Chapter V Holy Persons
Although for the ordinary and regular communications from the divine Being to man the established priesthoods might suffice, yet occasions arise when there is need of a plenipotentiary with higher authority and more extensive powers. What is required of these exceptional ambassadors is not merely to repeat the doctrines of the old religion, but to establish a new one. In other words, they are the original founders of the great religions of the world. Of such founders there is but a very limited number.
Beginning with China, and proceeding from East to West, we find six:—
1. Confucius, or Khung-fu-tsze, the founder of Confucianism.
2. Laò-tsé, the founder of Taouism.
3. Sakyamuni, or Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism.
4. Zarathustra, or Zoroaster, the founder of Parseeism.
5. Mohammed, or Mahomet, the founder of Islamism.
6. Jesus Christ, the founder of Christianity.
All these men, whom for convenience sake I propose to call prophets, occupy an entirely exceptional position in the history of the human race. The characteristics, or marks, by which they may be distinguished from other great men, are partly external, belonging to the views of others about them; partly internal, belonging to their own view about themselves.
1. The first external mark by which they are distinguished is, that within his own religion each of these is recognized as the highest known authority. They alone are thought of as having the right to change what is established. While all other teachers appeal to them for the sanction of their doctrines, there is no appeal from them to any one beyond. What they have said is final. They are in perfect possession of the truth. Others are in possession of it only in so far as they agree with them. No doubt, the sacred books are equally infallible with the prophets; but the sacred books of religions founded by prophets derive their authority in the last resort from them, and are always held to be only a written statement of their teaching. Thus, the sacred books of China are partly of direct Confucian authorship; partly by others who recognize him as their head. The only sacred book of the Tao-tsé is by their founder himself. The sacred books of the Buddhists are supposed discourses of the Buddha. The Avesta is the reputed work of Zarathustra. The Koran is the actual work of Mahomet. And lastly, the New Testament is all of it written in express subordination to the authority of Christ, to which it constantly appeals. These books, then, are infallible, because they contain the doctrines of their founders.
The same thing is true where there is an infallible Church. The Church never claims the same absolute authority as it concedes to its prophet. Its infallibility consists in its power to interpret correctly the mind of him by whom it was established. He it is who brought the message from above which no human power could have discovered. It is the Church’s function to explain that message to the world; and, where needed, to deduce such inferences therefrom as by its supernatural inspiration it perceives to be just. Beyond this, the power of the Church does not extend.
A second external mark, closely related to the first, is, that the prophet of each religion is, within the limits of that religion, the object of a more or less mythical delineation of his personality. His historical form is, to some extent, superseded by the form bestowed upon him by a dogmatic legend. According to that legend there was something about his nature that was more than human. He was in some way extraordinary. The myths related vary from a mere exaltation of the common features of humanity, to the invention of completely supernatural attributes. But their object is the same: to represent their prophet as more highly endowed than other mortals. Even where there is little of absolute myth, the representation we receive is one-sided; we know nothing of the prophet’s faults, except in so far as we may discover them against the will of the biographers. To them he appears all-virtuous. These remarks will be abundantly illustrated when we come to consider the life of Jesus, and to compare it with that of his compeers.
2. The internal mark corresponds to the first external mark, of which it is indeed the subjective counterpart. These prophets conceive themselves deputed to teach a faith, and they virtually recognize in the performance of this mission no human authority superior to their own. In words, perhaps, they do acknowledge some established authority; but in fact they set it aside. No Church or priesthood has the smallest weight with them, as opposed to that intense internal conviction which appears to them an inspiration. Hence it was observed of Jesus, that he taught with authority, and not as the scribes. Without being able themselves to give any explanation of the fact, they feel themselves endowed with plenary power to reform. And it is not, like other reformers, in the name of another that they do this; they reform in their own right, and with no other title than their own profound consciousness of being not only permitted, but charged to do it.
Nevertheless, it must not be imagined that the prophets sweep away everything they find in the existing religion. On the contrary, it will be found on examination that they always retain some important element or elements of the older faith. Without this, they would have no hold on the popular mind of their country, from which they would be too far removed to make themselves understood. Thus, Allah was already recognized as God by the Arabians in the time of Mahomet, whose reform consisted in teaching that he was the only God. Thus, the Messiah was already expected by the Jews in the time of Jesus, whose reform consisted in applying the expectation to himself. Prophets take advantage of a faith already in existence, and making that the foundation of a new religion, erect upon it the more special truths they are inspired to proclaim.
No prophet can construct a religion entirely from his own brain. Were he to do so, he would be unable to show any reason why it should be accepted. There would be no feeling in the minds of his hearers to which he could appeal. A religion to be accepted by any but an insignificant fraction, must find a response not only in the intellects, but in the emotions of those for whom it is designed.
This, it appears to me, is the weak point of Positivism. Auguste Comte, having abolished all that in the general mind constitutes religion at all, attempted to compose a faith for his disciples by the merely arbitrary exercise of his own ingenuity. He perhaps did not consider that in all history there is no example of a religion being invented by an individual thinker. It is like attempting to sell a commodity for which there is no demand. Even if his philosophical principles should be accepted by the whole of Europe, there can be no reason why the special observances he recommends should be adopted, or the special saints whom he places in the calendar be adored. Those who receive his philosophy will have no need for his ceremonies. While even if ceremonies cannot be entirely dispensed with, it is not the mere fact of a solitary thinker planning it in his own mind that can ever ensure the adoption of a ritual.
Very different has been the procedure of the prophets of whom we are now to speak. Intellectually, they were no doubt far inferior to the founder of the Positive Philosophy. But emotionally, they were fitted for the part which he unsuccessfully endeavored to play. They entered into the religious feelings of their countrymen, and gave those feelings a higher expression than had yet been found for them. Instinctively fixing on some conspicuous part of the old religion, they made that the starting-point for the development of the new. They reformed, but the reformation linked itself to some conviction that was already deeply rooted in the nature of their converts. They assumed boundless authority; but it was authority to proclaim a pre-existing truth, not to spin out of their purely personal ideas of fitness a system altogether disconnected from the past evolution of religion, and to impose that system upon the remainder of mankind.
Section I — Confucius11
The life of the prophet of China is not eventful. It has neither the charm of philosophic placidity and retirement from the world which belongs to that of Laò-tsé, nor the romantic interest of the more varied careers of Sakyamuni, Christ, or Mahomet. For Confucius, though a philosopher, did not object, indeed rather desired, to take some share in the government of his country, but his wishes received very little gratification. Rulers refused to acquiesce in his principles of administration, and he was compelled to rely for their propagation mainly on the oral instruction imparted to his disciples. His life, therefore, bears to some extent the aspect of a failure, though for this appearance he himself is not to blame. Another cause, which somewhat diminishes the interest we might otherwise take in him, is his excessive attention to proprieties, ceremonies, and rites. We cannot but feel that a truly great man, even in China, would have emancipated himself from the bondage of such trifles. Nevertheless, after all deductions are made, enough remains to render the career and character of Confucius deserving of attention, and in many respects of admiration.
Descended from a family which had formerly been powerful and noble, but was now in comparatively modest circumstances, he was born in B.C. 551, his father’s name being Shuh-leang Heih, and his mother’s Ching-Tsae. The legends related of his nativity I pass over for the present. His father, who was an old man when he was born, died when the child was in his third year; and his mother in B.C. 528. At nineteen, Confucius was married; and at twenty-one he came forward as a teacher. Disciples attached themselves to him, and during his long career as a philosopher, we find him constantly attended by some faithful friends, who receive all he says with unbounded deference, and propose questions for his decision as to an authority against whom there can be no appeal. The maxims of Confucius did not refer solely to ethics or to religion; they bore largely upon the art of government, and he was desirous if possible of putting them in actual practice in the administration of public affairs. China, however, was in a state of great confusion in his days; there were rebellions and wars in progress: and the character of the rulers from whom he might have obtained employment was such, that he could not, consistently with the high standard of honor on which he always acted, accept favors at their hands. One of them proposed to grant him a town with its revenues; but Confucius said: “A superior man will only receive reward for services which he has done. I have given advice to the duke Ting (see below), but he has not obeyed it, and now he would endow me with this place! very far is he from understanding me” (C. C., vol. i., Prolegomena, p. 68). In the year 500 the means were at length put within his reach of carrying his views into practice. He was made “chief magistrate of a town” in the state of Loo; and this first appointment was followed by that of “assistant-superintendent of works,” and subsequently by that of “minister of crime.” In this office he is said to have put an end to crime altogether; but Dr. Legge rightly warns us against confiding in the “indiscriminating eulogies” of his disciples. A more substantial service attributed to him is that of procuring the dismantlement of two fortified towns which were the refuge of dangerous and warlike chiefs. But his reforming government was brought to an end after a few years by the weakness of his sovereign, duke Ting, who was captivated by a present of eighty beautiful and accomplished girls, and one hundred and twenty horses, from a neighboring State. Engrossed by this present, the duke neglected public affairs, and the philosopher felt bound to resign.
We need not follow him during the long wanderings through various parts of China which followed upon this disappointment. After traveling from State to State for many years, he returned in his sixty-ninth year to Loo, but not to office. In the year 478 his sad and troubled life was closed by death.
Our information respecting the character of Confucius is ample. From the book which Dr. Legge has entitled the “Confucian Analects,” a collection of his sayings made (as he believes) by the disciples of his disciples, we obtain the most minute particulars both as to his personal habits and as to the nature of his teaching. The impression derived from these accounts is that of a gentle, virtuous, benevolent, and eminently honorable man; a man who, like Socrates, was indifferent to the reward received for his tuition, though not refusing payment altogether; who would never sacrifice a single principle for the sake of his individual advantage; yet who was anxious, if possible, to benefit the kingdom by the establishment of an administration penetrated with those ethical maxims which he conceived to be all-important. Yet, irreproachable as his moral character was, there is about him a deficiency of that bold originality which has characterized the greatest prophets of other nations. Sakyamuni revolted against the restrictions of caste which dominated all minds in India. Jesus boldly claimed for moral conduct a rank far superior to that of every ceremonial obligation, even those which were held the most sacred by his countrymen. Mahomet, morally far below the Chinese sage, evinced a far more independent genius by his attack on the prevalent idolatry of Mecca. Confucius did nothing of this kind. His was a mind which looked back longingly to antiquity, and imagined that it discovered in the ancient rulers and the ancient modes of action, the models of perfection which all later times should strive to follow. Nor was this all. He was so profoundly under the influence of Chinese ways of thinking, as to attach an almost ludicrous importance to a precise conformity to certain rules of propriety, and to regard the exactitude with which ceremonies were performed as matter of the highest concern. In fact, he could not emancipate himself from the traditions of his country; and his principles would have resulted rather in making his followers perfect Chinamen than perfect men.
A far more serious charge is indeed brought against him by Dr. Legge—that of insincerity (C. C., vol. i.—Prolegomena— p. 101). I hesitate to impugn the opinion of so competent a scholar; yet the evidence he has produced does not seem to me sufficient to sustain the indictment. Granting that he gave an unwelcome visitor the excuse of sickness, which was untrue, still, as we are ignorant of the reasons which led him to decline seeing the person in question, we cannot estimate the force of the motives that induced him to put forward a plea in conformity with the polite customs of his country. It does not appear, moreover, that he practiced an intentional deceit. And though on one occasion he may have violated an oath extorted by rebels who had him in their power, therein acting wrongly (as I think), it is always an open question how far promises made under such circumstances are binding on the conscience. Whatever failings, however, it may be necessary to admit, there can be no question of the preëminent purity alike of his life and doctrine. His is a character which, be its imperfections what they may, we cannot help loving; and there have been few, indeed, who would not have been benefited by the attempt to reach even that standard of virtue which he held up to the admiration of his disciples.
A few quotations from the works in which his words and actions are preserved, will illustrate these remarks. In the tenth Book of the Analects (C. C., vol. i. p. 91-100), his manners, his garments, his mode of behavior under various circumstances, are elaborately described. There are not many personages in history of whom we have so minute a knowledge. We learn that “in his village” he “looked simple and sincere, and as if he were not able to speak.” His reverence for his superiors seems to have been profound. “When the prince was present, his manner displayed respectful uneasiness; it was grave, but self-possessed.” When going to an audience of the prince, “he ascended the dais, holding up his robe with both his hands, and his body bent; holding in his breath also, as if he dared not breathe. When he came out from the audience (the italics, here and elsewhere, are in Legge), as soon as he had descended one step, he began to relax his countenance, and had a satisfied look. When he had got to the bottom of the steps, he advanced rapidly to his place, with his arms like wings, and on occupying it, his manner still showed respectful uneasiness.” He was rather particular about his food, rejecting meat unless “cut properly,” and with “its proper sauce.”
Whatever he might be eating, however, “he would offer a little of it in sacrifice.” “When any of his friends died, if the deceased had no relations who could be depended on for the necessary offices, he would say, ‘I will bury him.’” “In bed, he did not lie like a corpse.” And it is satisfactory to learn of one who was such a respecter of formalities, that “at home he did not put on any formal deportment.” Notwithstanding this, he does not appear to have been on very intimate terms with his son, to whom he is reported to have said that unless he learned “the odes” he would not be fit to converse with; and that unless he learned “the rules of propriety” his character could not be established. The disciple, who was informed by the son himself that he had never heard from his father any other special doctrine, was probably right in concluding that “the superior man maintains a distant reserve towards his son” (Lun Yu, xvi. 13).
But with his beloved disciples Confucius was on terms of affectionate intimacy which does not seem to have been marred by “the rules of propriety.” For the death of one of them at least he mourned so bitterly as to draw down upon himself the expostulation of those who remained (Ibid., xi. 9). The picture of the Master, accompanied at all times by his faithful friends, who hang upon his lips, and eagerly gather up his every utterance, is on the whole a pleasant one. “Do you think, my disciples,” he asks, “that I have any concealments? I conceal nothing from you. There is nothing that I do which is not shown to you, my disciples;—that is my way” (Ibid., vii. 23). And with all the homage he is constantly receiving, Confucius is never arrogant. He never speaks like a man who wishes to enforce his views in an authoritative style on others; never threatens punishment either here or hereafter to those who dissent from him.
“There were four things,” his disciples tell us, “from which the Master was entirely free. He had no foregone conclusions, no arbitrary predeterminations, no obstinacy, and no egoism” (Lun Yu, ix. 4). And his conduct is entirely in harmony with this statement. It is as a learner, rather than a teacher, that he regards himself. “The Master said, ‘When I walk along with two others, they may serve me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities, and follow them; their bad qualities, and avoid them’” (Ibid., vii. 21). Or again: “The sage and the man of perfect virtue, how dare I rank myself with them? It may simply be said of me, that I strive to become such without satiety, and teach others without weariness” (Ibid., vii. 33). “In letters I am perhaps equal to other men, but the character of the superior man, carrying out in his conduct what he professes, is what I have not yet attained to” (Ibid., vii. 32).
Notwithstanding this modesty, there are traces—few indeed, but not obscure—of that conviction of a peculiar mission which all great prophets have entertained, and without which even Confucius would scarcely have been ranked among them. The most distinct of these is the following passage:—“The Master was put in fear in K’wang. He said, ‘After the death of king Wan, was not the cause of truth lodged here in me? If Heaven had wished to let this cause of truth perish, then I, a future mortal, should not have got such a relation to that cause. While Heaven does not let the cause of truth perish, what can the people of K’wang do to me?’” (Lun Yu, ix. 5). These remarkable words would be conclusive, if they stood alone. But they do not stand alone. In another place we find him thus lamenting the pain of being generally misunderstood, which is apt to be so keenly felt by exalted and sensitive natures. “The Master said, ‘Alas! there is no one that knows me.’ Tse-kung said, ‘What do you mean by thus saying—that no one knows you?’ The Master replied, ‘I do not murmur against Heaven. I do not grumble against men. My studies lie low, and my penetration rises high. But there is Heaven;—that knows me!’” (Ibid., xiv. 37). Men might reject his labors and despise his teaching, but he would complain neither against Heaven nor against them. If he was not known by men, he was known by Heaven, and that was enough. On another occasion, “the Master said, ‘Heaven produced the virtue that is in me, Hwan T’uy—what can he do to me?’”12
These passages are the more remarkable, because Confucius was not in the ordinary sense a believer in God. That is, he never, throughout his instructions, says a single word implying acknowledgment of a personal Deity; a Creator of the world; a Being whom we are bound to worship as the author of our lives and the ruler of our destinies. He has even been suspected of omitting from his edition of the Shoo-king and the She-king everything that could support the comparatively theistic doctrine of his contemporary, Laò-tsé (By V. von Strauss, T. T. K., p. xxxviii). That his high respect for antiquity would have permitted such a procedure is, to say the least, very improbable; and Dr. Legge is no doubt right in acquitting him of any willful suppression of, or addition to, the ancient articles of Chinese faith (C. C., vol. i. Prolegomena, p. 99). For our present purpose it is enough to note that he avoided all discussion on the higher problems of religion; and contented himself with speaking, and that but rarely, of a vague, and hardly personal Being which he called Heaven. Thus, in a book attributed (perhaps erroneously) to his grandson, he is reported as saying, “Sincerity is the very way of Heaven” (Chung Yung, xx. 18). Of king Woo and the duke of Chow, two ancient worthies, he says: “By the ceremonies of the sacrifices to Heaven and Earth they served God” (where he seems to distinguish between Heaven and God, whom I believe he never mentions but here); “and by the ceremonies of the ancestral temple they sacrificed to their ancestors. He who understands the ceremonies of the sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, and the meaning of the several sacrifices to ancestors, would find the government of a kingdom as easy as to look into his palm” (Ibid., xix. 6). Elsewhere, he remarks that “he who is greatly virtuous will be sure to receive the appointment of heaven” (Ibid., xvii. 5). Again: “Heaven, in the production of things, is surely bountiful to them, according to their qualities” (Ibid., xvii. 3). Nothing very definite can be gathered from these passages, as to his opinions concerning the nature of the power of which he spoke thus obscurely. Yet it would be rash to find fault with him on that account. His language may have been, and in all probability was, the correct expression of his feelings. His mind was not of the dogmatic type; and if he does not teach his disciples any very intelligible principles concerning spiritual matters, it is simply because he is honestly conscious of having none to teach.
There are, indeed, indications which might be taken to imply the existence of an esoteric doctrine. “To those,” he says, “whose talents are above mediocrity, the highest subjects may be announced. To those who are below mediocrity, the highest subjects may not be announced” (Lun Yu, vi. 19). We are further told that Tsze-kung said, “the Master’s personal displays of his principles, and ordinary descriptions of them may be heard. His discourses about man’s nature, and the way of Heaven, cannot be heard” (Ibid., v. 12). This last passage appears to mean that they were not open to the indiscriminate multitude, nor perhaps to all of the disciples. But we may reasonably suppose that the intimate friends who recorded his sayings were considered by him to be above mediocrity, and were the depositaries of all he had to tell them on religious matters.
Yet this, little as it was, may not always have been rightly understood. Once, for example, he says to a disciple, “Sin, my doctrine is that of an all-pervading unity.” This is interpreted by the disciple (in the Master’s absence) to mean only that his doctrine is “to be true to the principles of our nature, and the benevolent exercise of them to others” (Ibid., iv. 15). I can hardly believe that Confucius would have taught so simple a lesson under so obscure a figure; and it is possible that the reserve that he habitually practiced with regard to his religious faith may have prevented a fuller explanation. “The subjects on which the Master did not talk were—extraordinary things, feats of strength, disorder, and spiritual beings” (Lun Yu, vii. 20). And although, in the Doctrine of the Mean (a work which is perhaps less authentic than the Analects) we find him discoursing freely on spiritual beings, which, he says, “abundantly display the powers that belong to them” (Chung Yung, 16), there are portions of the Analects which confirm the impression that he did not readily venture into these extra-mundane regions. Heaven itself, he once pointed out to an over-curious disciple, preserves an unbroken silence (Lun Yu, xvii. 19). Interrogated “about serving the spirits of the dead,” he gave this striking answer: “While you are not able to serve men, how can you serve their spirits?” And when “Ke Loo added, ‘I venture to ask about death?’ he was answered, ‘While you do not know life, how can you know about death?’” (Ibid., xi. 11). Another instance of a similar reticence is presented by his conduct during an illness. “The Master being very sick, Tsze-Loo asked leave to pray for him. He said, ‘May such a thing be done?’ Tsze-Loo replied, ‘It may. In the prayers it is said, Prayer has been made to the spirits of the upper and lower worlds.’ The Master said, ‘My praying has been for a long time’” (Ibid., vii. 34). I am unable to see “the satisfaction of Confucius with himself,” which Dr. Legge discovers in this reply. To me it appears simply to indicate the devout attitude of his mind, which is evinced by many other passages in his conversation. In short, though we may complain of the indefinite character of the faith he taught, and wish that he had expressed himself more fully, there can scarcely be a doubt that Confucius had a deeply religious mind; and that he looked with awe and reverence upon that power which he called by the name of “Heaven,” which controlled the progress of events, and would not suffer the cause of truth to perish altogether.
It is true, however, that he confined himself chiefly, and indeed almost entirely, to moral teaching. His main object undoubtedly was to inculcate upon his friends, and if possible to introduce among the people at large, those great principles of ethics which he thought would restore the virtue and well-being of ancient times. Those principles are aptly summarized in the following verse: “The duties of universal obligation are five, and the virtues wherewith they are practiced are three. The duties are those between sovereign and minister, between father and son, between husband and wife, between elder brother and younger, and those belonging to the intercourse of friends. Those five are the duties of universal obligation. Knowledge, magnanimity, and energy, these three are the virtues universally binding; and the means by which they carry the duties into practice is singleness” (Chung Yung, xx. 7). In the Analects, “Gravity, generosity of soul, sincerity, earnestness, and kindness,” are said to constitute perfect virtue (Lun Yu, xvii. 6).
It is as an earnest and devoted teacher, both by example and by precept, of these and other virtues, that Confucius must be judged. And in order to assist the formation of such a judgment, let us take his doctrine of Reciprocity, to which I shall return in another place. “Tsze-kung asked, saying, ‘Is there one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one’s life?’ The Master said, ‘Is not Reciprocity such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others’” (Lun Yu, xv. 23). On a kindred topic he thus delivered his opinion: “Some one said, ‘What do you say concerning the principle that injury should be recompensed with kindness?’ The Master said, ‘With what, then, will you recompense kindness? Recompense injury with justice, and recompense kindness with kindness’” (Ibid., xiv. 26).
If in the above sentence he may be thought to fall short of the highest elevation, there are some among his apothegms, the point and excellence of which have, perhaps, never been surpassed. Take for instance these:—“The superior man is catholic and no partizan. The mean man is a partizan and not catholic.” “Learning without thought is labor lost; thought without learning is perilous” (Ibid., ii. 14, 15). Or these:—“I will not be afflicted at men’s not knowing me; I will be afflicted that I do not know men” (Ibid., i. 16). “A scholar, whose mind is set on truth, and who is ashamed of bad clothes and bad food, is not fit to be discoursed with” (Ibid., iv. 9). “The superior man is affable, but not adulatory; the mean is adulatory, but not affable” (Ibid., xiii. 23). “Where the solid qualities are in excess of accomplishments, we have rusticity; where the accomplishments are in excess of the solid qualities, we have the manners of a clerk. When the accomplishments and solid qualities are equally blended, we then have the man of complete virtue” (Lun Yu, vi. 16). Lastly, I will quote one which, with a slight change of terms, might have emanated from the pen of Thomas Carlyle: “There are three things of which the superior man stands in awe:—He stands in awe of the ordinances of heaven; he stands in awe of great men; he stands in awe of the words of sages. The mean man does not know the ordinances of heaven, and consequently does not stand in awe of them. He is disrespectful to great men. He makes sport of the words of sages” (Ibid., xvi. 8).
These, and various other recorded sayings, go far to explain, if not to justify, the unbounded admiration of his faithful follower, Tsze-kung: “Our Master cannot be attained to, just in the same way as the heavens cannot be gone up to by the steps of a stair. Were our Master in the position of the prince of a State, or the chief of a family, we should find verified the description which has been given of a sage’s rule:—he would plant the people, and forthwith they would be established; he would lead them on, and forthwith they would follow him; he would make them happy, and forthwith multitudes would resort to his dominions; he would stimulate them, and forthwith they would be harmonious. While he lived, he would be glorious. When he died, he would be bitterly lamented. How is it possible for him to be attained to?” (Ibid., xix. 25.)
Section II — Laò-tsé13
Concerning the life of Laò-tsé, the founder of the smallest of the three sects of China (Confucians, Buddhists, and Taouists), we have only the most meagre information. Scarcely anything is known either of his personal character or of his doctrine, except through his book. His birth-year is unknown to us, and can only be approximately determined by means of the date assigned to his famous interview with his great contemporary, Confucius. This occurred in B. C. 517, when Laò-tsé was very old. He may, therefore, have been born about the year B. C. 600.14 All we can say of his career is, that he held an office in the State of Tseheu, that of “writer (or historian) of the archives.” When visited by Confucius, who was the master of a rival school, he is said to have addressed him in these terms:—“Those whom you talk about are dead, and their bones are mouldered to dust; only their words remain. When the superior man gets his time, he mounts aloft; but when the time is against him, he moves as if his feet were entangled. I have heard that a good merchant, though he has rich treasures deeply stored, appears as if he were poor; and that the superior man, whose virtue is complete, is yet to outward seeming stupid. Put away your proud air and many desires; your insinuating habit and wild will. These are of no advantage to you. This is all which I have to tell you.” After this interview, Confucius thus expressed his opinion of the older philosopher to his disciples:—“I know how birds can fly, how fishes can swim, and how animals can run. But the runner may be snared, the swimmer may be hooked, and the flyer may be shot by the arrow. But there is the dragon. I cannot tell how he mounts on the wind through the clouds and rises to heaven. To-day I have seen Laò-tsé, and can only compare him to the dragon” (C. C., vol. i. Proleg. p. 65.—T. T. K., p. liii.—L. T.., p. iv).
Troubles in the State in which he held office induced him to retire, and to seek the frontier. Here the officer in command requested him to write a book, the result of which request was the Taò-tĕ-Kīng. “No one knows,” says the Chinese historian, “where he died. Laò-tsé was a hidden sage” (T. T. K., p. lvi).
To this very scanty historical information we may add such indications as Laò-tsé himself has given us of his personality. One of these is contained in the twentieth chapter of his work, in which he tells us that while other men are radiant with pleasure, he is calm, like a child that does not yet smile. He wavers to and fro, as one who knows not where to turn. Other men have abundance; he is as it were deprived of all. He is like a stupid fellow, so confused does he feel. Ordinary men are enlightened; he is obscure and troubled in mind. Like the sea he is forgotten, and driven about like one who has no certain resting-place. All other men are of use; he alone is clownish like a peasant. He alone is unlike other men, but he honors the nursing mother (T. T. K., ch. xx).
It is obvious that an estimate so depreciatory is not to be taken literally. To understand its full significance, it should be compared to the magnificent description in Plato’s Theætetus of the outward appearance presented by the philosopher, who, in presence of practical men, is the jest alike of “Thracian handmaids,” and of the “general herd;” who is “unacquainted with his next-door neighbor;” who is “ignorant of what is before him, and always at a loss;” and who is so awkward and useless when called on to perform some menial office, such as “packing up a bag, or flavoring a sauce, or fawning speech.” Yet this philosopher, like Laò-tsé, “honors his nursing Mother;” he moves in a sphere of thought where men of the world cannot follow him, and where they in their turn are lost (Theætetus, 174-176). Just such a character as that drawn by Plato, Laò-tsé seems to have been. Living in retirement, and devoted to philosophy, he appeared to his contemporaries an eccentric and incompetent person. Yet he says that they called him great (Ch. lxvii), which seems to imply that his reputation was already founded in his life-time.
One other reference to himself must not be omitted, for it evinces the sense he had of the nature of his work in the world. “My words,” so he writes in his paradoxical manner, “are very easy to understand, very easy to follow,—no one in the world is able to understand them, no one is able to follow them. The words have an author, the works have one who enjoins them; but he is not understood, therefore I am not understood” (Ch. lxx). On this Stanislas Julien observes, “There is not a word of Laò-tsé’s that has not a solid foundation. In fact, they have for their origin and basis Tao and Virtue” (L. V. V. p. 269, n. 2). These expressions, then, suffice to show that Laò-tsé was not destitute of that sense of inspiration of which other great prophets have been so profoundly conscious.
Section III — Gautama Buddha15
Subdivision 1. the Historical Buddha
Were we to write the history of the Buddha according to the fashion of Buddhist historians, we should have to begin our story several ages before his birth. For the theory of his disciples is, that during many millions of years, through an almost innumerable series of different lives, he had been preparing himself for the great office of the savior of humanity which he at length assumed. Only by the practice of incredible self-denial, and unbounded virtue, during all the long line of human births he was destined to undergo, could he become fitted for that consummate duty, the performance of which at last released him forever from the bonds of existence. For the total extinction of conscious life, not its continuation in a better sphere, is, or at any rate was, the goal of the pious Buddhist. And it was the crowning merit of the Buddha, that he not only sought this reward for himself, but qualified himself by ages of endurance to enlighten others as to the way in which it might be earned.
But we will not encumber ourselves with the pre-historic Buddha, the tales of whose deeds are palpable fictions, but will endeavor to unravel the thread of genuine fact which probably runs through the accepted life of Sakyamuni in his final appearance upon earth. And here we are met with a preliminary difficulty. That life is not guaranteed by any trustworthy authority. It cannot be traced back to any known disciple of Buddha. It cannot be shown to have been written within a century after his death, and it may have been written later. Ancient, however, it undoubtedly is. For the separation of northern from southern Buddhism occurred at an early period in the history of the Church, probably about two hundred years after the death of its founder; and this life is the common property of all sections of Buddhists. It was consequently current before that separation. But its antiquity does not make it trustworthy. On the contrary, it is constructed in accordance with an evident design. Every incident has a definite dogmatic value, and stands in well-marked dogmatic relations to the rest. There is nothing natural or spontaneous about them. Everything has its proper place, and its distinct purpose. And it is useless to attempt to deal with such a life on the rationalistic plan of sifting the historical from the fabulous; the natural and possible from the miraculous and impossible elements. The close intermixture of the two renders any such process hopeless. We are, in fact, with regard to the life of Gautama Buddha, much in the position that we should be in with regard to the life of Jesus Christ, had we no records to consult but the apocryphal gospels.
Nevertheless, while holding that his biography can never now be written, it is by no means my intention to imply that it is impossible to know anything about him. On the contrary, a picture not wholly imaginary may unquestionably be drawn of the character and doctrines of the great teacher of the Asiatic continent. Let us venture on the attempt.
An imposing array of scholars agrees in fixing the date of his death in B.C. 543, and as he is said to have lived eighty years, he would thus have been born in B.C. 623. Without entering now into the grounds of their inference, I venture to believe that they have thrown him back to a too distant date. I am more inclined to agree with Köppen, who would place his death from B.C. 480 to 460, or about two centuries before the accession of the great Buddhist king Asoka. Westergaard, it is true, would fix this event much later, namely about B.C. 370. Supposing the former writer to be correct in his conclusions, the active portion of the Buddha’s life would fall to the earlier years of the fifth century B.C., and possibly to the conclusion of the sixth. His birth, about B.C. 560-540, occurred in a small kingdom of the north of India, entitled Kapilavastu. Of what rank his parents may have been, the accounts before us do not enable us to say. The tradition according to which they were the king and queen of the country, I regard with Wassiljew as in all probability an invention intended to shed additional glory upon him. The boy is said to have been named Siddhartha, though possibly this also was one of the many titles bestowed on him by subsequent piety. At an early age he felt—as so many young men of lofty character have always done—the hollowness of worldly pleasures, and withdrew himself from men to lead a solitary and ascetic life. After he had satisfied the craving for self-torture, and subdued the lusts of the flesh, he came forth, full of zeal for the redemption of mankind, to proclaim a new and startling gospel. India was at that time, as always, dominated by the system of caste. The Buddha, boldly breaking through the deepest prejudices of his countrymen, surrounded himself with a society in which caste was nothing. Let but a man or even a woman (for it is stated that at his sister’s request he admitted women) become his disciple, agree to renounce the world, and lead the life of an ascetic, and he or she at once lost either the privileges of a high caste, or the degradations of a low one. Rank depended henceforth exclusively upon capacity for the reception of spiritual truth; and the humblest individual might, by attending to and practicing the teacher’s lessons, rise to the highest places in the hierarchy. “Since the doctrine which I teach,” he is represented as saying in one of the Canonical Books, “is completely pure, it makes no distinction between noble and commoner, between rich and poor. It is, for example, like water, which washes both noblemen and common people, both rich and poor, both good and bad, and purifies all without distinction. It may, to take another illustration, be compared to fire, which consumes mountains, rocks, and all great and small objects between heaven and earth without distinction. Again, my doctrine is like heaven, inasmuch as there is room within it, without exception, for whomsoever it may be; for men and women, for boys and girls, for rich and poor” (W. u. T., p. 282). This was the practical side of Sakyamuni’s great reform. Its theoretical side was this. Life was regarded by Indian devotees, not as a blessing, but as an unspeakable misery. Deliverance from existence altogether, not merely transposition to a happier mode of existence, was the object of their ardent longing. The Buddha did not seek to oppose this craving for annihilation, but to satisfy it. He addressed himself to the problem, How is pain produced, and how can it be extinguished? And his meditations led him to what are termed “the four truths”—the cardinal dogma of Buddhism in all its forms. The four truths are stated as follows:—
1. The existence of pain.
2. The production of pain.
3. The annihilation of pain.
4. The way to the annihilation of pain.
The meaning of the truths is this:—Pain exists; that is, all living beings are subject to it; its production is the result of the existence of such beings; its annihilation is possible; and lastly, the way to attain that annihilation is to enter on the paths opened to mankind by Gautama Buddha. In other words, the way to avoid that awful series of succeeding births to which the Indian believed himself subject, was to adopt the monastic life; to practice all virtues, more especially charity; to acquire a profound knowledge of spiritual truths; and, in fine, to follow the teaching of the Buddha. Renounce the world, and you will—sooner or later, according to your degree of merit—be freed from the curse of existence; this seems to sum up, in brief, the gospel proclaimed with all the fervor of a great discovery by the new teacher. After about forty-five years of public life devoted to mankind, he died at the age of eighty, at Kusinagara, deeply mourned by a few faithful disciples who had clustered around him, and no doubt regretted by many who had found repose and comfort in his doctrines, and had been strengthened by his example. The names of his principal disciples become almost as familiar to a reader of Buddhist books as those of Peter, James, and John, to a Christian. Maudgalyâyana and Sariputtra, the eminent evangelists, and Ananda, the beloved disciple, the close friend and servant of the Buddha, are among the most prominent of this little group. With them rested propagation of the faith, and the vast results, which in two centuries followed their exertions, prove that they were not remiss. The stories of the thousands who embraced the proffered salvation in the life-time of the Buddha are pious fancies. It was the apostles and Fathers of the Church who, while developing his doctrines and largely adding to their complexity and number, almost succeeded in rendering his religion the dominant creed of India.
Such is, in my opinion, the sum total of our positive knowledge with regard to the life lived, and the truths taught, by this great figure in human history. The two points to which I have adverted—namely, the formation of a society apart from the world in which caste was nothing, and the hope held out of annihilation by the practice of virtues and asceticism—are too fundamental and too ancient to be derived from any but the founder. After all, ecclesiastical biographers, while they adorn their heroes with fictitious trappings, do not invent them altogether. A man from whose tuition great results have flowed, cannot be a small man; something of those results must needs be due to the impulse he has given. And if the Buddha must have taught something, must have inaugurated some reform, what is he more likely to have taught, than the way to the annihilation of pain? what reform more likely to have inaugurated than the creation of a society held together by purely spiritual ties? Both are absolutely essential to Buddhism as we know it. Both are closely connected. For Buddhism would have had nothing to offer without the hope of extinction; and this hope, while leading to the practice of an austere and religious life, can itself be fulfilled only by that life; implying as it does a detachment from the bonds of carnality which hold us to this scene of suffering. Thus, these corner-stones of Buddhism—flowing as they must have done from a master-mind—may, with the highest probability, be assigned to its author.
On one other point there is no reason to call in question the testimony of the legend. We need not doubt he really was the pure, gentle, benevolent, and blameless man which that legend depicts him to have been. Even his enemies have not attempted (I believe) to malign his character. He stands before us as one of the few great leaders of humanity who seem endowed with every virtue, and free from every fault.
Subdivision 2. the Mythical Buddha
Buddhistic authorities divide the life of their founder into twelve great periods, under which it will be convenient to treat of it:—
1. His descent from heaven.
2. His incarnation.
3. His birth.
4. His display of various accomplishments.
5. His marriage, and enjoyment of domestic life.
6. His departure from home, and assumption of the monastic character.
7. His penances.
8. His triumph over the devil.
9. His attainment of the Buddhaship.
10. His turning the Wheel of the Law.
11. His death.
12. His cremation, and the division of his relics.
1. Following, then, the guidance of the accepted legend, we must begin with his resolution to be born on earth for the salvation of the world. After thousands of preparatory births, he was residing in a certain heaven called Tushita, that being one of the numerous stages in the ascending series of the abodes of the blessed. At length, the end of his sojourn in this heaven arrived. He determined to quit the gods who were his companions there, and to be born on earth. Careful consideration convinced him that the monarch Suddhodana, and his queen, Maya Devi, alone possessed these preëminent qualifications which entitled them to become the parents of a Buddha. Suddhodana lived in the town of Kapila, and belonged to the royal family of the Sakyas, the only family which the Bodhisattva (or destined Buddha) had discovered by his examination to be free from faults by which it would have been disqualified to receive him as one of its members. His wife, in addition to the most consummate beauty, was distinguished for every conjugal and feminine virtue. Here, then, was a couple worthy of the honor about to be conferred upon their house.
2. At this critical moment Maya had demanded, and obtained, the permission of the king to devote herself for a season to the practice of fasting and penance. While engaged in these austerities, she dreamt that a beautiful white elephant approached her, penetrated her side, and entered her womb. At this very time, Bodhisattva actually descended in the shape of a white elephant, and took up his abode within her body. On waking, she related the dream to her husband, who called upon the official Brahmins to interpret it. They declared it to be of good augury. The queen, they said, carried in her womb a being who would either be a “Wheel King,” or Sovereign of the whole world; or if he took to a monastic career, would become a Buddha. All things went well during Maya’s pregnancy. According to all accounts she underwent none of the discomforts incidental to that state. One writer states that “her soul enjoyed a perfect calm, the sweetest happiness; fatigue and weariness never affected her unimpaired health.” Another remarks that she enjoyed “the most perfect health, and was free from fainting fits.” An additional gratification lay in the fact, that she was able to see the infant Bodhisattva sitting calmly in his place within her person.
3. Ten months having passed (a Buddha always takes ten), the queen expressed a desire to walk in a beautiful garden called Lumbini; and, with the king’s ready permission, proceeded thither with her attendants. In this garden the hour of her delivery came on. Standing under a tree (the ficus religiosa), which courteously lowered its branches that she might hold on by them during labor, she gave birth to the child who was afterwards to be the first of humankind. Gods from heaven received him when born, and he himself at once took several steps forward, and exclaimed: “This is my last birth—there shall be to me no other state of existence: I am the greatest of all beings.” Ananda, his cousin, and afterwards his disciple, was born at the same moment. Maya, notwithstanding her excellent health, died seven days after her child’s birth. This was not from any physical infirmity, but because it is the invariable rule that the mother of a Buddha should die at that exact time. The reason of this, according to the Lalitavistara, is, that when the Buddha became a wandering monk her heart would break. Other respectable authorities assert, that the womb in which a Bodhisattva has lain is like a sanctuary where a relic is enshrined. “No human being can again occupy it, or use it” (P. A., No. III. p. 27). Maya was born again in one of the celestial regions, and the infant was confided to her sister, his aunt Prajapati, or Gautami, who was assisted in the care of her charge by thirty-two nurses. He was christened Sarvarthasiddha, usually shortened into Siddhartha. He is also known as Gautama Buddha, by which name he is distinguished from other Buddhas: as Sakyamuni, the hermit of the Sakya race; as the Tathâgata, he who walks in the footsteps of his predecessors; as Bhagavat, Lord; and by other honorific titles.
Soon after the birth of the Bodhisattva, he was visited and adored by a very eminent Rishi, or hermit, known as Asita (or Kapiladevila), who predicted his future greatness, but wept at the thought that he himself was too old to see the day when the law of salvation would be taught by the infant whom he had come to contemplate.
4. When the appropriate age for the marriage of the young prince arrived, a wife, possessing all the perfections requisite for so excellent a husband, was sought. She was found in a maiden named Gopa (or Yasodhara), the daughter of Dandapani, one of the Sakya race. An unexpected obstacle, however, arose. The father of the lovely Gopa complained that Siddhartha’s education had been grossly neglected, and that he was wanting alike in literary accomplishments and in muscular proficiency—things which were invariably demanded of the husbands of Sakya princesses. It does, indeed, appear that Suddhodana had taken little pains to cultivate his son’s abilities, and that he had mainly confined himself to the care of his personal safety by surrounding him with attendants. Accordingly, he asked the prince whether he thought he could exhibit his skill in those branches of knowledge, the mastery of which Dandapani had declared to be a necessary condition of his consent. Siddhartha assured his father that he could; and in a regular competitive examination, which was thereupon held, he completely defeated the other princes, not only in writing, arithmetic, and such matters, but in wrestling and archery. In the last art, especially, he gained a signal victory, by easily wielding a bow which none of the others could manage.
5. Gopa was now won, and conducted by her husband to a magnificent palace, where, surrounded by a vast harem of beautiful women, he spent, some years of his life in the enjoyment of excessive luxury. But worldly pleasure was not to retain him long in its embrace.
6. A crisis in his life was now approaching. Suddhodana had been warned that Siddhartha would assume the ascetic character if four objects were to meet his sight; an old man, a sick man, a corpse, and a recluse. Suddhodana, who would have much preferred his son being a universal monarch to his becoming a Buddha, anxiously endeavored to guard him from coming across these things. But all was in vain. One day, when driving in the town, he perceived a wrinkled, decrepit, and miserable old man. Having inquired of the coachman what this strange creature was, and having learnt from him that he was only suffering the general fate of humanity, the Bodhisattva was much affected; and, full of sad thoughts, ordered his chariot to be turned homewards. Meeting on two other occasions, likewise when driving, with a man emaciated by sickness, and with a corpse, he was led to still further reflections on the wretchedness of the conditions under which we live. Prepared by these meditations, he yielded completely to the tendencies aroused within him when, on a fourth excursion, he came across a monk. The aspect of this man—his calmness, his dignity, his downcast eyes, his decent deportment—filled him with desire to abandon the world like him.
The die was cast. Nothing could now retain the Bodhisattva, at this time a young man of nine-and-twenty, from the course that approved itself to his conscience. In vain did his father cause his palace to be surrounded with guards. In vain did the ladies of the harem (acting under instructions) deploy their most ravishing arts to captivate and to amuse him. His resolution was finally fixed by a singular circumstance. The beautiful damsels who ministered to him had sought to engage his attention by an exhibition of the most graceful dancing, accompanied by music, displaying their forms before his eyes as they executed their varied movements. But the Bodhisattva, deep in his meditations, was wholly unaffected. He fell asleep; and the women, baffled in their attempts and wearied out, soon followed his example. But in the course of the night the prince awoke. And then the sight of these girls, slumbering in all sorts of ungainly and ungraceful postures, utterly disgusted him. Summoning a courtier, named Chandaka, he ordered him at once to prepare his favorite horse Kantaka, that he might quit the city of his fathers, and lead the life of a humble recluse. But before thus abandoning his home, there was one painful parting to be gone through. One tie still held him to the world. His wife had just become a mother. Anxious to see his infant son, Rahula, before his departure, he gently opened the door of his wife’s apartment. He found her sleeping with one hand over the head of the child. He would fain have taken a last look at his little boy, but fearing that if he withdrew the mother’s hand she would awake and hinder his departure, he retired without approaching the bed. In the dead of night, mounted on Kantaka, and with the one attendant whom he had taken into the secret, he managed to leave Kapilavastu unperceived, never to return to it again till he had attained the full dignity of a Buddha.
7. Having sent back Chandaka with the horse, the Bodhisattva commenced, alone and unaided, a course of austerities fitted to prepare him for his great duty. He tried Brahminical teachers, but was soon dissatisfied with their doctrine. Five of the disciples of one of these teachers followed him for six years in the homeless and wandering life he now began. He adopted the most rigid asceticism, reducing his body to the last degree of feebleness and emaciation. But this too discovered itself to his mind as an error. He took to eating again, and regained his strength, whereupon the five disciples left him, viewing him as a man who had weakly abandoned his principles.
8. After this period of gradual approach to the required perfection the Bodhisattva went to Bodhimanda, the place appointed for his reception of the Buddhaship. Here he had to withstand a furious attack by the demon Mara, who first endeavored to annihilate him by his armies, and then to seduce him by the fascination of his three daughters. But Gautama withstood his male and female adversaries with equal calmness and success. Of the latter he had possibly had enough in his princely palace.
9. All these trials having been surmounted, he placed himself under the Bodhi (or Intelligence) tree, and there, engaging in the most intense meditations, gradually reached the intellectual and moral height towards which he had long been climbing. He was now in possession of Bodhi, or that complete and perfect knowledge which constitutes a Buddha. He was thus fit to teach the law of salvation, but the Lalitavistra represents him as still doubting for a moment whether he should engage in a task which he feared would be thankless and unavailing. Men, he thought, would be incapable of receiving so sublime a doctrine, and he would incur fatigue and make exertions in vain. Silence and solitude recommended themselves at this moment to his spirit. But from a resolution so disastrous he was turned aside by the intercession of the god Brahma.
10. He proceeded accordingly to “turn the Wheel of the Law,” or to preach to others, during the forty-five remaining years of his long life, the truths he had arrived at himself. The current lives speak, in their exaggerated manner, of his magnificent receptions by the kings whose countries he visited, and of the thousands of converts whom he made by his preaching, or who, in technical language, obtained Nirvâna through him. His father and other members of his family were among his followers. But among the first-fruits of his teaching were the five Brahmins who had abandoned him when he had relaxed in his ascetic habits. These, on first perceiving him, spoke of him with contempt as a glutton and a luxurious fellow spoilt by softness. But his personal presence filled them with admiration, and they at once acknowledged his perfect wisdom. During this time the two orders of monks and nuns, with their strict regulations enforcing continence and temperance, were founded. Gautama’s aunt and nurse, Prajapati, was the first abbess; the Buddha, who had intended to exclude women from his order, having consented to admit them at her request. Rahula, his son, received the tonsure.
11. After he had firmly established his law in the hearts of many devoted disciples, the Buddha “entered Nirvâna” at the age of eighty, at Kusinagara. That his death was deeply mourned by the friends who had hung upon his lips, and drawn their knowledge of religious truth from him, need not be related.
12. A pompous account is given of his funeral rites, of which it will be sufficient to mention here that his body was laid upon a pyre, and burnt after the manner of burning in use for Chakravartins, or Universal Monarchs. The princes of Kusinagara wished to keep his relics to themselves; but seven kings, each of whom demanded a share, made threatening demonstrations against them, and after some quarrelling it was agreed to distribute the relics among the whole number. They were therefore divided into eight portions, the royal family of each country taking one. A dagoba, or monument, was erected over them in each of the capitals governed by these royal Buddhists.
Of the numerous stories that are told with regard to the effects of the Buddha’s preaching, of the amazing miracles he is said to have performed, and of the wonders reported to have happened at his death and his cremation, there will be an opportunity of speaking in another place. For the present, it is enough to relate the legend of his life in its main features, according to the version piously believed by the millions of human beings who—in China, Tartary, Mongolia, Siam, Burmah, Thibet, and Ceylon—look to him as their law-giver and their savior.
Section IV — Zarathustra16
Slaves, condemned to make bricks without straw, would hardly have a more hopeless task than he who attempts to construct, from the materials now before him, a life of Zarathustra. Eminent as we know this great prophet to have been, the details of his biography have been lost forever. His name and his doctrines, with a few scattered hints in the Gâthâs, are all that remain on record concerning the personality of a man who was the teacher of one great branch of the Aryan race, and whose religion, proclaimed many centuries, possibly even a thousand years, before Christ taught in Galilee, was a great and powerful faith in the days when Marathon was fought, and is not even now extinct. We will gather from these fragmentary sources what knowledge we can of the Iranian prophet, but we will refuse to fill up the void created by the absence of historical documents with ingenious hypotheses or subtle speculations.
Something approaching to a bit of biography is to be found in the opening verses of the fifth Gâthâ, which are to this effect:—
“It is reported that Zarathustra Spitama possessed the best good; for Ahura Mazda granted him all that may be obtained by means of a sincere worship, forever, all that promotes the good life, and he gives the same to all those who keep the words and perform the actions enjoined by the good religion.
“Thus may Kava Vistaspa, Zarathustra’s companion, and the most holy Frashaostra, who prepare the right paths for the faith which He who Liveth gave unto the priests of fire, faithfully honor and adore Mazda according to his (Zarathustra’s) mind, with his words and his works!
“Pourutschista, the Hetchataspadin, the most holy one, the most distinguished of the daughters of Zarathustra, formed the doctrine, as a reflection of the good mind, the true and wise one.”17
Here we find an allusion to the interesting fact that the Zarathustra had a daughter who contributed to the formation of the Parsee creed. The phrase, most distinguished of the daughters, probably does not mean that the prophet was the father of several daughters, but merely that this one was celebrated as his coadjutor. Spiegel has in vain endeavored to discover the name of this lady’s husband, but it seems to be doubtful whether anything is known of her matrimonial relations. The fact which it concerns us to notice is, that already in these primitive ages we have a female saint appearing on the scene. In addition to St. Pourutschista, mention is made of two disciples, who were evidently leaders in the apostolic band. The evangelic ardor of Frashaostra is touched upon in the preceding Gâthâ, where it is stated that “he wished to visit my Highlands (i. e., Bactria) to propagate there the good religion,” and Ahura Mazda is implored to bless his undertaking. Rava Vistaspa is celebrated in the same place as having obtained knowledge which the living Wise One himself had discovered (Yaspa li. 16, 17. Parsees, p. 161). The names of both are well known, being frequently mentioned in the Gâthâs. They appear to have been intimate associates of the prophet. Thus a supposed inquiry is addressed to Zarathustra, “Who is thy true friend in the great work? who will publicly proclaim it?” and the answer is, “Kava Vistaspa is the man who will do this” (Yasna, xlvi. 14). And Frashaostra is spoken of as having received from God, in company with the speaker (probably the prophet himself), “the distinguished creation of truth” (Ibid., xlix. 8). It is added, “for all time we will be thy messengers,” or in other words, Evangelists.
Not only do we obtain from the Gâthâs a glimpse of Zarathustra attended by zealous disciples, eager to proclaim the good tidings he brought: we learn something also of the opposition he encountered from the adherents of the older faith. And since he actually names himself in the course of one of these compositions, which bears every appearance of genuineness and antiquity, we need not doubt the authenticity of the picture therein given of his relations to these opponents. They were the adherents of the old Devas, the gods whom Zarathustra dethroned;—polytheists, averse to this unheard-of introduction of monotheism into their midst. And they formed, at least during a part of the prophet’s life-time possibly during the whole of it, by far the stronger party, for he refers to them in these terms:—
“To what country shall I go? where shall I take refuge? what country gives shelter to the master (Zarathustra) and his companion? None of the servants pay reverence to me, nor do the wicked rulers of the country. How shall I worship thee further, living Wise One?
“I know that I am helpless. Look at me being amongst few men, for I have few men (I have lost my followers or they have left me); I implore thee weeping, thou living God who grantest happiness as a friend gives a present to his friend. The good of the good mind is in thy own possession, thou True One!...
“The sway is given into the hands of the priests and prophets of idols, who, by their atrocious actions, endeavor to destroy the life of man....
“To him who makes this very life increase by means of truth to the utmost for me, who am Zarathustra myself, to such an one the first (earthly) and the other (spiritual) life will be granted as a reward together with all good things to be had on the imperishable earth. Thou, living Wise One, art the very owner of all these things to the greatest extent; thou, who art my friend, O Wise One!” (Yasna. xlv. 1, 2, 11, 19.)
And elsewhere we come across this exclamation: “What help did Zarathustra receive, when he proclaimed the truths? What did he obtain through the good mind?” (Ibid., xlix. 12.)
And the piteous question is put to Ahura Mazda: “Why has the truthful one so few adherents, while all the mighty, who are unbelievers, follow the Liar in great numbers?” (Ibid., xlvii. 4.)
These simple and natural verses point to a prophet who was—for a time at least—without honor in his own country. Whereas the later representations of his career depict him as the triumphant revealer of a new faith, before whose words of power the “Devas,” or god of polytheism, flee in terror and dismay, we meet with him here in the character of a persecuted and lonely man, unsupported by the authorities of his nation, opposed by a powerful majority, and imploring, in the distress and desolation of his mind, the all-powerful assistance of his God. Such is the reality; how widely it differs from the fiction we have already seen. But as is always the case with great prophets, who are rejected in their own days and honored after their death, the reality is forgotten; the fiction is universally accepted.
Little need be said of the doctrines taught by Zarathustra. His main principle is belief in the one great God, Ahura Mazda, whom he substitutes for the many gods of the ancient Aryans. He was in fact the author of a monotheistic reformation. The worshipers of these deities are often referred to in opprobrious terms, more especially as “liars,” or “adherents of lies,” while the devotees of Ahura are spoken of as the good, or as those who are in possession of the truth. It is only through the spirit of lying that the godless seek to do harm; through the true and wise God they cannot do it (Yasna, xlvii. 4). This God, the friend of the prophet, is honored in language of deep and simple adoration; not with the mere vapid epithets of praise which become common in the later sections of the Zend-Avesta. Zarathustra feels himself entirely under his protection, and describes himself ready to preach whatever truths this great Spirit may instruct him to declare.
Beyond this great central dogma—which he announces with all the fervor of a discoverer—there is nothing of a very distinctive kind in his theology. The doctrine of a separate evil spirit opposed to Ahura Mazda does not hold in the Gâthâs that place which it afterwards obtained in the sacred literature of the Parsee. Dr. Haug considers that Zarathustra held merely a philosophical dualism, the two principles of existence—bad and good—being united in the supreme nature of the ultimate Deity. From this great and all-wise Being every good thing emanates. He is the inspirer of his prophet; the teacher of his people; the counselor in the many perplexing questions that harass the minds of his worshipers. To him the pious souls resort in trouble; by him both earthly possessions and spiritual life are granted to those who rightly seek him. Ahura Mazda is the true God; and there is no other God but Ahura Mazda.
Section V — Mahomet18
The last man who has obtained the rank of a prophet is Mohammed, or Mahomet, the son of Abdallah and Amina. Since his time none has succeeded in founding a great, and at the same time an independent religion. Many have wrought changes in preëxisting materials; but no one has built from the foundation upwards. The religion of Mahomet, though compounded of heathen, Judaic, and Christian elements, is not a mere reformation of any of the faiths in which these constituents were found. It depends for its original sanction upon none of these, but derives its raison d’etre exclusively from the direct inspiration of its author.
This prophet was born at Mecca in 571, and was the posthumous child of Abdallah, by his wife Amina. His mother died when he was six years old, and he was then taken charge of by his grandfather Abd-al-Mottalib, who, dying in two years, left the child to the care of his son Abu Talib. Mahomet was poor, and had to work for his living in a very humble occupation. In process of time, however, he obtained a comfortable employment in the service of a rich widow, named Khadija, who was engaged in business, and whom he served in the capacity of a commercial traveler; or at first perhaps in a lower situation. His mercenary relation to her was soon superseded by a tenderer bond. He married her in 595, she being then thirty-eight or thirty-nine years of age, and fifteen years older than himself. She was evidently a woman of strong character, and retained an unbroken hold upon the affection of Mahomet until her death in 619. He subsequently married many wives, of whom Ayisha was the most intimate with him; but none of them appears to have exercised so much influence upon his character as Khadija.
She it was who was the first to believe in the divine inspiration which her husband began to disclose in the year 612, at the mature age of forty; and she it was who encouraged and comforted the rising prophet during his early years of trouble and persecution. His first revelation was received by him in 612. It purported to be dictated by the angel Gabriel, who was Mahomet’s authority for the whole of the Koran.
“Recite thou,” thus spoke his heavenly instructor, “in the name of thy Lord who created;—created man from clots of blood:—Recite thou! For thy Lord is the most beneficent, who hath taught the use of the pen;—hath taught man that which he knoweth not” (K., p. 1.—Sura xcvi).
After this first reception of the word of God, Mahomet passed through that period of extreme depression and gloom which appears to be the universal lot of thoughtful characters, and which Mr. Carlyle has designated “the Everlasting No.” For many months he received no more revelations, and in his despondency he entertained a wish to throw himself down from high mountains, but was prevented by the appearance of the angel Gabriel. In time another communication came to strengthen him in his work; and revelations now began to pour down abundantly. His earliest disciples, besides his wife and his daughters, were his cousin Ali, and the slave Zayd, whom he had adopted as a son. By and by he obtained other important converts, among whom were Abu Bakr, Zobayr, and Othman, afterwards the Chalif.
His earliest revelations were inoffensive to the Meccans; and it was only when he began to preach distinctly the unity of God, the resurrection, and responsibility to the Deity, that opposition was aroused. Persecution followed upon disapproval. Some of Mahomet’s followers were compelled to take refuge in Abyssinia, and he himself told the Meccans instructive legends of nations whom God had destroyed for their wickedness in rejecting the prophets who had been sent to them. In 616, however, Mahomet was guilty of a relapse, for he published a revelation recognizing three Meccan idols, Lat, Ozza, and Manah, as intercessors with Allah. In consequence of this concession to their faith, the Korayschites—his own tribe—fell down on their faces in adoration of Allah, and the exiles in Abyssinia returned to their native land. But the prophet was soon ashamed of the weakness by which he had purchased public support. The verse was struck out of the Koran, and the passing recognition of idolatry attributed to the suggestion of the devil. Tradition assigns to this occasion the following verses:
“We have not sent any apostle or prophet before thee, among whose desires Satan injected not some wrong desire; but God shall bring to nought that which Satan had suggested. Thus shall God affirm his revelations, for God is Knowing-Wise! That he may make that which Satan hath injected, a trial to those in whose hearts is a disease, and whose hearts are hardened” (K. p. 593—Sura xxii. 51, 52).
After his renewed profession of Monotheism, Mahomet and his followers were naturally subjected to renewed persecutions. Conversions, however, did not cease; and that of Omar, in 617, was of great importance to the nascent community. Yet matters were at last pushed to extremities by the unbelievers. Mahomet’s family, the Haschimites, were excluded from all commercial and social intercourse by the other Korayschites, and compelled to withdraw into their own quarter. This state of quarantine probably lasted from the autumn of 617 to that of 619. At its conclusion Mahomet lost his wife Khadija, and his uncle Abu Talib, who had given him protection.
He was now exposed to many insults and much annoyance. The insecurity in which he lived at Mecca forced him to seek supporters elsewhere. Now the Caaba or holy stone at Mecca was the scene of an annual pilgrimage from the surrounding country. Mahomet made use of the advent of the pilgrims in 621 to enlist in his cause six inhabitants of Medina, who are reported to have bound themselves to him by the following vow:—Not to consider any one equal to Allah; not to steal; not to be unchaste; not to kill their children; not willfully to calumniate; to obey the prophet’s orders in equitable matters. Paradise was to be the guerdon of the strict observance of this vow, which from the place where it was taken was called the first Akaba. In the following year, 622, Mahomet met seventy-two men of Medina by night at the same ravine, and the oath now taken was the second Akaba. The believers swore to receive the prophet and to expend their property and their blood in his defense. Twelve of the seventy-two disciples were selected as elders, the prophet following therein the example of Christ.
A place of refuge from the hostility of their countrymen was now open to the rising sect. All the Moslems who were able and willing gradually found their way to Medina. At length none of the intending emigrants remained at Mecca but the prophet himself and his two friends Abu Bakr, and Ali. The designs of the Korayschites against Mahomet’s life failed, and he effected his escape to a cave at some little distance from Mecca, and in the opposite direction from Medina. Here he remained in concealment with Abu Bakr for three days, the daughter of the latter bringing food for both. After this time a guide brought three camels with which they proceeded in safety to Medina. The prophet reached Koba, a village just outside it, on the 14th of September 622. He remained here three days, and received the visits of his adherents in Medina every day. This was the celebrated Hegira, or flight, from which the Mussulman era is dated.
In the course of a year, the majority of the inhabitants of Medina had adopted Islam, and a little later those who remained heathens were either compelled or persuaded to embrace, or at least to submit to, the new creed and its apostle. The Jews alone retained their ancient religion. But while Mahomet was thus successful with Medina, he was still exposed to the bitter hostility of Mecca. War between the two cities was the result of the hospitality accorded to him by the former. Mahomet, who now united in his person the temporal and spiritual supremacy in his adopted home, did not shrink from the contest, but carried it on with vigor and success. In the year 624, having gone in pursuit of a Meccan caravan, he met the army of the Korayschites at Badr, and defeated them; although he had not much more than three hundred men, while they commanded from nine hundred to one thousand. In the following year indeed the Moslems were defeated in the battle of Ohod; but in 627 the siege of Medina, undertaken by Abu Sofyân at the head of ten thousand men, was raised after three weeks without serious loss on either side.
Notwithstanding the enmity of its inhabitants, Mecca still retained in the eyes of Mahomet and his disciples its ancient prerogative of sanctity. The Kibla, or point towards which the Moslem was to turn in prayer, had for a time been Jerusalem; but Mahomet had restored this privilege to his native town two years after the Hegira. There too was the sacred stone, no less venerated by the pious worshiper of Allah than by the adherents of Lat, Ozza and Manah; and thither it was that the religious pilgrimage had to be performed, for Mahomet had no intention of giving up this part of his ancestral faith. He was desirous in the spring of 628 of performing the pilgrimage to Mecca. The Koreish, however, came out to meet him with an army, determined to preclude his entrance to the city. The design was therefore abandoned; but an important treaty was concluded between Mahomet and Sohayl, who acted as envoy from Mecca. By this compact both parties agreed to abstain from all hostilities for ten years; Mahomet was to surrender fugitives from Mecca, but the Meccans were not to surrender fugitives from him; no robbery was to be practiced; it was open to any one to make an alliance with either party; Mahomet and his followers were to be permitted to enter Mecca for three days in the following year for the festival. After making this agreement Mahomet, yielding to circumstances, performed the ceremonies of the festival at Hodaybiya near Mecca and then withdrew.
The treaty caused great dissatisfaction among the Moslems, as well it might; and the humiliation was heightened when the prophet, shortly after making it, was compelled to fulfil its provisions by giving up certain proselytes who had fled to him, from Mecca. Nevertheless his power continued to grow, and a tribe residing near Mecca took advantage of the treaty to conclude an alliance with him.
Mahomet now began to place himself on a level with crowned heads. In 628 he had a seal made with the inscription upon it: “Mahomet the messenger of God.” Furnished with this official seal, he despatched six messengers with letters to the Emperor Heraclius; to the King of Abyssinia; to the Shah of Persia; to Mokawkas, lord of Alexandria; to Harith the Ghassanite chief; and to Hawda in Yamama, a province of Arabia. The purport of all these missives was an exhortation to the various sovereigns and chiefs to embrace the new religion, and a promise that God would reward them if they did, with a warning that they would bear the guilt of their subjects if they did not.
In the same year Mahomet besieged the town of Chaybar, whose inhabitants were Jews. Many of them were killed; the rest were permitted to withdraw with their families. Kinana, their chief, was executed; and his wife Cafyya was added to the already numerous harem of the victor.
The following year, 629, witnessed the performance by the Moslems of the pilgrimage to Mecca for the first time since the Hegira. The prophet summoned those who had accompanied him to Hodaybiya the year before to go with him now. The Koreish, according to the stipulations of the treaty, left the city; the Moslems entered it, performed their devotions, and retired after three days. This year was also marked by a signal victory over a Ghassanite chief, who had executed a Mussulman envoy.
In January, 630, taking advantage of the invitation of an allied tribe who had quarreled with Mecca, Mahomet quitted Medina with a large army for the purpose of taking that city. The exploit was facilitated by the desertion of the general of the Koreish, Abu Sofyân, who privately escaped to the Moslem camp and made his confession of faith. Next day the forces of the prophet entered Mecca with scarcely any resistance. In the following year he laid down the terms upon which the conquered city was to be dealt with. Abu Bakr, accompanied by 300 Moslems, was sent to Mecca as leader of the pilgrims. Ali was charged to make the proclamation to the people which is found in the 9th Sura of the Koran.
“An Immunity from God and his Apostle to those with whom ye are in league, among the Polytheist Arabs! (those who join gods with God). Go ye, therefore, at large in the land four months: but know that God ye shall not weaken; and that those who believe not, God will put to shame—And a proclamation on the part of God and his Apostle to the people on the day of the greater pilgrimage, that God is free from any engagement with the votaries of other gods with God as is his Apostle! If therefore ye turn to God it will be better for you; but if ye turn back then know that ye shall not weaken God: and to those who believe not, announce thou a grievous punishment. But this concerneth not those Polytheists with whom ye are in league, and who shall have afterwards in no way have failed you, nor aided any one against you. Observe, therefore, engagement with them through the whole time of their treaty: for God loveth those who fear him. And when the sacred months are passed, kill those who join other gods with God wherever ye shall find them; and seize them, besiege them, and lay wait for them with every kind of ambush: but if they shall convert, and observe prayer, and pay the obligatory alms, then let them go their way, for God is gracious, merciful. If any one of those who join gods with God ask an asylum of thee, grant him an asylum, that he may hear the Word of God, and then let him reach his place of safety. This, for that they are people devoid of knowledge” (K., p. 611.—Sura ix. 1-6).
Without quoting the proclamation at full length, we may observe that in substance the terms granted were these. Those of the heathen with whom treaties had been made were informed that they should be free for four months. These are the “sacred months” alluded to in the text, and which had always been observed as a time of truce by the heathen Arabs, but which Mahomet deprived of their privilege. After this period was past the Moslems might kill the heathens or take them prisoners wherever they might find them. With other heathens, with whom there was no treaty in existence, Allah announced that he would have nothing further to do. Moreover, the heathen were excluded by this proclamation from approaching the holy places of Mecca in future. “O believers!”—such are the words of this last decree—“only they who join gods with God are unclean! Let them not, therefore, after this year, come near the sacred Temple” (K., p. 615.—Sura ix. 28).
The prophet was now at the climax of his power. All Arabia was his; both materially and spiritually subdued beneath his authority. The city of his birth, which had spurned him as one of her humble citizens, was now compelled to receive him as her lord. No triumph could be more complete; and it is a rare, if not a unique, example of a new religion being persecuted, imperilled, well-nigh crushed, rescued, strengthened, contending for supremacy, and supreme, within the life-time of its founder. But that life-time was now approaching its end. Mahomet in 632 celebrated the last festival he was destined to witness with the utmost pomp. He went with all his wives to Mecca, and thousands of believers assembled around him there. He preached to them from his camel. He sacrificed one hundred camels. On the 8th of June, 632, he expired in the hut of Ayischa of a remittent fever from which he had been suffering a short time.
The character of the prophet Mahomet is an open question. Between the glowing admiration bestowed upon him by Carlyle, and the sneering depreciation of Sprenger, there lie numerous intermediate possibilities of opinion. His sincerity, his veracity, his humanity, his originality, are all topics of discussion admitting of varied treatment. The old and simple method of treating Mahomet as an impostor scarcely merits notice. Among serious students of his life it may be pronounced extinct. But between positive imposture and a degree of truthfulness equal to that which all would concede to Confucius, or to Jesus, there are many degrees, and a man may be more or less sincere in many particulars which do not involve the fundamental honesty of his conduct. It is in such particulars that the character of Mahomet is most open to suspicion. Few, I believe, would be able to read the earlier Meccan Suras, instinct as they are with a spirit of glowing devotion to a new idea, without entire conviction of the sincerity of their author. Nor can we reasonably doubt that he himself fully believed in the inspiration he professed to receive. The Koran is written precisely in that loose, rambling, and irregular style, which would indicate that its author was above the laws of human composition. If (as is said by some) there is beauty in the original Arabic, that beauty entirely evaporates in translation. The man whose work it is gave utterance to the thoughts of the moment as they were borne in upon him, in his opinion by an external power. But while he no doubt conceived himself as the instrument of the divine being, it is also exceedingly probable that in his later life he abused the weapon which he had thus got into his possession. That is to say, instead of waiting patiently for the revelation, and allowing Allah to take his own time, he in all likelihood put forth as revealed whatever happened to suit the political purpose of the day, and that at whatever moment was convenient to himself. In other words, he may have become less of a passive, and more of an active agent in the composition of the Koran. Take, for example, the two following Suras, belonging to his earliest period, as specimens of the inspired poetic style:—“Say: O ye unbelievers! I worship not that which ye worship, and ye do not worship that which I worship; I shall never worship that which ye worship, neither will ye worship that which I worship. To you be your religion; to me my religion.” “Say: He is God alone: God the eternal! He begetteth not, and is not begotten; and there is none like unto him” (K., pp. 12, 13.—Suras cix., cxii).
Contrast these fervent exclamations with such a passage as this, from one of the latest Suras:—
“This day have I perfected your religion for you, and have filled up the measure of my favors upon you: and it is my pleasure that Islam be your religion; but whoso without willful leanings to wrong shall be forced by hunger to transgress, to him, verily, will God be indulgent, merciful. They will ask thee what is made lawful for them. Say: Those things which are good are legalized to you, and the prey of beasts of chase which ye have trained like dogs, teaching them as God hath taught you. Eat, therefore, of what they shall catch for you, and make mention of the name of God over it, and fear God: Verily, swift is God to reckon: This day, things healthful are legalized to you, and the meats of those who have received the Scriptures are allowed to you, as your meats are to them. And you are permitted to marry virtuous women of those who have received the Scriptures before you, when you shall have provided them their portions, living chastely with them without fornication, and without taking concubines” (K., p. 632.—Sura v. 5-7).
The doctrine of direct inspiration, applied to matters like these, is almost a mockery. Yet Mahomet may have continued to think that God assisted him in the task of laying down laws for the believers, and we cannot accuse him of positive insincerity, even though his revelations were no longer the spontaneous outpourings of an overflowing heart.
A more difficult question is raised when we inquire how much of his teaching was borrowed from others, and whether there was any one who acted as his prompter in the novel doctrines he announced. Now there is evidence enough, some of it supplied by the Koran itself, that Mahomet was preceded by a sect called Hanyfites, who rejected the idolatry of their countrymen and held monotheistic doctrines. He spoke of himself as belonging to this sect, of which the patriarch Abraham was considered the representative and founder. Abraham is referred to in the Koran with the epithet “Hanyf,” and as one of those who do not join gods with God (E.g., Sura iii. 89; vi. 162; xvi. 121). A dozen or so of the contemporaries of the prophet renounced idolatry before him, and were Hanyfites. Three of these became Christians, and a fourth, by name Zayd, professed to be neither Jew nor Christian, but to follow the religion of Abraham. Zayd was acknowledged as his forerunner by Mahomet himself. But besides these sources of conversion which lay open to the prophet, it is plain from the Koran itself that he had had much intercourse with a person (or persons) of the Jewish faith. Mahomet was not a scholar, and his continual allusions to events in Jewish history plainly indicate a personal source. Moreover, the narratives are given in that somewhat perverted form which we should expect to find if they were derived from loose conversation rather than from study. His belief in the unity of God is not therefore a peculiarity which cannot be explained by reference to the circumstances in which his youth was passed. What was original with him was not the doctrine so much as the intensity with which it took possession of his mind, and the fervor which allowed him no rest until he had done his best to impart to others the profound conviction he entertained of this great truth.
Mahomet in fact began his public career as a simple preacher. The resistance he met with at home, and the necessity of relying for self-preservation on the swords of the men of Medina, converted him from a prophet to a potentate. The change was not one which he could avoid without sacrificing all chances of success; but it does appear to have exercised an unfortunate influence upon his character. As the governor of Medina he became tyrannical and even cruel. Among the worst features of his life is his conduct to the Jews after his attempts at conciliation had been shown to be fruitless. For instance, a Jewish tribe, the Banu Kaynoka, with whom a treaty of friendship had been concluded, were expelled from Medina. Another tribe of the same religion, the Banu Nadhyr, were blockaded in their quarter, and driven to capitulate, on condition of being allowed to leave Medina with their movable property. On the very day upon which the siege by Abu Sofyân in 627 came to an end, Mahomet blockaded the Banu Koraytza, also Jews, and compelled them to surrender at discretion. All the men, six hundred in number, were put to death, and the women were sold as slaves; a punishment which, even on the supposition that the tribe was hostile to the prophet, was unpardonably severe. In the ensuing year he marched against Chaybar, a town inhabited by Jews, besieged and took it. All the Jews taken in arms were put to death, whereupon the rest surrendered on condition of being permitted to withdraw with their families and their portable goods, exclusive of weapons and the precious metals. Kinana, their leader, was executed, and it is a suspicious circumstance that Mahomet married his widow Cafyya. Nor were these the worst of the prophet’s misdeeds. He even stooped to sanction, if not to order, private assassination. Shortly after his victory at Badr, a woman and an old man, both of whom had rendered themselves offensive by their anti-Mussulman verses, were murdered in the night; and in both instances the murderers received the protection and countenance of the prophet and his followers.
Unbridled authority had in fact corrupted him. All those who did not adhere to his cause committed in his eyes the crime of opposing the will of God. To a man empowered by a special commission like his, the ordinary restraints of morality could not apply. Hence also, if he required a larger number of wives than was permitted to any other Moslem, a special revelation was produced to justify the excess. This was one of the weakest points in the prophet’s character. Instead of setting an example to the community, he was driven to justify his self-indulgence by means which were nothing short of a perversion of religion to his own ends. There would have been nothing reprehensible, considering his age and country, in his indulgence in polygamy, had he observed any kind of moderation as to its extent. Where he happened to take a fancy to a woman, and that woman did not object to him, the moral sense of his countrymen would not have revolted by his taking her to wife. But it was revolted by the unrestricted freedom with which he added wife to wife, and concubine to concubine; a freedom so great as to degenerate into mere debauchery. He married women whom he had never seen, and who were sometimes already married. Mere beauty seems to have justified in his own eyes the addition of a new member to his harem, and there could be no pretence of real affection in the case of the women whom, without previous acquaintance, he took to his matrimonial bed. Exclusive of Khadija, the total number of his wives was thirteen, of whom nine survived him. He had also three concubines.
That his procedure scandalized the faithful is shown by the necessity he felt of defending it by the pliant instrument of revelation. Not only did he obtain from God a special law entitling him to exceed the usual number of wives; other peculiarities in his conduct were justified, either by an ex post facto decision applicable to all, or by an appeal to his extraordinary rights in his character of prophet. He had, for example conceived a desire to possess Zaynab, the wife of his adopted son Zayd. Zayd obligingly divorced her, and received the greatest favor from the prophet for this friendly conduct. Zaynab made it a condition of her compliance that the union with Mahomet should be sanctioned by revelation, and this sanction was of course procured. Marriage with an adopted son’s wife was somewhat shocking, and the following reference in the Koran indicates the manner in which the affair was regarded:
“And, remember, when thou saidst to him unto whom God had shown favor [i. e., to Zayd], and to whom thou also hadst shown favor, ‘Keep thy wife to thyself, and fear God;’ and thou didst hide in thy mind what God would bring to light, and didst fear man; but more right had it been to fear God. And when Zayd had settled concerning her to divorce her, we married her to thee, that it might not be a crime in the faithful to marry the wives of their adopted sons, when they have settled the affair concerning them. And the behest of God is to be performed. No blame attacheth to the prophet where God hath given him a permission” (K., p. 566.—Sura xxxiii. 38,39).
In another case he wished to induce a cousin, who was already married, though only to a heathen husband living at Mecca, to become his wife; but she, believer as she was, refused to be untrue to her conjugal duties. He permitted himself also to accept the love of women who simply surrendered themselves to him without the sanction of their relations, conduct which placed them in a highly disadvantageous position, since in case of dismissal by her husband, a woman thus informally married was not entitled to the dowry which other married women would receive, nor could she claim the protection of her family. “Among the heathen Arabs,” observes Sprenger, “a man who accepted such a favor would have been killed by the woman’s family” (L. L. M., vol. iii. p. 84). But for the case of the cousin and for the case of such obliging female devotees the Koran had its suitable provisions:—
“O Prophet! we allow thee thy wives whom thou hast dowered, and the slaves whom thy right hand possesseth out of the booty which God hath granted thee, and the daughters of thy uncle, and of thy paternal and maternal aunts who fled with thee to Medina, and any believing woman who hath given herself up to the prophet, if the prophet desired to wed her—a privilege for thee above the rest of the faithful.... Thou mayest decline for the present whom thou wilt of them, and thou mayest take to thy bed whom thou wilt, and whomsoever thou shalt long for of those thou shalt have before neglected; and this shall not be a crime in thee. Thus will it be easier to give them the desire of their eyes, and not to put them to grief, and to satisfy them with what thou shalt accord to each of them. God knoweth what is in your hearts, and God is knowing, gracious.”
By a combination of qualities which is not uncommon, he added to an unrestricted license in his own favor an equally unrestricted jealousy concerning others. He could not bear the thought that any other man might possibly enjoy one of his wives even after his death. His followers were told that they “must not trouble the Apostle of God, nor marry his wives after him, for ever. This would be a grave offense with God.” In the same paltry spirit he orders them, when they would ask a gift of any of his wives, to ask it from behind a veil. “Purer will this be for your hearts and for their hearts.” Lest any stranger should trouble this uneasy husband by obtaining a sight of his wives’ naked faces, he required them invariably to wear a veil in public, and never to expose themselves unveiled except to near male relations, slaves, or women (K., p. 569.—Sura xxxiii. 51, 53, 55).
Texts like these exhibit the degeneracy of the prophet’s character in his later days. He wanted the stimulus of adversity to keep him pure. But he had done his work, and that work was on the whole a good one. Not indeed that there was anything very original or striking in the doctrines he announced. The Koran rings the changes on the unity of God, his power, his mercy, and his other well-known qualities; on the resurrection, with its delights for the faithful and its terrible judgments for the wicked; and on the vast importance of belief in the prophet and submission to his decrees. But this religion, though containing no elements that did not already exist in its two parents, Judaism and Christianity, was an improvement on the promiscuous idolatry which it superseded. It was less sensual and more abstract; and its moral tone was higher. Greater still than the improvement in the creed of the Arabs was the improvement in their material status. Unity of faith brought with it unity of action. From a number of scattered, independent, and often hostile tribes, the Arabs became a powerful and conquering nation. Other peoples were in course of time converted, and the religion of Mahomet was in the succeeding centuries carried in triumph over vast districts where the name of Christ had hitherto reigned supreme. Districts of heathen Africa have also accepted it. Were the prophet able to speak to us now, he would be entitled to say that the manifest blessing of Allah had rested upon the work he had begun in obscurity and persisted in through persecution; and that the partiality of heaven was evident from the fact that Christianity had never succeeded, and had no prospect of succeeding, in regaining the vast territory in Europe and in Africa from which Islam has expelled it.
Section VI — Jesus Christ
When we endeavor to write the life of Jesus Christ, the greatest of the prophets, we are beset by peculiar difficulties arising from the nature of the materials. While in the case of the Buddha we receive from authorities a life which, though largely composed of fiction, is at least uniform and consistent, in the case of Jesus we have biographies from several sources, all of them partly historical, partly legendary, and each in some respects at issue with all the rest. Hence the labor of sifting fact from fiction, as also that of reproducing and classifying the fictitious element itself, is far more difficult. In sifting fact from fiction we have to judge, among two, three, or four versions of an occurrence, which is likely to be the most faithful statement of the truth, and within this statement itself how much we may accept, how much we must reject. And in reproducing and classifying the fictitious element we have not merely to relate a simple story, but to combine into our narrative varying, and sometimes conflicting, forms of the same fundamental myth.
Hence further subdivision will be needed in the case of Jesus than was requisite in treating the lives of any of the other prophets. We may in fact discern in the gospels three distinct strata: a stratum of fact; a stratum of miracle and marvel; and a stratum (in John) of mere imagination within the realm of natural events. Correspondently to these divisions in the sources we will treat Jesus first as historical; secondly, as mythical; thirdly, as ideal. The historical Jesus is the actual human figure who remains after abstraction has been made of the miraculous and legendary portions of his biography. The mythical Jesus, who is found in the three first gospels, is the human subject of legendary narratives; the ideal Jesus, who is found in John, is a completely superhuman conception.
Finally, it may be needful to remark that the names affixed to the several gospels are merely traditional, and that in using them as a brief designation for these works, no theory as to their actual authorship is intended to be implied. The gospels (excepting perhaps the fourth) were the work of many authors, though ultimately compiled and edited by a single hand. Who this editor was is of little moment; and who the original authors were we never can discover. So that the gospels are to all intents and purposes anonymous; but it will be convenient, after noting this fact, to continue to describe them by their current titles.
Subdivision 1 — The Historical Jesus
In attempting to sketch the outline of the actual life of Jesus—and anything more than an outline must needs be highly conjectural—there are some general principles which it is advisable to follow. Recollecting that we have to deal with biographers who have mingled in promiscuous confusion the supernatural with the natural, impossibilities with probabilities, fables with facts, it becomes our duty to endeavor to separate these heterogeneous elements according to some consistent plan. That this can ever be perfectly accomplished is not to be expected. The figure of Jesus must ever move in twilight, but we may succeed in reducing the degree of unavoidable obscurity.
The first of the maxims to be observed will be furnished by a little consideration of the kind of thing likely to be the earliest committed to writing, as also to be the most accurately handed down by tradition. This, it appears to me, would be sayings, rather than doings. Nothing in the life of Jesus is more characteristic and remarkable than his oral instruction; this would impress itself deeply upon the minds of his hearers, and nothing, we may fairly conjecture, would be so soon committed to writing either by them or by their followers. Moreover, the records of discourses and parables would be, in the main, more accurate than those of events; slight differences in the words attributed to a speaker being (except in special cases) less material than divergences in the manner of portraying his actions. Historical confirmation of this hypothesis is not wanting. There is the well-known statement of Papias that Matthew wrote down the “sayings” of Christ in Hebrew [Syro-Chaldaic]. And if we look for internal evidence, we find it in the far greater agreement among the synoptical gospels as to the doctrines taught by Jesus than as to the incidents of his career. The incidents bear traces of embellishment undergone in passing from mouth to mouth from which the doctrines are free. In some cases, moreover, there is concurrence as to the doctrines taught along with divergence as to the place where, and the circumstances under which, they were delivered. Added to which considerations there is the all-important fact that the events in the life of Christ are often of a supernatural order, while his discourses (excepting those in John) present nothing irreconcilable with his position in regard either to his epoch, his presumable education, or his nationality.
Giving this preference to sayings in general, over doings in general, we may next establish an order of preference among doings themselves. Of these, some are natural and probable; others unnatural and improbable; others again supernatural and impossible. The first kind will, of course, be accepted rather than the second; while the third kind must be rejected altogether. And as a corollary from this general principle, it follows that where one narrative gives a simpler version than another of the same event or series of events, the simpler version is to be preferred.
A third rule of the utmost importance is that when any statement is opposed, either directly or by its implications, to subsequent tradition, that statement may be confidently received. For when the whole course of opinion in the Christian Church has run in a given direction, the preservation in one of our Gospels of an alleged or implied fact conflicting with the established view, is an unmistakable indication that the truth has been rescued from destruction in a case where succeeding generations would gladly have suppressed it.
A fourth maxim, which is likely to be useful, is that wherever we can perceive traces of faults or blemishes in the character of Christ, we may presume them to have actually existed. For his biographers were deeply interested in making him appear perfect, and they would have been anxious wherever possible to conceal his weaknesses. Where, therefore, they suffer such human frailties to be perceived, their unconscious testimony is entitled to great weight. For although they themselves either do not see or do not acknowledge that what they record is really evidence of faultiness at all, yet it is plain that circumstances conveying such an impression to impartial minds are not likely to have been invented. The conduct ascribed to Jesus might be capable of justification from his peculiar mission or his peculiar conception of his duties, but admiring disciples would not wantonly burden him with a load not rightly his. Yet this principle, though unquestionable in the main, must be tempered with the qualification that there are cases where his followers may have misunderstood and misrepresented him. It must be added that a similar presumption of truth attaches to the record of faults or blunders in the conduct of the disciples, whose characters their disciples were likewise anxious to exalt.
In the fifth place, it is a reasonable supposition that the less complete the outline of the life of Jesus contained in any Gospel, the more authentic is that Gospel. Gaps in the story told by one writer which, in another writer, have been filled up, are strong indications of actual gaps in the life as known to the first Christians. While it is true that the compiler of one Gospel might, from ignorance or from design, omit some historical fact which the compiler of another would insert, yet it is unlikely that whole years would be passed over in silence, or remarkable events left out, where any genuine knowledge of those years or those events was possessed by the biographer. But nothing is more natural than that a space, subsequently felt to be a serious and almost intolerable void, should in process of time be removed by the exercise of the imagination craving to fill the empty canvas with living figures. Nor even where there is no positive blank, is it surprising that many actions conformable to the notion formed of Christ should be fitted into his career, and made to take their places alongside of others of a more unquestionable nature. We shall therefore prefer the scantiest account of the life of Jesus to the fullest.
A careful comparison of the first three Gospels—which alone can pretend to an historical character—will establish the fact that the second, ascribed to Mark, is the most trustworthy, or to speak accurately, the least untrustworthy, according to these canons. For in the first place, it absolutely omits many of the most noteworthy events comprehended by the other Gospels in the life of Jesus. Secondly, it sometimes gives a natural version of a circumstance which appears in the others as supernatural; or a comparatively simple version of a circumstance which the others have converted into something mystical. It surpasses the others in statements, and still more in omissions, implying divergence from well-established subsequent tradition; and in general the far greater scantiness of detail, the failure to fill up blanks as the other Evangelists have done, the almost fragmentary character of this Gospel, are points telling largely in its favor. That, however, we have the earliest, or anything approaching the earliest form of the life of Jesus in Mark it would be a great error to assume. As much as Mark differs from Matthew and Luke, so much at least did the primitive story differ from his, and in the same direction. Nay, it must have differed far more, for by the time the second Gospel was committed to its present form, a cloud of marvels had already surrounded the person of Jesus, and obscured his genuine figure. Through the mist of this cloud we must endeavor to discern such of his lineaments as have not been totally and forever hidden from our scrutinizing gaze.
Very little is known of the parents of Jesus, and even that little has rather to be inferred from casual references than gathered from direct statements. Joseph, his father, was a carpenter or builder, but his status is nowhere clearly defined. He and his family appear, however, to have been well known in their native country, and he was probably, therefore, not a mere workman, but a tradesman in comfortable circumstances.19 At any rate, he was the father of a considerable family, consisting of five sons and of more than one daughter (Mt. xiii. 55, and xii. 46; Mk. vi. 3, and iii. 31; Lu. viii. 19). The names of the brothers of Jesus,—James, Joses, Simon, and Judas,—have been preserved, while those of his sisters are unknown.
Whether there is not some confusion here, may indeed be doubted, for we hear also of another Mary, the mother of James and Joses (Mk. xv. 40; Mt. xxvii. 56), and it is possible (as M. Renan supposes), that the names of her children have been substituted for those of the genuine brothers of Christ which had been forgotten. Paul certainly mentions James, the Lord’s brother (Gal. i. 19), and it would be natural to interpret this literally. But the question does not admit of any positive decision. Of the actual existence, however, of both brothers and sisters there can be no reasonable doubt; for they are spoken of as personages who were familiar to their neighbors, while the very fact that they play no part in the subsequent history is a guarantee that they have not been invented for a purpose. Little is known of his mother Mary, her genuine form having been transfigured at a very early period by the Christian legend. The first and third Gospels have made her the subject of a story which would force us—if we accept it at all—to consider Jesus as her illegitimate child, born of some other father than Joseph. But there is no adequate ground to ascribe to her such laxity of conduct. For aught we can discern to the contrary, she seems to have borne a fair reputation among her countrymen, who undoubtedly, according to the incidental and therefore unbiased testimony of all four Evangelists, believed Jesus to have been the son of Joseph, begotten, like the rest of his family, in wedlock (Mt. xiii. 55; Mk. vi. 3; Lu. iv. 22; Jo. vi. 42.)
Beyond the fact that Joseph and Mary occupied a respectable position in Nazareth, we can say little of them. The lineage of both was plainly unknown to the compilers of the Gospels, since Joseph has been endowed with two different fathers, while the parentage of Mary has not even been alluded to. All that we can venture to assert is, that neither of them were reputed to be of the family of David, for Jesus took pains to prove that the Messiah need not, as was commonly believed, be descended from that monarch (Mt. xxii. 41-46; Mk. xii. 35-37; Lu. xx. 41-44). There would have been no occasion for his ingenious suggestion that David, by calling the Messiah Lord, disproved the theory that this Lord must be his son, unless he had felt that his belonging to a family which could not claim such a pedigree might be used as an argument against his Messianic character. We may confidently conclude then that his lineage was obscure.
That his birth took place at Nazareth is abundantly obvious from the very contrivances resorted to in Matthew and Luke to take his parents to Bethlehem for that event. According to either of these narratives one fact is plain: that the habitual dwelling-place of the family was Nazareth; while Matthew has preserved the valuable information that he was called a Nazarene (Mt. ii. 23), a statement which is confirmed by the manner in which he is alluded to in John, as “Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph” (Jo. i. 45). Jesus therefore passed in his life-time for a native of Nazareth, and as it does not appear that he ever contradicted the current assumption, as moreover the only two authorities which are at issue with this assumption are also at issue with one another on all but the bare fact of the birth at Bethlehem, we need not hesitate to draw the inference that he was born at Nazareth.
In his youth the son of Joseph was apprenticed to his father’s trade, and he may have practiced it for many years before he took to his more special vocation of a public teacher. He was at any rate known to his neighbors as “the carpenter,” and his abandonment of that calling for one in which he seemed to pretend to a position of authority over others, caused both astonishment and indignation among his old acquaintances.
His public career was closely preceded by that of an illustrious prophet, by whom he must have been profoundly influenced—John the Baptist. Very little of the doctrine of John has been preserved to us, his fame having been eclipsed by that of his successor. But that little is sufficient to evince the great similarity between his teaching and that of Jesus. He was in the habit of baptizing those who resorted to him in the Jordan, and of inculcating repentance, because the kingdom of heaven was at hand (Mt. iii. 2). Now precisely the same tone was adopted by Jesus after the captivity of John. Repentance was inculcated on account of the approaching advent of the kingdom of heaven, and a mode of instruction similar to that of John was practiced. Both these prophets, affected no doubt by the troubled condition of Judea, enjoined the simple amendment of the lives of individuals as the means towards a happier state of things. Both attracted crowds around them by the force and novelty of their preaching. Jesus, according to a probable interpretation of the narrative, was so much impressed by the lessons of his predecessor, and by the baptism received from him, that he for a time retired to a solitary place, living an ascetic life, and pondering the stirring questions that must have burnt within him. During this retirement Jesus could mature his designs for the future, and on emerging from it he was able at once to take up the thread of John the Baptist’s discourses. Possibly John himself had perceived the high capacity of the young Nazarene, and had appointed him to the prophetic office. But the story of his baptism by John has been unfortunately so surrounded with mythical circumstances, that the true relations between these teachers can no longer be discerned.
Meditating in the wilderness on the words of John the Baptist, and on the state of his country, the notion may have entered the mind of Jesus that he himself was the destined Messiah. While the power he felt within him may have given birth to the idea, the idea once born would react upon his nature and increase the power within him. But whether the conception of his own Messiahship arose now or at some other period, it is plain that he was animated by it during his public career, and that it gave to all his teaching its peculiar tone of independent authority. How far he was completely convinced of his own claim to the Messianic title will be considered in another place; it is sufficient to say here that he was plainly anxious that this claim should be acknowledged, and the rights it conferred upon him recognized.
On emerging from his retreat, he began the public promulgation of his doctrines; at first, however, with caution and reserve, and keeping within the lines marked out by John the Baptist. Attracted by the young enthusiast, a select band of followers gathered around him, and while he inspired them with implicit trust, they no doubt inspired him in their turn with higher confidence. The reticence which modesty or hesitation had produced gradually melted away, and he began boldly to put forth pretensions which, while they repelled and scandalized many, drew others into a closer companionship and a more implicit submission. Simon and Andrew, James and John, were the first, or among the first, of his disciples. Eight others joined him at about the same period of his life, their names being Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James the son of Alpheus, Thaddeus, Simon the Canaanite, and Judas (Mk. iii. 14-19; Mt. x. 1-4). While these formed the inner circle, we must suppose that he had many other admirers and followers, who were either less intimate with him, or less constant in their attendance. And there may even have been others of equal intimacy with the twelve apostles, whose names have not been handed down to us. For all the apostles did not enjoy an equally close and unreserved friendship with their master. Three of their number—Simon, James, and John—stood towards him in an altogether special and peculiar relationship. They are far more prominent than any of the other nine. They were selected to accompany Jesus when others were left behind. They formed an inmost circle within the circle of his more constant companions. Them alone he is said to have distinguished by names of his own invention. On Simon he conferred the name of Peter. To James and John, the sons of Zebedee, he applied the familiar nickname of Boanerges, or sons of thunder, which seems to indicate that they were distinguished by the fervor of their zeal (Mk. iii. 16, 17).
The admirers of Jesus were scarcely, if at all, less numerous among the female than among the male sex. Indeed, he seems to have exercised a very marked fascination over women. When he went to Jerusalem, he was followed by many women from Galilee, who had been accustomed to contribute to his wants, and to give him that personal attention which kindly women know so well how to confer. Mary Magdalene whom he had healed of some mental ailment, Mary the mother of James, Salome the mother of the sons of thunder, were among the most devoted of these, while two sisters, Mary and Martha, Joanna the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, are also mentioned (Mk. xv. 40, 41; Lu. viii. 2, 3, x. 38, 39). If we may believe one of the Evangelists, who stands alone in this respect, the homage of women was particularly agreeable to Jesus, who received it with words of the highest praise (Lu. vii. 36-50, x. 38-42). That some among these many female followers were drawn to him by the sentiment of love is, at least, highly probable. Whether Jesus entertained any such feeling towards one of them it is impossible to guess, for the human side of his nature has been carefully suppressed in the extant legend.
Supported then by adherents of both sexes, Jesus entered upon his career of a public teacher. His own house was at Capernaum (Mt. iv. 13), but he wandered from place to place in the exercise of his vocation, staying, no doubt, with friends and disciples. It is not necessary to follow him in these peregrinations, of which only the vaguest accounts have been preserved by the Evangelists. But two remarkable circumstances deserve to be noted; namely, that his own family rejected his pretensions, and that he met with no success in his own district. Of the former, in addition to the negative evidence furnished by the fact that neither Mary nor the brothers of Jesus are mentioned among the believers, we have the positive evidence of John that his brothers did not believe (Jo. vii. 5), confirmed by the statement in the other Gospels that his family attempted to see him during the earlier part of his career, and that Jesus positively refused to have anything to do with them (Mk. iii. 31-35; Mt. xii. 46-50; Lu. viii. 19-21). This desire on the part of the family to confer with him, and the manner in which Jesus, disavowing all special ties, adopts all who “do the will of God” as mother, brother and sister, admits of but one construction. Mary and her other children were anxious to draw him away from the rash and foolish mode of life—as they deemed it—on which he had entered, and Jesus, understanding their design, avoided an unpleasant interview by simply declining to be troubled with them. And if, as is highly probable, it was they who thought him mad (Mk. iii. 21), we have further proof that neither his mother nor any of the other members of his family can be counted among his converts, at any rate during his life-time. The second circumstance, his complete failure in his own neighborhood, is attested by a saying of his own, recorded by all four Evangelists. A prophet, he is reported to have said, is without honor in his own country, among his own kin, and in his own house (Mk. vi. 4). To which it was added that he was unable to perform any work of power there, beyond curing a few sick people. And these cures evidently did not impress the skeptical Nazarenes, for we are told that “he marveled because of their unbelief” (Mk. vi. 5, 6).
Leaving, therefore, these hard-hearted neighbors, he proceeded to address the people of Galilee and Judea in discourses which excited great attention; sometimes inculcating moral truths in plain but eloquent language, sometimes preferring to illustrate them by little stories, the application of which he either made himself or left to his hearers to discover. Had these stood alone, they would have sufficed to give him a high reputation. But he did not depend on words alone for his success among the people. The peculiar condition of Palestine at this epoch gave him a favorable opportunity of supplementing words by deeds. The trials and sufferings they had undergone, both from the Herodian family and the Romans; the constant outrage to their deepest feelings afforded by the presence of an alien soldiery; the insults, humiliations, and cruelties they endured at the hands of their conquerors, had wrought the people up to a state of almost unbearable tension and extreme excitement. That under the pressure of such a state of things nervous disorders should be widely prevalent, is not to be wondered at. And these affections, as is well known, are peculiarly infectious, easily spreading through a whole village and raging in a whole country (See, for example, Hæcker’s Epidemics, passim). Hysteria, moreover, takes many forms. Now it may show itself as species of madness; now as the imagination of some positive disease. Here it may be violent and outrageous; there morbid and gloomy. Another peculiarity is its tendency to increase the more, the greater the attention paid to it by friends and onlookers. To be an object of interest to those around is enough to inflame the symptoms of the hysterical patient. And when this interest took shape in a belief that he was inhabited by some bad spirit—which was equally the theory of the Jews in the time of Christ, and of Christians up to the middle ages—it was natural that the evil should be magnified to the highest degree. There are, however, some individuals who exercise a peculiar power over sufferers of this description. Their looks, their touch, their words, are all soothing. By addressing the victims of hysteria in tones of authority, by taking their hands, or otherwise endeavoring to calm their excited nerves, these physicians of nature may put a stop to the pain, or expel the illusion. In modern days they would be called mesmerists, and though the peculiarities of temperament to which they owe their mesmeric faculty are not yet understood, their influence is well known to those who have examined into the subject.
Among the Jews, the subjects of these current maladies were said to be possessed by devils. And it was a common profession to cast out these so-called devils,20 for we are told that it was practiced by the adherents of the Pharisees. What means they employed we do not know. Probably they were not of the mesmeric order, but consisted in charms and exorcisms which, being believed by the patients to have the power of curing them, actually had it. At any rate, the fact remains that Jesus and the Pharisees are reputed to have possessed a similar influence over the demons, and if we accept the statement as true in the one case we cannot consistently reject it in the other. It remains to be considered, however, whether the evidence is such as to induce us to believe it in either. Now it is quite true that a great many absurd and impossible miracles are ascribed to Jesus in the Gospels. But considering the important place occupied in his life—as it has come down to us—by his cures of sick people; considering the possibility above suggested that many of these might have taken place by known methods; considering too the extremely easy field which Palestine presented for their application, it would appear more likely that there might be a basis of truth in the numerous accounts of sudden recoveries effected by him, than that they were all mere inventions. We may then assume, without here entering into details, that a number of unfortunate people, thought to be possessed by devils, either met him on his way, or were brought to him by relations, and were restored to health by the authoritative command addressed to the evil spirit to depart; mingled with the sympathetic tone and manner towards the tormented subject of possession. Individual examples of these apparently miraculous cures may be open to doubt from the very inaccurate character of the records, and for this reason it will be better for the present to admit the general fact without binding ourselves to this or that special instance of its occurrence.
Possessing this power himself, and ignorant of its source, Jesus attempted to communicate it to his disciples. It is expressly stated that he gave them power to heal sicknesses and cast out devils (Mk. iii. 15), though it is doubtful whether they met with much success in this vocation. On one occasion, at least, a signal failure is reported, and as the fact stated redounds neither to the glory of Christ, who had appointed his disciples to the work, nor of the disciples who had received the appointment, we may believe it to be true (Mk. ix. 14-29). A parent had brought his little son to the apostles to be delivered from some kind of fits from which he suffered. The apostles could do nothing with him. When Jesus arrived he ordered the spirit to depart, and the boy, after a violent attack, was left tranquil. We are not told indeed how long his calmness lasted, nor whether the fits were permanently arrested. For the moment, however, a remedy was effected, and the disciples naturally inquired why they had not been equally successful. The extreme vagueness of the reply of Jesus renders it probable that his remedial influence was due to some personal characteristic which he could not impart to others. This conclusion is confirmed by the noteworthy fact that an unknown person exercised the art of casting out devils in the name of Jesus, though not one of his company (Mk. ix. 38-40). Here the name would be valuable only because of its celebrity, the expulsion of the devils being due, as in the case of Jesus himself, to the personal endowments of the exorcist. At any rate, we have the broad facts that the Pharisees, Jesus himself, and the unknown employer of his name, were all proficient in the art of delivering patients from the supposed possession of evil spirits. Possibly too the apostles did the same, and it was certainly the intention of Jesus that they should.
Such exhibitions of power, though they might tend to strengthen the influence of Jesus among the multitude, were not the principal means on which he depended for acceptance. His sermons and his parables were both more remarkable and more original. In addition to the fact that he taught, in the main, pure and beautiful moral doctrines, he well knew how to exemplify his meaning by telling illustrations. The parables by which he enforced his views have become familiar to us all, and deserve to remain among our most precious literary possessions. What more especially distinguished his mode of teaching from that of other masters was the air of spiritual supremacy he assumed, and his total independence of all predecessors but the writers of Scripture. Not indeed that he ventured upon any departure from the accepted tradition with regard to the history of his nation, or the authority of the Old Testament. On the contrary, he was entirely free from any approach to a critical or inquiring attitude. But in so far he did not teach like the scribes, that he boldly put forth his own interpretations of Scripture and his own views of ethics, without the smallest regard for the established opinions of the schools, and without seeking support from any authority but his own. In this course he was evidently strengthened by an inward conviction that he was the destined Messiah of the Jewish people. Deputed, as he conceived, directly from God, he could afford to slight the restrictions which others might place upon their conduct. He was not bound by the rules which applied to ordinary men.
This assumption, with its corresponding behavior, could not fail to give great offense to those by whom his title was not conceded. And we accordingly find that he comes into constant collision with the recognized legal and religious guides of the Jews. Among the first of the shocks he inflicted on their sense of propriety was his claim to be authorized to forgive sins (Mk. ii. 7). To the Jewish mind this pretension was highly blasphemous; no one, they thought, could forgive sins but God, and they did not understand the credentials in virtue of which this young man acted as his ambassador. Further scandal was caused by his contempt for the common customs observed on the Sabbath day (Mk. ii. 24, and iii. 6), which appeared to him inconsistent with the original purpose of that institution. The language he was accustomed to use to his disciples, and to his hearers generally, was not of a nature to soothe their growing animosity. Designating himself by the Messianic term of “the Son of man,” he announced the approach, even during the generation then extant, of a kingdom of heaven wherein he himself was to return clothed with glory, and his followers were to be gathered round him to enjoy his triumph. Along with these promises to his friends, there flowed forth indignant denunciation of the Pharisees and Scribes, who were held up to the scorn of the populace.
Having thus provoked them to the utmost, he imprudently accepted the honor of a sort of triumphal entry into Jerusalem, the pomp of which, however, has probably been somewhat exaggerated (Mk. xi. 1-11). Nor was this all. He proceeded to an act of violence which it was impossible for the authorities to overlook. The current Roman money not being accepted at the temple, the outer court of this building was used by money-changers, who performed the useful and necessary service of receiving from those who came to make their offerings the ordinary coinage, and giving Jewish money instead of it. Doves being also required by the law to be offered on certain occasions, there were persons outside the temple who sold these birds. Indignant at what seemed to him a violation of the sanctity of the spot, Jesus upset the tables of these traffickers, and described them all as thieves. It is added in one account that he interfered to prevent vessels being carried through the temple (Mk. xi. 15-17). That, after this, the spiritual rulers should ask him to produce his authority for such conduct, was not unnatural. Nor is it surprising that, after his unsatisfactory reply to their inquiry, they should take steps to prevent the repetition of similar scenes.
The efforts of the chief priests to bring about his destruction are described in two of our Gospels as the direct result of his proceedings about the temple, the impression he had made on the multitude being a further inducement (Mk. xi. 18; Lu. xix. 48). Aware of the indignation he had excited, Jesus soon after these events retired into some private place, known only to his more intimate friends. So at least I understand the story of his betrayal. Either Judas never betrayed him at all, or he was lurking in concealment somewhere in the neighborhood of Jerusalem. That the conduct attributed to Judas should be a pure invention appears to me so improbable, more especially when the history of the election of a new apostle is taken into account, that I am forced to choose the latter alternative. The representation of the Gospels, that Jesus went on teaching in public to the very end of his career, and yet that Judas received a bribe for his betrayal, is self-contradictory. The facts appear to be that Jesus ate the passover at Jerusalem with his disciples, and that immediately after it, conscious of his growing danger, he retired to some hidden spot where he had lived before, and where friends alone were admitted to his company. Judas informed the authorities of the temple where this spot was. They thereupon apprehended Jesus, and brought him before the Sanhedrim for trial.
So confused and imperfect is the account of this trial given by the Evangelists, that we are unable to make out what was the nature of the charge preferred against him, or of the evidence by which it was supported. It is clear, however, that the gravamen of the accusation was that he had put forth blasphemous pretensions to be the Messiah, “the Son of the Blessed One.” And this was supported by a curious bit of evidence. Two witnesses deposed, either that they had heard him say he would destroy this temple made with hands and build another made without hands within three days, or that he was able to destroy the temple, and to rebuild it in three days (Mt. xxvi. 61; Mk. xiv. 58). The witnesses are called false witnesses, both in Mark and in Matthew. But if we turn to John (Jo. ii. 19), we find the probable source of the charge brought against him by these two witnesses, and we find reason also to think that they were not perjurers. There we are told that after he had driven the money-changers and traders from the temple, the Jews asked him for a sign that might evince his right to do such things. In reply to their demand, Jesus is reported to have said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” Connecting this statement in the one Gospel with the evidence given on the trial according to others, we may form a tolerably clear notion of the actual fact. Pressed by his opponents for some justification of his extraordinary conduct, Jesus had taken refuge in an assertion of his supernatural power. If they destroyed the temple he would be able, with the favor bestowed on him by God, to rebuild it in three days. These words might possibly be misconstrued by some of his hearers into a threat that he himself would destroy the temple, an outrage which would in their view have been less difficult to imagine after his violence to those engaged in business in its outer court. But whether so understood or not, there could be no question about the pretension to something like divinity in the promise to rebuild it in three days. There is not a shadow of probability in favor of the interpretation put upon the words in the fourth Gospel, that he spoke of the temple of his body. And even had that been his secret meaning, the witnesses who appeared against him could have no conception that he was thinking of anything but the material temple, to which the whole dialogue had immediate reference. They were therefore simply repeating, to the best of their ability, words which had actually fallen from the prisoner. The evidence for the prosecution being concluded, the high priest appealed to Jesus to know whether he had nothing to reply. Jesus being silent, the high priest proceeded to ask him directly whether he was “Christ, the Son of the Blessed One.” Jesus answered that he was, and that they would hereafter see him “sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.” Such an answer was an explicit confession of the very worst that had been alleged against him. After it, there was no option but to convict him, and we read accordingly that they all condemned him as worthy of death. But capital punishment could not be inflicted except by Roman authority. He was accordingly taken before the procurator, Pontius Pilate, charged with the civil crime of claiming to be king of the Jews. Pontius appears to have regarded him as a harmless fanatic, and to have been anxious to discharge him, in accordance with a custom by which one prisoner was released at the festival which fell at this time. But the Jews clamored for the release of a man named Barabbas, who was in prison on account of his participation in an insurrectionary movement in which blood had been shed. Barabbas accordingly was set at liberty, and Jesus, though with some reluctance on the part of the procurator, was sentenced to crucifixion. The sentence was carried into effect immediately. Unable, probably from exhaustion through his recent sufferings, to carry his own cross, Jesus was relieved of the burden by one Simon, on whom the soldiery imposed the duty of bearing it. He was crucified along with two thieves, and an inscription in which he was entitled “King of the Jews” was placed upon his cross, apparently in mockery of the Jewish nation much more than of him. His ordinary disciples had fled in terror from his melancholy end, but he was followed to the cross by some affectionate women, who had previously attended him in Galilee. And after he was dead, his body was honorably interred by a well-to-do adherent, named Joseph of Arimathæa.
Subdivision 2 — The Mythical Jesus
The life of the mythical Jesus is found in the synoptical Gospels, but more especially in the first and third. It is by no means pure fiction, but an indistinguishable compound of fact and fiction, in which the fictitious elements bear so large a proportion that it is impossible to disentangle from them the elements of genuine history. Part of this life moreover is wholly mythical, and of this wholly mythical portion there are certain sections that are constructed on a common plan, the biographers in these sections having only fitted the typical incidents in the lives of great men to the special case of Jesus, the son of Joseph. Not that this need have been done consciously; the probability is that the circumstances and mode of thought which led to the invention of such typical incidents in the lives of others, led to it equally in that of Jesus. However this may be, we shall find in the mythical life of Jesus the following three classes of myths: 1. Myths of the typical order, common to a certain kind of great men in certain ages, and therefore purely unhistorical; 2. Myths peculiar to Jesus, in which the miraculous element so predominates, that it is impossible to recognize any, or more than the very slightest, admixture of history; 3. Myths, peculiar to Jesus, in which there is a more or less considerable admixture of history; And 4. Statements not of necessity mythical, which may or may not be historical, but of which the evidence is inadequate.
At the outset of our task we are met by the assumed genealogy of Jesus, which has caused some trouble to theologians, and which is mainly important as an indication of the degree of credit due to writers who could insert such a document. For these awkward pedigrees afford an absolute proof of the facility with which the Christians of the earliest age supplemented the actual life of Jesus by free invention. We are happily in possession of two conflicting lists of ancestors, and happily also they are both of them lists of the ancestors of Joseph, who, according to the very writers by whom they are supplied, stood in no relation whatever to Christ, the final term of the genealogies. Double discredit thus falls upon the witnesses. In the first place, both lists cannot be true, though both may be false; one of them therefore must be, and each may be, a deliberate fiction. In the second place, both the Gospels bear unconscious testimony to the fact that Joseph was originally supposed to be, by the natural course of things, the father of Jesus, for otherwise why should the early Christians have been at the trouble to furnish the worthy carpenter with a distinguished ancestry? They thus discredit their own story that Jesus was the son of Mary alone. Either then Jesus was the son of Joseph, or neither of the two genealogies is his genealogy at all. The solution of these inconsistencies is to be found in the fact that two independent traditions have been blended together by the Evangelists. The one, no doubt the more ancient of the two, considered Jesus as the child of Joseph and Mary, and the ingenuity of his biographers has not succeeded in obliterating the traces of this tradition (Mt. xiii. 55). Another and much later one, treated him as the offspring of Mary without the aid of a human father. Those who believed in the first and more authentic story had busied themselves with the discovery of a royal descent for their hero, in order that he might fulfill what they considered the conditions of the Messiahship. They had naturally traced his ancestry upwards from his father, not from his mother, according to the usual procedure. But the Gospels of Matthew and Luke were written entirely on the hypothesis that he had no father but God; all necessity for showing that Joseph was of the house of David was therefore gone. Nevertheless the writers or the editors of these Gospels did not like to neglect entirely what seemed to them to strengthen their case, and, forgetful of the ridiculous jumble they were making, inserted an elaborate pedigree of Joseph along with the statement that Jesus was not his son.
Let us now examine the genealogies in detail, placing them in columns parallel to one another. Luke begins a stage earlier than Matthew, making God his starting-point instead of Abraham. From Abraham to David the two authorities proceed together. Matthew, who has cut his genealogical tree into three sections of fourteen generations each, makes this his first division. After this the divergence begins:—
| Matthew. | Luke. |
|---|---|
| 1. Solomon. | 1. Nathan. |
| 2. Rehoboam. | 2. Mattatha. |
| 3. Abia. | 3. Menan. |
| 4. Asa. | 4. Melea. |
| 5. Jehoshaphat. | 5. Eliakim. |
| 6. Joram. | 6. Jonan. |
| [Ahaziah. Joash. Amaziah.21] | |
| 7. Ozias (or Uzziah). | 7. Joseph. |
| 8. Jotham. | 8. Juda. |
| 9. Ahaz. | 9. Simeon. |
| 10. Hezekiah. | 10. Levi. |
| 11. Manasseh. | 11. Matthat. |
| 12. Amon. | 12. Jorim. |
| 13. Josiah. [Jehoiakim.] | 13. Eliezer. |
| 14. Jeconiah (or Jehoiachin). | 14. Jose. |
| Here the captivity closes the second period. After the captivity we have— | |
| 1. Jeconiah. | 15. Er. |
| 2. Salathiel (or Shealtiel). | 16. Elmodam. |
| 3. Zerubbabel. | 17. Cosam. |
| 4. Abiud. | 18. Addi. |
| 5. Eliakim. | 19. Melchi. |
| 6. Azor. | 20. Neri. |
| 7. Sadoc. | 21. Salathiel. |
| 8. Achim. | 22. Zorobabel. |
| 9. Eliud. | 23. Rhesa. |
| 10. Eleazar. | 24. Joanna. |
| 11. Matthan. | 25. Juda. |
| 12. Jacob. | 26. Joseph. |
| 13. Joseph. | 27. Semei. |
| 14. Jesus. | 28. Mattathias. |
| 29. Maath. | |
| 30. Nagga. | |
| 31. Esli. | |
| 32. Naum. | |
| 33. Amos. | |
| 34. Mattathias. | |
| 35. Joseph. | |
| 36. Janna. | |
| 37. Melchi. | |
| 38. Levi. | |
| 39. Matthat. | |
| 40. Heli. | |
| 41. Joseph. | |
| 42. Jesus.22 |
Various observations offer themselves on these discrepant genealogies. In the first place it will be observed that Matthew, in his anxiety to show that the whole period comprised is divisible into three equal parts of fourteen generations each, has actually omitted no less than four generations contained in the authorities he followed. For since he traced the descent of Joseph through the royal line of Judah, we are enabled to check his statements by reference to the Book of Chronicles (1 Chron. iii.), and thus to convict him of positive bad faith. In the first instance he omits three kings, representing Uzziah as the son of Joram, who was his great great grandfather; in the second he passes over Jehoiachim, making Jehoiachin the son instead of the grandson of Josiah. In the third period we have no authority by which to verify his statements beyond Zerubbabel, but his determination to carry out his numerical system at all hazards is shown by the double reckoning of Jehoiachin, at the close of the second and the beginning of the third division. The latter has in fact but thirteen generations, and it was only by this trick—a little concealed by the break effected through his allusion to the captivity—that the appearance of uniformity was maintained. Luke has adopted a different method. Leaving the line of kings, he connects Joseph with David through Nathan instead of Solomon. Now beyond the fact that Nathan was the offspring of David and Bathsheba, nothing whatever is known about him. Indeed it may have been his very obscurity, and the consequent facility of creating descendants for him, that led to his selection in preference to Solomon, though unless it were that his name stood next above Solomon’s (2 Sam. v. 14)—there is no obvious reason for his being preferred to several other children of David. However, he answered the purpose as well as any, and after him it was not a difficult operation to invent a plausible list of names to fill up the gap between him and Joseph. The compiler of the list in Matthew had the advantage in so far that he did not require to draw on his imagination except for nine names between Zerubbabel and Joseph, while the compiler of the list in Luke had to supply the whole period from Nathan downwards with forefathers. But the second compiler had the advantage over the first inasmuch as his fraud did not admit of the same easy exposure by reference to its sources, and it was, on the whole, a safer course to desert history altogether than to falsify it in favor of an arithmetical fancy.
Another discrepancy between the two writers remains to be noted; it is the enormous disproportion in the number of generations between David and Joseph. Matthew has twenty-five generations, and Luke forty, excluding Joseph himself. A difference of this magnitude—involving something like 400-450 years—is not to be surmounted by any process of harmonizing. To which it may be added that the two Evangelists, by assigning to Joseph different fathers, clearly inform us that his true father was unknown.
We have here, in short, an excellent instance of the first order of myth, or myth typical. It has been a common practice in all ages, more especially among ignorant and uncultivated nations, to endow those who had risen from obscurity to greatness with illustrious ancestors. Royal connections have always been regarded with especial favor for such purposes. Thus, the Buddha is represented as the descendant of the great Sakya monarchs. Thus, the ancestors of Zarathustra, in the genealogy provided for him in Parsee authorities, were the ancient kings of Persia. Thus, Moslem biographers declare that Mahomet sprang from the noblest family of the noblest nation, and many historians give him even a princely lineage (L. L. M., vol. i. p. 140). Thus, according to Sir John Davis, “the pedigree or Confucius is traced back in a summary manner to the mythological monarch Hoang-ty, who is said to have lived more than two thousand years before Christ” (Chinese, vol. ii. p. 45). Thus, the founder of Rome was placed by popular legend in a family relationship to Æneas.
Leaving these genealogies—which are important only from the light they shed on the literary character of their authors and transmitters—we pass to the first legend directly concerning Jesus himself, that of his birth. Here again the second and fourth Evangelists are silent, leaving us to suppose that Jesus was the natural son of Joseph and Mary, and certainly never hinting that they entertained any other belief themselves. But the first and third each relate a little fable on this subject, though unhappily for them the fables do not agree. Both had to observe two conditions. The first was that Jesus should be born of a virgin mother; the second that he should be born at Bethlehem. Matthew accomplishes this end by informing us that Mary, when espoused to Joseph, was found to be with child. Joseph, who thereupon contemplated the rupture of his engagement, was informed by an angel in a dream that his bride was with child by no one but the Holy Ghost; that she was to bear a son, and that he was to call him Jesus. Being satisfied by this assurance, he married Mary, but respected her virginity until she had brought forth her first-born son, whom in obedience to his dream he named Jesus. The child was born in Bethlehem where it would appear from this account that Mary lived, and it is only after a journey to Egypt that this Gospel brings the parents of Christ to Nazareth where a tradition too firm to be shaken placed their residence (Mt. i. 18-25; ii. 23).
Widely different is the treatment of this subject in Luke. According to him there was a priest named Zacharias whose wife Elizabeth was barren. The couple were no longer young, but they were not old enough to have lost all hope of progeny, for we are told that when Zacharias was engaged in his duties in the temple, an angel appeared to him and informed him that his prayer was heard, and that his wife was to have a son whom he was to call John. Zacharias had therefore been praying for offspring, though when the angel—who announced himself as Gabriel—appeared, he was troubled with some impious doubts, in punishment of which he was struck dumb. After this Elizabeth conceived, and went into retirement. From five to six months after the above scene Gabriel was again despatched from heaven, this time to a virgin named Mary, living at Nazareth. Arrived at her house, he addressed her thus: “Hail, thou that art highly favored; the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women.” Seeing Mary’s confusion he reassured her; and informed her that she should have a son called Jesus, who was to possess the throne of David, and reign over the house of Jacob forever. Like Zacharias, Mary was disposed to raise troublesome questions, and she accordingly inquired of Gabriel how she could bear a child, “seeing I know not a man.” But Gabriel was ready with his answer. The Holy Ghost would come upon her; moreover, her cousin Elizabeth had conceived (which, however, was not a parallel case), and nothing was impossible with God. Soon after this visit, Mary went to see Elizabeth, who interpreted an ordinary incident of pregnancy as a sign that the fruit of Mary’s womb was blessed, and that Mary was to be the mother of her Lord. The virgin replied in a very elaborate little speech, which if uttered must have been carefully prepared for the occasion. In due time the child of Zacharias and Elizabeth was born, and named John by his parents’ desire. What Joseph thought of his bride’s condition we are not told, nor do we know whether she made known to him her interview with the angel Gabriel. At any rate he did not repudiate her, for we find him taking her with him, about five months later, to Bethlehem, for the purpose of the census which took place when Quirinus was governor of Syria, his descent from David requiring him to attend at that town. During this census it was that Jesus was born, and because of the crowded condition of the inn at this busy time, he was placed in a manger (Lu. i. 1; ii. 7). There let us leave him for the present, while we compare these narratives with others of a like description.
Birth in some miraculous or unusual manner is a common circumstance in the lives of great persons. We have here therefore another instance of the typical species of myth. Thus, in classical antiquity, Here is said to have produced Hephaistos “without the marriage bed” (Bib., i. 3-5). Turning to a remote part of the globe, there was in the present century a person living in New Zealand who, according to native tradition, was “begotten by the attua,” a species of deity, “his mother being then unmarried. The infant was produced at her left arm-pit, but there was no visible mark left.... He is held as a great prophet; when he says there will be no rain there will be none” (N. Z., p. 82). An example of the same kind of legend occurs in the ancient history of China. The hero is one How-tseih, who was the founder of the royal house of Chow. His mother, it appears, was barren, like Elizabeth, for she “had presented a pure offering and sacrificed, that her childlessness might be taken away.” Her devotion received a fitting reward, for:—
“She then trod on a toe-print made by God, and was moved,
In the large place where she rested.
She became pregnant, she dwelt retired;
She gave birth to, and nourished [a son],
Who was How-tseih.”
His mode of coming into the world was peculiar too:—
“When she had fulfilled her months
Her first-born son [came forth] like a lamb.
There was no bursting, nor rending;
No injury, no hurt:—
Showing how wonderful he would be.
Did not God give her the comfort?
Had he not accepted her pure offering and sacrifice,
So that thus easily she brought forth her son?”23
The gestation of the Buddha was in many ways miraculous. He entered the womb of his mother by a voluntary act, resigning his abode in heaven for the purpose. At the time of his descent upon earth Mâyâ Devi dreamt that a white elephant of singular beauty had entered into her, a dream which portended the future greatness of the child (R. T. R. P., vol. ii. p. 61). During the time of his remaining in the womb, his body, which was visible both to his mother and to others, had a resplendent and glorious appearance.24 “Mâyâ the queen, during the time that Bodhisattva remained in the womb of his mother, did not feel her body heavy, but on the contrary light, at ease and in comfort, and felt no pain in her entrails. She was nowise tormented by the desires of passion, nor by disgust, nor by trouble, and had no irresolution against desire, no irresolution against the thought of evil or of vice. She suffered the sensation neither of cold, nor of heat, nor of hunger, nor of thirst, nor of trouble, nor of passion, nor of fatigue: she saw nothing of which the form, the sound, the smell, the taste and the touch did not seem to her agreeable. She had no bad dreams. The tricks of women, their inconstancy, their jealousy, the defects of women and their weaknesses, she did not share” (Ibid., vol. ii. p. 77). And although it is never expressly stated that the Buddha’s nominal father had no part in his production, it is remarkable that at the time of her conceiving, Mâyâ was living in a place apart from him, having craved permission to retire for a season, to practice fasting and penance. During this time she had told the king that she would be “completely delivered from thoughts of stealing, desire and pride,” and that she would not “yield to one illicit desire” (R. T. R. P., vol. ii. pp. 54, 55). Some sects of Buddhists are more explicit, and maintain that Bodhisattvas do not pass through the earlier stages of fœtal development; namely, those of Kalalam, mixing up, the period of the first week, when the future body is like milk: arbudam, the period of the second week, where a form rises like something inflated; peci, thickening: and ghana, hardening, the periods of the third and fourth weeks (Wassiljew, p. 260). But all this does not exclude the coöperation of a human father. Passing to another great religion, we find that even the sober philosopher Confucius did not enter the world, if we may believe Chinese traditions, without premonitory symptoms of his greatness. It is said that one day as his mother was ascending a hill, “the leaves of the trees and plants all erected themselves and bent downwards on her return. That night she dreamt the Black Te appeared, and said to her, ‘You shall have a son, a sage, and you must bring him forth in a hollow mulberry tree.’” In another dream she received a prophecy of the importance of her coming progeny (C. C., vol. i. p. 59—Proleg.). Another account states that “various prodigies, as in other instances, were the forerunners of the birth of this extraordinary person. On the eve of his appearance on earth, two dragons encircled the house, and celestial music sounded in the ears of his mother. When he was born, this inscription appeared on his breast—‘The maker of a rule for settling the world’” (Chinese, vol. ii. p. 44). The mother of Mahomet is said to have related of her pregnancy, that she felt none of the usual inconveniences of that state; and that she had seen a vision in which she had been told that she bore in her womb the Lord and Prophet of her people. A little before her delivery the same figure appeared again, and commanded her to say, “I commend the fruit of my body to the One, the Eternal, for protection against the envious” (L. L. M., vol. i. p. 142).
Miraculously born, it was necessary that Jesus should also be miraculously recognized as a child of no common order. The story would have been incomplete without some one to acknowledge his superhuman character even in his cradle. Matthew and Luke again accomplish the common end by widely different means. Luke’s is the simpler narrative, and it will be more convenient to begin with. He tells us that there were in the same country, that is, near Bethlehem, shepherds watching their flocks. An angel appeared to them and said that a Savior, Christ the Lord, was born in the city of David. They were to know him by his being in a manger wrapped in swaddling clothes. In this humility of his external circumstances immediately after birth, as in the supernatural recognition which he received, he again resembles the Chinese hero. How-tseih
“was placed in a narrow lane,
But the sheep and oxen protected him with loving care.
He was placed in a wide forest,
Where he was met by the woodcutters.
He was placed on the cold ice,
And a bird screened and supported him with its wings.”25
“And suddenly,” the narrative in Luke proceeds, “there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth the peace of good-will among men’” (Lu. ii. 8-14). Similar demonstrations of celestial delight were not wanting at the birth of the Buddha Sakyamuni. He was received by the greatest of the gods, Indra and Brahma. All beings everywhere were full of joy. Musical instruments belonging to men and gods played of themselves. Trees became covered with flowers and fruit. There fell from the skies a gentle shower of flowers, garments, odoriferous powders, and ornaments. Caressing breezes blew. A marvelous light was produced. Evil passions were put a stop to, and illnesses were cured; miseries of all kinds were at an end (R. T. R. P., vol. ii. pp. 90, 91). So also we read in Moslem authorities that at the birth of Ali, Mahomet’s great disciple, and the chief of one of the two principal sects into which Islam is divided, “a light was distinctly visible, resembling a bright column, extending from the earth to the firmament” (Dervishes, p. 372). But let us complete the narrative in Luke.
Urged by the angelic order, the shepherds went to Bethlehem and found the infant Christ, whose nature, as revealed by the angels, they made known to the people with whom they met. Returning, they praised and glorified God for all they had heard and seen (Lu. ii. 15-20).
Quite dissimilar is the form in which the same incident appears in Matthew. Here, instead of shepherds, we have magi coming from the East to discover the King of the Jews. A star in the East had revealed to them the birth of this King of the Jews de jure, and in the search for him they run straight into the very jaws of Herod, the king de facto. The author is obliged to make them take this absurdly improbable course for the sake of introducing Herod, whom he required for a purpose shortly to be explained. How utterly superfluous the visit to Herod was is evinced by the fact that, after that monarch has found out from the chief priests the birthplace of the Messiah, the magi are guided onwards by the star, which had been omitted from the story since its first appearance in order to allow of their journey to Jerusalem, a mistake for which the star could not be made responsible. However, after leaving Herod, they were led by that luminary to the very spot where Christ lay. On seeing the infant they worshiped him, and offered him magnificent presents, after which a dream informed them—what their waking senses might surely have discovered—that it was not safe to return to Herod after having thus acknowledged a rival claimant to the throne. They accordingly went home another way.
Interwoven with this visit of the magi we have a myth which belongs to a common form, and which in the present instance is merely adapted to the special circumstances of the age and place. I term it the myth of THE DANGEROUS CHILD. Its general outline is this: A child is born concerning whose future greatness some prophetic indications have been given. But the life of this child is fraught with danger to some powerful individual, generally a monarch. In alarm at his threatened fate, this person endeavors to take the child’s life; but it is preserved by the divine care. Escaping the measures directed against it, and generally remaining long unknown, it at length fulfills the prophecies concerning its career, while the fate which he has vainly sought to shun falls upon him who had desired to slay it. There is a departure here from the ordinary type, inasmuch as Herod does not actually die or suffer any calamity through the agency of Jesus. But this failure is due to the fact that Jesus did not fulfill the conditions of the Messiahship, according to the Jewish conception which Matthew has here in mind. Had he—as was expected of the Messiah—become the actual sovereign of the Jews, he must have dethroned the reigning dynasty, whether represented by Herod or his successors. But as his subsequent career belied these expectations, the Evangelist was obliged to postpone to a future time his accession to that throne of temporal dominion which the incredulity of his countrymen had withheld from him during his earthly life (Mt. xxiv. 30, 31; xxv. 31 ff.; xxvi. 64).
In other respects the legend before us conforms to its prototypes. The magi, coming to Herod, inquire after the whereabouts of the king of the Jews, whose star they have seen in the East. Herod summons the chief priests and scribes to council, and ascertains of them that Christ was to be born at Bethlehem. This done, he is careful to learn from the magi the exact date at which the star had appeared to them. He further desires them to search diligently for the young child, that he also may worship it. They, as previously related, returned home without revisiting Herod, whereupon that monarch, in anger at the deception practiced upon him, causes all the children under two years of age, in and about Bethlehem, to be slaughtered. All is in vain. Joseph, warned by a dream, had taken his wife and step-son to Egypt, where they remained until after the death of Herod, when another dream commanded them to return. When afraid to enter the dominions of Archelaus, another of these useful dreams guided them to Galilee, where they took up their quarters at Nazareth (Mt. ii).
How wide-spread and of what frequent recurrence is this myth of the Dangerous Child, a few examples may suffice to show. In Grecian mythology the king of the gods himself had been a dangerous child. The story of Kronos swallowing his children in order to defeat the prophecy that he would be dethroned by his own son; the manner in which Rhea deceived him by giving him a stone, and Zeus, armed with thunder and lightning, deposed him from the government of the world, are familiar to all (Bib. 1. 1. 5-7, and 1. 2. 1). If we descend from gods to heroes, we find a similar legend related of Perseus, whose grandfather, Akrisios, vainly tried to avert his predicted fate, first by scheming to prevent his grandson’s birth, and then by seeking to destroy him when born (Ibid., 2. 4. 1. 4.); and of Oidipous, who in spite of the attempt to cut short his life in infancy, inevitably and unconsciously fulfilled the oracle by slaying his father and marrying his mother. Within historical times, Kyros, the son of Kambyses is the hero of a similar tale. His grandfather, Astyages, had dreamt certain dreams which were interpreted by the magi to mean that the offspring of his daughter Mandane would expel him from his kingdom. Alarmed at the prophecy, he handed the child to his kinsman Harpagos to be killed; but this man having entrusted it to a shepherd to be exposed, the latter contrived to save it by exhibiting to the emissaries of Harpagos the body of a stillborn child of which his own wife had just been delivered. Grown to man’s estate, Kyros of course justified the prediction of the magi by his successful revolt against Astyages and assumption of the monarchy (Herodotos, i. 107-130). Jewish tradition, like that of the Greeks and the Persians, has its dangerous child in the person of the national hero Moses, whose death Pharaoh had endeavored to effect by a massacre of innocents, but who had lived to bring upon that ruler his inevitable fate. From these well-known examples it is interesting to turn to the chronicles of the East-Mongols, and find precisely the same tale repeated there. We read that a certain king of a people called Patsala, had a son whose peculiar appearance led the Brahmins at court to prophesy that he would bring evil upon his father, and to advise his destruction. Various modes of execution having failed, the boy was laid in a copper chest and thrown into the Ganges. Rescued by an old peasant who brought him up as his son, he in due time learnt the story of his escape, and returned to seize upon the kingdom destined for him from his birth. This was in B. C. 313 (G. O. M., pp. 21, 23). This universal myth—of the natural origin of which it would lead me too far to speak—was now adapted to the special case of Christ, who runs the usual risk and escapes it with the usual good fortune of dangerous children.
Having thus preserved the infant Christ from the dangers that threatened him, Matthew tells us absolutely nothing about him until he has arrived at manhood, and is ready to enter on his public life. Luke is much less reticent. True, he knows nothing whatever of the star that appeared in the East; nothing of Herod’s inquiries as to the birthplace of Christ; nothing of the massacre of the innocents, nor of the flight into Egypt and the return from that country to Nazareth. On the contrary, his narrative by implication excludes all this, for he makes Joseph and Mary go up to Bethlehem for the census only, and return to Nazareth soon after it; so that Herod could have had no occasion to kill the infants up to the age of two years, for Christ could not have been above a few weeks old at most (Lu. ii. 39). Moreover, we learn definitely from one verse that his parents went up from Nazareth to Jerusalem every year at the passover (Ibid., ii. 41). But the absence of any statements like those just taken from the first Gospel is amply compensated in the third by several pleasing details relating to his infancy and boyhood. In the first place we learn that after eight days he was circumcised, and named Jesus according to the angel’s desire (Ibid., ii. 21). Next, we are told that after his mother’s purification—which would last thirty-three days after the circumcision—she and his step-father took him to the temple to be presented, and to make the customary offering. There was in the temple a man named Simeon who had been promised by the Holy Ghost that he should not die till he had seen Christ. This man, who came by the Spirit into the temple, took the baby in his arms and gave vent to his emotion in the beautiful little hymn known as the Nunc Dimittis:—“Now, O Lord, thou dost release thy servant according to thy word in peace, because mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all nations; a light for the revelation of the Gentiles and the glory of thy people Israel” (Lu. ii. 29-32).
Less exquisite in its simplicity, but not altogether dissimilar in tone, is the prophecy of the Rishi Asita on the infant Buddha. This old and eminent ascetic had come to see the child whose marvelous gifts had been known to him by supernatural signs. Having embraced its feet, and predicted its future preëminence, he had surprised the king by bursting into tears and heaving long sighs. Questioned about the meaning of this he replied: “Great king, it is not on account of this child that I weep; truly there is not in him the smallest vice. Great king, I am old and broken; and this young prince (Literally, Sarvarthasiddha) will certainly clothe himself with the perfect and complete intelligence of Buddha, and will cause the wheel of the law that has no superior to turn.... After becoming Buddha he will cause hundreds of thousands of millions of beings to pass to the other border of the ocean of wandering life, and will lead them forever to immortality. And I—I shall not see this pearl of Buddhas! Cured of illness, I shall not be freed by him from passion! Great king, that is why I weep, and why in my sadness I heave long sighs” (R. T. R. P., vol. ii. pp. 106, 107).
So Abd-al-mottalib, Mahomet’s grandfather, on seeing his grandchild immediately after his birth, is reported to have exclaimed: “Praise be to Allah, who has given me this glorious youth, who even in the cradle rules over other boys. I commend him to the protection of Allah, the Lord of the four elements, that he may show him to us when he is well grown up. To his protection I commend him from the evil of the wicked spirit” (L. L. M., vol. i. p. 143).
Prognostications of greatness in infancy are, indeed, among the stock incidents in the mythical or semi-mythical lives of eminent persons. Not content with Simeon’s recognition, Luke introduces an old prophetess called Anna, living in the temple, and represents her as giving thanks, and speaking of the child to all who looked for redemption in Jerusalem (Lu. ii. 36-38).
Twelve years are now suffered to elapse without further account of the young Jesus than that he grew and strengthened, filled with wisdom, and that the grace of God was upon him (Ibid., ii. 40). At twelve years old, the blank is filled by a single event. His parents had gone to Jerusalem to keep the passover, taking Jesus with them. On their way back they missed him, and having failed to find him among their traveling companions, returned to look for him at Jerusalem. There they found him in the temple sitting among the doctors of the law, listening to them and putting questions. Those who heard him are said to have been astonished at his intelligence. Questioned by his mother as to this extraordinary conduct, he replied, “How is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” (Lu. ii. 41-50.) Were this incident confirmed by other authorities, and did it stand in some kind of connection with the events that precede and follow it, we might accept it as a genuine reminiscence of the boyhood of Jesus. That a precocious boy, eager for information, should take the opportunity of a visit to the headquarters of Hebraic learning to seek from the authorities then most respected a solution of questions that troubled his mind, would not in itself be so very surprising. And those who are familiar with the kind of inquiries made by clever children, especially on theological topics, will not think it strange that his youthful wits should occasionally be too much for those of professed theologians. But the isolation in which this single event stands in the first thirty years of Christ’s life, and the total absence of confirmation from any other source, compel us to regard it as an invention designed to show an early consciousness in Jesus of his later mission, and also to prove the inability of the doctors to cope with him. We must, therefore, reject it along with the other myths of the infancy, of which some are typical myths, others (like this) myths peculiar to Jesus, but none in the smallest degree historical.
Before entering on the later life of Jesus, let us note certain differences between Matthew and Luke in their treatment of the infancy, which will confirm the above conclusion. In the first place, it is to be observed that they effect the desired end by totally unlike methods. Given the problem of getting the infant Christ born without the assistance of a father, there were various ways in which readers could be assured of the truth of such a miracle. One was to inform Joseph in a dream of the coming event; another was to announce it to Mary by means of an angel. In choosing between these expedients each Evangelist is guided by his own idiosyncrasy. Matthew selects the dream; Luke the angel; and it is noteworthy that on other occasions they exhibit similar preferences. Matthew gets out of every difficulty by a dream. In the course of his two first chapters he uses this favorite contrivance no less than five times; four times for Joseph, and once for the magi (Mt. i. 20, and ii. 12, 13, 22). Twice, it is true, he mentions an angel of the Lord as appearing in the dream, but the angel in his narrative plays a very subordinate part, and is, indeed, practically superfluous. With Luke, on the contrary, the principal agent in the events of the infancy is the angel, who supplies the place of the dream in Matthew. An angel informs Zacharias that his wife is to have a son; an angel declares to Mary that she is destined to give birth to the Son of God; an angel announces that event to the shepherds after its occurrence; and angels appear in crowds above them as soon as the announcement has been made (Lu. i. 11, 26, and ii. 9, 13). Another striking difference is the extreme fondness of Matthew for ancient prophecies, and of Luke for little anthems and for songs of praise. The diverse natures of the two writers are well exemplified by this distinction; the former being the more penetrated with the history and literature of the Jewish race; the latter the more flexible and the more imbued with the spirit of his age. Hence, Matthew almost avowedly constructs his narrative in such a manner as to ensure the fulfillment of the prophecies. After describing Mary’s miraculous conception, he says that all this was done to fulfill Isaiah’s words: “Behold, a virgin shall conceive” (more accurately; the maiden has conceived), “and shall bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel” (Mt. i. 23; Isa. vii. 14). And this he quotes, regardless of the fact that Christ never was called Immanuel, and that if the one clause of the prophecy is to be understood literally, so must the other. Thus also he reveals his reason for assigning to Bethlehem the honor of being Christ’s birthplace, when he places in the mouths of the priests at the court of Herod a verse from Micah, in which it is asserted that from Bethlehem Ephratah shall come a man who is to be ruler in Israel (Mt. ii. 6; Mic. v. 2). Further, he massacres the innocents in order to corroborate a saying of Jeremiah (Mt. ii. 18; Jer. xxxi. 15), and he takes Joseph and Mary to Egypt to confirm an expression of Hosea (Mt. ii. 15; Hos. xi. 1). In each case, he perverts the natural sense of the prophets; for in Jeremiah, the children are to return to their own land, which the innocents could not do; and in Hosea, the son who is called out of Egypt is the people of Israel. Lastly, in his exceeding love of quoting the Old Testament, he commits the most singular blunder of all in applying to Christ the words spoken of Samson by the angel who announced his birth. If, indeed, the allusion be to this passage (and it can scarcely be to any other), the Evangelist is barely honest; for he converts the angelic words, “he shall be a Nazarite,” into the words “he shall be called a Nazarene” (Mt. ii. 23; Judg. xiii. 5). So Judaic a writer could hardly be ignorant that a Nazarite was not the same thing as an inhabitant of Nazareth. But from whatever source the quotation may come, its object plainly is to lead to the belief that notwithstanding his birth at Bethlehem, Jesus was called by his contemporaries a Nazarene.
Luke does not trouble himself with the search for ancient oracles, but indulges a far freer and more inventive genius. His personages give utterance to their feelings in highly finished songs, which are sometimes very beautiful, but most certainly could never have been uttered by the simple people to whom he attributes them. Among these are the salutation of Elizabeth to Mary, and the still more elaborate answer of Mary. Zacharias, the very instant he recovers his speech, recites a complete hymn of no inconsiderable length (Lu. i. 68-79). Again, Simeon expresses his joy at the birth of the Savior in a similar manner (Ibid., ii. 29-32); but in his case it may be said that he had so long expected to see the Christ that his hymn of thanksgiving might well be ready.
Passing now to the manhood of Jesus, we find the four Evangelists all agreed in recording the baptism by John as the earliest known event in his adult career, and it is unquestionably with this consecration by a great man that his authentic life begins. Mark and John indeed were unaware of anything previous to this period, and the former introduces it by the words, “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ the Son of God” (Mk. i. 1), showing that for him at least the history of his Master began at this point. As usual, the myth appears in its simplest form in his pages. After applying to John the Baptist a prophecy by Isaiah, he states that this prophet was engaged in baptizing in the wilderness, and that all Judea and all the Jerusalemites went out to him and were baptized, confessing their sins. He declared that a mightier than he was coming after him, the latchet of whose shoes he was unworthy to unloose. Jesus, like the rest of the world, went to be baptized, and as he came out of the water he saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. There was a voice from the heavens, “Thou art my beloved Son, in thee I am well pleased.” Matthew and Luke describe the baptism of John in a similar manner, Matthew adding a conversation between Jesus and John. They also mention the baptism of Jesus, the descent of the dove, and the voice, but with slight variations. For whereas Mark merely says that Jesus saw the heavens opened and the Spirit like a dove descending, and Matthew, in substantial accordance with him, relates that the heavens were opened [to him], and that he saw the Spirit descend as a dove, Luke going further, pretends that the heavens were opened, and that the spirit did descend in a bodily form like a dove upon him (Mk. i. 1-12; Mt. iii.; Lu. iii. 1-22). Thus is the subjective fact in the consciousness of Jesus gradually changed into an objective fact, a transition deserving to be noted as illustrative of the trivial changes of language by which a myth may grow. Several other examples of a like process will meet us in the course of this inquiry. The scene at the baptism is described differently again in the fourth Gospel. There the testimony of John the Baptist to Christ is rendered far more emphatic; he receives him with the words, “Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world;” and he explains his knowledge of him by the fact that he has received a special revelation concerning him. On whomsoever he saw the Spirit descend and remain, that was he who was to baptize with the Holy Ghost. Now he had seen the Spirit descend like a dove on Jesus, and therefore had borne witness that he was the son of God (John i. 6-37). Of the opening of the heavens and of the voice nothing is said, and the meaning of the whole story evidently is that this descent of the Spirit was a private sign arranged between God and John the Baptist, but of which the bystanders either perceived nothing, or understood nothing. For had they known that the Holy Ghost itself was thus bearing witness to Jesus, what need was there of the witness of John? It is evident, however, that even if they saw the dove flying down and alighting upon Jesus, they were not informed that it represented the Holy Spirit. Thus the whole fact is reduced to a peculiar interpretation given by John to a natural occurrence. We have then three versions of the baptismal myth:—in the first certain circumstances are perceived by Jesus; in the second they are perceived by John; in the third they actually occur.
Strangely inconsistent with this distinct acknowledgment of Christ as the son of God, is the inquiry addressed to him at a subsequent period by John the Baptist through his disciples. It appears that on hearing of the extraordinary fame of Jesus and of the course he was pursuing, John sent two disciples from the prison where he was confined to put this question to him, “Art thou he that should come, or do we expect another?” in other words, Are you the Messiah? Thus interrogated, Jesus replied, not by appealing to the testimony of the dove at his baptism, or the voice from heaven, but by citing the miraculous cures he was then performing. Nor did he in the least resent the doubt implied in John the Baptist’s query. On the contrary, he immediately entered upon a glowing panegyric of his precursor, describing him as the messenger sent before his face to prepare his way, and as the prophet Elias who was expected to come—(Mt. xi. 1-15; Lu. vii. 18-30)—a title which in another Gospel the Baptist had expressly repudiated (Jo. i. 21). This remarkable transaction between the two teachers could not easily have occurred, if the elder had previously discovered “him that should come” in the person of Jesus. For then we must suppose that since the baptism he had seen reason to hesitate as to the correctness of his opinion. And in that case, could he have referred the question to Jesus himself for his decision? And could Jesus have employed the terms of praise here given, in speaking of one who had lapsed from his former faith into a state of doubt? Plainly not. The Evangelists have overshot the mark in their narrative of the baptism. Eager to make John bear witness to Jesus, they have forgotten that it was only at a later period that he was convinced—if he was convinced at all—of the Messianic claims of the young man who had passed under his influence, and derived from him some of his earliest inspirations. His doubts are historical; his conviction is mythical.
Temporary retirement into solitude naturally followed upon the consecration administered by John in the baptismal rite. Jesus spent some time wandering in a lonely place, the period of forty days assigned to this purpose being naturally suggested by the forty years of Israel’s troubles in the wilderness. If there mingled among his meditations any lingering feelings of reluctance to follow the course pointed out by the Baptist, he would have afterwards described such feelings as temptations of the devil. Hence, it may be, the story of his conversations with Satan. These are not alluded to at all in Mark, who simply mentions the fact that he was tempted by Satan. Neither is there any reference in Mark to fasting for the whole of the forty days or any part of them. Greatly improving upon this bald version, the other two Synoptics tell us that he ate nothing during all this time, and describe the very words of his dialogues with the tempter. Satan had besought him to make bread out of stones; to cast himself down from a high place, and to accept at his hands all the kingdoms of earth in return for a single act of worship (Mk. i. 12, 13; Mt. iv. 1-11; Lu. iv. 1-13). Jesus, like the Buddha at the corresponding period of his life, emerged triumphant from the trial. It was by no means equal in severity to that which Sakyamuni underwent. He also was obliged to overcome the devil before he could attain perfection. “Mârâ, the sinner,” the Indian Satan, assailed him not only by force of arms, despatching an immense army against him; but finding this onslaught a failure, he tried the subtler mode of attempting to corrupt his virtue by the seductions of women. His beautiful daughters were despatched with orders to display all their charms, and employ all their fascinations before the young monk. They faithfully executed the commission, but all was in vain. Calm and unmoved, the Bodhisattva regarded them with complete indifference, and emerged from this severest of trials a perfect Buddha (R. T. R. P., vol. ii. p. 286-327). In like manner Zarathustra was tempted by the Parsee devil, Angra-mainyus, who held out a promise of happiness if he would but curse the good law. Like Jesus, Zarathustra repelled the suggestion with indignation: “I will not curse the good Mazdayasna law, not even if limbs, soul, and life were to part from one another” (Av., vol. i. p. 244.—Fargard xix. 23-26).
Not long after his return from the desert, Jesus took up his abode at the village of Kapharnaoum, or Capernaum, in Galilee, Nazareth being in several ways uncongenial to him (Mk. ii. 1; Mt. iv. 12-16). In the first place it was the abode of his family, who did not believe in the pretensions he now began to advance. Moreover, he was well known to the Nazarenes as the carpenter, or the carpenter’s son, and it seemed an unwarrantable presumption in their young townsman, undistinguished by advantages either of birth or education, to claim to become their teacher (Mk. vi. 3). His relations also not only discredited him by their unbelief, but occasionally took active measures to stop his proceedings (Mk. iii. 21, 31). From these and perhaps other causes, he entirely failed to accomplish any important miracle at Nazareth, and he had to excuse his failure by the remark that a prophet is not without honor except in his own country, among his own relations, and in his own house (Ibid., vi. 4). The more natural version—that of Mark—adds that he marvelled because of their unbelief. With less simplicity Matthew relates, not that he was unable to do, but that he did not do many mighty works there because of their unbelief (Mt. xiii. 54-58). Further confirmation of the incredulity of the Nazarenes is afforded by their reception of a remarkable sermon said to have been delivered by Jesus in their synagogue. It seems that after he had preached in various parts of Galilee, and had been well received, he came to Nazareth and, having read a Messianic prophecy from Isaiah, proceeded to apply it to himself. Having noticed the demand which he expected would be addressed to him, that he should repeat there such works as he was reported to have performed at Capernaum, he proceeded to convey by some pointed illustrations from the Old Testament the unflattering intimation that Nazareth was to be less favored by God than his adopted home. Hereupon a storm arose in the synagogue, and an effort was made by the enraged audience to cast him from the brow of a hill. But he escaped in safety to his own residence at Capernaum (Lu. iv. 14-30).
Whether or not any such sermon was preached or any such attempt upon his life was made, the narrative bears further witness to the fact of ill success in the town where he had been brought up, and to his possession of a house or lodging at Capernaum. Whether he himself was the owner of the abode, or whether it belonged to a disciple who received him (of which latter there is no evidence), makes little difference; the representation afterwards made that foxes had holes, and birds had nests, but the son of man had not where to lay his head (Mt. viii. 19, 20; Lu. ix. 57, 58), is equally negatived by either supposition. Mark and John know nothing of this condition of the son of man. In John’s Gospel, indeed, it is distinctly contradicted by the statement that two of the Baptist’s disciples asked him to show them where he lived; that he did so, and that they staid with him that day (Jo. i. 39). Indirect evidence of the same kind is afforded by the notice of an entertainment given by Jesus at his own house, to which he invited a very promiscuous company. Luke, indeed, represents this feast as having been given by Levi, but this is evidently for the sake of an artistic connection with the summons to Levi, which in all three narratives immediately precedes it. For the same reason he departs from both other Evangelists in making the scribes at this very feast put the question why Jesus and his disciples did not fast, which, according to the more trustworthy version, is put by the disciples of the Baptist (Mk. ii. 18-22; Mt. ix. 14-17; Lu. v. 33-39). Thus Luke contrives to convert three unconnected stories into a single connected one. That Jesus received the more degraded classes of his countrymen on equal terms, and that his habits were not ascetic, are the important facts which we have to gather from these several statements.
The inference from the evidence on the whole is that Jesus was in comfortable, though not opulent circumstances; and even had he been in want, he had friends enough whose devotion would never have allowed him to remain without a good lodging and sufficient food.
These friends he seems to have begun collecting round him as soon as he entered upon his career of preaching in Galilee. Among the earliest were four fishermen, Simon and his brother Andrew, James and his brother John. The first pair of brothers Jesus called away from their occupation, saying, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men” (Mk. i. 16-20; Mt. iv. 18-22). So say two Gospels, but a very different account appears in John. There we are told that two of the disciples of John the Baptist having heard Jesus, left their master to follow him. One of these two was Andrew, Simon’s brother, and it was Andrew who went and informed Simon that he had discovered the Messiah. On seeing Simon, Jesus addresses him, “Thou art Simon the son of John; thou shalt be called Kephas” (Jo. i. 38-43). Not a word is said here of the calling of fishermen pursued by these brothers, nor of the remarkable promise to make them fishers of men. Moreover it is they who present themselves to Jesus; not he who summons them. The two accounts are mutually exclusive.
Luke has a third version, not absolutely irreconcilable with that of Mark and Matthew, though inconsistent in all its details. According to him, Jesus had once been speaking to the people from Simon’s boat, which was lying on the lake of Gennesaret. The address concluded, he desired Simon to launch into the lake and let down the nets. Simon replied that they had toiled all night and caught nothing; yet he would obey. On casting out the net it was found to inclose so great a multitude of fishes that it broke. Simon called to his partners, James and John, to come to his assistance, and both vessels were not only filled with fish, but began to sink with the weight. Peter, ascribing this large haul to the presence of Jesus, begged him to depart from him, for he was a sinful man. Jesus told him, as in the other Gospels he tells him and his brother Andrew (who does not appear here), that he shall henceforth catch men. Hereupon all the three forsook all, and followed him; from which it must clearly be understood that they had not followed him before. Thus, that which the simpler version represents as a mere summons, obeyed at once, is here converted into a summons enforced upon the fishermen by a professional success so great as to appear to them miraculous, and to lead in their minds to the inference that since Jesus had commanded them to let down the nets, and their obedience had been thus rewarded, he was in some obscure manner the cause of the good fortune which had attended their efforts (Lu. v. 1-11).
Leaving aside for the present all that is peculiar to John, who alone mentions the calling of Philip, there is but one other disciple concerning whom we have any information as to the mode in which he was led to join Jesus. This is Levi, or Matthew, the publican. Jesus found him sitting at the receipt of custom, and commanded him to follow him, which he instantly did (Mk. ii. 14; Mt. ix. 9; Lu. v. 27, 28). But we are not compelled to suppose that from this time forward Levi did nothing but accompany Jesus or go through the country preaching the new faith. He may have done so, or he may only have left his business from time to time to listen to the prophet who had so deeply impressed him. For while three Evangelists mention this circumstance, only one of them, and that the least trustworthy, adds that in following Jesus he left all things.
The names of the other seven disciples are given with but a single variation in all of the synoptical Gospels (Mk. iii. 14-19; Mt. x. 1-4; Lu. vi. 12-16). To these twelve their master gave power to heal diseases and to cast out devils, and sent them forth into the world to preach the coming of the kingdom of heaven, giving them instructions as to the manner in which they should fulfill their mission (Mk. iii. 14, 15; Mt. x. 5-15; Lu. ix. 1-6). When not thus engaged, they were to remain about his person, and form an inner circle of intimate friends, to receive his more hidden thoughts, and help him in the work he had undertaken.
The four who were the first to join him seem to have stood towards him in a closer relationship than anyone else, and to have been in fact his only thorough disciples during the earliest period of his life. For we read that after the cure of a demoniac effected in the synagogue at Capernaum (Mk. i. 21-28; Lu. iv. 31-37), he retired into the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John, and there healed Simon’s mother-in-law of a fever by the touch of his hands, a species of remedy which requires no miracle to render it effectual (Mk. i. 29-31; Mt. viii. 14, 15; Lu. iv. 38, 39). His reputation as a thaumaturgist had now begun to spread, and crowds of people besieged his door, whom he relieved of various diseases, and from whom he expelled many devils (Mk. i. 32-34; Mt. viii. 16, 17; Lu. iv. 40, 41). The anxiety of the devils to bear witness to his Messiahship he repressed, on this as on other occasions. Mentioning these circumstances, Matthew, ever prone to strengthen his case by the authority of a Hebrew prophet, cites Isaiah, “He himself took our infirmities, and bore our sicknesses.” Certainly not a very happy application of prophecy; since it nowhere appears that Jesus bore the diseases he cured, or was possessed by the devils he expelled.
Anxious to escape from the pressure of the people, who clamored for miracles, he retired to a desert place to pray. But here Simon and others followed him and told him that all men were seeking him. He replied that he must carry his message to other villages also, and proceeded on a tour through Galilee, preaching and casting out devils (Mk. i. 35-39; Lu. iv. 42-44). It was on some occasion during this Galilean journey, when crowds, eager to hear his doctrine and see his wonders, had pressed around him from every quarter that he delivered the celebrated sermon the scene of which is laid by Matthew on a mountain, and by Luke in a plain (Mt. chs. v.-vii., inclusive; Lu. vi. 20-49). A part only of this discourse has been preserved to us, for Matthew has evidently collected into one a great number of his best sayings, which were no doubt actually uttered on many different occasions and in many different places. Luke, with more sense of fitness, has scattered them about his Gospel, assigning to some an earlier, to others a later date. Notably is this unlike arrangement remarkable in the case of the Lord’s prayer, and in nothing is the untrustworthiness of these Gospels, as to all exterior circumstances, more conspicuous than in their assigning to the communication of this most important prayer totally different times, different antecedents, and different surroundings. For whereas Matthew brings it within his all-comprehensive sermon on the mount, Luke causes it to be taught in “a certain place” where Jesus was praying. The former makes Jesus deliver it spontaneously; the latter in answer to the request of a disciple; the former to a vast audience; the latter to the disciples alone (Mt. vi. 9-13; Lu. xi. 1-4).
Discrepancies like these evince the hopelessness of attempting to follow with accuracy the footsteps of Christ. We can obtain nothing beyond the most general conception of his movements, if even that; and of the order of the several events in his life we can have scarcely any notion. Discourses, parables, conversations, miracles, follow one another now in rapid succession. Leaving the consideration of the doctrines taught for another place, we will notice here, without aiming at a chronological arrangement, the principal scenes of his life; and, beginning with his miracles, we will take before any others those in which devils are expelled; or as we should say, maniacs are restored to sanity.
A strange miracle of this kind is related of a man in the country of the Gadarenes or Gergasenes. Matthew indeed, according to a common habit of his, has made him into two men, but the other two Evangelists agree that there was but one. This man was a raving lunatic, who had defeated every effort to confine him hitherto made, and who lived among tombs, crying and cutting himself with stones. Seeing Jesus, he addressed him as the Son of the Most High God, and adjured him not to torment him. On being asked his name, he said it was Legion, for they were many. Having been ordered out by Jesus, he begged for leave to enter into a herd of swine which was feeding near at hand; this was granted, and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the sea and were all drowned, their number being about two thousand (Mk. v. 1-20; Mt. viii. 28-34; Lu. viii. 26-39). After this wanton destruction of property, it is not surprising that the people “began to pray him to depart out of their coasts.” Jesus on this occasion certainly displayed a singular tenderness towards the devils, and very little consideration for the unfortunate owners of the pigs. Nor did the Legion gain much by the bargain; for they lost their new habitation the moment they had taken possession of it.
The disciples, as we have seen, had received power over devils, but it appears from a remarkable story that they were not always able to master them. For on returning to them after the transfiguration, Jesus found a crowd about them engaged in some disputation. Having demanded an explanation, a man told him that he had brought his son, who was subject to violent fits, probably epileptic (Mark alone makes him deaf and dumb), and begged the disciples to cure him, which they had been unable to do. Hereupon, Jesus, bursting into an angry exclamation against the “faithless and perverse generation” with whom he lived, took the boy and healed him. Luke omits the private conversation with the disciples which followed on this scene. They asked him, it is said, why they had been thus unsuccessful. The answer is different in Matthew and in Mark. In the former Gospel, he assigns a plain reason: “because of your unbelief;” adding afterwards, “this kind does not come out except by fasting and prayer.” In Mark, the latter statement constitutes the whole reply, no allusion being made to the disciples’ unbelief. It is noticeable, however, that in Mark alone the father is required to believe before the boy is healed; a singular condition to exact, since belief may generally be expected to follow on a miracle rather than to precede it (Mk. ix. 14-29; Mt. xvii. 14-21; Lu. ix. 37-43).
In the case of the Syro-phœnician woman, however, there was no need to impose it, for her faith, founded on the reputation of Jesus was perfect. This woman came to him when he had gone upon an excursion to the neighborhood of Tyre and Sidon, and begged him to cast out a devil from her daughter, who was not present. He at first refused on the ground of her being a Gentile, but after a remarkable dialogue, confessed himself convinced by her arguments, and told her that on her return she would find the daughter cured, which actually happened (Mk. vii. 24-30; Mt. xv. 21-28). Here we have an instance of a remedy effected at a distance, which can scarcely be credited at all unless on the supposition that the daughter knew of her mother’s expedition, and had equal faith in Jesus. The probability is, however, that her recovery is an invention, though the argument with the woman may possibly be historical.
Belief in the production of diseases by demoniacal possession, and in the power of exorcism over diseases so produced, is the common condition of mind in barbarous or semi-civilized nations. The phenomena which occurred in the first century in Judea are reproduced at the present day in more than one quarter of the globe. Take, to begin with, the theory of possession in Abyssinia, which I find quoted by Canon Callaway from Stern’s “Wanderings among the Falashes.” Canon Callaway observes that “in Abyssinia we meet with the word Bouda, applied to a character more resembling the Abatakadi or wizards of these parts [South Africa].... The Bouda, or an evil spirit called by the same name and acting with him, takes possession of others, giving rise to an attack known as ‘Bouda symptoms,’ which present the characteristics of intense hysteria, bordering on insanity. Together with the Boudas there is, of course, the exorcist, who has unusual powers, and, like the inyanga yokubula, or diviner among the Amazulu, points out those who are Boudas, that is, Abatakati” (R. S. A., part iii. pp. 280, 281). Describing the diseases of the Polynesian islanders, the missionary Turner says: “Insanity is occasionally met with. It was invariably traced in former times to the immediate presence of an evil spirit” (N. Y., p. 221). Rising somewhat higher in the scale of culture, the Singhalese, as depicted by Knox, present the spectacle of patients whose symptoms are an almost exact reproduction of those which afflicted the objects of the mercy of Jesus. “I have many times,” he relates, “seen men and women of this country strangely possest, insomuch that I could judge it nothing else but the effect of the devil’s power upon them, and they themselves do acknowledge as much. In the like condition to which I never saw any that did profess to be a worshiper of the holy name of Jesus. They that are thus possest, some of them will run mad into the woods, screeching and roaring, but do mischief to none; some will be taken so as to be speechless, shaking and quaking, and dancing, and will tread upon the fire and not be hurt; they will also talk idle, like distracted folk.” The author proceeds to say that the friends of these demoniac patients appeal to the devil for their cure, believing their attacks to proceed from him (H. R. C., p. 77).
The striking successes of Jesus with maladies of this order naturally brought him the reputation of ability to deal no less powerfully with other diseases. Accordingly, a leper presented himself one day, and kneeling to him said that if he wished he could make him clean. He did so, and the leper, though enjoined to keep silence, went about proclaiming the power of Jesus, who was consequently besieged by still further throngs of applicants and of curious spectators (Mk. i. 40-45; Mt. viii. 1-4; Lu. v. 12-16).
Illustrating the manner in which he was pursued, we find a curious story. Jesus was in his own house at Capernaum, when a paralytic, borne upon a couch, was brought to him to be healed. Unable from the concourse about him to penetrate to Jesus, his bearers let him down through an opening in the roof. After forgiving the man’s sins, which he claimed a right to do, he told him to take up his bed and walk. This the paralytic at once did, to the amazement of the bystanders (Mk. ii. 1-12; Mt. ix. 1-8; Lu. v. 18-26). Matthew, telling the same story, omits the crowd and the circumstance of letting down the patient through the roof; and these adjuncts may be fictitious in the special case, but in so far as they bear witness to the thaumaturgic repute of Jesus, have in them an element of genuine history.
Of various other miracles of healing with which Jesus is credited, one of the most interesting is the alleged resuscitation of Jairus’ daughter. Jairus was a ruler of the synagogue; a personage therefore of some note in his district; and his daughter, a little girl of twelve years old, was dangerously ill, and supposed by her friends to be at the point of death. At this critical moment Jairus repaired to Jesus, and requested him to come and lay his hands on the little maid, that she might live. Jesus consented, but before he could reach the house messengers arrived who informed Jairus that his child was already dead; he need not trouble the master. None the less did Jesus proceed to the house, taking with him only the most intimate disciples, Peter, James, and John. Here a strange scene awaited him. About, and probably in the sick-room had gathered a crowd of people, relations, friends, and dependants of Jairus, who were engaged in raising a wild clamor of grief around the child. Flute-players were performing on their instruments, while their lugubrious music was accompanied by the tumultuous wailing and howling of the mourners. Jesus, having entered the place, declared that the maiden was not dead, but sleeping; or as we should say, in a state of insensibility. The people laughed in derision at the assertion, but Jesus at once took the very proper and sensible measure of turning them all out of the room (which was either the sick-room itself or one close to it), and taking the damsel’s hand, commanded her to rise. She did so, and Jesus (again exhibiting excellent sense) ordered that she should have something to eat (Mk. v. 21-24, and 35-43; Mt. ix. 18, 19, and 23-26; Lu. viii. 40-42, and 49-56). In this case we have a peculiarly valuable instance of the manner in which miracles may be manufactured. Analyzed into its elements of fact and its elements of inference, we find in it nothing which cannot be easily understood without supposing either any exercise of supernatural power or any deliberate fraud in the narrators. Observe first, that in two out of the three versions the girl is reported by Jairus not to be dead, but dying. True, before Jesus can get to her it is announced that she is actually dead. But Jesus, having reached the house, and having evidently seen the patient (though this fact is only suffered to appear in Luke’s version), expressly contradicts this opinion, declaring that she is not dead, but unconscious. On what particular symptom he founded this statement we do not know, but we cannot, without accusing Jesus of deliberate untruthfulness, believe that he made it without reason. At any rate, the measures taken by him implied a decided conviction of the accuracy of his observation. If she were, as he asserted, not dead, though dangerously ill, the hubbub in the house, if suffered to continue, would very likely have rendered her recovery impossible. Quiet was essential; and that having been obtained, it was perfectly possible that under the soothing touch and the care of Jesus she might awake from her trance far better than before, and to all appearance suddenly restored to health. The crisis of her case was over, and it may have been by preventing her foolish friends from treating that crisis as death, that Jesus in reality saved her life. And when she awoke, the order to give her food implied a state of debility in which she could be assisted, not by supernatural, but by very commonplace measures. Observe, however, the manner in which in this case the myth has grown. In two of the Gospels, Mark and Luke, Jairus comes to Jesus, not when his daughter is dead, but only when she is supposed to be at the last gasp. There is no reason from their accounts to believe that she died at all, her friends’ opinion on that point being contradicted by Jesus. But in Matthew the miracle is enhanced by the statement of the father to Jesus that she was just dead (Mt. ix. 18). Consistently with this account the message afterwards sent to him from his house is omitted. Again, while it seems from the manner in which Matthew and Mark relate what happened, that the words of Jesus, “The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth,” preceded his entry into her room, it is clear from Luke that they succeeded it. And this is consistent with the requirements of the case. Some of the mourners and attendants must obviously have been by the bedside, and he could not turn them out till he was himself beside it. Then clearing the sick-chamber of useless idlers, he could proceed in peace to treat the patient; while if we suppose that these people were all outside the door, there is far less reason for their prompt expulsion. That this is the true explanation of the miracle I do not venture to assert; I have only been anxious to show, by a single instance, how easily the tale of an astounding prodigy might arise out of a few perfectly simple circumstances.
A curious incident took place on the way to the house of Jairus. A woman who had had an issue of blood for twelve years, came behind Jesus and touched his clothes, whereupon she was instantly healed. Jesus, turning round, told her that her faith had saved her (Mk. v. 25-34; Mt. ix. 20-22; Lu. viii. 43-48). Such is the fact as related by the first Evangelist; but the other two, magnifying the marvel, place Jesus in the midst of a throng of people pressing upon him, and make him supernaturally conscious that some one has touched him in such a manner as to extract remedial power out of him. Discovered by this instinct, the woman tremblingly confesses her deed.
Neither contact, however, nor even the presence of Jesus on the spot, were essential to a miracle of healing. A centurion, having a paralytic servant, either went or sent others to Jesus, requesting that he would heal him. Before Jesus could reach the house, he declared that he was unworthy of receiving him within it, but entreated that the word might be spoken, adding that his servant would then be healed. This was done; and Jesus took occasion to point the moral by contrasting the faith of this heathen with that of the Jews, dwelling on the superior strength of the former (Mt. viii. 5-13; Lu. vii. 1-10). This myth, which appears only in two Gospels, and in them with considerable variations, seems to have been designed to glorify Jesus by making a Roman officer acknowledge his powers. This intention is more evident in Luke than in Matthew; for in Matthew the centurion comes himself; but in Luke he sends “the elders of the Jews” to prefer his request, their appearance evincing his importance, and therefore increasing the honor done to Jesus by the suppliant attitude in which he stands. When Jesus is near his house the officer still does not approach in person, but sends friends, distinctly stating that he thought himself unworthy to come himself, and intimating his belief that a mere word will be enough to heal his servant. It is impossible to see why this message might not have been sent in the first instance by the elders, and the cure effected at once, but the two embassies to Jesus make a better story. Thus, in this version the centurion, who in the other version gives an interesting account of his official status, and receives the highest praise for his faith, never actually sees Jesus at all; and the eulogy is spoken not to him, but of him. Here, then, is another example of the way in which tales of this kind grow in passing from mouth to mouth.
Sometimes much more materialistic means of healing were adopted. One day, by the sea of Galilee, a deaf and dumb man was brought to Jesus. In this case he took the man aside, put his fingers into his ears, spat, touched his tongue, looked up to heaven, sighed, and said, Ephphatha, or, Be opened (Mk. vii. 31-37). When a word was sufficient, it was singular to go through all these performances, and the whole proceeding has somewhat the air of a piece of jugglery. At Bethsaida he dealt in like manner with a blind man, leading him out of the town, spitting upon his eyes, and then putting his hands upon him. Asked whether he saw, the man replied that he saw men as trees walking, whereupon a further application of the hand to his eyes caused him to see clearly (Mk. viii. 22-26). Here the remark presents itself that if anything of the sort ever occurred, the man could not have been born blind, since he would then have been unable to distinguish either men or trees by sight. It must have been a blindness due to accident or disease of the eyes, and might not have been total. But the whole story is probably mythical.
Two more miracles of healing rest on the authority of the third Gospel alone. By one of them ten lepers, who had asked for mercy, were suddenly cleansed after they had gone away. One only of the ten, a Sâmaritan, turned round to glorify God and to utter his gratitude. Jesus then observes: “‘Were not the ten cleansed? Where are the nine? Were there none found that returned to give glory to God, except this stranger?’ And he said to him, ‘Arise, go; thy faith hath saved thee’” (Lu. xvii. 11-19). Here the intention of exalting the Sâmaritan above the Jews is very evident.
Another prodigy was worked at the town of Nain, where the only son of a widow was just dead, and his body was being carried out to the burial-place. Jesus touched the bier, and the widow’s son rose to life, to the terror of the spectators, who declared that a great prophet had been raised up, and that God had looked upon his people (Lu. vii. 11-17).
Though the miracles of Jesus were principally of a remedial character, there were others which were rather designed to evince his power. Conspicuous among this class is that of feeding a multitude of five thousand people who had followed him into a desert place, and whose hunger he satisfied by the supernatural multiplication of five loaves and two fishes (Mk. vi. 30-45, and viii. 1-9; Mt. xiv. 14-21, and xv. 29-38; Lu. ix. 10-17; Jo. vi. 1-15). Of this wonder a double version, slightly different in details, has been embodied in the first two Gospels. It is plainly the same story coming from different sources. John, whose miracles are seldom identical with those of the synoptics, relates this one nearly in the same way; except that according to him it was a lad and not (as in the other Gospels) the disciples, who had the food on which the marvel was operated. The number of persons is stated in all four Gospels to be five thousand (and on the second occasion in the two first Gospels four thousand); but Matthew alone has striven to enhance the miracle still further by adding to these numbers the words, “besides women and children.”
Immediately after this miracle the disciples entered a boat to cross the lake of Galilee, leaving their master on land. A storm overtook them at night, and as they were laboring through it, they saw Jesus walking towards them on the water. Alarmed at such an apparition they cried out in fear; but Jesus reassured them, and was received into their boat, whereupon the wind fell (Mk. vi. 45-52; Mt. xiv. 22-33; Jo. vi. 16-21). To this Matthew, unlike Mark and John, adds that Peter also attempted the feat of walking on the lake; but being timid, began to sink, and had to be rescued by Jesus. John alone adds to the first miracle a further one: namely, that immediately upon his entrance into the ship, they were at the land whither they went.
A somewhat similar performance is that of stilling a violent storm on the lake of Galilee, which seems to have astonished even the disciples in the boat, accustomed as they must have been to prodigies. At least their exclamation, “What sort of man then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” looks as if all his influence over devils and diseases had failed to convince them of his true character (Mk. iv. 35-41; Mt. viii. 23-27; Lu. viii. 22-25).
All doubt upon this score must have been removed in the minds of three at least of the disciples by a scene which occurred in their presence. Peter, James and John accompanied him one day to a high mountain, where he was transfigured before them; his raiment becoming white and shining. Elijah and Moses were seen with him, and Peter, evidently bewildered, proposed to make three tabernacles. A voice came from heaven: “This is my beloved son: hear him.” Suddenly the apparition vanished; Jesus alone remained with the disciples, and on the way down charged them to tell no one of what they had seen till after the resurrection (Mk. ix. 2-13; Mt. xvii. 1-13; Lu. ix. 28-36). This is a suspicious circumstance, which means, if it mean anything, that the transfiguration was never thought of till after the death of Jesus, and that this order of his was invented to account for the otherwise unaccountable silence of the three disciples. For is it to be imagined that Peter, James, and John could keep the secret of this marvelous event, which was so well fitted to confirm the faith of believers, and to convince the Jews in general of the Messianic nature of the prophet? And if they did keep the secret, what weight is to be attached to their evidence, given long after the event, and when exalted views of the divinity of the Christ who had risen from death were already current?
Such are some of the “mighty works” for which Jesus claimed, and his disciples yielded, the title of “son of man,” or “son of God,” and assumed the authority of the “Messiah” whom the Jewish nation expected. But this claim was recognized neither by the spiritual heads of the Jews, nor by the great bulk of the people. Indeed he had given great offense to their religious sentiment both by putting forward such pretensions, and by the opinions he had expressed on various topics. The language which had caused their hostility, as belonging to his historical and not to his mythical personality, will be considered elsewhere. But the accounts—semi-mythical, semi-historical—which have reached us of the closing scenes of his life, must be passed under review now.
Long before his actual arrest, the Gospels tell us that he had predicted to his disciples the sufferings that were to befall him. Peter, according to one of the versions, had remonstrated with him on these forebodings, and had received from him in consequence one of the sharpest reprimands he had ever given, with the opprobrious epithet of “Satan.” It is further stated that he prophesied his resurrection, and his return to earth in glory with the angels of his Father. To this was added another prediction which proved false, that there were some standing there who should not taste of death till the son of man came in his kingdom. Gloomy expressions as to the necessity of his followers taking up their crosses and being ready to lose their lives also escaped him (Mk. viii. 31-ix. 1; Mt. xvi. 21-28; Lu. ix. 22-27). A little later, he is said to have distinctly given vent to similar expectations as to his approaching end, though without being able to make himself understood by his disciples (Mk. ix. 30-32; Mt. xvii. 22, 23; Lu. ix. 44, 45). Again, on the way to Jerusalem where he intended to celebrate the passover, he took all his twelve disciples aside, and distinctly foretold his execution there, and his resurrection on the third day (Mk. x. 32-34; Mt. xx. 17-19; Lu. xviii. 31-34).
Those portions of his prophecies which related to his death at the hands of the Jewish rulers, though not those which related to his return in glory, were destined to be soon fulfilled. Determined to insist publicly upon his title to the Messianic throne, Jesus resolved upon a triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Having sent two disciples from the Mount of Olives to fetch a colt, hitherto unridden, which he informed them the owners would surrender on hearing that the Lord had need of it, he mounted this animal and rode into the city amid the shouts and acclamations of his supporters. Many are said to have spread their garments in his path; others to have cut down branches from trees, and strewed them before him. Those that went before and behind him kept cheering as he rode, exclaiming: “Hosanna, blessed is he who cometh in the name of the Lord; blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David; hosanna in the highest” (Mk. xi. 1-11; Mt. xxi. 1-11; Lu. xix. 29-39; Jo. xii. 12-16).
This remarkable scene is described in all the Gospels; but while the three first represent Jesus as sending to fetch the colt, or the ass and colt, which he in some mysterious manner knows that the man will give up, the fourth makes him take the ass and mount it; not as in the other versions before the triumphal reception, but after it had begun. So that as to these important circumstances the two accounts are entirely at issue; that of John being the more natural. That Jesus actually entered Jerusalem in this fashion is highly probable, for we find in the Gospels themselves a motive assigned which might well have led him to select it for his approach to the capital. There was a prophecy in Zechariah with which he was no doubt familiar: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion: shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee, just and victorious is he; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a foal, the young of asses” (Zech. ix. 9). With the views he held as to his Messiahship, Jesus may well have been anxious to show that this prophecy was fulfilled in his person.
On the day after his entry on the ass, on coming from Bethany he was hungry, and finding a fig-tree without fruit, he cursed it. Mark says that the disciples found it withered the next day; Matthew increasing the marvelous element, that they saw it wither “immediately.” Mark also adds that it was not the season for figs, which, if correct, would have made it absurdly irrational in Jesus to expect them (Mk. xi. 12-14, and 20-26; Mt. xxi. 18-22). If we accept the more natural supposition that it was the season, but that this individual tree was barren, then we may easily understand that the absence of fruit and the withered condition of the tree were both parts of the same set of phenomena, and that the disciples may have observed them about the same time.
Human beings were the next victims of the wrath of Jesus. The money-changers and dove-sellers were turned out of the temple by him; the fourth Gospel alone mentioning a scourge of small cords as the weapon employed (Mk. xi. 12-14; Mt. xxxi. 12, 13; Lu. xix, 45, 46; Jo. ii. 15-18). A question put by the authorities as to his right to act thus was met by a counter-question, and finally left unanswered (Mk. xi. 27-33; Mt. xxi. 23-27; Lu. xx. 1-8.). The chief priests now consulted together as to the measures to be taken with a view of bringing him to trial, but hesitated to do anything on the feast-day for fear of popular disturbances. Matthew tells us, what the other two do not know, that they assembled at the palace of the high priest Caiaphas, and also puts in the mouth of Jesus a distinct prophecy that after two days he will be betrayed to be crucified (Mk. xiv. 1, 2; Mt. xxvi. 1-5; Luke xxii. 1, 2.).
A similar foreboding is expressed, according to Matthew, Mark, and John, in reference to an incident which is variously described by these three Evangelists. Matthew and Mark agree in saying, that on this occasion he was taking a repast at the house of Simon the leper, when a woman came up to him with a box of very precious ointment and poured it on his head. Here, according to Mark, “some,” according to Matthew, “the disciples,” were indignant at the waste of the ointment, which might, they said, have been sold “for much,” or “for three hundred pence,” and the proceeds given to the poor. But Jesus warmly took up the woman’s cause, for, he remarked, “she has wrought a good work on me. For you always have the poor with you, but me ye have not always. For in pouring this ointment on my body she has done it for my burial.” Mark now how strangely this simple story has been perverted in the fourth Gospel to suit the purposes of the writer. The date he assigns to it—six days before the passover—is nearly the same as that given in the second Gospel, where it is placed two days before that festival. The place, Bethany, is also identical. But the other circumstances are widely different. In this Gospel alone is anything known of an intimate friend of Jesus, Lazarus by name. In it alone is there any mention of one of his most astounding miracles, the restoration of Lazarus to life. Consistently with his peculiar notion of the relations of Jesus with this man’s family he says nothing of Simon the leper, but without telling us in whose house Jesus was, mentions that Lazarus was among the guests, and that his sister Martha was serving. Further, he asserts that the woman who brought the ointment was Mary, the other sister. Instead of pouring it on his head, she is made to anoint his feet, and wipe them with her hair. Instead of the disciples, or some unknown people, being angry at the waste, it is Judas Iscariot in whose mouth the obnoxious comment is placed. The sum he names, three hundred pence, is the same as that assigned in Mark as the value of the ointment. But in order to cover Judas with still further obloquy, the Evangelist charges him with a desire to obtain this sum, not for the poor, but for himself; he being the bearer of the common purse, and being in the habit of dishonestly appropriating some portion of its contents (Mk. xiv. 3-9; Mt. xxvi. 6-13; Jo. xii. 3-8). Of such an accusation not a trace is to be found in the other Gospels, whose writers were assuredly not likely to spare the reputation of Judas if it were open to attack. Nor does the author of this insinuation offer one particle of evidence in its support.
The steps by which a story grows from an indefinite to a definite, from a historical to a mythical form, are admirably illustrated in this instance. A tradition is preserved in which, while the main event is clear, many of the surrounding circumstances have been suffered to escape from memory. Writer after writer takes it up, and finding it thus imperfect, adds to it detail after detail until its whole complexion is altered. Even the main event may not always be exempted from the transfiguring process; as here, where the feet of Jesus are substituted for the head, and the interesting picture introduced of Mary wiping them with her hair, and consequently placing herself in a situation of the deepest humility. And if the central incident is thus unsafe, still more so are its adjuncts. First, the woman is unknown, as are those who murmur against her. Then, in the second stage, the woman is still unknown, but the murmurers are known generally as the disciples. But no bad motive is as yet assigned for their censure. Lastly, in the third stage, the woman is known, the murmurer is known specifically as one disciple, and a bad motive is assigned for his censure. Such is the way in which myths grow up.
The circumstance we have next to deal with is obscure, not because too much has been added, but because something has been omitted. Jesus had now drawn upon him the mortal hatred of the priests of the temple. He was well aware of his danger, as many of his expressions show. He endeavored to avoid it by living in concealment in or near Jerusalem. Not that we are told of this in so many words, but that the course of the story renders it a necessary assumption. For all the Gospels inform us that one of his disciples, Judas named Iscariot, went to the chief priests and betrayed him, receiving a pecuniary reward for the service thus rendered (Mk. xiv. 10, 11; Mt. xxvi. 14-16; Lu. xxii. 3-6; Jo. xiii. 2, 27). As to this fact there is complete unanimity, and it is borne out by the manner of his arrest as subsequently depicted. We cannot then treat it as a fiction; but it is plain that had Jesus been leading the open and public life described in the Gospels, there would have been no secret to betray, and no reward to be earned. A period, more or less long, of retirement to some spot known only to friends, must therefore be taken for granted. John alludes to something of the sort, though not distinctly, when he relates that there was a garden across the brook Cedron, to which he often resorted with his disciples, and which was known to Judas. But the Christian tradition did not like to acknowledge that Christ, whom it represents as braving death, ever lurked in hidden places like a criminal, and at the same time it wished to brand the memory of Judas with infamy. Hence the suppression of a fact without which the story cannot be understood. The expressions, “he sought how he might conveniently betray him” (Mk. xiv. 11); or “he sought opportunity to betray him” (Mt. xxvi. 26), plainly point to the same inference.
There are some differences in the manner in which the proceedings of Judas are related. All the Gospels agree that he received money, but Matthew alone knows how much. This Evangelist had in his mind a passage in Zechariah, which he erroneously attributes to Jeremiah, and which moreover he misquotes (Mt. xxvii. 9). In the original it runs thus: “And I said unto them [the poor of the flock], If it is good in your eyes, give me my hire; and if not, forbear. And they weighed for my hire thirty pieces of silver.”26 Matthew and Mark merely state that Judas betrayed his master, giving no reason for his conduct. Luke, however, represents it as a consequence of Satan having entered into him (Lu. xxii. 3); while John in like manner states that the devil put it into his heart, and even knows the very moment when Satan entered into him (Jo. xiii. 2, 27). This Evangelist alone places the first steps taken by Judas after the last supper, instead of before it, and strangely enough so arranges the course of events, that he only acts upon the resolution to betray him after a distinct declaration by Jesus that he was about to do so.
Slightly anticipating the course of the narrative, we may mention here the singular myth of the unhappy end of the traitor Judas; a myth which is of peculiar interest inasmuch as its origin is distinctly traceable to a mistranslation of a verse in Zechariah. The passage quoted above continues thus: “And Jehovah spoke to me: Throw it to the treasure, the costly mantle with which I am honored by them; and I took the thirty pieces of silver and threw them into the temple of Jehovah to the treasure.” But the word here used for the treasure commonly signifies potter, and was hence interpreted “Throw it to the potter.” Out of this mistake arose the story that Judas, ashamed of his bargain, returned the money to the chief priests, who, deeming it unlawful to put it in the treasury, bought therewith the “potter’s field to bury strangers in.” Thus, observes Matthew, “was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet.” Judas, having parted with his ill-gotten gain, committed suicide by hanging (Mt. xxvii. 3-10). So at least says Matthew; but Luke, making confusion worse confounded, represents Judas himself as purchasing the field “with the reward of iniquity;” after which he fell headlong, and bursting in the middle, his bowels gushed out (Acts i. 18, 19). Of this notorious fact, “known,” according to the Acts of the Apostles, “to all the dwellers at Jerusalem,” Matthew at least was wholly ignorant. But both versions equally originate in the defective Hebrew of the translators of Zechariah.
In all the synoptical Gospels, the celebration of the passover by Jesus and his disciples succeeds the secret arrangement of Judas with the high priests. He kept it in Jerusalem, in the house of a man whose name is not mentioned, but who must have been one of his adherents. The encounter with this man is represented in two of the three versions as something miraculous. On the first day of unleavened bread Jesus told two of his disciples (according to Mark), James and John (according to Luke), to go into Jerusalem, where they would meet a man bearing a pitcher of water. Him they were to follow, and wherever he went in, they were to say to the master of the house, “Where is the guest-chamber, where I may eat the passover with my disciples?” He would then show them a large furnished upper room, where they were to prepare it. Nothing but a perfectly natural version of all this appears in Matthew. There Jesus tells his disciples to go into the city to So-and-so (the name therefore having been given), and tell him that he wished to keep the passover at his house (Mk. xiv. 12-16; Mt. xxvi. 17-19; Lu. xxii. 7-13). Here again we see how easily a wondrous tale may originate in a very simple fact.
Supper was accordingly prepared in the man’s house, and Jesus ate the passover there with his disciples. At this supper, according to all the Gospels, he mentioned the fact that one of them would betray him. Whether in so doing he actually named the traitor is uncertain. Mark’s account is that when he had predicted that one would betray him, the disciples in sorrow inquired one by one, “Is it I?” and that Jesus told them it was the one who dipped with him in the dish. Luke leaves it still more indefinite. There Jesus merely says, “the hand of him that betrays me is with me on the table,” and no further inquiry is made by any one. Matthew, like Mark, represents each disciple as asking whether he was the one, and Jesus as giving the same indication about the dish. But he adds that Judas himself asked, “Is it I?” and that Jesus answered, “Thou hast said.” Quite different is the account in John. There, instead of all the disciples inquiring whether it was he, a single disciple, leaning on the breast of Jesus, asks, on a sign from Peter, who it was to be. Jesus does not reply that it was he who dipped in the dish, but he to whom he should give a sop. He then gives the sop to Judas, and tells him to do quickly that which he is about to do; words understood by no one present.27 The improbability of any of these stories is obvious. In the three first, Judas is pointed out to all the eleven as a man who is about to give up their master to punishment, and probable death, yet no step was taken or even suggested by any of them either to impede the false disciple in his movements, or to save Jesus by flight and concealment. The announcement is taken as quietly as if it were an every-day occurrence that was referred to. John’s narrative avoids this difficulty by supposing the intimation that Judas was the man to be conveyed by a private signal understood only by Peter and the disciple next to Jesus. These two may have felt it necessary to keep the secret, but why then could they not understand the words of Jesus to Judas, or why not at least inquire whether they had reference to his treachery, which had just before been so plainly intimated? That Jesus, with his keen vision, may have divined the proceedings of Judas, is quite possible; that he could have spoken of them at the table in this open way without exciting more attention, is hardly credible.
It was at this same passover that Christ, conscious of his approaching end, blessed the bread and the cup of wine, and giving them to his disciples, told them that the one was his body, and the other his blood in the new testament, or the new testament of his blood (Mk. xiv. 22-25; Mt. xxvi. 26-29; Lu. xxii. 14-21; I Cor. xi. 23-25). John who was confused about dates in his biography, supposes that this supper took place before the feast of the passover, instead of at it, and, consistently with this view, he says nothing of the institution of the Eucharist, which had a peculiar reference to the Jewish feast-day. Instead thereof, he introduces another ceremony, of which neither the other Evangelists nor Paul say a word; that of washing the disciples’ feet by Jesus. This was done to make them “clean every whit” (though it had no such effect on Judas), and also to set them an example of mutual kindness (Jo. xiii. 4-17).
The passover eaten, Jesus retired with his disciples to the Mount of Olives. Being in a prophetic mood, he foretold that all his disciples would forsake him in the hour of danger now approaching, and that Peter would deny him. This Peter resented, though it was destined to be soon fulfilled. After this Jesus went to Gethsemane, and taking his three principal disciples apart from the rest, told them that his soul was sorrowful unto death, and begged them to remain and watch while he prayed. Going a little forward, he prayed earnestly that the coming trial might pass from him, yet with submission to God’s will. Returning, he found his three friends asleep, and this happened twice again, these devoted men sleeping calmly on until the very moment when the officers of the Sanhedrim came to arrest their Lord. Luke adorns this scene—which he places at the Mount of Olives without mentioning the garden of Gethsemane—with ampler details. Mark and Matthew know nothing of the exact distance of Jesus from his disciples; Luke knows that it was about a stone’s throw. Moreover, all the number are present, not only Peter, James, and John. Sweat like drops of blood falls from Christ. An angel appears to strengthen him. All this is new; as is the representation that the disciples were sleeping from sorrow,—a motive which the Evangelist no doubt felt it needful to assign in order to vindicate their honor. The other two biographers, who content themselves with saying that “Their eyes were heavy,” certainly keep more within the limits of probability (Mk. xiv. 32-42; Mt. xxvi. 36-46; Lu. xxii. 39-46).
No sooner was the prayer concluded than Judas, accompanied by a large posse comitatus armed with swords and staves, came from the Jewish authorities. Resistance to the arrest must have been expected, and not wholly without reason; for as soon as the officers, in obedience to the preconcerted signal of a kiss from Judas, had seized Jesus, one of his party drew a sword and cut off the ear of the high priest’s servant. This incident is related in various ways in all the Gospels. In Mark, Jesus addresses no rebuke to the disciple who commits this action. In Matthew, he tells him to put up his sword, for all who take the sword shall perish by the sword. In Luke, the progress to greater definiteness which has been noted as characterizing these semi-historical myths has begun. In the first place, before going to the Mount of Olives, the disciples provide themselves with two swords; and Jesus, on their mentioning the fact, says, “It is enough.” Then the writer knows that it was the right ear which was cut off. More than this, he gives artistic finish to the whole by making Jesus touch the place and heal the wound: though whether a new ear grew, or the old one was put on again, he does not tell us. More definite still is the version in John. This Evangelist, as we saw in another case, is fond of supplying names. Thus, he pretends to know here that it was Peter who cut off the ear, and that its owner was called Malchus. Peter is called to order in his version, but Malchus is not healed. Plainly it was the sense of justice of the third Evangelist that made him shrink from leaving an innocent dependent in this mutilated condition, when he knew that Christ might so easily have restored the missing member.
While in the synoptical Gospels it is Judas who by a kiss points out Jesus, in John it is Jesus himself who comes forward to declare himself. Hereupon the party deputed by the priests go backwards and fall to the ground. They soon recover themselves enough to arrest him. In all the versions he suffers himself to be quietly taken, while in all but John he resents, with much dignity, the sending of such a force against him, as though he had been a thief; while in fact he had often taught openly in the temple and had not been stopped. Their master once taken, the courage of the disciples was at an end. They all fled. Jesus was brought before the Sanhedrim, and evidence, of the tenor of which we are not informed, was produced against him. Lastly, two witnesses deposed that they had heard him say, “I am able to destroy this temple, and in three days to rebuild it;” or, “I will destroy this temple made with hands, and will build another not made with hands in three days.” Mark endeavors to depreciate these witnesses by saying that their evidence did not agree; and he himself is liable to the remark that his report of their evidence does not agree with that of Matthew, while in neither Gospel does the utterance attributed by these men to Jesus tally exactly with that assigned to him in John, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (Jo. ii. 19). The agreement, however, is close enough to render it probable that some such expression was used, and some such evidence given. Neither Luke nor John know anything of witnesses against Jesus. But Luke, in common with the other synoptical Gospels, asserts that he not only admitted, but emphatically confirmed the charge—distinctly put to him by the high priest—of being the Son of God. On this confession he was unanimously found guilty of blasphemy.
Wholly different is the conduct of the trial in John, whose account, moreover, is confused and ill-written in the extreme. With his usual proneness to give names, he says that Jesus was taken first before Annas, the father-in-law of Caiaphas the high priest. Annas sent him bound to Caiaphas. The high priest (the council is not alluded to) carried on an informal conversation with Jesus, inquiring about his doctrine and disciples; questions which the latter, on the plea of the publicity of his teaching, refused to answer. There is no mention of blasphemy; no conviction on any charge; no expression of opinion on the part of Caiaphas; though from the fact that he committed the prisoner for trial before the Roman court, it may be inferred that he considered him guilty.28
During the trial by the Sanhedrim, a singular scene was passing in the ante-room. There Peter, who alone of the disciples had followed his master (for the mention of another is peculiar to John), was warming himself among the attendants. Questioned by maids and officers of the court whether he had not been among the disciples of the accused, he vehemently, three several times, repudiated the supposition, though his Galilean accent told heavily against him. According to John, the question was put on the third occasion by a relative of Malchus, who had seen him in the garden. The other Evangelists are less specific. Now Jesus had foretold that Peter would thus deny him, and that his falsehoods would be followed by the crowing of a cock. Immediately after the last denial, this signal occurred; and Peter, according to all the Gospels but the fourth, went out and wept over his meanness.29
Convicted by the Sanhedrim, the prisoner was now placed at the bar of the civil tribunal. The procurator of Judea at this time was a man named Pontius Pilatus. His character does not stand high. Neander terms him “an image of the corruption which then prevailed among distinguished Romans” (Leben Jesu, p. 687). Appointed in the year 23, he was recalled in 37 on account of the slaughter of some Sâmaritans in a battle. He had insulted the prejudices of the people he governed by setting up the standards of the Roman army within the walls of Jerusalem, and had threatened an armed attack upon the peaceable Jews who went to Cæsarea to remonstrate against this novel measure. On another occasion he had taken some of the revenues of the temple to construct an aqueduct, and when the work was interrupted by the people, had set disguised soldiers upon them, who killed them without mercy.
Such a man was not likely to be excessively troubled by scruples about the execution of an innocent victim. On the other hand it is perfectly possible that he might, comparing the prisoner with the prosecutors, prefer the former. Having no love for the Jewish people, an object of their antipathy might become to a certain extent an object of his sympathy. But beyond this, it would be absurd to suppose that a man of the character of Jesus would inspire him with any sort of regard, or that he would hesitate to take his life if it suited his purpose. The simplest account of the trial bears out this expectation. Questioned by Pilate as to the charge preferred against him, of claiming to be the king of the Jews, the prisoner answered by an admission of its truth: “Thou sayest it.” To other accusations urged against him by the priests he made no reply. Pilate wondered at his silence, and endeavored, but without success, to extract an answer. While the conduct of the accused man must have appeared to him not a little strange, Pilate may also have thought that the pretensions to kingship of a peaceable fanatic, with but few and obscure followers, were nowise dangerous to the Roman government. It was his custom at this festival to release a prisoner, leaving the people, or the Jewish authorities, to decide whom. He now proposed to release Jesus, but the suggestion was not accepted, and the liberation of a well-known political prisoner, who had been engaged in an insurrectionary enterprise, was demanded instead. Pilate naturally enough preferred the would-be Messiah to the actual rebel. The Jews as naturally preferred the rebel. They clamored for the crucifixion of Jesus, and Pilate—afraid perhaps that by too much anxiety to save him he would expose himself to misrepresentation before Tiberius—gave way to their demand.
So far Mark; and as to the charge against Jesus, and the procurator’s treatment of it, the other Evangelists are all at one with him. But each has adorned the trial with additional incidents after his own fashion. Matthew has a ridiculous story of an interference with the course of justice by Pilate’s wife, who on the strength of a dream entreated him to have nothing to do with “that just man.” Matthew, as we have seen before, was a great believer in dreams. Then he is so desirous of clearing the character of the Roman, that he describes him as washing his hands in token of his innocence before the multitude, who cry out that the blood of Jesus is to be on them and their children. In Luke, there is a new variation. Learning that Jesus was a Galilean, Pilate sent him to Herod, who had long been anxious to see him, but who could not now induce him to answer any of his questions. Herod, like Pilate, found no fault in him, and sent him back after treating him with ridicule. Pilate’s reluctance to convict Jesus is much magnified in this Gospel. He insists on Herod’s inability, as well as his own, to discover any capital offense committed by him, and three several times proposes to the prosecution to chastise him and then dismiss him. In John, the conversation of Pilate with Jesus is wholly different. In the first place, it takes place alone, or at any rate in the absence of the accusers, for these had refused to be defiled by entering the court; and Pilate is represented as going out to them to inquire into the charge. This is to suit the blunder about dates committed in this Gospel, according to which the last supper was before, and the trial at the very time of, the passover. The Jews, therefore, stand without, and the prisoner is within. The prisoner does not refuse, as in all the other versions, to answer Pilate’s questions, but enters at some length into his doctrine, explaining the unworldly nature of his kingdom. Pilate places the purple robe and the crown of thorns upon him before his condemnation, instead of after it, and then tells the Jews that he finds no fault in him. Yet after this he desires them to crucify him, although he was guiltless. Hereupon the Jews tell him that he had made himself the Son of God. At this, Pilate is frightened, and enters into further conversation with Jesus. After hearing him expound another theory, he is still very anxious to release him, but is forced to yield by an intimation that no friend of Cæsar’s would protect a rival to the throne (Mk. xv. 1-14; Mt. xxvii. 1, 2, and 11-25; Lu. xxiii. 1-23; Jo. xviii. 28-40). Anything more utterly improbable than this scene it is difficult to imagine. The picture of the Roman governor of Judea going backwards and forwards between accusers and accused; listening to the theological fancies of the accused; helpless against the pressure of the accusers; alarmed at the pretensions to divinity of a young Galilean artisan; are sufficient in themselves to stamp this Gospel with the mark of unveracity.
Sentenced to death, Jesus was now scourged; a purple robe was put upon him, and a crown of thorns about his head (not upon it as was afterwards said): he was saluted in mockery as king of the Jews, and smitten with a reed upon the head. After this cruel ceremony he was led out to Golgotha to be crucified, a man named Simon being compelled to bear his cross (Mk. xv. 15-21; Mt. xxvii. 26-32; Lu. xxiii. 24-26; Jo. xix. 1-16). Luke is singular in the introduction of a large company of women who follow Jesus to the crucifixion and draw from him a prophecy of terrible evils to come upon them and their children; for themselves, and not for him, they were to weep (Lu. xxiii. 27-31). The other versions say nothing of any friends or followers, male or female, as being present at this period, though they do mention many women as looking on from a distance during the crucifixion. These, however, were not daughters of Jerusalem (like the women in Luke), but Galilean admirers who had followed him to the capital. His mother was certainly not among them, or she could not fail to have been mentioned in the synoptical Gospels; whereas the only names we meet with are those of Mary Magdalene; Mary, mother of James and Joses; and Salome, apparently the same person as the mother of Zebedee’s children (Mk. xv. 40, 41; Mt. xxvii. 55, 56).
These were among the spectators of the melancholy end of him who had been their teacher and their friend. He was crucified between two criminals, with an inscription on his cross which is differently reported in every Gospel, but of which the substance was that he was the king of the Jews. A stupifying drink which Matthew (in accordance with a supposed prophecy) (Ps. lxix. 21) calls vinegar and gall, was offered him by the executioners; not as Luke supposes, in mockery, but with the humane intention of allaying the pain. His clothes were divided among the party of soldiers; a circumstance in which the Evangelists as usual endeavor to see the fulfillment of prophecy. In Psalm xxii. 18, we read: “They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture.” The Synoptics content themselves here with stating that the soldiers drew lots for his clothing, but John anxious to fulfill this prophecy in the most literal manner possible, pretends that they divided the articles of his apparel into four parts, but finding the coat without seam, agreed not to tear it, but to apportion it by lot. Luke is the sole reporter of a saying of Jesus uttered in his last moments: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Mk. xv. 23-28; Mt. xxvii. 34-38; Lu. xxiii. 32-34, 36; Jo. xix. 17-24).
The pangs of death must have been greatly embittered to Jesus if it be true that not only the priests and passers by, but the very criminals who were crucified with him, ridiculed his claim to be king of Israel, and suggested that he should prove it to demonstration by saving himself from the cross. All the synoptical Gospels agree in this account, with the single exception that Luke includes only one of the malefactors among the scorners. According to this Gospel, the other rebuked his fellow-convict for his misbehavior, and addressed to him a few moral remarks; which, however, were perhaps not quite disinterested, for at its close he requested Jesus to remember him in his kingdom, and received an ample reward in the shape of a promise from the latter that he should be with him that day in Paradise. But where was the impenitent criminal to be? About his fate there is an ominous obscurity, and it evidently did not occur to the writer that the forgiveness which Jesus had just been praying his Father to grant his enemies, he might himself have extended to this miserable man (Mk. xv. 29-32; Mt. xxvii. 39-44; Lu. xxiii. 35-43).
Another incident of the closing hours of Jesus is known to the fourth Evangelist alone. According to the others, the women who watched him expire were standing far off. But according to John, his mother Mary, her sister, and Magdalene were all at the foot of the cross. There also was the disciple whom Jesus loved, and who in the three other Gospels had run away. Before he died, Jesus committed his mother to the care of this disciple as to a son, and he afterwards took her home. The dogmatic purpose of this story is evident. Mary had not been converted by her son during his life-time, and it was important to bring her to the foot of the cross at his death, and to place her in this close connection with one of his principal disciples (Jo. xix. 25-27).
As to the last words of Jesus, there is an amount of divergence which shows that no account can be regarded as trustworthy. Mark and Matthew both relate that he called out, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” an exclamation which he may really have uttered, or which, as coming from a prophetic Psalm, may have seemed to them appropriate. Hereupon a sponge of vinegar was offered him under the impression that he was calling Elias, and with a loud cry he gave up the ghost. In Luke he cries loudly, and then says, “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.” With these words (also from one of the Psalms) upon his lips, he dies. In John he says, “I am thirsty:” and after receiving some vinegar, adds, “It is finished;” and bowing his head, gives up the ghost (Mk. xv. 34-37; Mt. xxvii. 46-50; Lu. xxiii. 46; Jo. xix. 28-30).
With the death of Christ, and indeed immediately before it, we pass from the region of mixed history and mythology into that of pure mythology. With the exception of his burial, all that follows has been deliberately invented. The wonders attendant upon his closing hours belong in part to the typical order of myths, and in part to an order peculiar to himself. The darkness from the sixth to the ninth hour, the rending of the temple veil, the earthquake, the rending of the rocks, are altogether like the prodigies attending the decease of other great men. The centurion’s exclamation, “Truly this man was just,” or “Truly this man was the son of God” (it is differently reported), is a myth belonging peculiarly to Christ, and designed to exhibit the enforced confession of his greatness by an incredulous Roman. In Matthew, where the more modest narratives of Mark and Luke are greatly improved upon by additional details, it is further added that many bodies of saints arose, and after the resurrection appeared to many in Jerusalem (Mk. xv. 33-39; Mt. xxvii. 45, and 51-54; Lu. xxiii. 44-47).
John, who knows nothing whatever of the darkness, the accident to the temple veil, the revival of the saints, or the centurion’s exclamation, has a myth of his own constructed for the especial purpose of fulfilling certain prophecies. The next day being a festival, the Jews, he says, were anxious that the bodies should not remain on the crosses. They therefore requested Pilate to break their legs and remove them. He ordered this to be done, and the legs of the two criminals were broken, but not those of Jesus, who was already dead; one of the soldiers, however, pierced his side, from which blood and water gushed out. The writer adds a strong asseveration of his veracity, but immediately betrays himself by letting out that in relating the omission to break the legs of Jesus he was comparing him to the Paschal lamb, of whom not a bone was to be broken; while in telling of the soldier who pierced his side, he was thinking of a phrase in Zechariah: “They shall look upon me whom they have pierced” (Zech. xii. 10; Jo. xix. 31-37).
The burial of the body took place quietly. Joseph of Arimathæa, a secret admirer of Jesus, placed it in a new sepulchre of his own. With him John associates a character who exists only in his Gospel, Nicodemus, and whom he introduces here as taking some part in the interment. To the circumstance of the burial in the rock sepulchre, Matthew adds an audacious fiction of his own; namely, that the chief priests, remembering Christ’s prediction that he should rise on the third day, obtained leave to seal the stone of the tomb and keep it watched, lest the disciples should take the body by night and pretend that he was risen (Mk. xv. 42-47; Mt. xxvii. 57-66; Lu. xxiii. 50-56; Jo. xix. 38-42).
Certainly if the Evangelist had meant to convey the impression that no human means could prevent the resurrection of Christ, he would have been perfectly right. An actual body was not necessary for the purpose. For the legends appertaining to the resurrection belong to a region in which imagination, unhampered by the controlling influence of historical fact, has been permitted the freest play. Of the appearances of Jesus after his death we have accounts by no less than seven different hands, each story being distinct from, though not always inconsistent with, the other six. Let us begin with what is probably the oldest of all, containing but a germ of the rest; the first eight verses of the last chapter of Mark. There we are told that on the day after the Sabbath, Mary Magdalene, Mary James’s mother, and Salome went to the sepulchre at sunrise. They found it empty, the stone having been rolled away. A young man in white clothes was sitting in it. He told them that Jesus was risen, and desired them to tell the disciples that he was going to Galilee, where they would see him. All that follows in this Gospel is added by a later hand, and the very first verse of the addition is plainly written in total disregard of what has just preceded it. Observe then that the simplest form of the story of the resurrection contains no mention of any actual appearance of Jesus whatever, but merely an assertion that the body was not in the tomb, and that a man, sitting inside it, made certain statements to three women. To this the forger has added that Jesus appeared first to Magdalene, whose account, given to the disciples, was disbelieved by them; secondly, to two disciples while walking, whose evidence was also disbelieved; thirdly, to the eleven at dinner, to whom he addressed a discourse (Mk. xvi.).
The writer of the first Gospel is much more elaborate. He was a little embarrassed by the guards whom he had set to watch the tomb, whom it was essential to find some convenient method of getting out of the way. Like Mark, he takes the two Marys (not Salome) to the sepulchre early on the first day of the week; unlike Mark, he does not make them examine the tomb and find it deserted. On the contrary, there is an earthquake (the author is rather fond of these natural convulsions), and an angel with a face like lightning, clothed in the purest white, descends. He rolls back the stone and sits upon it. His appearance so terrifies the keepers that they become like corpses. The angel tells the women that Jesus is risen, and that they are to let the disciples know that he would go before them to Galilee, where they would see him. As they are engaged on this errand, Jesus himself appears and gives them a similar injunction. The second appearance occurred before the eleven disciples, who saw him at an appointed place in Galilee, “but some doubted.” Here Jesus addressed to them a parting discourse, and this Gospel does not state how or when he quitted them. The awkward circumstance of the presence of the guards, who had certainly not testified to the angel’s descent, had still to be surmounted. This is accomplished by a ridiculous story that they had been heavily bribed by the priests and elders to say that the disciples had stolen the body while they were asleep (Mt. xxviii).
Unlike either of the preceding writers, Luke conceives the first appearance of the risen Christ to have been, not to the women, but to two disciples. He does indeed relate that on the morning of the first day of the week Magdalene, Mary, Joanna, and other women went to the tomb, and found the stone rolled away and the body gone. While they were wondering at this, two men in shining garments stood by them, and told them that he whom they sought was risen. They returned to report to the apostles, to whom their words seemed as idle tales. Peter, however, ran to the sepulchre to verify their statement, and found only the clothes in it. Two of the disciples were going that same day to Emmaus. While walking and talking, a stranger joined them and entered into a conversation, in which he expounded the prophecies relating to the Messiah. They requested this man to remain with them for the night at the house where they were lodging. During supper he took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them; whereupon they recognized him as Jesus, and he vanished from their eyes. On returning to Jerusalem, they found the eleven and the rest asserting that Christ was risen and had appeared to Peter. The two wanderers related their experiences in their turn. While the disciples were talking, Jesus himself appeared in their midst, and said, “Peace unto you.” Some skeptical doubts, however, troubled them even now, for Jesus thought it necessary to prove his actual carnality by showing his hands and feet, as well as by eating some broiled fish and a piece of honeycomb. After this he “opened their understanding,” by an expository discourse in reference to some of his own sayings and to the Scriptures; concluding with an exhortation to remain at Jerusalem till they were endowed with power from on high (Lu. xxii. 1-49). This last passage is explained by the same author in the Acts of the Apostles to refer to the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the apostles, which in that work is much more definitely promised by Jesus (Acts i. 5, 8). We also find in it an important addition to the details furnished by the Gospel about the resurrection; namely, that Jesus was seen by his disciples for forty days after his physical death, during which time he kept speaking to them about matters pertaining to the kingdom of God (Acts i. 3).
Directly contradicting Mark and Matthew, John states that Magdalene (no one else is mentioned) went to the sepulchre while it was still dark (not at dawn or sunrise), and found the stone taken away. Making no further inspection, she ran to Peter and to the beloved disciple, saying that the body had been abstracted. The two ran together to the place, and going in, found the clothes lying in the tomb, whereupon the beloved disciple “saw and believed,” though what he believed is not stated. Magdalene was standing outside; but after the two men had concluded their examination she entered, and saw what they had not seen—two angels, sitting one at each end of the place where the body had been. These angels asked her why she was weeping; she answered, because her Lord’s body had been taken. Turning round, she saw a man whom she at first took for the gardener, but whom she soon recognized as Jesus. She returned and informed the disciples that she had seen him. The same day, in the evening, Jesus appeared to the disciples, said, “Peace unto you,” and showed them his hands and feet. He then breathed the Holy Ghost into them, and gave them authority to remit or retain sins. Thomas, who was not present on this occasion, roundly refused to believe these facts unless he himself could touch the marks of the nails, and put his hand into the side. A week later Jesus again appeared, and Thomas was now enabled to dispel his doubts by actual examination of his person. To these three appearances, with which the genuine Gospel closed, a later hand has added a fourth. According to this new writer, a number of disciples were about to fish on the lake of Tiberias, when Christ was observed standing on the shore. The miraculous draught of fishes is introduced here in a form slightly different from that which it has in Luke. By acting on a direction from Jesus, the disciples caught a vast number. He then bade them come and dine with him, which they did. After dinner, he instructed Peter to feed his flock, and hinted that the beloved disciple might possibly live till his return in glory (Jo. xx., xxi.).
Completely different from any of these narratives is the account of the resurrection contributed by Paul. It is somewhat confused and difficult to understand. Christ, he says, rose on the third day according to the Scriptures, and was seen by Cephas; then by the twelve; after that by more than five hundred brethren; after that by James; next by all the apostles; and lastly by himself (1 Cor. xv. 3-8). It is to be noted that since Paul does not say that Christ appeared first to Cephas, we may if we please combine with this account one of those which make him appear first to Magdalene, or to her and other women. But even then the difficulties do not disappear. For how could so notorious an event as the manifestation of Christ to five hundred people be passed over sub silentio in all the Gospels and in the Acts? And granting that Paul may by an oversight have put “the twelve” for “the eleven,” are we not compelled to suppose that “all the apostles” are distinct from “the twelve,” and if so, who are they? What, again, are we to think of the appearance to James, of which nothing is said elsewhere? Above all, what are we to think of the fact that the purely spiritual vision granted to Paul, which was not even seen by his traveling companions, is placed by him exactly on a level with all the other reappearances of Christ, the physical reality of which so much trouble has been taken to prove?
Comparing now the several narratives of the resurrection with one another, we find this general result. In Mark, Jesus is said to have appeared three times:—
1. To Mary Magdalene.
2. To two disciples.
3. To the disciples at meat.
Two such appearances only are recorded in Matthew:—
1. To the women.
2. To the eleven in Galilee.
In Luke he appears:—
1. To Cleopas and his companion.
2. To Peter.
3. To the eleven and others.
In the two last chapters of John the appearances amount to four:—
1. To Mary Magdalene.
2. To the disciples without Thomas.
3. To the disciples with Thomas.
4. To several disciples on the Tiberias lake.
Paul extends them to six:—
1. To Peter.
2. To the twelve.
3. To more than 500.
4. To James.
5. To all the apostles.
6. To Paul.
Upon this most momentous question, then, every one of the Christian writers is at variance with every other. Nor is this all, for two of the number bring the earthly career of Jesus to its final close in a manner so extraordinary that we cannot even imagine the occurrence of such an event, of necessity so notorious and so impressive, to have been believed by the other biographers, and yet to have been passed over by them without a word of notice or allusion. Can it be for a moment supposed that two out of the four Evangelists had heard of the ascension of Christ—that the most wonderful termination of a wonderful life—and either forgot to mention, or deliberately omitted it? And may it not be assumed that Paul, when detailing the several occasions on which Christ had been seen after his crucifixion, must needs, had he known of it, have included this, perhaps the most striking of all, in his list? In fact the ascension rests entirely on the evidence of two witnesses, both of them comparatively late ones, the forger of the last verses of Mark, and the third Evangelist. Neither of them stand as near the events described as the true author of Mark, as Matthew, or as Paul, from no one of whom do we hear a word of the ascension. Nor do even these two witnesses relate their story in the same terms. The finisher of Mark merely tells us that after his parting charge to the eleven, he was received into heaven and sat at God’s right hand; a statement couched in such general terms as even to leave it doubtful whether there was any distinct and visible ascension, or whether Jesus was merely taken to heaven like any other virtuous man, though enjoying when there a higher precedence (Mk. xvi. 19). Especially is this doubt fostered by the fact that this Gospel, when speaking of the witnesses to Christ’s resurrection, never alludes to any of the physical proofs of his actual existence so much dwelt upon in Luke and the last chapter of John. Very much more definite is the statement at the close of the third Gospel. There it is related that Jesus led his disciples out to Bethany, where he blessed them and that, in the very act of blessing, he was parted from them and carried up into heaven (Lu. xxiv. 50, 51). The same author subsequently composed the Acts of the Apostles, and in the interim he had greatly improved upon his previous conception of the ascension. When he came to write the Acts, he was able to supply, what he had omitted before, the last conversation of the master with the disciples he was about to leave; he knows too that after the final words—no blessing is mentioned here—he was taken up and received by a cloud; that while the disciples were gazing up, two men in white—no doubt the very couple who had been seen at the sepulchre— were perceived standing by them, and that these celestial visitors told them that Jesus would return from heaven in the same way in which he had gone to it (Acts i. 9-11). Unhappy Galileans! little could they have dreamt for how many centuries after that day their successors would watch and wait, watching and waiting in vain, for the fulfillment of that consoling prophecy.
Casting a retrospective glance at the stories of the Resurrection and the Ascension, we may perhaps discern at least a psychological explanation of their origin and of the currency they obtained. Whatever other qualities Jesus may have possessed or lacked, there can be no question that he had one—that of inspiring in others a strong attachment to himself. He had in his brief career surrounded himself with devoted disciples; and he was taken from their midst in the full bloom of his powers by a violent and early death. Now there are some who have been taught by the bitter experience of their lives how difficult, nay, how impossible it is to realize in imagination the fact that a beloved companion is in truth gone from them forever. More especially will this mental difficulty be felt when he whom death has parted from our sides is young, vigorous, full of promise; when the infinite stillness of eternal rest has succeeded almost without a break upon the joyous activity of a well-spent life; when the being who is now no more was but a moment ago the moving spirit of a household, or the honored teacher of a band of friends who were linked together by his presence.
Where the association has been close and constant; where we have been accustomed to share our thoughts and to impart our feelings; where, therefore, we have habitually entwined not only our present lives, but our hopes and wishes for the future around the personality of the dead, this refusal of the mind to comprehend its loss is strongest of all. Emotion enters then upon a strange conflict with Reason. Reason may tell us but too distinctly that all hope of the return of the beloved one to life is vain and foolish. But Emotion speaks to us in another language. Well nigh does it prevent us from believing even the ghastly realities which our unhappy eyes have been compelled to witness. Deep within us there arises the craving for the presence of our friend, and with it the irrepressible thought that he may even yet come back to those who can scarcely bear to live without him. Were these inevitable longings not to be checked by a clear perception that they originate in our own broken hearts, we should fancy that we saw the figure of the departed and heard his voice. In that case a resurrection would have taken place for us, and for those who believed our tale. So far from the reappearance of the well-known form seeming to be strange, it is its failure to reappear that is strange to us in these times of sorrow. We fondly conceive that in some way the dead must still exist; and if so, can one, who was so tender before, listen to our cry of pain and refuse to come? can one, who soothed us in the lesser troubles of our lives, look on while we are suffering the greatest agony of all and fail to comfort? It cannot be. Imagination declines to picture the long future of solitude that lies before us. We cannot understand that we shall never again listen to the tones of the familiar voice; never feel the touch of the gentle hand; never be encouraged by the warm embrace that tells us we are loved, or find a refuge from miserable thoughts and the vexations of the world in the affectionate and ever-open heart. All this is too hard for us. We long for a resurrection; we should believe in it if we could; we do believe in it in sleep, when our feelings are free to roam at pleasure, unrestrained by the chilling presence of the material world. In dreams the old life is repeated again and again. Sometimes the lost one is beside us as of old, and we are quite untroubled by the thought of parting. Sometimes there is a strange and confusing consciousness that the great calamity has happened, or has been thought to happen, but that now we are again together, and that a new life has succeeded upon death. Or the dream takes a less definite form. We are united now; but along with our happiness in the union there is an oppressive sense of some mysterious terror clouding our enjoyment. We are afraid that it is an unsubstantial, shadowy being that is with us; the least touch may dissipate its uncertain existence; the slightest illness may extinguish its feeble breath. Granting only a strong emotion and a lively phantasy, we may comprehend at once how, in many lands, to many mourners, the images of their dreams may also become the visions of their waking hours. They see him again; they know that he is not gone; he is beside them still.
But for us, who live in a calmer age, and see with scientific eyes, there is no such comfort. Not to us can the bodily forms of those who have gone before us to the grave appear again in all the loveliness of life. In the first shock of our bereavement we may indeed indulge in some such visionary hope; but as day after day passes by and leaves us in a solitude that does but deepen with the lapse of time, we learn to understand only too well that we are bereft forever. Hope gradually dwindling to a fainter and fainter remnant, is crushed at last by the miserable certainty of profound despair. Yet even then, the mind of man refuses to accept its fate. The scene of the reunion, which we cannot but so ardently desire, is postponed to another season and to a better world. Many are they to whom this final hope is an enduring consolation, but if even that should fail us in the hour of darkness, as the more primitive and simpler hope failed before it; if here again emotion is reluctantly compelled to yield to reason; then there is still one refuge in despondency, and a refuge of which we can never be deprived. It is the thought that death, so cruel now, will one day visit us with a kinder touch; and that the tomb, which already holds the nearest and the dearest within its grasp, will open to receive us also in our turn to its everlasting peace.
Subdivision 3 — The Ideal Jesus
The Gospel attributed by the current legend to St. John differs from the other three Gospels in almost every respect in which difference is possible. The events recorded are different. The order of events is different. The conversations of Jesus are different. His sermons are different. His opinions are different. The theories of the writer about him are different. Were it not for the name and a few leading incidents, we should be compelled to say that the subject of the biography himself is different. A more conspicuous unlikeness than that of the synoptical to the Johannine Jesus it is not easy to conceive in two narratives which depict the same hero. In the synoptical Gospels Jesus is plain, direct, easy of comprehension, and fond of illustrating his meaning by short and simple parables. In John he is obscure, mystical, symbolic, and of his favorite method of teaching by parables there is not a trace. Both descriptions cannot be true. It would be monstrous to suppose either that the synoptical Gospels omitted some of his most extraordinary miracles and some of his most remarkable discourses, or that the Gospel of John passed over in silence the whole of that side of his character which is portrayed in the ethical maxims, the parables, and the exhortations of its predecessors. Were it so, none of the four could be accepted as other than an extremely one-sided and imperfect biography, and each of them is plainly regarded by its author as complete within itself. None of them refers to extraneous sources to supplement its own deficiencies. The concluding verse of the fourth Gospel does indeed allude to many unrecorded actions of Jesus, which, if they were all written, would fill more books than the world could contain. But, not to rely on the fact that the last chapter is spurious, these words contain no intimation that a mode of teaching completely different from that here recorded was ever employed by Jesus. And this is the point in which John’s narrative is peculiar. Again, to turn to the Synoptics, there is no shadow of an intimation in them that, between the last supper and arrest, Jesus addressed to his disciples a long and remarkable discourse, full of the most interesting revelations. Can we suppose that they could have forgotten it, delivered as it was at such a moment as this, the very last before their master’s condemnation at which he was able to speak to them? Such a supposition is utterly untenable. The two traditions embodied in these versions of his life do not therefore, as some learned men—Ewald, for example—have supposed, supplement, but exclude one another.
Let us enter into detail into some of the peculiar characteristics of the Jesus of John. In the first place, we may note that his miracles are altogether new. One of them at least is so astounding that no biographer who had heard of it could have passed it by. The raising of Lazarus is the greatest feat that Jesus ever performed. In other cases he brought persons who were supposed to be just dead to life, but skeptical Jews might have suspected that they had never in reality died at all. Ample precautions against such cavils were taken in the case of Lazarus. This man lived at Bethany, and his sisters, Mary and Martha, were devoted admirers of Jesus. These women sent word to Jesus, who had retired “beyond Jordan,” to say that their brother was ill. He replied that this illness was for the glory of God. After he had heard of it he remained two days in the same place. Then, disregarding the dissuasions of the disciples, who reminded him that the Jews had recently sought to stone him, he proceeded towards Judea. He informed them in that obscure manner which he almost invariably affects in this Gospel, that Lazarus was asleep; but on their misunderstanding him, consented to speak plainly and say that he was dead. He added that for their sakes he was glad he had not been there, in order that they might believe—even the disciples’ faith being apparently still in need of confirmation. On reaching Bethany, he found that Lazarus had been buried four days. Martha, who came to meet him, observed that had he been there, her brother would not have died, and that even now whatever he asked of God would be given. Jesus told her that her brother would rise again; a saying which she interpreted as referring to the general resurrection; but he replied that whoever believed in him would never die, and required of her an explicit declaration of her faith in this dogma. Martha evaded the inquiry by a profession of her conviction that he was the Christ and went to summon Mary. She too remarked that if he had been there Lazarus would not have died. Distressed by her distress, Jesus himself wept. Going to the grave, he ordered the stone which covered it to be removed, in spite of Martha’s objection that putrefaction had set in. A curious scene followed. “Jesus lifted up his eyes and said, ‘Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. And I know that thou hearest me always, but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me.’” We must suppose these last words to have been spoken sotto voce, for “the people which stood by” would have been little likely to believe in him had they known that the thanksgiving to God was a mere pious pretence, offered up for the purpose of impressing their imaginations by the event that was to follow. Knowing that his father always heard him, he certainly had no occasion to thank him on this one occasion; if indeed he could properly be thanked at all for taking the necessary measures to ensure the credit of his own son, in whom he desired mankind to believe, and who is over and over again described as one with himself. This is perhaps the only instance in any of the Gospels in which something like hypocrisy is ascribed to Jesus; in which he is represented as consciously acting a part for the benefit of the bystanders, and speaking simply with a view to effect. Happily for his reputation we are not obliged to believe in the accuracy of his biographer. After this he called loudly, “Lazarus, come forth.” The dead man accordingly arose, and came forth from the tomb clad in his grave-clothes (Jo. xi. 1-46). His restoration to life was permanent, for we find him afterwards among the guests at a supper to which Jesus was invited (Jo. xii. 2).
Another singular miracle to which there is no allusion in any other Gospel is that which is here declared to be the first; the conversion of water into wine. Jesus was at a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and when the wine provided for the entertainment had all been consumed, his mother informed him of the state of things. He gave her a repelling answer; but she told the servants to do what he bade them. He then ordered six waterpots to be filled with water, and the contents to be drawn. It was found that they contained wine of a superior quality to that at first provided (Jo. ii. 1-11).
The second miracle according to John is not unlike some of those recorded elsewhere. It consisted in the cure by a mere word, without visiting the place, of a nobleman’s son who was on the point of death. This time also Jesus was at Cana, though the patient lay at Capernaum (Jo. iii. 46-54). Another cure was wrought at the pool of Bethesda, the healing virtues of which are known only to this Gospel. A man who had long been lying on its steps, too infirm to descend at the proper moment, was enjoined to rise and walk, which he did (Jo. v. 1-9). It is singular that although “a great multitude of impotent folk” were waiting at the pool, many of whom must needs have been kept long, since only one could be cured each time the water was troubled, this man alone was selected for the object of a miracle. Why were not all of them healed at once?
Not only are the most wonderful proofs of Christ’s divinity contained in this Gospel unknown to the rest, but its dramatis personæ are in several respects altogether novel. Nathanael, whose difficulties about thinking that any good thing can come from Nazareth are overcome in a conversation with Jesus (Jo. i. 45-51); Nicodemus, the secret adherent who came by night and received instruction in the doctrine of regeneration (Jo. iii. 1-21), who at a later period supported him against the attacks of the Pharisees (Jo. vii. 51), and lastly brought spices to his interment (Jo. xix. 39); Lazarus, brother of Mary and Martha, who owed him his life (Jo. xi. 44; xii. 2); the woman of Sâmaria, to whom an important prophecy was made, and whose past life he knew by intuition (Jo. iv. 1-30); are all new personages, and they hold no mean place in the story. The immediate attendants on his person are no doubt the same; but the representation that there was one disciple “whom Jesus loved” above the rest, and to whom a greater intimacy was permitted (Jo. xiii. 23), is uncountenanced by anything in the other Gospels; and indicates a fixed purpose of exalting the apostle John above his compeers.
While the scene, the persons, and the plot are thus diverse, the style of the principal actor is in striking contrast to that which he employs elsewhere. Its most conspicuous characteristic is the continual recurrence to symbols. It is true that in the other Gospels Jesus frequently exchanges the direct explanation of his views for the indirect method of illustration. But an illustration serves to clear up the meaning of a speaker, a symbol to disguise it. Illustrations cast light upon the principal thesis; symbols merely darken it. And this is the difference between the synoptical and the Johannine Jesus. The one is anxious to be understood; the other, in appearance at least, is seeking to perplex. Hence the exchange of the parable for the symbol. The number of such symbols in John is considerable. Jesus is continually inventing new ones. Near the beginning of the Gospel, he explains to Nicodemus that it is needful to be born again; a statement by which Nicodemus is considerably perplexed (Jo. iii. 3, 4). But his symbols are more generally applied to himself or his relations to the Father. He is the bread of life or the bread of God (Jo. vi. 33-48); again, he is the living water (Jo. iv. 10), or he gives a water which prevents all future thirst (Jo. iv. 14); he is the true vine, his Father the husbandman, and his disciples the branches (Jo. xv. 1-5); elsewhere he is both the good shepherd and the door by which the sheep enter the fold (Jo. x. 7-16); he is the way, the truth, and the life (Jo. xiv. 6); he is the light that came into the world (Jo. xii. 46; iii. 19); or he is the Resurrection and the Life (Jo. xi. 25). John the Baptist, also, unlike the John of the other Gospels, adopts the same manner. Christ is spoken of by him as the Lamb of God, which takes away the sins of the world (Jo. i. 29); or as the Bridegroom whose voice he rejoiced to hear, while he himself was but the Bridegroom’s friend (Jo. iii. 29). Sometimes “the Jews,” as they are termed in this Gospel, are puzzled by the enigmatical style of Jesus, the sense of which they cannot unriddle. Thus, when he tells them that if they destroy the temple he will rebuild it in three days, they are naturally unable to perceive that he is speaking of the temple of his body (Jo. ii. 19-21). They murmured because he spoke of himself as the Bread that came down from heaven, nor was any explanation offered them beyond a reiteration of the same statement (Jo. vi. 41-51). Not only the Jews, but also many of his own partisans, were hopelessly perplexed by the statement that no one could have life in him who did not eat his flesh and drink his blood (Jo. vi. 53, 60), a statement which differs materially from that made at the passover (in the other Gospels), where the bread and wine were actually offered as signs of his flesh and blood, and the apostles alone (who were present) were required to receive them. At other times he confused them by mysterious intimations that he was going somewhere whither they could not come, and that they should seek him and be unable to find him (Jo. vii. 33-36; viii. 21, 22). On one occasion, his auditors were unable to comprehend his assertion that he must be lifted up, and requested him to explain it. The only reply was another enigma, namely, that the light was with them but a little while, and that they should believe in it while they had it (Jo. xii. 32-36). To such language they might well have retorted, that what they had from him was not light, but a twilight in which no object could be distinctly seen, and which never advanced towards clear daylight.
Closely connected with this tendency to speak in obscure images was his predilection for argument with the Jews on abstruse theological topics. In the other Gospels he teaches the people who surround him, and the subject of his teaching is generally the rules of moral conduct; comparatively seldom theology. In John he does not so much teach as dispute, and the subject of the dispute is not morals—a field he scarcely ever enters—but his personal pretensions. Upon these he carries on a continual wrangle, supporting his claims by his peculiar views of the divine nature and of his relation to it (Jo. v. 16-47; vi. 41-59; vii. 14-36; viii. 12-29; ix. 39-41; x. 19-37). In the same spirit the blind man whom he cures enters into a discussion with the Pharisees on the character of him who had restored his sight (Jo. ix. 24-34). The Jews are depicted as continually occupied about this question. Even their own officers receive from them a reproof for making a laudatory remark about him (Jo. vii. 47, 48), while Nicodemus, who interposes in arrest of judgment, is sharply asked whether he also is of Galilee (Jo. vii. 51-52).
The very best instruction of Jesus is not given, as in the other Gospels, to a multitude, but is reserved for a select circle of his own followers. It is in the 14th, 15th, and 16th chapters that he rises to the sublimest heights of his doctrine, and the whole of this remarkable discourse is delivered to the disciples after Judas has left the supper-table in order to betray him. The substance of his teaching is no less peculiar than its occasions. The writer conceives of him as holding an altogether singular relation to the Father, and that relation he represents his Christ as continually expounding and insisting upon as of vital moment. The Evangelist himself begins his work by a concise statement of his doctrine on this point. The Logos, he says, was with God in the beginning; the Logos was God. All things were made by it, and nothing was made without it. In it was life, and the life was the light of men. This Light came into the world, but the world did not know him. Even his own, whoever these may have been, did not receive him. To those who did receive him, he gave power to become the sons of God; and these were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. The Logos was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, as of the only-begotten of the Father (Jo. i. 1-14).
The language of Christ is duly adjusted to this very speculative theory. Thus, he scandalizes the Jews by the bold assertion that he and his Father are one; and adds to their horror by further maintaining that he is in the Father, and the Father in him (Jo. x. 30, 38). Elsewhere, Philip is required to believe in the same truth. In reply to his ignorant request that he may be shown the Father, he is told that seeing Jesus is equivalent to seeing the Father. Moreover, the Father who dwells in Christ performs the works which are apparently done by Christ alone (Jo. xiv. 9-11). The disciples, too, are included in this mystic unity, for they are in Jesus in the same sense in which he is in God (Jo. xiv. 20; xvii. 21, 23). His Father, nevertheless, is greater than himself (Jo. xiv. 28). Jesus has been glorified with the Father before the world existed, and looks forward to a return to that glory. He wishes that those who have been given him on earth may be with him to behold the glory which God, who loved him before the foundation of the world, has given him. That glory he has given them, and they are to be one, even as he and his Father are one; he in them, and God in him (Jo. xvii. 5, 22-24).
After these preliminary observations, we need not dwell long on the historical incidents of the Gospel, of which there are but few. The meeting of Jesus with Andrew and Simon, and his reception of Nathanael, related in the first chapter, have already been noticed. It only remains to be said, that Nathanael was deceived by a prophecy which was not fulfilled; for at the end of the interview, Jesus, referring to his amazement that he had been discovered under the fig-tree, which had quite put him off his balance, tells him that he shall see greater things than these, and especially mentions among them the opening of the heavens and the descent of angels upon the Son of man. Nathanael never saw anything of the kind (Jo. i. 35-51).
The conversion of water into wine follows next. A peculiarity in the notions of this writer is evinced by the assertion that his mother and brothers went with him to Capernaum, for his family do not accompany him, according to any other statement, while here his mother not only is with him, but is aware that he is able to work a miracle (Jo. ii. 1-12). Jesus, after visiting Capernaum, proceeded for the passover to Jerusalem, where it is said that many believed in him because of his miracles. His expulsion of the money-changers, however, brought him into collision with the authorities of his nation, who asked him for a sign; a question to which he replied by the undertaking to rebuild the temple, if destroyed, in three days (Jo. ii. 13-25). But one of the Jewish rulers, named Nicodemus, was disposed to believe in his pretensions. This man came to him by night, and heard from him a long theological disquisition (Jo. iii. 1-21). Jesus then went into Judea, and remained there with his disciples baptizing his converts. John the Baptist is made to bear an emphatic testimony to his superiority (Jo. iii. 22-36). A visit to Sâmaria is the occasion for an interesting dialogue with a Sâmaritan woman who had come to draw water at a well; and her report leads the inhabitants to come out and see the prophet by whom she had been so much impressed.
This incident is reproduced with curious fidelity in a Buddhist story. Ananda, one of Sakyamuni’s disciples, met with a Matangi woman, one of a degraded caste, who was drawing water, and asked her to give him some of it to drink. Just as the Sâmaritan wondered that Jesus, a Jew, should ask drink of her, one of a nation with whom the Jews had no dealings, so this young Matangi girl warned Ananda of her caste, which rendered it unlawful for her to approach a monk. And as Jesus nevertheless continued to converse with the woman, so Ananda did not shrink from this outcast damsel. “I do not ask thee, my sister,” he replied, “either thy caste or thy family; I only ask thee for water, if thou canst give me some.” The Buddha himself, to whom the Matangi girl afterwards presented herself, treated her with equal kindness. He contrived to divert the profane love she had conceived for Ananda into a holy love of religion; much as Jesus led the Sâmaritan from the thought of her five husbands, and of him who was not her husband, to the conception of the universal Father who was to be worshiped “in spirit and in truth.” And as the disciples “marveled” that Jesus should have conversed with this member of a despised race, so the respectable Brahmins and householders who adhered to Buddhism were scandalized to learn that the young Matangi had been admitted to the order of mendicants (Jo. iv. 1-42; H. B. I., pp. 205, 206).
After two days spent at Sâmaria Jesus went on to Galilee, where he healed the nobleman’s sons (Jo. iv. 43-54). Having returned to Jerusalem for another feast, he cured the impotent man on the Sabbath, which endangered his life at the hands of the indignant Jews, and led him to deliver a long vindication (Jo. v). The feeding of the five thousand was followed by an attempt to make him king, from which he prudently escaped. The disciples took ship to go to Capernaum, and Jesus joined them by walking on the water. On the ensuing day he preached to the people who followed him, and shocked even some of the disciples by the loftiness of the claims he advanced. Many of them are said to have left him at this time (Jo. vi).
A singular proceeding is now mentioned. Urged by his brothers, who were still incredulous, to go to Jerusalem for the feast of tabernacles, he declined on the ground that his time was not yet come. When they were gone he himself went also, though secretly (Jo. vii. 1-10). There is no reason assigned for this little stratagem, and he soon emerged from his incognito and taught openly in the temple. The public mind was much divided about his character, some maintaining him to be Christ, others contending that Christ could only come from the seed of David and the town of Bethlehem. An attempt to arrest him failed, owing to the impression he made upon the police (Jo. vii. 11-53). A discussion with the Jews was terminated by their taking up stones to throw at him, a peril from which he escaped apparently by miracle (Jo. viii. 12-59; verses 1-11 are spurious). Further offense was given by the restoration of a blind man’s sight on the Sabbath (Jo. ix). A discourse on his title to authority provoked divisions, and at the feast of the dedication he was plainly asked whether he was the Christ. His answer again led to an attempt to stone him, from which he escaped to the place beyond Jordan where John had formerly baptized (Jo. x). The raising of Lazarus and the anointing by Mary are the next events recorded (Jo. xi. 1-xii. 9). The passover followed six days after the latter incident, and his preaching at this festival was interrupted in a singular manner. Jesus had used the words, “Father, glorify thy name!” whereupon a voice was heard from heaven, saying, “I both have glorified it, and will glorify it again.” Thereupon Jesus observed that this voice came not for his sake, but for that of the bystanders. It seems, however, to have produced but little effect upon them, for a few verses later we find a complaint that, in spite of his many miracles, they did not believe in him (Jo. xii. 12-50). The last supper with the disciples was immediately succeeded by a parting discourse of much beauty, conceived in an elevated tone; and his last moments of freedom were occupied in a prayer of which the pathos has been rarely equaled (Jo. xiii.-xvii).
The remainder of his career—his trial, execution, and alleged resurrection—have been fully treated in another place.
Subdivision 4 — What Did the Jews Think of Him?
Victorious over Jesus Christ at the moment, the Jewish nation have, from an early period in Christian history, been subject in their turn to his disciples. Their polity—crushed under the iron heel of Vespasian, scattered to the winds by Hadrian—vanished from existence not long after it had successfully put down the founder of the new faith. Their religion, tolerated by the heathen Romans only under humiliating and galling conditions, persecuted almost to death by the Christians, suffered until modern times an oppression so terrible and so cruel, that but for the deep and unshakeable attachment of its adherents, it could never have survived its perils. Hence the course of events has been such that this unhappy nation has never until quite recently enjoyed the freedom necessary to present their case in the matter of Jesus the son of Joseph; while the gradual decay of the rancor formerly felt against them, at the same time that it gives them liberty, renders it less important for them to come forward in what would still be an unpopular cause. Thus it happens that one side only in the controversy, that of the Christians, has been adequately heard. They certainly have not shrunk from the presentation of their views. Every epithet that scorn, hatred, or indignation could suggest has been heaped upon the generation of Jews who were the immediate instigators of the execution of Jesus, while all the subsequent miseries of their race have been regarded—by the party which delighted to inflict them—as exhibitions of the divine vengeance against that one criminal act. Nor have even freethinkers shrunk from condemning the Jews as guilty of gross and unpardonable persecution, and that towards one who, if they do not think him a God, nevertheless appears to them singularly free from blame. On the one side, according to the prevailing conception, stands the innocent victim; on the other the bloodthirsty Jewish people. All good is with the one; all evil with the other. It is supposed that only their hard-heartedness, their aversion to the pure doctrine of the Redeemer, their determination to shut their eyes to the light and their ears to the words of truth, could have led them to the commission of so great a crime.
Whether or not this theory be true, it at least suffers from the vice of having been adopted without due examination. An opinion can rest on no solid basis unless its opposite has been duly supported by competent defenders. Now in the present instance this has not happened. Owing to the causes mentioned above, the Christian view has been practically uncontested, and writer after writer has taken it up and repeated it in the unreflecting way in which we all of us repeat assertions about which there is no dispute. Yet a very little consideration will show that so simple an explanation of the transaction has at least no a priori probability in its favor. That a whole nation should be completely in the wrong, and a few individuals only in the right, is a supposition which can be accepted only on the most convincing evidence. And in order even to justify our entertaining it for a moment, we must be in possession of a report of the circumstances of the case from the advocates of the nation, as well as from the advocates of the individuals who suffered by its action. A one-sided statement from the partizans of a convicted person can never be sufficient to enable us to pronounce a conclusive verdict against his judges. The most ordinary rules of fairness prohibit this. Yet this is what is commonly done. No account whatever of the trial of Jesus has reached us from the side of the prosecution. Josephus, who might have enlightened us, is silent. On the other hand, the side of the defense has furnished us with its own version of what passed, and from the imperfect materials thus supplied we must endeavor to discriminate between the two as best we can. To do this justly, we must bear in mind, that even though the charges produced against Jesus should not appear to justify the indignation of his accusers, it is at least unlikely that that indignation was altogether without reasonable cause. And painful as it may be to be compelled to think that Jesus was in the wrong, it would surely—had not long habit perverted our natural sentiments—be quite as painful to believe that a large multitude of men, impelled by mere malignity against a virtuous citizen, had conspired to put him to death on charges which were absolutely groundless. The honor of an heroic, and above all, of a deeply religious people, is here at stake. It is no light matter to deal in wholesale accusations of judicial murder against them. It would surely be a happier solution if it could be shown that the individual condemned was not absolutely guiltless. But possibly we may be able to elude either alternative. Just as, according to the able reasoning of Grote, the upright character of Socrates may be compatible with a sense of justice on the part of the Athenians who condemned him to death, so it is conceivable that the innocence of Jesus may consist with the fact that the Jews who caused him to be crucified were not altogether without excuse.
An examination of this question must be conducted with a careful regard to the hereditary feelings of orthodox Hebrews in matters of religion; with an attention to the conceptions they had formed of holiness, and consequently of blasphemy, its negation; with a desire to do justice if possible to the very prejudices that clouded their vision, and to realize the intensity of the sentiment that ruled their national life and bound them to uphold their law in all its severe integrity. We must remember that the Jews were above all things monotheists. Ever since, after the captivity, they had put away every remnant of idolatry, they had clung to the unity and majesty of Jehovah with a stern tenacity which no alluring temptations, no extremity of suffering, had been able to break. If they were now ready to persecute for this faith, they had at least shown themselves able—they soon showed themselves able again—to bear persecution for its sake. Their law, with its monotheistic dogmas and its practical injunctions, was to them supremely holy. Any attempt to infringe its precepts, or to question its authority, excited their utmost horror. To set up any other object of worship than that which it recognized, to teach any other faith than that which rested on this foundation, was blasphemy in their eyes. The happiness, nay, the very existence, of the nation was bound up with its strict observance. This may have been a delusion, but it was one for which the existing generation was not responsible. It had been handed down from their ancestors, and had reached them with all the sanctity of venerable age. If it were a delusion, it was one which the compilers of the Pentateuch; which Josiah, with his reforming measures; which Ezra, with his purifying zeal; which the prophets and priests of olden times who had fought and labored for the religion of Jehovah, had mainly fostered. They had succeeded but too well in impressing upon the mind of the nation the profound conviction that, in order to ensure the favor of God, they must maintain every iota of the revealed truth they had received, and that his anger would surely follow if they suffered it to be in the smallest degree corrupted or treated with neglect.
Nevertheless the utmost efforts of the people to guard the purity of the faith had been rewarded hitherto with little but misery. Their exemption from troubles did not last long after the rebuilding of the temple. A prey now to the Seleucidæ, now to the Ptolemies, their native land the scene of incessant warfare, they enjoyed under the Asmonean kings but a brief period of independence and good government. Their polity received a rude shock from the capture of Jerusalem by Pompey; maintained but a shadow of freedom under the tyranny of Herod; and fell at last—some time before the public appearance of Christ—under the direct administration of the unsympathetic Romans. A more intolerable fate could hardly be imagined. The Romans had no tenderness for their feelings, no commiseration for their scruples, no comprehension of their peculiar practices. Hence constant collision between the governors and the governed. It is needless to enter in detail upon the miserable struggles between those who were strong in the material force and those who were strong in the force of conscience. Suffice it to say, that provocation on provocation was inflicted on the Jews, until at length the inevitable rebellion came, to be terminated by the not less inevitable suppression with its attendant cruelties. But in the time of Jesus the crisis had not yet come. All things were in a state of the utmost tension. It was of the highest importance to the people, and their authorities were well aware of it, that there should be nothing done that could excite the anger of their rulers. The Romans knew, of course, that no loyalty was felt towards them in Palestine. And the least indication of resistance was enough to provoke them to the severest measures. All that remained of independence to the Jews—the freedom to worship in their own way; their national unity; their possession of the temple; their very lives—depended on their success in conciliating the favor of the procurator who happened to be set over them. The assertion by any one of rights that might appear to clash with those of Rome, even the foolish desire of the populace to honor some one who did not pretend to them, were fraught with the utmost danger. It was necessary for the rulers to prove that they did not countenance the least indication of a wish to set up a rival power.
Their task was more difficult because the people were continually looking for some great national hero who should redeem them from their subjection. The conception of the “Messiah,” the Anointed One, the King or High Priest who should restore, and much more than restore, the ancient glory of their nation, who should lead them to victory over their enemies and then reign over them in peace, was ineradicably imbedded in their minds. Consequently they were only too ready—especially in those days of overstrung nerves and feverish agitation under a hateful rule—to welcome any one who held out the chance of deliverance. The risk was not imaginary. Prophets and Messiahs, if they were not successful, could do nothing but harm. Theudas, a leader who did not even claim Messiahship, had involved his followers in destruction. Bar-cochab, who at a later time was received by many as the Messiah, brought upon his countrymen not only enormous slaughter, but even the crowning misfortune of expulsion from Jerusalem. Now, although the high priests and elders no doubt shared the popular expectation of a Messiah, they were bound as prudent men to test the pretensions of those who put themselves forward in that character, and if they were imperiling the public peace, to put a stop to their careers. It was not for them, the appointed guides of the people, to be carried away by every breath of popular enthusiasm. They would have been wholly unworthy of their position had they permitted floating reports of miracles and marvels, or the applauding clamor of admirers, to impose upon their judgment. Calmly, and after examination of the facts, it was their duty to decide.
Jesus had professed to be the Messiah. So much is undisputed. Could his title be admitted? Now, in the first place, it was the central conception of the Messianic office that its holder should exercise temporal power. He was not expected to be a teacher of religious doctrines, for this was not what was required. The code of theological truth was, so far as the Jews were aware, completed. The Revelation they possessed never hinted, from beginning to end, that it was imperfect in any of its parts, or that it needed a supplementary Revelation to fill up the void which it contained. Whatever Christians, instructed by the gospel, may have thought in subsequent ages, the believers in the Hebrew Bible neither had ascertained, nor possibly could ascertain, that Jehovah intended to send his Son on earth to enlighten them on questions appertaining to their religious belief. This they thought had long been settled, and he who tried either to take anything from it or add anything to it was in their eyes an impious criminal. Such persons, they knew, had been sternly dealt with in the palmy days of the Hebrew state, and the example of their most honored prophets and their most pious kings would justify the severest measures that could be taken against them. A spiritual reformer, then, was not what they needed: a temporal leader was. And this they had a perfect right to expect that the Messiah would be. The very word itself—the Anointed One, a word commonly applied to the king—indicates the possession of the powers of government. Their prophecies all pointed to this conception of the Messiah. Their popular traditions all confirmed it. Their political necessities all encouraged it. The very disciples themselves held it like the rest of their nation, for when they met Jesus after his resurrection we find them inquiring, “Lord, wilt thou at this time restore the kingdom of Israel?” (Acts i. 6.). The conversation may be imaginary, but the state of mind which such a question indicates was doubtless real. The author represented them as speaking as he knew that they had felt. Now, if ever they, who had enjoyed the intimate friendship of Jesus, could still look to him as one who would restore to Israel something of her bygone grandeur, was it to be expected that the less privileged Jews, who had inherited from their forefathers a fixed belief in this temporal restoration, should suddenly surrender it at the bidding of Jesus of Nazareth? For he at least did not realize the prevailing notions of what the Messiah ought to be. For temporal sovereignty he was clearly unfit, nor does he seem to have ever demanded it. There was a danger no doubt that his enthusiastic followers might thrust it upon him, and that, thus urged, he might be tempted to accept it. But his general character precludes the supposition that he could ever be fit to stand at the head of a national movement. The absence, moreover, of all political enthusiasm from his teaching proved him not to be the Savior for whom they were looking. His assertions that he was the Son of God, though they might provoke sedition and endanger the security of his countrymen, could bring them no corresponding good.
Christians have maintained that the Jews were entirely wrong in their conception of the Messiah’s character, and that Jesus by his admirable life brought a higher and more excellent ideal than theirs into the world. They admire him for not laying claim to temporal dominion, and laud his humility, his meekness, his submissiveness, the patience with which he bore his sufferings, and the whole catalogue of similar virtues. It was, according to them, the mere blindness of the Jews that prevented them from recognizing in him a far greater Messiah than they had erroneously expected. Moreover, they tell us that another of the mistakes made by this gross nation was the expectation of an earthly kingdom in which Christ was to reign, whereas it was only a spiritual kingdom which he came to institute. But who were to be judges of the character of the Messiah if not the Jews to whom he was to come? The very thought of a Messiah was peculiarly their own. It had grown up in the course of their national history, and was embodied in their national prophecies. They alone were its authorized interpreters; they alone could say whether it was fulfilled in the case of a given individual. It is surely a piece of the most amazing presumption on the part of nations of heathen origin to pretend that they are more competent than the Jews themselves to understand the meaning of a Jewish term; a term, moreover, which neither had nor could have before the time of Jesus any sense at all except that which the Jews themselves attached to it. Christians, who derive not only their idea of the Messiah’s character, but their very knowledge of the word, from the case of Jesus alone, undertake to set right the Jews, among whom it was a current notion for centuries before he had been conceived in his mother’s womb!
Granting, however, that this difficulty might have been surmounted, supposing that it was a spiritual kingdom which the ancient prophets under uncouth images referred to, the question still remains whether Jesus in other respects fulfilled the conditions demanded by Scripture. For this purpose it will be the fairest method to confine ourselves to the discussion of those prophecies alone which are quoted by the Evangelists, and are therefore relied upon by them as proving their case. Where, however, they have quoted only a portion of a prophecy, and the remainder gives a somewhat different complexion to the passage extracted, justice to their opponents requires that we should consider the whole.
Take first the circumstances of Christ’s birth. It was expected that the Messiah was to be of the family of David, and born at Bethlehem Ephratah. Now, according to two of our authorities, he fulfilled both of these conditions. But, without at all discussing the point whether their statement is true, it is abundantly sufficient for the vindication of the Jews to observe, that they neither knew, nor could know, anything at all, either of his royal lineage or of his birth at Bethlehem. For he himself never stated either of the two capital facts of which Luke and Matthew make so much, nor does it appear that any of his disciples alluded to them during his life-time. He was habitually spoken about as Jesus of Nazareth. Matthew, in endeavoring to account for the name by misquoting a prophecy, bears witness to the fact that it expressed the general belief. Luke makes him speak of Nazareth as his own country. Nowhere does it appear that he repudiated the implication conveyed by his ordinary title. Still less did he ever maintain—what his over-busy biographers maintained for him—that he was of the seed of David. Quite the reverse. He contends against the Pharisees that the Messiah was not to be a descendant of David at all. The dialogue as given by Matthew runs thus: “‘What is your opinion about the Christ? whose son is he?’ They say to him, ‘David’s.’ He says to them, ‘How then does David in the spirit call him Lord, saying, The Lord said to my lord, Sit on my right hand until I place thine enemies under thy feet? If then David calls him lord, how is he his son?’” (Mt. xxii. 42-46). No answer was given by the Pharisees, nor was any explanation of the paradox ever granted them by Jesus. In the absence, then, of any further elucidation we can only put one interpretation upon his argument. It was clearly intended to show not only that the Messiah need not, but that he could not be of the house of David. David in that case would not have called him Lord. The Pharisees may have been but little impressed by the force of the argument, but of one thing they could scarcely entertain a doubt. Jesus wished it to be thought that he was the Messiah. He also wished it to be thought that the Messiah was not a son of David. He himself therefore was certainly not a son of David. But if anything more were needed to excuse the ignorance—supposing it such—of the Jewish rulers about the birthplace and family of Jesus, we find it even super-abundantly in the work of one of his own adherents—the fourth Evangelist. Not that this writer is to be taken as an authority on the facts, but he is an authority on the views that were current, at least in a portion of his own sect, and on that which he himself—writing long after the death of Christ—had received by tradition. Now, in the beginning of his Gospel he describes Philip the disciple as going to Nathanael, and saying, “We have found him of whom Moses in the law and of whom the prophets wrote, Jesus the son of Joseph from Nazareth.” At this Nathanael skeptically asks, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” and Philip replies, “Come and see” (Jo. i. 45, 46). According to this account, then, the very disciples of Jesus believed in his Nazarene nativity, as also (by the way) in his generation by a human father. Nor is this all the evidence. In another chapter an active discussion is represented as going on among the Jews as to whether Jesus was the Christ or not. Opinions differed. Foremost among the arguments for the negative, however, was the appeal to the Scriptural declaration that the Christ must be of David’s seed, and emanate from the village of Bethlehem (Jo. vii. 42). No answer to this was forthcoming from the partizans of Jesus, nor is any suggested by the Evangelist. There is but one rational inference to be drawn from his silence. He either had not heard, or he purposely ignored, the story of Christ’s birth at Bethlehem, and the genealogies which connected him with David. His mind (if he had ever been a Jew) was to no small extent emancipated from Jewish limitations, and with his highly refined views of the Logos, he did not believe in the necessity of these material conditions. It was nothing to him that they were not fulfilled. More orthodox believers in the prophecies of the Old Testament may be pardoned if they could not so lightly put them aside. But what shall be said of the conduct of Jesus? If he really were a descendant of David, born at Bethlehem, and wrongly taken for a Nazarene, can we acquit him of an inexcusable fraud upon the Jews in not bringing these facts under their notice? Assuredly not. If, knowing as he did the weight they would have in the public mind, he kept them back; knowing that they would overcome some of the gravest objections that were taken against his claim, he did not urge them in reply; knowing at the close of his life that he was charged with an undue assumption of authority, he did not produce them as at least a portion of his credentials,—he played a part which it would be difficult to stigmatize as severely as it deserves. He believed that his reception by his nation would be an immense benefit to themselves, yet he did not speak the word which might have helped them to receive him. He thought he had a mission from God, yet he failed to use one potent argument in favor of the truth of that idea. He saw finally that he was condemned to death for supposed impiety, yet he suffered the Sanhedrim to incur the guilt of his condemnation without employing one of his strongest weapons in his defense. Happily we are not obliged to suspect him of this iniquity. The contradictory stories by which his royal descent and his birth at Bethlehem are sought to be established sufficiently betray their origin to permit us to believe in the honor and honesty of Jesus.
Another Messianic prophecy which he is supposed to have fulfilled is that of birth from a virgin, the necessity of which was deduced from an expression of Isaiah’s. That the writer of the fourth Gospel was ignorant of this virgin-birth we have already shown, and that the Jewish people in general took him to be the son of Joseph is obvious enough from their allusions to his father (Mk. vi. 3; Mt. xiii. 55, 56; Lu. iv. 22; Jo. vi. 42). Here again he never contradicted the prevalent assumption. But even had they known of the miraculous conception, the Jews might have denied that the passage from Isaiah bore any such construction as that put upon it by Matthew. He renders it: “Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a son” (Mt. i. 23). But a more proper translation would be: “The maiden shall conceive, and bear a son,” for the word translated virgin by Matthew does not exclude young women who have lost their virginity. Nay, it curiously enough happens to be used elsewhere of maidens engaged in the very conduct by which they would certainly be deprived of it.
Moreover, the two prophecies quoted by Matthew, which were, no doubt, familiar to the Jews, could by no possibility be applied by them to a person of the character of Jesus. Even the small fragments torn away from their context by the Evangelist convict him of a misapplication. In the first fragment, the Virgin’s son is called Immanuel, a name which Jesus never bore (Mt. i. 23). In the second, he is described as “a ruler, who shall govern my people Israel,” which Jesus never was (Mt. ii. 6). But the unlikeness of the predicted person to Jesus is still further shown by comparing the circumstances as conceived by the prophet with the actual circumstances of the time. Immanuel’s birth is to be followed, while he is still too young to choose between good and evil, by a terrible desolation of the land. Hosts, described as flies and bees, are to come from Egypt and Assyria, and camp in the valleys, the clefts of the rocks, the hedges and meadows. Cultivable land will produce only thorns and thistles. Cultivated hills will be surrendered to cattle from fear of thorns and thistles (Isa. vii. 14-25). Nothing of all this happened in the time of Jesus. But the prophecy of Micah is still more inappropriate. The “ruler” who is to be born in Bethlehem is to lead Israel to victory over all her enemies. He is to deliver his people from the Assyrian. The remnant of Jacob is to be among the heathen, like a lion among the beasts of the forest, like a young lion among flocks of sheep. Its hand is to be lifted up against its adversaries, and all its enemies are to be destroyed (Micah v).
These references to prophecy were certainly not happy. An allusion by Matthew to the words, “The people who walk in darkness see a great light,” is not much more to the purpose, for Isaiah in the passage in question proceeds to describe the child who is to bring them this happiness as one who shall have the government upon his shoulder, who is to be on the throne of David, to establish and maintain it by right and justice for ever (Mt. iv. 15, 16; Is. ix. 1-7). Another extract from Isaiah, beginning, “Behold my servant whom I have chosen,” and depicting a gentler character, is more appropriate, but is too vague to be easily confined to any one individual.
Jesus himself is reported by one of his biographers to have relied on certain words from the pseudo-Isaiah as a confirmation of his mission. If the account be true, the circumstance is of great importance as showing the view he himself took of his office, and the means he employed to convince the Jews of his right to hold it. Entering the synagogue at Nazareth, he received the roll of the prophet Isaiah, and proceeded to read from the sixty-first chapter as follows: “The Spirit of the Lord Jehovah is upon me, because Jehovah has anointed me to announce glad tidings to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the broken-hearted; to cry to the captives, Freedom, and to those in fetters, Deliverance; to cry out a year of good-will from Jehovah.” Here Jesus broke off the reading in the middle of a verse, and declared that this day this scripture was fulfilled (Lu. iv. 16-21). But let us continue our study of the prophetic vision a little further. “To cry out a year of good-will from Jehovah, and a day of vengeance from our God: to comfort all that mourn; to appoint for the mourners of Zion,—to give them ornaments for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, a garment of praise for a desponding spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, a plantation of Jehovah to glorify himself. And they will build up the ruins of old times, they will restore the desolations of former days; and they will renew desolate cities, the ruins of generation upon generation. And strangers shall stand and feed your flocks, and the sons of foreigners shall be your husbandmen and your vine-dressers. And you shall be called ‘Priests of Jehovah;’ ‘Servants of our God,’ shall be said to you; the riches of the Gentiles you shall eat, and into their splendor you shall enter” (Is. lxi. 1-6). Had Jesus concluded the passage he had begun, he could scarcely have said, “This day is the scripture fulfilled in your ears.” The contrast between the prediction and the fact would have been rather too glaring.
Perhaps the most striking apparent similarity to Jesus is found in the man described in such beautiful language by an unknown prophet in the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah. But these words could hardly be applied to him by the Jews; in the first place, because they would not be construed to refer to him until after his crucifixion, seeing that they describe oppression, prison, judgment, and execution; in the second place, because there was no reason to believe that he bore their diseases, and took their sorrows upon him. And although the familiar words—doubly familiar from the glorious music of Handel,—“He was a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief,” may seem to us, who know his end, to describe him perfectly, they could hardly describe him to the Jews, who saw him in his daily life. In that, at least, there was nothing peculiarly unhappy.
Failing the prophecies, which were plainly two-edged swords, Jesus could appeal to his remarkable miracles. He and his disciples evidently thought them demonstrations of a divine commission. But, in the first place, it is clear that the evidence of the most wonderful of these consisted only of the rumors circulating among ignorant peasants, which the more instructed portion of the nation very properly disregarded. Their demand for a sign (Mt. xii. 38) proves that they were not satisfied by these popular reports, if they had ever heard them. And in the second place, those miracles which were better attested were not convincing from the fact that others could perform them. Jesus, charged with casting out devils by Baäl-zebub, the prince of devils, adroitly retorted on the Pharisees by asking, if that were so, by whom their sons cast them out? (Mk. iii. 22; Mt. xii. 24-30; Lu. xi. 14-24). But thus he admitted that he was not singular in his profession. Miracles, in short, were not regarded by the Jews as any proof of Messiahship. Their own prophets had performed them. Their own disciples now performed them. Others might possibly perform them by diabolic agency. The Egyptian magicians had been very clever in their contest with Moses, though Moses had beaten them, and had performed far more amazing wonders than those of Jesus, in so far as these latter were known to the Pharisees.
Miracles being too common to confer any peculiar title to reverence on the thaumaturgist, there remained the doctrine and personal character of Jesus by which to judge him. It must be borne in mind that the impression which these might make upon his antagonist would depend mainly upon his bearing in his relations with them. He might preach pure morals in Galilee, or present a model of excellence to his own followers in Judea; but this would not entitle him to reception as the Messiah, nor would it remove an unfavorable bias created by his conduct towards those who had not embraced his principles. Let us see, then, what was likely to be the effect on the Pharisees, scribes, and others, of those elements in his opinions and his behavior by which they were more immediately affected.
There existed among the Jews, as there still exists among ourselves, an institution which was greatly honored among them, as it is still honored, though in a minor degree, among ourselves. The institution was that of a day of rest sacred to God once in every seven days. This custom they believed to have been founded by the very highest authority, and embodied by Moses in the ten commandments which he received on Sinai. Nothing in the eyes of an orthodox Jew could be holier than such an observance, enjoined by his God, founded by the greatest legislator of his race, consecrated by long tradition. Now the ordinary rules with regard to what was lawful and what unlawful on this day were totally disregarded by Jesus. Not only did his disciples make a path through a cornfield on the Sabbath, but Jesus openly cured diseases, that is, pursued his common occupation, on this most sacred festival (Mk. ii. 23iii. 7; Mt. xii. 1-14; Lu. vi. 1-11, xiii. 10-17, xiv. 1-6). When these violations of propriety (as they seemed to them) first came under the notice of the Pharisees, they merely remonstrated with Jesus, and endeavored to induce him to restrain the impiety of his disciples. Not only did he decline to do so, but he expressly justified their course by the example of David, and by that of the priests, who, according to his mode of reasoning, profane the Sabbath in the temple by doing that to which by their office they were legally bound. Such an argument could scarcely convince the Pharisees, but they must have been shocked beyond measure when he proclaimed himself greater than the temple, and asserted his lordship even over the Sabbath-day. They then inquired of him—a perfectly legitimate question—whether it was lawful to heal on the Sabbath, to which he replied that if one of their own sheep had fallen into the pit they would pick it out. Confirming his theory by his practice, he at once healed a man with a withered hand. It is noteworthy that the desire of the Pharisees to inflict punishment upon Jesus is dated by all three Evangelists from this incident; so that the hostility towards him may be certainly considered as largely due to his unsabbatarian principles.
Now in this question it is almost needless for me to say that my sympathies are entirely with Jesus. Although I do not perceive in his conduct any extensive design against the Sabbath altogether, yet it is much that he should have attempted to mitigate its rigor. For that the world owes him its thanks. But surely it cannot be difficult, in this highly sabbatarian country, to understand the horror of the Pharisees at his apparent levity. Seeing that it is not so very long since the supposed desecration of the Sunday in these islands subjected the offender to be treated as a common criminal; seeing that even now a total abstinence from labor on that day is in many occupations enforced by law; seeing that a custom almost as strong as law forbids indulgence in a vast number of ordinary amusements during its course,—we can scarcely be much surprised that the sabbatarians of Judea were zealous to preserve the sanctity of their weekly rest. The fact that highly conscientious and honorable persons entertain similar sentiments about the Sunday is familiar to all. We know that any one who neglected the usual customs; who, for example, played a game at cricket, or danced, or even pursued his commercial avocations on Sunday, would be visited by them with perfectly genuine reproaches. Yet this was exactly the sort of way in which Christ and his disciples shocked the Jews. To make a path through a cornfield and pluck the ears was just one of those little things which the current morality of the Sabbath condemned, much as ours condemns the opening of museums or theatrical entertainments. Their piety was scandalized at such a glaring contempt of the divine ordinances. Nor was the reasoning of Jesus likely to conciliate them. To ask whether it was lawful to do good or evil, to save life or to kill on the Sabbath-day was nothing to the purpose. The question was what was good or evil on that particular day, when things otherwise good were by all admitted to be evil. Nor were the cures effected by Jesus necessary to save life. All his patients might well have waited till evening, when the Sabbath was over. One of them, for instance, a woman who had suffered from a “spirit of weakness” eighteen years, being unable to hold herself erect, was surely not in such urgent need of attendance that a few hours more of her disease would have done her serious harm. Jesus, with his principles, was of course perfectly right to relieve her at once, but it is not to be wondered at that the ruler of the synagogue was indignant, and told the people that there were six working days; in them therefore they should come and be healed, and not on the Sabbath. The epithet of “hypocrite,” applied to him by Jesus, was, to say the least, hardly justified (Lu. xiii. 10-17).
Another habit of Jesus, in itself commendable, excited the displeasure of the stricter sects. It was that of eating with publicans and sinners. This practice, and the fact of his neglecting the fasts observed by the Pharisees, gave an impression of general laxity about his conduct, which, however unjust, was perfectly natural (Mk. ii. 15-22; Mt. ix. 10-17; Lu. v. 29-39). Here again I see no reason to attribute bad motives to his opponents who merely felt as “church-going” people among ourselves would feel about one who stayed away from divine service, and as highly decorous people would feel about one who kept what they thought low company.
Eating with unwashed hands was another of the several evidences of his contempt for the prevalent proprieties of life which gave offense. The resentment felt by the Pharisees at this practice was the more excusable that Jesus justified it on the distinct ground that he had no respect for “the tradition of the elders,” for which they entertained the utmost reverence. This tradition he unsparingly attacked, accusing them of frustrating the commandment of God in order to keep it (Mk. vii. 1-13; Mt. xv. 1-9). Language like this was not likely to pass without leaving a deep-seated wound, especially if it be true (as stated by Luke) that one of the occasions on which he employed it was when invited to dinner by a Pharisee. Indifferent as the washing of hands might be in itself, courtesy towards his host required him to abstain from needless outrage to his feelings. And when, in addition to the first offense, he proceeded to denounce his host and host’s friends as people who made the outside of the cup and the platter clean, but were inwardly full of ravening and wickedness, there is an apparent rudeness which even the truth of his statements could not have excused (Lu. xi. 37-39).
Neither was the manner in which he answered the questions addressed to him, as to a teacher claiming to instruct the people, likely to remove the prejudice thus created. The Evangelists who report these questions generally relate that they were put with an evil intent: “tempting him,” or some such expression being used. But whatever may have been the secret motives of the questioners, nothing could be more legitimate than to interrogate a man who put forward the enormous pretensions of Jesus, so long as the process was conducted fairly. And this, on the side of the Jews, it apparently was. There is nowhere perceptible in their inquiries a scheme to entrap him, or a desire to entangle him in difficulties by skillful examination. On the contrary, the subjects on which he is questioned are precisely those on which, as the would-be master of the nation, he might most properly be expected to give clear answers. And the judgment formed of him by the public would naturally depend to a large extent on the mode in which he acquitted himself in this impromptu trial. Let us see, then, what was the impression he probably produced.
On one occasion the Pharisees came to him, “tempting him,” to ascertain his opinion on divorce. Might a man put away his wife? Jesus replied that he might not, and explained the permission of Moses to give a wife a bill of divorce as a mere concession to the hardness of their hearts. A divorced man or woman who married again was guilty of adultery. Even the disciples were staggered at this. If an unhappy man could never be released from his wife, it would be better, they thought, not to marry at all (Mk. x. 1-12; Mt. xix. 1-12). Much more must the Pharisees have dissented from this novel doctrine. Rightly or wrongly, they reverenced the law of Moses, and they could not but profoundly disapprove this assumption of authority to set it aside and substitute for its precepts an unheard of innovation.
Another question of considerable importance was that relating to the tribute. Some of the Pharisees, it seems, after praising him for his independence, begged him to give them his opinion on a disputed point: Was it lawful or not to pay tribute to the Emperor? All three biographers are indignant at the question. They attribute it as usual to a desire to “catch him in his words,” or, as another Evangelist puts it, to “entangle him in his talk.” Jesus (they remark) perceived what one calls their “wickedness,” a second their “hypocrisy,” and the third their “craftiness.” “Why do you tempt me?” he began. “Bring me a denarium that I may see it.” The coin being brought, he asked them, “Whose image and superscription is this?” “Cæsar’s.” “Then render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mk. xii. 13-17; Mt. xxii. 15-22; Lu. xx. 20-26). One of the Evangelists, reporting this reply, rejoices at the discomfiture of the Pharisees, who “could not take hold of his words before the people.” Doubtless his decision had the merit that it could not be taken hold of, but this was only because it decided nothing. Taking the words in their simplest sense, they merely assert what nobody would deny. No Pharisee would ever have maintained that the things of Cæsar should be given to God; and no partizan of Rome would ever have demanded that the things of God should be given to Cæsar. But practically it is evident that Jesus meant to do more than employ an unmeaning form of words. He meant to assert that the tribute was one of the things of Cæsar, and that because the coin in which it was paid was stamped with his image. More fallacious reasoning could hardly be imagined, and it is not surprising that the Pharisees “marveled at him.” Nobody doubted that the Emperor possessed the material power, and no more than this was proved by the fact that coins bearing his effigy were current in the country. The question was not whether he actually ruled Judea, but whether it was lawful to acknowledge that rule by paying tribute. And what light could it throw on this question to show that the money used to pay it was issued from his mint? It must almost be supposed that Jesus fell into the confusion of supposing that the denarium with Cæsar’s image and superscription upon it was in some peculiar sense Cæsar’s property, whereas it belonged as completely to the man who produced it at the moment as did the clothes he wore. Had the Roman domination come to an end at any moment, the coin of the Empire would have retained its intrinsic value, but the Romans could by no possibility have founded a right of exacting tribute upon the circumstance of its circulation. Either, therefore, this celebrated declaration was a mere verbal juggle, or it rested on a transparent fallacy.
After the Pharisees had been thus disposed of, their inquiries were followed up by a puzzle devised by the Sadducees in order to throw ridicule on the doctrine of a future state. These sectaries put an imaginary case. Moses had enjoined that if a man died leaving a childless widow, his brother should marry her for the purpose of keeping up the family. Suppose, said they, that the first of seven brothers marries, and dies without issue. The second brother then marries her with the like result; then the third, and so on through all the seven. In the resurrection whose wife will this woman be, for the seven have had her as their wife? To this Jesus replies: first, that his questioners greatly err, neither knowing the Scriptures nor the power of God; secondly, that when people rise from death they do not marry, but are like angels; thirdly, that the resurrection is proved by the fact that God had spoken of himself as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and that he is not the God of the dead, but of the living (Mk. xii. 18-27; Mt. xxii. 23-33; Lu. xx. 27-40). Whether the Sadducees were or were not satisfied by this answer we are not told, but it is quite certain that their modern representatives could not accept it. For the inquirers had hit upon one of the real difficulties attending the doctrine of a future life. We are always assured that one of the great consolations of this doctrine is the hope it holds out of meeting again those whom we have loved on earth, and living with them in a kind of communion not wholly unlike that which we have enjoyed here. Earthly relationships, it is assumed, will be prolonged into that happier world. There the parent will find again the child whom he has lost, and the child will rejoin his parent; there the bereaved husband will be restored to his wife, and the widow will be comforted by the sight of the companion of her wedded years. All this is simple enough. Complications inevitably arise, however, when we endeavor to pick up again in another life the tangled skein of our relations in this. Not only may the feelings with which we look forward to meeting former friends be widely different after many years’ separation from what they were at their death; but even in marriage there may be a preference for a first or a second husband or wife, which may render the thought of meeting the other positively unpleasant. And if the sentiments of the other should nevertheless be those of undiminished love, the question may well arise, whose husband is he, or whose wife is she of the two? Are all three to live together? But then, along with the comfort of meeting one whom we love, we have the less agreeable prospect of meeting another whom we have ceased to love. Or will one of the two wives or two husbands be preferred and the other slighted? If so, the last will suffer and not gain by the reunion. Take the present case. Assume that the wife loved only her first husband, but that all the seven were attached to her. Then we may well ask, whose wife will she be of them? Will her affections be divided among the seven, or will they all be given to the first? In the former case, she will be compelled to live in a society for which she has no desire; in the latter, six of her seven husbands will be unable to enjoy the full benefit of her presence. The question is merely evaded by saying that in the resurrection there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, but that men are like angels. Either there is no consolation in living again, or there must be some kind of repetition of former ties. Still less logical is the argument by which Jesus attempts to prove the reality of a future state against the Sadducees. In syllogistic form it maybe thus stated:—
God is not the God of the dead, but of the living. God told Moses in the bush that he was the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Therefore they are not dead, but living (Mk. xii. 18-27; Mt. xxii. 23-33; Lu. xx. 27-40).
What is the evidence of the major premiss? The moment it is questioned it is seen to be invalid. Nothing could be more natural than that Moses, or any other Hebrew, should speak of his God as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, meaning that those great forefathers of his race had adored and been protected by the same Jehovah in their day, but not therefore that they were still living. The Sadducees must have been weak indeed if such an argument could weigh with them for a moment.
After this a scribe or lawyer drew from Jesus the important declaration that in his opinion the two greatest commandments were that we should love God with the whole heart, soul, mind, and strength; and our neighbors as ourselves (Mk. xii. 28-34; Mt. xxii. 34-40; Lu. x. 25-37). How gratuitous the imputations of ill-will thrown out against those who interrogate Jesus may be, is admirably shown in the present instance. One Gospel (the most trustworthy) asserts that the question about the first commandment was put by a scribe, who thought that Jesus had answered well, and who, moreover, expressed emphatic approval of the reply given to himself. Such (according to this account) was his sympathy with Jesus, that the latter declared that he was not far from the kingdom of God. Mark now the extraordinary color given to this simple transaction in another Gospel. The Pharisees, we are told, saw that the Sadducees had been silenced, and therefore drew together. Apparently as a result of their consultation (though this is not stated), one of them who was a lawyer asked a question, tempting him, namely, Which is the great commandment in the law? Diverse, again, from both versions is the narrative of a third. In the first place, all connection with the preceding questions is broken off, and without any preliminaries, a lawyer stands up, and, tempting him, inquires, “Master, by what conduct shall I inherit eternal life?” To which Jesus replies by a counter-question, “What is written in the law?” and then, strange to say, these two great commandments are enunciated, not by him, but by the unknown lawyer, whose answer receives the commendation of Jesus.
The bias thus evinced by the Evangelists, even in reporting the fairest questions, seems to show that Christ did not like his opinions to be elicited from him by this method, feeling perhaps that it was likely to expose his intellectual weaknesses. In this way, and possibly in others, a sentiment of hostility grew up between himself and the dominant sects, which, until the closing scenes of his career, was far more marked on his side than on theirs. Beautiful maxims about loving one’s enemies and returning good for evil did not keep him from reproaching the Pharisees on many occasions. Unfortunately, a man’s particular enemies are just those who scarcely ever appear to him worthy of love, and this was evidently the case with Jesus and the men upon whom he poured forth his denunciations. Judging by his mode of speaking, we should suppose that all religious people who did not agree with him were simply hypocrites. This is one of the mildest terms by which he can bring himself to mention the Pharisees or the scribes. Of the latter, he declares that they devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayers; therefore they would receive the greater damnation (Mk. xii. 40; Mt. xxiii. 14). The scribes and the Pharisees, it is said, bind heavy burdens on others, and refuse to touch them themselves (surely an improbable charge). They do all their works to be seen of men (their outward behavior then was virtuous). One of their grievous sins is that they make their phylacteries broad, and enlarge the borders of their garments. Worse still: they like the best places at dinner-parties and in the synagogues (to which perhaps their position entitled them). They have a pleasure in hearing themselves called “Rabbi,” a crime of which Christ’s disciples are especially to beware. They shut up the kingdom of heaven, neither entering themselves, nor allowing others to enter. They compass sea and land to make one proselyte, but all this seeming zeal for religion is worthless: when they have the proselyte, they make him still more a child of hell than themselves. They pay tithes regularly, but omit the weightier virtues; unhappily too common a failing with the votaries of all religions. They make the outside of the cup and platter clean, but within they are full of extortion and excess. Like whited sepulchres, they look well enough outside, but this aspect of righteousness is a mere cloak for hypocrisy and wickedness. They honor God with their lips, but their heart is far from him.30
He uses towards them such designations as these: “Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites;” “you blind guides;” “you fools and blind;” “thou blind Pharisee;” “you serpents, you generation of vipers.” If we may believe that he was the author of a parable contained only in Luke, he used a Pharisee as his typical hypocrite, and held up a publican—one of a degraded class—as far superior in genuine virtue to this self-righteous representative of the hated order (Lu. xviii. 9-14).
Had the Pharisees been actually guilty of the exceeding wickedness which Jesus thought proper to ascribe to them, his career would surely have been cut short at a much earlier stage. As it was, they seem to have borne with considerable patience the extreme license which he permitted himself in his language against them. Nay, I venture to say that had he confined himself to language, however strong, he might have escaped the fate which actually befell him. And the evidence of this proposition is to be found in the extreme mildness with which his apostles were afterwards treated by the Sanhedrim, even when they acted in direct disobedience to its orders (Acts iv. 15-21, and v. 27-42). Only Stephen, who courted martyrdom by his language, was put to death, and that for the legal offense of blasphemy. Ordinary prudence would have saved Jesus. For his arrest was closely connected with his expulsion of the money-changers from the temple court. Not indeed that he was condemned to death on that account, but that this ill-considered deed was the immediate incentive of the legal proceedings, which subsequently ended, contrary perhaps to the expectation of his prosecutors, in his conviction by the Sanhedrim on a capital charge. Let us consider the evidence of this. For the convenience of persons going to pay tribute to the temple, some money-changers—probably neither better nor worse than others of their trade—sat outside for the purpose of receiving the current Roman coinage and giving the national money, which alone the authorities of the temple received in exchange. Certain occasions in life requiring an offering of doves, these too were sold in the precincts of the temple, obviously to the advantage of the public. Had Jesus disapproved of this practice, he might have denounced it in public, and have endeavored to persuade the people to give it up. Instead of this, he entered the temple, expelled the buyers and sellers (by what means we do not know), upset the money-changers’ tables and the dove-sellers’ seats, and permitted no one to carry a vessel through the temple. “Is it not written,” he exclaimed, “‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations?’ but you have made it a den of thieves” (Mk. xi. 15-18; Mt. xxi. 12, 13; Lu. xix. 45-48). The action and the words were alike unjustifiable. The extreme care of the Jews to preserve the sanctity of their temple is well known from secular history. Nothing that they had done or were likely to do could prevent it from remaining a house of prayer. And even if they had suffered it to be desecrated by commerce, was it, they would ask, for Jesus to fall suddenly upon men who were but pursuing a calling which custom had sanctioned, and which they had no reason to think illegal or irreligious? Was it for him to stigmatize them all indiscriminately as “thieves”? Plainly not. He had, in their opinion, exceeded all bounds of decorum, to say nothing of law, in this deed of violence and of passion. Thus, there was nothing for it now but to restrain the further excesses he might be tempted to commit.
No immediate steps were, however, taken to punish this outrage. It is alleged that Jesus escaped because of the reputation he enjoyed among the people. At any rate, the course of the authorities was the mildest they could possibly adopt. They contented themselves with asking Jesus by what authority he did these things, a question which assuredly they had every right to put. He answered by another question, promising if they answered it, he would answer theirs. Was John’s baptism from heaven or from men? Hereupon the Evangelists depict the perplexity which they imagine arose among the priests. If they said, from heaven, Jesus would proceed to ask why they had not received him; if from men, they would encounter the popular impression that he was a prophet. All this, however, may be mere speculation; we return within the region of the actual knowledge of the Evangelists when we come to their answer. “And they say in answer to Jesus, ‘We do not know.’ And Jesus says to them, ‘Neither do I tell you by what authority I do these things.’” (Mk. xi. 27-33; Mt. xxi. 23-27; Lu. xx. 1-8). Observe in this reply the conduct of Jesus. He had promised the priests that if they answered his question, he would also answer theirs. They did answer his question as best they could, and he refused to answer theirs! Even in the English version, where the contrast between him and them is disguised by the employment of the same word “tell” as the translation of two very different verbs in the original, the distinction between “We cannot tell” and “I do not,” that is “will not tell” is palpable enough. But it is far more so in the original. The priests did not by any means decline to answer the question; they simply said, what may very likely have been true, that they did not know whence the baptism of John was. In the divided state of public opinion about John, nothing could be more natural. They could not reply decidedly if their feelings were undecided. Their reply, “We do not know,” was then a perfectly proper one. The corresponding reply on the part of Jesus would have been, “I do not know by what authority I do these things;” but this of course it was impossible to give. The chief priests, scribes and elders had more right to ask Jesus to produce his authority for his assault than he had to interrogate them about their religious opinions. But Jesus, though he had for the moment evaded a difficulty, must have been well aware that he was not out of danger. He found it necessary to retire to a secret spot, known only to friends. Here, however, he was discovered by his opponents, and brought before the Sanhedrim to answer to the charges now alleged against his character and doctrine.
To some extent these charges are matter of conjecture. The Gospels intimate that there was much evidence against him which they have not reported. Now it is impossible for us to do complete justice to the tribunal which heard the case unless we know the nature and number of the offences of which the prisoner was accused. One of them, the promise to destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, may have presented itself to their minds as an announcement of a serious purpose, especially after the recent violence done to the traders. However this may be, there was now sufficient evidence before the court to require the high priest to call upon Jesus for his reply. He might therefore have made his defense if he had thought proper. He declined to do so. Again the high priest addressed him, solemnly requiring him to say whether he was the Christ, the Son of God. Jesus admitted that such was his conviction, and declared that they would afterwards see him return in the clouds of heaven. Hereupon the high priest rent his clothes, and asked what further evidence could be needed. All had heard his blasphemy; what did they think of it? All of them concurred in condemning him to death (Mk. xv. 53-64; Mt. xxvi. 57-66; Lu. xxii. 66-71).
The three Evangelists who report the trial all agree that the blasphemy thus uttered was accepted at once as full and sufficient ground for the conviction of Jesus. Now, I see no reason whatever to doubt that the priests who were thus scandalized by his declaration were perfectly sincere in the horror they professed. All who have at all realized the extremely strong feelings of the Jews on the subject of Monotheism, will easily understand that anything which in the least impugned it would be regarded by them with the utmost aversion. And a man who claimed to be the Son of God certainly detracted somewhat from the sole and exclusive adoration which they considered to be due to Jehovah. As indeed the event has proved; for the Christian Church soon departed from pure Monotheism, adopting the dogma of the Trinity; while Christ along with his Father, and even more than his Father, became an object of its worship. So that if the Jews considered it their supreme obligation to preserve the purity of their Jehovistic faith, as their Scriptures taught them to believe it was, they were right in putting down Jesus by forcible means. No doubt they were wrong in holding such an opinion. It was not, in fact, their duty to guard their faith by persecution. They would have been morally better had they understood the modern doctrine of religious liberty, unknown as it was to Christians themselves until some sixteen centuries after the death of Christ. But for their mistaken notions on this head they were only in part responsible. They had inherited their creed with its profound intolerance. Their history, their legislators, their prophets, all conspired to uphold persecution for the maintenance of religious truth. They could not believe in their sacred books, and disbelieve the propriety of persecution. Before they could leave Jesus at large to teach his subversive doctrines, they must have ceased to be Jews; and this it was impossible for them to do. We must not be too hard upon men whose only crime was that they believed in a false religion.
According to the dictates of that religion, Jesus ought to have been stoned. But the Roman supremacy precluded the Jews from giving effect to their own laws. Jesus was therefore taken before the procurator, and accused of “many things.” The charge of blasphemy of course would weigh nothing in the mind of a Roman; and it is evident that another aspect of the indictment was brought prominently before Pilate: namely, the pretension of Jesus to be king of the Jews. As to the substantial truth of this second charge, we are saved the necessity of discussion, for Jesus himself, when questioned by Pilate, at once admitted it. But whether it was made in malice, and in a somewhat different sense from that in which Pilate understood it, is not so clear. Jesus at no time, so far as we know, put forward any direct claim to immediate temporal dominion. At the same time it must be remembered that the ideas of Messiahship and possession of the kingdom were so intimately connected in the minds of the Jews, that they were probably unable to dissociate them. Unfit as Jesus plainly was for the exercise of the government, they might well believe that, if received by any considerable number of the people, it would be forced upon him as the logical result of his career. Nor were these fears unreasonable. His entry into Jerusalem riding on an ass (an animal expressly selected as emblematic of his royalty), with palm-branches strewed before him, and admirers calling “Hosanna!” as he went, pointed to a very real and serious danger. Another such demonstration might with the utmost ease have passed into a disturbance of the peace, not to say a tumult, which the Romans would have quenched in blood unsparingly and indiscriminatingly shed. Jesus was really therefore a dangerous character, not so much to the Romans, as to the Jews. Not being prepared to accept him as their king in fact, they were almost compelled in self-preservation to denounce him as their would-be king to Pilate.
His execution followed. His supposed resurrection, and the renewed propagation of his faith, followed that. It has been widely believed that because Christianity was not put down by the death of its founder, because, indeed, it burst out again in renewed vigor, therefore the measures taken against him were a complete failure, and served only to confer additional glory and power on the religion he had taught. But this opinion arises from a confusion of ideas. If they aimed at preserving their own nation from what they deemed an impious heresy—and I see no proof that they aimed at anything else—the Jewish authorities were perfectly successful. Christianity, which, if our accounts be true, threatened to seduce large numbers of people from their allegiance to the orthodox creed, was practically extinguished among the Jews themselves by the death of Christ. They could not possibly believe in a crucified Messiah. Only a very small band of disciples persisted in adhering to Jesus, justifying their continued faith by asserting that he had risen from the tomb. But it was no longer among the countrymen of Jesus, whom he had especially sought to attach to his person and his doctrine, that this small remnant of his followers could find their converts. Neither then, nor at any subsequent time, has Christianity been able to wean the Jews from their ancient faith. The number of those who, from that time to this, have abandoned it in favor of the more recent religion has been singularly small. If, as is probable, there was during the earthly career of Jesus a growing danger that his teaching might lead to the formation of a sect to which many minds would be attracted, that danger was completely averted.
True, Christianity, when rejected by the Jews, made rapid progress among the Gentiles. But it was no business of the authorities at Jerusalem to look after the religion of heathen nations. They might have thought, had they foreseen the future of Christianity, that a creed which originated among themselves, and had in it a large admixture of Hebrew elements, was better than the worship of the pagan deities. Be this as it may, the particular form of error which the Gentiles might embrace was evidently no concern of theirs. But they had a duty, or thought they had one, towards their own people, who looked to them for guidance, and that was to preserve the religion that had been handed down from their forefathers uncorrupted and unmixed. This they endeavored to do by stifling the new-born heresy of Jesus before it had become too powerful to be stifled. Their measures, having regard to the end they had in view, were undoubtedly politic, and even just.
For were they not perfectly right in supposing that faith in Christ was dangerous to faith in Moses? The event has proved it beyond possibility of question. Not indeed that they could perceive the extent of the peril, for neither Jesus nor any of his disciples has ventured then to throw off Judaism altogether. But they did perceive, with a perfectly correct insight, that the Christians were setting up a new authority alongside of the authorities which alone they recognized,—the Scriptures and the traditional interpretation of the Scriptures. And it was precisely the adoption of a new authority which they desired to prevent. So completely was their foresight on this point justified, that not long after the death of Christ, his assumed followers received converts without circumcision, that all-essential rite; and that, after the lapse of no long period of time, Judaism was entirely abandoned, and a new religion, with new dogmas, new ritual, and new observances, was founded in its place. Surely the action of the men who sat in judgment upon Jesus needs no further justification, from their own point of view, than this one consideration. They had no more sacred trust, in their own eyes, than to prevent the admission of any other object of worship than the Lord Jehovah. Christ speedily became among Christians an object of worship. They owned no more solemn duty than to observe in all its parts the law delivered by their God to Moses. That law was almost instantly abandoned by the Christian Church. They knew of no more unpardonable crime than apostasy from their faith. That apostasy was soon committed by the Jewish Christians.
On all these grounds, then, I venture to maintain that the spiritual rulers of Judea were not so blameworthy as has been commonly supposed in the execution of Jesus of Nazareth. Judged by the principles of universal morality, they were undoubtedly wrong. Judged by the principles of their own religion, they were no less undoubtedly right.
Subdivision 5 — What Did He Think of Himself?
Having endeavored, as far as our imperfect information will admit, to realize the view that would be taken of Jesus by contemporary Jews, let us seek if possible to realize the view which he took of himself. In what relation did he suppose himself to stand to God the Father? And in what relation to the Hebrew law? What was his conception of his own mission, and of the manner in which it could best be fulfilled?
Though, in replying to these questions, we suffer somewhat from the scarcity of the materials, we do not labor under the same disadvantages as those we encountered in the preceding section. For there we had to judge between two bitterly hostile parties, of which only one had presented its case. And from the highly colored statement of this one party we had to unravel, as best we could, whatever circumstances might be permitted to weigh in favor of the other. Here we have no conflicting factions to obscure the truth. The opinion formed by Jesus of himself has been handed down to us by his own disciples, who, even if they did not perfectly understand him, must at least have understood him far better than anybody else. And if the picture they give us of the conception he had formed of his own office be consistent with itself, there is also the utmost probability that it is true. Especially will this hold good if this conception should be found to differ materially from that not long afterwards framed about him by the Christian Church.
Consider first the idea he entertained concerning his Messianic character, and his consequent relation to God. His conviction that he was the Messiah, who was sent with a divine message to his nation, was evidently the mainspring of his life. It was under this conviction that he worked his cures and preached his sermons. Probably it strengthened as he continued in his career, though of this there is no possible evidence. Possibly, however, the instructions he gave on several occasions to those whom he had healed, and once to his disciples, to tell no man about him, arose from a certain diffidence about the power by which his miracles were effected (E.g., Mk. i. 44; Mt. ix. 30), and a reluctance to accept the honor which the populace would have conferred upon him. However this may be, he certainly put forward his belief on this subject plainly enough, and its acceptance by his disciples no doubt confirmed it in his own mind, while its rejection by the nation at large, especially the more learned portion of it, gave a flavor of bitterness to the tone in which he insisted upon it. The title by which he habitually designates himself is the Son of man. This was, no doubt, selected as a more modest name than “Son of God.” The latter was never (if we exclude the fourth Gospel) applied by Jesus to himself, but when applied to him by others, he made no objection to it, but accepted it as his due. The inference from his behavior is, that he liked to be thought the Son of God (as indeed is shown by his eulogy of Peter when that apostle had so described him) (Mt. xvi. 17; vers. 18 and 19 are probably interpolations), but that he did not quite venture to claim the title for himself. That he was ever imagined, either by himself or others, to be the Son of God in the literal, materialistic sense in which the term was afterwards understood, it would be an entire mistake to suppose. No such notion had ever been formulated by the Jewish mind, and it would, no doubt, have filled his earliest disciples with horror. As Mr. Westcott truly observes, “Years must elapse before we can feel that the words of one who talked with men were indeed the words of God” (Canon of New Testament, p. 64). Nor was the Hebrew Jehovah the sort of divinity who would have had a son by a young village maiden. Proceedings of that kind were left to the heathen deities. Nor did Christ, in claiming a filial relationship to God, ever intend to claim unity with the divine essence, still less to assert that he actually was God himself. This notion of identity would receive no sanction even from the fourth Gospel, which does, quite unlike its predecessors, lend some sanction to that of unity in nature. The best proof of this is that Jesus never, at any period of his life, desired his followers to worship him, either as God or as the Son of God. Had he believed of himself what his followers subsequently believed of him, that he was one of the constituent persons in a divine trinity, he must have enjoined his apostles both to address him in prayer themselves, and to desire their converts to address him. It is quite plain that he did nothing of the kind, and that they never supposed him to have done so. Belief in Christ as the Messiah was taught as the first dogma of apostolic Christianity, but adoration of Christ as God was not taught at all. But we are not left in this matter to depend on conjectural inferences. The words of Jesus are plain. Whenever occasion arose, he asserted his inferiority to the Father (as Milton has proved to demonstration),31 though, as no one had then dreamt of his equality, it is natural that the occasions should not have been frequent. He made himself inferior in knowledge when he said that of the day and hour of the day of judgment no one knew, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son; no one except the Father (Mk. xiii. 32). He made himself inferior in power when he said that seats on his right hand and on his left in the kingdom of heaven were not his to give (Mk. x. 40); inferior in virtue when he desired a certain man not to address him as “Good master,” for there was none good but God (Mk. x. 18). The words of his prayer at Gethsemane, “all things are possible unto thee,” imply that all things were not possible to him; while its conclusion, “not what I will, but what thou wilt,” indicates submission to a superior, not the mere execution of a purpose of his own (Mk. xiv. 36). Indeed, the whole prayer would have been a mockery, useless for any purpose but the deception of his disciples, if he had himself been identical with the Being to whom he prayed, and had merely been giving effect by his death to their common counsels. While the cry of agony from the cross, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Mk. xv. 34,) would have been quite unmeaning if the person forsaken and the person forsaking had been one and the same. Either, then, we must assume that the language of Jesus has been misreported, or we must admit that he never for a moment pretended to be co-equal, co-eternal, or con-substantial with God.
Throughout his public life he spoke of himself as one who was sent by God for a certain purpose. What was that purpose? Was it, as the Gentile Christians so readily assumed, to abolish the laws and customs of the Jews, and to substitute others in their stead? Did he, for example, propose to supplant circumcision by baptism? the Sabbath by the Sunday? the synagogue by the church? the ceremonial observances of the law of Moses by observances of another kind? If so, let the evidence be produced. For unless we find among his recorded instructions some specific injunction to his disciples that they were no longer to be Jews, but Christians, we cannot assume that he intended any such revolution. Now, not only can no such injunction be produced, but the whole course of his life negatives the supposition that any was given. For while teaching much on many subjects, he never at any time alludes to the Mosaic dispensation as a temporary arrangement, destined to yield to a higher law. Yet it would surely have been strange if he had left his disciples to guess at his intentions on this all-important subject. Moreover, it came directly in his way when he censured the Pharisees. He frequently accuses them of overlaying the law with a multitude of unnecessary and troublesome rules; but while objecting to these, he never for a moment hints that the very law itself was now to become a thing of the past. Quite the reverse. The Pharisees were very scrupulous about paying tithes and disregarded weightier matters; these, he says, they ought to have done, and not to have left the other undone. If those tithes were no longer to be paid (at least not for the same objects), why does he not say so? Again, he charges them with transgressing the commandment of God by their tradition; where it is the accretions round the law, and not the law itself, which he attacks. In one case he even directly imposes an observance of the legal requirements on a man over whom he has influence (Mk. i. 44). Moreover, he himself evidently continued to perform the obligations of his Jewish religion until the very end of his life, for one of his last acts was to eat the passover with his disciples. The only institution which he apparently desires to alter at all is the Sabbath, and there it is plain that he aims at an amendment in the mode of its observance, not at its entire abolition. Indeed, he justifies his disciples by invoking the example of David, an orthodox Hebrew; and very happily remarks, that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath—one of his best and most epigrammatic sayings. But an institution made for man was indeed one to be rationally observed, but by no means one to be lightly tampered with. Jesus, in fact, was altogether a Jew, and though an ardent reformer, he desired to reform within the limits of Judaism, not beyond them.
If further proof were needed of this than the fact that he himself neither abandoned the religion of his birth, nor sought to obtain disciples except among those who belonged to it, it would be found in his treatment of the heathen woman whose daughter was troubled with a devil. To her he distinctly declared that he was not sent except to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. In reply to her further persistence, he told her that it was not well to take the children’s meat and throw it to dogs. Nothing but her appropriate yet modest answer induced him to accede to her request (Mt. xv. 21-28). Further confirmation is afforded by his instructions to his disciples, whom he desired not to go either to the Gentiles or the Sâmaritans, but to the lost sheep of the house of Israel (Mt. x. 5, 6). His own practice was altogether in conformity with these instructions. He markedly confined the benefits of his teaching to his fellow-countrymen. Once only is he said to have visited the neighborhood of Tyre and Sidon, and then he was anxious to preserve the strictest incognito (Mk. vii. 24). Even when the Jews refused to believed in him, he sought no converts among the Gentiles. He never even intimated that he would receive such converts without their previous adoption of the Jewish faith, and after his decease his most intimate disciples were doubtful whether it was lawful to associate with uncircumcised people (Acts x. 28; xi. 2, 3). Not only, therefore, had he himself never done so, but he had left no instructions behind him that such a relaxation of Jewish scruples might ever be permitted. True, when disappointed among his own people, he now and then contrasted them in unflattering terms with the heathen. Chorazin and Bethsaida were worse than Tyre and Sidon; Capernaum less open to conviction than Sodom (Mt. xi. 20-24). The faith of the heathen centurion was greater than any he had found in Israel (Mt. viii. 10). But all these expressions of embittered feeling imply that it was in Israel he had looked for faith, towards Israel that his desires were turned. To discover faith out of it might be an agreeable surprise, but as a general rule, was neither to be expected nor sought.
Having, then, determined, what the purport of his mission was not, let us try to discover what it was. The quest is not difficult. The whole of his teaching is pervaded by one ever-recurring keynote, which those who have ears to hear it cannot miss. He came to announce the approach of what he termed “the kingdom of heaven.” A great revolution was to take place on earth. God was to come, accompanied by Jesus, to reward the virtuous and to punish the wicked. A totally new order of things was to be substituted in lieu of the present unjust and unequal institutions. And Jesus was sent by God to warn the children of Israel to prepare for this kingdom of heaven. There was but little time to lose, for even now the day of judgment was at hand. The mind of Jesus was laden with this one great thought, to which, with him, all others were subordinate. It runs through his maxims of conduct, his parables, his familiar converse with his disciples. Far from him was the notion of founding a new religion, to be extended throughout the world and to last for ages. It was a work of much more immediate urgency which he came to do. “Prepare for the kingdom of heaven, for it will come upon you in the present generation;” such was the burden of his message. Let us hear his own mode of delivering it to men.
The very beginning of his preaching, according to Mark, was in this strain: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has approached; repent, and believe the Gospel” (Mk. i. 15). Precisely similar is the purport of his earliest doctrine according to Matthew (Mt. iv. 7). How thoroughly he believed that the time was fulfilled is shown by his decided declaration that there were some among his hearers who would not taste of death till they had seen the kingdom of God come with power (Mk. ix. 1), a saying which, as it would never have been invented, is undoubtedly genuine. He told his disciples that Elias, who was expected to precede the kingdom of heaven, had already come (Mk. ix. 13).
Over and over again, in a hundred different ways, this absorbing thought finds expression in his language. The one and only message the disciples are instructed to carry to the “lost sheep of the house of Israel” is that the kingdom of heaven is at hand (Mt. x. 17). When a city does not receive them, they are to wipe off the dust of it against them, and bid them be sure that the kingdom of God is near them (Lu. x. 11). In the coming judgment, Chorazin, Bethsaida, and above all his own place Capernaum, were to suffer more than Tyre and Sidon. Earthly matters assume, in consequence of this conviction of their temporary nature, a very trivial aspect. The disciples are to take no thought for the morrow; the morrow will take thought for itself. Nor are they to trouble themselves about food and clothing, but to seek first the kingdom of God (Mt. vi. 31-34). They are not to lay up treasure on earth, but in heaven, in order that their hearts may be there (Mt. vi. 19-21). Moreover, they must be always on the watch, as the Son of man will come upon them at an unexpected hour. It would not do then to be engaged as the wicked antediluvians were when overtaken by the flood, in the occupations of eating and drinking, or marrying and giving in marriage. Instead of this, they must be like the faithful servant whom his master on returning to his house found watching (Mt. xxiv. 38, 42, 43; Lu. xii. 37, 38). Preparation is to be made for the kingdom which their Father will give them by selling what they have and bestowing alms, so laying up an incorruptible treasure; by keeping their loins girded and their lights burning (Lu. xii. 32). Neglect of these precautions will be punished by exclusion from the joys of the kingdom, as shown in the parable of the ten virgins (Mt. xxv. 1-13). But the indications of the great event are not understood by the people, who are able to read the signs of the coming weather, but not those of the times (Lu. xii. 54-57); an inability which might have been due to the fact that they had had some experience of the one kind of signs and none of the other. On another occasion, he observes that the law and the prophets were till John; since then the kingdom of God has been preached, and every man presses into it (Lu. xvi. 16). Here he specially proclaims himself as the preacher of the kingdom; the man who brought mankind this new revelation. Such was the manner in which this revelation was announced, that some at least of those who heard him thought that the kingdom was to come immediately. To counteract this view he told the parable of the nobleman who went from home to receive a kingdom, leaving his servants in charge of certain monies, and rewarded them on his return according to the amount of interest they had obtained by usury, punishing one of them who had made no use of the sum intrusted to him (Lu. xix. 11-27). He himself, of course, was the nobleman who received his kingdom and returned again to judge his servants. So urgent was the message he had to deliver, that (according to one Evangelist) a man who wished to bury his father before joining him was told to let the dead bury their dead, but to go himself and announce the kingdom of God; while another, who asked leave to bid farewell to his family, was warned that no man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, was fit for that kingdom (Lu. ix. 58-62).
The arrival of the kingdom was to be preceded by various signs. There would be false Christs; there would be wars, earthquakes, and famines; there would be persecutions of the faithful; but the Gospel (that is, the announcement of the approach of this new state of things) must first be published in all nations.32 Then the sun and moon would be darkened and the stars fall; the Son of man would come in power and glory, and gather his elect from all parts of the earth. The existing generation was not to pass till all these things were done. Not even the Son knew when this would happen; but as it might come suddenly and unexpectedly upon them, they were to be continually on the watch (Mk. xiii.; Mt. xxiv). The apostles would not even finish the cities of Israel before the Son of man had come (Mt. x. 23).
Little is said in description of the nature of the kingdom of heaven except by the method of illustration. The main result to be gathered from numerous allusions to it is that justice is to prevail. Thus, the kingdom of heaven is said to be like a man who sowed good seed in his field, but in whose property an enemy maliciously mingled tares. At the harvest the tares are to be burnt, and the wheat gathered into the barn. This parable Jesus himself explained. The tares are the wicked; the wheat represents “the children of the kingdom.” And as tares are burnt, so “the Son of man shall send his angels, and collect from his kingdom all offenses, and those who do wickedness, and shall throw them into the furnace of fire; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the just shall shine out like the sun in the kingdom of their Father.” The same idea is expressed in the illustration of the net cast into the sea, which gathers good fish and bad. Just as the fishermen separate these, so the angels at the end of the world will separate the wicked from the midst of the just. Other comparisons represent the influence on the heart of faith in the kingdom. Thus, the kingdom of heaven is like a grain of mustard seed, which, though the smallest of seeds, becomes the largest of herbs. Or it is like leaven leavening three measures of meal. Again, it is like treasure hid in a field, or a pearl of great price (Mt. xiii. 24-50).
The best qualification for preëminence in the kingdom was humility.
When asked who was to be greatest in the kingdom of heaven, Jesus replied that it would be he who humbled himself like a little child (Mt. xviii. 1-4). He delights in the exhibition of striking contrasts between the present and the future state of things. The first are to be the last, and the last first. Those who have made great sacrifices now are then to receive vast rewards (Mk. x. 29-31). He who has lost his life for his sake is to find it, and he who has found it is to lose it (Mt. x. 39). The stone rejected by the builder is to become the head of the corner (Mk. xii. 10). The kingdom of God is to be taken from the privileged nation and given to another more worthy of it (Mt. xxi. 43). Publicans and harlots are to take precedence of the respectable classes in entering the kingdom (Mt. xxi. 31). It is scarcely possible for rich men to enter it at all, though God may perhaps admit them by an extraordinary exertion of power (Mk. x. 23-27). Many even who trust in their high character for correct religion will find themselves rejected. But they will be safe who have both heard the sayings of Jesus and done them. They will have built their houses on rocks, from which the storms which usher in the kingdom will not dislodge them. Those, however, who hear these sayings, and neglect to perform them, will be like foolish men who have built their houses on sand, where the storms will beat them down, and great will be their fall (Mt. vii. 22-29). That the kingdom is to be on earth, not in some unknown heaven, is manifest from the numerous references of Jesus to the time when the Son of man will “come;” a time which none can know, yet for which all are to watch. He never speaks of men “going” to the kingdom of heaven; it is the kingdom of heaven which is to come to them. And the most remarkable of the many contrasts will be that between the present humiliation of the Son and his future glory. He will return to execute his Father’s decrees. His judges themselves will see him “sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven” (Mt. xxvi. 64). Instead of standing as a prisoner at the bar, he will then be enthroned as a judge. “When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he shall sit on the throne of his glory; and all the nations shall be collected before him, and he shall separate them from one another, as the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats; and he shall put the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on his left.” The goats, who have done harm, are then to go into everlasting punishment; and the sheep, who have done good, are to pass into eternal life (Mt. xxv. 31-46).
This equitable adjustment of rewards and punishments to merit and demerit is the leading conception in the revolution which the kingdom of heaven is to make. The faithful servant is to be made ruler over his master’s goods; the unfaithful one to be cut off and assigned a portion with the hypocrites. The virgins whose lamps are ready burning will be admitted to the marriage festival. The servants who make the best use of the property committed to their charge will be rewarded, while those who have failed to employ it properly will be cast into outer darkness (Mt. xxiv. 42-xxv. 30). So also the wicked husbandmen in the vineyard, who ill treated their master’s servants and killed his heir, are to be destroyed when he comes, and the vineyard is to be committed to other cultivators (Mk. xii. 1-9). All those, on the other hand, who have made great sacrifices for the sake of Christ will receive a hundred-fold compensation for all that they have now abandoned (Mt. xix. 29, 30).
Such was the sort of notion—rude, yet tolerably definite—which Jesus had formed of the kingdom his Father was about to found, and for the coming of which he taught his disciples to pray. This hope of a reign of justice, of an exaltation of the lowly and virtuous, and a depression of the proud and wicked, animated his teaching and inspired his life. To make known this great event, so shortly to overtake them, to mankind, was a duty with which in his opinion he had been charged by God; to receive this message at his hands was in his judgment the first of virtues, to spurn it the most unpardonable of crimes.
Subdivision 6 — What Did His Disciples Think of Him?
There is on record a remarkable conversation which affords us a glimpse, both of the rumors that were current about Christ among the people, and also of the view taken of him by his nearest friends during his life-time. Jesus had gone with his disciples into the towns of Cæsarea Philippi. On the way, being apparently curious about the state of public opinion, he asked them, “Whom do men say that I am?” To this they replied, “John the Baptist; and some say Elias, and others that thou art one of the prophets.” To which Jesus rejoined, “But you, whom say you that I am?” Peter returned the answer, “Thou art the Messiah;” or “Thou art the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It is remarkable that Peter alone is represented as replying to this second question, as if the others had not yet attained to the conviction which this apostle held of the Messiahship of Jesus. Especially would this conclusion be confirmed if we adopted the version of Matthew, where Jesus expresses his high approbation of Peter’s answer (Mk. viii. 27-30; Mt. xvi. 13-20). If this apostle was peculiarly blessed on account of his perception of this truth, it may be inferred that his companions had either not yet perceived, or were not yet sure of it. That Peter did not mean by calling him the Messiah to state that he was a portion of the deity himself, is evident from what follows; for Jesus having predicted his future sufferings, “Peter began to rebuke him,” anxious to avert the omen. Had he believed that it was God himself with whom he was conversing, he could hardly have ventured to question his perfect knowledge of the future.
The doctrine of the divinity of Christ is not, in fact, to be found in the New Testament. Even the writer of the fourth Gospel, who holds the highest and most mystical view of his nature, does not teach that. Often indeed in that Gospel does Jesus speak of himself as one with the Father. But the dogmatic force of all these expressions is measured by the fact that precisely in the same sense he speaks of the disciples as one with himself. As the Father and he are in one another, so he prays that the disciples may be one in them (Jo. xvii. 21). Moreover, when the Jews charged him with making himself God, he met them by inquiring whether it was not written in their law, “I said, Ye are gods.” If, then, those to whom the word of God came were called gods, was it blasphemy in him, whom the Father had sanctified and sent, to say, “I am the Son of God?” (Jo. x. 33-37). Here, then, the term which Jesus appropriates is “Son of God,” and this he considers admissible because the Hebrew people generally had been called gods. Evidently, then, he does not admit the charge of making himself God.
The authority of the fourth Gospel is, of course, of no value in enabling us to determine what Jesus said or did, but it is of great value as evidence of the view taken about him by those of his disciples who, at this early period, had advanced the furthest in the direction of placing him on a level with God himself. It is either the latest, or one of the latest, compositions in the New Testament, and it proves that, at the period when its author lived, even the boldest spirits had not ventured on the dogma which afterwards became the corner-stone of the Christian creed.
Throughout the rest of the canonical books, Jesus is simply the Messiah, the Son of God; in whom, in that sense, it is a duty to believe. Whoever believes this much is, according to the first epistle of John, born of God (1 John v. 1).
Clearer still is the evidence that, in the opinion of those most competent to judge, Jesus had no intention of abolishing the observance of the law of Moses. So far were his disciples from imagining that he contemplated any such change, that they were at first in doubt whether it was allowable for them even to relax the rules which forbade social intercourse with heathens. The writer of the Acts of the Apostles, however, informs us that, when an important convert was to be won over from the pagan ranks, Peter had the privilege of a vision which enjoined him not to call anything which God had cleansed common or unclean. Interpreting this to mean that he might associate with the Gentiles, he received the heathen convert, Cornelius, with all cordiality, and even preached the gospel of Jesus to the uncircumcised company by whom he was surrounded. That this was a novel measure is plainly evinced by the fact that the Jewish Christians who were present were astonished that the gift of the Holy Ghost should be poured out upon the Gentiles. They therefore had conceived that Christianity was to be confined to themselves (Acts x).
But there is more direct evidence of the same fact. When Peter returned to Jerusalem, the circumcised believers there found fault with him because he had gone in to uncircumcised men, and had eaten with them. Peter, of course, related his vision in self-defense, and since there was no reply to be made to such an argument as this, they accepted the new and unexpected fact which he announced: “Well, then, God has given repentance to life to the Gentiles also” (Acts xi. 1-18). Paul, who was too strong-minded to need a revelation to teach him the best way of promoting Christian interests, also received heathen converts without requiring them to come under Jewish obligations. But the conduct of these apostles was far from meeting with unmixed approbation in the community. Some men from Judea came to Antioch, where Paul and Barnabas were, and informed the brethren there that unless they were circumcised they could not be saved. So important was this question deemed, that Paul and Barnabas, after much disputing with these Judaic Christians, agreed to go with them to Jerusalem to refer the matter to a council of the apostles and elders. Obviously, then, it was a new case which had arisen. No authoritative dictum of Jesus could be produced. The possibility of having to receive heathens among his disciples was one he had never contemplated. Called to deal with this supremely important question, on which the whole future of the Church turned, the apostles displayed moderation and good sense. Acting on the concurrent advice of Peter, Paul, James, and Barnabas, they wrote to the brethren in Antioch, Syria, and Cilicia, that they had determined to lay no greater burden upon them than these necessary things:—1. Abstinence from meat offered to idols; 2. from blood; 3. from things strangled; 4. from fornication. Hence it will be seen that they absolved the heathen believers from all Jewish observances except two, those that forbade blood and things strangled. These, from long habit and the fixed prejudices of their race, no doubt appeared to them to have some deeper foundation than a mere arbitrary command. These therefore they enjoined even upon pagans (Acts xv. 1-31).
Be it observed, however, that this dispensation applied only to those who were not of Hebrew blood. The apostles and elders assembled at Jerusalem had no thought of dispensing themselves from the binding force of the law of Moses. To observe it was alike their privilege and their duty. They did not conceive that, in becoming Christians, they had ceased to be Jews, any more than a Catholic who becomes a Protestant conceives that he has ceased to be a Christian. The question whether those who had been born Jews should abandon their ancient religion was not even raised at this time among them. The only question was whether those who had not been born Jews should adopt it.
Innovation, however, is not to be arrested at any given point. Liberty having been conceded to the Gentiles, it was not unnatural that some of the apostles, when living among the Gentiles, should take advantage of it for themselves. No overt rule was adopted on this subject. It seems to have been tacitly understood that all Jews should continue to be bound by the rigor of their native customs, except in so far as they had been modified by common consent: and the attempt of some to escape from this burden was an occasion of no small scandal to the more orthodox members of the sect (Acts xxi. 20; Gal. ii. 12). Both Peter and Paul indeed, at separate times, were compelled to make some concessions to the extremely strong feeling in favor of the law which existed at headquarters. The conduct of these two eminent apostles merits examination.
Peter, it appears, never gave up Judaism in his own person; but when staying at Antioch he mixed freely with Gentiles, making no attempt to impose the law upon them, and approving of the proceedings of Paul. It so happened, however, that there came to Antioch some brethren from James at Jerusalem. These men were strict Jews, and Peter was so much afraid of them, that he “withdrew and separated himself” from his former companions. The other Jewish Christians, and even Barnabas, the former friend of Paul, were induced to act in the same way. Paul, who was not likely to lose the opportunity of a little triumph over Peter, ruthlessly exposed his misconduct. According to his account, he publicly addressed him in these terms: “If thou, being a Jew, livest like a Gentile and not like a Jew, why dost thou compel the Gentiles to be like Jews?” (Gal. ii. 11-14.). What answer Peter returned, or whether he returned any, Paul does not inform us. His charge against Peter I understand to be, not that the apostle had positively adopted heathen customs, and then taken up Jewish ones again, but that he had relaxed in his own favor the rules which forbade Jews from eating with Gentiles. On the appearance of the stricter Christians from Jerusalem he put on the appearance of a strictness equal to their own. Such conduct was consistent with the character of the disciple who had denied his master.
Paul himself, on the other hand, was a complete freethinker. Once converted, the system of which he had formerly been the zealous upholder no longer had any power over his emancipated mind. His robust and logical intellect soon delivered him from the fetters in which he had been bound. Far, however, from following his example, the Christians at Jerusalem were shocked at the laxity of his morals. The steps he took to conciliate them are graphically described in the Acts of the Apostles. On visiting the capital, Paul and his companions went to see James, with whom were assembled all the elders; and Paul described the success he had met with among the Gentiles. Hereupon the assembled company, or more probably James as their spokesman, informed Paul what very disadvantageous reports were current concerning him. “Thou seest, brother,” they began, “how many thousands of believers there are among the Jews, and all are zealots for the law; and they have been informed of thee that thou teachest the Jews among the Gentiles apostasy from Moses, saying that they should not circumcise their children, nor walk in the customs. What is it, then? It is quite necessary that the multitude should meet, for they will hear that thou art come. Do then this that we tell thee. We have four men who have a vow upon them; take these and be purified with them, and bear the expense with them of having their heads shaven; and all will know that there is nothing in what they have heard about thee, but that thou also walkest in the observation of the law” (Acts xxi. 20-24). This sensible advice was adopted by Paul; and the “zealots for the law,” who composed the Christian community at Jerusalem, had the satisfaction of seeing him purify himself and enter the temple with the men under the vow. On a later occasion, too, when charged with crime before Felix, Paul mentioned the fact that twelve days ago he had gone up to worship at Jerusalem, as if he had been an orthodox Jew (Acts xxiv. 11).
But although he might think it expedient to satisfy James and his friends at Jerusalem by a concession to public opinion, the rumor which had reached the brethren there, if unfounded in the letter, was in fact an accurate representation of the inevitable outcome of Paul’s teaching. Possibly he did not wish to press his own views upon others of his nation, and therefore did not interfere with such of them as, though living among heathens, yet adhered religiously to their national customs. But unquestionably his own feelings were strongly enlisted in favor of the abolition of the law, and if the Jewish Christians read and accepted his writings, they could hardly fail to adopt his practice. The law in his opinion was no longer necessary for those who believed in Christ. He is not the true Jew who is one outwardly, nor is that the true circumcision which is outward. He is a Jew who is so internally, and circumcision is of the heart in the spirit, not in the letter. If it be asked what advantage the Jew has, Paul replies that he has much: the first of all, that to his nation were confided the oracles of God (Rom. ii. 28, 29, iii. 1, 2). He knows, he says, and is persuaded in the Lord Jesus, that there is nothing unclean in itself, though to him who thinks it so it may be unclean. It is well to abstain from eating flesh or drinking wine, or anything else that may give offense to others, but these things are all unimportant in themselves. One man esteems one day above another; another man esteems them all alike; let each be fully persuaded in his own mind. Only let us not judge one another, nor put stumbling-blocks in one another’s way (Rom. xiv).
From these considerations it appears that the suspicions entertained of Paul at Jerusalem were substantially true. Possibly he did not absolutely teach the Jews to abandon the law; possibly he did not even completely abandon it himself. But in his writings he constantly treats it as a thing indifferent in itself; Christians might or might not believe in its obligations, and provided they acted conscientiously, all was well. Along with these very skeptical opinions, however, Paul strongly held to the necessity of worldly prudence. He is very indignant with the “false brethren privily introduced, who slipped in to spy out the liberty we have in Jesus Christ, that they might enslave us; to whom,” he adds, “we did not yield by subjection even for an hour” (Gal. ii. 4, 5). But whether the brethren at Jerusalem required him to clear himself from the report that he was not an observer of the law, there came in another principle of action, which he has himself explained with praiseworthy frankness. “To the Jews,” he tells the Corinthians, “I became as a Jew, that I might gain the Jews; to those under the law as under the law, not being myself under the law, that I might gain those under the law; to those without law, as without law (not being without law to God, but law-abiding to Christ), that I might gain those without law; to the weak I became weak, that I might gain the weak; I became all things to all men, that by all means I might save some” (1 Cor. ix. 20-22). Acting on this elastic rule, Paul might easily comply with all the demands of James and his zealots. To the Jews he became a Jew for the nonce. It was perhaps in the same spirit of worldly wisdom that he took the precaution of circumcising a young convert who was Jewish only on the mother’s side, his father having been a Greek (Acts xvi. 1-3).
While such was the conduct of this strong-minded reformer, it is plain that his attitude towards the law was not shared by the personal friends of Jesus. James at Jerusalem adhered strictly to Judaism. The other apostles, so far as we know, did the same. The rest of the brethren there did the same. Paul was tolerated, and even cordially received, as the apostle of the Gentiles, but it does not appear that he had any following among the Jews. Had any of the original apostles followed him in his bold innovations, he would surely have mentioned the fact, as he has mentioned the partial adhesion of Peter. On the contrary, he seems in his epistles, when attacking the Judaic type of Christianity, to be arguing as much against them as against the unchristian Jews or the heathen.
Stronger evidence than mere inference is, however, obtainable on this point. The Jewish Christians, who had received their doctrines direct from the companions of Jesus, soon came to form a sect apart, and were known by the name of Ebionites. Of these men, Irenæus tells us that “they use the Gospel according to Matthew only, and repudiate the apostle Paul, maintaining that he was an apostate from the law.” Moreover, “they practice circumcision, persevere in the observance of those customs which are enjoined by the law, and are so Judaic in their style of life, that they even adore Jerusalem as if it were the house of God” (Adv. Hær. i. 26). It was a strange fate that befell these unfortunate people, when, overwhelmed by the flood of heathenism that had swept into the Church, they were condemned as heretics. Yet there is no evidence that they had ever swerved from the doctrines of Jesus, or of the disciples who knew him in his life-time. Jesus himself had been circumcised, and he certainly never condemned the rite, or spoke of it as useless for the future. He was so Judaic in his style of life that he reverenced the temple at Jerusalem as “a house of prayer for all nations,” and deemed it his special duty to purify it from what he regarded as pollution. But the torrent of progress swept past the Ebionites, and left them stranded on the shore.
Should the position here maintained with reference to the Judaic character of the early Christians be thought to require further confirmation, I should find it in the weighty words of a theologian who, while entirely Christian in his views, is also one of the highest authorities on the history of the Church. Neander, speaking of this question, observes that the disciples did not at once arrive at the consciousness of that vocation which Christ (in his opinion) had indicated to them, namely, that they should form a distinct community from that of the Jews. On the contrary, they attached themselves to this community in every respect, and all the forms of the national theocracy were holy to them. “They lived in the conviction that these forms would continue as they were till the return of Christ, by which a new and higher order of things was to be founded; and this change they expected as one that was near at hand. Far from them, therefore, lay the thought of the foundation of a new cultus, even if from the light of belief in the Redeemer new ideas had dawned upon them about that which belonged to the essence of the true adoration of God. They took part as zealously in the service of the temple as any pious Jews. Only they believed that a sifting would take place among the theocratic people, and that the better part of it would be incorporated in their community by the recognition of Jesus as the Messiah” (Neander, Pflanzung der Christlichen Kirche, vol. i. p. 38). Neander proceeds to point out—and here too his remarks are valuable—that the outward forms of Judaism gave facilities for the formation of such smaller bodies within the general body, by means of the division into synagogues. The Christians, therefore, constituted merely a special synagogue, embraced within the mass of believers who all accepted the law of Moses, all worshiped at the temple of Jerusalem. It will be seen, however, that I differ from Neander in so far as he supposes that the members of the Christian synagogue, in adhering to Judaism, were neglecting any indications given by their founder. On the contrary, it appears to me a more reasonable explanation of their conduct that the founder himself had never contemplated that entire emancipation from Judaic forms which was soon to follow.
On these two points, then—the humanity of Jesus and his Judaism—the early history of the Church affords our position all possible support. How is it about the third—his announcement of a kingdom of heaven soon to come? Paul must have derived his doctrine on this point, whatever it was, from those who were disciples of Christ before him, for it does not appear that he had any special revelation on the subject. Let us hear what was the impression made upon his mind by their report of the teaching of Jesus. “We do not wish you to be ignorant, brethren”—so he writes to the Thessalonians—“that you may not grieve like the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, thus also will God bring those who sleep through Jesus. For this we say to you by the word of the Lord” (Paul therefore is speaking with all the authority of his apostolic commission), “that we who are alive and are left for the coming of the Lord shall not take precedence of those who are asleep. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with the word of command, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and are left shall be snatched with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and thus we shall always be with the Lord” (1 Thess. iv. 13-17). Clearer than this it is difficult to be. There can be no question whatever, unless we put an arbitrary significance on these words, that Paul looked for the second coming of Christ and the final judgment long before the existing generation had passed away. Some will fall asleep before that day, but he fully expects that he himself and many of those whom he is addressing will be alive to witness it. So confident is he of this, that he even describes the order in which the faithful will proceed to join their Lord, the dead taking a higher rank than the living. He differs from Jesus, and probably from the other apostles, in placing the kingdom of heaven somewhere in the clouds, and not on earth. But he entirely agrees with them as to the date of the revolution. Quite consistent with the above passage is another (of which, however, the correct reading is doubtful): “We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.”
Filled with the like hope, he prays that the spirit, mind, and body of the Thessalonians may be preserved blameless to the coming of Christ (1 Thess. v. 23). And he comforts them in a subsequent letter by the promise that they who are troubled shall have “rest with us in the revelation of the Lord Jesus from heaven with the angels of his power” (2 Thess. i. 7). While, in writing to the Corinthians, he speaks of the existing generation as those “upon whom the ends of the ages have come.”
Not less clear is the language of the other apostles. Peter on that memorable day of Pentecost when the apostles exhibit the gift of tongues, and some irreverent spectators are led to charge them with inebriety, explains to the assembly that the scene which had just been witnessed was characteristic of the “last days,” as foretold by the prophet Joel. In those days their sons and their daughters were to prophesy, their young men to see visions, and their old men to dream dreams; the Spirit was to be poured out on God’s servants and handmaidens; there were to be signs and wonders; blood, fire, and smoke; the sun was to be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood; and whoever called on the name of the Lord was to be saved. Thus Peter, than whom there could be no higher authority as to the mind of Christ, applied to his own time the prophetic description of the “day of the Lord” given by Joel (Acts ii. 14-21). James exhorts his disciples not to be in too great a hurry for the arrival of Christ. They are to imitate the husbandman waiting for the ripening of his crops. “Be you also patient: confirm your hearts; for the coming of the Lord draws near” (James v. 7, 8). The author of the first epistle of Peter distinctly informs the Christian community that “the end of all things is at hand.” And he warns them not to think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try them, “but rejoice, inasmuch as you share in the sufferings of Christ; that in the revelation of his glory you may also rejoice with exceeding joy” (1 Pet. iv. 7, 12, 13). Further on he promises that when the chief Shepherd appears, they shall receive “the unfading crown of glory” (1 Pet. v. 4). In the first epistle of John the disciples are thus exhorted: “And now, little children, remain in him, that when he comes we may have boldness, and may not be ashamed before him at his coming” (1 Jo. ii. 28).
In the next chapter he tells them that, “when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is” (1 Jo. iii. 2). Of the Apocalypse it cannot be necessary to speak in detail. The one great thought that inspires it from beginning to end is that of the speedy return of Jesus, accompanied as it will be by the judgment of the wicked, the reward of the faithful, and the establishment of a new heaven and a new earth far more glorious and more beautiful than those that are to pass away. The end of the book is conclusive as to its meaning: “I, Jesus, have sent my angel to testify these things to you in the churches.” “He that testifies these things says, ‘Surely I come quickly. So be it; come, Lord Jesus’” (Rev. xxii. 16, 20).
There is another passage bearing on this subject, which, as it appears to have been written at a later date than any of those hitherto quoted, may best be considered last. It is found in the second epistle attributed to Peter. The epistle was probably written after the first generation of Christians had passed away, but the forger endeavors to assume the style of the apostle whose name he borrows. From the language he employs it is evident that there was some impatience among believers in his day on account of what seemed to them the long delay in the second coming of Christ. Scoffers had arisen, who were putting the awkward question, “Where is the promise of his coming? for since the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of creation.” Such scoffers, he tells them, are to come “in the last days,” and he warns them how to resist the influence of their specious arguments. For this purpose he reminds them of the former destruction of the earth by water, and assures them that the present heavens and the present earth are to be destroyed by fire. They are not to let the consideration escape them that with the Lord one day is a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. Hence God is not really slow about fulfilling his promise, as some people believe; he is only waiting out of kindness, not being willing that any should perish, but desiring that all should come to repentance. But the day of the Lord will come unexpectedly, like a thief in the night; wherefore the Christians who are looking for new heavens and a new earth, according to his promise, must take care to be ready that they may be found by him spotless and blameless (2 Pet. iii). Here, then, we have a further proof of the hopes entertained by the early Christians; for this writer, who evidently felt that the promises held out by the original apostles were in danger of being discredited by the long delay in the expected catastrophe, concerns himself to show that the postponement of its arrival is not after all so great as it may seem, and seeks to dispel the doubts that had grown up concerning it. He thus bears important testimony to the nature of the expectations entertained by those who had gone before him.
But even if we had not this epistle, we should find some evidence of the same fact in the writings of the earliest fathers. Thus, in the first epistle of Clement, the Christians are warned in the following language:—
“Far from us be that which is written, ‘Wretched are they who are of a double mind and of a doubting heart;’ who say, ‘These things we have heard even in the time of our fathers; but behold, we have grown old and none of them has happened unto us!’ Ye foolish ones! compare yourselves to a tree; take [for instance] the vine. First of all it sheds its leaves, then it buds, next it puts forth leaves, and then it flowers; after that comes the sour grape, and then follows the ripened fruit. Ye perceive how in a little time the fruit of a tree comes to maturity. Of a truth, soon and suddenly shall his will be accomplished, as the Scripture also bears witness, saying, ‘Speedily will he come, and not tarry;’ and, ‘The Lord shall suddenly come to his temple, even the Holy One, for whom ye look’” (First Ep. of Clement, ch. xxiii.—A. N. L., vol. i. p. 24).
Further on, the same writer expressly states that what the apostles of Christ preached was the speedy advent of the new order of things. “Having therefore received their orders, and being fully assured by the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, and established in the word of God, with full assurance of the Holy Ghost, they went forth proclaiming that the kingdom of God was at hand” (Ibid., ch. xli.—A. N. L., vol. i. p. 37). Here, then, we have authority of this very early writer for the statement that such was the view taken of the mission of Jesus by his original disciples.
Again, in the second epistle of Clement, this expression occurs:—“Let us expect, therefore, hour by hour, the kingdom of God in love and righteousness, since we know not the day of the appearing of God” (Second Ep. of Clement, ch. xii.—A. N. L., vol. i. p. 62). Thus it appears that the apostles received from Jesus, and the early Christians from the apostles, the doctrine that the return of the Messiah in his glory would take place soon.
Subdivision 7 — What Are We to Think of Him?
We come now to the most important question of all, namely, what opinion the evidence we possess should lead us to form of the moral character of Jesus, and of the value of his teaching. In considering this subject, we are met at the threshold of the inquiry by the extreme difficulty of discarding the traditional view which has gained currency among us. Not only believers in the Christian religion, but freethinkers who look upon Christ as no more than an extraordinary man, have united to utter his praises in no measured terms. His conduct has been supposed to present an ideal of perfection to the human race, and his aphorisms to embody the supreme degree of excellence and of wisdom. Some critics, not being Christians, have even gone so far as to assume that whatever items in his reported language or behavior seemed to reflect some discredit upon him could not be genuine, but must be due to the imaginations of his disciples.
All this unbounded panegyric naturally raises in the minds of critics who have freed themselves from the accepted tradition a slight prejudice against him, and this may lead them to regard his errors with too unsparing a severity, and to mete out scant justice to the merits he may really possess. No task can be less easy than that of approaching this question with a mind entirely devoid of bias on the one side or on the other. For my own part, I shall endeavor, if I cannot attain perfect impartiality, at least neither to praise nor to blame without adequate reason.
Before proceeding, however, it may be well to state that I shall not attempt to discriminate between the authentic and the unauthentic utterances of Jesus, but shall take for granted that his reporters—excluding the fourth Evangelist—have in the main reported him correctly. No doubt this position is not strictly true. There must be errors, and there may be grave errors in the record, since those who transmitted the language of their master trusted only to memory. But it is on the whole much more likely that the parables, sermons, and short sayings ascribed to Jesus represent with some approach to fidelity what he really said, than that they, or any considerable portion of them, were invented by any of his disciples afterwards. They have, moreover, a characteristic flavor which it would have been difficult for a forger to give to the fictitious utterances he might have added to the genuine remains. It is, however, a question of minor import whether the synoptical writers are or are not faithful reporters. Jesus is presented to our admiration by them as the Son of God, and as a pattern of virtue and of wisdom. Therefore, even if we are not criticising a portrait from life, we are at least criticising the ideal portrait which they have held up as an object of worship, and which Christendom has accepted as such.
Omitting (as already considered) those very considerable portions of his doctrine which refer to himself and to his kingdom, we may proceed to the more strictly ethical elements which are to be found scattered about in his instructions to his hearers, sometimes contained in those striking parables which, following the habit of his nation, he was fond of relating; sometimes in the short, clear, and incisive sentences of which he was a master. In considering the value and originality of his views, it will be of advantage to compare them, where we can, with those of other great teachers of mankind.
Perhaps one of the most conspicuous peculiarities is his fondness for impressive contrasts. He has a peculiar pleasure in contemplating the reversal of existing arrangements. The first are to be last; the humble exalted; the poor preferred to the rich; the meanest to become the greatest, and so forth. Strangely similar to this favorite idea, so continually making its appearance in his moral forecasts, is the language frequently used by his Chinese predecessor Laò-tsé, who in more than one respect greatly resembles him. Thus Jesus tells his disciples that he who is greatest among them shall be their servant, and that he who exalts himself shall be abased, while he who humbles himself shall be exalted (Mt. xxiii. 10, 11). Elsewhere he declares that if any man desire to be first, he shall be last, and servant of all (Mk. ix. 35). Presenting a child, to render his lesson the more impressive, he tells them that he who humbles himself like this little child is greatest in the kingdom of heaven (Mt. xviii. 4). Exactly in the same tone Laò-tsé observes that “the holy man places himself behind, and comes to the front; neglects himself and is preserved” (T. t. k., ch. vii). Heaven, according to the same sage, does precisely as Jesus expects his Father to do in the kingdom of heaven. “It lowers the high, it raises the low. The way of heaven is to diminish what is superfluous, to complete what is deficient. The way of man is not this; he diminishes what is deficient to add it to what is superfluous” (T. t. k., ch. lxxvii).
On the same subject of humility, an opinion of the philosopher Mang, or Mencius, may be compared with one of Christ’s. There was a strife among the disciples of the latter which should be accounted the greatest. Christ said: “The kings of the earth have dominion over them, and they who have authority over them are called benefactors. But be not you so: but let the greater among you be as the younger, and he that leads as he that serves” (Lu. xxii. 25, 26). Now Mang in like manner warns his disciples against the craving for authority. “Mencius said: ‘The superior man has three things in which he delights, and to be ruler over the empire is not one of them. That his father and mother are both alive, and that the condition of his brothers affords no cause for anxiety;—this is one delight. That, when looking up, he has no occasion for shame before heaven; and below, he has no occasion to blush before men;—this is a second delight. That he can get from the whole empire the most talented individuals, and teach and nourish them;—this is the third delight. The superior man has three things in which he delights, and to be ruler over the empire is not one of them’” (Mang, vii. 1, 20.—C. C., vol. ii. p. 334). This definition of the pleasures of the high-minded man is quite equal of its kind to anything that has been said on the same subject by Jesus. It is true that Mang ranges over a somewhat wider field, and that therefore the sentences just quoted do not admit of exact comparison with anything coming from Jesus. But while both agree in reprobating the desire to exercise power, Mang goes beyond Jesus in proposing to substitute other interests for that of political ambition. And these interests are of the best kind. His “superior man” rejoices in the prosperity of his family, in the consciousness of his innocence of any disgraceful conduct, and in his opportunities of teaching those who are most worthy of his instructions and most likely to carry on his work. The latter is a pleasure which is rarely mentioned, and it shows much thoughtfulness on the part of the philosopher to have upheld it as an object in life.
Curiously enough, another Chinese sage has anticipated another of the best points in the doctrine of Jesus. Jesus enjoined his hearers not to practice charity in a public and ostentatious manner, like the hypocrites, “but when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth” (Mt. vi, 3). In this admirable maxim he would have had the support of all true Confucians, for one of their canonical writers had also told them that “it is the way of the superior man to prefer the concealment of his virtue, while it daily becomes more illustrious, and it is the way of the mean man to seek notoriety, while he daily goes more and more to ruin” (C. C., i. 295.—Chung Yung, ch. xxxiii. 1).
On another question, that of the admonition of an erring friend, Jesus gave an opinion which is in perfect accord with an opinion given by Confucius. If a man’s brother trespass against him, he is first, according to Jesus, to take him to task in private; should that fail, to call in two or three witnesses to hear the charge; and should the offender still be obdurate, to inform the Church.33 If his impenitence continue even after this, he is to become to him “as a heathen and a publican” (Mt. xviii. 15-17). Turning to the conversations of Confucius, we find the following:—“Tsze-kung asked about friendship. The Master said, ‘Faithfully admonish your friend, and kindly try to lead him. If you find him impracticable, stop. Do not disgrace yourself’” (Lun Yu, b. xii. ch. 33.—C. C., i. 125). The steps inculcated by the two teachers are, making allowance for difference of country, almost identical.
The thoughts as well as the language of Jesus are often reproduced with singular fidelity in the sacred works of Buddhists. As the Buddha is, on the whole, the prophet whose character approaches most closely to that of Jesus, so we are almost certain to find in the literature of Buddhism nearly all the most exalted features of his ethical teaching. Thus Jesus praises the poor widow who contributes her mite to the temple treasury, because she has given all that she had. In one of the numerous legends supposed to have been related by Sakyamuni an exactly similar incident occurs. A former Buddha was traveling through various countries, accompanied by his attendant monks. The rich householders presented them with all kinds of food as offerings. A poor man, who had no property whatever, and lived by collecting wood in the mountains and selling it, had gained two coins by the pursuit of his industry. Perceiving the Buddha coming from a visit to the royal palace, he devoutly gave him these two coins; his sole possession in the world. The Buddha received them, and mercifully remembered the donor, who (as Sakyamuni now explained) was richly rewarded during ninety-one subsequent ages (W. u. Th., p. 53). The widow’s mite is no less closely reflected in the following anecdote from the same collection. In the time of a former Buddha, a certain monk belonging to his train had gone out to collect the offerings of the pious. He arrived at the hut of a miserable couple, who had nothing between them but an old piece of cotton-wool. When the husband went out to beg, the wife sat at home naked in the hay; and when the wife went out, the husband remained in the same condition. To these people then the monk approached, crying out as usual, “Go and prostrate yourself before Buddha! present him with gifts!” It happened that the wife was wearing the cotton-wool on this occasion. She therefore requested the holy man to wait a little, promising to return. Hereupon she entered the house and requested the permission of her husband to offer the cotton-wool to Buddha. He, however, pointed out that as they had not the smallest property beyond this, extreme inconvenience would result from the loss of it, for both of them must then remain at home. To this she replied that they must needs die in any case, and that their hopes for the future would be much improved if they died after presentation of an offering. She then returned to the monk, and requested him to turn away his eyes a moment. But he told her to give her alms openly in her hands, and that he would then recite a benediction over them. The full delicacy of her situation had now to be explained. “Except this cotton-wool stuff on my body I have nothing, and no other clothing; since, then, it would be improper for thee to behold the foul-smelling impurity of the female body, I will reach thee out the stuff from within.” So saying she retired into the house and handed out her garment. When the monk delivered it to Buddha, it caused great offense to the king’s courtiers, who surrounded him, on account of its being old and dirty. But Buddha, who knew their thoughts, said, “I find, that of all the gifts of this assembly, no single one surpasses this in cleanliness and purity” (W. u. Th., p. 150).
Not only in the case of the widow at the treasury did Jesus dwell upon the value of even trifling gifts made for the sake of religion. Another time he declared to those about him that whoever gave them a cup of cold water in his name, because they belonged to Christ, would not lose his reward. In Buddhist story the very same ideas are to be found; almost the same words. An eminent member of the Buddha’s circle says that “whoever with a purely-believing heart offers nothing but a handful of water, or presents so much to the spiritual assembly or to his parents, or gives drink therewith to the poor and needy, or to a beast of the field;—this meritorious action will not be exhausted in many ages” (W. u. Th., p. 37).
The simile of fishing for men, employed by Jesus in his summons to Simon and Andrew, is likewise to be discovered in the works of the great Asiatic religion. The images of the Bodhisattvas, or Buddhas yet to come, frequently hold in their hands a snare, which is thus explained in the Nippon Pantheon:—“He disseminates upon the ocean of birth and decay the Lotus-flower of the excellent law as bait; with the loop of devotion, never cast out in vain, he brings living beings up like fishes, and carries them to the other side of the river, where there is true understanding” (B. T., p. 213). And in the book from which some illustrations have already been taken, it is said of a believer that “he had been seized by the hook of the doctrine, just as a fish, who has taken the line, is securely pulled out” (W. u. Th., p. 114).
Hitherto we have noticed a few of the minor points in the doctrine of Jesus, and while there has been little in these to object to, there has also been little to excite excessive admiration. The extreme exaltation of humility, and the evident anxiety to see, not equality of conditions, but a reversal of the actual inequalities, are not among the best features of his ideal system. We cannot but suspect something of a personal bias. Thus, in the parable of the Pharisee and the publican, aimed at a hostile and detested order, the publican is justified by nothing but his humility; while in that of Lazarus and Dives, Lazarus is eternally rewarded for nothing but his poverty. It is no doubt well to be humble, and we should be glad to see poverty removed; but it is not to be assumed that the Pharisee, conscious of leading an honorable life, is therefore a bad man; nor that the rich proprietor should be tormented in hell merely because he does not give alms to all the beggars who throng about his gates. When Jesus desires that virtuous actions should be done as quietly and even as secretly as possible, he inculcates an important principle of morals, and it is devoutly to be wished that we had among us more of this unconspicuous kindness, and less ostentatious charity. Where, however, he preaches on the virtue of bestowing alms on his disciples, he does but echo a sentiment which is natural to religious teachers in all ages, and to which, as we have seen, the emissaries of another and earlier faith, were equally alive. Passing from these comparatively trifling questions, let us consider some of his decisions on the greater moral problems with which he felt called upon to deal.
On a vast social subject—that of divorce—he pronounced an opinion which gives us a little insight into his mode of regarding that most important of all topics, the relations of the sexes. The Pharisees, it appears, came to him and asked him whether it was permissible for a man to put away his wife, Moses having allowed it. Jesus explained that this precept had been given for the hardness of their hearts. His own view was, that man and wife are one flesh, and that if either should leave the other, except on account of unfaithfulness, and marry again, that one would be guilty of adultery. This severe doctrine he supported by one of his short sayings: “What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder” (Mk. x. 1-12; Mt. xix. 1-12, and v. 31, 32). But surely this judgment assumes the very point at issue. The joining together in wedlock is ascribed to God; the putting asunder to man. But granting the sacredness of the marriage tie, it would still be no less possible to invoke the divine sanction for its dissolution than for its original formation. And in many instances the maxim might be exactly reversed. So unfortunate is the result of many marriages, that it would be easy for a religious reformer to say of them, with perfect sincerity, “What man hath joined together, let God put asunder.” There is, in fact, almost as much to be said on moral grounds for the divorce of unhappy couples as for the marriage of happy ones. Nor does Jesus by any means face the real difficulties of the question by allowing divorce where either of the parties has been guilty of adultery. This, no doubt, is the extreme case, and if divorce is not to be given here, it can be given nowhere. But why is adultery to be the sole ground of separation? Why is an institution which may bring so much happiness to mankind to be converted into one of the most fertile sources of human misery? Why, when both parties to the contract desire separation, is an external authority, whether that of opinion or of law, to enforce union? None of these questions appear to have presented themselves to the mind of Jesus. Supposing even that his decision were right, he assigns no reasons for it, but simply lays down the law in a trenchant manner, without giving us the least clue to the process by which he arrived at so strange a conclusion. Nor is it in the least likely that the many perplexities encompassing this, and all other questions affecting the morals of sex, had ever troubled him. His mind was not sufficiently subtle to enter into them; and thus it is that, throughout the whole course of his career, he lays down no single doctrine (if we except this one on divorce) which can be of the smallest service to his disciples in the many practical troubles that must beset their lives from the existence of a natural passion of which he takes no account.
Another weak point in the system of Jesus is his aversion to wealth and wealthy men, apart from the consideration of the good or bad use they may make of their property. Thus, the only advice he gives to the rich man who had kept all the commandments was to sell everything he had and give the proceeds to the poor; a measure of very questionable advantage to those for whose benefit it is intended. When the man naturally declined to take this course—practically a mere throwing off of the responsibilities of life—Jesus remarked that it was hard for those who had riches to enter the kingdom of God. Seeing the amazement of his disciples, he emphasized his doctrine by adding that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter that kingdom. Hereupon his disciples, “excessively astonished,” asked who then could be saved, and Jesus left a loophole for the salvation of the rich by the declaration that, impossible as it might be for men to pass a camel through a needle’s eye, all things are possible with God (Mk. x. 17-27). A like animus against the wealthier classes is evinced in the story of the king who invited a number of guests to a wedding festivity. Those who had received invitations made light of them, one going to his farm, another to his merchandise, and so forth; or, according to another version, alleging their worldly affairs as excuses. Seeing that they would not come, the king bade his servants go out into the highways, and bring in whomsoever they might find; or, as Luke puts it, the poor, the maimed, the halt, and the blind (Mt. xxii. 1-10; Lu. xiv. 16-24).
More indiscriminately still is this aversion to the rich expressed in the parable of Lazarus and Dives. Here we are not told that the great proprietor had been a bad man, or had acted with any unusual selfishness. The utmost we may infer from the language used about him is that he had not been sufficiently sensitive to the difference between his own condition and that of the beggar. But no positive unkindness is even hinted at. Nor had the beggar done anything to merit reward. He had only led one of those idle and worthless lives of dependence on others which are too common among Southern nations. Yet in the future life the beggar appears to be rewarded merely because in this life he had been badly off; and the rich man is punished merely because he had been well off (Lu. xvi. 19-25). A stronger instance of apparently irrational prejudice it would be difficult to find.
In connection with these notions about wealth there is a curious theory of social intercourse deserving to be considered. Jesus has expressed it thus: “When thou makest a supper or a dinner, do not invite thy friends, or thy brothers, or thy relations, or thy rich neighbors, lest they also should invite thee in return, and thou shouldst have a recompense. But when thou makest a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind; and thou shalt be blessed because they have not the means of making thee a recompense. For thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just” (Lu. xiv. 12-14). Nobody can object to charitable individuals asking poor people or invalids without rank to dinner at their houses; indeed, it is to be wished that the practice were more common than it is. But we cannot admit that this kind action ought to be rendered obligatory, to the exclusion of other modes of conduct. Society, properly speaking, cannot exist except by reciprocity. That sort of friendly intercourse between equals which constitutes society implies giving and taking; and it is eminently desirable that we should do exactly what Christ would forbid us doing, namely, invite our neighbors and be invited by them as circumstances may require. The fear that we may receive a recompense for the dinner-parties we may give is surely chimerical. Pleasantness and mutual advantage are alike promoted by this reciprocity, which, moreover, avoids the discomfort produced when the obligation is wholly on one side. Jesus, in fact, overlooks entirely the more intellectual side of society, and dwells exclusively on the moral side. What he wishes to establish, is not converse between men, but charity. So that a person acting on his views would be excluded from the society of those who might benefit him either materially or morally, and would be confined to those whom he might benefit. Such an arrangement would not in the end be good either for the benefactors or the benefited.
His conceptions of justice are seemingly not more perfect than his conceptions of social arrangements. The parable of the laborers is intended to justify the deity in assigning equal rewards to those who have borne unequal burdens, and also to illustrate his doctrine that the first will be last, and the last first. A householder hires a number of laborers to work in his vineyard; some of whom he engages in the morning, others later in the day, others towards its close. All of them receive a denarium in payment, though some had worked the whole day, and others only an hour. At this result the class which had worked the longer time grumble; but the householder defends himself by appealing to the strict terms of his contract, by which he had bound himself to give the same wages to all (Mt. xx. 1-16). No doubt the laborers who had borne the burden and heat of the day had no legal standing-point for their complaint; but the sentiment that prompted it was none the less a just one. Granting the validity of the master’s plea that he had honorably fulfilled his bargain, it may still be urged that the bargain itself was not of an equitable character. Plainly, a sum which is adequate pay for an hour, is inadequate for ten or twelve; and that which is sufficient for a day is excessive for an evening. And the same argument applies to a future state. If, as is so often urged, it is to be a compensation for the sufferings of this state, then it ought to bear some proportion to those sufferings. But how can this be effected? Jesus saw the difficulty, and endeavored, but not successfully, to meet it by this parable.
But the imperfection of his sense of justice is nowhere more conspicuously shown than in the conduct he ascribes to God. To recur again to the case of Lazarus and Dives. Not only is the rich man punished with frightful torture, but his humble and kindly request that Lazarus might be allowed to warn his five brothers of their possible fate is met with a peremptory refusal. The only reason alleged for this cruelty is that they have Moses and the prophets, who certainly did not inform them that the mere possession of wealth or enjoyment of luxury was punished by everlasting misery (Lu. xvi. 27-31). In other places, too, the horrible doctrine of unending punishment is asserted by Jesus, and all the efforts of his modern disciples will not explain away this fact. The tares are to be bound up in bundles to be burnt. The wicked are to be cast into a furnace of fire, where there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth (Mt. xiii. 30, 42, 50). It is better to enter into life mutilated than to be thrown unmutilated into the fire (Mt. xviii. 8, 9) of hell which is never quenched (Mk. ix. 43-46). The servant who had made no money by usury is cast into outer darkness (Mt. xxv. 30). The righteous go into eternal life; the wicked to eternal punishment (Mt. xxv. 46). Blasphemy against the Holy Ghost cannot be forgiven, but involves eternal damnation (Mk. iii. 29). It is almost needless to observe that no wickedness could ever justify punishment without an end; that is, punishment for punishment’s sake; and that the creation of human beings whose existence terminated in torture would be itself a far more terrible crime than any which the basest of mankind can ever commit.
There is one more point as to which his teaching will not bear investigation. It is the doctrine of the power of prayer. He tells his hearers, in the most absolute manner, that they will receive whatever they may ask in prayer, provided they believe (Mk. xi. 24; Mt. xxi. 22). Faith is the grand and sole condition of the accomplishment of all desires. This is the explanation of the withered fig-tree. It was faith that had wrought the change. By faith the disciples might effect not only such matters as the destruction of fig-trees, but far more stupendous miracles (Mt. xxi. 19-21). This is the explanation of the disciples’ failure with the lunatic child. It was owing to their want of faith. Had they but faith as a grain of mustard seed—so Jesus told them—they would be able to say to a mountain, “Remove hence thither,” and it would be removed. Nothing would be impossible to them (Mt. xvii. 20). And if they had faith themselves, if they really believed in their master’s words, and ever attempted the experiment of working such transformations in nature, they must have experienced the bitter disappointment so graphically described by the authoress of “Joshua Davidson” in the case of that sincere Christian. But short of this extreme trial of the power of faith over matter, many generations of pious believers will bear sad witness to the fact that they have asked many things in prayer which they have not received; not least among the number being moral excellence, which they have but imperfectly attained. Yet this, it would seem, might be the most easily granted without interference with the physical universe. And if it be pleaded that no Christian has ever really succeeded in acquiring the degree of faith required to move mountains, what becomes of the promise of Jesus? Is it not a mere form of words, depending for its truth on a condition which human nature never can fulfill?
The opinions of Jesus on the question of the lawfulness of the tribute, and his reply to the Sadducean difficulty about due adjustment of matrimonial relations in a future state, have been already noticed. Neither of these decisions, it has been shown, can be regarded as evincing wisdom or depth of thought. On the other hand, his answer to the scribe who asked him which was the first commandment fully deserves the approbation which his questioner bestowed. After this, remarks the Evangelist triumphantly, no man dared to interrogate him. Passing from these isolated judgments, let us consider now the fullest exposition to be found anywhere of the moral system of Jesus,—the so-called Sermon on the Mount (Mt. v.-vii. inclusive). As reported by Matthew, this is a vast collection of precepts on many different subjects, delivered no doubt on many different occasions. Taken together, they contain the concentrated essence of his teaching, and offer therefore the fairest field for discussion and criticism. He opens his discourse with a series of blessings, in which his extreme fondness for contrasting the present with the future order is markedly exhibited. Those whom he selects as the objects of benediction are the poor in spirit; mourners; the meek; those who hunger and thirst after righteousness; the merciful; the pure in heart; the peace-makers; those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; the disciples when reviled, persecuted, and unjustly accused. Of the nine classes of those who are thus blessed, five are composed of those whose present condition makes them objects of pity, and who are consoled with the assurance that they shall be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven. After this, the followers of Jesus are admonished that they are the salt of the earth, and that they must cause their light to shine before men. This is followed by that remarkable declaration (already noticed) as to the permanence of the law, and by a warning that, if they wished to enter the kingdom of heaven, their righteousness must exceed that of those odious people, the scribes and Pharisees.
Hereupon Jesus takes up three great commandments—not to kill, not to commit adultery, not to commit perjury—and proceeds to expand their meaning beyond the literal signification of the words. Thus, it had been said, “Thou shalt not kill.” But he says, that whoever is angry with his brother shall be liable to the judgment; that whoever says “Raka” to his brother shall be liable to the Sanhedrim; but that whoever says “Fool,” shall be liable to hell, or literally, to “the gehenna of fire.” The punishment is of undue severity in proportion to the offense; but when, in the following verses, Jesus insists on the importance of doing justice to men before performing religious obligations, he speaks in the truest spirit of humanity. Proceeding to the commandment not to commit adultery, he enjoins an excess of self-discipline. It is not desirable to pluck out the right eye and cut off the right hand because they offend us, though it is well to train them to obey the higher faculties. The argument of Jesus rests only on the assumption that the sinful members, if not destroyed by such violent measures as this, may land the whole body in hell. Dealing next with the question of oaths, he enlarges the prohibition of perjury into a prohibition of all swearing whatsoever, assigning the strangest reasons for avoiding the employment, when taking oaths, of the names of various objects. They are not to swear by heaven, because it is God’s throne; nor by the earth, because it is his footstool; nor by Jerusalem, because it is the city of the great king; nor by the head, because we cannot make a single hair black or white. Granting even that the advice is good, what is to be said of these reasons? What would be thought of a Member of Parliament using an exactly parallel argument: namely, that it is wrong to swear by the New Testament, because the person taking the oath cannot make a single type larger or smaller?
The theory embodied in the following verses occupies so cardinal a place in the philosophy of Jesus, that in order to do him justice they must be quoted at length. “You have heard that it has been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. But I tell you not to resist evil; but whoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And as for him who wishes to sue thee, and take thy coat, give him thy cloak also. And whoever shall compel thee to go one mile, go two with him. Give to him that asketh thee; and turn not away from him that wishes to borrow of thee. You have heard that it has been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, and pray for them who persecute you, that you may be sons of your father in heaven; for he causes his sun to rise on bad and good, and sends rain on just and unjust” (Mt. v. 38-45).
Perhaps there is no single point in the moral teaching of Jesus which has been more celebrated than this. It is thought to represent the very acme of perfection, and Christianity takes credit to itself for the embodiment of so magnificent a doctrine in its moral system. And certainly the words of Jesus are so sublime as almost to extort admiration and disarm criticism. Nor would it at all detract from his merits if the principle here laid down should turn out to be no new discovery of his own, but one already reached by great teachers in other lands; for it was through him that it was made known to the Jews of his own age, and thus to the whole of Christendom. Moreover, we cannot suppose that he had ever heard of those who had anticipated the sentiments, and almost the words, of these beautiful sentences in the Sermon on the Mount. Nevertheless, these anticipations exist; and whatever glory this rule may confer on the religion of Christ must belong equally, and even by prior right, to the religion of Lao-tsze and the religion of Buddha. Thus Lao-tsze says, “Return enmity by doing good” (T. t. k., 63). Or again, “I treat the good man well; the man who is not good I also treat well” (Ibid., 49). The very perfection of patience under injustice, extending to the length of blessing those who curse, and turning the other cheek to those who smite the one—is exhibited in the old Buddhistic legend of Pûrna. Pûrna is a convert who spontaneously betakes himself as a missionary to a savage nation. The Buddha asks him what he will do if they address him in coarse and insolent language. He replies that he will consider them good and gentle people not to strike him with their fists or stone him. Should they strike him with their fists or stone him, he will still think them good and gentle neither to strike him with sticks or swords; should they strike him with sticks or swords, he will equally praise them for not killing him; should they even kill him, he will still say, “They are certainly good people, they are certainly gentle people, they who deliver me with so little pain from this body full of impurity” (H. B. I., p. 253). This is certainly a most consistent application of the principle of non-resistance to evil, and of loving one’s enemies. No Christian saint or martyr could have followed his master’s precepts more faithfully than this Buddhist apostle. But whether those precepts admit of general adoption into the scheme of human morals is a much more difficult question than whether in occasional instances here and there they have led to admirable conduct. Let us call in another Chinese philosopher to our assistance on this point.
The doctrine of returning good for evil, proclaimed, as we have seen, by Lao-tsze, was thus dealt with by his great rival, Confucius. “Some one said, ‘What do you say concerning the principle that injury should be recompensed with kindness?’ The Master said, ‘With what, then, will you recompense kindness? Recompense injury with justice, and recompense kindness with kindness.’” How shall we decide between these authorities? None can question the nobility of the conduct enjoined by Jesus in certain instances. There are cases where the return of good for evil, of blessing for cursing, of benevolence for persecution, is not only the highest practicable virtue, but also the best punishment of the evil-doers. Nevertheless, there is great force in the observations of Confucius. If we are to reward injury by kindness, how are we to reward kindness? Is there to be no difference made between those who do us good and those who do us harm? To so pertinent a question we are compelled to answer that the practical results of such conduct on our part would be simply disastrous. Unkindness would not receive its natural and appropriate penalty, nor kindness its natural and appropriate reward. Not only should we ourselves be losers by our failure to resist injustice, but the worst classes of mankind would receive by that non-resistance a powerful stimulus to evil. Imagine, for example, that, instead of opposing an extortionate claim, we give up our cloak also to the man who wishes to take our coat. Plainly such conduct can have but one result. We shall become the victims of extortionate claims, and our property will be squandered among the undeserving instead of being kept for better uses. Or suppose that persecution for the sake of our opinions, instead of being met with armed resistance, wherever that resistance is likely to be successful, is received only with blessings showered on the heads of the oppressors; without doubt, the hands of the persecuting party will be strengthened, and liberty, which is everywhere the result of resisting evil, will never be established. The freedom we ourselves enjoy, both as a nation in respect of other nations, and as individuals in respect of our domestic government, is the consequence of acting on a principle the direct reverse of that laid down by Jesus. Our ancestors, who were good Christians but much better patriots, would have been amazed indeed at any attempt to persuade them to turn the left cheek to him who smote them on the right. A doctrine more convenient for the purposes of tyrants and malefactors of every description it would be difficult to invent.
At the same time it must be conceded that there is in it some truth, provided we discriminate between fitting and unfitting occasions for its application. It is not the violent man who assaults us, the unscrupulous man who sues us, or the persecutor who tramples on our freedom, who should be met by a benevolent return. But there are offenses of so personal a nature, affecting our individual interest so largely, and the public interest so slightly, that the best way of dealing with them may often be not to resent them, but to receive them with unruffled gentleness. Each person must judge for himself what are the cases to which this possibility applies. But the guiding rule in thus acting must be that we expect by thus returning good for evil to soften the heart of him who has done us wrong, and in the language of Paul to “heap coals of fire on his head.” Should the effect be simply to relieve him from the penalty of our resentment without inducing him to change his course, we shall have done him a moral injury and society a material injury, and the probability or improbability of such result should be measured in deciding upon the conduct to be pursued. Properly guarded, and borne in mind as the occasional exception, by no means as the rule, the return of injustice or ill-will by benevolence and kindly feeling may be of the utmost value, both in cultivating the best emotions in those who practice it, and in calling forth the repentance of those towards whom it is practiced; but as a universal and absolute principle it must be utterly rejected. Lao-tsze and Jesus when they affirmed it undoubtedly struck one of the highest notes in human nature. Yet it must be granted that Khung-tsze took a wider view, and that his injunction to recompense injury with justice, and kindness with kindness, is more consistent with a philosophic regard for the interests of mankind, and with a practicable scheme of social ethics.
Jesus proceeds to enjoin his disciples neither to give alms, nor to pray, nor to fast in an ostentatious manner; and in connection with this excellent advice he teaches them the short prayer which has become so famous under his name. The clauses of this prayer may be worth some consideration. It begins with a formula of adoration addressed to “Our father in heaven.” Then follows a petition full of meaning to Jesus and those to whom he imparted it, but of little or no signification in the mouths of the millions of modern Christians who daily repeat it: “Thy kingdom come.” Jesus hoped, and his disciples caught the hope, that God’s kingdom would come very soon; and this prayer was a request for the early realization of the glories of that kingdom. Those who then employed it believed that at any moment it might be granted, and that at no distant period it certainly would be granted. “Thy will be done, as in heaven so also on earth;” a clause embodying the popular conception of another region in which God’s will is perfectly obeyed, while here it is met by some counteracting influence. “Give us this day our daily bread,” for beyond the daily provision they were not to look; a doctrine which we shall notice shortly. “And forgive us our debts” (or, in Luke, our sins) “as we forgive our debtors; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Passing over the singular conception of God as leading men into temptation, let us rather notice the preceding petition, on which Jesus himself has supplied a commentary, that we may be forgiven, as we forgive others. In reference to this he tells his hearers, that if they forgive men their trespasses, their heavenly father will forgive theirs; and that if they do not thus behave, neither will he. A kindred doctrine is laid down in the beginning of the next chapter, where he tells them not to judge, that they may not be judged; that with what measure they mete, it shall be measured to them again. And this illustrated in another place by the parable of the servant who, having been excused from the immediate payment of a large debt by his master, refused to excuse a fellow-servant from the payment of a small one; whereupon his master flew into a passion, and “delivered him to the tormentors” (Mt. xviii. 23-35). There is an apparent justice and real emotional satisfaction in the harsh treatment of those who are harsh themselves. But we must not be misled by the immediate gratification we experience at the punishment of the unforgiving servant, supposing that it is right to mete out to each man the measure he metes out to others. Assuredly it does not follow that because a man is unjust or cruel, he should be treated with injustice or cruelty himself. Either it is right to forgive a man’s sins, or it is not. If right, then his own harshness in refusing forgiveness to another is one of the sins which should be forgiven. If not right, then neither that nor any other offense should be forgiven by the supreme dispenser of justice. For what reason should the one crime of not forgiving those who trespass against us be selected for a punishment of such extraordinary severity, while it is implied that the penalty of other and graver crimes may by God’s mercy be remitted? The fact is, that Jesus is misled by a false analogy between the conduct of one man towards another, in a case where he is personally concerned, and the conduct of a judge towards criminals. Offenses against morality are treated as personal offenses against God, who has therefore the same right to forgive them as a creditor has to excuse his debtor from payment. But in a perfect system of justice, human or divine, there could be no question of forgiveness at all. Every violation of the law would bring its appropriate penalty, and no more. The penalty being thus proportioned to the offense, there could be no question of that sort of “forgiveness” which implies a suspicion that it is, or may be, too severe. No doubt, the temper of the offender, and the probability of his repeating the crime, would be elements to be considered in awarding the sentence. But it must always be borne in mind that either the hope of complete pardon, or the threat of a punishment far heavier than is needed to deter, equally tend to neutralize the effects of our system of justice. And thus it has been in Christendom. The threat of everlasting torture, accompanied with the expectation of complete forgiveness, has been less efficacious than would have been the most moderate of earthly penalties, provided they had been certain. But Jesus was encumbered with a system in which there were no gradations. Thus he represents the deity now as extending complete forgiveness to sins which should have received their fitting retribution; now as visiting with immoderate severity offenses for which more lenient measures would have amply sufficed.
Proceeding to another subject, the speaker dwells upon the comparative unimportance of terrestrial affairs. He advises men not to lay up treasure on earth, but in heaven, for where their treasure is, there will their heart be also; and he goes on to say, “Take no thought for your life what you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor for your body what you shall put on. Is not the life more than nourishment, and the body than raiment? Look at the birds of the sky, for they sow not, neither do they reap nor gather into barns, and your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not much better than they? And which of you by taking thought can add a single cubit to his stature? And why do you take thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin: and I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed like one of these. And if God so clothe the grass of the field which exists to-day and to-morrow is cast into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?” Therefore his disciples are to take no thought about eating, drinking, or clothing (as the Gentiles do), for their heavenly father knows that they have need of these things. They are to seek the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and these will be added. They are to take no thought for the morrow, but let the morrow take thought for itself (Mt. vi. 25-34). Upon which extraordinary argument it would have been interesting to ask a few questions. In the first place, how did Jesus suppose that it had happened that men had in fact come to trouble themselves about food, drink, and clothing? Did he imagine that an inherent pleasure in labor had driven them to do so? Would he not rather have been compelled to admit that, not by any choice of their own, but just because their heavenly father had not provided these things in the requisite abundance, they had been forced to “take thought” for the morrow, all their primitive inclinations notwithstanding? Every tendency of human nature would have prompted men to take no thought either for food or raiment, had not hunger and cold brought vividly before them the necessity of doing so. But for this they would only have been too glad to live like the birds of the air or the lilies of the field. But let us examine a little more closely the reasoning of Jesus. Birds neither sow nor reap; God feeds them; therefore he will feed us without sowing or reaping. A more unfortunate illustration of the care of Providence for his creatures it would be difficult to find. Was Jesus ignorant of the fact that he feeds some birds upon others whom they seize on as their prey, and these again upon an inferior class of animals? So that, if he is careful of the hawk, it is at the expense of the dove; and if he is careful of the sparrow, it is at the expense of the worm. Cannibalism, or at least a recourse to wild animals as the only obtainable diet, must have been the logical results of the doctrine of Jesus. Not less singular would be the effects of his teaching as to clothes. The lily which remains in a state of nature is more beautifully arrayed than was Solomon. Granted; but does it therefore follow that we are to imitate the lily? We might agree with Jesus that nudity, alike in flowers and in human beings, is more beautiful than the most superb dressing: yet there are conveniences in clothes which may even justify taking a little thought in order to obtain them, and those who really omit to do this are generally the lowest types of the human race. That God would not give us clothing if we ourselves made no effort to obtain it, is not only admitted, but almost asserted, in the argument of Jesus; for he refers us to the grass of the field, which remains in its natural condition, as an example of the kind of raiment which our heavenly father provides. So absurd are these precepts, that no body of Christians has ever attempted to act upon them. Some there have been, indeed, who took no thought for the morrow, and who never exerted themselves to procure the necessaries of life. But then they lived in the midst of societies where these things were provided by the labor of others, and where they well knew that their pious indolence would not leave them a prey to hunger, but would rather stimulate the charitable zeal of their more secular brethren.
After laying down the rule against judging others, which has been already referred to, Jesus gives the excellent advice to those who would pull the mote out of their brother’s eye to attend first to the beam in their own. This is followed by the proverbial warning not to cast pearls before swine. A singular passage succeeds, in which the doctrine is broadly stated that whatever men desire of God they are to ask it, “for every one who asks receives, and he who seeks finds.” And it is added, that as they give their children good gifts, so their heavenly father gives good things to those who ask him. But what of those who do not ask him? Does he, like an unwise human parent, give most to those who are the loudest in their petitions, neglecting the humble or retiring children who make no noise? These verses allow us no option but to suppose that Jesus thought he did, and this inference receives strong confirmation from the parable of the unjust judge, who yielded to clamor what he would not give from a sense of justice (Lu. xviii. 1-5), as also from the illustration of the man who was wearied by the importunity of his friend into doing what he would not have done for the sake of friendship (Lu. xi. 5-9). In the former case, the parable is related for the express purpose of showing “that men ought always to pray and not to faint;” in the latter, the illustration is given in connection with the very verses which we are now criticising. There is, then, no escape from the conclusion that the conceptions Jesus had of the deity were of a nature to lead to the belief that God might be worried by continual prayer into concessions and favors which would not otherwise have been granted.
Excepting a single verse, the remainder of the sermon is occupied with a warning that the way to life is narrow, that to destruction broad; with a caution against false prophets, and a very fine description of the future rejection from heaven of many who have made loud professions of religion, and contrariwise, of the reception of those who have done their father’s will, and whom he likens to one who has built his house upon the solid rock as distinguished from one who has built it on the sand. One verse, however, remains, and that not only the most important in the whole of this discourse, but ethically the most important in the whole of its author’s system. That verse is the well-known commandment: “All things whatsoever you may wish men to do to you, thus also do you to them. For this is the law and the prophets” (Mt. vii. 12; Lu. vi. 31). Whether Jesus perceived that in this brief sentence he was enunciating the cardinal principle of all morality is of necessity uncertain. But from the addition of the phrase “this is the law and the prophets,” it is probable that he regarded it as a summary of the moral teachings of the religion he professed. If so, he has rightly laid the foundation of scientific ethics. Utilitarians, who believe that the object of morality is human happiness, may claim him (as one of them has already done) as the father of their system. While Kant, who gives the fundamental law, so to act that the rule of your conduct may be such as you yourself would wish to see adopted as a general principle, will be equally in agreement with him. Nor does it detract from the merits of Jesus that this very doctrine should have been announced in China about five centuries before he proclaimed it in Judea. He remains not less original; but we, while giving him his due, must be careful to award an equal tribute to his great predecessor, Confucius. Twice over did that eminent man assert the principle taught in the Sermon on the Mount. In the first instance, “Chung-kung asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, ‘It is, when you go abroad, to behave to every one as if you were receiving a great guest; to employ the people as if you were assisting at a great sacrifice; not to do to others as you would not wish done to yourself; to have no murmuring against you in the country, and none in the family’” (C. C., vol. i. p. 115.—Lun Yu, xii. 2). Much more strikingly is this law enunciated in the second case. “Tsze-kung asked, saying, ‘Is there one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one’s life?’ The Master said, ‘Is not RECIPROCITY such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others’” (C. C., vol. i. p. 165.—Lun Yu, xv. 23). And we have another statement of the rule in the work ascribed to the grandson of Confucius, where he is reported to have said, “What you do not like when done to yourself, do not do to others” (Chung Yung, xiii. 3.—C. C., vol. i. p. 258). It is true, as remarked by the translator, that the doctrine is here stated negatively, and not positively; but practically this can make little difference in its application. Not to do to others what we wish them not to do to us would amount to nearly the same thing as doing what we wish them to do. Obviously it prohibits all actual injury which we should resent if inflicted on ourselves. But it also enjoins active benevolence; for as we do not like the lack of kindness towards ourselves when in distress or want, so we must not be guilty of showing such lack of kindness to others. Take the parable of the good Sâmaritan, told in illustration of the kindred maxim to love our neighbors as ourselves. Plainly we should not like the conduct of the priest and the Levite were we in the situation of the plundered man. And if so, the behavior of the good Sâmaritan is that which the Chinese as well as the Jewish prophet would require us to pursue.
Much more might be said of the doctrines of Jesus, but it is time to bring this over-long section to a close. What answer shall we now return to the query which stands at the head of this final division? What are we to think of him? Is our judgment to be mainly favorable or mainly unfavorable? or must it be a mixture of opposing sentiments? The reply may be given under three separate heads, relating the one to his work as a prophet, the next to his intellectual, and the last to his moral character. Considered as a prophet, he forms one of a mighty triad who divide among them the honor of having given their religions to the larger portion of Asia and to the whole of Europe. Confucius, to whom Eastern Asia owes its most prevalent faith; Buddha Sakyamuni, whose faith is accepted in the south and centre of that continent; and Christ, to whom Europe bows the knee, are the members of this great trinity not in unity. All three are alike in their possession of prophetic ardor and prophetic inspiration. Two of them, the Chinaman and the Jew, speak as the conscious agents of a higher Power. The other, of whom his creed prevents us from saying this, is yet represented in his story as predestined to a great mission, becoming aware of that destiny at a certain epoch of his life, and thenceforth feeling that no temptations and no sufferings can induce him to swerve from his allotted task. Of these three men it would perhaps be accurate to say that Confucius was the most thoughtful, Sakyamuni the most eminently virtuous, and Christ the most deeply religious. Not that a description like this can be regarded as exhaustive. Each trespasses to some degree on the special domain of the others. Especially is it hard to compare the moral excellence of Jesus with that of Buddha. The Hindu, as depicted in his biographies, offers a character of singular beauty, and free from some of the defects which may be discerned in that of the Jew. History, however, was too much despised by these Oriental sectaries to enable us to form a trustworthy comparison. All we can affirm is, that, assuming the pictures of both prophets to be correctly drawn, there is in Sakyamuni a purity of tone, an absence of violence or rancor, an exemption from personal feeling and from hostile bias, which place him even on a higher level than his Jewish fellow-prophet. Supposing, on the other hand, that either picture is not historical, then it must be conceded that primitive Buddhism attained a more perfect ideal of goodness than primitive Christianity. Both ideals, however, are admirable, and they closely resemble one another.
Morally not unlike, Jesus and Sakyamuni have another point of similarity in a certain mournfulness of spirit, a sorrowing regret for the errors of human kind, and a tender anxiety to summon them from those errors to a better way. Each in his own manner felt that life was very sad; each desired to relieve that sadness, though each aimed at effecting his end by different means. Sakyamuni offered to his disciples the peace of Nirvâna; Jesus, the favor of God and the rewards to be given in his kingdom. There is a striking similarity in the manner in which the summons to suffering humanity is expressed in each religion. Here are the words ascribed to Buddha: “Many, driven by fear, seek an asylum in mountains and in woods, in hermitages and in the neighborhood of sacred trees. But it is not the best asylum, it is not the best refuge, and it is not in that asylum that men are delivered from every pain. He, on the contrary, who seeks a refuge in Buddha, in the Law and in the Assembly, when he perceives with wisdom the four sublime truths,... that man knows the best asylum, the best refuge; as soon as he has reached it, he is delivered from every pain” (H. B. I., p. 186). Still more beautifully is the like sentiment expressed by Jesus: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and you shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Mt. xi. 28-30).
While in tenderness and sympathy for human sorrow Christ resembles Buddha, in the nature of his moral precepts he sometimes resembles Confucius. The plain duties of man towards his fellow-man are inculcated in the same spirit by both, while in Buddhism it is generally the most extreme and often prodigious examples of charity or self-sacrifice that are held up to admiration. Buddhism, moreover, teaches by means of long stories; Confucius and Jesus by means of short maxims. To a certain extent, indeed, Jesus combines both methods, the first being represented in his parables; but these are much simpler, and go far more directly to the point, than the complicated narratives of the Buddhistic canon. On the whole, we may safely say that Jesus is certainly not surpassed by either of these rival prophets, and that in some respects, if not in all, he surpasses both.
Another comparison is commonly made, and may be just touched on here. It is that between the Hebrew prophet and the Athenian sage, “who,” in the words of Byron, “lived and died as none can live or die.” Without fully endorsing this emphatic opinion of the poet, we may admit that Socrates is not unworthy to stand beside Jesus in the foremost rank of the heroes of our race. He shares with the prophets who have been already named the inspiring sense of a divine mission which he is bound to fulfill. At all hazards and under all conditions he will carry on the special and peculiar work which the divine voice commands him to do. And this plenary belief in his own inspiration is not accompanied, as sometimes happens, by mental poverty. Intellectually his superiority to Jesus cannot be disputed. It is apparent in the very manner of his instruction. Socrates could never have enunciated the truths he had to tell in that authoritative tone which is appropriate to the religious teacher. Whatever knowledge he thinks it possible to acquire at all must be acquired by reasoning and inquiry; and must be tested by comparison of our own mental condition with that of others. Nothing must be assumed but what is granted by the hearer. Socrates would have thought that there was little gained by the mere dogmatic assertion of moral or spiritual truths. He must carry his interlocutor along with him; must compel him to admit his errors; must stimulate his desire of improvement by bringing him face to face with his own ignorance. Much as we must value the moral teaching of Christ, it must be confessed that the peculiar gift of Socrates is one of a far rarer kind. The power of inculcating holiness, purity, charity, and other virtues, either directly by short maxims (as in the Confucian Analects, in Mencius, or in Marcus Aurelius), or indirectly by stories (as in Buddhagosha’s parables), is by no means so uncommon as the Socratic gift of searching examination into men’s minds and souls. If Jesus is unsurpassed in the former—“primus inter pares”—Socrates is absolutely without a rival in the latter.
Whether the shock of the elenchus of Socrates, or the touching beauty of the parables and the Sermon on the Mount, produced the greatest benefit to the hearers is a question that can hardly be determined. The effect of either method must depend upon the character of those to whom it is applied. Outward appearances would lead us to assign more influence to the method of Jesus; for Socrates left no Socratics, while Christ did leave Christians to hand on his doctrine. But, in the first place, it may be confidently asserted that no lasting sect could have been formed upon the basis of the few truths taught by Jesus himself; and, in the second place, the fact that he became the founder of a new religion must be attributed as much to the state of Judea at the time as to his personal influence. That the influence of Socrates was not small in his own life-time might be inferred from the bitterness of the prosecution alone, even if Plato had not remained to attest the abiding impress he left upon an intellect by the side of which those of Peter, James, and John, are but as little children to a full-grown athlete. We can imagine the havoc that would have been made in the statements and arguments of Jesus had Socrates met him face to face and subjected him to his testing method. How ill would his loose popular notions have borne a close examination of their foundations; how easily would his dogmatic assertions have been exposed in all their naked presumption by a few simple questions; how quickly would his careless reasoning have been shattered by the dialectic art which would have forced him to exhibit its fallacies himself before the assembled audience! But there was no one competent to the task, and when his opponents attempted to perplex him by what they thought awkward questions, he was able to baffle them without much trouble by his superior skill.
It is not, however, as an intellectual man that we must consider Jesus. He himself laid no claim to the character, and, if we would do him justice, we must judge him by his own idea of his function and his duties. So judging, there can be no question that we must recognize in him a man of the highest moral grandeur, lofty in his aims, pure in his use of means, earnest, energetic, zealous, and unselfish. No doubt he was sometimes misled by that very ardor which inspired him with the courage required to pursue his work. No doubt he suffered himself to forget the charity that was due to those who could not accept his mission nor bow before his preaching. No doubt he returned curse for curse, and hatred for hatred, with unsparing hand. Perhaps, too, he was sometimes the first to give way to angry passion, and to express in scathing words the bitterness he felt. Yet his failings are those of an upright and honorable character, and while they ought not to be extenuated or denied, neither ought they to outweigh his great and unquestionable merits. Appointed, as he believed, to a special work, he bravely and honestly devoted his powers to the fulfillment of that work, not even shrinking from his duty when it led him to the cross.
His unhappy end has cast its shadow over his life. He has been continually spoken of as “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” There is no reason to suppose that in any special sense he corresponded to the prophetic picture. Undoubtedly he had his sorrows; undoubtedly he was acquainted with grief. But unless there had been in his private life some tragedy of which we are not informed, those sorrows were not of the bitterest, nor was that grief of the deepest. There is no doubt in his language a tinge of that sadness which all great natures who are not in harmony with their age must needs experience. He believed that he had great truths to tell, and he found his countrymen unwilling to receive them. Here was one source of unhappiness; and another he had in common with all who are deeply conscious of the miseries of human existence. But in no special or transcendent sense can he be termed a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. So far as our evidence goes, he was exempt from the most terrible calamities that befall mankind. Free from all earthly ties but those of friendship with his chosen companions, he was not exposed to many of the anxieties and trials which afflict more ordinary men. Dying young, he did not suffer (so far as we know) from any serious illness, nor from the troubles, both physical and mental, that scarcely ever fail to beset a longer life. Bereavement, the most terrible or human ills, never afflicted him. Whether in his youth he had suffered the pains of unrequited love at the hands of some Galilean maiden we cannot tell. But there is nothing in his language or his career that would lead us to see in him an embittered or disappointed man.
Judging by the representation given in the Gospels, it does not appear that his life was in any special measure sad or gloomy. On the contrary, his circumstances were in the main conducive to a fair share of happiness. Surrounded by admiring friends of his own sex, and attended by sympathizing (perhaps loving) women, he passed from place to place, drawing crowds around him, speaking his mind freely, and receiving no inconsiderable homage. Granting that he had enemies, he was able until his prosecution to meet them on equal terms, and was not prohibited (as he would have been in most Christian countries until recent times) from proclaiming aloud his unorthodox opinions. True, this liberty was not allowed to continue for ever, but it was no small matter for him that it had continued so long. True, he suffered a painful death; but far less painful than many a humble martyr has undergone for his sake; far less painful even than those torturing illnesses which so often precede the hour of rest. Nor is it possible that his death could reflect its agonies back upon his life. His life, on the whole, seems to have been one, if not of abundant happiness, yet of a fair and reasonable degree of cheerfulness and of comfort. The notion that he had not where to lay his head is of course utterly unfounded. Not only had he his own house at Nazareth, but he had friends who at all times were happy to receive him. If he himself ever drew this sad picture of his desolation (which I doubt), he must have done it for a special purpose, and without regard to the literal accuracy of his words.
While, then, I see no proof of the peculiar sorrow ascribed to him on the strength of a prophecy, I freely admit that he had the melancholy which belongs to a sympathetic heart. His words of regret over Jerusalem are unsurpassed in their beauty. At this closing period of his career we may indeed detect the sadness of disappointment. And in the bitter cry that was wrung from him at the end, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” we look down for a moment into an abyss of misery which it is painful to contemplate; physical suffering and a shaken faith, the agonies of unaccomplished purposes, and the still more fearful agony of desertion by the loving Father in whom he had put his trust.
But Jesus, though he knew it not, had done his work. Nay, he had done more than he himself intended. After-ages saw in him—what he saw only in his God—an ideal to be worshiped and a power to be addressed in prayer. We, who are free from this exaggeration of reverence, may yet continue to pay him the high and unquestioned honor which his unflinching devotion to his duty, his gentle regard for the weak and suffering, his uncorrupted purity of mind, and his self-sacrificing love so abundantly deserve.