No Miracle, But Power
IT is said of John the Baptist that he did no miracles, but that all he said about Christ was true. Therefore one may not be a miracle worker, and yet may be very useful. Perhaps we think that most of the things of love and mercy which Jesus did were miracles. He had divine power, and many of his works were supernatural. He showed his power over nature when he made the water wine, when he stilled the stormy sea, when he multiplied the loaves. He showed his power over sickness and disease when he healed all manner of human ailments. He showed his power over demons when he cast them out of those in whom they were living. He showed his power over the Tempter when he vanquished him in the wilderness. He showed his power over death when he rose 275
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from the grave. We may not make little of Christ’s miracles — he did many things which no man could do.
An English preacher tells of a visit paid by a party of Americans to the wonderful royal grapevine at Hampton Court. It hung full of rich summer clusters. One of the party asked the keeper, “Could you not give us a few of those grapes.’^” The keeper replied courteously, “There is only one man in the kingdom, sir, who could give you grapes from this vine.” “And who is he.’*” the visitor inquired. “His Majesty, the King,” was the answer. There are things which only the King can do. There are blessings which only Christ can bestow. There are fruits of grace which you can receive from no hand but his. His miracles were wonderful.
Yet only a small proportion of the things Jesus did were unusual, supernatural; ninety-nine hundredths of his acts were simple, common kindnesses which it did not need divinity to perform. His words were all gracious and inspiring. He wrought only one, miracle in [276]
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the Bethany home, but in his frequent visits, sitting with the family by the hearth, or at the table, talking with them in the quiet evenings, walking with them in the garden, sharing with them the tender things of friendship and affection, there must have been in their hearts ever after a thousand memories of his love which made his name sacred to them, besides the memory of his raising of Lazarus. It was so in all Christ’s life — there were a few miracles, showing divine power in marked and undoubted way; there were countless revealings of kindness, gentleness, sympathy, thoughtfulness, encouragement, mere common kindnesses, which were as full of God as the miracles.
When Jesus said to Philip, “Have I been so long time with you, and dost thou not know me? He that hath seen me hath seen the Father,” he did not refer merely to the miracles he had wrought — there was quite as much of the Father revealed in his everyday life with his friends — his unbroken peace, his never- failing patience, his abounding joy, [277]
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in his gracious helpfulness every moment, as in his great signs.
Indeed the Incarnation itself was just the coming of God down out of invisible glory, into common human life, reveahng himself in simple, homely ways that we might understand him, that he might get close to us, that we might come close to him, that we might know him intimately and familiarly. It was in Christ’s most human ways that the disciples saw most of God. His miracles dazzled their eyes and awed them. Mary could not have sat at his feet and listened calmly to his words if he had appeared transfigured. John could not have leaned on his breast at supper, restfully and quietly, if glory had been shining in his face. Christ’s deepest revealings to us are made in humanest ways. A writer in The Outlook puts it thus:
They hade me lift my eyes to thee, who art great
Lord and King, Enthroned above the cherubim, who praise eternal
sing.
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And eagerly I gazed above, as other mortals dare: Such radiant light was all too bright — / could not
find thee there. And blinded, and with downcast eyes, I scarcely
saw the man Who walked beside me on my way, though close
our pathways ran. No pomp, no kingly pride was there: his footsteps
pressed the road; A staff like mine was in his hand; his shoulders
bore their load. One day I turned and saw his face — the pitying,
human brow; ‘’ Brother,” he said, with outstretched hand; and
I, ‘’Why, this is thou!’’
The same is true of others as well as of the Master. One may be a true witness for Christ and yet not be a worker of miracles. Or to bring it into the language of every day, one may not be brilliant, may not be eloquent, may not do great or conspicuous things, and yet may do much worthy and blessed service for the Master and for men. Many people are hero worshipers. They admire and magnify [279]
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the work done by the miracle workers. The popular preacher wins attention by his eloquence, and everybody praises him. Meanwhile, plain, commonplace preachers toil away in obscurity, not drawing crowds to hear them, not winning commendation, never mentioned in the newspapers. Yet they go about, seven days in the week, giving out their lives in all manner of kindly service to men. Their lives are full of self-denials. They carry benedictions into people’s homes. They pray beside sick beds and comfort mourners. They carry their people in their hearts and arc friends to the needy, the poor, the children. They are not eloquent, and no one praises their public ministry, and yet they may be ten times the blessing in the world the brilliant orators are. They do no miracles, but they are Christ’s beloved servants, messengers of his love to the world.
It is the same in all callings. There are those who do spectacular things, and people praise them, follow them, almost worship them. There are certain persons who do good in un- [ 280]
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usual ways. They are benevolent, and are known everywhere as great givers. The tendency is to pay a great deal of honor to these miracle workers. Perhaps the honor is not too great, not more than they deserve. We must not envy those who do great and beautiful things and get much praise of men. But meanwhile there is a great multitude of people who are not brilliant, not eloquent, who do no unusual or striking things, but who are among the most useful persons in the community where they live. They do no miracles, but their lives are full of blessing. Indeed, the fact that a person works quietly, without noise, without fame, never doing anything startling or sensational, may indicate greatness rather than smallness. It is easier to work amidst cheers and huzzas than in obscurity, where one never hears a commendation. A writer says, “One test of the religious life is in its willingness to occupy a subordinate place and to work faithfully in it.” The story is told of a young man who was president of a young people’s organization, and who [281]
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greatly liked prominence. He had a genius for keeping always in the limelight. As long as he could lead and be prominent he was happy, cheerful, enthusiastic and interested. But when he was not in some conspicuous position he was not a comfortable man to get along with. One of his friends described and characterized him thus: “He has plenty of religion to lead, but not enough to follow.” There always are good people of this type. They work splendidly when they are in a conspicuous place, with others under them, but when they are second or down somewhere in the common ranks, they are of little use. It takes more grace to shine in the lowly places than in places of prominence. In the immortal Thirteenth of First Corinthians St. Paul draws a distinction between the miracle workers and those who do no miracle.” If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am become sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all [282]
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faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And if I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and if I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profiteth me nothing.” Here we have a list of miracles — speaking with the tongues of men and angels, having great knowledge, having faith, that can do impossible things, giving away milHons, devoting one’s body in martyrdom. But all these miracles of attainment and achievement in themselves amount to nothing. In striking contrast with these conspicuous things St. Paul sets love. Love does no miracle, it is lowly, humble, hiding away from observation, desiring no praise, vaunting not itself, seeking not its own, and yet it is honored in heaven and blessed on the earth far above the starthng miracles of genius and brilliancy which lack love. It is fitting that we sing the praise of the lowly who love and serve without fame, without noise, ofttimes even without appreciation. It was thus that Jesus himself lived and wrought. He never did anything to get peo- [283]
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pie’s praise. He wrought many miracles, but never one to make a sensation. His were all miracles of love, of kindness. He never advertised himself. He worked quietly, without a wish to gain fame. All that came into his presence were better for meeting him — life meant more to them ever after. But he worked without noise. His influence was like the dew that is forgotten but leaves refreshing and benediction everywhere.
Think of the mothers, the mothers who live with their children and for them. They do no miracles, but their hands are ever performing the homely things of love. Think of the great company of Chnstian men and women who are plain and commonplace in their lives, who are not known beyond the little circle in which they live, who have no earthly honor and who “leave no memory but a world made better by their li’es.” They do no miracles, but their names are known in heaven. Angels are familiar with their deeds. God is honored by their noble lives.
So we do not have to do great and startHng [ 284]
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things to make our lives impressive and unusual. We do not have to do miracles in order to commend Christ to others. We may not be able to do anything great or startling. We cannot give much money. We cannot speak eloquently. We cannot go as missionaries. Some people have the impression that because they cannot do miracles of service, they cannot do anything to add to the honor of Christ’s name. But the smallest beautiful thing we do for Christ makes him a little more glorious as men see him. A preacher went back after forty years to the college from which he had been graduated and spoke one Sunday to the students. He talked to them of the kind of friend Christ would be to them. At the close of the sermon he said, “I have tried to speak a good word to-day for Jesus Christ.” That is what we should try to do every day — say a good word for our Master.
Be good, though you cannot be great. Live
sweetly, though you cannot live brilliantly.
Do well your lowly tasks wherever you are.
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Never long for honor, for praise of the world, for distinction among men. Live for the eye of Christ and to make people better and happier. Show no discontent with your quiet, obscure lot. Envy no one who does things that men praise while you are unpraised. The noblest life is the one that puts a little glory on the name of Christ and makes some other human being a little better, truer, more worthy. It is enough for any day if you say in some ear a good word for Jesus Christ.
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‘Do the work that’s nearest,
Though ifs dull at whiles,
Helping when you meet them
Lame dogs over stiles,
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels’ feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet.”