The Effect of the Mount on the Plain

Raphael has a magnificent picture of the contrast between the scene on the Transfiguration Mount and an almost contemporaneous scene which was occurring on the plain. He suggests that while the top of the mountain was bathed in light its base was exhibiting a spectacle of darkness — the spasmodic convulsions of an insane epileptic. And yet, the poising of these two scenes in contrast conveys an impression which is not the impression I derive from the great gallery. In looking at the scene as represented by Raphael we are apt to emphasise the separation of the two experiences. It is like the feeling we have in seeing a Parisian funeral — death in the midst of gaiety. But that is not the meaning of the two scenes as they appear in my gallery. To me they suggest, not the separation between the mount and the plain, but the necessity of the mount to the plain. Let me briefly indicate my reading of this matter.

Jesus, you will remember, only took three disciples to the mount; He left the rest behind. He probably left them behind for their own good — to let them try themselves alone. They had soon occasion for the test. On the day after the departure of Jesus, a man followed by a crowd comes to Caesarea Philippi, bringing to the disciples his little boy, who was afflicted in the manner indicated. The disciples were nothing loth to try their healing power. They had the fit of empire on them — that same spirit of imperialism which had made them object to the cross of Jesus. They were evidently actuated by no sense of humanity, but by the sense of personal pride. Had it been a purely physical case, the motive would have been of less consequence — although even in physical nursing, a sympathetic hand counts for something.

But in a case like this, involving mental irritation on the part of the patient, the want of compassion was a deadly blank.

The disciples failed. I can imagine the laugh of derision at their failure. It need not have been limited to the Pharisees. Many even of the half-Christianised multitude must have had a certain satisfaction in seeing the discomfiture of men who, though no better than themselves in birth, had yet been put so far above them. In the midst of the laughter Jesus passed by. He was on His return from the sight of the crown. The Italian painter might suggest that the sight of the cross fell on Him incongruously. I believe the entire design of the narrative is to demonstrate the contrary — to show that the crown of Jesus was preparatory to His cross. The key to the whole scene lies, I think, in the question of the disciples after they had seen Jesus succeed where they had failed, ‘Why could not we cast out the demon?’ They had obeyed all the prescribed rules of the hospital; they had done everything which

Jesus had done; yet Jesus had healed where they had been baffled. They asked, and we ask with them, ‘What was the element in Him which was here wanting to them? ‘And the answer must be, ‘That vision of glory which He had seen on the Mount, Remember what that vision was. It was the foresight of a second exodus — the going forth of a prejudiced little band to meet in sympathy with universal Man. In one word, it was the vision of humanitarianism.

Was that no preparation for the scene on the plain! In looking on a spectacle of human degradation, can there be anything more stimulating than a previous vision of human possibilities! Jesus had seen these new possibilities for man. He had seen in anticipation the exodus of narrow souls. He had seen the emancipation of shallow hearts from the bondage of their own limits. He had seen the prospect of a small life being enlarged, of a poor nature being enriched — of a son of Israel becoming a citizen of the world. Did not such a transformation give hope for all transformations! Was it not greater than would be that of the poor lunatic before Him into the peace of a sound mind! Had not His eye foreseen the exodus of His own disciples from bondage into freedom, from narrowness into universalism, from bigotry into catholicity! Surely the sight of such a wide transition on the Mount might well inspire confidence for the liberation of one soul on the plain!

I do not agree, then, that the scene at the top of Hermon is the antithesis to the scene at the foot of it. I think the vision on the summit was the preparation for the spectacle at the base, and for all such spectacles. So far from deadening the tendency of Jesus to stoop, I would almost be disposed to say that it accelerated this tendency. At all events, from the day of the mountain view, His footsteps are quickened down the hill of humiliation. Singularly enough, all the exhibitions of pride come from those who had not been on the mountain, who had been left behind on the plain. I believe, as I have said, that they were left behind in order to teach them humility, to let them try themselves alone. They were doubtless the most self-conscious of the company — the subordinate members of a company usually are. Their very surprise at their own failure to heal the lunatic boy indicated a boundless conceit, which would have been amusing if it had not been sad. Moreover, the special election on the part of Jesus had fanned the flame. Three of their brethren had been set on a pinnacle, had been taken up by the Master to the enjoyment of a peculiar privilege. The selection was made for the advantage of those left behind — Divine, unlike natural, selection always is. But the men left behind could not see beyond the hour — could see nothing but the preference. The Transfiguration, for those who had not seen it, was the birth in the apostolic band of the green-eyed monster, jealousy. Who were Peter, James, and John, that they should be thus privileged! Had they done any more than the others! Was the kingdom of God, after all, to be simply a revival of the kingdom of Caesar! Why should these three precede the rest! Were they not all as good men as they! Had not all shared equally the fortunes of their Lord! Had they not accepted His kingdom on the ground that it was to be free from the subordination of the weak to the strong! Why create a subordination on the very threshold of the new evangel!

So talked they one to another all along the road to Capernaum. It was the first exhibition of professional jealousy ever witnessed by the Church of God. It was at the same time the earliest protest against the admission into the kingdom of Christ of the doctrine of election. The Transfiguration was the birth day of apostolic rivalry. That Jesus should make a selection from the twelve seemed an unjust thing. That three should be taken to the Mount and nine left grinding at the mill, that three should bask in the glory and nine be kept working in the field — this was something which had falsified their ideal of spiritual equality and Christian brotherhood! They had been quite willing that the twelve should

8o THE EFFECT OF

have been selected out of the million; but it was intolerable that the three should have been privileged above the nine!

What they did not see was that in both cases the favour was intended for those left behind — that the twelve had been selected for the sake of the million, the three for the sake of the nine. Jesus was determined they should know this; and when they reached Capernaum He poured forth one of the most remarkable discourses He had uttered since the delivery of the Sermon on the Mount. It occupies nearly the entire space of Matthew xviii.; but to my mind its nucleus lies in the single statement, that the guardian angels in heaven of little children on earth always behold the face of the heavenly Father. The idea evidently is that these guardian angels get their beatific vision in order to make them stoop. Their exaltation has not the effect of making them look up, but of making them look down. They have been elevated to the height in order that they may bend not merely to the plain but to the valley — to the utmost verge of human impotence — to the helplessness of a child. Let me again try reverently to paraphrase the thought of Jesus.

‘You think that three of your number have received a special privilege. From a selfish point of view, from your point of view, they have not. They have been elected not to a privilege but to a burden. They have been taken up to the mount, not that they may rise above you, but that they may bend below you. Some one is needed to come lower than you have come. You have been lifting your eyes too high. You have been considering that your mission lies with the strong and mighty — with those who can help the advance of the kingdom. I tell you it lies with the child-life of humanity — with those who can give nothing and must receive all. To go down to man in his emptiness, in his unremunerativeness, is a burdensome thing. I have elected three of you to bear that burden — to help you towards your true mission. I have brought them up to a height where they could behold the face of the Father. I have

VOL. II. F done so because the guardian angels of little children are there. It is because they always behold the face of the Father that they are always able to succour little children; they can stoop low because they see so much glory. This is my hope for your three brethren. I want them to be humble, more humble than you are now. I want them to get a capacity for bending to things below them, and to become to you, to all men, examples of that capacity. Therefore I have set them on the height, bathed them in the glory; there is nothing which impels to the cross like the sight of the crown.’

And now, impelled by that same Transfiguration Light, Jesus Himself hurries towards the cross. At last He takes the long-projected outward journey — the journey towards Jerusalem. Jerusalem looked less repulsive since He had seen it on the Mount; the sepulchre had been hid by the stream of the exodus. Driven by the glory of the Light, He departs from Capernaum almost immediately after entering it. He quits the scenes which He loved the best — the scenes of Galilee. Again it might be written, ‘He must needs go through Samaria.’ The Light on the top of Hermon was driving Him towards Jerusalem by the shortest way possible. Samaria was the shortest way possible; He must go by Samaria. But Samaria has no well for Him on this occasion; her well is dry. She could tolerate one bringing a privilege from Judea to Galilee, but not one bringing a privilege from Galilee to Judea. The town on the direct route shuts its gates on Jesus and His league of pity; Jesus has to journey by another way. Two members of the league are opposed to this turning aside; they are for war, fire and sword — the method of Elijah. Who are these two members? ‘Peter must have been one of them,’ you say. Not at all. It is the two sons of Zebedee — James and John. Why did Peter not speak? I will hazard a conjecture. Peter was, of all men, the most opposed to the Jerusalem journey. I could imagine a little boy who was being taken to school for the first time experiencing a vivid pleasure when the coach broke down. I think some such pleasure was at the heart of Peter when the Samaritan town refused to let Jesus in.

But perhaps the mystery to most will be, not why Peter did not speak, but why John did. Has the brush of the artist been guilty of an incongruous colour? Is not John the disciple of love? Yes; but there is no fire like the fire of love. It is a familiar saying that love will go through fire and water for its object. That is just what John wanted to do for Jesus. We are, in my opinion, in a great mistake about the Bible portraiture of John. We think of him as a sentimentalist, a dreamer. That he certainly is not. His very love is the reverse of sentimental; it is pre-eminently practical — it is a keeping of the commandments. John is the man of waiting; but there is a waiting which comes not from vacillation but from its contrary — which is the result of settled determination and sure confidence. Nothing tests a man’s character like his letters. We have John’s letters. They are all love; but it is practical love and love fringed with fire. ‘If a man say, “I love God,” and hateth his brother, he is a liar.’ Is that the language of a sentimentalist? Could Elijah himself have spoken more strongly? You tell me that in this very scene before Samaria Jesus rebukes him for the want of love: ‘You know not what spirit you are of.’ Yes — in our version; but the words are absent from all the good MSS. John did not err by want of love, but by love’s intolerance. Samaria and John were both intolerant; Samaria was intolerant from pride, John was intolerant from love. Samaria looked into the mirror, saw herself and would brook no rival; John gazed into the face of Jesus, saw heaven, and would brook no gates of earth. Samaria would have exterminated all those who would introduce a larger sympathy; John would have exterminated all those who would narrow the sympathy of universal love. The fire which he would have kindled was in the interest of humanitarianism.

nREACH me, O Lord, to tolerate Samaria; “*” it is the climax of human charity! Teach me that the summer of broad-mindedness is the power to tolerate z/ztolerance! I boast of my breadth of sympathy; I call myself a catholic mind; and I deem the proof of it to be that there is one thing I have no sympathy with — narrowness. Teach me that the want of this one sympathy is the absence of perfect broadness — the one step between me and heaven! I have tolerated all doubts; I have pardoned all agnosticisms; I have condoned all breakings with the past; but I have had no sympathy with those who have clung to the past. I have made no allowance for the man who insists that yesterday was better than to-day. I can accept the open gates of Galilee; but I have no excuse for the shut gates of Samaria. I shall never reach that sympathy till I come to Thee. Thou alone art broad enough to sympathise with narrowness. Thou alone art tolerant enough to pardon zVztolerance. Thou alone art large enough to recognise the claims of smallness. Thou alone art high enough to bear with the errors of a little mind. When I am confronted by the shut gates of Samaria I will come to Thee