The Fame of Jesus: Successful Intercession

In the old time and in the Holy Land, on the shores of a beautiful lake, stood a straggling village. Some of its houses belonged to farmers and shepherds, and some of them were fishermen’s huts. But tall above the rest rose a nobleman’s mansion. Its owner wa3 a friend of the king,* and often went to the palace. He had one son whom he tenderly loved, and who, we dare say, he hoped would grow up to be a favourite at court, as well as the heir of his own wealth and titles. Like the other boys of Capernaum, no duubt the little noble had often sailed his mimic boat on the edge of Gennesaret, and explored the haunts of the conies and rock-pigeons up among the hills. But he was struck by a mortal sickness. His limbs shook and burned in the fever, and he could hardly lift his head from the pillow. His father got the

* From the term in the original it would appear that the nobleman held some office at court.

best advice, but the doctors could do him no good. The great house was already beginning to wear that awe-s*ruck aspect which a house puts on when it expects a visit from the king of terrors; and when neighbours inquired for the little lord, it was always the same answer, “He is not any better.” The father saw him getting worse. Every time that he stole into the dim chamber and stood over the young sufferer, it was a more languid smile which returned his greeting — it was a weaker and hotter little hand he grasped in his. Even the sanguine father ceased to hope, and, as he paced the hushed apartments, the bow and quiver and other neglected toys of the poor patient began to look like relics. Their owner would never handle them any more.

At this time, however, a wondrous rumour spread rapidly through all the Holy Land. A prophet had appeared, so mighty and so good that many thought him Messiah. Some of the nobleman’s neighbours had lately seen Him at Jerusalem, and they could tell what prodigies He had wrought, and what heavenly words He had spoken. A thought crossed the anxious parent’s mind. Perhaps, like another Elisha, this great prophet could heal his dying child. But, to so great a prophet would it be sufficiently respectful to send a mere messenger? And what if that messenger should linger by the way, or should somehow mismanage the business? Yes, he would go himself.

He would take another glimpse of the dear child, and then set out for Cana.

As he posted the thirty miles, through budding vineyards and green fields, many a thought rose in his bosom: a wonder whether this great prophet were indeed the Christ — a wonder if he were still at Cana — a wonder if he could be persuaded to undertake such a distant expedition — a wonder if even this would avail. Still, he felt as if he were carrying in his arms his dying boy, and the burden at his heart gave speed and perseverance to his feet. Noon was just past, and the villagers were reposing after their mid-day meal, when the pilgrim espied in the valley the peaceful hamlet, the goal of his anxious journey. Its wonderful guest had not yet departed, and, without any introduction, the agitated father at once accosted him: u Sir, come down, and heal my son; for he is at the point of death.” Already, with their morbid appetite for the marvellous, some of the Galileans had gathered around him; for Jesus answered, “Except ye see signs and wonders, ye will not believe.” The suppliant did not argue the point. Doubtless, he felt the reproof was well-merited; but, with the urgency of agonised affection, he only repeated his prayer, “Sir, come down, ere my son die.” There is One who giveth liberally and upbraideth not; and the Man of Sorrows was not the man who would upbraid a breaking heart. AVith the look of one who wills and it is done, and in a tone of tender assurance, Jesn3 instantly answered, “Go thy way; thy son liveth.” In that sympathising look the father recognised omnipotence; in that gentle voice he owned the Almighty fiat: and, convinced that all was well, the pilgrim resumed the road to Capernaum. The voice of the turtle was heard in the land, and on his homeward way his singing heart re-echoed the music of spring. To the eye of his faith, his son was again in health and gleesome vigour; to the same eye, Jesus of Nazareth was the Christ of God: and, earnest of the new life in his dwelling, he felt a new life in his soul. Nor did he need to wait till next day restored him to his mansion; for here, along the road, come the joyful servants to tell the news already known so well. “Thy son liveth.” “Yesterday, at one in the afternoon, the fever left him.” Yes, at one in the afternoon, and when the anguish-stricken father had been a day’s march distant, interceding with Jesus, the fever vanished. It was not that the patient revived; it was not that his ebbing strength had rallied; it was not that the disease had taken a turn; but it had absolutely gone away. The fever left him, and the lad was well. Oh, happy father! oh, kind and mighty Jesus!

The servants told their master about his son, and now he told them about the Saviour. They had heard much concerning Jesus already, and now in their gladness they believed it all. As Messiah, and as all which He claimed to be, they hailed their wondrous benefactor. It was a believing family. The father believed, and so did his recovered son, and so did these kind-hearted servants. Sickness left the house, and salvation came to it. And, although usually they were u the common people” who heard Him most gladly, among the first-fruits of the Saviour’s ministry were a Hebrew noble and his family.

Two years passed on, and this beneficent career was near its ending. The same sweet season had returned, when new leaves are on the tree and twittering broods are in the nest, and all the Holy Land was moving towards Jerusalem. But from the stream of pilgrims Jesus and His disciples fell aside. To escape the double danger of priestly intrigues, and a tumultuary coronation on the part of the people, the Saviour retired to the furthest limit of the country, and spent a little while on the border of Tyre and Sidon.

Thither the fame of His wonders had already penetrated from the neighbouring Galilee. In the general mind it had only awakened surprise or curiosity; but there was one poor woman who heard it with intensest interest. She was not one of the favoured people. She was not by descent a daughter of Abraham. She belonged to that brisk and busy nation whose bold argosies used to fetch tin from our own Albion, and whose pushing traders had colonised Tyre, Carthage, Corinth, Syracuse, and nearly all the mighty marts of the Mediterranean. But the Phoenicians were pagans. They worshipped marble statues of Jupiter and Mars, and other old heroes, and to the Jews they were peculiarly obnoxious as the descendants of Canaan, the worst progeny of Ham. Happily for herself, however, this Syro-Phcenician lived on the confines of the Holy Land, and she had heard the fame of Jesus. She knew the Hebrew expectation of Messiah, and there were circumstances which quickened her acuteness, and which enabled her to identify the Son of David sooner than many of His own compatriots.

She had a young daughter. No doubt she had set great store on the little girl, and had been cheered through all her wakeful nights and toiling days by the hope of what she was yet to be. But the hope was blasted. How it came about we do not know; but an evil spirit, or demon, had entered into her child. There could hardly be a more terrible trial. Just when the fond mother was anticipating a companion and a helper in the growing strength and intelligence of her daughter, to have her loved one torn away in the grasp of a fiend — her reason frustrated, her better will overborne, her conscience in vain reclaiming — it was a fearful affliction, a daily sword in that poor mother’s soul, and to any physician or exorcist who could have given her again her child she would not have grudged her house full of silver.

Just then, however, she heard of one who was able. For two years in the adjacent Galilee Jesus had been healing “all sick people that were taken with divers diseases and torments, and those who were possessed with devils,” and il his fame went throughout all Syria.” * It had reached the abode of this disconsolate mother, and now that a kind Providence had brought the Gneat Physician into her immediate neighbourhood, she hastened to consult him.

There is in faith a sound logic, just as in earnestness there is a deep divination. From the “fame” of Jesus the Canaanite mother drew her own conclusions. She inferred that to one endowed with such virtue there must be great delight in exercising it, and that even her case as an alien would not put her beyond its reach; and accordingly her mind was made up to throw herself on His mercy, and take no refusal. And just as her conclusion was sound, so her alertness was eager and her penetration was keen. The Saviour’s sojourn was short. He had come into that region incognito. He courted retirement, and instead of preaching in the villages He “entered into a house and would have no man know it.” But there is no ear so sensitive as maternal solicitude, and

* Matt. iv. 24.

although few in that countryside were conscious of the presence which now ennobled their borders, this grief-worn mother caught the sound of His feet, and made prophetic music of their beautiful goings. Through some friendly informant apprised of His coming, she soon learned His retreat, and rushed to His presence. It did not matter that everything looked unpropitious — that disciples dissuaded her entering — that they represented that for the time being there was a pause in His miracles, and that she must not trouble the Master. Nor did it matter that the Saviour sat silent, and seemed almost to reprove her intrusion. Her heart was sharper than the eye of apostles, and whilst they interpreted the cold look of their Master as a hint to send her away, under that cold look the Spirit of God somehow assured her she would yet find a welcome. u Have mercy on me, 0 Lord, thou Son of David! my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.” Such was her vehement adjuration, as, with clasped hands and on bended knees, she lay at His feet; but those that watched His countenance saw in it none of the accustomed compassion; and as, without answering her a single word, He slowly rose and moved forth into the open air, and resumed the road towards Galilee,* there seemed an end of

* Such is the impression left on our minds by the narrative. From Mark (vii. 24, 25) we gather that He was in the house and wishing to b« “hid,” when the woman first fell at His feet. Prom Matthew hope, and the disciples fancied that, like themselves, their Lord regarded her as a heathen dog, on whom the children’s bread must not be wasted Callous and case-hardened with that worldliness in which the best of men are more or less incrusted, they did not mind her tears, and they did not permit themselves to realise the misery condensed into the bitter cry, u My daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.,’ No; to them she was not a mother praying for her child, but only a troublesome petitioner — a foreigner — a heathen — an accursed Canaanite. But though they had no sympathy with the suppliant, they were tired of her importunity, and they wished to put an end to the “scene.” Heartlessly enough they said to their Lord, “Send her away, for she keeps crying after us.” And, speaking out their thoughts, He first said to them, “I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel,” and to her, “It is not fit to take the children’s bread, and cast it unto dogs.” u Truth, Lord,” she answered, looking up from the ground, on which she had again prostrated herself — “truth, Lord,” as much as to say, i Yes, call us dogs. Ignorant, outcast, impure, we idolaters deserve no better name.’ “Yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their master’s table.” An atom of that gracious power — a mere morsel of that mercy which has

(xv. 23-29) He appears to have been on the road, and “departing thence,” when He spoke the wished-for word.

made so many blessed homes in Palestine, would make of me a happy mother; and thou art too generous to grudge that crumb.’ The point was reached at which the Saviour had all along been aiming. By this striking instance, as in the case of the Centurion, He had shewed the apostles how God can create in Gentile minds a firmer faith than Israel’s, and had thus prepared them for that day not distant when it would be their vocation to take Heaven’s bread and distribute it to heathen “dogs.” The point was reached, and no sooner was this answer uttered than, like the mask falling from the face of Joseph, the “strangeness” fled from the face of Jesus, and the loving-kindness, long suppressed, burst through. “O woman, great is thy faith. For this saying, go thy way; the devil is gone out of thy daughter.” The suppliant had all her desire; the disciples received a lesson; the blessed Jesus tasted once more His own joy-creating luxury, — the delight of doing good. Hasting to her home, the thankful mother felt none of those shadows thickening round her which of late had so often saddened her approach. No haggard figure darted from the door, and rushed off towards the forest. No young fury met her steps in rage and frenzy, uttering wild invectives. But, as she lifted the latch and looked in, there lay on the couch a slight and peaceful form, — her little daughter as of yore, in calm and holy slumber. The devil was gone out, and though the rage of his departure had left the poor young patient spent and weary, he would come back no more; and as soon as those pale eyelids opened, “the light of other days” beamed forth on the enraptured mother. The Son of David had shewed mercy. From that very hour the damsel was made whole, and doubtless, if they lived so long, amongst those who u were first called Christians” in the neighbouring Antioch would be herself and her fond mother.

Miracles of this kind we do not expect at present. Their purpose has been served. They authenticated at the time the Heavenly Messenger. They roused the stupid multitude. But the course of things is resumed once more; and as the exigencies of this probationary disciplinary state require that we should have always with us the sick and the suffering, as well as the poor and the needy, so we do not feel entitled to expect a repetition of those gracious interpositions which so often startled an incredulous neighbourhood, and which prepossessed towards the Great Evangelist the pensioners of the Great Almoner and the patients of the Great Physician. It would disorganise society, and would go far to put an end to industry, humanity, and forethought, if hunger could always reckon on miraculous loaves, and if disease and pain could always count on a supernatural cure. But although, from the necessities of the case, the prodigies have ceased, the Man of Mercies lives, and that M gospel of the kingdom “for which He bespoke a welcome by “healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people” — for that gospel He is as solicitous to gain each heart amongst ourselves as He was to gain the ear of Palestine.

Let us covet earnestly the best gifts — better gifts than bodily cures and temporal boons. Let us covet those gifts which Jesus is ascended a Prince and a Saviour to bestow. Let us covet those gifts for contempt of which the Holy Land was, in the long-run, so little the better of that Divine Visitant with whose fame for a season it resounded. Let us covet the remission of our sins and the sweet sense of reconciliation with God. Let us covet a meek, lowly, and obedient mind, a contrite spirit, and a tender conscience. Let us covet a holy disposition, and a soul turned heavenwards. Let us covet that great gift, the Holy Ghost the Comforter. These are the blessings included in the gospel of the kingdom; and in seeking them for ourselves and for others, let U3 see what light the incidents now reviewed cast on the mind of the Saviour.

1. We see the honour which He puts upon Faith. It was their faith which brought both the nobleman and the Syrophenician to the Saviour, and it was their faith which carried back the blessing. So is it still. Christ honours the faith which honours Himself and His Father. And if any one asks, l How is it that I don’t get on? I have no assurance of God’s love. I have no comfort in my religion. I gain no ground against my besetting sin. I have little enjoyment in prayer, in ordinances, in the Word of God: ’ the answer is, l You don’t get on because you don’t go to Jesus. You have more faith in disciples than you have in the Master; nay, you have more faith in yourself than you have in the Saviour.’ But it is only the Lord Jesus who can really do you good. You cannot save, and you cannot sanctify yourself. Christian friends cannot give you assurance. Ministers cannot say, “Be it unto thee even as thou wilt.” But Jesus can. He has all power in heaven and on earth. Believe this, and act as if you believed it. Go to Him; and even if at first He should seem not to regard — though He should answer you not a word — though the first answer should be discouraging, “I am not sent but to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” — though it should be suggested, f You are none of the elect, you are none of Christ’s sheep, you are none of God’s children, you are a dog’ — be not discouraged. Think of whom you are addressing. Think how much more love there is in the heart of the Saviour than in the best of His disciples; and as sure as you persevere, and as sure as there is mercy in the

Son of David, at last He will say, “Be it unto thee even as thou wilt.”

2. We see the honour which Christ puts upon natural affection. Many of the sick whom Jesus healed could not come to Him. He went to them, or friends brought them to Him. But in the two instances now considered, it would seem that even this was impracticable. The dying youth could not be moved; the demoniac would probably have offered every resistance. And yet, in a certain sense, they were brought to Jesus. In the arms of faith and affection their parents brought them; and, although casual observation noticed nothing, the all-seeing Saviour saw the burden with which they were heavy laden. As the nobleman entered, Jesus saw next his heart a dying son; as the Canaanite entered and sank to the ground, He saw that it was her afflicted child who dragged the poor mother to the dust; and although in the one case He let it forth at once, and in the other concealed it for a season, in either case He was instantly moved with compassion. The father’s love, the mother’s yearning, in conjunction with their greal faith, at once took hold of Immanuel’s sympathy, and, as effectually as if the sufferers had come themselves, brought to His lips the word of healing.

We can no more shut grief from our dwelling than from our world; and the dearer the relation the sorei is the pang. It is very sad to see the roses wither, to feel the thin palm so hot and dry, and mark the life’s slow ebbing. And it is sad when the nursing and the watching are ended — when the cheerful gleams and the patient endurance alike are over — when there is no more wheeling out into the mellow autumn afternoon — no more carrying up and down stairs — no more favourite chapters read — no more hymns repeated — no more tender, solemn talk of Jesus and the New Jerusalem; — it is sad to see the little daughter in the coffin. But far sadder was the case of this poor mother. She had still beside her the self-same form. Yes, indeed, this was the very babe that once she dandled — the little one whose first lispings were such a wonder and delight — the little Syrian maid who felt so proud to pace beside her mother, hand in hand, to the village well, and then, in all the importance of infant womanhood, so gravely guarded the cradle of a lesser one. But, oh, how changed! So rebellious and intractable — so malignant and mischievous — so fearfully possessed by the devil. Happy neighbour, who have laid your little damsel in the grave. And yet far happier both the mother of the dead and the mother of the demoniac than the mother of the reprobate. Happy those in whose cup if there is bitter sorrow there is not also burning shame, and who, in the day of their sore calamity, are spared the agony of crime. The body may be in the grave, and the spirit be in parr.dise — the soul may be the haunt of an unwelcome demon, and at last, emancipated from the irksome thraldom, may be a bright and exulting angel before the throne. But for depravity — for lost innocence — for guilt — for this grief of griefs, is there any balm in Gilead? For this sorrow, surpassing death, can the Physician there prescribe?

He can. And these incidents teach us that the best thing which affection can do for its objects is to carry their case to the Saviour. You have a child or dear relation who is like to bring your gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. And what are you to do? It seems as if nothing could stop him in his wild career. He seems as if he could not stop himself. He really looks as if he were possessed with the devil. You have got good people to talk to him, and you have talked to him yourself. But it was of no use. He did not stop his ears; but as for giving you any hold on his heart, his will, you might as well have been a thousand miles away — as for giving you any admission into his real self, it would have been all the same if he had been at the antipodes. And now you have entirely lost sight of him. You know not where he is; and what are you to do? Why, this: You have heard “the fame” of Jesus. Go to Him, and take your child, your husband, your lost friend with you. Take him, that is, as the nobleman and the woman took their child. Take him in the arms of believing and importunate intercession. “Thou Son of David, have mercy on me; for my beloved one is grievously vexed with a devil. He is the enemy of God, and of his own soul. He is the slave of divers lusts and passions. Thou knowest our frame. Thou knowest the affection I feel for him. Thou knowest the faith I have in Thee. 0 that Ishmael may live before Thee! O that this wanderer may be restored — this madman brought to his right mind! I know not where he is: at this very moment Thou compassest his path, and art acquainted with all his ways. And although he were here, he could effectually exclude me from his soul’s sanctuary — from that mysterious shrine where sits alone and inaccessible the hidden man of the heart: but even at this moment, Thou who hast the key of David canst open for Thyself that door; even now his heart is in Thy hand. Oh, speak the word, and add a heaven to my heaven — a jewel to Thy crown I”