and that this concealment was necessary to his mediatorial work. I
answer then, that when he had departed, and when such a secresy was no
longer needful, his apostles on some of the most solemn occasions merely
asserted his humanity, on occasions, too, when, if he were God as well
as man, the whole truth were to be expected. Paul,[153] in announcing
him as the great and final judge of the world, calls him no more than
man. Nor does his language assume a higher import when he speaks of him
as the pattern and pledge of immortality.[154] No other conclusion is to
be drawn from the address of Peter to Cornelius; and if a belief of
Christ’s deity be necessary to salvation, the centurion might, for
anything Peter asserted, have gone direct to perdition.[155] Still more
remarkable is it, that in this apostle’s first public address after the
departure of his master to the skies, we have nothing more than the same
declaration. The occasion and the circumstances not only justified, but
demanded the highest announcement that could be made respecting Christ.
The disciples had just seen him taken up into heaven, and the awe of the
ascension was yet upon their hearts. He who had trod this weary earth in
many sorrows was taken from their sight. They who had recently seen his
blood streaming warmly on Calvary, had come fresh from the glory of
Olivet. He who had been their suffering companion and instructor was now
their blessed and triumphant master. Alone in the midst of a gainsaying
and persecuting world, with gladness solemnized by reverence, and
victory tempered by grief, they had assembled to await the promised
Comforter. After that event they were to be separated, and each was to
take his own path in the moral wilderness that stretched far and
desolately before him. The Spirit of Promise came. The cloven tongues of
fire fell upon them: that beautiful emblem of the eloquent spirit of the
gospel that was to carry light and heat to the hearts of all
generations, and through every language of earth; that beautiful emblem
of a Christianity which might exist in many forms, but be at the same
time enlightened and enflamed by the soul of a common charity.
Multitudes from all nations were collected in the Holy City;—under the
influence of recent and solemn events Peter rises to address them. The
tragedy of Calvary was yet fresh in the general imagination, the stain
of a slave and malefactor’s death was still dark on the forehead of
Christianity. This surely was the time to cover the ignominy that lay on
the humanity of Jesus by proclaiming the resplendent glory of his
godhead. This was especially to be expected from Peter. He had on a
preceding occasion spurned the idea of such a shameful death, though
coming from Christ’s own lips; now was the time to pour the glory of the
God over the humiliation of the man; he too, who in an hour of weakness
denied his master, was the one who in the time of his strength and
repentance would be most ready to vindicate and assert his highest
honour. It is said that the apostles were not thoroughly inspired, and
did not fully know Christ before the day of Pentecost. But this was the
day of Pentecost. If, besides, it was the speaker’s object—as indeed it
must have been—that Christ should be rightly and widely known, now was
the opportunity to send forth his name and nature through every kingdom
and in every tongue. If, according to the doctrine some time since
propounded in Christ Church, the sin of the Jews was dark in proportion
to the grade of being in which we place the Saviour, now was the time,
while the event was recent, to strike their hearts with terror and
compunction. Contrast, then, these natural, these fair and unexaggerated
expectations, with the actual speech of Peter, and without a word of
comment the contrast is itself the strongest argument. “Ye men of Israel
hear these words: Jesus of Nazareth, a man approved of God among you by
miracles, and wonders, and signs which God did by him in the midst of
you, as ye yourselves know: him being delivered by the determinate
counsel and foreknowledge of God, ye have taken, and by wicked hands
have crucified and slain: whom God hath raised up, having loosed the
pains of death, because it was not possible that he should be holden of
it.” (Acts ii. 22, 24.) Had you been listeners to this address, I ask
your candour, I ask your intellect, could you conceive that the apostle
was speaking, not of a glorified man, but of an incarnate Deity? No,
certainly.
The testimony of Peter thus clearly given, is more and more confirmed as
we look upon the life of Jesus. In every stage of that life we see him
human, and though in all moral purity and moral grandeur, yet _simply_
human. We are not ashamed of our belief. No, we glory in it, and we
rejoice in it. We glory in it, for it is the proof that the elements of
our nature can be moulded into such beauty; and we rejoice in it, for it
is the proof that he who left a religion for the immortal heart of man
was himself purely and simply of the nature he would sanctify. We see
him as the infant cradled in Bethlehem, the nurseling hanging on a
mother’s care, and we escape the moral and intellectual confusion of
joining the omnipotence of a God with the feebleness of a babe. We see
him in maturer years in his social relations and social intercourse
casting a holy light around him, and spreading the influence of all that
is most blessed in human affections. We destroy not the virtue of the
man by absorbing it in the glory of the God. Human, and _only_ human, we
see him in goodness, in duty, and in suffering. Even in his most
marvellous works of mercy, so harmonious is his power with our common
nature, that we feel as if they were merely ordinary acts of kindness.
When he compassionated the widow’s anguish and restored her son; when
pitying the blind, he opened their eyes to the joy and beauty of light;
when to the ears of the deaf he gave an inlet to the music of nature and
the voice of friendship; when he cast out the dumb spirit and unclosed
sealed lips in hymns of gratitude and praise; when he fed multitudes on
the mountain’s brow; when lepers went clean from his presence to their
fellows and their homes; when parents clung to their restored children,
and friends who had separated in despair met again in hope,—wonderful as
are all these events, we connect them with the _man_ Christ Jesus, the
real, simple, holy, and perfect man.
The lecturer in Christ Church stated three peculiarities which
distinguished the Unitarian from the orthodox belief in Christ’s
humanity. The third of these was his pre-existence. The Lecturer defined
with admirable accuracy the essentials of humanity, one of which, as
would be universally admitted, was _to be born_. I was therefore not
prepared to hear the proper humanity of Christ before he was born most
zealously defended. I look upon it, however, as a mere oversight, and no
doubt it will be corrected in the printed lecture.
The main point is, however, that of Christ’s pre-existence, which
independently of mistake in arrangement or expression is a fair topic of
argument and discussion. The Lecturer quoted a number of texts from the
evangelist John,—from any other of the gospel-writers he could not have
taken the shadow of a proof: these he seemed to think invincible
evidence. Good scholars, however, and candid critics, aye, and honest
Christians, have found such explanations of these expressions as
satisfied both their intellects and their conscience. Orthodox
commentators are aware that the idiom of the New Testament frequently
uses the tense grammatically past to signify events which are actually
future. I ask those critics what they have urged, what they usually
urge, against Roman Catholic controversialists, who, in proving the
doctrine of transubstantiation, quote the text, “This is my body which
is broken for you.” What says the Protestant opponent? Oh, it is a mere
idiomatic expression, by which an event is represented as complete which
is yet to be accomplished. In like manner and with a like
interpretation, we hear the orthodox use the phrase, “The lamb _slain_
from the foundation of the world.” They have in this case no scruple to
speak of that as actually existing which was merely contemplated in
eternal foreknowledge. If it be said that all events are present to the
mind of God, so we answer are all persons; and so was Christ. This view
of the subject has satisfied many reflective, and whatever our opponents
may think, many able and honest minds. But I avail myself of this
opportunity to state distinctly and plainly, that though challenged by
our opponents in the title of their subject to discuss this point, it is
one on which Unitarians have great differences of opinion, but one which
would not disturb a moment’s harmony in Unitarian Churches. Personally
the Lecturers in the present controversy, on our side, do not believe
the pre-existence of Christ; but there are congregations and individuals
amongst us, with whom we hold, and wish to hold, kindly, brotherly, and
Christian communion, who cling to this doctrine most sacredly and most
reverently. We all agree in maintaining the absolute unity of God, and
if I may so speak, the CREATURESHIP of Christ. We desire to bind our
charity to no dogmas, and we simply say, with the Apostle, “Let every
man be persuaded in his own mind.”
On this point, and indeed in this discussion generally, I have observed
with great pain a disposition on the part of our opponents to connect
the venerable name of Priestley with odium. It is an unworthy office for
men of education in the nineteenth century. We take not the authority of
Priestley, nor of any other, except Jesus. One is our Master, even
_Christ_: and all we are brethren. But in venerating Priestley, yea, and
in loving his memory, we are guilty of no Sectarianism, we but agree
with the generous, the excellent, the enlightened of the earth: we but
agree with Robert Hall, a stern but eloquent Trinitarian, who in
allusion to the Birmingham riots, deprecated in glowing language the
insults offered to philosophy in “the first of her sons.” Both his
critical and his religious opinions are fair subjects for investigation
and opposition. But great sacrifices and honourable consistency should
render his moral character sacred, if any thing could melt the stony
heart of polemical austerity. When we hear, as lately we did hear, that
Priestley sought not for truth, but for arguments to sustain a system,
we are not only impelled to ask, with Pilate, “What is truth?” but also
to inquire, “Who are those who seek it?” One thing we do know, that if
he gave himself to a system, it was a devotion to one which had little
wherewith to recompense him; and we know also that as far as the good
things of this world is concerned, that he might have turned his
devotion to a far better purpose. Instead of having his home and his all
shattered in the storm of popular turbulence, instead of being left
houseless in the land of his nativity, he might have been great amongst
the heads of colleges, or first upon the bench of Bishops; instead of
being expatriated amidst vulgar execration, he might have spent his life
fairing sumptuously every day, clothed in purple and fine linen, with a
dignified hypocrisy; instead of burying his later sorrows in a foreign
land, and dropping there his last and most bitter tears, and leaving
there his venerable dust, and his still more venerable memory, to the
shame of England, and to the immortal honour of his most generous and
hospitable entertainers, we might now have had proposals for a national
monument to him, long lists of subscribers’ names, and loud clamours of
exulting praise. One consolation at least was left: his right hand was
clean, and had he been dragged to the stake he need never have thrust it
in the flame for having been the instrument to give signature to a lie,
from a beggarly, a dastardly, and a cowardly fear of death. If he could
look from where he lives in heaven, he would have a still nobler
consolation, in being aware that, despite of bigots, his name is
treasured in venerated recollection with the pious and philosophical of
all sects and parties—that to give him due and most beautiful
praise[156] was amongst the last earthly acts of a kindred spirit, but
of another soil, that fanatics may rant and rage, but the good will
love.—That when this, with such controversies in general, sink into the
common and oblivious grave to which all polemical divinity is doomed,
the good his invention have given to mankind will survive, and the
witness he has left of an upright conscience will be an everlasting
example.
The conviction of his reason, it is true, was so strong against the
pre-existence of Christ, that he would suppose the apostle misunderstood
the Saviour’s words, or the amanuensis mistranscribed the apostle’s
language. This was urged as a mighty accusation, as a most blasphemous
transgression. There are here an opinion and an alternative. The opinion
is the belief in Christ’s simple humanity; the alternative is merely to
suppose the want of memory in an evangelist, or the want of accuracy in
a copyist. Place in contrast to this Coleridge as quoted by our
opponents. He has also an opinion and an alternative—his opinion is,
that Christ was God, and his alternative is, that if _not God_ he was a
_deceiver_. If Dr. Priestley was wrong, he left not only Christ but his
apostles morally blameless—if Coleridge mistook, he attributed directly
and without compromise the want of even common honesty to the Author of
our religion: I leave you to judge between the two cases. I do not wish
to disparage erring and departed genius; but when the name of Coleridge
is called up in my mind in connection with that of Priestley, it is not
in human nature to avoid comparison. The one steeped the best part of
his life in opium, the other spent it in honourable toil; the one
squandered his brilliant and most beautiful genius in discursive efforts
and magical conversations, the other with heroic self denial shut
himself up in dry and laborious studies for the physical good, and the
moral wants of mankind; the one wrote sweet and wild and polished poesy
for their pleasure, the other has left discoveries for their endless
improvement. Yet orthodoxy builds for one the shrine of a saint, but
like those who in other days dug up the bones of Wickliff to be burned,
drags forth the memory of the other from the peaceful and forgiving
past, to inflict an execution of which we might have supposed his
lifetime had a sufficient endurance. Tranquil in the far-off and quiet
grave be the ashes of the Saint and Sage: his soul is beyond the
turmoils and battles of this fighting world. When these who are now in
strife shall be at last in union, his will not be the spirit to whom
that blessed consummation will give least enjoyment.
The preacher in Christ Church made some lengthened observations on the
two-fold nature of Jesus. This topic will more properly be included in
another lecture. I only mention it here for the purpose of making a
passing remark. The preacher’s language implied that among our reasons
for rejecting the doctrine is, that it is a mystery. Now we maintain
that a mystery is properly no doctrine, for it can be neither affirmed
or denied. The lecturer observed that there are mysteries in life and
nature. If by such he meant facts which we do not fully comprehend, or
ultimate facts beyond which we cannot penetrate, he is right. But of
these we assert nothing, of these we deny nothing. Intellectually or
spiritually they are in no sense subjects of contemplation. The
preacher, if my memory deceives me not, maintained that philosophy has
also mysteries. The principles or phenomena of Philosophy are not
mysteries—and so far as they are mysteries they are not philosophy. We
reject not the doctrine proposed to us on any such ground. We reject it,
not because we do not understand the terms in which it is expressed, but
because we _do_ understand them, and find them equally repugnant to
reason and to Scripture. We reject it because it does equal violence to
faith and intellect; we reject it, not only from the want of
consistency, but the want of evidence.
The apology for mystery made by the defenders of the incarnation has
been as often, as ably, and as successfully used by the advocates of
Transubstantiation. Among other questions, we are asked by both
parties—it is a favourite illustration—if we know how a grain of wheat
germinates and fructifies! Without hesitation we reply—no. And not only
do we not understand this _how_, but many others which might seem very
much simpler. But where, I ask, is the analogy? A grain of wheat is
buried in the earth, and the spirit of Universal Life prepares it for
reproduction, and in the harvest it comes forth abundantly multiplied,
to make glad the hearts of men. On this point I am equally willing to
confess my ignorance and my gratitude. All the facts are not known to
me, but such as I do know are perfectly consistent with each other. If I
am told that I know not how a grain of wheat germinates, I admit it
without hesitation; but I should certainly be startled if I were also
told, that besides being a grain of wheat it was also, by a mysterious
compound of natures, the Planet Herschel, or the archangel Michael. And
yet this does not amount by infinite degrees of self-contradiction to
the assertion, that the same being is God and man; that one part of the
nature is weary, and hungry, and thirsty, bowed down by every want and
grief, while the other is resting in peace and blessedness—that in the
same person there is one mind which is ignorant of that which is to come
in a day, and another in which reside the secrets of the universe, of
time, and of eternity.
The preacher, in speaking to Unitarians specially, commenced his address
to us in a tone of exhortation, and closed it in that of rebuke. And
what was the ground and subject of rebuke? Why, the smallness of our
numbers. He exhorted us on our want of humility, of modesty, in opposing
the whole Christian world. I wondered, if I were in a place of
Protestant worship, or if I heard an advocate for the right of private
judgment. My mind, as by a spell, was thrown back upon the early and
infant history of Christianity; I saw the disciples going forth on that
opposing world, of which their master had given them no enticing
picture; I saw Peter at Antioch, and Paul harassed and toil-worn at Rome
and Athens; I heard the cry of the vulgar, and the sarcasms of the
philosophical, going forth in prolonged utterance in condemnation of the
strange doctrine; I visioned before me the little knots of Christians,
bound to each other in love, holding their own faith, despite of
multitudes and despite of antiquity, fronting the world’s scorn and the
world’s persecution. I thought of Luther, standing, as he confessed,
against the world, an admission which was made one of the strongest
arguments against him,—an argument that there are piles of divinity to
maintain on the one side, and to repel on the other. I thought on the
persecution of the Waldenses and the Albigenses; I saw them, few, and
scattered, and shivering, and dying, in their Alpine solitudes: for
persecution, like the sun, enters into every nook. I thought of the
early struggle of Protestantism in this country,—of Latimer, of Cranmer,
and of Ridley; I thought of these honest and right-noble beings given,
by a barbarous bigotry, to a death of infamy; delivered over to the
fires of Smithfield; perishing amidst vulgar yells; not only abandoned,
but condemned, by episcopal domination. I remembered having read, in the
Life of Saint Francis Xavier, precisely similar objections made against
him by the bonzas of Japan. I also considered how many societies at
present send missionaries to the Heathen. I considered that, amidst the
populousness of India, the Brahmins might make a similar objection with
much greater force. Our fathers, they might say, never heard these
things; our people repudiate them.
But notwithstanding such general objections, we do not withhold our
admiration from Xavier and such self-denying men who were willing to
spend and be spent so that they might make known the glory of Christ; we
rejoice in seeing men thus forget their persons in love to their
principles, and in Doctor Carey standing alone, preaching under a tree
opposite to Juggernaut—we recognize with joy the impersonation of
Christian sincerity and Christian philanthrophy. If numbers were the
proof of truth, what changeful shapes might not truth assume to meet the
humour of the multitude! And we hear the immortal Chillingworth—the
first of logicians, the most charitable of polemics—thus replying to one
of his assailants: “You obtrude upon us,” says he, “that when Luther
began, he being yet but one, opposed himself to all, as well subjects as
superiors. If he did so in the cause of God it was heroically done of
him. This had been without hyperbolizing, _Mundus contra Athanasium et
Athanasius contra mundum_. Neither is it so impossible that the whole
world should so far lie in wickedness (as St. John speaks,) that it may
be lawful and noble for one man to oppose the world. But yet were we put
to our oaths, we should not surely testify any such thing for you; for
how can we say properly that he opposed himself to all unless we could
say also that all opposed themselves to him?” The same noble writer goes
on to say “that though no man before him lifted up his voice as Luther
did, yet who can assure us but that many before him both thought and
spake in the lower voice of petitions and remonstrances in many points
as he did?”—One fact at least must be conceded, and we are entitled to
any advantage it implies, that it is more painful and self-sacrificing
to be of the few than of the many, that there is far more to endure in
being a little flock, than of the great multitude; and that in
maintaining with all honesty our opinions in the face of the world’s
odium and the world’s revilings, in despite of popular outcry and
theological accusation, if no other virtues, we can surely claim those
of sincerity and fortitude, of moral courage and moral consistency.
The preacher alluded to the ransom which Christ paid for sinners, and
compared it to that which anciently was given in exchange for slaves.
The question is, to whom were mankind slaves? To whom or what was the
purchase-ransom to be paid? Was this slavery to sin, to Satan, or to
God? Whosoever or whatsoever held the captive, must, of course, receive
the price of redemption. To which of these was it due, and how holds the
analogy? I leave the subject with the lecturer.
I now turn to what is greatly more agreeable in this discussion, the
statement that we hold Christ to have been morally perfect. To this we
assent with all our conscience, with all our hope, and with all our
hearts. We regard him as pure and perfect in every thought and word. We
see him with a holy piety illuminating his whole character and conduct.
We see him, in solitude and society, holding communion with his Father
and our Father, his God and our God. We see him in darkest moments, in
periods of deepest anguish, maintaining a hopeful and a trustful spirit;
in every affliction holding true to his love for God and man. We see him
with a patience that toiled for all, and never tired. We see him
plodding through every thankless labour, which here can find no
recompense, except it be that wherein the act itself is a blessing to
the Spirit. We see him in vexation and sorrow; and, whilst we gaze upon
his tranquil brow, we feel our stormy passions silenced into peace. We
see him in his struggles and temptations, and we feel how poor and
pitiful are our deepest griefs or sorest trials compared with his. We
regard him in the greatness of his benevolence, and we hear from his
lips such words as never man spake before. We behold him, whose soul was
never tainted with sin, turn most mercifully on the repentant sinner,
striking the heart with rending anguish, yet filling the eye with
sweetest and most hopeful tears. We see him with a bosom throbbing with
all human charities, and an ear open to every cry of woe and
wretchedness. We see him in all unselfish sacrifices, and all generous
labours; and regarding our nature in him as most lovely, most glorious,
and most triumphant, we rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory.
We see him as the most perfect image of his Father; and the first, among
all his brethren, filled with the inspiration of God, and spreading it
forth abundantly on the souls of men.
Amongst other wrongs to Christ, we are accused of taking away all
motives of love to him. It may be fair, then, to ask, for what do
Trinitarians love him? And it may be also fair to ask, what is it in him
that moves their affections which may not equally move ours? They cannot
love Christ the God in the same sense or on the same grounds on which
they love Christ the man. For what, then, do they love Christ the man,
or Christ the mediator, for which, in that aspect, we may not love him
as deeply and as truly? Is it for his many and great labours? On even
the orthodox doctrine, these were the toils of the manhood and not of
the godhead. Is it for his sufferings? The God could not suffer, could
not be weary, could not be persecuted, could not die, could neither be
hooted nor crucified; if, therefore, all the strongest motives of love
to Christ be founded in his humanity, then I assert we have all these
motives. On any supposition, it was not the second person of the godhead
that bent his bleeding head on Calvary, it was the _man_ Christ Jesus.
If it be said that Unitarian views do not move the heart, we have only
with sorrow to confess, that no views of Christ’s nature or character
move us practically as they ought; and for the small results which his
doctrines have produced amongst us, we, with others, have reason to bend
down our heads in deepest humiliation: but we solemnly deny that our
convictions about Christ have any tendency to produce such an effect. In
the case of wrong, the fault is in ourselves, and not in our doctrines.
II. Having thus explained our views on Christ as a man, I shall occupy
the remaining part of this discourse by stating, as briefly as I can,
the difference between Trinitarians and ourselves on his character as a
mediator.
What are the religious needs of man? says the Trinitarian. Consequently,
What is the office of the Messiah? If we take the Calvinistic scheme,
and at present that is the most popular, the reply would be, or should
be, thus:—There is a decree of eternal election and reprobation by which
millions, before the foundation of the world, were destined to be saved
or lost. The numbers were fixed, and could neither be enlarged or
diminished. For the salvation of the elect, and these only, the second
person in the godhead became incarnate: them he purchased with his
blood, and the rest were left to perish. The elect entered into life
with the seal of predestination on their birth, redeemed, to be
justified, to be sanctified, and finally to be glorified. _The
remainder_ came into the same life burdened with the imputation of a sin
committed centuries previous to their existence. Foredoomed to
perdition, overpassed by the Father, and disregarded by the Son, and
unvisited by the Holy Spirit, they die in their sins, enter on their
predetermined destiny, and, to use the tremendous language of the
Athanasian Creed, “perish everlastingly.”