Our Lord's further explanation seems to Pilate still more out of keeping with the notion of royalty. Jesus says He was born to be a king in order that He might bear witness to the truth. A king—truth—what have these two words in common, the one referring to the most real region, the other to the most ideal? To Pilate, the conjunction is absolutely incongruous. "What is truth?" he asks, as he turns away, too contemptuous to wait for an answer. This famous utterance has been quoted as a text for the anxious inquirer, and preachers have gravely set themselves to answer it. Jesus did nothing of the kind. Evidently it was not a serious inquiry. Pilate flung off the very idea of truth—a mere abstraction, nothing to a practical Roman. Still, though he was not seeking any answer to his question, by the very tone of it he suggested that he did not possess that gem which those who hold it prize above all things. "The Scepticism of Pilate" is the title of one of Robertson's greatest sermons. The preacher traces it to four sources: indecision; falseness to his own convictions; the taint of the worldly temper of his day; and that priestly bigotry which forbids inquiry, and makes doubt a crime. Pilate is the typical sceptic, who is worlds removed from the "honest" doubter. Serious doubt, which is pained and anxious in the search of truth, is in essence belief, for it believes in the value of truth, if only truth can be discovered; but typical scepticism not only does not credit what the believer takes for truth, but despises it as not worth seeking. That is the fatal doubt, a doubt that eats into the soul as a moral canker.
Nevertheless, although what is of supreme value to Jesus is reckoned by Pilate as of no importance whatever, the cross-examination has satisfied the magistrate of the innocence of his Prisoner. His duty, then, is plain. He should acquit the innocent man. But he dare not do so immediately. That howling mob of Jews and those odious priests and Sadducees of the council are determined on the death of their victim. Pilate has made himself well hated by the roughness of his government. Nothing would please the Jews and their leaders better than to have some chance of impeaching him before his jealous master at Rome, on the charge of leniency to treason. Pilate quails before the terrible possibility. In face of it he simply dares not pronounce a verdict of acquittal. Yet he means to do all he can to effect the escape of his Prisoner. His inbred instinct for justice prompts him to this; for the Romans cherished reverence for law, and even so corrupt a ruler as Pilate was not independent of the atmosphere of his race. Then it would be a bitter humiliation to let his judgment be overruled by those contemptible Jews. He would be heartily glad to confound and disappoint them. More than this, he had begun to feel some awakening interest in his remarkable Prisoner. He had come to the conclusion that Jesus was a harmless dreamer; but he had felt some faint shadow of the spell of the wonderful Personality. If only it could be managed with safety to himself, he would be glad to have Jesus set free.
Accordingly we now see Pilate resorting to a series of devices in order to escape from his vexatious dilemma. From this point his conduct opens out to us a curious study in psychological phenomena. The ingenuity of Pilate in resorting to one expedient after another, is very striking. Evidently he has keen wits, and he uses them with some agility. But it is all in vain. He is pushed from each of the positions he takes up by the same stubborn, relentless pressure which he invariably finds to be irresistible. The explanation is, that though he has intellect, he lacks will-power. On the other side there is not much need for intelligence, but there is the most obstinate will. The Jews possess a clear notion of what they want, and a set determination to have their way. In such a contest there is no doubt which side will win. When will is bitter against intellect, it is the latter that succumbs. The determined will forces itself through all opposition that rests only on intelligence, reasoning, contrivance. Intellect does not count for nothing; allied to a strong will, as in Calvin, Cromwell, Napoleon, it helps to effect gigantic results. But in the sphere of action, it is will-power that tells in immediate results. Even here, reason may conquer stupid obstinacy in the long-run. But you must give it time; and you must have honesty of character. Neither condition was present in this case of Pilate. He had to decide promptly; and his moral nature was unsound. Such a man under such circumstances will never find his most cunning devices a match for the set determination of his opponents. So Pilate, feebly protesting, helplessly scheming, is pushed back step by step; and ultimately he concedes everything demanded of him, and the final issue is more humiliating to himself and more cruel to the innocent Prisoner whom he is trying to shield, than it would have been if he had yielded at the beginning. The real victim of this tragedy in the palace is not Jesus, it is the soul of Pilate. We seem to see a weak man being thrust down a steep place, resisting and catching at the shrubs and rocks that he passes, but torn from his grasp of them and finally flung over the precipice.
Pilate's first device was to send Jesus to Herod Antipas, who happened to be at Jerusalem at the time. It was a compliment to the frivolous "king of Galilee" to remit a Galilean prisoner to his judgment, and Pilate would gladly rid himself of the awkward case by this ingenious device. But it was useless, for the simple reason that Herod had no power of life and death in Jerusalem, and Pilate soon had his Prisoner on his hands again. Next he clutched at the custom of releasing a prisoner during the feast. Here was a chance for letting off Jesus without declaring Him innocent. But this suggestion was hopeless. If the Jews were set on effecting the death of Jesus, they would not give up their right to choose their prisoners to be released, and take at the dictation of Pilate the very man they wanted to have done to death. They clamoured for an insurgent, Barabbas, a man caught red-handed in the very crime for which these hypocrites professed in their new-fledged loyalty to Caesar to be anxious to have Jesus executed. The cynicism of their choice is palpable. By daring to make it, they show in what contempt they hold Pilate. The governor loses ground considerably by this false move. Then he tries to throw the blame of the murder of Jesus, which he sees he cannot prevent, on the Jews. A new motive urges him to escape from the responsibility of committing a judicial murder. His wife had sent a private message warning him to "have nothing to do with that righteous man." She had been much disturbed by a dream about him. Romans were slaves to omens and auguries, and the most materialistic of them felt some awe of dreams, although they had lost faith in real religion. Your confirmed sceptic is often slavishly superstitious in the secret of his soul. It is a way the spiritual has of avenging itself on the man who openly flouts it. Boldly flung out of the window, it creeps back into the cellar and vexes the soul with petty tricks played on the subterranean consciousness. The man who expels his good angel is haunted by imps and elves. He who will not believe in God and despises truth succumbs to the message of a dream.
More anxious now than ever to escape responsibility, Pilate calls for water and publicly washes his hands, telling the Jews that the innocent blood will be on their heads. They accept the awful responsibility. What do they care for the weak Roman's scruples? He is doing their will, and of course no hand-washing can cleanse his conscience from the stain of guilty compliance.
Yet one thing more Pilate will do. He will scourge Jesus. Perhaps that may satisfy these savage Jews. For scourging was a savage punishment. The whip was loaded with lead and sharp fish-bones, and at every stroke the flesh was cut. Men often died under this severe treatment. Pilate had it inflicted on Jesus, knowing Him to be innocent; but hoping that, if He survived, no more might be required. It was an abominable compromise. If Jesus were innocent—and Pilate knew He was innocent—He should have been set free unscathed, with apologies for a mistaken arrest. If he were guilty, of course he ought to receive the death-penalty for the crime of treason. Justice could allow of no middle course. But Pilate is not thinking of Justice. He only wants to escape the onus of killing an innocent man. Then he has Jesus brought forth, bleeding, in agony, His lacerated flesh exposed to the view of that heartless multitude. "Behold the man," says Pilate. "Look at your victim; is not this enough?" If Pilate thought his appealad misericordiamwould touch those hardened sinners of the Sanhedrin, he was strangely mistaken. The sight of their victim in His agony only maddens them. They are like hounds who had tasted blood. Like hounds, they "give tongue," and yell for His death. Pilate can resist no longer. He has played his last card, and it has been taken. Thoroughly humiliated and quite helpless, he gives sentence, and so in spite of the governor's desperate efforts to escape the stigma of his awful crime, it goes down to all the ages that Jesus was "crucified under Pontius Pilate."
"And they cried out all at once, saying, Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas."—ST LUKE xxiii. 18.
You have heard a crowd of people cry out all at once. It is always impressive, it is sometimes very terrible, occasionally it is sublime. It begins in a way that no one can explain. Somebody in the crowd utters a name, or ejaculates a brief sentence. What happens? Often nothing at all. Men are not in the mood for it; it drops unnoticed, or provokes a jeer or two and is then forgotten. But sometimes the word falls like a spark on a mass of dry tinder—ten thousand hearts have been prepared for it—swift as a flash of lightning a sympathetic current passes through the whole throng—ten thousand lips take up the cry. They are all carried away by contagion, magnetism, or madness, and a shout goes up enough to rend the sky. When some great and noble sentiment has laid hold of them, the shout of a people is one of the grandest things on earth; when it is some awful prejudice, unreasoning hatred, or cowardly terror that sways them, the shout is the most inhuman and hellish thing on earth; and that was the character of the shout that was raised here.
The world has never forgotten that cry, and never will. To the very last the world will wonder how it should have come to be raised, and will condemn and pity the crowd of people who gave themselves up to it, for they were making a hero of the vilest stuff, and clamouring for the murder of the world's one Divine man. There never was a more brutal and insane shout than that; never again can there be a choice so fatal and so suicidal as the choice they made: "Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas."
If the thing had not happened, we should say it was impossible. It seems well-nigh incredible that human eyes and human hearts could be so blind. A story of this kind is food for the bitterest cynic. He who has the most utter contempt for the race to which he belongs might find here almost a justification of his scorn. Oh what a satire upon human nature, that a whole city full of people, men, women, mothers and daughters, had come to this pass that they could not discern which was the nobler of these two—nay, thought that Barabbas was more deserving of their honour. One the very flower and crown of humanity, the express image of God; and the other a gaol bird, a notorious criminal, whose hands had been dyed red, and whose heart had been hardened by the shedding of blood. Well might those pitiful lips say, "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Why did they do it? Why did they raise their voices for Barabbas?
The main answer is that men make their heroes as the heathen make gods, after their own image. There is no doubt that Barabbas was more to the taste of this people, more according to their heart, than Christ; or at least they thought he was; not quite their ideal man, perhaps, but certainly nearer to their ideal than the Christ whom they rejected. It may be that they had had no particular love for him until just now, possibly they had hardly thought of him at all; but now it was a question between this man and Jesus, and Jesus they did not want at any price. And their very hatred of the one made the other look beautiful. Barabbas is our man, they said, and the more they said it the more they believed it; and each time the name was repeated it sounded sweeter, until they were all shouting it, nine-tenths of them because the others shouted it, and until they really made themselves believe that in this man they had got a veritable hero and hardly less than a god.
That is always what happens in such cases, the greater part begin shouting for no particular reason because a few others have led the way, and they end by believing that the man whom they are acclaiming is almost divine; yet it is certain that they elected this man on the whole because of the two he had more points in common with them, this poor despicable and very unheroic thing was the person whom they delighted to honour because they themselves were very unheroic and somewhat despicable. We cannot see the greatness of a truly great man unless there is just a bit of greatness in ourselves; Christ was too big and too divine to be seen and measured by their small and vulgar eyes. Barabbas was about their size, and they raised their voices for him.
We have had Carlyle's words quoted to us a thousand times about heroes and hero-worship—how it is part of human nature to go after heroes and make them—how the world has always been given up to this worship, and always will be. We all revere and follow great men, or those whom we deem great, which is not quite the same thing. And it is a beautiful feature in human nature if it is wisely directed, if we can only set our hearts on the true heroes and follow them. It is not beautiful at all when we make our gods of clay, and shout ourselves hoarse in exalting to the skies creatures as undivine and quite as small as we are.
Heroes are sometimes easily made to-day, and martyrs too. Modern martyrdom of the popular sort is about the least costly thing going. It calls for no tears and blood, it can be gained on very easy terms. You have only to break a law which you do not like, or your conscience does not approve, and to be brought up for it with an admiring crowd accompanying you, and to have a fine imposed, which is paid for, perhaps, by popular subscription—and lo, you are a martyr. I am not calling in question the thing itself. It may be both right and Christian to refuse obedience to a law on extreme occasions; but to call this martyrdom is extravagant and almost humorous.
It was not so in the olden time when the real martyrs were made. No, those martyrs were not delicately handled, but stripped and stoned to pieces, and burned, and there were no crowds to greet them with bravoes and caresses, but furious mobs clamouring for their blood. We have changed all that indeed, thank God: but they were heroes and martyrs indeed, and it sounds to me somewhat like a desecration of the word to apply it to men and even women who are good, probably brave in a way, but who win their crown of glory very cheaply indeed. If we are to have heroes, let us make sure that they possess some heroic stuff.
There is a vast amount of hero-worship to-day which reminds us too much of that shout for Barabbas. We are glorifying the wrong people; at least, most of us are. It is one of the deplorable weaknesses of the times, or if you like it better, it is one of the fashions or crazes to which human nature at times gives itself up. The heroes of the crowd, of the great mass of people, are not the good men, not the men of light and leading, not the men who are morally great or even intellectually great, not the men who are the strength and salt of a nation, but the men who minister to its pleasures, and lead the way in sports. No one can have any doubt of that. No one can have any doubt about the sort of persons whom the vast majority of young people, and some older people too, delight to honour. With some it is the star of the music hall or opera. With a great many more it is the winner of a race, or the champion player in a successful football team, or the most effective bowler, or the highest scorer in cricket. The crowd goes mad about these heroes. There is no throne high enough to place them on. Money and favours are lavished at their feet, and all the newspapers are full of their glorious triumphs.
Mark I am not speaking against athletic sports. I like to see a well and honestly played game, and I would join in the clapping when a man makes a clever stroke. What I object to is the crazy and almost delirious worship which is given to these champions of the sporting world. It is the excess of the thing that proves a diseased state of mind. There is more fuss made over some youth who scores a few hundreds on the cricket-field, than there would be over a man who had saved six hundred lives. In hundreds of journals his portrait appears, and his doings are chronicled as if he had wrought some deliverance for the nation. Poor lad, it is not his fault that he has sprung up suddenly into fame, it is the fault of the people who love to have these things so. It is because men have gone pleasure-mad and sport-mad, and in their madness cannot see the difference between a clever athlete and a mental or moral giant. We prove what our own tastes are, we prove the quality of our own hearts and minds, we prove our own debasement, when we exalt physical strength above excellence of character, when we make our heroes out of muscle instead of soul, when we worship those who serve our pleasure more than those who set us examples of noble things, and lead the way in them. It is only another rendering of the old shout, "Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas." Not so wicked, of course, but equally foolish and unworthy.
Who are your heroes? That is the question. Or in other words, What sort of men do you admire most? Answer that, and I know at once what sort of men and women you are. If you are worshippers of pleasure, the champions of the pleasure-world will be your idols and kings. If you are rooted and grounded in the love of lucre, the successful millionaire is the man that you will fawn upon or worship from afar. If your main delight is in intellectual things, the great thinkers and writers will be the men to whom you look up with reverence. And if you are good men, with a passionate love for goodness, and a constant striving to be better than you are, there are none whom you will admire with all your hearts except the good, except the best, and those who are leading in the way of goodness.
In a land which is truly Christian, the only heroes will be those who most resemble Christ. If we are truly Christians, and Christian thoughts have taken full possession of our hearts, we shall recognise no heroes save those who serve as Christ served, who live in a measure as Christ lived, who deny themselves for others, and spend their strength for the benefit of their fellow-men as the Master did. These are the true heroes, and all the others are more or less cheap imitations of them, or false substitutes for them. These are the true heroes, I say. The men and women who risk their lives to save other lives. The men who use their strength and ability, not for pay, but for the good and the advancement of their fellow-men, to save men from their sins, and to lessen the sum of human ill. The brave men and women who venture all things to serve some great and righteous cause, and to speed on the Kingdom of Christ and righteousness in the world.
We have no right to count any as heroes unless they have courage, patience, self-denial, great love for their fellow-men, and strength which they cheerfully employ for something greater than themselves. The men, in fact, who have something of Christ in them; these are the only heroes whom God writes down in His book of life, and they are the only heroes whom we shall exalt in our hearts if we are followers of the crucified One.
In a Christian land, the beginning and end of all true and healthy hero-worship, is to set Christ first and above everything else and every one else in our affections. We shall measure all other men truly if we have first of all taken the true measure of Him. Love Him with all your hearts, say of Him, "Thou art the chief among ten thousand, and the altogether lovely," and you will never give much of your hearts again to the things and the men who are morally not worth loving. You will never be carried away again into the worship of that which is false, common, or cheap. A man who seesallbeauty, and the perfect beauty in Christ, will never say that there is much beauty anywhere else, except where there is something that resembles Christ.
We have to make our choice to-day, as those men made it long ago. It is not quite the same choice. It is not Barabbas against Christ, but it is the poor, coarse, common, frivolous things of the world against Christ. It is the earthly against the heavenly; it is pleasure and sin against the service of the Man who was crucified: it is the love of self, and things baser than ourselves, against the love of Him who died for us. And everything depends upon that choice. To make Him your King is to become kingly yourselves, and to be crowned at last with the true glory and honour. But it is a terrible thing to say, "Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas."
"Joseph of Arimathea, an honourable counsellor, which also waited for the kingdom of God."—MARK xv. 43.
The crucifixion of our Lord produced strange and startling effects in moral experience, as well as in the physical world. The veil of the Temple was rent from top to bottom as if a hand from heaven had torn it, in order to teach men that the ancient ritual was done with. Darkness covered the earth, suggesting to thoughtful minds the guilt of the world and the mystery of the sacrifice which atoned for it. Concurrently with these physical phenomena were spiritual experiences. The Roman centurion who, in command of four soldiers, had the duty of seeing the sentence of the law duly executed, was so profoundly moved by what he saw of the Divine Sufferer and by His dying cry, that he exclaimed, "Truly this was the Son of God," and thus he became the first of the great multitude out of all nations who give honour to the Lamb that has been slain. The women, too, who were sometimes despised for weakness and timidity, proved themselves in this crisis to be heroines. And Joseph of Arimathea, who up to this moment of shame and apparent defeat had been content to remain a secret disciple of our Lord, now boldly avowed his love and loyalty.
The "even" had come, the second evening of the Jews, and the last streak of golden light was beginning to fade from the western sky. Three lifeless bodies were still hanging on the crosses at Golgotha, but according to Jewish custom they were about to be taken down, and flung into a dishonourable grave, when Joseph "went in boldly to Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus," caring for our Lord in death as another Joseph had cared for him in infancy.
This man is described as an "honourable counsellor," which doubtless means a member of the Sanhedrim. He is also spoken of as "a good man and a just," which could not have been said of many of his fellow-counsellors. On this occasion his action was sufficiently important in its relation to prophecy, and in its bearing as evidence of the reality of the burial and of the resurrection of our Lord, to be mentioned in each of the Four Gospels. Yet neither by this nor by social influence, nor by brilliant gifts (if he possessed them), did he become prominent in the early Church. Probably he was a man of practical sagacity and ready resource, rather than of great spiritual force. He could not stand on the same level with Simon Peter, the fisherman, whose honour it was so to hold the key of the Kingdom as to open the door of it to the Gentiles; nor did he ever attain influence comparable to that of Paul, who shook the citadel of paganism to its foundations, and planted amid its fallen defences the seed of the Kingdom, even the word of God. Joseph must be regarded as a common soldier, rather than as a general in Christ's army; but when the officers had fallen, or deserted their Leader, he bravely stepped to the front and proved himself a hero. Perhaps all the more on this account some study of his character and conduct may encourage those who are not prominent in the Church to cultivate his fidelity, promptitude, and courage.
If we piece together the few fragments of his biography which are scattered through the Four Gospels, we shall gain a fuller and more accurate conception of the man.
It is clear that Joseph had already protested against the wrong done to our Lord by the Sanhedrim, though he had been powerless to prevent it.
In this protest no doubt Nicodemus would have sided with him, but he was probably absent, for Joseph seems to have stood alone in his refusal to condemn the prophet of Nazareth. This was not easy. He would be urged to vote with his fellow-counsellors on the ground that their ecclesiastical authority, which had been defied, must be maintained, and that loyalty to the Sanhedrim demanded that all members of it should sink their private opinions in its defence. To hold out against an otherwise unanimous council would be the more difficult if Joseph had but recently attained the honour of membership, and this is probable, for the allusion to his "new grave" seems to imply that he had not long resided in Jerusalem. It was difficult, and possibly dangerous, to assert his independence; but he did so by vote, if not by voice, for he "had not consented to the counsel and deed of them."
Right-minded men are not infrequently placed in a similar position. A policy may be initiated which they disapprove, and yet their protest against it may wreck the party and even displace the government, so that they naturally hesitate between party loyalty and enlightened conscience. Others who are engaged in business, or in professional affairs, have sometimes to confront doubtful practices which, though sanctioned by custom, unquestionably tend to the lowering of the moral tone of the nation. Their own financial interests, their fear of casting a slur on some known to them, who, though guilty of such practices are in other respects honourable men, and their dread of posing before the world as over-scrupulous, pharisaic men, who are righteous over-much—all urge them to keep quiet, especially as such a custom cannot be put down by one man. Yet is not conscience to be supreme, even under such conditions? The cultivation of the required moral heroism, which is sadly lacking in all sections of society, must begin in youth; and in this, elder brothers and sisters as well as parents and teachers of all grades have serious responsibility. Occasionally the moral atmosphere of a whole school becomes corrupt, and practices spring up which can only be put down by some right-minded lad or girl running the risk of unpopularity and social ostracism, yet it is under such conditions that God's heroes are bred; and books likeTom Brown's Schooldayshave done much to foster the development of the heroic temper.
The truth is, that, wherever we are, in this world where evil widely prevails, fidelity to conscience must occasionally inspire what seems an unavailing protest against the practice of the majority. But we must see to it on such occasions that a real principle is at stake, and that we are not moved by mere desire for self-assertion, nor by pride and obstinacy. If, however, we are consciously free from these, and bravely protest against a wrong we cannot prevent, we may at least look for the approval of Him who carried His protest against evil up to the point of death, even the death of the Cross.
In thus taking up our stand against what we believe to be wrong, we may be, imperceptibly to ourselves, emboldening others, who are secretly waiting for some such lead.
If Joseph required bravery on the council, he needed it still more when he went into the presence of Pilate to beg the body of Jesus.
The Roman procurator was a man to be dreaded by any Jew, and was just now in a suspicious and angry mood. But Joseph not only braved a repulse from him. He knew he would have to confront the far more bitter hostility of the priests. Theirs was a relentless hate, before which Peter had fallen, and Pilate himself had quailed. Yet this man Joseph, brought up though he had been in circumstances of ease, went in boldly to Pilate and deliberately ran the risk of their savage hatred, which would not only bring about as he believed his expulsion from office, but in all probability cruel martyrdom. It was a bold step; but no sooner did he take it than another rich man was by his side—Nicodemus by name—who also himself was one of Christ's disciples, though secretly, for fear of the Jews. The act of Joseph had more far-reaching consequences on the conduct of others than he expected.
Most heroic actions are richer in results than is expected by those who dare to do them; though the immediate effects may seem disappointing. Elijah learnt to his amazement that although all the people on Carmel had not been converted, more than seven thousand faithful men had been emboldened by his conduct. And when John plucked up courage to go right in to the palace of the high priest, Peter, who till then had followed Jesus afar off, went in also.
The truth is, that we all have influence beyond the limits of what we can see or estimate—parents over children, employers over their young people, mistresses over servants; for what we are these are encouraged to be, whether for good or for evil. Indeed, even a child who fearlessly speaks the truth, a servant who does her work thoroughly and cheerfully, an obscure lad who in a small situation is faithful to honour and truth, will effect far more than is imagined. Others who are unperceived are emboldened, and range themselves on the side of righteousness.
Joseph discovered, as many have done since, that when he steadfastly set his face towards duty he succeeded far better then he expected. When he went into the palace of Pilate he foresaw that he might be asked to pay an enormous ransom, for that would be only customary; or possibly his request might be scornfully refused by the procurator, who was angry with himself and with the Jews. But, doubtless to his amazement, no such thing happened. Without delay, or bartering or abuse, Pilate at once gave him leave.
History is crowded with similar incidents. How helpless and hopeless the Israelites were when they found themselves face to face with the waters of the Red Sea, while the army of Egypt was rapidly overtaking them; yet they soon discovered that their danger was to prove their means of deliverance; for the waters which barred their progress to liberty soon overwhelmed their enemies. In other spheres of experience such deliverances have come, and will continue to come, to trustful souls:
"Dark and wide the sea appears,Every soul is full of fears,Yet the word is 'onward still,'Onward move and do His will;And the great deep shall discoverGod's highway to take thee over."
Peter had a similar experience when in prison. He arose and followed the angel, and safely passed through the first and the second ward; but the great iron gate seemed an insuperable barrier, yet that opened to them of its own accord, and he stepped through it into liberty. Thus it was with the women who as they walked, while it was yet dark, towards the grave of their Lord, thought of one difficulty which seemed insurmountable, and asked one another, "Who shall roll us away the stone at the door of the sepulchre?" Still on they went, with faith and courage, and when they reached their imagined difficulty they found that it had vanished; for they saw that the stone was rolled away.
A similar experience is constantly met with. It is shared by a young man who is expected to undertake some doubtful transaction, but from conscientious scruple hesitates. He fears what the result of a refusal may be, but resolves to risk it; perhaps to find that the order is not pressed, or that some new incident opens up for him a way of escape. True, God does not always deliver a conscientious man from the special danger before him, but in the forum of conscience, and before the judgment-seat of Christ, he will be righted.
Be the result what it may, we must be true to conscience, which, however, is but another form of saying, we must be true to God; and instead of peering into the future, and picturing to ourselves all possible evil results, we must learn to take the next obvious step in the pathway of duty, trusting that God will make the next step clear, possible, and safe. When a tourist is climbing a difficult mountain, his guide sometimes rounds a corner, or climbs up to a higher level, and for a time is lost to sight, having left his charge behind him; and he, unaccustomed to such an expedition, dares not look down, and fears to stir another step, till feeling the rope taut between himself and the guide, and hearing his cheery voice, he ventures forward, to find that the danger was not so great as he imagined. Thus made bolder by each difficulty surmounted, he begins to feel the exhilaration of a mountain climb, which braces the nerves more than anything besides. If we are really anxious to be in God's appointed way, and boldly take it when it is made clear, we may be sure that He will answer the prayer: "Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not."
There are crises in the experience of every one when the whole future is determined; and such a crisis came to Joseph of Arimathea.
He had been for some time a disciple of Jesus, but had never avowed the fact. But after standing on Calvary and seeing the death of his Lord, sorrow, shame, and indignation so stirred him, that at once he went in boldly unto Pilate. It was the turning-point in his history, when obedience to God-given impulse decided his whole destiny. The spiritual influences which play upon our souls are not even in their flow. There are times when one is strangely moved, although in outward environment there is little to account for it. The sermon listened to may be illiterate, the hymn sung may be destitute of poetic beauty, the friendly word may be spoken by a social inferior—yet one of these sometimes suffices as the channel of divine power, which shakes the soul to its very depths. We have known the unexpected avowal of love to Christ on the part of one obscure scholar set all in the class thinking on the subject of personal responsibility to God, and to His Church. And sometimes the sorrow of leaving home for the first time, or the death of a dearly-loved friend, has sufficed to arouse the question, "What must I do to be saved?" We must beware of allowing such opportunities for decisive action to slip away unimproved. When a vessel has grounded at the harbour-bar, she must wait till the tide lifts her, or she will not reach a safe anchorage; but when the tide does flow in, no sane man will let the chance go by, lest a storm should rise and wreck her within reach of home.
It is noteworthy that Joseph was moved to decision and confession by the crucifixion of the Lord; for this might have been expected to seal his lips. It would seem to have been easier to follow the great Teacher when listening crowds gathered round Him, and multitudes were being healed of whatsoever diseases they had, than to acknowledge loyalty to Him when He was crucified as a malefactor. Yet it was from the Cross that this man went into the Church. The light came to him when darkness seemed deepest. It was in the presence of the crucified Saviour, of whom even the Roman centurion said, "Truly this was the Son of God," that Joseph learned to say, "Because thou hast died for me, I will henceforth live for Thee." This was one of the earliest triumphs of the Cross, in which Paul gloried, and of Him who died thereon—dying for us all, that we who live should not henceforth live unto ourselves but unto Him. In the presence of that memorable scene we are called on for more than admiration or adoration, even for a passionate devotion to Him who gave Himself up for us all.
It may be that some of His professed followers may again fail Him, and that others will step in to do the service which He requires. In the hour of darkness all His recognised disciples forsook him and fled; and when the tragedy on Golgotha was over, it was not Peter, and James, and John, and Andrew, who rendered Him the last service, but holy, humble women, and Joseph and Nicodemus, who up till then had not been reckoned as disciples at all. There are times in the history of the Church when our Lord seems "crucified afresh, and put to an open shame," while His so-called disciples remain silent and hidden. Superstition and sin still join hands to put the Christ to death, to bury Him, and seal His sepulchre. But secret disciples are meanwhile avowing themselves; coming from the east, and the west, from the north, and from the south, to fill up the vacant places, to do the needed services, and to rejoice in a risen and glorified Lord. Better by far the doing of a simple act of love to the Saviour who died for us—such as Joseph did—than loud professions of loyalty, or accurate knowledge of creeds. Hear once more the solemn words of Jesus: "Not every one that saith unto Me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of My Father which is in heaven."
"And that voice still soundeth onFrom the centuries that are goneTo the centuries that shall be!From all vain pomps and shows, from the pride that overflows,From all the narrow rules and subtleties of Schools,And the craft of tongue and pen:Bewildered in its search, bewildered with the cry:'Lo here, lo there, the Church!' poor, sad HumanityThrough all the dust and heat turns back with bleeding feetBy the weary road it cameUnto the simple thought by the Great Master taught,And that remaineth still:'Not he that repeateth the NameBut he that doeth the Will.'"
Philip the Evangelist must be carefully distinguished from Philip the Apostle. And though it is little that we are told regarding him in Scripture, that little is very significant. He first comes before us as one of the seven chosen by the early Church at Jerusalem to take charge of the daily ministration of charity to the poor widows (Acts vi. I ff.). And when this work is hindered by the outbreak of persecution following on the death of Stephen, we find him at once departing to enter on active missionary work elsewhere (Acts viii. 4 ff.). The fact that he should have selected Samaria as the scene of these new labours, is in itself a proof that he was able to rise above the ordinary Jewish prejudices of his time. And this same liberal spirit is further exemplified by the incident in connection with which he will always be principally remembered.
In obedience to a Divine summons, Philip had betaken himself to the way that goeth down from Jerusalem to Gaza. And if at first he may have wondered why he should have been called upon to leave his rapidly progressing work in Samaria for a desert road, he was not for long left in doubt as to what was required of him. For as he walked along he was overtaken by an Ethiopian stranger returning in his chariot from Jerusalem. This man, who was the chamberlain or treasurer of Candace, Queen of the Ethiopians, had heard somehow in his distant home, of the Jewish religion, and had undertaken this long journey to make further inquiries regarding it. We are not told how he had been impressed; very possibly the actual fruits that he witnessed were very different from what he had expected. But one treasure at least he had found, a Greek copy of the prophecies of Isaiah, and this he was eagerly searching on his return journey, to see if he could find further light there. One passage specially arrested his attention, the touching passage in which the prophet draws out his great portraiture of the Man of Sorrows. But, then, how reconcile the thought of this Messiah, suffering, wounded, dying, with the great King and Conqueror whom the Jews at Jerusalem had been expecting! Could it be that he had anything to do with our Jesus of Nazareth, of whom he had also heard, and whom, because of the Messianic claims He had put forward, the Jewish leaders had crucified on a cross? Oh, for some one to help him! Help was nearer than he thought. Prompted by the Spirit, Philip ran forward to the chariot; and no sooner had he learned the royal chamberlain's difficulties than he "opened his mouth, and beginning from this scripture, preached unto him Jesus" (Acts viii. 35).
We are not told on what particulars Philip dwelt; but, doubtless, starting from the prophetic description of the Man of Sorrows, "despised and rejected of men," he would show how that description held true of the earthly life of Jesus. And then he would go on to show the meaning and bearing of these sufferings. They arose from no fault on the part of Jesus; but, "He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities." And yet that was not the end. The life which had thus ended in shame had begun again in glory: the cross had led on to the crown. And as thus he unfolded the first great principles of the Christian faith, Philip would press home on the eunuch's awakened conscience that they had a vital meaning for him. "Repent," can we not imagine him pleading as Peter had pleaded before, "and be baptised . . . in the name of Jesus Christ unto the remission of your sins; and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost" (Acts ii. 38). The eunuch's heart was touched, and he asked that he might be baptized. Satisfied that he was in earnest, Philip agreed to his request. And when they came to a certain water, "they both went down into the water, both Philip and the eunuch; and he baptized him." Thus "the Ethiopian changed his skin," and "went on his way rejoicing" to his distant home, to declare in his turn to his countrymen the tidings of great joy.
There are many points of view from which we might regard this beautiful incident, but it is with it in its bearing on the person and character of Philip that we are alone at present concerned. And in considering it further in this light, it may be well to confine ourselves to noticing in what way it gained for Philip his distinctive title of "the Evangelist," and consequently what it has to teach us still regarding all evangelistic and missionary work.
The Evangelist.
With regard to the evangelist himself, one truth stands out clearly from the whole narrative, his work isgivento him to do. He is first and foremost a missionary, one sent.
It is a pity, perhaps, that in our ordinary speech, we have come to limit the name "missionary" so much to the man who carries the gospel abroad. No doubt he is a missionary in the highest sense of the word; but still the fundamental idea in every minister or evangelist's position is the idea of one sent—sent for a particular purpose, with a particular message to proclaim wherever God may place him. He has no power, no authority of his own. All that he has comes from Him whose servant he is, and whose truth he has to announce.
You remember—to appeal at once to the highest example—how ever-present this thought of His mission was to the mind of our Lord and Master. His meat, so He told His disciples, was to do the will of Him that sent Him (John iv. 34). The word which He spake was not His own, but the Father's who sent Him (John xiv. 24). And so when the time came for His sending forth His disciples to carry on His work, it was as "Apostles," those sent, that the work was entrusted to them; and in the same spirit He prayed for them in His great intercessory prayer: "As Thou didst send Me into the world, even so sent I them into the world" (John xvii. 18).
If we keep this view of the evangelist as the missionary, ever before us, there is one fact regarding his position we can never lose sight of. He has no new truth of his own to declare, no new theories of his own to frame. The message which he has to deliver is not his own, but God's; and it must be his constant endeavour to learn that message for himself, and then, as God's servant, to announce it to others. Men may receive his message. If they do not, he dare not substitute any other.
His Message.
In what does the evangelist's message consist? "Philip," we are told, "preached unto himJESUS." And what that included we have already seen. It was the story of the life, and the death, and the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, a new story then, an old story now, but still "the old, old story" for us.
The duty of the Christian teacher must be first of all to proclaim Christ and His salvation, to announce the glad tidings of mercy and of love to sinful men.
This is not, of course, to say that every address or sermon is to be occupied with the objective facts of Christ's life and death. Such teaching would soon become monotonous and wearisome, and fail in the very purpose it set before it. Nor have men only to be awakened to the truth, they must be built up in it. And the practical question for us all is to learn how to apply and carry out in our daily lives, the truths we have received, how to make our conduct correspond to our creed. That opens up an endless field for the evangelist's work: that introduces us to lectures on Home Missions and Foreign Missions, to the story of noble lives; to all, in fact, that is likely to deepen and to quicken our moral nature. But still this remains as the fundamental object of the whole evangel, to preach Jesus, to bring those to Him who know Him not, to strengthen and to comfort those who do.
When, then, men call upon the Christian teacher to leave the objective facts of the gospel alone, and to occupy himself with the philosophic and social questions of the day, they are calling upon him to surrender his special function and duty. He must indeed endeavour so to present the truth so as to meet the peculiar wants of his own time. The form in which the gospel was presented in one age may not be the best form of presenting it in another. At one time it may be necessary to emphasise one aspect of the truth, at another, another. But underneath all its changing forms and aspects,thetruth remains unchanged; and it is that which must be taught.
And after all, has not the simple gospel message ever proved itself the one message that can touch the hearts and meet the wants of men? What was it, for example, in the preaching of Savonarola that so mightily moved Florence, the elegant, refined, wicked, pagan Florence of the fifteenth century? He himself tells us that it was the preaching of Scripture truth. When he discoursed in a philosophical manner, the ignorant and the learned were alike inattentive: but "the word" mightily delighted the minds of men, and showed its divine power in the reformation of their lives. Or, to take another instance from nearer home. Archdeacon Wilson describes somewhere the experience of the promoters of a certain evening-class, which they had instituted for the benefit of some of the more ignorant and degraded inhabitants of Bristol. All that they could think of they did for the benefit of the men who gathered to it. They read to them; they sang to them: they taught them to read and write. Yet, in course of time, interest flagged. Every expedient failed, and they were on the point of abandoning the work in despair, when it occurred to them to apply to the men themselves. "What would you like us to tell you about next?" they asked. "Could you tell us something about Jesus Christ?" answered one of the men. That was the one thing needful, the one abiding satisfaction for their deepest needs.
And so ever. It may be strange, but it is true, that it is "the Man of Sorrows" who has won the love of men; it is the Saviour who has been lifted up on high out of the earth, who has drawn all men to Himself. Christ: Christ crucified: Christ risen: that is the message which every Christian evangelist has to declare.
His Message of Glad Tidings.
And is not that good news? "Beginning from that same scripture,Philip preached the GLAD TIDINGS of Jesus."
Philip made the eunuch's previous knowledge the starting-point of all that he had to say, and, as he went on, showed how there was in his message the answer to all his doubts and the solution of all his difficulties.
And the gospel has still the same meaning for us. It has a message for the man struggling with the battle of life, in the example of One who has fought that fight before, who knows its every trial and sorrow, and who has come gloriously through them all. It has a message for the sinner, brooding anxiously over his guilty past, conscious only of his own defilement and unworthiness in the sight of an all-holy God, as it assures him of mercy and free forgiveness, of sin blotted out in the blood of Christ. It has a message for the trembling believer, compassed about with temptations and doubts, as it tells of One who can still be "touched with the feeling of our infirmities," and who, because "He Himself hath suffered being tempted," is "able to succour them that are tempted." And it has a message for the mourner sorrowing over the loss of near and dear ones, for it points to Him who is "the Resurrection and the Life" of His people, and gives promise of the "Father's house" with its many mansions, where He is preparing a place for His children.
And yet great and glorious though that message is, where there are not a hearing ear, an understanding heart, and a willing mind, even a St Philip or a St Paul may preach in vain. But where, on the other hand, these are present, then God may use even the humblest and feeblest of His servants to speak some word, to utter some warning, which may be worth to us more than all we have in the world besides. God grant that it may be so with us, and that by the power of the Holy Ghost the word preached may be welcomed, "not as the word of men, but, as it is in truth, the word of God, which also worketh in you that believe" (1 Thess. ii. 13).
One of the most striking features of the early Christian Church was what we have come to know as Christian Communism, or as the historian describes it in Acts iv, 32: "And the multitude of them that believed were of one heart and soul: and not one of them said that aught of the things which he possessed was his own; but they had all things common." It is a bright and a pleasing picture that is thus presented. Nor is it difficult to understand how such a spirit should arise amongst men whose hearts were full to overflowing with the new Christian graces of brotherhood and peace. For we must not imagine that there was anything compulsory about this communism. It was entirely voluntary, and was due to the eager desire on the part of the wealthier members of the Church to do all that they could for their poorer brethren. In this particular alone, we can at once see how widely it differed from what is generally known as communism or socialism in the present day. The spirit of much at any rate of our present-day socialism—so the distinction has been cleverly drawn—is, "What is thine, is mine": but the spirit of those early believers was rather, "What is mine, is thine."
At the same time, we can readily understand that in a large and mixed community like the early Church, all members would not think exactly alike, and that while many, we may believe most, would cheerfully obey this unwritten law of love, and share and share alike, others would give in to it—if they did give in, for, let me again emphasise, there was no compulsion upon any—more grudgingly and hesitatingly.
Of these two classes the writer of the Book of Acts presents us with individual examples—of the former class, in the case of Joseph, or Barnabas, a wealthy Cypriot, who "having a field, sold it, and brought the money, and laid it at the apostles' feet" (Acts iv. 37)—of the latter, in the case of Ananias with Sapphira his wife, whose melancholy story is now before us.
That story is very familiar, and is often regarded simply as an instance of the sinfulness of lying. And that undoubtedly it is; but it warns us also against other equally dangerous and insidious errors, as a little consideration will, I think, show. For what were Ananias's motives in acting as he did? If we can discover them, we shall have the key to the whole story.
And here, it seems to me, they must, in the first instance at any rate, have been of a sufficientlygenerouscharacter. Ananias had seen what was going on around him, and he had determined that he must not be behindhand in this ministry of love. But—and now we get a little deeper into his character—ambitionto stand well with his fellow-members evidently mingled with the pure spirit of charity: though we do not need to suppose that there was as yet any conscious intention to deceive. Acting, then, on these somewhat mixed motives of charity and ambition, Ananias determined to sell a possession, some farm or other which he had, and hand over the money to the apostles. He probably meant at first to hand over the whole price, but with the money in his hand, the demon of avarice entered into his heart. And he "kept back part of the price, his wife also being privy to it, and brought a certain part, and laid it at the apostles' feet. But Peter said, Ananias, why hath Satan filled thy heart to lie to the Holy Ghost, and to keep back part of the price of the land? Whiles it remained, did it not remain thine own? and after it was sold, was it not in thy power? How is it that thou hast conceived this thing in thy heart? thou hast not lied unto men, but unto God" (Acts v. 2-4).
The sin of Ananias, then, lay in this, that he gave a certain sumas if it were the whole. There was no necessity for his giving either the whole or the part. Had he hung back, when others were selling their possessions, he would have been pronouncedungenerousin comparison with them. Had he brought a part, making no mistake about it that it was only a part, when they were giving all, then he would have been notso generous. But when he brought a part as if it were the whole, he added to his former selfishness and avaricedeceit and hypocrisy. If he did not in so many words tell a lie, he did what was equally heinous, heacteda lie.
It is only when we thus clearly realise the enormity of Ananias's sin, that we can understand the reason of the dreadful doom that followed. "And Ananias, hearing these words, fell down, and gave up the ghost" (ver. 5). The judgment came not from men, but from God. As it was in God's sight—the sight of the living and heart-searching God—that the sin had been committed: so it was by the direct "visitation of God" that it was now punished.
Nor was the awful lesson yet over. Three hours had scarcely elapsed since the young men had carried forth her husband, and buried him, when Sapphira, "not knowing what was done, came in." "And Peter answered unto her"—answered her look of amazement as she regarded the awe-struck faces of those present—"Tell me, whether ye sold the land for so much?" "Yea, for so much," she replied, adhering to the unholy compact into which, with Ananias, she had entered, and adding deceit in speech to his deceit in act. "But Peter said unto her, How is it that ye have agreed together to tempt the Spirit of the Lord? behold, the feet of them which have buried thy husband are at the door, and they shall carry thee out" (verses 8, 9).
It was the first intimation the unhappy woman had received of Ananias's death: and to the shame of her own consciousness of guilt, must have been added the feeling that she had a certain responsibility in what had befallen him. A word of remonstrance on her part might, at the beginning, have prevented the crime: it was too late now. "And she fell down immediately at his feet, and gave up the ghost: and the young men came in and found her dead, and they carried her out and buried her by her husband" (ver. 10). And as the sacred historian again impressively adds, showing how deep was the effect produced: "And great fear came upon the whole church, and upon all that heard these things" (ver. 11).
Such is the story. Who does not feel its sadness? All before had been so peaceful and happy. The early believers had presented such a beautiful spectacle of brotherly unity and love. And now, all too soon, the enemy had been at work, sowing tares among the wheat. In the very particular in which the Church most deserved praise—the enthusiasm of its members' charity—sin had appeared. And thus early had the young Church of Christ learned that truth, which it has been the work of nineteen centuries to emphasise, that her true danger comes not so much from without as from within, and that then only is she disgraced, when she disgraces herself.
For what may we learn from this tragic incident?
We learn the sanctity, the holiness, which Christ looks for in HisChurch.
The Church of Christ is holy: it consists of those who have separated themselves from the world and its defilements, and who have set themselves apart—body, soul, and spirit—for Christ's service. That, I say, is the Church's ideal. But we know, alas! only too well, how far short the Church on earth falls of that—how much worldliness, and vanity, and ambition—yes, and even grosser sins—mingle with our holy things.
But we must keep God's ideal ever before us, that ideal which assures us that God, by His Spirit, actually dwells in His Church, dwells in the heart of each individual believer. Only when we remember that, can we see how great was Ananias's sin. "He lied to the Holy Ghost: he lied not unto men, but unto God." As by God's Spirit his heart had been enlightened and opened to the knowledge of the truth: so now against that Spirit he had deliberately sinned.
Such a sin could not pass unpunished. Had that been allowed, the false impression would have got abroad that God was easy and tolerant of sin. Rather it was necessary "that men should be taught once for all, by sudden death treading swiftly on the heels of detected sin, that the gospel, which discovers God's boundless mercy, has not wiped out the sterner attributes of the Judge."[1]
We learn the reality of the power of Satan.
On this point, Peter's question is very suggestive—"Why has Satan filled thine heart to lie to the Holy Ghost?"
There is a constant tendency in those days, which are so impatient of all that is supersensible and wonderful, to try and get rid of the personality of the devil, and to tone down the question of man's salvation to a struggle between two opposing principles within the heart, instead of regarding it, as the Bible teaches us to regard it, as an actual contest for the soul of man between real persons—the Spirit of God from above, the Spirit of evil from beneath. The heart of man is as it were a little city or fortress on the borderland between two nations at war with each other, and which is liable to be captured by whichever at that point proves itself the strongest. But at the same time with this great difference, that every man has the power of deciding into whose hands he is to fall. His will is free: and he is personally accountable for whom he may choose as master.
For, notice how, in the case before us, St Peter, while tracing the fall of Ananias to the agency of Satan, yet prefixes his question with awhy: "Why hath Satan jilted thine heart?" There had been a time when resistance was still possible. Ananias might have rejected the suggestion of the tempter: he was not bound to yield: but he had yielded. And very suggestive of why he had fallen so low, is that other word "filled." It brings before us the quiet, gradual manner in which evil takes possession of the heart of man. We have seen already that it was so in the case of Ananias.Ambitionto stand well in the sight of others was his first step: to ambition was afterwards addedavarice: and then ambition and avarice combined led todeceit and hypocrisy. Or, as bringing out the same truth of the gradual progression of sin, notice how Ananias apparently firstthoughtover the sin in his own heart: thenspokeof it to his wife, and agreed with her that it could be done: and then how together theycarried it out. Thought, speech, action: how often are these the successive links by which a man is led on from one degree of sin to another? The lesson is surely to resist at the very outset: so much depends upon the first step. We must not give place to even the first thought of evil: nor listen to the tempter's whisper, whisper he ever so softly. How many, as they look back upon a downward career, can trace its beginning to some idle or vain thought, or to some hasty or careless word!
We learn that a divided service is not possible.
"No man!" said our Lord Himself, "can serve two masters: ye cannot serve God and mammon." Not that we are not tempted sometimes to try it. What commoner sin is there amongst professing Christians than the attempt to make the best of both worlds—to lay hold of this world with the one hand, while we give it up with the other—to seem other than we are?
But surely with this old story from the Book of Acts to warn us, we must see how vain all such divided efforts are. We may deceive ourselves or others for a while; but the deception cannot last, and in some hour of searching or of trial our true characters will be laid bare. Let us see to it, then, that we may take this awful example home as a very real and practical warning to ourselves—that we not only "hate and abhor lying," but put away from us whatsoever "maketh a lie"! and that the prayer continually on our lips and in our hearts is, "From the crafts and assaults of the devil . . . from pride, vain-glory, and hypocrisy, good Lord, deliver us."
[1]Dr Oswald Dykes.
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.