On the Mount

At the close of the last meditation in the gallery I was asking myself a question. It was an artistic question — a study in the proportion of colour. I was asking why Jesus, at the very moment when He was preparing His eye for the grey, should have bent His face toward the gold. I was inquiring why, at the very time of His highest enthusiasm for a cause which involved suffering, He should have sought on the heights of Hermon to experience an opposite feeling.

And the answer I give is this: It is because the true preparation for suffering is not prophetic enthusiasm but present comfort. Prophetic enthusiasm may be conquered by present calamity — swept down by the torrent of the hour. Nothing can bear suffering but an actual joy; nothing can support sorrow but a present comfort. The only preparation for tears is a ripple of gladness realised, not merely foreseen. I have no hesitation in saying that Jesus went up to the mount in order to make ready for the valley. There is a remarkable statement by the writer to the Hebrews, ‘We see Jesus crowned with glory and honour for the suffering of death.’ I should have expected him to say, ‘We see Jesus suffering death to be crowned with glory and honour.’ But the men who had a front view of the gallery saw differently. They saw that in a deep sense the crown must ever precede the cross. They saw that the secret of successful endurance is not the dogged supporting of pain, not the sense of martyrdom, not even the devotion to a cause, but that it is the sight either of a rising, or of a lingering, brightness. All acquiescence in sorrow, all resignation in sorrow, nay, all fortitude in sorrow, rests on something opposed to the sorrow. A shipwrecked mariner may be kept afloat by the very waters which threaten to drown him; but a heart overwhelmed by the waters of affliction is not kept afloat by these. As a psalmist of Israel says, it must have a rock rising above the waters.

I shall have more than one occasion to refer to this principle in my remaining studies of the great gallery; it runs consistently and persistently through the later life of Jesus. Here on Mount Hermon we have perhaps its earliest illustration. Jesus has gone up to the Mount to drink of His favourite spring — communion with the Father. He has gone up to get a draught of the sparkling fountain ere He goes down to endure the heat in the valley. He feels that His sacrifice must be preceded by a mental stimulus, a bracing of the heart. He feels that He wants a crown before the cross, a glory before the gloom. Like an ancient poet of His land He desires to sing, ‘I will not fear though the earth be removed ‘; but like that ancient poet, He would first walk up the banks of that beautiful river, ’ the streams whereof make glad the city of God/

Jesus, then, stands right below the vaulted sky and communes face to face with the Father. He has withdrawn Himself a stonecast even from the three favoured disciples; He has yielded His soul to prayer. And as He stands there, as we stand there, we have a strange spectacle — a radiance all from within. There is no increase of light in the gallery. There is no added sunbeam pouring through the panes. There is nothing from without to augment the attraction of the Portrait. Yet its aspect to-day is different from that of yesterday; there is a diminution of care on the brow. We are left in no doubt that the cause is inward — * As He prayed, the fashion of His countenance was altered.’ Here, as ever, His glory is from within. Nature did nothing for Him, ancestry did nothing for Him, miracle did nothing for Him, the pressing of the crowd did nothing for Him; the power that transfigured the world was the beauty of His own soul.

I would not have you think that this was to Jesus a moment of cloudless joy. Remember, it was the cloud that took Him up to the

Mount. He went because He felt heavy in spirit. Moreover, the sombreness of His spirit coloured the scene. By whatever name you may call this episode — dream, vision, trance, history — one thing at least is clear — Jesus carried all through it the thought of His earthly burden. Jerusalem was His earthly burden — the dark spot in His future, the dark spot in the future of His three companions. They had all carried up Jerusalem in their hearts; no wonder it swam before their eyes Men speak of the New Jerusalem coming down from heaven; here was the Old Jerusalem coming up from earth! Neither Jesus nor His disciples had left their weight behind. They all had the same dream because they all had the same waking consciousness — the thing to be accomplished at Jerusalem.

That is the gloom of the picture; what is its glory? What is that which transfigures the face of Jesus? Why is Jerusalem’s shadow itself eclipsed for a time in light? Is it that Jesus has at last been reconciled to that feature of death which repelled Him? If you say so, you make the future agony of the Garden simply meaningless. I cannot too strongly reiterate my opinion that the revelation of Christ’s mission to His own soul was made to Him backwards. I have tried to trace the steps of that revelation. Jesus was now being led towards the final step — death. He was ready to take it with resignation, but not yet with equanimity. I do not think He took it with equanimity till the close of the Garden scene. Meantime He must progress towards it. How is He to progress towards it? By keeping it in view? No, by keeping other things in view. It is not by the shadow of a calamity that I am led to approach the calamity; it is by light outside of it. If you want to understand the comfort of the Transfiguration, you must put yourself in the place of Jesus where He then stood; you must stand on the Mount with Him. If you do so, I think you will come to a definite conclusion — a conclusion which will clear the present, without obscuring the future, narrative. I am looking at the picture entirely from an artistic standpoint; I am considering merely why it was painted here and not elsewhere. Yet in this limited inquiry lies the root of the whole revelation; and I shall not deem it an altogether thankless task to determine the artistic position of this memorable scene.

I hold, then, that the aim of the Transfiguration scene was to eclipse for Jesus the darkness of death by throwing in front of it a light which was really behind it. That light was the hope of resurrection. If you study the picture you will come to the conclusion that all its tints and colourings are designed to obscure the place of the sepulchre. And first of all I would direct attention to the fact that this is essentially a picture of the meeting of heaven and earth. It is one of those rare days in which the hills seem to touch the sky. Three forms stand on each side of the heavenly gate; and as we look closely there is a strange parallel between them. Within the gate, on the heavenly side, there are three figures — Moses, Elias, and Jesus — the man of law, the prophet of fire, and the Voice of the

VOL. II. E

Spirit. Outside the gate, on the earthly side, are also three figures — Peter, James, and John. These latter three seem to be made after the pattern of the three heavenly forms. Peter is the lawgiver — the man whose authority is to bind and to loose. James is the prophet of fire — the Elijah of the primitive band. John, in his ultimate development, is the man of the Spirit — the man whose watchword is ’ love.’ Such a poising of earth and heaven is not accidental. It must have come from an idea in the mind of the artist. And what is that idea? It is what the poet calls ’ the bridal of the earth and sky.’ It is an attempt to depict on the canvas a meeting-point for the two worlds. Every difference is for the time ignored. Change is ignored, decay is ignored frailty is ignored. The tread of death is drowned in the sound of marriage bells.

But look again. I am deeply impressed with the fact that every feature of this picture is selected with a view to centre the eye of Jesus on something apart from death. From the great army of the departed, who are those chosen to be the objects of His vision? ‘There talked with Him two men which were Moses and Elias, who appeared in glory.’ Why select these from the host of those who had passed from earth? Moses was certainly a representative man. But so far as earthly work is concerned, I doubt if Elijah was. He was in no sense the representative of the prophets strictly so called. He had left no writing; he had bequeathed no pregnant saying; he had achieved no definite result. Measured by national influence Isaiah was a far greater man, David was a far greater man. If the artistic design had been to get representative men to meet Jesus, I should have selected not two but three. I should have brought Abraham to represent the age of the patriarchs. I should have allowed Moses, as here, to represent the age of law. I should have called forth the man who was traditionally deemed the sweet singer of Israel — David, the minstrel and the king — to represent at once the line of the prophets and the line of the sovereigns. Why is it not so in the picture? The answer is very simple. It is because the aim of the artist here is not to paint representative men. That is not here the principle of selection. What is that principle, then? You will find it at once if you ask one question. Is there any point at which Moses and Elias resemble each other? In all points but one they are unlike. Moses is meek; Elias is fiery. Moses is victorious; Elias is baffled. Moses is a moralist; Elias is a physical wonder-worker. But there is a point in which they are at one — both are separated from the association with death. These two men in the tradition of their country were both dissociated from death. Moses was without a sepulchre; Elias was without a shroud. The one disappeared from human sight on the heights of Pisgah; the other appeared to human sight ascending in a chariot of fire. The one left the impression of an eye undimmed and a natural strength unabated; the other became associated with the glories of the sunshine.

Now, why are these the men chosen for the occasion? Because the occasion required these distinctively. The vision to be presented to Jesus was a vision of resurrection, not of death. Death, meantime, was to be kept in the back ground; its time was coming, but it was not yet. The eye of Jesus was to be held aloft. When a sailor is ascending the mast, his chance lies in looking up; if he looks down, he will totter. Jesus had begun to climb His cross; He was preparing for Jerusalem. But to climb successfully it was essential that He should look up, not down. His eye must be filled with beauty ere He gazes on the spectacle of gloom. The Transfiguration was the strain of music which accompanied and sustained the march to death.

But look once more. What is the subject of the converse between these heavenly visitors and Jesus? It is expressed in our authorised version by the words: ‘They spake of the decease which He was to accomplish at Jerusalem.’ But the word in the original is not ‘decease’; it is ‘exodus.’ Why do we render it ‘decease’? It is because we have imputed to the men of that time our modern view of immortality — the idea that death is an exodus, or transition, of the soul. Such a view was not then entertained; it came from Jesus Himself, and it came from Him at a later hour. No man of the Transfiguration hour would ever have dreamed of calling death an exodus; no man would have written, ‘They spake of His exodus ’ when he meant to say, ‘They spake of His decease! When they spake of His exodus it is clear they were not speaking of His decease. They were passing by His decease; they were covering the sepulchre from His sight. The picture of Jerusalem, as I have said, figured in the front of heaven; but the burden of Jerusalem was transfigured. Instead of the sacrifice there appeared the accomplishment of the sacrifice — its finishing, its result. In the place of death stood resurrection — it was this that was called the exodus. And why was it called the exodus? Because it was to lead the children of Israel across a second Red Sea. At present their very reverence for Jesus was a line dividing them from other lands; the Birth at Bethlehem narrowed them.

But the New Birth from the city of the dead would connect them with every soil. It would be to the followers of the true Messiah a second national exodus. It would lead them forth from the captivity of proud isolation into a union with every country and kindred and people and tongue. It would break the bondage of a false patriotism by breaking the line of David. It would enable the Gentile and the Jew to claim a common origin for their Lord — an origin which was dependent on no land and which was fostered by no lineage. The exodus of which Moses and Elias spake was a stage of liberal culture that was to supplant them both.

CHRIST of love, repeat Thy experience in wH Often am I called to a Jerusalem of pain. I dare not ask in advance to see the meaning of that Jerusalem; but I dare ask in advance to be strengthened for it. I dare ask, I do ask, to be taken up beforehand to the mount with Thee. There is none I desire to be with on the mount but Thee. I would have no longer a tabernacle for Moses and Elias there. Thou hast gone beyond them; Thou hast left them far behind. To whose experience shall I look but to Thine on my way to Jerusalem? Thy mount is higher than that of Moses, higher than that of Elias. Moses escaped the sepulchre; Elias escaped the shroud; Thou hast escaped neither — Thou hast conquered both. There is no preparatory joy like joy on account of Thee. I shall seek no lesser mount when I am going to my cross. I shall pass Moses by, Elias by, Peter and James and John by. I shall have nothing but a draught of the highest joy in preparation for my pain. Meet me with the spray of the fountain! Meet me with the light of the dayspring! Meet me with the song of the bird! Meet me, above all, with the voice of Thy love! Let me hear of the exodus before I enter Jerusalem; I shall bear every cross when I have stood on the mount with Thee