Many a man who figures in history, is only known in connection with
some stupendous fault--some mistake, some folly, or some sin--that has
given him an unenviable immortality. Mention his name, and the huge
blot by which his memory is besmirched starts up before the mind in all
its hideousness. Take Cain, for example. He occupies the foremost
rank as regards fame; his name is one of the first that children learn
to lisp; and yet what do we know about him? Very little indeed; our
knowledge, in fact, is limited to a single act--an act which is the
most horrible of human crimes. His name is suggestive only of
violence, murder, the shedding of innocent blood--the foulest deeds
that man can possibly commit. Or take Judas Iscariot. We know more
particulars about him--we know that he was one of the original
apostles, that he managed their common fund, that he posed as a strict
economist, and above all, that he was a consummate hypocrite. Yet when
we mention his name, we call up the remembrance of only one vile deed,
one treacherous act--an act that has made his name a curse and a byword
throughout the ages. The same remark is applicable to Demas. His name
is familiar enough, but the story of his life is almost unknown. Paul
refers to him more than once as a fellow-labourer, which shows that for
a time at least he was an exemplary Christian. But he failed in the
hour of trial--failed through being dominated by an inordinate love of
the world--and his memory survives, therefore, as a representative of
that worldly-mindedness which leads to apostasy.
The tone in which the great apostle mentions Demas, in his second
letter to Timothy, is very touching. "_Demas_," saith he, "_has
forsaken me, having loved the present world_" (2 Tim. iv. 16). We
might have expected him to give vent to his feelings in bitter
invective--as is customary in such cases--and to denounce the
cowardliness of this desertion in language aflame with indignation. It
would have been no more than justice to the offender, and it might have
deterred others from stumbling in the same way. But no, he does
nothing of the kind; his words contain nothing more than the brief,
deep, pathetic groan of a wounded heart. He had probably built many
hopes upon Demas, and not without reason. In his arduous labours among
the Gentiles he had found him an efficient helper, and many were the
hours of sweet communion he had spent with him and others, in
discussing the triumphs of the Gospel. And he was confident that now
in his bonds, waiting the pleasure of the Roman tyrant, he would have
derived comfort from his companionship and encouragement from his
faithfulness. But alas! these bright hopes had been cruelly shattered;
for in the hour of his greatest need Demas had abandoned him. The
apostle was too grieved to use harsh language--too grieved, not only at
his own disappointment, but also when he thought of Demas's own future.
Unconsciously, in this unostentatious exercise of self-restraint, he
has left us an impressive lesson in Christian charity, and has shown us
the way in which those who fall away from their steadfastness ought to
be treated. How many of those hapless delinquents might have been
reclaimed, had the high, noble, generous spirit which animated the
apostle been manifested towards them by those whose confidence they had
betrayed, it is impossible to tell; but it is certain that not a few.
The question that presents itself here is this: In what light are we to
regard Demas's character? Was he a cool, calculating, determined
apostate; or did he simply give way to weakness? There is an essential
difference between the two cases, and they ought to be judged
accordingly. There are men who through sheer perversity renounce their
faith, and are not ashamed to vilify the religion which they once
professed. They are generally embodiments of irreverence, who glory in
their atheism, and talk of infidelity as if it were a cardinal virtue.
Whenever there is foul work to be done, they are almost always to the
fore; whenever holy things are to be held up to ridicule, they are the
men to do it. These are deliberate apostates; men who with their eyes
open prefer darkness to light, who of set purpose deny the truth and
embrace error. Happily the world contains but few such. To the honour
of human nature, fallen though it be, it may be said that it
instinctively recoils from such characters with a sense of horror. We
do not think for a moment that Demas belonged to this class, though the
terms in which he is sometimes spoken of might lead one to suppose so.
There are others who fall away through weakness. They find themselves
in circumstances for which they are not prepared--circumstances by
which their faith is sorely tried--and, lacking that strength of
conviction, which alone can give stability, they recede from the
position which they took up with so much apparent enthusiasm. Theirs
is not that deep spiritual experience which makes its possessor count
suffering as a privilege and martyrdom as a crown. They rejoice for a
season in Christ and His salvation, but "_they have no root in
themselves_," so that "_when tribulation or persecution ariseth because
of the word, by and by they are offended_." We are inclined to think
that Demas belonged to this class. The apostle was now overwhelmed by
calamities. His career as a messenger of the Cross had been ruthlessly
cut short. There were unmistakable signs of a coming storm, when he,
and possibly those around him, would be tortured and slain, to gratify
the bloodthirstiness of the Roman emperor. He seems to be fully
cognisant of this, for he says, "_I am now ready to be offered, and the
time of my departure is at hand_." It is probable, therefore, that
Demas feared lest by continuing with the apostle he might share his
dreadful fate. He pictured himself being carried away in chains by the
brutal soldiery, as he had seen many others, to the great amphitheatre,
to be thrown into the arena, and there to be drawn limb from limb by
ferocious beasts, for the amusement of the frivolous thousands who
gloated on such scenes. The bare thought of it made him tremble. He
"_loved the present world_"; to him life was too precious, too full of
delightful possibilities, to be thrown away in the prime of manhood--to
be thrown away especially in this awful fashion. Visions of former
days began to haunt him. His early home, the comrades of his youth,
his loving kindred, all that he had left when he became a convert,
completely engrossed his thoughts, and cast over him a fascination that
was becoming irresistible. There was nothing else for it; he must see
them once more, even though it should cost him his hope of heaven. And
so he "departed to Thessalonica," the place where he was bred and born.
Some suppose that he took this step for the sake of gain--for the sake
of engaging in some lucrative trade. It may be so; but there is no
evidence to prove it.
These considerations, though they explain, do not excuse Demas's
conduct. Far from it. He richly merits all the censure that has been
meted out to him. He ought to have played the man, and braved any
danger for the sake of his principles. Like the Psalmist, he ought to
have said: "_The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid_?"
Compared with the kingdom to which he belonged, what was Rome with all
its power? Compared with the King whom he served, what was Nero with
all his glory? Compared with the joys of holy living, what was the
world with all its attractions? But he failed to realise these great
facts, and hence he acted the part of a weakling; he bent as a reed,
when he ought to have stood firm as an oak. If all the first disciples
had been made of such pliable stuff as himself, what would have been
the condition of the world to-day? How mean and cowardly his action
appears when contrasted with the heroic endurance of weak women, who
rather than deny their Lord faced the "_violence of fire_!" Weakness
in certain situations amounts to a crime. Who ever thinks of
justifying Pontius Pilate? He was not guilty of wilful wrong; he would
have gladly acquitted our Lord, had he been able to do so without
risking his own safety; when he delivered Him to be crucified, he
simply gave way, through fear, to the clamour of an enraged populace.
Nevertheless he stands convicted by after-ages of the vilest act that
any judge has ever committed. Wrong-doing is not to be palliated by
ascribing it to the overpowering force of temptation. The claims of
conscience are paramount, and no inducements, however plausible, can
justify us in setting them aside.
It is sometimes asked, what became of Demas eventually? Did he, after
wandering in the world, and finding no rest to his soul, identify
himself again with the cause which he had deserted? We should like to
be able to believe this. But the record is silent; and this silence is
ominous; for when the Bible describes the fall of a good man, it
generally gives some account of his restoration. Peter is a notable
instance. Amidst the terrors of the Judgment-hall he thrice denied his
Lord. The evangelists make no attempt to shield him from adverse
criticism; on the other hand, they mention in detail every circumstance
that enhances the baseness of his behaviour. But they are equally
careful to dwell also upon the reality of his repentance. John, in a
passage of marvellous beauty, relates how in a saner mood, on the shore
of the sea of Galilee, he thrice confessed his Lord--confessed Him with
such glowing fervour, that he was there and then restored into the
position which he had so miserably forfeited. But the last word about
Demas is that which points him out as a backslider; and as such he must
be for ever known.
The lesson of Demas's life is clear, nay even obtrusively clear, and
the need of it has been freely acknowledged at all times. We could
almost wish that it were inscribed in letters of fire upon the midnight
sky. He was a man who "_loved this present world_," and we see in his
history how loving the world involves separation from God, and how
separation from God results in the abandonment of His cause.
It is difficult to discourse to any purpose upon worldliness. You
might get a crowd of people anywhere to hear you dilate upon it. They
would probably applaud to the echo your most scathing denunciations of
its baseness. But after all the probability is that no one would apply
those fervid periods to himself. And why? Just because this evil
principle manifests itself in such a variety of ways. A man who
detects worldliness in his neighbour with the greatest ease may be
absolutely incapable of seeing it in himself, simply because his own
and his neighbour's are so different in form. It is the old story.
David boiled over with indignation at the hard-hearted monster who had
taken the poor man's lamb; but the fact that he himself had taken
another man's wife, gave him no concern whatever.
It will be readily conceded that the miser is a worldly man. He loves
gold for its own sake; he hoards up riches, not with the view of
enjoying them, but in order to satisfy an inordinate greed of
possession; his chief object in life is to die worth his hundreds, his
thousands, or his millions. Though rich, he is frequently tormented
with the fear of ending his days in want, and is more anxious for the
morrow than the poorest of the poor. The only redeeming point in his
character is his self-denial--a truly noble characteristic when
associated with a generous disposition--which, however, in his case,
loses its value through the sordidness of its aim. Yes, he is a
worldly man, beyond the shadow of a doubt. But this is equally true of
the man whose manner of life is the very opposite of this--the
spendthrift. He values money only in so far as it enables him to make
a grand display, to spend his days in riotous living, to gain the
goodwill of the empty, useless, pleasure-living society in which he
moves. How totally different the latter from the former! How
frequently do they despise and condemn each other--the miser the
spendthrift, and the spendthrift the miser! And yet they worship, so
to speak, at the same shrine; they are victims of the same delusion;
they both make this world their all.
This love of the world leads in every case to separation from God. The
story of the Fall furnishes an apt illustration of this fatal result.
Stript of its poetic setting, what have we there depicted?
Covetousness--the desire of material good--the determination to obtain
it at all hazards. It was under this guise that sin made its first
entrance into human life--sin, which in its turn
"Brought death into our world and all our woe."
Now mark the effect of the first act of transgression. We are told
that when Adam and his wife heard the voice of the Lord God walking in
the garden in the cool of the day, they "hid themselves" from His
presence "amongst the trees." In other words, the cords of love which
up to that point bound man to God were rudely severed. Before this the
thought of God filled their souls with joy; they loved to hear His
voice in the whisperings of the wind, to see His smile in the merry
sunshine, to trace His power in the structure of the heavens; but now
all was mysteriously changed, things which previously ministered to
their enjoyment became a source of terror.
Why should the love of the world lead to this result? It is because
God must be all or nothing to the human soul. The first commandment in
the law is--"_Thou shall love the Lord thy God with all thine heart,
with all thy soul, and with all thy might_." This is not an arbitrary
enactment, but it has its ground in the eternal fitness of things. God
is the infinitely powerful, the infinitely wise, and the infinitely
good, and as such demands the undivided love of man. Anything less
than this, not only falls below His lawful claim, but also fails to
satisfy our profoundest aspirations. As Augustine puts it, "Thou hast
made us for Thyself; our hearts are restless, until they find rest in
Thee." But it may be asked, Does love to God exclude all other loves?
By no means. The second commandment in the law, "_Thou shalt love thy
neighbour as thyself_," is inseparable from the first. It is
impossible to obey the one without obeying the other. Obedience that
does not regard both is partial, and therefore futile. The reason is
plain. God is immanent in creation. The Christian beholds God in
everything, and everything in God. Thus it comes to pass that his
supreme love--his love to God--intensifies, ennobles, and hallows every
other. If you would have an example of the highest type of love--love
to God manifesting itself as love to man--go to a Christian home, and
you will find it there in all its charm, uniting husband and wife,
parents and children, master and servants, making the house a veritable
"paradise regained."
There is a sense in which the Christian even loves the world--loves it
as no other man can love it--that is, when the term is applied to the
wondrous system of nature. He loves sometimes to wander in the fields,
where innumerable lovely forms, both animate and inanimate, reveal
their beauty to the eye; and at other times to meditate upon the
illimitable expanse of heaven, crowded by ten thousand worlds, which
all declare the glory of Him who is Lord over all. Paul could not have
had this meaning in his mind when he spoke of Demas as having, through
loving the present world, made shipwreck concerning his faith. He was
thinking rather of the sum-total of those pursuits, pleasures, and
ambitions which bind man to earth, hamper his spiritual growth, and
lead him to his ruin. The "world" in this sense is God's rival; to
love the "world" is to hate God.
What does separation from God imply, and when can it be said to take
place? God is everywhere; who can flee His presence? God is a spirit;
who can do Him injury? These are questions that have always presented
some difficulty. It was asked in the days of Malachi, "_Will a man rob
God_?" as if such a thing were beyond the range of possibility. At the
day of judgment, those on the left hand will ask the Judge, "_Lord when
saw we Thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick,
or in prison, and did not minister unto Thee_?" as if the things laid
to their charge were without foundation. Now, the objectors in the
days of Malachi who asked, "Wherein have we robbed thee?" were
answered, "In the tithes and offering." And the objectors at the day
of judgment will be answered, "_Verily, I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye
did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me_."
Evidently, therefore, God--or God in Christ--and His cause are in a
very real sense identical; so that he who forsakes the one, of
necessity forsakes the other also.
Separation from the world is an inward process; it takes place in the
heart, and cannot therefore be perceived by a man's most intimate
friends. But the forsaking of God's cause is the outward expression of
this process, the manner whereby it becomes known to all the world. If
it is asked why we assert that Demas had forsaken God, the answer is
evident; it is because he forsook Paul, who was the representative of
God's cause.
This is never the work of a day, though it may sometimes appear such.
A professedly religious man commits a flagrant act of sin--or perhaps a
punishable crime--which places him at once among the open enemies of
religion. We wonder at it; we say in our minds, "What a sudden change!
yesterday a saint, to-day an unmitigated villain!" But are we right in
saying so? Certainly not. That rash act was simply the culmination of
a process that had been going on through a long period. The man had
been sailing towards the rapids for months, or perhaps years, only the
fact was unobserved; it was not until he was hurled headlong over the
precipice into the foaming gulf, that the attention of the world was
attracted to it.