benefits which encompass the Teacher as a halo envelopes
flame.
Circumstances, and the fiends of the pit, and the woes that waste the
lives of men, over these He has been seen to triumph. But behind all that
we strive with here, there lurks the last enemy, and he also shall be
subdued. And now first an example is recorded of what we know to have
already taken place, the conquest of death by his predicted Spoiler. Youth
and gentle maidenhood, high hope and prosperous circumstances have been
wasted, but the call of Jesus is heard by the ear that was stopped with
dust, and the spirit obeys Him in the far off realm of the departed, and
they who have just seen such other marvels, are nevertheless amazed with a
great amazement.
No cycle of miracles could be more rounded, symmetrical and exhaustive;
none could better vindicate to His disciples His impugned authority, or
brace their endangered faith, or fit them for what almost immediately
followed, their own commission, and the first journey upon which they too
cast out many devils, and anointed with oil many that were sick, and
healed them.
The Two Storms.
“And on that day, when even was come, He saith unto them, Let us
go over unto the other side. And leaving the multitude, they take
Him with them, even as He was, in the boat. And other boats were
with Him. And there ariseth a great storm of wind, and the waves
beat into the boat, insomuch that the boat was now filling. And He
Himself was in the stern, asleep on the cushion: and they awake
Him, and say unto Him, Master, carest Thou not that we perish? And
He awoke, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be
still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. And He
said unto them, Why are ye fearful? have ye not yet faith? And
they feared exceedingly, and said one to another, Who then is
this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”—MARK iv. 35-41
(R.V.).
“And when even was come, the boat was in the midst of the sea, and
He alone on the land. And seeing them distressed in rowing, for
the wind was contrary unto them, about the fourth watch of the
night He cometh unto them, walking on the sea; and He would have
passed by them: but they, when they saw Him walking on the sea,
supposed that it was an apparition, and cried out: for they all
saw Him, and were troubled. But He straightway spake with them,
and saith unto them, Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid. And
He went up unto them into the boat; and the wind ceased: and they
were sore amazed in themselves. For they understood not concerning
the loaves, but their hearts were hardened.”—MARK vi. 47-52
(R.V.).
Few readers are insensible to the wonderful power with which the Gospels
tell the story of the two storms upon the lake. The narratives are
favourites in every Sunday school; they form the basis of countless hymns
and poems; and we always recur to them with fresh delight.
In the first account we see as in a picture the weariness of the great
Teacher, when, the long day being over and the multitude dismissed, He
retreats across the sea without preparation, and “as He was,” and sinks to
sleep on the one cushion in the stern, undisturbed by the raging tempest
or by the waves which beat into the boat. We observe the reluctance of the
disciples to arouse Him until the peril is extreme, and the boat is “now”
filling. We hear from St. Mark, the associate of St. Peter, the
presumptuous and characteristic cry which expresses terror, and perhaps
dread lest His tranquil slumbers may indicate a separation between His
cause and theirs, who perish while He is unconcerned. We admire equally
the calm and masterful words which quell the tempest, and those which
enjoin a faith so lofty as to endure the last extremities of peril without
dismay, without agitation in its prayers. We observe the strange incident,
that no sooner does the storm cease than the waters, commonly seething for
many hours afterwards, grow calm. And the picture is completed by the
mention of their new dread (fear of the supernatural Man replacing their
terror amid the convulsions of nature), and of their awestruck questioning
among themselves.
In the second narrative we see the ship far out in the lake, but watched
by One, Who is alone upon the land. Through the gloom He sees them
“tormented” by fruitless rowing; but though this is the reason why He
comes, He is about to pass them by. The watch of the night is remembered;
it is the fourth. The cry of their alarm is universal, for they all saw
Him and were troubled. We are told of the promptitude with which He
thereupon relieved their fears; we see Him climb up into the boat, and the
sudden ceasing of the storm, and their amazement. Nor is that
after-thought omitted in which they blamed themselves for their
astonishment. If their hearts had not been hardened, the miracle of the
loaves would have taught them that Jesus was the master of the physical
world.
Now all this picturesque detail belongs to a single Gospel. And it is
exactly what a believer would expect. How much soever the healing of
disease might interest St. Luke the physician, who relates all such events
so vividly, it would have impressed the patient himself yet more, and an
account of it by him, if we had it, would be full of graphic touches. Now
these two miracles were wrought for the rescue of the apostles themselves.
The Twelve took the place held in others by the lame, the halt and the
blind: the suspense, the appeal, and the joy of deliverance were all their
own. It is therefore no wonder that we find their accounts of these
especial miracles so picturesque. But this is a solid evidence of the
truth of the narratives; for while the remembrance of such actual events
should thrill with agitated life, there is no reason why a legend of the
kind should be especially clear and vivid. The same argument might easily
be carried farther. When the disciples began to reproach themselves for
their unbelieving astonishment, they were naturally conscious of having
failed to learn the lesson which had been taught them just before. Later
students and moralists would have observed that another miracle, a little
earlier, was a still closer precedent, but they naturally blamed
themselves most for being blind to what was immediately before their eyes.
Now when Jesus walked upon the waters and the disciples were amazed, it is
not said that they forgot how He had already stilled a tempest, but they
considered not the miracle of the loaves, for their heart was hardened. In
touches like this we find the influence of a bystander beyond denial.
Every student of Scripture must have observed the special significance of
those parables and miracles which recur a second time with certain
designed variations. In the miraculous draughts of fishes, Christ Himself
avowed an allusion to the catching of men. And the Church has always
discerned a spiritual intention in these two storms, in one of which
Christ slept, while in the other His disciples toiled alone, and which
express, between them, the whole strain exercised upon a devout spirit by
adverse circumstances. Dangers never alarmed one who realized both the
presence of Jesus and His vigilant care. Temptation enters only because
this is veiled. Why do adversities press hard upon me, if indeed I belong
to Christ? He must either be indifferent and sleeping, or else absent
altogether from my frail and foundering bark. It is thus that we let go
our confidence, and incur agonies of mental suffering, and the rebuke of
our Master, even though He continues to be the Protector of His unworthy
people.
On the voyage of life we may conceive of Jesus as our Companion, for He is
with us always, or as watching us from the everlasting hills, whither it
was expedient for us that He should go. Nevertheless, we are storm-tossed
and in danger. Although we are His, and not separated from Him by any
conscious disobedience, yet the conditions of life are unmitigated, the
winds as wild, the waves as merciless, the boat as cruelly “tormented” as
ever. And no rescue comes: Jesus is asleep: He cares not that we perish.
Then we pray after a fashion so clamorous, and with supplication so like
demands, that we too appear to have undertaken to awake our Lord. Then we
have to learn from the first of these miracles, and especially from its
delay. The disciples were safe, had they only known it, whether Jesus
would have interposed of His own accord, or whether they might still have
needed to appeal to Him, but in a gentler fashion. We may ask help,
provided that we do so in a serene and trustful spirit, anxious for
nothing, not seeking to extort a concession, but approaching with boldness
the throne of grace, on which our Father sits. It is thus that the peace
of God shall rule our hearts and minds, for want of which the apostles
were asked, Where is your faith? Comparing the narratives, we learn that
Jesus reassured their hearts even before He arose, and then, having first
silenced by His calmness the storm within them, He stood up and rebuked
the storm around.
St. Augustine gave a false turn to the application, when he said, “If
Jesus were not asleep within thee, thou wouldst be calm and at rest. But
why is He asleep? Because thy faith is asleep,” etc, (Sermon lxiii.) The
sleep of Jesus was natural and right; and it answers not to our spiritual
torpor, but to His apparent indifference and non-intervention in our time
of distress. And the true lesson of the miracle is that we should trust
Him Whose care fails not when it seems to fail, Who is able to save to the
uttermost, and Whom we should approach in the direst peril without panic.
It was fitly taught them first when all the powers of the State and the
Church were leagued against Him, and He as a blind man saw not and as a
dumb man opened not His mouth.
The second storm should have found them braver by the experience of the
first; but spiritually as well as bodily they were farther removed from
Christ. The people, profoundly moved by the murder of the Baptist, wished
to set Jesus on the throne, and the disciples were too ambitious to be
allowed to be present while He dismissed the multitudes. They had to be
sent away, and it was from the distant hillside that Jesus saw their
danger. Surely it is instructive, that neither the shades of night, nor
the abstracted fervour of His prayers, prevented him from seeing it, nor
the stormlashed waters from bringing aid. And significant also, that the
experience of remoteness, though not sinful, since He had sent them away,
was yet the result of their own worldliness. It is when we are out of
sympathy with Jesus that we are most likely to be alone in trouble. None
was in their boat to save them, and in heart also they had gone out from
the presence of their God. Therefore they failed to trust in His guidance
Who had sent them into the ship: they had no sense of protection or of
supervision; and it was a terrible moment when a form was vaguely seen to
glide over the waves. Christ, it would seem, would have gone before and
led them to the haven where they would be. Or perhaps He “would have
passed by them,” as He would afterwards have gone further than Emmaus, to
elicit any trustful half-recognition which might call to Him and be
rewarded. But they cried out for fear. And so it is continually with God
in His world, men are terrified at the presence of the supernatural,
because they fail to apprehend the abiding presence of the supernatural
Christ. And yet there is one point at least in every life, the final
moment, in which all else must recede, and the soul be left alone with the
beings of another world. Then, and in every trial, and especially in all
trials which press in upon us the consciousness of the spiritual universe,
well is it for him who hears the voice of Jesus saying, It is I, be not
afraid.
For only through Jesus, only in His person, has that unknown universe
ceased to be dreadful and mysterious. Only when He is welcomed does the
storm cease to rage around us.
It was the earlier of these miracles which first taught the disciples that
not only were human disorders under His control, and gifts and blessings
at His disposal, but also the whole range of nature was subject to Him,
and the winds and the sea obey Him.
Shall we say that His rebuke addressed to these was a mere figure of
speech? Some have inferred that natural convulsions are so directly the
work of evil angels that the words of Jesus were really spoken to them.
But the plain assertion is that He rebuked the winds and the waves, and
these would not become identical with Satan even upon the supposition that
he excites them. We ourselves continually personify the course of nature,
and even complain of it, wantonly enough, and Scripture does not deny
itself the use of ordinary human forms of speech. Yet the very peculiar
word employed by Jesus cannot be without significance. It is the same with
which He had already confronted the violence of the demoniac in the
synagogue, Be muzzled. At the least it expresses stern repression, and
thus it reminds us that creation itself is made subject to vanity, the
world deranged by sin, so that all around us requires readjustment as
truly as all within, and Christ shall at last create a new earth as well
as a new heaven.
Some pious people resign themselves much too passively to the mischiefs of
the material universe, supposing that troubles which are not of their own
making, must needs be a Divine infliction, calling only for submission.
But God sends oppositions to be conquered as well as burdens to be borne;
and even before the fall the world had to be subdued. And our final
mastery over the surrounding universe was expressed, when Jesus our Head
rebuked the winds, and stilled the waves when they arose.
As they beheld, a new sense fell upon His disciples of a more awful
presence than they had yet discerned. They asked not only what manner of
man this is? but, with surmises which went out beyond the limits of human
greatness, Who then is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him?