04.14. Volume 7 contd
The Vine and the Branches
John 15:1-12 When Jesus says, "I am the true vine," He means that He is the source of the spiritual life of His people, who are compared to branches. What the vine is to its branches, Christ is to all who believe on Him. The branches, down to the smallest twigs, are dependent on the vine. So every believer is dependent on Christ. He is the source of the spiritual life of every Christian. A traveler in Kamchatka who spent many nights in the poor huts of the people, tells of His experience. The hut in which he was entertained was dirty, and the people were in every way repulsive. But their kindness was beautiful. They were most attentive to the traveler’s needs. The best morsels were put upon His plate. The best bed was given to him. When bedtime came there was family prayer, closing with these words, "Lord, bless our home and bless and prosper our guest." There was something almost heavenly in the spirit of the home, which deeply impressed the visitor. He had found a branch of the true Vine. The life of Christ was flowing in it. There was a vital connection between these kinds of hearts in Kamchatka, and Christ.
Wherever a real Christian life is found, there is a little branch of the great Vine. There is no other vine to which any soul can be joined and from which it can be nourished. Other religions may present their legends, their ceremonies, and their rules of conduct; but there is no life in any of them. The religion of Christ is more than a creed or a system of beliefs, more than a set of moral precepts. It has a great stream of heavenly life flowing from it. All the fullness of God is in it, and of this fullness—we all receive.
Another truth suggested in this figure, is the dependence of the vine upon the branches. It is easy to see how the branches depend upon the vine—but the only way a vine can bear fruit—is on its branches. So the only way Christ can feed the world’s hunger—is through His disciples. We ought to think of the responsibility of being a branch. The only way to be a good branch—is to be full of fruit, the same kind of fruit that Christ bore on His life. The culture of the plant is also important. Jesus says that the Father is the Gardener. The care of the branches is in His hands. It ought to be a great comfort to us, to know that our life’s training and discipline are under the Father’s care. If an ignorant, inexperienced, unskillful man were to enter a beautiful vineyard and begin cutting the vines, he would soon destroy them. He does not know what he ought to cut off. But if the man who comes to prune knows about vines, and has had experience and is skilled, though he may sometimes seem to be destroying a vine, yet we know that he is not making any mistakes and that His most severe and painful prunings are for the good of the vine. We have similar confidence when God seems to be dealing sorely or even harshly with us. The Gardener is our Father; He has all wisdom and love, and never gives us pain, nor cuts away any of our joys—except when such pruning is for our good. The Gardener does not trouble to prune the fruitless branches—but only cuts them off and casts them away. "He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit." All through the Bible uselessness meets God’s disfavor and condemnation. The wicked are compared to the chaff which the wind drives away. Chaff is of no use; it feeds no hunger; it has no value and no beauty; it is fit only to be burned. The fruitless branch stands for the formal profession of religion. Merely nominal church members without spiritual life—are not of any benefit to the church. For a time the Gardener may be patient with them, waiting while He tried in all ways to bring them into real union with Himself, and to make the fruitful; but when due efforts have been made and there is still no fruitfulness, they are cut away.
It is the fruitful branches, which the Gardener prunes and tends. The motive of His care—is that in this way these branches may become more fruitful. "Every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, so that it will be even more fruitful." The pruning process is a very important one. Dead twigs must be cut away. Sometime there is too much foliage. There is not life enough to nourish all the branches. Some of them, therefore, must be cut off, that what remains may receive full nourishment. There may then be less fruit for the present—but it will be better, richer fruit. The Gardener does not prune the unfruitful branches—pruning would do them no good. It is the Christian that the Father chastens and causes sometimes to suffer under sore discipline. Mere formal professors of religion are left alone, and often they grow very luxuriant, like unpruned vines. But in their luxuriance there is no spiritual fruit.
Notice also that the object of the Father’s pruning, is that the branch may be made to bear more fruit. It sometimes seems that the pruning is destructive. Great branches are cut off, and it seems as if the very life of the vine is endangered. But He who holds the knife, knows that what He is doing will make the vine in time more luxuriant and its fruit sweeter and more luscious. If only we would bear this in mind—when we find ourselves under God’s chastening, it would help us to bear the pain in patience, and also to cooperate with God in His design to make us more fruitful. Earthly prosperity is often to a Christian like the excessive luxuriance of a vine, which the vine-dresser must cut away with his merciless hand, in order to save the vine’s life.
Jesus reminded His disciples that He had been acting as their Gardener and Caretaker. "Now you are clean through the Word which I have spoken unto you." For three years He had been teaching them, speaking to them words of correction, of counsel, of exhortation, and these words had trimmed off the faults, the evil habits, and the sinful things from their lives, leaving them now clean. The Word of God is the knife which is used in pruning the branches. This word, Paul says, is profitable for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works. Every time we read the Bible as we should, thoughtfully, yielding our life to its sway—the knife cuts off some twig or branch which is marring our life or hindering its usefulness. We never should shrink from the impact of the Words of God—but should let them cut deep as they will into our life, exposing hidden faults, secret sins, and unlovely dispositions.
Since the branches draw life from the vine, it is essential that their attachment shall always be complete. "Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit itself, except in abides in the vine; no more can you, except you abide in me." We might as well try to grow plants without roots—as to have a Christian life without attachment to Christ. The kinds of fruits Christian lives should bear, are indicated by Paul as love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faithfulness, meekness, and temperance. These fruits can grow only when the life of Christ is in the heart. A branch torn from a vine—at once withers and dies.
Two trees grew in the same yard. One spring, when the time for leaves came, it was noticed that while one of the trees put forth its foliage as usual, the other stood dark and bare, with neither bud nor leaf nor any life. The same warm sunshine fell upon both, and the same spring rains watered the roots of both—but in one there was life, while in the other there was no life. There are men and women, too, who have spiritual privileges in home and church and Christian friendship—but who bear no fruit. It is because they are not really attached to Christ, not rooted in Him, and therefore they have no life in them.
Many are the blessings of abiding in Christ. One is answer to prayer, "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, you shall ask what you will, and it shall be done unto you." This promise is a great key with which we may open the door of the divine treasury and take from it whatever we need. But we must not overlook the condition—the twofold condition on which the promise depends. First, we must abide in Christ—in close, intimate union and communion with Him. Secondly, Christ’s Words must abide in us. This means that His words must be received by us into our hearts, that we must love them, meditate upon the, allow them to rule our actions and words, to color our thoughts and feelings, and to inspire our dispositions. Only when these conditions are fulfilled, can we claim the promise.
It is very important that we should clearly understand how we may abide in Christ. Jesus tells us plainly, "If you keep my commandments, you shall abide in my love." Jesus Himself, in His incarnation, was under the same law of obedience. He says, "Even as I have kept my Father’s commandments, and abide in His love." Nothing can take the place of obedience in Christian life. In absolutely no other way, can we abide in Jesus Christ’s love.
One of the great privileges of Christian life is friendship with Christ. Those who abide in Him and do His will—shall become His friends. "You are my friends—if you do whatever I command you." That is the way we are to show our love for Christ. It is not enough to say we love Him. That is well so far as it goes, and if we prove it by our deeds, it is all right. The Spirit’s Work
"Now I am going to him who sent me—yet none of you asks me, ’Where are you going?’ Because I have said these things, you are filled with grief." The disciples were in great sorrow. Jesus had told them that He was going to leave them, and they were so absorbed in thoughts of their loss and so overwhelmed that they had not even thought to ask Him where He was going or why He was going away. He seems here to complain of them for this. Their conduct showed selfishness; they were nor interested in His glory, but were absorbed in their own grief and loss. It showed also lack of faith, for they were in danger of losing their hope in Him as the Messiah.
We may get a lesson here for ourselves when called to endure bereavement. We are in danger of making the same mistake. When God takes away from us our beloved friends, we are apt to think only of ourselves and our own earthly loss—and not of the joy and glory into which our Christian friends have gone. Is there not in this an element of selfishness? Is it right that we should think only of what we have lost in their departure, and not of what they have gained? Is it not unbelief that sees only the sorrow and the gloom—and not the light that is behind the gloom? Should we not be willing to stiffer loss to ourselves, when what is loss to us is eternal gain to those we love? We train ourselves in the fellowships and experiences of life to endure cost and hardship, that our friends may be helped, benefited, or made happier. Shall we not exercise the same spirit of unselfish affection toward our loved ones who have gone from us into glory, when we suffer loneliness and must bear the double burdens which are ours because they are not with us? The disciples thought that Christ’s going away would be an irretrievable loss for them. It seemed the crushing of all their hopes. They saw no silver lining whatever in the dark cloud that was gathering. But now Jesus says to them, "It is for your good that I am going away." There was a silver lining after all in that black cloud. What seemed an irreparable loss, would prove in the end a gain. They did not understand it now—but here were the Master’s words assuring them of it. The same is true in the case of Christ’s disciples now when He calls away their human friends. We can readily see how it is well for our believing friends, when Christ takes them home. They exchange earth—for heaven, sin-for holiness, and pain—for eternal joy. But how about the friends who are left with bleeding hearts to walk on, lonely and sad over earth’s ways? This word of Christ replies, "It is for your good that I am going away." The young wife whose husband is called from her may believe that it is better for him to be with Christ. He is doing more exalted service. He sees His Lord’s face. His wife, who stays behind, has to meet life’s tasks and responsibilities alone, and misses the joy of companionship. But she, too, has her gain. She learns lessons in the hardness of her loneliness, which she never would have learned in the sheltered and pampered care of love. The finer possibilities of life are brought out in her. Burden-bearing develops her womanly strength. She grows into a strength and a beauty of character which she never would have attained, if she had not lost the companionship which made life so restful and quiet. We cannot understand now, and neither could the disciples understand how Christ’s departure could be better for them, than His staying with them would have been. Afterwards they knew; and afterwards we shall know, too, how even for us the going away of our Christian friends will become a blessing, if we in faith submit ourselves to God. The disciples had no thought that when Jesus was gone from them, He would be more to them than He ever had been in His bodily presence. "Unless I go away, the Comforter will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you." Many people wish they could have known Christ as His personal disciples and other friends knew Him. They think it would have been so much easier to have loved and trusted Him if they could have seen His face, and heard His words, and felt His touch—if they could have gone to Him with all their questions and perplexities and could have had His help in every experience of need. But Christ Himself says that His staying with His disciples would have been a loss to them, and that His going away would be a gain.
Christ has not left the world; He was never so really present with His own disciples when they could see Him—as He afterward was, when they could not see Him. The presence of the Holy Spirit in the world, is a greater blessing than Christ’s continued bodily presence would have been. It is the same presence in a form that can do infinitely more for us. There are limitations to physical presence—but there are no limitations to the divine Spirit. We have lost none of the blessing which those who knew Christ in the flesh enjoyed; on the other hand, He is far more to us now than He was to the first disciples. In the body He could not be present in even two places at the same time; in the Spirit He can be with millions of people in different lands at the same moment!
Jesus tells His disciples of the work the Spirit will do, when He comes. "When he comes, he will convict the world of guilt in regard to sin and righteousness and judgment." The first work of the Spirit is not pleasant work—but painful. He crushes—before He heals. He brings terror—before He brings joy. He comes first of all—to show us our sins. As His light shines upon us—we see the stains in our hearts. As His holiness is revealed—it shows us how unholy we are.
Then, as He lifts the veil, we have a glimpse of the judgment when we must stand before God’s bar. Yet this is not unkind work; He shows us our guilt and peril, not to trouble us—but to save us, and then, when we have seen our need and danger—He points us to Jesus Christ the Savior!
Some tourists once lost their way in the Alps as night came on. They groped about for a time, not knowing where they were, and at length a terribly violent storm burst upon them, and a lightning flash showed them that they were standing on the very edge of a fearful precipice; a few steps more, and they would have been hurled to death. It was a kind storm that by its lurid flash revealed to them their peril, because thereby it saved them. Terrible are the convicting flashes of the Spirit, sometimes striking terror into the soul; but they are merciful flashes, for they are meant to save.
"In regard to sin, because men do not believe in me." The sin of which the Holy Spirit convicts—is the sin of unbelief. So the worst of sins—is the rejection of Christ. He is the Son of God who came to the world to prepare and bring salvation. People think that murder is the worst sin, and they think that stealing and lying are terrible sins—and so they are. But do we ever think that no other sin we can possibly commit is so base and so soul-destroying, as the sin of unbelief in Christ? We should think of this. Unbelievers are very ready to pick flaws in the conduct of professing Christians, and they congratulate themselves that, while they do not believe in Christ, they are better than those who do. They do not remember that, as evil as their other sins are, their unbelief is the blackest of them all in God’s sight! No moral goodness, however beautiful it may be, makes one acceptable in God’s sight—while Jesus Christ is rejected in the heart and shut away from the life. It is a terrible thing to reject the Son of God, who comes to us to be our Savior.
"But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth." Part of the work of the Spirit, is to lead us into ever fuller and deeper knowledge. We never can know the truth, if the Spirit is not our teacher. We cannot understand the Bible, unless the Spirit makes it plain. Men of great intellectual powers have listened to sermons of which they could understand scarcely a word; while some plain, unlettered woman, with threadbare garments, sitting in some back gallery seat, understood every word, her heart being enlightened and thrilled by the blessed truths. She was taught by the Spirit. There are devout men who never open the Bible without a prayer that God would show them its meaning.
We must remember also that it is as a guide that the Spirit comes to us. He does not promise to teach us Himself; He will not make any new revelation to us; He teaches through Biblical truth. He comes to guide us to the understanding of the truths already revealed in Scripture. He honors God’s Word, and comes not as a teacher of new truth—but as an interpreter of Scripture truth. There is no doubt about the Spirit’s readiness to help us into the deepest things of the Scriptures, if we are truly ready to follow His guidance. But we must be willing to receive the truth without question, though it sweeps away all our own opinions; and to accept it as a rule of our life, though it revolutionizes all our conduct. The great work of the Spirit, is to make Christ known. "He will bring glory to me by taking from what is mine and making it known to you." Even the divine Spirit does not preach Himself—but, remaining unseen, points men to Christ. The Spirit glorifies Christ; that is, makes Him glorious in the eyes of men. As the world saw Jesus, He was far from lovely. His visage was marred; He was despised; He died on a cross of shame; His name was hated and covered with defamation. But the Spirit came and poured such light upon Him, that He appears all glorious in His beauty! In all the world there is no other face so lovely, so radiant—as the face of Jesus Christ. Men who have hated Him, seeing Him only dimly—when the Spirit reveals Him to them as He really is—see Him as the chief among ten thousand, and the altogether lovely one.
Alone—yet Not Alone
"But a time is coming, and has come, when you will be scattered, each to his own home. You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me." The loneliness of Jesus while in this world was one of the most pathetic elements of His experience. There are two kinds of loneliness.
One is, when a person is away from all human presences. A man who had been shipwrecked and had drifted for many hours on a piece of wreckage, spoke of the terrible feeling of desolation he experienced when on all alone on the waters, he could see no sign of human life, hear no voice, get no ear to listen to his calls of distress. But there is another loneliness. One may be in the midst of people—and yet be utterly without companionship. Were you never oppressed with a sense of loneliness in a crowd that surged all about you and pressed close to you on every side? Think of the loneliness of one who lands from a foreign country and enters the throngs on the streets of a strange city—but sees no face he ever has seen before, catches no glance of recognition from any eye. In a surging multitude of human beings—he is utterly alone. It takes more than human presence to make companionships; hearts must touch; there must be love and sympathy. In a sense, Christ was always alone in this world. His very greatness of character, made it impossible for Him to find real, deep, and full companionship. All great men are in a sense, solitary men. Their exalted life lifts them above the plane in which other people live. They are like the few tall mountain peaks of the earth that lift their heads far above the clouds, and wear their crowns of unmelting snows. The little hills are not lonesome, for there are so many of them—but the giant mountains are lonely in their solitariness because there are so few of them. The world’s few great men are solitary, because common people cannot rise into companionship with them in thought, in feeling, in purpose. Christ found no fellow, no equal, no real companion, among men.
Then, in His work as Redeemer, Christ was alone. He had few friends. There is infinite pathos in such words as these, which describe His personal loneliness: "He was in the world, and the world was made by Him—and the world knew Him not. He came unto His own—and His own received him not" (John 1:10-11). He revealed His feeling of aloneness and sense of homelessness when He said, "Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay His head." (Mat 8:20; Luk 9:58). Thus in the midst of multitudes, His own people, too, not foreigners, those also He had come to deliver and save—He was alone because hearts and homes were shut against Him.
Then, too, Jesus had a gentle heart, which craved affection and companionship. There are some men with cold, stern natures, who are indifferent to the coldness they meet in the world. They desire no sympathy. They are not pained by men’s rejection. Opposition acts as stimulus to them. They almost court unpopularity. But Jesus craved affection and sympathy. We remember how He welcomed love whenever it came to Him; what a strength the beloved disciple was to Him; what a shelter and comfort the Bethany home, with its love, was to Him; how even the slightest tokens of kindness comforted and cheered His heart. We see also His deep craving for companionship in the Garden, when He wanted His closest friends near Him in His bitter agony and so deeply felt the disappointment when they slept and did not watch with Him. Jesus was not, then, a cold, iron man, who was unaffected by the indifferences and rejection of the people. He suffered keenly from every unloving act and touch. This intensified His loneliness.
Here we have another phase of Christ’s loneliness. "You will be scattered, each to his own home." The only human relief to His loneliness, along the years of His public ministry, was in the love of His friends; and this love, we know, was very imperfect. These friends, though loyal and devoted, never fully understood their Master. They had an earthly conception of His Messiahship, yet they were very unspiritual. They hurt Him continually by their lack of gentleness, thoughtfulness, and perfect trust. They grieved Him unintentionally, of course, ignorantly, loving Him still—but giving Him pain every day by the rudeness and harshness of their contacts with His sensitive heart. Very poor and imperfect, indeed, was the companionship which He found even with the gentlest and truest of His human friends. But now He looks forward to the losing of even this solace and support, "You will be scattered, each to his own home, and shall leave me alone." Even the little company of friends, who had walked with Him along the way, would desert Him in the hour of His supreme trial. We remember how it was. One of those who had eaten bread with Him, dipping His hand in the same dish, betrayed Him! Another, until then His bravest confessor, denied even knowing Him! They all forsook Him and fled. Alone, He was led away to His trial. Alone, He was left to stand before the court and before the governor. Loving and craving love as no other ever loved and craved love, He was left alone—with no pitying eye, with not one friendly voice raised in His behalf. At the close of a life given to love of men and to efforts to save men—He was left with no one confessing to have been helped or saved by Him, no friend, no follower; abandoned to the cruelty of brutal men. Even Barabbas, a notorious criminal, found friends that day, while Jesus, who had given His life to gentle deeds and kind ministries, was dragged away by His enemies through the streets, as if He had been a murderer, with no one to speak a word for Him. But read what He says of this hour of abandonment: "You will be scattered, each to his own home. You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me." There was One whose companionship never failed Him for a moment. Through the years when His infinite divine nature found such meager, imperfect fellowship even in the best love of human friends—He had but to turn His face toward His Father to have His hungry heart filled. When His affectionate nature met only misunderstanding, coldness, rejection, and antagonism among the people for whose love and trust He so hungered, He would go away at nightfall, apart from men, and on some mountaintop or in some deep garden shade, He would commune with One who was all love, who never misunderstood Him, and in whose blessed companionship all of the hungers of His heart were satisfied, and all the hurts of love were healed.
One of the most touching incidents in the Gospels, described what occurred at the close of one day in the temple. "Every man went unto His own house; but Jesus went unto the Mount of Olives" (see John 7:53; John 8:1). It was evening night was gathering. It was time for all to go away. But nobody asked Jesus home with him. They went to their own fine houses on the great streets, leaving Him there. Then He, homeless, with no place to go, no place to lay His head that night, climbed the Mount of Olives, and there stayed alone—alone, but not alone, because the Father was with Him.
We may apply the words to experiences in our own lives. We, too, have our times of loneliness. In a certain sense, all life is lonely. Even with sympathetic friends all about us, there is an inner life which one of us lives, in which we are solitary. We must make our own decisions and choices. We must meet our own questions and answer them ourselves. We must fight our own battles, endure our own sorrows, carry our own burdens. Friendship may be very close, so close that it seems to us there is no part of our deepest life, which our friend does not share with us; yet there is an inner sanctuary of each human life, into which even the most perfect friendship may not enter.
Blessed are those who in this aloneness can say, "Yet I am not alone, because my Father is with me!" God is the only friend who can really enter into the inner sanctuary of our life. God’s is the only companionship we can really have in the inner experiences of our hearts. God’s is the only friendship that can really meet all our soul’s deep needs and cravings. Human love is only a little trickling stream; God’s love is a great river, broadening into a shoreless ocean! Human companionship helps us at a few points; the divine fellowship flows all about us and enters into every experience of ours. We never can be left alone—if we still have Christ. When other helpers and comforts flee—He will abide with us. When other faces fade out of view—His face will appear, shining out with perfect love, pouring its holy light upon us. "I am not alone, because the Father is with me.
There are special times when we are alone. Pain sets us apart. We have to endure it alone. In any pain or grief of yours, you may have truest friends surrounding you—but none of them can bear one pang for you. Sometimes we almost blame our friends because they do not come near to us in our trouble, because they do not appear to feel for us or sympathize with us. We say they do not understand us. We think they ought to help us more. But the truth is—we have to live all our inner lives alone. Our friends love us and want to help us, but they cannot. None can fully understand us. None can really help us in any deep and efficient way. Those about us, even those who are our truest friends, who sympathize with us most fully, leave us alone because they cannot share our suffering. But we can always say, "I am not alone—because the Father is with me!"
There is a loneliness which is made by the breaking up of homes. A true home is an incalculable blessing to the young lives that nestle in it. It is a shelter where they find protection. It is a school where they are educated, where they learn life’s lessons. There is guidance also in a true home. Many of life’s hardest questions, are answered by wise parents. Blessed is that young man or young woman who takes every perplexity, every mystery, every fear and doubt, every heart-hunger, to the sacredness of love’s sanctuary at home and gets wise counsel and guidance!
Home has also its blessed companionships. It is one place where we are absolutely sure of each other, where we need never suspect anyone, where we do not need to be on our guard. Youth has its unexpected longings, its deep cravings, its hunger for affection, its inexperience needing direction. A true home is the very shadow of Gods wings, the very cleft of the Rock of Ages, to those who abide in its love. But sometimes the home is torn down and its shelter broken up. Sore indeed is the loss when a young person, used to all that is gentle and satisfying in home tenderness, is driven out to homelessness. Other human friendships are very sweet—but they never can give back home with its rest and comfort. But blessed is he who in earthly homelessness can say, "Yet I am not alone!" Who can look into the face of Christ and breathe out the psalm of peace, "Lord, You are my dwelling place; You are home to my heart!"
Another time of special loneliness is that of old age. Old people often grow very lonely. Once they were the center of large groups of friends and companions. One by one the beloved associates slipped away. Now the old man or the old woman stands almost entirely alone. The streets are full, the church is full; but where are the faces of forty or fifty years ago? There is a memory of empty cribs, of vacant chairs, of little graves, of marriage altars—and then the starting of new homes, perhaps far away. But the old faces are gone. It is young life that now fills the home, the street, the church. Only here and there perhaps, is a companion of forty, fifty years ago remains. The old people are lonely.
Yet Christian old age can say, "I am not alone!" No changes can take Christ away. Other companions scatter, leaving them humanly alone—but He never departs. Indeed, Christ becomes more and more real to aged Christians—as other friends drop off and become fewer and fewer. While human friendships filled the life, Christ was not turned to very often, though He was believed in and loved. The joys that were needed were found so easily in the human loves that were always at hand, that Christ did not seem so indispensable, so necessary. But as one by one the earthly loved ones dropped off and slipped away, and could not be turned to in the time of need, then Christ began to be more necessary and was turned to more frequently. As the years went on, and more and more of the old friends were missing, Christ grew every day more precious, until now He is almost the only one left. Blessed is the aged Christian; he is now drawing near to glory. A little while longer—and he will enter heaven! Soon the old people will pass over, and find again, waiting for them, those who were once their friends here, companions once more, inseparable now, in heaven! But it is not old people only, who are left lonely by life’s changes. Sorrow touches all ages. There is a continual breaking of human companionships. Blessed are those who can say with every bereavement, "Alone—yet not alone, because Christ is mine, and He never leaves me!" Then in Christ also, our human ties are made inseparable. We never really can lose each other if we are united in Christ. In Christ we never lose a friend. But this is not all, nor the best. Human loneliness here, is filled with the divine presence of Christ. "I am not alone, because the Father is with me!"
There is no other loneliness in all human experience, like that of dying. We cannot die in companies, or in groups, nor even two by two. We must die alone. Two may walk together for long years, never divided in joy or sorrow. But they cannot die together. Human hands, however long they have held each other, must unclasp as the friends enter the valley of shadows—one taken, the other left. Human faces that have looked into ours through the years, must fade from our vision—as we pass into the mists of the valley of death.
"I cannot see you," said a dying friend the other night, as the beloved ones stood about His bed. "I cannot see you." So will it be with each of us some night. Human friends cannot go beyond the edge of the valley. "You shall leave me alone." Yes, that will be true of each of us in our turn. But we need not be alone, even in that supreme moment. When the hand of human love unclasps—the hand of Christ will take your hand and lead you through the dark valley of death. When human faces fade out—Christ’s face will be revealed, with its welcome of infinite love. When you must creep out of the bosom of human affection, and pass into the mystery of death—it will be into the clasp of the Everlasting Arms! So death’s loneliness will be filled with divine companionship! "I am not alone, because the Father is with me!"
Thus the one great need of life—is Christ. If we do not have Christ—what will we do in life’s crises? When human joy fades—what will be left? When human companionships are stripped off—who will walk with us the rest of the lonely way? When death comes, and we must drift out from all we ever have known, from earth’s refuges and trusts and from earth’s familiar places and friends—where shall we go? In whom shall we trust? Who will receive us and lead us home? If we have not Christ, life is hopeless and the universe is homeless for us. But if we have Christ, then, no matter what is taken, He will remain—and He will suffice!
Jesus Prays for His Friends
John 17:15-26 A writer tells of quietly opening the door of his mother’s room one day in his boyhood, seeing her on her knees, and hearing her speak his own name in prayer. He quickly and quietly withdrew from the sacred place—but he never forgot that one glimpse of his mother at prayer, nor the prayer for himself, which he heard her speak to God. Well did he know that what he had seen that moment, was but a glimpse of what went on every day in that place of prayer. The consciousness of this fact, he says, strengthened him countless times in duty, in danger, in struggle. In this seventeenth chapter of John’s gospel, we hear Christ praying just once, a few sentences—but we know that this is only a sample of what is going on forever in heaven, for the Scriptures tell us that He ever lives—to make intercession for us!
Jesus knew that the end had come, the time for Him to make His great sacrifice, to offer Himself for the redemption of His people. He knew how much depended upon this hour. So He prayed that the Father would glorify Him in His sufferings, that in turn He might glorify His Father. When we are about entering any sore trial, or taking up any great duty on which much depends, it should be our prayer that God would so sustain us that we may honor Him in the experience and in the way we pass through it. We should dread nothing so much as the dishonoring of God in sorrow, in trial, or in pain—by losing faith, by complaining, or by murmuring. The deepest wish and prayer of our hearts always should be that we may be enabled to glorify God in every experience of our lives. "Love’s secret," says Faber, "is to be always doing things for God, and not to mind because they are such very little things." This means that we do nothing, say no word, let no feeling enter our heart—that would in any way dishonor God. A great preacher who was subject at times to seasons of excruciating suffering would ask when the paroxysms were over, "Did I complain? I did not want to complain." He wished to endure His anguish without yielding to any expression of pain, and he feared that he had not honored God as he had wished to do. Too many fail in glorifying God in suffering. Allowing themselves to cry out, to fret, to chafe and repine, giving way to feelings of pain, to impatience, to envy or jealousy, to anger and bitterness, to discouragement or despair—is to fail in glorifying God.
Jesus looks back over His past, too, with comfort and satisfaction. He can say to the Father, "I have brought you glory on earth—by completing the work you gave me to do." (John 17:4). He is the only person that ever lived who could say this. The most faithful of us, have done but a little of what God meant for us to do when He made us. The best and most complete human lives, are but little fragments in which are left undone—many things which ought to have been done.
We may take a lesson, too, from Christ’s way of accomplishing His work. He did it by simply doing each day, the will of His Father. He was only a young man, thirty-three years old when He died. We think of those dying early—as dying too soon, before their work is accomplished. Yet we learn from Jesus that even a young man may leave a finished work. Years enough are given to each one—in which to do the work allotted. And the young man who dies at thirty-three, with his hands full of tasks, whom his friends mourn as having died prematurely, if only he has lived faithfully while he lived—has accomplished the work that God gave him to do. It is not the amount of years we live—but our diligence and faithfulness which count with God.
Jesus makes an earnest prayer for His disciples before He leaves them. He knows what lies before them—the persecutions, the struggles, the temptations, and then their weakness, their ignorance, their inability in themselves to meet these perils and difficulties; so He commends them to His Father, "Holy Father, keep through your own name, those whom you have given me." While He was in this world, Jesus had kept them in the Father’s name, guarding them so that not one of them had perished, but the son of perdition. Now, however, He was about to leave them in the world. He was going back to God, and they would not have His protection, the shelter of His love, His divine strength, to keep them. He knows that the world will hate them and persecute them—even as it had hated and persecuted Him. But He will not leave them alone. He will so keep them that they shall not be overwhelmed in the world’s enmity. In great tenderness, He commends them to His Father’s keeping.
"I am not praying that You take them out of the world but that You protect them from the evil." John 17:15. Jesus does not pray that His disciples should be taken out of the world to escape the danger. This would have been the easier way for them, for with Him in heaven—they would have been safe from all persecution. But they had a work to do in this world, and therefore they must stay to do it. They were to represent their Master, carrying on His work among men. Hence, He must leave them behind Him. It was for this very work that He had called them and made them His followers.
It would be a great deal easier in one sense for Christian people, if they were taken to heaven as soon as they had become Christ’s followers. Then they would have no cross-bearing, no giving of their lives for others, no struggles, no self-denials, no sacrifices. But who then would do Christ’s work in the world? Who would look after the wandering ones, or rescue those who are tempted? Thus followers of Christ are left to the world after they become Christ’s friends—both for their own sakes and for the sake of others. It seems hard to have to fight battles and endure trials—but these battles and trials are means of strengthening and growth. Not those who have the easiest life, are really the most favored ones—but those who endure life’s trials victoriously.
They are not the most majestic trees that grow in the sheltered valley—but those that are found on hilltops and mountains, where they must encounter fierce storms. When armies return from victorious war, the loudest cheers are not for those who have fought the fewest battles and wear the fewest scars, nor for the flags that are cleanest—but for the regiments that are cut down to the fewest men, and for the colors that have been shot to tatters. So when the redeemed are welcomed home, those who have fought the hardest battles and who wear the most scars—will be received with the highest honor. The prayer that Jesus did make for His disciples, was that they should he kept from the evil of the world. There is but one evil in the world. It is not trouble, not persecution, not suffering nor sorrow. The one and only evil—is sin. No matter what comes to us, so long as we do not sin, we have not been really harmed. The Revised Version makes the evil personal "the evil one." We know who this "evil one" is. It is a great comfort also for us to know that Christ Our Master is stronger than Satan, and if we are faithful to Him, Satan will have no power to harm us.
"Sanctify them by the truth; Your Word is truth." Jesus prayed also for His disciples, that they might be sanctified in the truth. A man is sanctified, when he is given up to God to live for Him only, to think, to feel, to act, to do all things for the glory of God and in God’s service of love for men. It means also the cleansing and purifying of the life and character.
Then the prayer of Christ reached out beyond the little group of men who stood about Him that night in the upper room—and took in all who ever would believe on Him. "I pray not only for these, but also for those who believe in Me through their message." We can think of ourselves as remembered that night by the Master, before He set out for His cross. The special prayer that He made for all His disciples, was that they might be one. Anything that separated them in heart and life, the one from the other, would destroy their unity as believers.
"May they all be one, as You, Father, are in Me and I am in You. May they also be one in Us, so the world may believe You sent Me." The great passion of the Redeemer’s heart, was that His disciples might be one. The reason He so longed for their unity—was that the world might be impressed by their oneness, and might be led to believe in Christ. It was a unity of heart and spirit which Christ had in mind—not a mere formal unity. He would have His people bound together in bonds of love. Denominationalism need not be wrong nor harmful, if the different churches live together in the spirit of love and unity. But controversy and strifes not only dishonor Christ—but greatly mar the influence of Christianity in the world! An old legend says that when Adam and Eve were turned out of Eden, an angel broke the gates to pieces, and the fragments flying over the earth are the precious stones which men now gather. A writer makes an application of the legend—he says that the precious stones were picked up by the various religions and philosophies, each claiming that His own fragment alone reflects the light of heaven, and is the material of which the gates of paradise were made. But as all these fragments had the same origin, it is the work of Christianity to gather them all back again into one unity, thus reconstructing the gates of paradise.
Every Christian represents Christ, and all Christians combined together should represent the spirit of Christ, the love of Christ, the compassion, the patience, the mercy of Christ. We all should seek to be one in spirit, to whatever particular branch of the Church we may happen to belong.
Christ Betrayed
John 18:1-13 It was after the great intercessory prayer. Jesus now set out on His journey to the cross. The Garden of Gethsemane was on the way. This was one of His familiar sacred resorts for prayer, and here He lingered for an hour. Leaving eight of His disciples at the outer edge of the Garden to watch, He took three, His closest friends, with Him a little farther. "Sit here," he said to them, "while I go over there and pray" (Mat 26:36). He was drawing near to the terrible experience of the cross, and sought help. Before He passed into the darkness, He wanted the lamps of comfort lighted. Though He was the Son of God, He sought strength and help—in prayer and communion with His Father. We know that the praying in Gethsemane made the darkness of Calvary less dark, and the woe less bitter. Indeed, the battle was really fought under the olive trees, and when the next day came with its darkness and anguish—He was ready for it and met it all calmly. The great lesson for us, is that the way to prepare for coming perils and sorrows—is by prayer. A season spent with God, will make us strong for any experiences of struggle or duty. It is said that a young officer under Wellington, when ordered to perform some perilous duty, lingered a moment and then said to his commander, "Let me first have a grasp of your all-conquering hand—and then I can do it." We need to feel the grasp of the mighty hand of Christ—and then we can perform any duty, meet any peril, and endure any trouble. A mother whose life was very hard used often to go away upstairs to her room for a little while, when the burdens became unbearable, and she always would come back with a song and a shining face and a brave heart. We should always seek the Garden—before we have to take up the cross. This Garden meant a great deal to Jesus. Often He had come here with His disciples in the troublous times when His enemies were plotting His death. Here we have a glimpse of our Lords devotional habits. All through His life—He had His times for prayer. There were mountaintops where He spent whole nights communing with His Father. We are apt to wonder why He, the Son of God, needed so much to have His seasons of prayer. But the holiest need prayer the most. Some people manage to get along without much praying—but it is at the expense of their spiritual life. Not feeding their souls—they grow very lean. Luther used to say he had so much to do—that he could not get along with less than three hours of prayer each day. Some of us would put it the other way, and say that we have so much to do—that we have almost no time for praying. But Luther was wise. A great deal of praying needs always to go—to a very little working. Then the habit of praying is important. Some people tell us that prayer should be spontaneous and that regular periods make it formal and take the life out of it; but if there are no regular seasons and places of prayer—there will soon be no prayer at all. Jesus had habits of prayer.
Jesus, as He was nearing His cross, sought strength in two ways. He craved human sympathy. He wanted His disciples to be near Him, and to wait and watch with Him. In this they failed Him. Then He craved His Father’s help. In this longing, He was not disappointed. God never fails those who call upon Him in their distress. The cup did not pass from Him—but as He pleaded, His agony became less and less intense, until His cries were quieted into submissive peace. As Jesus came from the Garden, He saw the torches flashing in the near distance. Every new line in the story of the betrayal, shows new blackness in the heart of Judas. Going out from the supper table, he hastened to the priests, and quickly got under way with his band of soldiers and police. He knew very well where Jesus had gone. Then, when he had found Him, the manner in which he let the officers know which one of the company they were to arrest, shows the deepest blackness of all—he went up to Him as to a dear friend, eager and ardent, and kissed Him! And the words mean that he kissed Him repeatedly, over and over, and with pretended warmth and affection.
Let us remember how the treason grew in the heart of Judas, beginning in greed for money, growing into theft and falseness of life, ending at last in the blackest crime the world ever saw! We should watch the beginnings of evil in our hearts. A picture in the royal gallery of Brussels, represents Judas wandering about on the night after the betrayal. He comes by chance upon the workmen who have been making the cross on which Christ shall be crucified on the morrow. A fire nearby throws its light full on the faces of the men who are sleeping peacefully, while resting from their labor. Judas’ face is somewhat in the shade—but it is wonderfully expressive of awful remorse and agony—as he catches sight of the cross and the tools used in making it—the cross which his treachery had made possible! But still, though in the very torments of hell, as it appears, he clutches his moneybag and seems to hurry on into the night. That picture tells the story of the fruit of Judas’ sin—the moneybag with thirty pieces of silver in it (and even that, he could not keep long), carried off into the night of fiendish despair—that was all. The same terrible story of sin is repeated yet, whenever men sell their souls for money, or for any price this world pays.
Jesus was not taken by surprise. He knew what it all meant when He saw the soldiers and officers with lanterns and torches and weapons, coming toward Him. He knew the meaning of the kiss from Judas. But He was not startled. He met the betrayal calmly. He stepped forth, saying, "Whom do you seek?" When they told Him, "Jesus of Nazareth," He said, "I am He." They were panic-stricken and fell to the ground. Here we have a glimpse of the power of Jesus. Though He seemed to be ensnared and unable to escape—yet really He never was more free, than at that moment. He could have called legions of angels with a word, though even that would have been unnecessary, for He had almighty power in Himself, before which, had He put it forth, all His enemies would have been as nothing!
We must remember that Christ’s death was voluntary. He gave Himself as a sacrifice. He laid down His life for the sheep. Here we see the love of Jesus in freely offering Himself as our Redeemer.
"When Jesus said, ’I am he,’ they drew back and fell to the ground!" In this scene we have also a hint of the appalling effect which Christ’s look will have upon His enemies on the judgment day. One glance of His holy eye, will send terror into all impenitent hearts and drive the ungodly forever away before the wind! They will call upon the hills and rocks to fill upon them, to hide them from the wrath of the Lamb—but in vain! In the time of His own great danger Jesus did not forget His disciples—but sought and secured their safety. "If therefore you seek me—then let these go their way," He said. Illustrating the picture He had drawn of the Good Shepherd, He did not flee when He saw the wolf coming, leaving the sheep to be scattered; but gave His own life for the sheep. The incident also illustrates the great work of redemption. Jesus procures the deliverance of His people—by surrendering Himself to shame and death, while they go their way in joy and safety. So watchful was He over His own people in their time of panic and fear, that as He had said, "Of those whom you have given me—I have not lost one." And that is just as true now, after nineteen centuries, as it was that day. He never has lost a single soul who trusted in Him. No one ever has perished, who took refuge in the love of Christ. His infinite power protects all who submit themselves to Him as Redeemer and Savior. At the day of judgment Christ will be able to say these same words, "Of those whom you have given me—I have not lost one." We need not be afraid to trust ourselves to the saving of Christ. No matter what our peril may be in any condition or circumstances, we need never be afraid, if we are doing our part faithfully and trusting Him. No power can snatch us out of the hands of Christ!
We are not surprised to find the disciples interfering in behalf of their Master. It broke their hearts to see Him handled so roughly. Peter was always brave. He could not restrain himself, and, after drawing his sword, which he carried, he struck at one of the guards and cut off his ear. But Jesus checked his assault and said, "Put your sword away! The cup which my Father has given me—shall I not drink it?" We ought to take this word of Jesus for our own. He meant that no resistance such as Peter had attempted, should be offered to His arrest; and the reason was that His betrayal, capture, and coming death belonged to "the cup" which the Father had given into His hands; and therefore must not be rejected. The lesson is, that there are some evils against which we should not lift a finger!
Just how far we ought to resist wrongs inflicted upon us by others—is often a difficult question to settle. We remember the words of Christ elsewhere: "But I tell you, Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well." (Mat 5:39-40).
Possibly this doctrine of nonresistance may sometimes be carried too far; but there is no doubt that far more frequently the erring is on the other side. At least we are very sure that if the wrongs threatened belong to "the cup" which the Father has given us—we ought not to resist them.
It was early in the morning. There was special hurry that day, for the rulers wanted to get their business out of the way, because of the approaching feast. The trials before the high priest and religious council, preceded that before the governor. The rulers, when they could find absolutely nothing against Jesus, had sought to make out their case by bringing in hired false witnesses. But even this testimony fell to the ground—no two of the witnesses agreeing. The only hope was to compel Jesus to convict Himself by some word He might speak. He stood silent, however, before them, until the high priest adjured Him to answer whether He were the Christ or not. Then He could be silent no longer. On this admission, the sentence of condemnation was passed by the Sanhedrin. This was as far as the council could go. They must wait now for the approval of their sentence by the Roman governor.
Pilate was the one man in all the world who could give the final word with regard to the sentencing of Jesus. This put upon him a fearful responsibility. While Jesus was standing before Pilate, apparently to be tried by him, Pilate himself was really on trial before Jesus, and in the light of His holy face—the character of the Roman governor was plainly revealed.
Pilate was deeply impressed by his prisoner. He was convinced of His innocence. He wanted to set Him free. But he had not the courage to oppose the religious rulers, and so he let them have their way and sent Jesus to His cross, even against his own conscience, and in spite of the pathetic pleadings of his wife!
"To avoid ceremonial uncleanness, the Jews did not enter the palace." John 18:28. The religious rulers carried their pious scruples even to the palace of Pilate. Amazingly, they had no scruples about their wicked treatment of an innocent man—but they were scrupulously conscientious about matters of mere ceremonial requirement! They would not set their feet on the Gentile’s floor—for that would have defiled them! Yet meanwhile their hearts were full of evil and murderous thoughts and resolves!
There will always be people who are most punctilious in their religious rituals—but who in practical life, are little better than heathen! We should learn well, that God is grieved more by our bitter feeling, our lack of love, our hate and envy—than He is with little omissions in religious ceremonies and formalities. When the rulers had presented Jesus to Pilate, he wanted to know what the charges against their prisoner were. He asked them, "What accusation do you bring against this man?" Jesus could not be put to death without Pilate’s sentence. It was only fair, therefore, that he should ask His accusers what their charge against Him was. No man ever should be condemned without a trial. We have a right to ask the same question now, of those who reject Christ. What wrong has He done? What faults have you found in His character? Whom has He injured? The rulers attempted no answer to Pilate’s question; indeed, no answer was possible, for no accusation could be brought against Him. It would have been easy to bring a thousand witnesses to testify to the good things Jesus had done—the works of mercy, the deeds of kindness, the miracles of compassion; but in all the country—not one person could have been found to testify to the smallest wrong thing that He had ever done to any being! His life had been a perpetual blessing wherever He had gone. His lips had ever been speaking words of comfort and love. He was hurried to death—by men’s hate, without reason or charge of any kind. The rulers assumed an air of dignity, in answer to Pilate’s demand to know what charge they brought against Jesus, saying that if He were not an evildoer, they would not have brought Him before Pilate. Their bearing was haughty, and Pilate was offended by it. "Take Him—and judge Him according to your law." As Pagan as Pilate was, and heartless—the presence of Jesus before him as prisoner, filled his heart with dread. There was something about this prisoner which awed him. Ordinarily he cared nothing for justice—but now he sought to evade the responsibility of sentencing this man. Instead of refusing to have anything to do with the sentencing of an innocent man, Pilate sought all that morning by evasion, simply to get clear of the case. Each time, however, Jesus came back and stood before him, waiting for His decision. So the scene closed, and Jesus was sent to His cross. In a little while Pilate fell into disgrace and committed suicide in his exile. When he went into the eternal world and found himself before the throne of the judge—into whose eyes did the guilty Roman governor look? What a reversal there was! Once Pilate was judge—and Jesus stood at his bar; now Jesus is judge—and Pilate is before Him! In like manner, Jesus waits before every sinner, meek and lowly, with love and mercy, asking to be received. The scene will soon change, however, and those who reject Him here—will stand before Him as their omnipotent Judge!
If Jesus had been put to death under the Jewish law, it would have been by stoning. But again and again He had foretold that He would be lifted up, implying that He would die on a cross. Thus, unconsciously, the rulers were fulfilling our Lord’s own prophecy regarding Himself. God keeps His hand on all events. In all the surging waves of the sea—not one drop of water ever rushes beyond the leash of His control. In all the turmoil of human events—no one ever gets beyond God’s control. The whole fearful chapter of wickedness enacted around Christ’s cross, even the most minute particular, was the fulfillment of prophecies made long before. We need never fear that the affairs of this world—shall get beyond God’s control. We never can drift beyond His love and care. A little bird built its nest under the iron track of a railroad. Day and night the heavy trains thundered along, with their terrific noise—but the little bird was not disturbed, and sat there in quiet peace, rearing her little ones in safety. Just so, amid this world’s danger and rushing noise, a believer in God may rest in quiet confidence, undisturbed, undismayed.
There certainly seemed nothing kingly about Jesus at that time—at least in an earthly sense. He stood there, bound and suffering, with no followers, no friends, with neither throne nor scepter nor crown, with not even a place to lay His head. Little wonder is there that Pilate’s question was put in tones of such surprise, "Are You a king?" Yet Jesus was (and still is) King! He is King of all angels and of all men. Kingliness does not consist in purple robes, crowns of gold, and the pageantry of earthly honor. We have but to follow the account of this trial through to the end—to see in this lowly, despised Man—the highest type of kingliness. Study His bearing—His calm dignity, His gentle patience, His quiet self-control, His majestic silence under wrong and insult. While we look with love at Jesus so kingly amid all the scenes of His humiliation, let us take a lesson for ourselves. Let us learn to be patient under wrong and injury, to be gentle and uncomplaining in the rudest and most unjust treatment!
Pilate sought again to be rid of the responsibility of sentencing Jesus to the cross, by getting the people to choose Him as the one man to be set free at that feast. But in this, too, Pilate failed. "No, not Him! Give us Barabbas!" they shouted.
They had their choice between Jesus the holy, the pure, the sinless Son of God—and Barabbas, the bandit, robber, murderer. And they chose Barabbas for liberty and life—and sent Jesus to death on the cross! We all agree in our condemnation of the rulers. But let us not forget that to every one of us a like choice comes. There are but two masters in the world—Christ and Satan. Both ask our allegiance, our obedience. We must make a choice—we cannot be neutral, for no man can serve two masters. In choosing Barabbas the Jews sent Jesus to a cross! He who rejects Christ now—crucifies Him afresh and counts His blood an unholy thing!
Pilate Sentencing Jesus
Pilate’s portrait is hung up in the gallery of the world’s great criminals. His is one of the names which never will be forgotten. The incident of the scourging is one of the darkest blots in the story of that terrible Friday. Pilate claimed that he could find no fault in Jesus, and that He should be released—yet, hoping that it would satisfy the Jews, he ordered Him to be scourged. The scourging must be considered as a part of Christ’s sufferings as the world’s Redeemer. The shame and indignity of being tied like a slave to a whipping post and then beaten until He seemed dead, we never can realize, for, thanks to the softening influence of the religion of Christ, such treatment even of the worst criminals is now unknown in civilized lands. There is, however, a word in Isaiah which gives a fresh meaning to this part of Christ’s suffering. "With His stripes we are healed" (Isa 53:5), says the prophet. The peace we enjoy is ours, because the rod of chastisement fell upon Him—because He was smitten. Our soul’s diseases are healed, their wounds made whole, because the body of Jesus was gashed and lacerated by the horrible scourge!
After the cruel scourging came the crowning with thorns and the mockery of Jesus as a King. "The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head." We ought to look with great love and reverence at the picture—Jesus the Son of God, our Savior, standing there in the midst of heathen soldiers, mocked and insulted by them. We know how truly He is a King, and what a glorious King He is. When the crusaders had captured the Holy City, Palestine became an independent kingdom. Godfrey, of Bouillon, was made king of Jerusalem, and it was proposed that he be crowned with a golden crown. But Godfrey’s noble answer was, "I will not wear a crown of gold in the city where my Savior wore a crown of thorns."
It is a sweet thought, too, that because Jesus wore a crown of thorns in the day of His shame—His redeemed ones shall wear crowns of glory in the life to come. In one sense this mock coronation of Jesus was very significant. Was He really ever more a King than when He was enduring His cross? All through John’s gospel we have seen that Jesus spoke of His going to His cross—as His being glorified. His cross really was His throne. It was on the cross that He fought the great battle and won the great victory of redemption. The cross was the ladder that led up to His throne. His crown of thorns, too, was fitter for Him than a crown of gold would have been, for He was the King of sorrow; He reached His glory—by His sufferings; He saved His people—by dying for them. He is adored and worshiped now as the King who has lifted men up by His own sorrows and blood to eternal life and blessedness.
Pilate showed pitiful weakness at every step in his dealing with Jesus. He knew there was no sin in Him, and yet he brought Him out to the people and surrendered Him to them. "Behold the Man!" Our eyes should be fixed upon Jesus as He stands there in the presence of the multitude. On His head—is the crown of thorns, and around His torn and bleeding body—is a purple robe, mock emblems of royalty. Behold the Man! Behold the Man enduring shame and contempt, set forth as a spectacle of mockery, that He might be presented at last in glory, and honored before angels and the Father. Behold the Man, reviled—yet reviling not again; hated—but still loving on; cruelly wronged—but speaking no resentful word. Behold the Man, the God-Man, wearing humanity, the Son of God humbling Himself and becoming obedient unto shame and death—that He might save our souls! Behold the Man, holy, sinless, undefiled, separate from sinners—yet bearing upon His own head as the Lamb of God, the sin of the world. The only righteous thing for a just judge to do when he finds his prisoner innocent—is to set him free. Pilate brought Jesus out to the people—but said plainly, "I find no fault in Him." Nobody could. Nobody ever did. The rulers tried zealously enough to find something that they use as a pretext—but they found nothing. They tried false witnesses—but even these could not agree in their witnessing. Now the keen Roman judge inquires into His character, into His life, into His motives—but finds nothing against Him. No other man has lived in whom no fault could be found. The holiest men have sinned. But Jesus was absolutely sinless. Why then did He suffer as a sinner? We know well the answer. They were our sins that they laid upon Him. "Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us" (Gal 3:13). Christ also has suffered once for sins, "the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God." "Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree."
We never should forget this. In these days perhaps there is a tendency to forget the sacrifice of Christ, in thinking of His salvation. Between us in our curse and our blessing—stands the cross of our Savior. He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. Let us praise the grace that took our sins, that we may stand whiter than snow before the throne of judgment! The silences of Jesus are always as significant as His words. He was silent to Pilate. He understood Pilate’s weak insincerity. Pilate had had opportunity enough to do the right thing for Jesus—but he had thrown away His opportunity. Now Jesus would answer no more of His questions. One lesson we must get from this silence—is that if we reject Christ’s offer of mercy and grace over and over, the time may come, will come, when Christ will be silent to us. And of all calamities that can possibly ever come to any soul—none could be so great as that Christ should be silent to its prayers. "Then shall they call upon me—but I will not answer; they shall seek me early—but they shall not find me" (Pro 1:28).
Another lesson we may learn from Christ’s example, is that there come times in all our lives, when silence is better than speech. Often to words of reviling or to insult—silence is the only true Christian answer. To many of the assaults of skeptics on our religion and on our Lord—it is better that we remain silent than that we speak. There is a time to speak boldly and without fear in the presence of Christ’s enemies—Christ did speak several times in reply to Pilate—but there are also times when we should keep silence, attempting no answer.
Pilate tried to compel Jesus to answer him. "Don’t you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?" The answer of Jesus is very clear. "You would have no power over me—if it were not given to you from above." No man’s power belongs to himself, to do with as he pleases; it is given him from God, the Source of all power. This is true of the authority of parents and teachers, and of the power possessed by civil magistrates. Men are eager to obtain positions of power, and they do not always realize the responsibility which is attached to such positions. Power belongs to God, and must be used for God, or its misuse will bring its sore penalty. It is a talent which is given to us to be accounted for, and no treason is worse than malfeasance in the employing of power. This is true all the way from the power of the child on the playground or in the home, up to the power of the president of the nation or of the king on His throne. "You would have no power over me—if it were not given to you from above."
There is another sweet thought suggested by the words "against me" in this sentence. Christ in this world was under the protection of His Father, and no one on earth could lift a finger against Him but by the Father’s divine permission. What was true of Him, the Son of God, is true of each one of the sons of God in all their earthly life. Each believer, the humblest, the weakest, is kept in this world as the apple of God’s eye. No one can lift a finger to touch one of God’s little ones, except by divine permission. This shows how secure we are, amid all the world’s dangers and enmities, while we trust ourselves, like little children, in our Father’s keeping. When Pilate ceased His weak efforts to have Jesus released, saying to the rulers, "Behold Your King!" they cried out, "Away with him, crucify him!" Thus they finally rejected their Messiah. We read at the beginning of John’s gospel that "He came unto His own—and His own received him not" (John 1:11 ). The whole story of His life was an illustration of this rejection of Him. Wherever He went they received Him not. Here and there a home opened its doors to Him, and now and then there was a devout heart that made hospitality for Him—but these receptions were so few that they could easily be counted. Crowds of the common people thronged after Him, and many heard Him gladly—but very few became His true disciples. Even on Palm Sunday, five days before He died, there was a vast multitude to cry, "Hosanna!" and wave palm branches; but soon the palms lay withered in the streets, and on Friday only cries of "Crucify him!" were heard in the air. "He came unto His own—and His own received Him not."
It is the saddest event in all history, this coming of the Son of God to this earth, bearing in His hands all divine and heavenly blessings—but finding only shut doors and shut hearts, being compelled to take away His gifts because men would not receive them. We read this old story and wonder how His own people could have treated Him so; yet how is it with us? Do we treat Him any better? We do not cry, "Crucify him!" but we shut the doors of our hearts in His face and keep Him out. We reject and refuse His gifts which He comes all the way from heaven to bring to us. We may not with angry voice exclaim, "Away with him!" but in our hearts many of us do keep Him away. The struggle had ceased, and "Pilate delivered him therefore unto them to be crucified." He first tried every way to avoid the issue; then he temporized, hoping in some way to evade the responsibility. At least he yielded, and his name goes down through history pilloried forever, as the man who delivered Jesus to be crucified, knowing and confessing that He was free from any crime. He was known in the world by no other act. Surely it is an unenviable notoriety. It had been a thousand times better for him if he had never been horn, or if he had remained forever in quiet obscurity, instead of going to that high place of power in the land, in which he had to meet and deal with this most monentous question of history.
We read in one of the Gospels that Pilate took water in the presence of the people and washed his hands, thus by symbol declaring that he was not responsible for the sentencing of Jesus to die. But the water did not wash away one particle of the stain of the guilt of that terrible sin! Pilate had the misfortune to be the only man in all the province who could send Jesus to the cross. Upon him, therefore, the final responsibility rested, no matter the pressure that was brought to bear upon him by the enemies of Jesus.
Just so, the fact that others urge us to sin—does not take away our guilt for that sin. No being in the universe can compel us to do wrong; if, then, we do wrong—the sin is our own. True, Jesus said there was one other whose guilt was even greater than Pilate’s—that was the high priest. His sin was not only that he himself was determined to do wrong—but that he dragged others with him. We remember that the rulers replied to Pilate’s act of washing his hands, "His blood be on us and on our children!" (Mat 27:25). No one who has read the story of the next forty years can doubt that this self-imprecation was fulfilled. Forty years later, thousands of the people were scourged and crucified. The crime of the rulers was successful—but what came of the success in the end? Let us learn that sin brings always terrible woe, and that the worst of all sin—is sin against the Lord Jesus Christ. The Crucifixion of Christ
John 19:17-30 An old legend said that Calvary was at the center of the earth. So it was, really, for the cross was the meeting place of two eternities—a past eternity of grace and hope, and a future eternity of faith, gratitude, love and devotion. It is the center of the earth, too, because toward it the eyes of all believers turn for pardon, comfort, light, joy, hope. As from all sections of the ancient camp, the bitten people looked toward the brazen serpent on the pole at the center of the camp—so from all lands sin-stricken ones look in their penitence, and sorrow-stricken ones in their grief, toward the cross.
"Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha)." The first picture we see is Jesus leaving Pilate’s judgment hall bearing His cross. The custom was that a criminal should carry to the place of execution, the cross, on which he should be fastened. The cross was heavy. Yet, as heavy as it was, the wooden cross was not all the load Jesus carried that day. We know there was another still heavier, for He bore the burden of the world’s sin. The old prophet said, "All we like sheep have gone astray ... and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all" (Isa 53:6). It would seem that none of the apostles were with Jesus as He went out to Calvary. John was caring for Mary, whom Jesus had committed to His care. She, with John and other friends, were presently watching by the cross. Certain other women were in the crowd, lamenting with Jesus. These He comforted even in His own great-sorrow. When He staggered under His cross, a passer-by was seized and compelled to carry His load. It would have indeed been a strange irony—had the man who carried the cross missed the salvation whereof it is the instrument and the symbol. The next picture shows us Jesus being nailed upon the cross. He was not alone, for two others were crucified with Him, although this was contrary to Jewish law. These were criminals, men suffering justly for their sin. Thus He was "numbered with the transgressors" (Mark 15:28, cf. Isa 53:12). They put Jesus on the middle cross, as if He had been the greatest of the criminals. This was the place of the deepest dishonor. As He hung there, He was at the lowest point of shame in the world, in the place of the worst sinner. This tells us that there is no known stage of sin or guilt possible on earth, down to which Jesus cannot, will not, go as Savior.
One of the criminals beside Him was saved that day, lifted up by Him out of his guilt and sin, and borne in His arms to Paradise. This shows us that no sinner is so low in degradation or condemnation, that Jesus cannot lift him up to glory. But while we are looking at this one sinner who was saved that Good Friday, we must not fail to glance in sadness at his companion. He had the same opportunity for salvation that the other had, for he was equally close to Jesus, could hear His gracious words, see the blood dropping from His wounds, and behold His patience and compassion. Yet this man was not saved. He remained impenitent, though so close to the dying Redeemer. When people say they will take the chance of the dying thief on the cross, repenting at the last hour, they must remember that there were two dying thieves, equally close to Christ’s cross, and that one of them was lost. The next picture we see shows us Jesus Christ on His cross. "Pilate had a notice prepared and fastened to the cross. It read: JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS." Jesus was indeed the King of the Jews, their own Messiah. He was also the King of the world. After He arose, He said that all authority was given unto Him in heaven and on earth. In the visions of the Apocalypse we see Him in glory as King of kings. He did not seem kingly that hour on the cross. It was a strange throne for a king to occupy. Yet it was His throne, and the crucifixion was the point of His highest earthly honor. There His glory streamed out as at no other time in all His life. The love of God shone from the cross. It is the power of the cross that is changing the world today and drawing lives to the Savior! The rulers asked Pilate to change the title he had put over the cross. They wanted him to write only that Jesus said He was King of the Jews. They did not themselves wish to have it suggested that He was indeed in any sense their king. But Pilate refused to make any change in the superscription. "What I have written I have written," he declared. He spoke a deeper truth than he knew. He was making a record which would stand forever, and which in spite of all the injustice and dishonor of the day was true.
Just so—we are all writing, all the while, ineffaceably. What we have written, we have written. Every act we perform, every word we speak, every thought we think and every influence we give out—goes down to stay on the page. This is well when the things we do are good, right and beautiful things; but it is just as true when they are sinful and unholy things. We should lay this truth to heart and should live so that we shall write down in the inexpungeable record of our lives—only things we shall be glad to meet a thousand years hence. We never have the opportunity to go over our records—to correct the mistakes we have made. As we write the words, so will they stand. The next picture we see shows us the soldiers dividing the garments of Jesus among themselves. We can think of these men going about at their duty after that day, wearing the garments which Jesus had worn during His beautiful and holy life. We may carry the illustration farther, and think of ourselves and all redeemed ones—as wearing the garments which Jesus prepared for us that day on the cross. The scene of the soldiers gambling for the scant possessions of Jesus, while the most stupendous event of all time was being enacted above their heads, suggests to us how indifferent the world is to the glory of God and the glorious things that God does. Men are irreverent and are unmoved by even the holiest things! The next picture shows us a little group of the dearest friends of Jesus, standing near the cross, while He was enduring His unfathomable sorrows. His mother was there, and John, the beloved disciple. When Jesus saw His mother, His heart was touched with compassion for her, and He commended her to the beloved disciple, who from that time became as a son to her, taking her to his own home. In this scene we have a beautiful commentary on the Fifth Commandment.
Even on His cross, in the midst of the anguish of this terrible hour, He did not forget her who had borne Him, who had blessed His tender infancy and defenseless childhood with her rich, self-forgetful love. Every young person, or older one with parents living, who reads this fragment of the story of the cross, should remember the lesson and pay love’s highest honor to the father or the mother to whom he owes so much. The next picture shows us Jesus in His anguish of thirst. In response to His cry, "I am thirsty!" one of the soldiers dipped a sponge in the sour wine that was provided for the watchers and held it up on a reed, that it might moisten His lips. This is the only one of the seven sayings on the cross in which Jesus referred to His own suffering. It is pleasant to think that one of the soldiers gave a kindly response to His cry. This is the only gleam of humanity in all the dark story of cruelty and hardness enacted around the cross. It is a comfort to us to know that even so small a kindness was wrought for Him who has filled the world with the fragrance of His love, blessing so many millions of suffering ones. For us the lesson is that we should train ourselves to deeds of thoughtful gentleness to all who are in distress. We remember that beautiful word of our Lord, that the giving of even a cup of cold water to a disciple in His name will not go unrewarded (see Mat 10:42). There are thirsty ones coming to us continually, and countless are the opportunities of doing good to them in Christ’s name. We should not fail to put the cup to lips that are burning with life’s fever. Since Jesus thirsted on the cross and was refreshed, if only by so much as the moisture of a sponge filled with sour wine, He is quick to recognize and reward any kindness to one of His that thirsts. The last picture shows us Jesus dying. He said, "It is finished!" Then He bowed His head and gave up His spirit. It was a cry of victory which fell from His lips. His work was finished. He had done each day the work given Him to do that day, and when the last hour of the day came there was nothing that He had left undone. We should learn the lesson—and live as He lived, so as to have every part of our work finished when our end comes. But what was it that was finished when Jesus bowed His head on the cross? A famous picture represents Christ lifted up, and beneath Him an innumerable procession of the saints, advancing out of the darkness and coming into the light of His cross. There can be no doubt that He had such a vision of redemption while He hung there, for we are told that He endured the cross, despising the shame, because of the joy set before Him. "It is finished!" was therefore a shout of victory as He completed the work of suffering and sacrificing that the world might be saved.
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John 19:30 The three hours of darkness was ending. The light was breaking. The Scripture tells us that Jesus then cried out in a loud, strong voice. It was not the cry of exhaustion and faintness; it was the shout of a victor. The cross seemed like defeat. Those who understood nothing of the meaning of the life and death of Christ, would think of Him as a man who had failed, all of whose dreams and hopes had perished. But we who understand something at least of the meaning of His mission and of the great purpose of His life, know that nothing failed. "It is finished," was the shout of a victor in the hour of His glorious success. It told of the completion of His work. All had been accomplished that He set out to do. His work was done. He had nothing more to do. There was no reason why He should live an hour longer, for the last task had now been done. A little while before, He said in His prayer in the upper room, "I have glorified you on the earth: I have finished the work which you gave me to do." When He said in dying, "It is finished!" He meant that there was nothing whatever left now for Him to do. His friends did not think so. They thought His work was only beginning. He was but thirty-three years old, and at thirty-three we regard life as no more than just begun. He had been only three years in His public ministry. Think, too, what years these had been, how full of blessing to those whom He had touched with His life. We can imagine Joseph and Nicodemus as they reverently took His body down from the cross and prepared it for burial, lamenting His early death, talking of what He might have done if only He had been spared longer. His disciples, too, in their anguish and their loss would speak together of the terrible bereavement they had suffered. He had just begun to live. He had gone about through the towns and villages, doing good for three years, healing, comforting, helping, blessing. What would fifty years of such ministry have meant to the world!
We talk the same way of our human friends who are taken away in early years. Their lives were full of promise. They had just begun to do beautiful things. They had shown a little of the power that was in them, to be a strength to others, to be a comfort to those who were in sorrow, to be inspirers of noble things. Our dreams for them were just beginning to be realized. Then, suddenly, they slipped away—and all was ended. We say that they could not be spared, that the world needed them longer. Over their graves we set up the broken shaft, symbol of incompleteness. It is a great comfort, then, to remember that life is not counted by the number of its years—but by what it puts into the years, few or many, that are lived.
We live in thoughts—not breaths.
We live in deeds—not years.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives—who thinks most, feels the noblest, and acts the best. A millionaire recently, when dying, sent for a clergyman and said to him, "Doctor, I have failed, for I have groveled." He had not lived dishonestly; he had not made his money by unjust treatment of others, by the oppression of the poor, or in any way that men called wrong. Men said he had lived well. He had failed, according to his own thought, because he had groveled, lived as if he were a worm. Eighty years of such life, with God and heaven and love left out, however stupendous the earthly success, will not count so much in eternity—as much as one day of self-denying life of love, such as Jesus lived. Jesus, dying at thirty-three, had lived longer than any man who had reached fourscore years of selfishness, of groveling, of fame-seeking. When a friend dies early, with only a few years of life—but with those years filled with usefulness, helpfulness, unselfishness, and faithful doing of duty—do not say he had not done his work.
Another comforting truth started by the dying words of Jesus, is that God allots to us our work, little or much, and the time in which it must be done. Jesus spoke often of His hour. Again and again we read that His hour had not yet come, meaning the hour when His work would be finished, His earthly life ended. "His hour was not yet come." Then, at last, He said His hour had come. The time of His death was not accidental. Then He spoke also of His work as what His Father had given Him to do. It was not a haphazard matter how much work He should do, or what particular work it should be. It was all given Him by His Father. When He said in His last moments, "It is finished!" He meant that everything He had come into the world to do, all that the Father had given Him to do—He had done, and that now He had only to yield up His life into the hands of Him who gave it.
What was true of Him—is true also of us. There is an appointed time to man on earth, and each one has his mission, his work to do. Whether it is a brief time or many years, it matters not; our only care should be to do what has been given us to do, and to fill our appointed days, short or long, with duty well done. We need not fret, then, if our time is short, if we have only a few years given us to work. Faithfulness while the day lasts—is all that we need to concern ourselves with. The things we wanted to do and longed to do—but could not do, were not part of our work at all; they belonged to some other one coming after us.
"It is finished!" He meant fully accomplished, done perfectly. Not a word was unspoken which it was His to speak. Nothing, however small, was left undone which the Father had given Him to do. This never can be true of us. We do nothing perfectly. Our best work is marred and flawed by imperfections. We get the white pages from God day by day—and return them blotted and stained. Our lives are full of blanks, neglects, duties not performed, things left undone—which we ought to have done. But all Christ’s work was complete. He never omitted a kindness that was His to do, never passed by on the other side, to escape doing a service of love. We are never quite sure of the purity of our motives, even for the most sacred and worthy deeds we do. "Who of you convicts Me of sin?" Jesus could say as He looked into men’s faces. But can we always say it? Why do we do our good things, our holy things? Is it really from love to God, and so for love to men, or is it sometimes from desire for praise? Everything in our lives is flecked and imperfect. We have to ask divine forgiveness on our best acts and words and thoughts. But when Jesus said, "It is finished!" He looked back upon a life work without a flaw, without an omission, without the slightest failure in thought or motive or deed. His life was brought under most searching light by the rulers in their eagerness to find something to accuse Him of when they sought justification for crucifying Him. But with all efforts to find a flaw, in the blaze of the most dazzling light—they found nothing! Herod sent Him back to Pilate with the testimony that he had found no fault in Him. Pilate declared the same of Him when he had examined Him. Then we have the witness of the Father, as He looked down upon Him and said out of the clouds of glory, "This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." Christ’s work was not merely ended when He bowed His head on the cross and said, "It is finished!" it was completed. His life was perfect.
"It is finished!" In a sense nothing He had done was finished; all His work was only begun. Luke spoke of the treatise he had made—as narrating only "all that Jesus began both to do and to teach." All would go on forever. This is true of everything we ourselves do. They tell us that every word spoken into the air goes quivering on through time forever; that if you throw a pebble into the sea it starts wavelets which will ripple on and on until they break on every shore. Thus it is with every word we speak, with everything we do, with every influence that goes forth from our lives. We are starting things each day—which will continue into eternity. Nothing we do—is ever finished. We cannot know the end of any act, of any word. The same was true of the life and work of Christ. He only began the world’s redemption. He ever lives at God’s right hand, interceding for His church, blessing and saving man. His life seemed a failure the day He said this word. He had made but a slight impression upon the great world. He had gathered only a few friends, and they were men of no distinction, of no power or rank among men. He had been teaching for three years, speaking words of divine wisdom—but they had not been written down, and seemed now to be utterly lost. There were thousands of beginnings of blessing—but they were only merest beginnings, like seeds dropped into the soil.
We know what Christianity is today. The words Jesus spoke, which seemed altogether lost the day He died, have been filling the world with their blessings. The influence of His life, which then had touched only a few lowly lives, has since touched nations and generations, and has changed all the world, has transformed millions of lives, and is bringing the nations up out of heathenism into holiness and happiness! The beginnings of the first Good Friday, have developed into a glorious kingdom of light and love!
"It is finished!" When Jesus said this, He had reached the end of His sufferings. All His life He had been a sufferer. He came into the world to redeem the world, by pain and suffering. He was the Man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Perhaps we are in danger these days of losing sight of the place of the wounding of Christ in the redemption of the world. In G. Campbell Morgan’s book, ’The Crises of the Christ,’ there is a chapter called "The Wounded God." The title is startling. Dr. Morgan reminds us that it is impossible to omit from the ascended and reigning One, the wounds He bears. They are part of His personality. In glory He appears as a lamb that has been slain. He was our suffering Savior.
You remember how vividly this is pictured even in the Old Testament. He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities. When He said, "It is finished!" He had just passed through the three awful hours of darkness. What took place in His experience during those hours—no mortal can ever know. We know only this, that in the mysterious depths of those hours, human redemption was accomplished. It was then, that He redeemed us from the curse of the law by being made a curse for us. It was then that He who knew no sin was made sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him. As we hear His word of relief, "It is finished!" we know that the work of redeeming love had been accomplished. The infinite meaning of the sufferings He endured in those hours—we cannot fathom; earth has no line long enough to sound those holy depths; but we know that out of what was done on Calvary those hours—come all the hopes of our lives. Every one of us had a share in those pains of His. In some mysterious way—our sins were imputed to Him, part of the awful blackness that obscured the sun, and also for a time hid the Father’s face from the holy Sufferer. In some way, what took place there—set us free from the curse of sin.
"It is finished!" was the first announcement of the completion of redemption. It was the first proclamation of the gospel after the price had been paid. The Redeemer Himself made the announcement. Let us hear it today. Redemption is finished. We can be sure of eternal life if we receive this Savior—as our Savior. There was nothing left undone in those hours, that needed to be done to open the way for us to God, to put away sin, to provide eternal salvation for everyone who will accept it.
"It is finished!" Think of the words a moment—as words that we ourselves must speak, each of us. We are always finishing something. One by one duties come to us, and we must finish them quickly and leave them. How are we finishing them? Are we doing them as well as we can, or negligently? One by one the days come to us, white and beautiful, from God. What are we doing with them? What are we writing on the fair pages? One by one, in quick succession, opportunities come to us, opportunities to be kind, to be patient, to be forgiving, to help others, to honor Christ, to witness for Him, to plant a seed of truth in a heart—and we must meet them promptly, for a moment later they will be gone. What are we doing with our opportunities?
We are finishing a hundred things every day. What are we finishing? How are we finishing the things we do? Soon we shall come to the end of all our living, doing our last task, saying our last word. When we come to the end of all our living and doing—what will be finished? What will we leave behind? Will it be something that will make the world forever better, purer, holier? When you and I say, "It is finished," what will be finished? The Resurrection
John tells us that the new tomb in which Jesus was laid to rest, was in a garden. This is more than a picture—it is a little parable of the meaning of the grave of Christ. It was in a garden. Wherever the gospel goes it makes gardens, turning deserts into places of blossoming beauty. Since Jesus died and rose again, every Christian’s grave is in a garden. All about it bloom the flowers of hope and joy. Our dead shall rise again. Like His Master, the Christian cannot be held by death. As sad as bereavement is, the Christian has comforts which bloom like spring flowers and pour their fragrance on the air. The first appearance of Jesus after He arose, was to Mary Magdalene. She and other women had taken a tender part in the burial of Jesus, and then had come very early in the morning of the first day to the garden where the grave was. They were startled to find the grave open. They hasten to find Peter and John, and, having told them what they had discovered, Peter and John came quickly to the grave. John, being the younger and fleeter, first reached the tomb—but Peter, being the bolder, hurried in while John lingered. When Peter had pressed in, John followed him. In the grave they saw the linen cloths lying—but the body was gone! The two disciples, amazed by what they had seen, went to their home. Mary, however, could not tear herself away from the spot. She wept inconsolably because the body was no longer in the grave.
She did not realize that if the body had been there that morning, she would have had real cause for weeping. Then the world’s hopes would have been quenched, lost in the darkness of eternal night! What to her was a great grief—was really the secret of a great joy. The things which we regard as causes of sorrow, if we could see them as God sees them—would appear to be secrets of joy. The empty grave, if only Mary had understood it, was the attestation of the Messiahship of Jesus!
Mary saw a vision of angels. "She saw two white-robed angels sitting at the head and foot of the place where the body of Jesus had been lying." We find angels all along the story of the life of Jesus. They sang at His birth. They ministered to Him after His temptation, and again in the Garden, after His agony. He said that He could have called twelve legions of angels to His defense during His trial. Now we find angels watching in His tomb; and at the ascension we see them waiting to comfort His disciples as their Master parted from them. The presence of the angels in the empty grave, suggests to us the change which Christ’s resurrection made in the graves of all believing ones. We dread the tomb. It is a place of impenetrable darkness. But since Christ lay there, the sleeping places of His followers are all brightened. They are little beds in which the bodies of the saints rest—until He who has the key to their graves shall come to call them again. If we had eyes to see, no doubt, as we lay our loved ones away, we would see angels sitting at the head and at the feet of each, keeping their sacred watch. The angels tried to comfort Mary, asking her why she wept. She told them why very frankly, "Because they have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put him." "At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus." She supposed He was the gardener. She was thinking of Him as dead, and did not recognize Him in the living man she saw. Then her eyes were dim with weeping, and she could not see.
Many a time it is the same with us. Christ is close by us in our need or in our sorrow—but we cannot see Him, and so we miss the comfort of His presence. If only we would believe in the constant presence of Christ with us, and would make that presence real by our faith, our darkest hours would be lightened, our loneliest moments would be filled with companionship, and in our weakness we should have all the divine strength about us. It was said of Moses that "he endured, as seeing him who is invisible." Moses did not see God—but His faith made the presence of God as real to him, as if he had seen Him with His human eyes. Such faith as this would change all of life for those who believe in Christ. The first recorded word from our Lord’s lips after He arose, is that which He spoke to Mary here, "Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" The words were spoken to comfort one who was in sorrow. Jesus had always been a comforter. He comes to everyone who is in grief with the same question, "Why are you crying?" He had come that morning from the grave, achieving His great victory over the last enemy. He was therefore the first who could have spoken such words, for before that, no one was able to wipe away the tears of sorrow. His question implied that there was no need for weeping. Mary was grieving for a dead Christ—and the living Christ was standing beside her! In our grief it is the same—He who comes to us is the risen One. The hand of Jesus has been wiping away tears ever since that morning. We may not get back our godly dead—but we have the blessed assurance that they have passed into the keeping of Christ, where they will be safe forever. Then some day we shall greet them and be greeted by them, alive!
Jesus revealed Himself to Mary by speaking her name. "Jesus said unto her, Mary!" The ancients believed that death washed away completely every memory of the earthly life, its friendships even passing from recollection. But we see Jesus here on the other side of death, and we find the old affections unchanged in Him. He took up the threads of the story with His friends just where they had been broken off three days before, and went on as if only a night’s sleep had intervened. Death made no break in His life. Nothing was blotted out, nothing beautiful or good, nothing worthwhile. When our friends pass through death, whatever changes may be made in them, we know that there will be no change in their love for us. "Death does hide—but not divide." When Mary heard her name spoken in the old familiar tones, she recognized Jesus. "She turned toward him and cried out, Rabboni!" We do not recognize Jesus—until He calls us by name. We love Him—because He first loved us. Mary’s answer showed the loyalty of her heart. She was ready now to devote her life to Him.
Many people get only a fragment of the true thought of Christ. They believe in Him as their Savior—but do not think of Him as their Lord and Master. Their faith leads them to trust in Him for salvation—but it does not bring to them the comfort of a living Savior, present with them, helping them. They think of themselves as having been saved by Christ’s death upon the cross—but do not realize that, important as the cross may be, their actual salvation comes through their attachment to and companionship with a living Master and Friend. Mary had a true conception—she took Christ as her Master. She surrendered herself to Him.
It was a strange word that Jesus spoke to Mary after she had recognized Him. "Do not hold on to me, ... but go to my brethren, and say unto them." He probably meant to say to her that the old physical relationship was not to be reestablished. He was risen now, and the relationship must be spiritual. Further, He meant that there was no time now for the satisfying of love, however tender and true it was. Mary would have stayed at the Master’s feet in the rapture of her joy and homage. But there was something else more important. Others must know of the joy. A message must be carried immediately to the other friends of Jesus. We are too apt, when we find a great joy, to wish to cherish it alone. But duty to others calls us away. When at the communion table, for example, we find a great gladness in fellowship with Christ, we must never forget that there are others outside the sacred walls, who are in sorrow, or in danger, and we should hasten to them with the message of Christ’s love. The scene in the upper room that night was a wonderful one. The disciples had assembled in fear and trembling, hiding away, lest harm might come to them. Suddenly Jesus Himself appeared. "Jesus came and stood in the midst, and said unto them, Peace be unto you." This was the first appearance of Jesus to the disciples as a group. His first salutation to them was, "Peace be unto you!" The words were familiar as a common greeting—but they had a new meaning to those men that night. They fell from the lips of the risen Christ! Wonderful among the gifts of Jesus to His disciples, was the giving of His peace. It quiets the troubled heart. It changes sorrow into joy. The disciples were awed by the presence of their Master, and to quiet their trembling fear He held up His hands. "He showed unto them His hands and His side. Then were the disciples glad, when they saw the
Lord." They were pierced hands which He held up. They bore the prints of the nails. Thus they assured these men that they were the same hands which had been nailed to the cross! The wounds told them first, that He had indeed died for love of them. They told them, further, that He had risen also, His hands still bearing the marks of the nails. Christ is known everywhere, by the print of the nails in His hands. A gospel without these marks is not a gospel. The preaching that does not tell men of the cross will not point men to salvation.
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John 20:19, John 20:21, John 20:26 No other benediction that could fall upon the ears of men, could mean more than this: "Peace be unto you!" This is a restless, striving, struggling world. Nation wars with nation. Business interests are in antagonism with other business interests. There are race wars which sometimes seem utterly unappeasable until one or the other race has been exterminated. Then there are family feuds which sometimes go on for generations in deadly enmity. And there are personal quarrels, alienations, strifes, which separate friends. Besides all this, there is a restlessness in human hearts. Men are unhappy and not at peace in themselves. There is strife within the bosom of nearly everyone. No word Christ ever spoke caught more ears than when He said, "Come unto me ... and I will give you rest" (Mat 11:28), or "Peace be unto you!" His words answered a universal need and a universal yearning.
"Peace be unto you!" This was the first word the risen Christ spoke to His disciples as a body after He returned from the grave. This gives special significance to what He said. Three different times He spoke the same words, "Peace be unto you!" twice the evening of the day on which He rose, and once the following week. Yet, while He used precisely the same words, they had a different meaning each time, and were not merely a repetition.
Look at the setting of the benediction as He first uttered it. It was evening. The disciples had sought the quiet and safety of the upper room for a meeting together. The doors were carefully shut, for fear of the Jews. The little company was in sore dread of those who had crucified their Master. "Jesus ... stood in the midst, and said unto them, Peace be unto you! And when he said that, he showed unto them His hands and His side." Why did He show them His hands and His side? Because of the WOUNDS. He reminded them of His sufferings, through which alone peace could come to them. The second use of the words was a few minutes later. "Then Jesus said to them again, Peace be unto you!" Then He added, "As my Father has sent me, even so I send you. And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and said unto them, Receive the Holy Spirit." Here the benediction of peace, is accompanied by the gift of the Spirit. There can be no true, deep peace in us—except when the Holy Spirit holds sway in our hearts. The third time the benediction was given: "A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ’Peace be with you!’ Then he said to Thomas, ’Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.’ " Here the purpose of the benediction was to help Thomas’ slow faith.
"Peace be unto you!" The spirit of Christianity is all in the direction of peace. There is a picture called "Peace" which is suggestive. It shows a cannon lying in a meadow, in the grass, with a lamb feeding beside it, nibbling at its very mouth. But while the picture is beautiful, it is incomplete. The cannon, which once was used in war, dealing death, is still a cannon, useless—but ready to be used again in the old way. The prophet suggests a more fitting and complete picture when he says in his vision of the redeemed nation, "They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore." (Isa 2:4; Mic 4:3). That is the kind of peace Christ would make. The sword shall no longer be a sword, though rusty and unused—but shall be made into a plowshare, doing its work for humanity. In the artist’s picture would be truer to the spirit of Christianity, if the cannon were not merely lying in the meadow, with the lamb feeding quietly beside it—but instead was made into church bells to call the people to the house of God. The peace which our Master would make is not merely the laying down of arms—but a peace which shall bring good to both nations and restore them to fellowship. Christian peace is not merely a drawn battle, with the old bitterness remaining. The bitterness must be swallowed up in love. If two have been estranged through misunderstanding, or by whatever cause, Christ’s peace leads them together in a new friendship which forgets the past—and wipes out all traces of difference in a relationship of love.
"Peace I leave with you!" This was the Master’s bequest to His friends. He did not leave them gold and silver. He did not entail great estates upon them. He had none of these to leave. In His life on earth, the birds were better off than He, for in the world His hands had made—He had nowhere to lay His head. When He died—He had no grave in which His body might rest, and would have been buried in the potter’s field, amid criminals and outcasts, had not a noble friend rescued Him from that ignominy and lent Him a new rock-hewn tomb, for the three days and nights He slept. He was poor, and had no earthly inheritance to bequeath. But He left peace as a heritage. "Peace I leave with you!"
"MY peace I give unto you!" (John 14:27) It was not merely peace—but His own peace, that He bequeathed to His friends. "My peace"! Think what Christ’s peace was. It was the peace that He had had in His heart and life all His days. You know how serenely He met all experiences. He never lost His quietness and composure in any circumstances. Life had no terrors for Him. His was not an easy life. Soon after His public ministry began, opposition began, developing into bitter enmity, with plottings and schemings for His death. But nothing disturbed Him. He was never fearful or alarmed. He knew what was before Him. The cross threw its dark shadows on His path—long before He reached it. But with unruffled peace He moved on toward it. "My peace I give unto you!" It is possible for Christ’s followers to have the same peace the Master had. He bequeaths it to them—let them claim their inheritance. He gives it to them—let them accept the gift. But why is it that so many Christians do not have this peace? What restless lives many of us live! Some of us scarcely ever have an hour of real peace. We fret at every trifle. We allow ourselves to be annoyed by the smallest things that do not go as we want them to go. We are full of discontents and complainings. We are envious at the prosperity of others. We vex ourselves over the things that are disagreeable in even the least way. We are continually dismayed by life’s experiences. We are afraid to live—and afraid to die. Is that the best that Christ can do for us? Is that the full meaning of His words here, "Peace be unto you; Peace I leave with you; My peace I give unto you"? Is that all that our religion can do for us?
No! Jesus meant just what He said. He means for us to have His peace. We may have it too. He shows us His hands and says, "Peace be unto you! I have purchased peace for you." He breathes on us His divine Spirit, and says, "Peace be unto you!" Let the peace of God into your heart today. You have had enough of restlessness, fret, anxiety and struggle. Let Christ’s peace rule.
"Peace be unto you!" "My peace I give unto you!" When men have fought for their country, loyal patriots, and when the war is over, and the victory won, those who survive come home with wounds and scars, maimed and broken, and those who look upon them see the price of the peace which the country is enjoying. Let us not forget that the peace which Christ gives, cost Him suffering and shame and death. We have peace—because He went to His cross! In a gallery in Europe, two pictures hang side by side. One is of a sea swept by storms—great waves, black clouds, lightning bolts, and on the wild water wrecks of vessels, with human forms struggling or dead. The artists calls His picture, "Life".
Hanging beside this picture is another, almost the same—a rough sea, billows, clouds, lightnings, wrecks, men struggling in the waters. In the center of this picture, however, a great rock rises up out of the wild sea, reaching above the highest waves, standing serene and firm in the midst of the storm. Then in the rock, far up, is a cleft of herbage and flowers growing, and as you look closely, you see in the midst of the herbage—a dove sitting quietly on her nest. The artist calls His picture "Peace."
It represents the Christian’s life. In the world there is tribulation. Peace does not come through the quieting of earth’s storms. Christ does not make a little spot of calm for us, shutting off the storms. No! that rock rising above the waves tells the story.
It is peace in the midst of the storm, in Christ. We have it in the hymn, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me; Let me hide myself in Thee!" The Christian has no promise of less sorrow than his worldly neighbor; or of an easier life, a life without struggle, pain, or buffeting. You remember how Christ got His peace—not by living in a little paradise—but in the enduring of all manner of suffering calmly and quietly. His peace was within. We must get our peace—on fields of struggle. It must come through Christ’s victory over the world. It must be Christ’s gift. It must be in our heart.
President Eliot, of Harvard University, said this at the dedication of an art gallery: "The main object in every school should be, not to provide the children with means of earning a livelihood—but to show them how to live a happy and worthy life, inspired by noble ideals which will exalt and dignify both labor and leisure. To see beauty and to live it—is to possess large securities for such a life." To live only to get bread and clothes—is a groveling aim. To live only to make money, to get on in the world, is an unworthy aim for an immortal being. We live worthily—only when we live to grow into beautiful character and to do beautiful things of love. Peace is the highest mark of spiritual beauty.
There is a German legend of the origin of the moss rose. One day the angel of the flowers, weary in his ministry in the heat of the sun, sought a place to rest—but found none. Turned from every door, he lay down under the shelter of a rose, and slept and was refreshed. He thanked the rose for the pleasure and comfort he had enjoyed in its shade, and then said that, to reward it, he would adorn it with a new charm. So soft, green moss grew around the stem, and those who looked at the flower saw the beautiful moss rose, loveliest of all the roses. So to those who are faithful to Christ, He gives a new charm, life’s highest and most heavenly adornment, peace.
We should be at peace with all men. If there is bitterness toward any human being, our peace is not Christ’s peace. No matter what wrongs Jesus suffered, how unjustly or cruelly He was treated—He kept love in His heart. It is easy to cherish resentments. We like to say we have a right to he angry. Yes—but that is not the divine way. God forgives and forgets and loves on. Suppose God never forgave! Suppose He cherished resentments and refused to love us and to bless us! Let love heal all heart-hurts. If we think we have been treated wrongfully, let us forgive, and new beauty will come, instead of a scar. The storm made a great gash on the mountainside—but grass, moss and flowers came, and the mountain was never so beautiful before as now it became.
We should have peace also in our own hearts. Why should we go on in the old restlessness and strife a day longer? Why should we worry so and fret—when Christ offers us His own serene peace? No matter what may come to us in any possible future, nothing will come which could break our peace, if only we are obedient and true to God. There will be mysteries, contradictions, perplexities, disappointments—but in all these a divine Hand will move—and nothing can fret us—if we are truly Christ’s. "The peace of God ... shall keep your hearts and your minds through Christ Jesus" (Php 4:7). The Beloved Disciple
John 21:20 The name of John is not once mentioned in all his gospel. Again and again the writer refers to himself as "the disciple whom Jesus loved." He has been criticized for this, as if he had been vain and self-conceited in thus speaking of his own distinction among the disciples. But no grace is more marked in John, than humility. He does not speak of himself as the disciple who loved Jesus. This would have been to claim preeminence among the disciples and would have shown a boastful and self-confident spirit. He said he was the disciple whom Jesus loved. He glorified the grace of Christ. He was what he was—only because Christ loved him.
Right here we have one of the deepest truths of Christian life, one of the great secrets of Christian peace, an essential quality of faith: that our hope does not rest in our love for Christ—but in His love for us. People are often discouraged when they find in themselves so little that is good and beautiful. They cannot see that they love Christ any more this year, than they did last. They do not find in themselves the beautiful fruits of the Spirit which they wish they could find. But there is another way to look at our lives, which gives us more hope. It is John’s way—not our love for Christ—but Christ’s love for us!
Ar the best our love is variable in its moods and experiences. Today it glows with warmth and affection for Jesus, and we say that we could die for our Master. We know we love Him. Tomorrow, in some depression, we question whether we really love Him at all, our feelings respond so feebly to His name. A peace which depends on our loving Christ—is as variable as our own moods. But when it is Christ’s love for us that is our dependence, our peace is undisturbed by any earthly changes. The usual conception of John, is that he was gentle and affectionate, but not strong. Yet this is a mistaken conception. He was a man of magnificent strength. When we see John at first, he had his faults. He was not always the disciple of gentleness and love. He was impetuous, fiery, intemperate in his zeal. We have an illustration of this quality in him, in his impatience with the people of the Samaritan village to which his Master was not hospitably welcomed. His anger flamed hotly against them. He wished to call down fire from heaven upon the town and the people! He had not then learned the mind that was in Jesus Christ.
Another blemish in John at first was his desire for greatness. He supposed that Christ was to be an earthly king, ruling over the world. In this great kingdom John and his brother were ambitious to fill the highest offices. "Grant unto us to sit at your right hand and at your left." This, too, was contrary to the spirit of Christ. The places nearest to Him—are reached by the paths of humility and service. He who becomes as a little child—is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. In our disappointment with ourselves—it comforts us to be reminded that even the disciple whom Jesus loved, was once a hot-headed zealot, ready to burn anyone who would not become a Christian, and a man with a worldly ambition clamoring for high office in Christ’s kingdom! We need a religion that will take us as we are, with all our faults and imperfections, and make of us such a man as John’s religion made of him.
It is not every kind of religion that produces such men as John, "the disciple whom Jesus loved." Some people are Christians a long while, and yet never grow into sweetness of spirit, never become gentle, kind, patient, thoughtful, unselfish. Not always does the resentful spirit—become the spirit of mercy, forgiveness and charity, even after years. Not always does the eagerness for first places, for prominence, for distinction, grow into the lowly humility which we see in John in his later life.
Instead of holding a prominent place among the apostles, he appears as a quiet, modest man, keeping close to Peter, walking in his shadow, sweetly accepting the second place. Instead of wishing to call down fire on those who would not honor his Master, he preached love as the great duty—as the one thing of Christian life.
You know how this "disciple whom Jesus loved" came to stand at last as the ideal of love, not only in his teaching, but also in his life. We all want a religion that will do for us—what John’s religion did for him. We desire that our life, with its resentments, its insincerities, its selfishness, its irritability, its vanity, its pride, its worldly ambition—can be made into the life of love which John attained. We are not satisfied with our faulty character, our poor living. We are not the kind of Christians we know we ought to be. Our religion does not seem to make us grow ever better. We attend church, we sing the hymns and join in the prayers, we enjoy the worship, we give to the cause of Christ, we go through the rounds of services and ordinances—but somehow we do not become sweeter, gentler, truer, braver, stronger, more Christlike.
What was the secret of John’s religion? We may put it into one phrase, "Christ and John were friends!" It was a great, all-absorbing, overmastering friendship began that day, when the Baptist said to two young men, as Jesus passed near, "Behold the Lamb of God" (John 1:29). The two young men followed Him and were invited to His lodgings, spending the afternoon with Him. What took place during those hours we do not know, but we do know that a friendship began between John—scarcely more than a boy then—and Jesus, whose bonds have never slackened since. For three years this friendship grew in sweetness and tenderness, and during those years it was that the wonderful transformation took place in the disciple.
We know a little about the power of a strong, rich, noble, human friendship in shaping, inspiring, uplifting lives. There are many lives that are being saved, refined, sweetened, enriched by a human friendship. One of the best of the younger Christian men I have known—I have seen lifted up from a life of ordinary ability and education, into refinement, power and large usefulness by a gentle friendship. The girl whom he loved was rich-hearted, inspiring, showing in her own life the best ideals, and her love for him and his love for her—lifted him up to love’s nobility. She stayed with him only a few years, and then went home to God—but he walks among men today with a strength, an energy, and a force of character, born of the holy friendship which meant so much to him.
George Eliot’s Silas Marner is about a miser who hoarded his money. Someone stole away his hoard, and his heart grew bitter over the wrong to him. Then a little child was left at his door. His poor, starved heart took in the little one, and love for her redeemed him from sordidness, bitterness and anguish of spirit. God saves many a life—by sending to it a sweet human friendship. A Christian climbed the rickety stairs to the miserable room where a woman lay in rags on a pile of straw. She bent over the poor woman, all vile with sin, said a loving word, and kissed her. That kiss saved her. Christ comes to sinners—and saves them with love. That is the way He saved the prodigals of His time. He came to them—and became their friend.
It is to a personal friendship with Himself, that Christ is always inviting men. He does not come merely to make reforms, to start beneficent movements, to make the conditions of life better. He does not try to save the world by giving it better laws, by founding schools, by securing wholesome literature. Christ saves men—by becoming their friend. John surrendered his heart and life to this friendship with Jesus. He opened every window and door to his new Master.
Another thing which helped on John’s friendship with Christ, was his trust. He never doubted. Thomas doubted and was slow to believe. This hindered the growth of his friendship with Jesus. Peter was one of our Savior’s closest friends, but he was always saying rash words and doing rash things, which interrupted his fellowship with Christ. But John loved on in silence—and trusted. At the Last Supper he leaned on the Master’s bosom. That is the place of confidence: the bosom is only for those who have a right to closest intimacy. It is the place of love—near the heart. It is the place of safety—in the secret place of the Most High. The bosom is the place of comfort. It was the darkest night the world ever saw, that John lay on the bosom of Jesus. But he found comfort there. Trust in the secret of peace. "You will keep in perfect peace—all who trust in you, whose thoughts are fixed on you!" (Isa 26:3). That is what leaning on bosom means. Do not think that that place of innermost love was for John alone, and has never been filled since that night. It is like heaven’s gates—it is never closed, and whoever will, may come and lie there! It is a place for those who sorrow—oh, that all who have grief knew that they may creep in where John lay, and nestle there!
John’s transformation is the model for all of us. No matter how many imperfections mar the beauty of our lives, we should not be discouraged. But we should never consent to let the faults remain. That is the way too many of us do. We condone our weaknesses and imperfections, pity them—and keep them. We should give ourselves no rest until they are cured. But how can we get these evil things out of our lives? How did John get rid of his faults? By letting the love of Christ possess him. Lying upon Christ’s bosom—Christ’s sweet, pure, wholesome life permeated John’s life—and made it sweet, pure and wholesome. So it is the friendship of Christ alone which can transform us. You are a Christian not because you belong to a church, not because you have a good creed, not because you are living a fair moral life; you are a Christian because you and Christ are friends. What can a friend be to a friend? Let us think of the best that earth’s richest-hearted friend can be to us, and do for us. Then lift up this conception, multiplying it a thousand times! If it were possible to gather out of all history and from all the world, the best and holiest things of pure, true friendship, and combine them all in one of great friendship— Christ’s friendship would surpass the sum of them all.
Even our human friendships we prize as the dearest things on earth. They are more precious than rarest gems. We would lose everything else we have rather than give them up. Life without friendships would be empty and lonely. Yet the best earthly friendships are but little fragments of the friendship of Christ. It is perfect. Its touch is always gentle and full of healing. Its help is always wise. Its tenderness is like the warmth of a heavenly summer. If we have the friendship of Christ, we cannot be utterly bereft, though all human friends be taken away. To be Christ’s friend—is to be God’s child, with all a child’s privileges. This is one essential in being a Christian.
We could not say Paul is our friend, or John—but Jesus is living, and is with us evermore. He is our Friend as really as He was Mary’s or John’s. Christ is our Friend. That means He will supply everything we really need. No want can be unsupplied. No sorrow can be uncomforted. No evil can overmaster us. For time and for eternity—we are safe! It will not be the streets of gold, and the gates of pearl, and the river and the trees—which will make heaven for us—it will be the companionship, the friendship of Christ! But we must not forget the other part of this friendship. We are to be Christ’s friends, too. It is not much we can give to Him or do for Him. But He would have us loyal and true.
If a sacred human friendship exerts such influence over a true life, surely the consciousness that Christ is our Friend and we are His—should check every evil thought, quell every bitter feeling, sweeten every emotion, and make all our life holy, true and heavenly!