Nathanael the Invigorated

As we advance through the Great Gallery we are confronted by a face which has left its impress on the canvas of all time; it is that of Nathanael. There are three voices in the verb ‘to live’ — being, doing, suffering. There are some who come into this world to ‘do’; they are sent to work out a mission. There are some who come into this world to ’ bear ‘; their special gift from God has been a thorn. But there are a few who are sent neither to do nor to bear, but simply to ‘be.’ Nathanael belongs to the last class. If you ask what he did, I cannot tell. I can tell what Peter did, what John did, what Paul did — but not what Nathanael did. His mission was his being, and his being was his beauty. We feel as if we were watching a

child whose years are to be few, and for whom 67 there is no active work designed, yet whose petals we see unfolding and whose buds we behold expanding. The picture of Nathanael is strictly the unfolding of a flower. We are accustomed to say that we are told nothing about him. Nothing of what he did, nothing of what he bore — but of what he was, a whole biography! Come and unfold the flower with me as it grows under the fig-tree! It is the only life in the New Testament Gallery which is revealed emerging from rustic scenes. Peter, Andrew, James, the apostle John, probably Philip, rise from the sea. Matthew issues from the exchange. Mark comes from a secretary’s room. Nicodemus seems to have come out of a library. But Nathanael emerges from under a fig-tree.’ He is the rustic of the primitive band. Rusticity is the first stage of his life-flower. A native of Cana in Galilee, he has never left that village for any contact with a busy town. He has not rubbed with the world, and he remains still an artless child — free from scheming, free from am-

‘It is possible, in the light of John xxi. 2 and 3, that at an after-date he joined the fisherman’s craft.

bition, free from jealousy, free from the consciousness of self. He is without vices; but as yet it is only the faultlessness of rustic simplicity.

I think we are in a great mistake about the meaning of these words which Jesus spoke of Nathanael, ‘Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile.’ As popularly understood, they would be a eulogium fit to emblazon on the wings of angel or archangel, cherub or seraph. If Nathanael has reached this altitude, why call him to Jesus at all! Could Christ do more for any man than make him free from guile! If this man has reached the climax, he has no need of the climbing; the ladder from earth to heaven is in his case quite superfluous! Let him remain under the fig-tree and meditate on his own skies; he can see no greater things than these!

But my reading of this passage is very different. I would paraphrase it thus: ‘It is not opposition I am afraid of; it is dishonest opposition. I see a man resting under a tree. He is a thorough Israelite — earnestly devoted to the Rabbinical traditions of his country, and therefore naturally not in sympathy with me. Yet in his opposition there is no guile. There is nothing mean about it, nothing personal, nothing paltry. He is genuinely afraid of the new movement — afraid from the highest, purest motives. There will be an opposition which will come from guile. Men will refuse to come to me through fear of the cross, through dread of the sacrifice which my religion involves. But here is a man who is afraid he will lose the cross, afraid he will be deprived of the cJiancc of sacrifice. He says, “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth!” He thinks my religion will be too gay a thing, too sportive, too joyous. He distrusts Nazareth, he distrusts any part of Galilee. Galilee is too near the Gentiles for him — too near the confluence of the sinful nations who spend their life in eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage. He fears it will be a worldly religion, withdrawing the mind from what is serious and making the faith of Israel an imitation of the games of Greece.’

Consider, for a rustic like Nathanael and one with the weakness of a rustic, there was nothing strange in his entertaining such a presentiment

For let us remember that Christianity is the only religious revival in the world which has come in gay attire. Everywhere else the revival of religion has appeared in dust and ashes; men have beat upon their breasts and cried, ‘Unclean!’ Christ Himself was at first disposed to fast; but He had changed His thought — changed it for the ringing of bells and the playing of dance-music. And the sequel was to emphasise the change. Any man of the Baptist’s school would be startled out of his senses by what he was to see. He would see Jesus Himself immediately after His opening ministry’ providing for the supply of wine at a marriage feast! He would see this same Jesus turning a religious meeting into a social picnic because He saw that the people were faint and weary! He would see Matthew signalising his conversion by a sumptuous dinner to his friends! He would see young ministers after the Sunday-morning service walking in the fields and plucking the cars of corn! He would see Martha — not in spite of,

‘John’s first chapters presuppose that Christ was in the air previous to the feast of Cana.

but by reason of, Christ’s presence — spreading the richest repast that ever graced a table in Bethany! All this he would be compelled to view.

And what would he feel? Very much, I think, what a former generation of simple country-people felt when the innovations of modern science first broke upon the scene. When the white sail was supplanted by the black wreaths of the steamer; when the shrill railway -whistle woke the silent air; when a message was sent to India and an answer came back within an hour; when a man was told that he could speak to his brother through a distance of sixteen hundred miles; when, later still, the voices of men were bottled up in jars, carried across the Atlantic, and made to deliver speeches or sing songs after perhaps their original owners had passed away from earth — I say, such revelations as these must have shaken all the lives reposing under the fig-tree. They must have felt as if private communion were abolished, as if the life of public day had extinguished for ever the possibilities of the quiet hour, as if there were no longer a meeting-place between the soul and God.

I have attributed to Nathanael the weakness of the rustic. Some may be shocked by the ascription. But to me it is an impossible supposition that Jesus had any need to convert a man who was already in the literal sense holy, harmless, undefiled. Christ came to transform; if Nathanael was perfect, there was nothing to change in him. I think there was something to change. I believe that originally his understanding was narrow; he wanted mental vigour, and Christ called him to give him that vigour. To me the want of mental vigour appears more in the second stage of the flower than in the first. It is not so much in his opposition to Christ as in his acceptance of Christ that the weakness is seen. If he was opposed to Christ on inadequate evidence, he accepted Him on evidence more inadequate still. The narrative is given in very direct and simple terms, and may be briefly recapitulated.

Philip runs into Nathanael’ s retreat and accosts him with the virtual announcement, ‘The

Messiah is come — the long-expected, the long-desired; He is come in the person of a toiling man, a man of Nazareth!” That cannot be, ’ cries Nathanael; ‘we who are of Galilee know too much about its sinfulness to recognise a Christ from Nazareth!” Instead of arguing about the matter, ’ exclaims Philip, ‘come and see for yourself; look at the man with your own eyes, and judge him! ‘Nathanael agrees to the test. He is brought right into the presence of Jesus. Jesus greets him as one with whom He had long been familiar. ‘How do you know me.’’’ says Nathanael. Jesus answers, ‘I saw you sitting under the fig-tree before any man’s attention was directed to you.’ Then, with a great rush of enthusiasm, with a gust of conviction that swept all before it, Nathanael breaks forth into the vehement exclamation, * Rabbi, Thou art the Son of God, Thou art the King of Israell’

Now, I have no hesitation in saying that the rustic was prominent here. Nathanael had entered upon a great sea in a boat that was not fit to bear a single gale. The conclusion was far too big for the premises. He had rested the Messiahship of Jesus on what would now be called an act of clairvoyance — a power to see things at a distance. That was no mark of Messiahship; I doubt if it was even a necessary mark of goodness. It was a possession of the prophets — and there were bad men with the prophetic faculty. So far as I see, all the wicked people in Nazareth might have had this power without in the slightest degree diminishing their wickedness. Nathanael was here untrue to that fine moral bias which had prompted his original prejudice. The moral bias was the one good thing about the prejudice. He was then in search of goodness from his Christ; it was a terrible fall to come down to clairvoyance, Jesus Himself was surprised at the crude conviction. ‘Because I said I saw thee under the fig-tree, believest thou! ‘It is not the glad surprise He expressed later at the faith of the Phoenician woman. He recognises, no doubt, that Nathanael has made an advance — that the flower has actually found its way into the light; but He feels that it has dropped something in the process. Nathanael has lowered his demand. He has abated his claim. He has consented to take less from his Christ than he asked under the fig-tree. There, he had dem-nded a Christ who should come from a holy soil, whose environment should be solemn, whose tread should be serious. Now, he has for the time forgotten these impressions, and is willing to reverence a King who has the attribute of second sight!

Let us understand this matter. The Christ of the Gospels desires beyond all things to secure proximity to Himself. He will accept that on any terms — even should the coming be for the sake of the loaves; He knows that mere proximity will eventually kindle fire. But in the case of such inadequate motives there is absent an element of joy. It is not that there is little faith. I believe Nathanael had enormous faith. I believe he would have gone to the stake for his faith. I think his conviction at that moment was deeper than that of any of the previous converts — deeper than Peter’s or John’s or Philip’s or Andrew’s. But the conviction itself was based on something which Christ did not hold to be an essential part of His system. Let me try to illustrate the difference between the ‘little faith’ and the ‘inadequate faith.’

Imagine that a popular plebiscite were taken with the view of ascertaining the public’s estimate of some great poet — let us say, Robert Browning. Let us suppose that hundreds of sheets were crowded with panegyrics and a few tens with adverse criticisms. But let us conceive the idea that the list was closed by two very unique statements of opinion, neither of which could be described as either eulogy or blame, and which by their very eccentricity excited much attention. Let us imagine the contents of these two paragraphs. We begin with the last but one.

It says: ‘I believe that Browning has a power which I have not perceived. His great poems are quite obscure to me. I cannot understand Sordello; I cannot fathom Paracelsus; I cannot unravel TJie Ring and the Book. I must say, with the Psalmist, “Such knowledge is too great for me; it is high; I cannot attain unto it.” Yet I am willing to believe that the error is in me. The reason is that when I read some of his small pieces, such as Evelyn Hope and Easter Day, I feel charmed both with thought and style. These fragments enliven me, refresh me, quicken me. I would come to Browning for these tiny sparks from the anvil. The great work of his forge is meaningless to me; but the sparks have light and warmth, and they seem to beckon me on to the hope of higher vision. ’

Now, I should say that this man had a little faith’ in Browning. He believes in him to the extent of Evelyn Hope and Easter Day; and on account of that belief he distrusts his adverse judgment of the rest. These are elements of faith — very few, very fragmentary, very simple, but pointing in the right direction. Let us look now at the other and latest paragraph; it breathes a sentiment wholly different, and must be measured by a standard of its own.

It says: ‘I am sure that Browning is a born poet. I have never read him, but I have done better — I have come into contact with his soul. I was privileged once to meet him, to be introduced to him. It was under a tree. I had run beneath its branches for shelter from a passing shower, and there I found a group already gathered, of whom Browning was one. He was made known to me; and it seemed as if he had known me all along. His manner was that of a familiar friend. Nothing could exceed his courtesy, his urbanity, his freedom from self-consciousness, his personal interest in the things of which I spoke. I felt then and I feel now that only the soul of a poet could have enabled any man to throw himself thus into the life of another. ’

I ask, What is the position of this man.^ Is he in want of faith .-’ No; he has boundless faith; he has crowned his ideal with full laurels. But then, it is Nathanael’s crown — a. crown given for inadequate causes. He has accepted Browning as his laureate, not on account of his poetry, but on account of an interview under a tree. He has reached a royal conclusion by faulty premises. No doubt it is good that in any capacity he should stand near Browning. We will not rob him of his place; hereafter he may bloom by reason of the contact. We only claim the right to say that he has reached this place by a short and easy method, and that he will some day have to fall back to conquer the unappropriated ground.

And now I come to the third and final step in the spiritual history of Nathanael. It is announced by Jesus as something still in the future which is awaiting him and all of them; but it is announced as a positive certainty — with the formula, ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you.’ Jesus predicts Nathanael’s mental invigoration. He predicts the time when he will base His claims on something higher than a case of physical clairvoyance — ‘You shall see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man. ’

What does this mean.? Literally it says, ‘You Nathanael, and the rest of you, will yet see the fulfilment of Jacob’s vision.’ But what was Jacob’s vision.-’ It was the vision of God’s charity to man. The angels are ascending and descending for purposes of ministration; they are the ministrant spirits of the old dispensation. But there is one statement of Christ which is an addition to the picture, and which is to my mind strikingly original. It is the words, ’ upon the Son of Man. ‘I do not think we have grasped the significance of these words. Jesus claims charity as the special evidence of His religion. He says that He is the basis of all philanthropy, of all benevolence, of all humanitarian effort. He refuses the name of charity to anything which does not move ‘on the steps of the Son of Man.’ He tells Nathanael that this, and not clairvoyance, is to be the sign of His Messiahship. He claims to be the founder of active sympathy; on His steps alone could it descend from heaven; other foundation could no man lay.

Consider. In the world before Christ, in the world into which Christ was born, charity had sought to descend by the steps of other ladders. The Stoic had preached forgiveness of injury; but the ladder on which he descended was the sense of contempt for man. Nobody was worth being angry at, nobody was worth

quarrelling with. The mass of the human 6 race were poor creatures, too insignificant to stir dissension in the breast of a philosopher or wake revenge in the soul of a thinker. Again. The Roman supported institutions for the healing of wounded soldiers and the cure of sick slaves; but the ladder on which he descended was the spirit of self-interest. He wanted to preserve his property. If the soldier had the prospect of life in him, he might again serve his country; if the slave gave hope of recovery, he might again serve his master. The hospitals of that old world were not homes for the good of the sufferer; they were homes for the good of the healthy. They were intended to recruit the sinews of war for the leaders of armies; they were designed to recoup the resources of wealth for the masters of households. Do I speak this to their blame.? Assuredly not. It was an aim legitimate and right. But it was not the vision which Nathanael was to see. It was not a descent on the steps of the Son of Man. In fact, man had nothing to do with it; he was the one factor absent from human calculation. Nobody took into account that he was lying on a bed of pain; nobody asked whether his suffering could be mitigated. The one question was, Could it be cured? — could he be made available for the economy of the state or the economy of the domestic hearth? If he could, the gates of the infirmary were thrown open to him; if he could not, he had the fate of the man at the Pool of Bethesda — he could not get in.

Now, Nathanael’s vision was to be very different from this. The difference lay in the medium of descent. Rome stooped from her proud altitude to bind the wounds of the sufferer; but the ladder on which she came was not the ladder of Jacob — she descended on the steps of self-interest. But the steps of the Son of Man led in the opposite way. There was no thought of self, no thought of personal damage, no thought of lost service. There was only one thought — that a human form was being mutilated, that a human heart was feeling sad. Even the possibility of recovery was not the boundary-line of sympathy. Man ’ s physical care was to go beyond his physical hope. It was to take up the incurables. It was to provide a home for those who would serve no more, would fight no more, would be citizens of their country no more. It was to prepare for them a new citizenship — a place where they could abide under the shadow of the Almighty and render obedience, not in serving, but in waiting. This was the spectacle which in the days to come was to greet the eyes of Nathanael. And the strange thing is that the ground of this compassion for human suffering was not the insignificance but the greatness of man. Not because he was a poor, helpless creature shaken by every wind and at the mercy of every circumstance was man’s benevolence to be evoked for man. Rather was charity to be elicited by the fact that above the manger there was a star, that in company with the weary night-vigils there were choirs of celestial song, that, lying beside the impotence of the babe, there were gold and frankincense and myrrh that told of a coming glory.

Before taking leave of Nathanael there is one thing I should like to say. Christian writers, as a rule, have been eager to include his name in the list of the twelve apostles — they have tried to identify him with Bartholomew. It has seemed to them that one so early called 7mist have been an apostle. In that view I cannot concur. I do not think Nathanael was an apostle. I believe the Fourth Gospel had for one of its designs just to show that men could get close to Jesus without any official position. Look at its very keynote! — ‘As many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name.’ That keynote seeks to show that on the wings of inward faith, whose beating is inaudible even to the bystander, the humblest soul may soar direct into the heart of the Master. Accordingly, this Gospel has a record regarding Christians elsewhere unnamed or undwelt on — Nathanael, Nicodemus, Martha, Mary, Lazarus. Every one of them was brought as near to Jesus as any apostle of the band. Nathanael saw His glory; Nicodemus buried Him; Mary anointed Him; Martha reasoned with Him; Lazarus rose with Him in resurrection life. To be in such a company was worth all the privileges of the twelve.

SON of Man, they tell me that Thy crown has faded. They are wrong; it was never so bright as now. To Thee there was ever but one crown — Charity; to this end wert Thou born and for this cause earnest Thou into the world. Men have mistaken the nature of Thy glory. Like Nathanael, they have seen Thy lustre in a bauble; and when the bauble has broken they have said that Thou hast faded. But in truth Thou hast had to wait for Thy glory, O Christ; it is only fully in sight now. Charity is the youngest-born child of Thy Father. There have been days of prophecy, days of eloquence, days of doctrine, days of creed and confession; but charity was still a child. It is but yesterday that we have begun to descend on Thy steps; but at last the dawn is breaking! Above the creed there has sounded the cry — the cry of wounded humanity. We used to ask how we were to ascend with Thee to heaven; we are now inquiring how we are to descend with Thee to earth. We cannot get deep enough down until we get into Thy chariot; our brother’s rags are too loathsome to us till we have sight of Thee. But

Thou hast heightened my helpfulness by heightening my standard of man. It is not pity that I need; it is praise. It is not tears that I need; it is triumph. It is not heaviness that I need; it is hope. Others can show me the vile raiment of the prodigal; Thou pointest to the robe that is awaiting him. Others can tell me he is despised; Thy look follows him afar off. Others with a passing tear can leave him among the swine; Thou preparest for him the music in the house of the Father. Take us into Thy descending chariot, O Son of Man!