Has the Crown Superseded the Cross?

The question I have made the title of this chapter is the second of those which I proposed to ask. Put in other words, it amounts to this: ‘Is the Face of Jesus which appeared after death the same Face which through these pages we have studied in the great gallery? ‘If it is not, we should experience a thrill of regret. We should do so even if it were proved that the Resurrection Face of Jesus was less marred than the Original Countenance. Probably, in all circumstances, love would feel this. If the offer were made to you to have the face of some dear friend transformed into the more glorious countenance of an angel, you would certainly cry, ‘No; I would rather have it as it is — blemishes and all! ‘But the feeling would be much stronger

in the case of the marred Visage of Jesus, for the marredness of that Visage is to the Christian a part of its beauty. To take away tJiat from the gallery would be to paint Christ with Calvary left out; and the omission would be resented in the interest both of art and religion. We hear a great deal about the exaltation of Jesus — about the crown of thorns being exchanged for a crown of glory. I greatly prefer the paradox of the Fourth Gospel: c Your sorrow shall be turned into joy.’ What we want to see in Jesus is not an exchange but an efflorescence. We want to see Him glorified, not by His exaltation above the cross, but by His exaltation on the cross. We want to see, in short, the glorifying of Christ’s sorrow; and we shall not be satisfied with any sequel which simply lifts the Son of Man out of His troubles.

Accordingly, we shall look with some interest for the answer to the question, ‘What does the Resurrection narrative propose to do with that Portrait of Jesus with which we have become familiar and which we have learned to love?’

Now, there is a point to which I wish to direct attention because it seems to me of great importance in determining this question. Has it ever struck you that the Resurrection narrative is, in the scenes through which it passes, essentially retrospective? If you will only grant — what a large number of critics believe — that the fishing expedition of John xxi. has been recorded in the wrong place, you will be able to come to a remarkable conclusion. You will find that the Resurrection Life of Jesus is a repetition, on the upper road and with panoramic swiftness, of the nature and order of those scenes which constitute the features of His earlier ministries.

Let us recall the order of these earlier ministries. Jesus begins in simple Galilee. His first experience is an experience not of communities but of individuals. He meets men as they are — goes to their marriage feasts, joins in their daily avocations. But when He has attracted them He begins to combine them. He passes from the position of an individual teacher to the position of a corporate head. He forms a league of pity. It has but twelve men; but it is the nucleus of a coming kingdom. By and by the nucleus expands; the twelve become the five thousand; the cup passes from the hand of the disciples to the hand of the multitude. As His circle widens, His message enlarges. He speaks at first on the lines of the past — expanding what the prophets had taught, deepening what had been said by ’ the men of old time.’ But by and by He takes a higher flight. He ceases to be merely an interpreter of the past. He claims to have a new commandment, to breathe a fresh spirit into humanity, to impart to the world an additional stream of life.

Now, look at the comparison between this order of events and the order of events described in the combined accounts of Christ’s Resurrection ministry; I have been greatly struck with its similarity — I had nearly said, its identity — of sequence. Here too we have a Christ who begins in Galilee. Here too His first manifestations are to private individuals — are dictated by the personal leanings of His heart. He appears to Mary Magdalene; He appears to the other Mary; He appears to Peter. He meets His fishermen disciples, as He had done of yore, in the midst of their daily toil; He stands by the lake of Tiberias and bids them cast their nets once more. Then comes a transition like that we meet in the early Gospel story. Jesus appears to the Twelve collectively. Hitherto He has met only individuals in His Resurrection form; He now manifests Himself to the united league of pity. And for the second time we have an ordination sermon on a mountain of Galilee — a sermon which ordains these primitive missionaries to teach throughout all nations those practical precepts which in the days of His first ministry had been uttered, perhaps, on that very hill.

By and by we have another stage in the Resurrection Life of Jesus; and again it repeats the sequence of the primitive ministry. In that ministry we saw the twelve widen into the five thousand; the cup of communion was committed to the hands of the multitude.

And the enlargement of the league is repeated here. * Afterward, cries Paul, speaking of the Resurrection Christ, ‘He was seen of above five hundred brethren at once.’ After the twelve came the five hundred; after the disciples came the multitude. The rhythm of the Resurrection has followed the rhythm of the Incarnation. In both there has been a progress from the inner to the outer circle. In both there has been an advance from the individual to the masses. In both there has been an expansion from the sphere of domestic interest into the sphere of public interest. In both there has been an extension of the field of missionary labour from the limits of a native locality to the needs of man as man.

There is even a strong similarity between the geographical transitions of these ministries. Both began with Galilee; both ended by shifting their final scene from Galilee to Jerusalem. And in both the change of scene is accompanied by a change of teaching. The Resurrection Christ who stands among the hills of Galilee teaches the same homely lessons which in Galilee He taught before. And when the Resurrection Christ comes to Jerusalem, He adopts those other lessons which in Jerusalem He taught before. He no longer gives utterance to the aphorisms of the daily life. He lifts men beyond the day, beyond the world — into a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. He breathes upon them a higher air. He points them to a life not seen by earthly eye, not heard by earthly ear, not cognis able by earthly sense. He repeats the offer of that mysterious peace which comes through shut doors — which manifests itself where nothing can account for it. Above all, He repeats the scene in the upper room; He is known to His disciples in the breaking of bread. It is a fuller communion than that before His death. In the communion before Calvary death was only a prospect to Him; in the communion after Resurrection death was a retrospect; He could give the experience of a completed life.

Such is the parallel which has suggested itself to me between the ministry of the

Resurrection Christ and the ministry of that Christ whose Portrait we have been considering. I have dwelt upon it, not to emphasise a curious speculation, but to support a very sober view. If this parallel be well founded, it will follow that the Crown is not meant to supersede the Cross — that the glory of the Resurrection is its removal of obstacles in the path of the Cross. But, waiving this parallel between the manifestations of the Risen Christ and the events of the antecedent ministry, let us look at the former by themselves and on their own account. When I survey these manifestations of the Risen Christ there is one thing which impresses me beyond all others, and that is the sacrificial character of the narratives. I think they are more sacrificial than those of the previous ministries. In the previous ministries nearly all the acts of sacrifice are done by Jesus. But in this Resurrection ministry the sacrifice is shared by the disciple; the servant has taken up the cross of his Lord. I am deeply struck with this. It is not a peculiarity of any one incident; it runs like a thread of gold through all the series. A moment’s gaze at the Resurrection Portrait of Jesus will make this clear.

The very opening incident suggests sacrifice. Magdalene has found her Lord, alive. She is in rapturous joy. She assumes He is come to remain. She clings to Him with a wild tenacity — a tenacity which says in effect, ‘I will never again let you go! ‘He answers: ‘Ah, but you must! It is vain for you thus to hold me. Cling to me not, for I am not yet ascended to my Father — not yet in the possession of my perfect joy. Let it be a comfort to you to know that your bereavement is the worlds gain; I can do greater things for men when I am in the presence of my Father. Meantime, it may help you to bear this bereavement if you remember that your brethren also are bereaved. Go and tell those who have not seen me that for a moment you have seen me. There are some who may never get even the temporary glimpse you have had. Tell these that I am not dead, that you have seen me alive, that I have ascended to my Father.’ And Magdalene departs to obey the command; she carries the burden of humanity in the Easter Dawn.

Again. Three forms are seen treading the road to Emmaus. Two of them are those of Christian disciples; the third is the figure of the Risen Jesus. The disciples do not know Jesus; but, without knowing Him, they are thrilled by His utterance. They complain of the failure of the hopes they had formed of Him. Jesus still keeps His incognito. Instead of dispelling their fears by a direct revelation of Himself, He appeals to their reason and their heart. He strives to make them see His beauty, not as the result of resurrection, but as the result of sacrifice. Speaking under the disguise of a stranger, He says, * Ought not Christ to have suffered these things in order to enter into His glory? ’

And the words seem to have had a good effect. There follows a fine act of unselfishness on the part of these disciples. When they reach the door of their own house they say to the stranger, ‘Abide with us, for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.’

Sermon-writers and hymn-writers have lost the point of this narrative. They persist in regarding the request as the cry of helpless souls beseeching Jesus to be near them. They forget that these men did not know to whom they were speaking, that they took Jesus for a stranger. When they said, ‘It is toward evening, and the day is far spent, they did not mean, ‘We shall find it very dark, but, ‘You will find it very dark.’ It was an act of pure humanitarianism — done actually for Christ, but believed to be done for another. It was a cup of cold water given to Jesus ’ only in the name of a disciple.’ The whole scene was an unconscious yet visible representation of the words, ‘Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me/

They enter the house; they sit down to partake of the nightly meal. But the presence of Jesus makes the ordinary meal what He wished it to be — a sacrament — that one Sacrament which commemorates His Sacrifice. And here, strange to say, the incognito is lifted;

He is recognised ‘in the breaking of bread’. There are those who after long years have been identified by an attitude. But it is strange, from an artistic point of view, that the Christ of Easter Day should have been identified by an attitude bearing the reminiscence of Calvary. One would have thought that the recognition would have fastened on some thing more majestic — that the Resurrection Form would have reminded these disciples of the afterglow of that glory which had illumined Him on the Transfiguration Mount, But no; it is not the Mount but the upper room that is the medium of recognition. It comes from an attitude reminding, not of His glory, but of His humiliation. What they recognise is the Broken Body — the Body broken for them. The recognition of the Christ who had passed into a life beyond the grave is effected mainly by the memory of sacrificial love.

With striking consistency is the idea maintained in the episode of Thomas. Thomas recognises his Lord by the print of the nails. The presence of such a feature in the Resur-VOL. II. Z rection Body of Jesus is artistically startling. To admit a memorial of pain into a picture of the heavenly state was a bold thing. It would have been bold in any age; it was specially bold in that age. It was an age that reverenced the strong, that reverenced the beautiful. It was a period when a physical blemish was deemed a disgrace, when Divine power meant bodily power. To such a world the spectacle presented by the gallery on Easter Morning must have been as new as it was appalling — a Form that has risen to the sphere of the immortals is seen bearing the mark of its earthly wounds! It is the inauguration of a new ideal of heaven, nay, of a new ideal of God — an ideal in which power will be proportionate to suffering, in which the ability to succour pain will be commensurate with the capacity to feel it.

And what else than this is the meaning of these words of Jesus on the mountain of Galilee, c All power is given unto me in heaven and on earth; go ye, therefore, and teach all nations’? The power of which

Jesus speaks is sympathetic power; otherwise there would be no meaning in the word ’ therefore.’ He says, ‘I have received the power of universal sympathy; go, therefore, and help universal Man! ‘And where has He received it? On the heavenly side of death? No, on the earthly side. He has received His culminating power, not from resurrection, but from death itself. His last stage of development was in the depths of the valley; there He met man as man. The flower which Jesus wears on Easter Morning is not the flower of Eden but the flower of Gethsemane. Eden could never unite ’ all nations ‘; but Gethsemane can; there is not a common joy, but there is a common sorrow. Therefore it is His death that makes Him our King! It is His cross that we lift! It is His sorrow that we elevate! It is His pain that we glorify! It is His sacrifice that we perpetuate! Paul speaks of men being caught up to meet the Risen Christ — the Christ ’ in the air.’ But it is not the elevation that attracts them; it is the object elevated. They are drawn to the height because the valley is mirrored there; they are tempted to the sunbeam because it holds the shadow in its bosom. The glory of Easter Morning is the sacrificial red upon its sky.

T THANK Thee, O Lord, for this new ideal of heaven! The veil of the temple has indeed been rent in twain! I had altogether different ideas of the life beyond death — the Resurrection Life. I thought heaven was a place where there was no trace of the nail-prints, no room for sacrificial love. I thank Thee that Thou hast rent the veil and hast let me see through! I praise Thee, O Lord, for that vision! I was afraid my love would die from disuse, die from having nothing to do. I bless Thee that Thy Risen Form has gone down into Galilee — down to those who sit in the valley of the shadow! I bless Thee that Thy heavenly life is a life of ministration — that still Thou art known in the breaking of bread! I bless Thee that under the folds of the bright garment Thou keepest the print of the nails — the memory of human tears! Be mine Thy heaven, Thou Christ of Easter Day! Be mine beyond the grave that ministrant life of Thine! Be mine Thy home of helpfulness, Thy Paradise of pity! Let my happy land of Beulah be a land of successful burden-bearing — a land which gives facilities for wiping all tears from all eyes! Then shall my hope of heaven make me pure on earth; then shall my sight of coming glory prepare me for the ministry to present pain. I shall learn the lesson of love’s eternity when the light of Easter Morning tells me that Thy first hour in Paradise was an hour in Galilee 1

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