The Progress Towards Jerusalem

To the spectator in the gallery the title I have given to this chapter might seem very strange. I have called it the Progress towards Jerusalem ‘; yet, to the eye of him who looks only on the surface, the face of Jesus at this time is turned away from Jerusalem. He has decided to go — to brave the death for the sake of the kingdom. And yet, when He rises to depart, He moves in exactly the opposite direction. Geographically speaking, Jesus never went so far away from Jerusalem as at the date we have fixed for His determination to go there. Instead of moving south, He advances northward. He extends His sojourn in Phcenicia. He wanders along the shores of the Mediterranean; He looks towards the Isles of the Gentiles. In His return journey

He lingers in the north parts of Galilee — the heathen parts of Galilee. He crosses the ridges of Hermon. He visits the most obscure and neglected villages. He comes to Caesarea Philippi — the most un-Jevvish town in Palestine, the borderland between the Israelite and the heathen. This is a remarkable journey — unique in the life of Jesus. How shall we explain it at the stage where we have placed it? How shall we reconcile it with the fact that the leading thought in the mind of Jesus was a resolve to go to Jerusalem?

I answer: The progress I am tracing is not a geographical progress. It is a progress of mental preparation. Geography has nothing to do with it. Jerusalem was for Jesus the seat of death; that was its only significance. To prepare for Jerusalem was to prepare for death. Every step of mental reconciliation was a step of progress. It mattered not where the feet of Jesus should travel; the one question was, Where was His mind going? We must measure his progress to Jerusalem by no physical standard. Many a man draws mentally near his home by the very act of going away from it. The question is not where Jesus went in the flesh, but where He went in the spirit. We want to know whether the thought of approaching death can be traced in the selection of those scenes through which He passed. It is not alone when walking in the graveyard that a man can show his consciousness of the valley of the shadow. Jesus was not on the physical road to Jerusalem; but was He on the mental road? Had He taken up His cross into His heartf Had His mind become daily permeated with the thought of that great catastrophe which lay before Him? Then we shall expect to find, and we shall find, the evidence of that permeation — not in approximating milestones, not in ever increasing nearness to the cemetery, but in thoughts which regulate His choice of localities far away.

Is there, then, any connection between Christ’s preparation of the soul for death and His contemporaneous intercourse with places wholly or partially heathen? I think there is. Why did He penetrate so far into Phoenicia? Why did He walk by the waves of the Mediterranean and look towards the Isles of the Gentiles? Because He had said to Himself, * I want to think, not of men, but of Man — Man universal, Man cosmopolitan.’ And why had He said this? Because He had been confronted by the most universal, the most cosmopolitan thing in the world — death. For the first time in life He stands face to face with the prospect of a perfect union with humanity. As we have stood in the great gallery we have seen Him step by step descend Paul’s ladder of humiliations. We have seen Him ’ empty’ His own will into the will of the Father; but this was not a union with man. We have seen Him take a servant’s form’; but the form need not be the reality. We have seen Him take the human ‘likeness’; but a likeness may exist without identity. Then we saw Him come lower still; He was 1 found in fashion as a man ’ — deserted by the crowd as unworthy of reverence; but that was not a step of union. We beheld Him descend still further — ‘He humbled Himself; He abandoned His first ideal, gave up the dream of His youth. But even here the strong Messianic nature might seem to distance His experience from mine. The same calamity need not make the same cross; Jesus might lose His life’s dream like me, but, unlike me, Jesus had the support of a Divine will. In none of these steps do we find the perfect union with man as man. But we have seen another and a deeper step uncovered. It is not yet taken; but it looms in to-morrow’s sky. If we would understand the walk by the blue waters of the Mediterranean, if we would understand the lingering amid the heathen parts of Galilee, we must ponder the significance for Jesus of this one remaining step — the obedience unto death.

In the first volume of this book I said, by anticipation, that in the contemplation of death Jesus for the first time entered into union with universal Man. He went below the differences of Jew and Gentile, Greek and Barbarian. He touched the common ground for the meeting of all humanity. That this was His own view is certain; we have His testimony for it. He declares that by His death He will ‘draw all men ’ unto Him. The words are strongly antithetical. They suggest a contrast between His influence in life and His influence in death. In life, spite of the crowds that thronged Him, He was still but the Son of David. The swaddling bands of Bethlehem were yet around Him; He was a Jew with a message to the Jew. But death was to be for Him a bursting of the bands of Bethlehem. The troubles of His life might be Judaic troubles. They might be connected, they were more or less connected, with solicitude for His native land. But when He bowed His soul to the thought of death, His interest ceased to be national; it became cosmopolitan. He experienced a sympathy which made the world His country. Death is not the only thing universal to man, but it is that universal thing which most unites the world. Pain does not always unite; every man thinks his own kind of pain the worst Joy does not always unite; the possession VOL. II. D which gladdens you may bring with it no joy to me. But death does unite. Death is not only a universal thing; it is a combining thing. The sense of its mystery makes a fellowship. When Jesus felt He was approaching the city of the dead, He felt He was drawing nearer to universal Man than He had ever been permitted to do in the cities of Galilee.

Is it any wonder that the mental eye of Jesus at this time was riveted on the Isles of the Gentiles! His progress to Jerusalem meant really a progress towards universal Man, for it was a progress towards the great uniter, Death. Is it any wonder that at such a time His thoughts should have transcended nationality, that the branches of the tree should have run over the wall! And now it is, I take it, that there rises in the breast of Jesus that great idea which, at Csesarea Philippi, breaks forth into speech. You will observe, He is not yet reconciled to death; it is only a surrender of will. But there comes to Him a thought which, without being a reconciliation, serves as a counterpoise. He will rise again. I have said that His human path was revealed to Him backwards. First He saw the completed kingdom; then He saw the Ascension — the expediency of His departure. Now there gleams forth the prospect of His return from death. Death itself is not yet revealed, not the glory of it. But there comes to Him a conviction that He will vanquish death, will rise above it, will come forth from its folds into newness of life. How does this bear upon the point we are now considering? If the thought of death brought Him nearer to the Gentiles, what would the thought of resurrection do?

I answer, it would bring Him nearer still. Death, after all, could only burst the bands of the old country; the rising from death could give Him a new country, a country accessible to all the world. To rise from the city of the dead was to make a new Bethlehem, a second Christmas Day. Galilee could no longer say, ‘He is mine ‘; Jerusalem could no longer say, 4 He is mine’; no single nation could here after say, ‘He is mine.’ He would have risen above principalities and powers, above every name that is named by way of national distinction. Men would no longer say, ‘He was born in Bethlehem ‘; they would say, ‘He was born on Easter Morning, from the common soil of humanity; He belongs to the city of the dead; we can all claim Him, Men would no longer say, ‘He is the Son of David ‘; they would say, ‘He is the second Adam, the Son of God.’ Men would no longer say, ‘He is of the tribe of Judah’; they would say, ‘To Him all the tribes of earth go up; all families of the earth can boast affinity with His Name/

Is this view fanciful? It is, at all events, not my fancifulness. The view was ventilated nineteen centuries ago by the earliest spectator in the gallery — the man Paul. He stands in front of the Portrait; he gazes intently on the Face; then he takes out his notebook and writes down, ‘Jesus is the Son of David according to the flesh; but He is powerfully declared to be the Son of God by the resurrection from the dead, What does he mean?

That Christ had two birthdays — the one local, the other universal — the one in the city of Bethlehem, the other in the city of the dead — the one from the line of David, the other from the bosom of Mother Earth — the one ushering the life into a narrow environment, the other setting His feet in a large room.

I wish now to direct your attention to a circumstance which, before I studied these things, seemed to me very strange. I have spoken of the seemingly incongruous Gentile localities through which Jesus passed on His road to Calvary; I have shown that their incongruity is not real. I must now point to something apparently more incongruous than any Gentilism, because it lies in the mind of Jesus Him self. Let me briefly narrate the circumstances.

Jesus has come to Caesarea Philippi. He is accompanied only by the original little band — the primitive league of pity. They have clung to Him through good report and through evil. From them He can have no secrets; He tells them of the impending catastrophe. They receive the news as a son would receive the tidings of a father’s disgrace. They are indignant, remonstrant; they refuse to let Him travel towards the city of death. It is not the pain of wounded love they feel — Jesus has told them He will rise again. It is the pain of wounded pride — the indignation that their Messiah should stoop to conquer. Jesus does not receive their remonstrance as a tribute of affection. He turns to their ring leader and says — not to him, but to the enemy He sees prompting him — * Get thee behind me, Satan! ‘To the eye of Jesus Peter is only an agent; the real actor in the scene is His old tempter in the desert, who wished Him at the beginning to exchange the cross for the crown.

Amongst ordinary men nothing helps a cause like opposition. Jesus required no such stimulus. Yet the spectacle of worldly pride here exhibited was well fitted to fan the flame. It did fan the flame. He breaks forth into strong enthusiasm, not about His- death, but about His rising. ‘I tell you,’ He cries, ‘that my empire will not be retarded by this inevitable cross. There are some standing here who will not taste of death till they see that empire. There are some here who will live to see the day when the faith in me and the love of me shall have become a vital force in the world — a force which must be counted on, reckoned with — a force which will demand the attention even of Roman power.’ 1

Now, should we not expect that with such enthusiasm in His heart Jesus would have hurried to the crucial spot? Should we not think that His immediate impulse would be to direct His outward steps toward the city of Jerusalem? Was it so? On the contrary, He waits, passive. It is the most protracted passive attitude of His recorded life. The historian has nothing to tell. Eight days Jesus lingers at Csesarea Philippi — eight days of seeming inaction, of apparent waste. Jerusalem is waiting for Him, Gethsemane is waiting for Him, Calvary is waiting for Him; still He lingers. Then the eight days are

1 You will observe, however, that this did not solve the question of accepted expiation.

ended; the new week has opened. Surely this will be the Passion Week! Surely now He will arise and take His journey! He does; but whither? To Jerusalem? No, to Mount Hermon. All the week He has been meditating this journey, not the Jerusalem journey. From the league of pity He selects but three — Peter, James, John; and with these He ascends the mountain. Why? Is He flying from death after all? Has He listened to the advice of the disciple who said, ‘Be it far from Thee, Lord’? Is He not preparing for the valley! why scale the height? Is He not training for a burden of heaviness! why climb where the air is light? Is He not making ready for the meeting with universal Man! why ascend into the mountain solitude? That is the question which in the following chapter I propose to answer.

TV T EANTIME, Son of Man, I thank Thee **.*’ for the revelation of delay. I thank Thee for the revelation that the delay of a hope is no proof that it is not dear to Thee. Often I cry for Thy presence at Jerusalem, and instead of coming Thou ascendest the slopes of Hermon. I say at these times, ‘What is the profit of my prayers? surely the former days were better than these! ‘Help me in such moments to stand in the great gallery! Help me to feel that I am only repeating the experience of former days — of Gospel days! Help me to see how beautiful is the thought that the delay comes from Thee — not from accident, not from chance, not from outward opposition! If I know it comes from Thee, I feel as if I need ask no more. Thy retardation must itself be a wing. I have heard the prophet say, ‘How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings! ‘But Thy feet would be beautiful to me even though they were standing still. I should feel the stillness to be a part of the message — a waiting for the ripeness of the message. Only tell me that the stillness comes from Thee! The rolling of Thy chariot-wheels is glorious; but the pausing of Thy chariot- wheels is also glorious. All Thy pauses are musical pauses; they are part of the symphony. I can say of Thee in the ascent of Hermon, ‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of Him that suspendeth good tidings! ’