Christ’s First Note of Autobiography

“* Blessed are the poor in spirit.” — Mart. v. 8,

HERE is a question I have often asked

myself — Why does St. Matthew bring the Sermon on the Mount so close to the temptation in the wilderness? That is not its natural position; it belongs to a much later stage of Christ’s ministry, and could not have been understood in the earliest period. Why, then, does the First Gospel place it in the immediately succeeding chapter to the temptation? I take the reason to be that the first note of this sermon is a reminiscence of our Lord’s experience in the wilderness — in other words, it is a note of autobiography. What was the temptation in the wilderness? I would sum it up in four words — “Be conscious of yourself.” The tempter said, “If you are the Son of God, realise that you are such. Let the thought be ever present to your mind. Let your every action be prompted by the motive of showing that you are Divine. Assert yourself in the world. Command that the stones be made bread. Claim the Father’s care in a gigantic leap from the pinnacle of the temple. Aspire to the conquest of the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them.” The one thought in all the temptations is the grandeur of self-consciousness. And this is the thought which in the Sermon on the Mount Christ begins by repudiating. It shows what an adverse impression it had made upon His mind. He starts this great sermon by a note of memory — a memory of His own pain. He remembers how bitterly he felt this perversion of the truth. He is determined it shall be the first delusion He will publicly expose, the first error of which He will warn the multitude. Accordingly, He stands in the midst of them and, with an air of almost dramatic abruptness, cries, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!” Read that in the light of the wilderness, and it means this — “‘The highest power, even heavenly power, comes in moments of unconsciousness.” To be poor in spirit is to be unconscious of yourself. It is not “to be humble,” “to be despondent,” “to be miserable”

—these are all forms of consciousness. It is to forget that you have an eye or ear, a hand or foot, a heart or brain. It is to fiy without hearing the movement of your own wings. It is to ignore the flower you wear, to forget the charm you bear, to discount the deed you dare — to see not when you shine, to feel not it is fine, to say not, “Wealth is mine.” That is the spirit whose poverty is power.

Lord, only in Thine unconsciousness shall I reach Thy Mount; let me resist the tempter with Thee! My wilderness is my consciousness. I say, “If I leap from the pinnacle, I shall prove my trust in God” — and very likely my courage will fail. But if a friend fall from the pinnacle, I make an unconscious leap — the leap of self-forgetfulness. The world marvels at my courage. It is the want of courage. Love’s fear has paralysed me, made me oblivious of myself. Give me, O Christ, that fear which makes oblivious ! — it was Thine. It is not courage that makes unconscious of peril; it is the fear that is born of love. Why hast Thou trod the hospital of human ills? Was it recklessness of Thy life? No; it was dread for mine. Men say Thou wert steeled by heavenly armour; nay, Thou wert steeled by love’s terror. It was my ery made possible Thy Calvary; it was my danger made bearable Thy desert; it was my groan made endurable Thy Gethsemane. It was my crisis made Thy courage, O Christ. Men exhort me to have the fear of the Lord. They are right. Thy fear is love’s fear — the only fear which deadens personal pain. It makes heroes of the helpless, warriors of the weak, soldiers of the sick, lions of the listless, Daniels of the drooping, fortresses of the feeble, champions of little children, youth’s morning light of the fulness of years. Lord of the beatitudes, grant me this boon!