The Second Hope of Jesus

There is nothing to my mind more certain than the gradual character of Christ’s human foresight. The historian says He grew in knowledge. The knowledge in which He was to grow was the knowledge of His destiny. His mission was to be revealed to Him step by step. The order of revelation was to be from above to below. The cloud was first to be lifted from the height. Jesus was to see His mission as a whole before He saw it in part. I believe the events were to be revealed to Him backward as they were to His future apostle, the man of Tarsus. The end was to be shown before the beginning. In point of fact, His first vision was the vision of glory. The salvation was

seen completed, the kingdom won. The interis mediate shades were omitted from the picture. The consummation appeared without perspective. The offering to the Father was to be an offering of unobstructed righteousness. We have seen how there had flashed through the soul of Jesus the ideal of an earthly kingdom of God which He Himself should remain to establish. The last thing had, to His vision, been made the first. To-morrow had taken the place of to-day. The triumph seemed nearer than it was. The grapes of Eshcol had been revealed, not as the fruits of a promised land, but as the fruits of a present vintage which was now ready to be gathered.

But now, over this first dream we have seen the cloud fall. Jesus found that the vintage was not ready, that within the limits of His earthly life it could not, on natural principles, be ready. This first hope must be abandoned. But abandoned for what? For despair? No, for a second hope. This cloud of Jesus was itself a revelation. His Father was leading Him over the field, not from the beginning to the end, but from the end to the beginning. The last had come first — the vision of final glory. The falling of the cloud over that glory was not a call to despair; it was a call to see more. It was an invitation to accept a less roseate view, to seek a fulfilment of His mission in less brilliant circumstances. The cloud which covered one part of His sky had rolled away from another. A new possibility had opened. At the very moment when the first hope was assailed, at the very moment when Jesus was turning His eye regretfully backward, that eye caught sight of a line of retreat — a line from which might possibly be recruited the shattered ranks of the army of salvation.

What was this line of retreat? I think you will find a suggestion of its nature in the very sermon we have been considering in the previous chapter. Near the close of that sermon there occurs a remarkable passage which is thus rendered: ‘Does this offend you? What if ye shall see the Son of Man ascend up where He was before! ‘So rendered,

VOL. II. B
18 THE SECOND HOPE OF JESUS

it is made to read thus: ‘Are you surprised at my saying that I have come down from heaven? That surprise will be taken away if you see that I have the power to go up to heaven.’ In a discourse on the power of the inward, could you imagine Jesus resorting to such an external argument? I cannot. Besides, our rendering is not in the Greek. There is no l what ’ in the original; it is simply ‘if ye shall see the Son of Man ascend up where He was before.’

How shall we explain this strange, parenthetical, seemingly disjointed utterance? It is my opinion that the words were spoken by Jesus in soliloquy. He was thinking aloud, and He was thinking of His audience; but I do not believe he was addressing His audience. There had come into His mind a new suggestion. There had flashed across His heart another possibility — the vision of a road to success, less immediate indeed, but more sure. Let me try with all reverence to paraphrase the thought which was here uttered unconsciously and in broken speech.

* I see this multitude is quite unable to appreciate any glory that is not a visible glory. They have been in my presence day by day; they have seen my works hour by hour; and yet they are incapable of under standing a mental influence. Why is this? May it not be that their very privilege has been against them? Perhaps they have seen too much physical power, too much visible glory. My presence, which seemed so essential to the founding of a kingdom, may be itself the deterring circumstance. Would not a temporary eclipse of that presence be an advantage? If my life were for a while to become to them a memory, would they not for the first time begin to realise the power of the invisible? If they were compelled to guide their steps by a mere remembrance, if they were forced to imagine what I would have said, if they were obliged to regulate their actions by an appeal to the thought of me, if the ideal of my example were to take the place of my audible command — would they not begin to learn that there is such a power as the reign of the spirit, would they not at last be ripened for the kingdom of God?’

Such I conceive to be the thought of Jesus underlying this disjointed utterance. It is disjointed because it is only half spoken; the rest is uttered in the heart. You will observe, it is exactly the sentiment which He thus expressed at a later day: ‘I tell you the truth: it is expedient for you that I go away.’ These words must have had an origin in Christ’s experience. When you hear a man uttering a rounded sentiment, you know quite well that the sentiment has originated in his heart beforehand. So with that memorable saying of Jesus. It must have been long in His mind ere He could speak it out with such emphasis. When we hear it on that later occasion it is full-grown. It must have been at one time a new-born experience; it must have begun rather by lisping than by speech. Where shall we look for its lisping? Where shall we find the evidence of its mere formative period? Surely here — in the synagogue of Capernaum! Surely in this broken, disjointed utterance, half spoken, half felt, in which the human soul of Jesus dimly figured a new possibility for the kingdom of God! If you read truly the life of Jesus, you will interpret His every saying as a word of autobiography, and you will look to His past experience for the origin of that word. Where shall we find a better origin than the synagogue of Capernaum for the words which at first sound so strange and paradoxical: ‘It is expedient for you that I go away ‘!

What, then, is this revelation in the soul of Jesus? It is something which brings His mission a day’s march nearer home. I am far from thinking it was anything like a full disclosure of His mission. There was no vision yet of the valley of the shadow of death. There was simply a revelation that in some form or other His departure would be expedient for the establishment of the kingdom. In what form that departure was to be made was as yet not indicated. I think the mind of Jesus was dwelling more on the fact of separation than on the mode of separation. As I have said, I believe the steps of His departure were revealed to Him as they were revealed to His servant, Paul — backward. What Paul first saw was not the crucified but the ascended Christ. Even so, if I were to hazard an opinion, I should say that in thinking of His departure the inner eye of Jesus rested first on the last movement — the Ascension. This would seem to be suggested by the words: ‘If ye see the Son of Man ascend where He was before.’ The last scene in the picture-gallery gets the precedence of all the others. As the details of His mission passed before the eye of Jesus they came in reversed order. A curtain still hung over the visible cross. A veil yet rested on the sepulchre. A mist continued to cover the prevision of an Easter morning. But the latest stage of all was already glowing in the sun. The Son of Man had realised that He must depart. He had come to feel that His union with humanity must be preceded by a break. The heavens must receive Him ere the time of restitution could be proclaimed. A cloud must recall Him from earthly sight before the great longing for Him could be felt by men. Through all the darkness one thing had become clear — it was expedient for His followers that He should go away.

You will observe that in these chapters I am trying to trace the mental sequence of the Gospel narrative. I am seeking to indicate why each event in the life of Jesus occupies the place it does, and not another. We are now coming to a typical instance of the method I am pursuing. Immediately after the sermon at Capernaum we find an altogether unique event in the life of Jesus. We find Him in a position never occupied by Him before and never assumed by Him again, For the first and last time He stands in the midst of a heathen community and preaches a gospel to the Gentiles alone. He passes into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon — the land of Phoenicia. That is the unique event of His life. It is His first voluntary passage beyond the limits of Palestine. I say * His first voluntary passage.’ There had been an involuntary passage; He had been carried, as an infant, into the land of Egypt. But this second transition was made by His own will. He stands for a moment in the place of His future apostle — Paul. It is only for a moment. It is a sudden gleam of sunshine, a sudden breath of fresh air, vanishing as quickly as it came; yet for a moment it is there; and that moment is historically indelible. Phoenicia had received a greater privilege than Egypt. Egypt had held in her bosom the unconscious babe; Phoenicia grasped the full-grown hand of Jesus.

That is the event; what is its meaning? Has it any bearing upon the present circumstances of Jesus? Had the journey to Phoenicia any connection with the state of mind in which we now find Him? We shall best answer the question by simply inquiring, ‘Why did He go? ‘The motive does not lie on the surface. The incident is introduced abruptly, and the imagination is invited to try its wings in flight. Let us obey that invitation.

It is quite certain that Jesus did not go to Phoenicia for the purpose of preaching the gospel. The earliest narrative is conclusive on this point. We gather from St. Mark vii. 24, that He wished His presence in Phoenicia to be unknown. Nor is there any evidence for the common view that the journey to Phoenicia was a flight. I do not doubt that Jesus would have deemed it His duty to preserve His life for the sake of His work. It is not the duty that I fail to see; it is the danger. The cloud over Jesus was as yet an inward cloud. He was suffering from the frustration of his ideal not from any actual persecution; I can see no cause for flight. But instead of looking outside, let us try reverently to enter into the thought of Jesus. Let us try to photograph the inner moment — the experience through which the heart of the Master was passing. He had come to a definite conclusion. He had arrived at the conviction that His temporary absence from the world was a desirable thing; He felt it expedient that He should go away. If a thought like this took possession of the heart of Jesus, it is clear to my mind that He would apply the principle to everything. He would say to Himself: ‘If a complete severance from the scene can do so much, might not a partial severance do a little? Must I wait for Elijah’s chariot that I may gain the advantage of becoming invisible? Is there no earth-born cloud that could receive me out of the sight of this people? Yes. Within a day’s march of this Capernaum there is a land divided from it by an ocean of thought — a land of the heathen, a land of the Gentiles. The gulf between earth and sky is scarcely wider than the gulf between Galilee and Phoenicia. The passage from Galilee to Phoenicia would, to my countrymen, be like the passage from life to death; it would bury me out of their sight. I will go there. I will try the effect of silence. I will cross the borders into another world. I will let the men of Galilee miss me. I will throw them back on their memory. I will become for the first time a picture in their fancy. I will let them feel in some measure the love of the unseen/

Such, I am convinced, was the thought of Jesus. The plan was perfect in design. It was frustrated by one circumstance. There was one thing which had not entered into His estimate, and the omission redounds to His glory — He had not realised His own fame. What failed was the effort at concealment; St. Mark says ‘He could not be hid.’ He thought He would be obscure across the borders; He found that His name had preceded Him. He found Himself in danger of being solicited to lay the first stone of His kingdom in Phoenicia instead of Palestine! He could not do that; His spirit revolted from it. It was not a question of whether the Gentile should have bread with the Jew; that was never doubted. But the question was whether the Jew should be supplanted; whether the bread should be taken from the children and given to strangers. Was it now that the parable of the barren fig-tree suggested itself? Was it now that a hundred voices seemed to cry, * Cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground?’ I do not know. But I do know it was now He resolved to make another effort for its fruitfulness — to dig round about it and give it one chance more. The Father’s time for His departure had evidently not yet come. He would not anticipate that time; He would work while it was day. If the cloud refused to hide Him, it must be because the Father had still a work for Him to do. He would obey the mandate of the cloud; He would reveal Himself to the world again. In what form this fresh resolve appeared, the following chapter will show.

‘”T^HOU canst not be hid by earth, O Son -*- of Man! In vain wouldst Thou bury Thyself in the shadows of Tyre and Sidon! Men will find Thee there — concealed behind the secular drapery! I often think of the life of great cities as eclipsing Thy presence; I associate Thee more with the desert than with the crowd. Yet the city can live without

Thee even less than the desert. It is vain for Tyre and Sidon to call themselves secular communities. Nothing but Thy Spirit can make a community. I can live in solitude by the power of selfishness, but I cannot live in brotherhood by the power of selfishness. That needs Thy power, Thy love. No bond can unite men but the bond of Thy Spirit. It is by Thee that Tyre joins her masses; it is by Thee that Sidon unites her families. They know it not; they call their union by other names; but Thine is their kingdom, their power, and their glory. Thou art the root of all fraternities; Thou art the source of all guilds; Thou art the flower of all brother hoods; in Thee the lives of men become the life of Man. Happy will Tyre and Sidon be if in seeking the cause of their prosperity they shall behind the drapery find Thee