Messiah's Manifesto: The Kingdom
It was still early in the Saviour’s ministry. Only a few months had elapsed since JIc? commenced His miracles at -binee He changer: the water into wine, and restored to health the ruler’s son. It was only a short time since He had preached the gospel to Nicodemus and to the woman of Samaria; but although He had held many interviews with friends and jofceirera, and had spoken in many ijynagogues, He had not yet given any general or public exposition of His object and design. He were “the Prophet,” He had not unfolded His message. If He were Messiah, He had not yet explained the nature of that kingdom which He had come to set up.
The occasion had now arrived. He had completed an extensive circuit of Galilee, during which He had come in contact with great numbers of people, and had healed all the sick who were brought to Him. His fame spread u throughout Syria,” and, now that He had returned to the shores of Gennesaret,
He found Himself surrounded by an expectant multitude. From the edge of the lake, with its fresh clear water and its pebbly margin, He moved towards a neighbouring eminence. The crowd followed, and on reaching the top of a little hill Jesus sat down. James and John, Peter and Andrew, and other disciples drew near Him, and the general audience covered the platform beyond.
We can picture the scene: The little hill with its two terminal knolls or low horn-like hummocks, and the level space between. At the base of one of these knolls, the wonderful Teacher — the possible Messiah — about to open His commission — His countenance almost youthful; not yet “marred” by the career of hardship and sorrow on which He had entered, and in the eyes of many among His hearers still radiant with the beauty of beneficence — that lustre it wore when He restored health to themselves, or reason to their friends. Most of the audience are Galileans — boatmen from the lake, little traders from the towns, rustics from the fields and vineyards — but mingled with them a few of the wilder boors from the other side, a few of the carefully attired and more vivacious citizens from Jerusalem. Straight before them, in silvery fulness, spreads the Sea of Galilee — its nearer margin fringed with palms, its waters only ruffled by the creaking oar, or splashed up for a moment by the swooping pelican. Southward soars into the horizon Tabor, with its copsy dome; and, though most of the hamlets are hid in dells and valleys, yonder is a white village which has climbed the steep, and which arrests the spectator’s eye — “a city set on a hill.” It is autumn. Perhaps already light clouds fleck the firmament, harbingers of the early rain; and from their rocky retreats in the adjacent ravine flights of doves have come forth to seek that food which careworn man must gather into barns. And now that all is leisure and silence — from no elevation except the height of His own intrinsic majesty, and with no barrier round Him except His own secluding sanctity — the Speaker opens His mouth and begins. He begins, and the music of His voice and the glow of His countenance, as well as the first word He pronounces, are each an utterance of the “blessedness” within, which He would fain transfuse through all that listening throng.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see Cod. Blessed are the peace-makers: for they shall be called the children of God. BleL.ed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
To many in that audience each beatitude was a paradox. ‘Happy is that rich man who holds his head so high,’ would be the thought of many; but Jesus says, f Happy is that self-conscious man who knows himself a spiritual pauper. He will welcome the true riches, and on his lowly down-drooped head, as God’s Prophet, I pour the consecrating oil, and anoint him as a king.’ And others think, ‘Happy are those joyous spirits. Happy is that festive party. Happy are those merry-makers, who have always summer in their blood and sunshine in their looks, and who are able to forget both past and future.’ But Jesus says, * Happy are the serious. Happy those whose conscience is tender, and who have found in sin a source of sincere and profound affliction. Soon will the last tear be wiped from their faces.’ Many envy the hero. Fain would you set your foot on the neck of the Roman, and once more claim this goodly land as your own. ‘But,’ says Jesus, ’ the meek man is the hero. His foot is on the neck of vindictiveness, envy, and those terrible passions which are tyrants worse than the Romans. As my disciple, become your own master, and at once your empire is larger than Caesar’s. Be meek, be patient, be contented, be a child of God, and God’s world is your estate, the earth is your inheritance.’ Not that you are to have no aspirations, no ambition; but “covet earnestly the best gifts.” Hunger after righteousness.
But it is not easy to paint the rainbow: it is a vain attempt to analyse the breath of June. Of these benedictions, as of the discourse which follows, so deep is the meaning, and so Divine the charm, that it is only the Holy Spirit, taking the things of Jesus, who can convey them fully into a mortal mind. No wonder that their perusal has been the means of prepossessing for the gospel numbers of both Jews and heathen; and no wonder that the fairest and best informed of modern philosophers has said, u Of their transcendent excellence, I can find no words to express my admiration and reverence. At the close, the Divine speaker rises to the summit of moral sublimity. l Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.’ For a moment, O Teacher blessed, I taste the unspeakable delight of feeling myself to be better. I feel, as in the days of my youth, that hunger and thirst after righteousness, which long habits of infirmity and the low concerns of the world have contributed to extinguish.” *
They are the preamble to a discourse, in many
•ts the most remarkable which even revelation
has preserved. That discourse is the manifesto of
Messiah. It is a proclamation of the sort of empire
which He had come to set up in this evil world. It
Life of Sir James Mackinto»b, vol. ii. p. 12& is a description of that kingdom of God which consists in “righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy-Ghost,” and which Jesus sought to establish in the souls of men. It is not the gospel; but it is a survey of that territory to which the gospel is the gate. It is not “Believe and live;” but it is a description of that existence which believers ought to live. And to a thoughtful man, who is beginning to tire of viewing vanity, who is sickened at the world’s heartlessness, or who is revolting from the husks which the swine do eat, we can imagine nothing more opportune or more arousing than the blessedness of a true piety as here depicted; nothing more fitted to make him ask, How shall I ascend this hill of God? How may I get up to the pure air and bright prospects of this Mount of Blessing? How may I acquire that character which Heavenly Wisdom has here signalised by such great and precious benedictions?
As has been already stated, this discourse was delivered early in the Saviour’s ministry. It was uttered just when it was desirable to give both His first followers and the Jews in general an accurate idea of His object and mission; so that the former might know what their Master expected from them, and that the latter might know what they should expect from Messiah. And this twofold purpose was admirably answered by the mode in which the address was adapted to the audience. That audience consisted of nn inner and an outer circle. Close around their Master were collected the disciples; beyond them, but still within hearing, was a promiscuous congregation. It was to the disciples that Jesus directed His speech; but it was to disciples in the audience of the multitude. And, therefore, whilst the whole of the sermon M primarily spoken to His personal friends, nearly the whole of it bears obliquely on the bystanders. Every beatitude is not only a congratulation to the Christian, but a warning, a sort of sorrowful and reluctant woe, to the self-excluded worldling. Every exhortation to disciples, “Be not as the hypocrites,” was not only a direction how to pray, and fast, and give alms aright; but it was fitted to startle those who felt in their conscience that in describing the hypocrite the Speaker was describing themselves. And then at the close, when He proceeded to point out the wide gate and the narrow, and described the foolish builder and the wise one, we can imagine Him raising His eyes towards the remoter rows of listeners, and leaving on their especial ear the solemn and emphatic conclusion.
Assuming that it was the twofold object of this discourse to teach the disciples what their Master expected in them, and to teach the Jews what they ought to expect from Messiah, it is most instructive to observe the Divine skill with which both end a are accomplished, or rather with which the one is accomplished by means cf the other. After His benign and beautiful introduction, the Speaker enunciates what may be deemed the text or main topic, — H Ye are the salt of the earth: ye are the light of the world: “and then describing the sort of ligut which Christians should shed and the sort of influence which Christians should exert, lie sketches both negatively and positively the great features of the New Testament kingdom. It was no part of His plan to supersede the Moral Law, or to proclaim a saturnalia, during which every one should do that which was good in his own eyes. He had come not to cancel the Law and the Prophets, but to fulfil the precepts of the one, even as He fulfilled the predictions of the other. Nay, so far was He from lowering the Divine requirements or loosening moral obligation, that He goes on to instance two great standards of ethics which in His kingdom would be utterly worthless, — the one, the teaching of the Scribes; the other, the practice of the Pharisees. To His immediate hearers nothing could be more startling. u If only two men shall be saved,” was their proverb, “the one must be a Scribe, and the other a Pharisee.” But to constitute a worthy member of Messiah’s kingdom, Jesus shews that their obedience must be more broad than the one, and their motive more pure than the other. To restrict the sixth command to actual murder, and allow all malice in the heart, is no morality; and to give money to the poor and say prayers to God, for the sake of man’s applause, is no religion. Then, after contrasting the spontaneous and heart-sprung ethics of the Christian with the stinted and external compliance of the rubricist and rule-monger, as well as with the ostentatious exploits of the formalist, He reverts to the main topic again, and shews that it is by laying up treasure in heaven — by maintaining a single eye to God’s glory — by casting off ail carking anxiety, and trusting to Him who feeds the raven and clothes the lily — by cultivating strictness of judgment each towards himself, and charity towards others — by making known all their desires to God, as to a Father wise and loving — and by doing to others as they would that men should do to them — that they are to evince themselves Christ’s disciples, and pour a saving light upon the world, a sanctifying influence on society.
Such is a brief outline of this wonderful discourse. Regarded merely as an effusion of didactic eloquence, it is unsurpassed. No passage inspired or uninspired can equal for brevity and fulness the affectionate breathings of its exhaustless prayer; and it would be better never to have been born than to be able to read its opening beatitudes without impulse or emotion. Where shall we find words so plain and yet so touching as these, “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them? Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?” And when did a sermon ever end with a peroration so natural yet so noble, — an image so obvious yet so stately and impressive? “Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock: and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.”
The Speaker came with no pompous equipage. He did not alight from a splendid chariot, n r was He attended to His place by the elite of Palestine or any train of learned or brilliant supporters. Neither coronet nor mitre glittered on His brow, no halo shone from His head. The sky did not mutter, the mountain did not quake; no trumpet was sounded; no note of preparation was heard. But the great Teacher sat down; and as the audience clustered round — like pearls from a horn of plenty — like the musical pulses of morning on the great harp of Memnon — blessing followed blessing, till He swept the whole diapason of goodness. Then, after this exquisite prelude, He passed on to unfold His heavenly ethics, in terms so simple that the boor of Naphthali wondered at his own intelligence, and yet so saintly, so celestial, that the dullest ear was awed, and the vilest for a moment felt the charm of virtue. And what made the wonder all the greater, was the ancient and familiar source from which those lessons so new and beautiful were taken. The discourse was avowedly based on an older law, and was designed to expound precepts given long ago, and yet the world contains no contribution to ethics so novel and unique. Like so many dingy nodules which from time immemorial have lain about on the village green, disregarded by the ignorant or heedless inhabitants, till at last a lapidary comes and splits them open, and in the heart of each reveals a nest of radiant gems, — the ten commandments had been preserved among the Hebrews as something precious, but rather as Indiums or charms than as wealth available for their several homes, till, one by one, Jesus took them, and with His “I say unto you” laid open each several precept, and shewed how rich it was in hidden jewels, and how, turned to right account, it might have introduced into their own abodes much of the wealth of heaven. Like the seeds and bulbs which travellers sometimes carry home, in the wilderness of Sinai the Israelites had gathered up and conveyed to their own land many right statutes and good judgments; but, like the dry germs in the traveller’s cupboard, the law slumbered a dead letter in the ark of the synagogue, till — “lo! I come” — Jesus came and hid it in His heart. Watered by the Holy Spirit, given without measure to the second Adam, these seeds of goodness quickened in this congenial soil, and after thirty years of fostering in Nazareth, were in full blossom planted out on the Mount of Beatitudes; and when the murmur of admiration rose, “Whence hath this man this doctrine?” He told them that He had found it in the decalogue. The germs of all these graces were the dry seeds which they themselves had fetched home from the barren crags of Horeb. He had hid them in His heart, and now preached their righteousness in the great congregation. It was a marvellous sermon; and as in the induction of the Speaker’s sanctity the listeners felt for the instant weaned from sin — as in the example of the Speaker Himself they saw how august and lovely true devotion is — as under the momentary spell they could fancy themselves ennobled and uplifted, and already ushered on that better life in whose majestic panorama they were moving — they were loth to end the delicious trance, and grieved when the glorious lesson ended. Like bees hovering round the honeycomb, “when he came down from the mountain great multitudes followed him” — and just as the shepherds felt when the heavens closed and the angels fell silent, when Jesus ended, the people were astonished. The doctrine and the tone were new. It was not the hearsay of the elders, nor the quibble of the scribes — it was the voice of the oracle, it was the deliverance of a teacher come from God. No wonder that they marvelled; for on that
hill-side they had heard a sermon the like of which their fathers even did not hear at Sinai. They had heard a sermon which was to be the text of a new dispensation, and whose fulness of meaning no sage of this world, no seraph of the other, shall ever be able to exhaust. They had heard a lecture on ethics, the symmetry and elevation of which were only surpassed by the Speaker’s living example. They had heard a lesson as to God’s fatherliness and fond interest in His children’s affairs, such as no one could speak with authority save the only-begotten Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, and who on this occasion declared Him.