power to help it. But it was not so with Jesus. He had power enough to
have saved himself from suffering, if he had chosen to do so. Sometime
before this, when he was speaking to his disciples about his death, or,
as he called it, laying down his life, he said—“No man taketh it from
me, but I lay it down of myself. _I have power to lay it down, and I
have power to take it again._” John x: 18. And he showed plainly what
his power was at the very time of his betrayal. When his enemies came to
take him, he “went forth, and said unto them, Whom seek ye? They answered
him, Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus saith unto them, I am he.” John xviii: 4.
But he put such wonderful power into these simple words—“_I am he_”—that,
the moment they heard them, the whole multitude, soldiers, servants, and
all, fell to the ground before him. It was nothing but the power of Jesus
which produced this strange effect. It seems as if Jesus did this, on
purpose to show that the mighty power by which he had healed the sick,
and raised the dead, and cast out devils, and walked on the water, and
controlled the stormy winds and waves, was in him still. He was not taken
by his enemies because he had no power to help himself. The same power
which made his enemies fall to the ground with a word could have held
them there while he walked away; or could have scattered them, as the
chaff is scattered by the whirlwind; or could have made the earth open
and swallow them up. But he did not choose to exercise it in any of these
ways. He was _willing_ to suffer for us; and so he allowed himself to be
taken.
As the Jews were seizing him Peter drew his sword, and smote one of the
servants of the high-priest, and cut off his right ear. Jesus touched
the ear, and healed it, in a moment, thus showing again what power he
had. Then he told Peter to put up his sword, and said—“Thinkest thou
that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more
than twelve legions of angels?” St. Matt. xxvi: 53. A full Roman legion
contained six thousand men. Jesus had power enough in his own arm to
keep himself from being taken, if he had chosen to use it. And more than
seventy thousand angels would have flown with lightning speed to his
deliverance, if he had but lifted his finger; or said—“come.” There was
so much power in himself, and so much power in heaven, at his command,
that all the soldiers Rome ever had could not have taken him, unless he
had been willing to be taken. But he _was_ willing. And when they came to
crucify him, all the nails ever made could not have fastened him to the
cross, unless he had been willing to be fastened there. But his wonderful
love for you and for me and for a world of lost sinners, made him willing
to be fastened there, to suffer and to die, that our sins might be
pardoned and that we might enter heaven.
And it is the thought of this amazing love of Christ, making him willing
to suffer for us, which gives to the story of the cross the marvellous
power it has to melt the hardest hearts and win the worst of men to his
service. There is a power in love to do what nothing else can do,—to make
men good and holy. And this is what we are taught when told that—“Christ
suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to
God.” I. Peter iii: 18. And when we find people acting in this way
towards each other in everyday life it has just the same effect. Here is
an illustration of what I mean. We may call it:
“The Power of Love; or, The Just for the Unjust.” In a town near Paris,
is a school for teaching poor homeless boys who are found wandering
about the streets of that city and are growing up in idleness and crime.
When one of the boys breaks the rules of the school and deserves
punishment, the rest of the school are called together, like a jury, to
decide what shall be done with the offender. One of the punishments is
confinement for several days in a dungeon, called “the black-hole.” The
prisoner is put on a short allowance of food, and, of course, forfeits
all the liberties of the other boys.
After the boys have, in this way, passed sentence on one of their
companions and the master approves of it, this question is put to the
rest of the school:—“Will any of you become this boy’s substitute?
_i. e._, take his place, and bear his punishment, and let him go free?”
And it generally happens that some little friend of the criminal comes
forward and offers to bear the punishment instead of him. Then the only
punishment the real offender has to bear is to carry the bread and water
to his friend as long as he is confined in the dungeon. In this way, it
generally happens that the most stubborn and hard-hearted boys are melted
down, by seeing their companions willingly suffering for them what they
know they deserved to suffer themselves.
[Illustration: Jesus is Scourged
And Pilate, when he had called together the chief priests and the rulers
and the people, said unto them, Ye have brought this man unto me, as one
that perverteth the people: and, behold, I, having examined _him_ before
you, have found no fault in this man touching those things whereof ye
accuse him. No, nor yet Herod: for I sent you to him; and, lo, nothing
worthy of death is done unto him. I will therefore chastise him, and
release _him_. (For of necessity he must release one unto them at the
feast.) And they cried out all at once, saying, Away with this _man_, and
release unto us Barabbas. (Who for a certain sedition made in the city,
and for murder, was cast into prison.)—Then Pilate therefore took Jesus,
and scourged _him_.—_St. Luke xxiii: 13-19; St. John xix: 1._
_NOTE BY THE ARTIST_
_In endeavoring to apprehend, however imperfectly, the sufferings
endured by Jesus during this terrible day, there may be a tendency to
under-estimate the significance of one detail which is only incidentally
mentioned by the evangelists, namely, the punishment of scourging. But
this was nevertheless so barbarously cruel, that the mind recoils in
horror from the effort to realize the awful agony which it entailed.
Bound in a crouching attitude to the pillar of torment, the quivering
flesh lacerated by the fragments of bone and metal intertwisted with
the thongs, few of its victims, save such as were in perfect physical
health, were able to survive the infliction of the scourge, but perished
either then and there, or shortly afterwards, from nervous shock or from
mortification of the wounds. Yet it was a punishment so common, such an
everyday occurrence, that the scourging of one more malefactor—Jesus by
name—the justice or injustice of whose sentence they neither knew nor
cared to know, would be regarded with utter indifference by the brutal
soldiery charged with its infliction._
64]
Not long ago, a boy about nine or ten years old, named Pierre, was
received into this school. He was a boy whose temper and conduct were
so bad that he had been dismissed from several schools. He behaved
pretty well at first; but soon his bad temper broke out, and one day he
quarrelled with a boy about his own age, named Louis, and stabbed him in
the breast with a knife.
Louis was carried bleeding to his bed. His wound was painful, but not
dangerous. The boys were assembled, to consult about what was to be done
with Pierre. Louis was a great favorite with the boys, and they all
agreed at once that Pierre should be turned out of the school and never
allowed to come back.
This was a very natural sentence under the circumstances, but the master
thought it was not a wise one. He said that if Pierre was turned out
of school, he would grow worse and worse, and probably end his life on
the gallows. He asked them to think again. They then agreed upon a long
imprisonment, without saying how long it was to be. They were asked as
usual, if any one was willing to go to prison instead of Pierre. But no
one offered and he was marched off to prison.
After some days, when the boys were all together, the master asked again
if any one was willing to take Pierre’s place. A feeble voice was heard,
saying—“I will.” To the surprise of every one this proved to be Louis—the
wounded boy, who was just getting over the effect of his wound.
Louis went to the dungeon and took the place of the boy who had tried to
kill him; while Pierre was set at liberty. For many days he went to the
prison carrying the bread and water to Louis, but with a feeling of pride
and anger in his heart.
But at last he could bear it no longer. The sight of his kind-hearted,
generous friend, still pale and feeble from the effects of his wound,
pining in prison—living on bread and water—and willingly suffering all
this _for him_—who had tried to murder him—this was more than he could
bear. His fierce temper and stubborn pride broke down under it. The
generous love of Louis had fairly conquered him. He went to the master,
fell down at his feet, and with bitter tears confessed his fault, begged
to be forgiven, and promised to be a good boy.
He kept his promise, and became one of the best boys in the school.
And so it is the love of Christ in being willing to suffer for us that
wins the hearts and lives of men to him, and gives to the story of the
cross all its power.
The willingness of Christ to suffer is the second thing taught us by the
history of the betrayal and desertion.
These are the two things taught us about Jesus by this history: his
loneliness in suffering, and his willingness to suffer.
But, there are two things taught us about Judas, also, by this history.
One of these is—THE POWER OF SIN.
The sin of Judas was covetousness, or “the love of money.” The apostle
Paul tells us that this—“is the root of all evil.” I. Tim. vi: 10. The
little company of the apostles made Judas their treasurer. He carried
the purse for them. He received the money that was contributed for their
expenses, and paid out what was needed from day to day. We may suppose
that, soon after his appointment to this office, he found himself tempted
to take some of this money for his own use. Perhaps he only took a penny
or two, at first, but then he soon went on to take more. Now, if he had
watched and striven against this temptation, at the very first, and had
prayed for strength to resist it, what a different man he might have
been! There is an old proverb which says—“_Resist the beginnings._” Our
only safety is in doing this. Judas neglected to resist the beginning of
his temptation and the end of it was his ruin. We never can tell what may
come out of one sin that is not resisted.
If you want to sink a ship at sea, it is not necessary to make half a
dozen big holes in her side; one little hole, which you might stop with
your finger, if left alone, will be enough to sink that ship. Judas gave
himself up to the power of one sin, and _that_ led him on to betray his
Master.
Let us look at some illustrations of the power of one sin.
“Clara’s Obstinacy.” Little Clara Cole was saying her prayers one evening
before going to bed. Part of her evening prayer was the simple hymn—“And
now I lay me down to sleep.” When she came to the last line she stopped
short and would not say it. “Go on, my dear, and finish it,” said her
mother. “I can’t,” she said, although she knew it perfectly well, and had
said it hundreds of times before. “Oh, yes! go right on, my child.”
“No; I can’t.” “My dear child, what makes you talk so? Say the last line
directly.”
But, in spite of her mother’s positive commands and loving entreaties,
Clara was obstinate, and would not do it. “Very well,” said Mrs. Cole at
last: “you can get into bed; but you will not get up till you have said
that line.”
Next morning Mrs. Cole went into Clara’s room as soon as she heard her
stir. “Now, Clara,” she said pleasantly, “say the line, and jump up.”
“I can’t say it,” said Clara, obstinately, and she actually lay in bed
all that day, and part of the next rather than give up. The second day
was her birthday and a number of little girls had been invited, in the
evening, to her birthday party. That little, strong, cruel will of hers
held out till three o’clock; then she said, “I pray the Lord my soul to
take,” and bursting into tears asked her mother’s forgiveness.
How much power there was in that one sin! No one can tell what trouble it
might have caused that poor child if she had not been taught to conquer
it. But after that it never gave her much trouble.
“One Drop of Evil.” “I don’t see why you won’t let me play with Willie
Hunt,” said Walter Kirk, with a frown and a pout. “I know he doesn’t
always mind his mother. He smokes segars, and once in a while he swears
just a little; but I’ve been brought up better than that; he won’t hurt
me. I might do him some good.”
“Walter,” said his mother, “take this glass of pure water, and put just
one drop of ink into it.”
Walter did so, and then in a moment exclaimed, “Oh! mother, who would
have thought that one drop would blacken a whole glass so!”
“Yes, it has changed the color of the whole. And now just put one drop of
clear water in it, and see if you can undo what has been done.”
“Why, mother, one drop, or a dozen, or fifty won’t do that.”
“That’s so, my son; and that is the reason why I don’t want you to play
with Willie Hunt. For one drop of his evil ways, like the drop of ink in
the glass, may do you harm that never can be undone.”
Here we see the power of a single sin.
“One Worm Did It.” One day a gentleman in England, went out with a friend
who was visiting him, to take a walk in the park. As they were walking
along, he drew his friend’s attention to a large sycamore tree, withered
and dead.
“That fine tree,” said he, “was killed by a single worm.”
In answer to his friend’s inquiries, he said:
“About two years ago, that tree was as healthy as any in the park.
One day I was walking out with a friend, as we are walking now, when
I noticed a wood-worm about three inches long forcing its way under
the bark of the tree. My friend, who knew a great deal about trees,
said—‘Let that worm alone, and it will kill this tree.’ I did not think
it possible, and said—‘well, we’ll let the black worm try, and see what
it can do.’”
The worm tunnelled its way under the bark. The next summer the leaves of
the tree dropped off, very early. This year the tree has not put out a
single green leaf. It is a dead tree. That one worm killed it.
Here we see the power of one sin. The third lesson taught us by the
history of the betrayal and desertion, is—the power of sin.
_The fourth lesson taught us by this history is—THE GROWTH OF SIN._
Solomon says, “The beginning of strife”—and the same is true of all
sin—“is as when one letteth out water.” Prov. xvii: 14. There is a bank
of earth that keeps the water of a mill-dam in its place. You notice one
particular spot where the bank seems weak. The water is beginning to make
its way through. At first, it only just trickles down, drop by drop. By
and by, the drops come faster. Now, they run into each other, and make
a little rill. Every moment the breach grows wider and deeper, till, at
last, there is a roaring torrent rushing through that nothing can stop.
Every sin is like a seed. If it be planted in the heart and allowed to
spring up, no one can tell what it will grow into. Suppose, that you
and I knew nothing about the growth of trees. We are sitting under the
wide-spreading branches of a vast oak tree. A friend picks up a tiny,
little acorn, and holding it up before us, says—“This giant tree, under
whose shade we are sitting, has all grown out of a little acorn, like
this.” It would seem impossible to us. We could hardly be made to believe
it. But we need no argument to prove this. We know it is so.
But the growth of sin in the hearts and lives of men is quite as
surprising as the growth of trees in the forest. We see this in the case
of Judas. Suppose that we could have seen him when he first let his love
of money lead him to do wrong. Perhaps he only stole a penny or two, at
first. That was not much. And then, suppose we had not seen Judas again
till the night in which he had made up his mind to commit that greatest
and most awful of all sins—the sin of betraying his Master! what a
wonderful change we should have seen in him! The growth of a river from
a rill—of a giant oak from a tiny acorn—would not be half so surprising
as the monstrous growth in wickedness that we should have seen in Judas.
When we saw him committing his first sin, he was like a little child.
When we saw him committing his last awful sin—the child had sprung up
into a huge, horrible giant. Jesus said he had become a devil. St. John
vi: 70. How fearful it is to think of such growth in wickedness! And yet,
if we allow the seed of sin to be sown in our hearts, and to spring up
there, we cannot tell but what its growth may be as fearful in us as it
was in Judas.
Let us look at some illustrations of the growth of sin.
“The Growth of Lying.” Some time ago a little boy told his first
falsehood. It was like a solitary little thistle seed, sown in the
mellow soil of his heart. No eye but that of God saw him as he planted
it. But, it sprung up—O, how quickly! and, in a little time, another
seed dropped from it into the ground, and then another, and another,
each in its turn bearing more and more of those troublesome thistles.
And now, his heart is like a field of which the weeds have taken entire
possession. It is as difficult for him to speak the truth as it is for
the gardener to clear his land of the ugly thistles that have once gained
a rooting in the soil.
“The Snake and the Spider.” A black snake, about a foot long, lay sunning
itself on a garden-bed one summer’s day. A spider had hung out his web
on the branches of a bush, above where the snake lay. He saw the huge
monster lying there, for huge indeed he was compared to the little
spider, and he concluded to take him prisoner. But, you ask, is not the
snake a thousand times stronger than the spider? Certainly he is. Then
how can he take him prisoner? Well, let us see how he did it. The spider
spun out a fine, slender thread. He slipped down, and touched the snake
with it. It stuck. He took another, and touched him with that, and that
stuck too. He went on industriously. The snake lay quiet. Another,
and another thread, was fastened to him, till there were hundreds and
thousands of them. And, by and by, those feeble threads, not one of which
was strong enough to hold the smallest fly, when greatly multiplied, were
strong enough to make the snake a prisoner. The spider webbed him round
and round, till, at last, when the snake tried to move, he found it was
impossible. The web had grown strong out of its weakness. By putting one
strand here, and another there, and drawing, first on one, and then on
another, the spider had the snake bound fast, from head to tail, to be a
supply of food for himself and family for a long while.
And so, if we give way even to little sins, they may make us their
prisoner as the spider did the snake, and before we are aware of it, we
may be bound hand and foot and unable to help ourselves.
“Sin Like a Whirlpool.” The Columbia river, in Oregon, has a great bend
in it at one place where it passes through a mountain range. When the
water in the river is high there is a dangerous whirlpool in this part
of the river. An officer connected with the United States Exploring
Expedition was going down this river, some years ago, in a boat which
was manned by ten Canadians. When they reached this bend in the river,
they thought the water was so low that the whirlpool would not be
dangerous. So they concluded to go down the river in the boat, as this
would save them the labor of carrying the boat with its baggage across
the portage to the place where they would take the river again below the
rapids. But, the officer was put on shore, to walk across the portage.
He had to climb up some high rocks. From the top of these rocks he had a
full view of the river beneath and of the boat in her passage. At first,
she seemed to skim over the waters like a bird. But, soon he saw they
were in trouble. The struggles of the oarsmen and the shouts of the man
at the helm showed that there was danger from the whirlpool, when they
thought there would be none. He saw the men bend on their oars with all
their might. But, in spite of all, the boat lost its straightforward
course, and was drawn into the whirl. It swept round and round, with
increasing force and swiftness. No effort they could make had the least
control of it. A few more turns, each more rapid than the rest, and at
last, the centre was reached; and the boat, with all her crew, was drawn
into the dreadful whirlpool, and disappeared. Only one of the ten bodies
was found afterwards, in the river below; and that was all torn and
mangled by the rocks, against which it had been dashed.
Just such a whirlpool is sin. Judas was drawn into it when he first
gave way to his covetousness and began to steal money from the purse
with which he was entrusted. Like the men in the boat, he soon lost all
control of himself and was carried round and round, till at last he was
“drowned in destruction and perdition.”
And thus we have considered the history of the betrayal and the lessons
that it teaches. Two of these lessons refer to Jesus. They show us the
_loneliness_ of his sufferings, and his _willingness_ to suffer. Two of
them refer to Judas. They show us the _power_, and the _growth_ of sin.
There is a beautiful Collect in the Prayer Book which is very suitable to
use in connection with such a subject as this. It is the Collect for the
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, and teaches us to pray thus:
“O God, who knowest us to be set in the midst of so many and great
dangers, that by reason of the frailty of our nature, we cannot always
stand upright; grant to us such strength and protection as may support
us in all dangers, and carry us through all temptations, through Jesus
Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
The blessings asked for in this prayer are just what we need amidst the
dangers and temptations that surround us in this evil world. If we only
obtain for ourselves “the strength and protection” here prayed for, and
which God has promised to give to those who truly seek it, we need not
be afraid either of the power or the growth of sin. This strength will
be a safeguard to us against the power of sin, and this protection will
check the growth of sin in our hearts. It will indeed, “support us in all
dangers, and carry us through all temptations.” If Judas had used such a
prayer as this, and had earnestly sought “the strength and protection”
here spoken of, he would never have been known as “the traitor,” and the
end of his earthly life would never have been wound up with this shameful
sentence—“he went and hanged himself.” But, as wrecks along the shore
show us where the danger lies, so, when we see the wrecks we should try
to avoid the rocks on which they struck and go on our way in safety.
I know not how to finish this subject better than for each of us to say,
in the words of the hymn:
“My soul, be on thy guard;
Ten thousand foes arise;
And hosts of sins are pressing hard
To draw thee from the skies.
“O watch, and fight, and pray;
The battle ne’er give o’er;
Renew it boldly every day,
And help divine implore.”
[Illustration: Jesus, Arrayed in Mock State, is Crowned and Beaten
Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and
gathered unto him the whole band _of soldiers_. And they stripped him,
and put on him a scarlet robe. And when they had platted a crown of
thorns, they put _it_ upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and
they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the
Jews! And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the
head.—_St. Matt. xxvii: 27-30._
_NOTE BY THE ARTIST_
_Had it been possible to add a pang to the suffering already endured,
this must surely have been effected by the foul jests and ribald mockery
which Jesus was now called upon to endure at the hands of the ruffians
of the barrack-room. The lust of cruelty, delight in inflicting and
witnessing torture, marks the lowest depth of human depravity; and to
sorrow of heart beyond what we can comprehend, to physical suffering as
great as any which mortal man can endure and live, was now added the
humiliation of being the object of sport and derision to the dregs of
mankind. For these men were not even Romans, save in name; the ranks
of the imperial armies called upon for foreign service being mainly
recruited from the scum of the population of tributary provinces._
65]
THE TRIAL
We come now to another of the dark and sad chapters in the history of our
Saviour’s life. We have seen how he was betrayed by one of his disciples,
and forsaken by all the rest. Then his enemies seized him, and led him
away to those who had sent them—the priests and rulers of the Jewish
church. We speak of what then took place at the _trial_ of our Saviour.
But it was only the form or mockery of a trial. It was not conducted at
all in the way in which regular trials were required to be conducted
among the Jews. The simple truth is that the enemies of Jesus had made
up their minds to put him to death, and they merely pretended to have a
trial because they were afraid to do it without.
And in studying this part of the life of our Saviour, we may look, very
briefly, at the history of his trial; and then at some of the lessons
that it teaches us.