HEROISM
"Then rest, poor soul,
He bids you rest,
Nor tremble at the dread tomorrow;
Lean on Your Savior's willing breast,
And you shall know no care nor sorrow
No longer trust your tottering limb,
But cast your burdens all on Him
Who set His face to tread the blood-stained path,
And without murmur drained His Father's cup of wrath."
"As the time approached for Him to be taken up to heaven,
Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem." Luke 9:51
There must always be a feeling of sadness in bidding
farewell to a place where we have long sojourned, and with which is
interweaved many hallowed associations—the scenes of sunny childhood—the
hills on which we gazed—the stream which murmured tranquilly by the parental
home—the kind looks, and kind hearts, and kind words which throw a halo more
sacred still around the dwelling of our early youth.
Jesus, being Man, participating in all the tenderest
sensibilities of our nature, could not be altogether a stranger to similar
emotions. He is now about to bid farewell to scenes and localities with
which for thirty-three years of a mysterious life He had been familiar. The
last three of these, though saddened, as we have seen in the former Chapter,
by unbelief and impenitence, were yet linked with loving and momentous
memories. His words and deeds were embalmed in grateful remembrance in many
a town and fishing hamlet of Gennesaret. The dying, the dead, the sick, the
blind, the halt, the lame, had learned to revere Him as a Great Prophet, a
generous Philanthropist, a faithful Friend. The very children loved to
follow Him—to listen to His simple teachings, and to lisp His sacred name.
If He refused the offer of a crown, He was king in ten thousand hearts;
and heavily would the tidings have fallen on many, had they known the truth,
that this Great and Gracious Redeemer was about to depart from Galilee,
never again, except for the briefest of interviews, to return!
If it is sad, even with bright prospects before us, to
bid adieu to a home such as I have described, how are these feelings of
sadness augmented when that departure is accompanied with gloomy
forebodings, too truthful presentiments of evil and sorrow?—the knowledge
that there is but a step between the hallowed home-hearth and the chilling
blasts of a wintry unbefriending world? When the hand of death has entered a
household, and the widow and her orphans are forced adrift amid bleak
scenes and stinted comforts, who (save those who have felt it) can describe
the fond lingering look turned to the old dwelling, listening for the last
time to the murmur of its brook, the sunlight glancing amid the quivering
leaves, under whose shadow childhood has often loved to repose! The youth
leaves a father's roof under any circumstances with a drooping spirit. But
how are his regrets embittered when he knows that he is entering on a rough
and rugged path, about to exchange gentle looks and kind smiles—for frowns,
reproach, cold neglect, and insolent scorn!
What—if we dare compare human feelings with those of
Jesus—what must have been His emotions in leaving now the home-scenes of
Galilee and Gennesaret under the tremendous consciousness of the trial-hour
awaiting Him? What must have been His thoughts, as for the last time He
stands near some spot where the Jordan, issuing from the lake, resumes its
impetuous course, and, taking His farewell glimpse of the scenes of His
ministry and miracles, He hastens onwards to the climax of His life of
woe? But He trembles not—flinches not—falters not! His resolution is
taken! With a HEROISM unparalleled in the world's history, He seems, in
words He afterwards uttered, to be longing for the hour of conflict
and victory—"There is a terrible baptism ahead of me, and I am under a heavy
burden until it is accomplished!" In this Festival Journey, how diverse the
thoughts and experiences of the multitudes—the Disciples—their Lord!
The multitudes could participate in no such
saddening farewells. These feast-days periodically recurring, formed to them
the most joyous events of the year—holiday times, all whose associations
were mirth and gladness; happy occasions for friends meeting friends at the
distant capital, and uniting together in the worship of their fathers' God
and their own! On ordinary occasions these feelings would have been also
shared by the disciples. It was different, however, now. They had
recently been receiving mysterious and significant intimation from their
Beloved Master of a terrible crisis impending—how He "must go up to
Jerusalem" to suffer, to be rejected, and crucified. Their feelings are thus
powerfully and graphically described by Mark—
They were now on the way to Jerusalem, and Jesus was
walking ahead of them. The disciples were filled with dread and the
people following behind were overwhelmed with fear. Taking the twelve
disciples aside, Jesus once more began to describe everything that was about
to happen to him in Jerusalem. "When we get to Jerusalem," he told them,
"the Son of Man will be betrayed to the leading priests and the teachers of
religious law. They will sentence him to die and hand him over to the
Romans. They will mock him, spit on him, beat him with their whips, and kill
him, but after three days he will rise again." Mark 10:32-34
How strange, that notwithstanding such an announcement as
this, the bearing of Him who uttered it should be so calm, so
magnanimous!—that instead of shrinking at these dreadful shadows that were
now projected on His path, He should commence from Galilee that "Dolorous
way," terminated by the crown of thorns and the bitter tree, with tearless
eye and unhesitating step; and that the Evangelist has to give, as the
closing record of this portion of His Gennesaret life—"As the time
approached for Him to be taken up to heaven, He resolutely set out
for Jerusalem."
Let us endeavor to ponder one or two reasons which among
others must have served to strengthen and sustain the Savior in setting out
on this momentous journey—in other words, the causes of a resolution and
magnanimity so remarkable, with a crisis so appalling at hand.
I. He was cheered by the consciousness that in now going
to Jerusalem He was fulfilling the will of His Father.
This great idea, this elevated motive, was ever paramount
with Him—the impelling power in every thought, word, and deed—"My food is to
do the will of Him that sent me." There was an hour appointed by the Father
for the consummating of His work on earth. That hour, no bribe, no threat,
could tempt Him either to anticipate or evade. A short while before, some
worldly, time-serving "kinsmen" urged Him to proceed without delay to
Jerusalem, seizing the opportunity of unbounded popularity to claim the
Throne of David, and assert His claims to the Messiahship, "Leave here, and
go into Judea, that Your disciples also may see the works that You do. If
You do these things, show Yourself to the world." His answer was meek and
gentle, yet tempered with righteous severity, "My time has not yet come, but
your time is always ready." "There is no restriction laid upon your time,
and even if there were, you would not be willing to attend to it, if worldly
prudence or advancement dictated otherwise. But it is otherwise with ME. A
great WILL above regulates my every movement; I cannot and shall not by one
hair's-breadth deviate from the path that WILL has prescribed."
But the moment had at length arrived which the Father had
appointed for the Great Sacrifice. Daniel's "seventy weeks" of years were on
the eve of "accomplishment;" and, in obedience to that Higher WILL, He
prepares to depart. The hour strikes which had been waited for by all time,
"and He sets his face steadfastly to go to Jerusalem!"
Here is the secret of moral strength in encountering our
seasons of trial and difficulty—the conviction that our times are
in the hands of God; thus leading to complete and entire subordination
of our wills to His. How it would disarm affliction and bereavement of their
bitterest stings if we were enabled to give as the history of our darkest
dispensations, "This is my heavenly Father's will!" The hour has come—the
hour appointed by loving Wisdom. "The world's time is anytime;" their
trials are called "misfortune;" "untoward accident;" "wayward calamity." But
the Christian, like his Lord, is able to view every occurrence as emanating
from a Hand of infinite love, a Mind of infinite foreknowledge, and a Will
of infinite faithfulness. Every phase in his history—every step in his
pilgrimage—its most trifling incidents and circumstances—are Divinely
appointed. Feeling that he is under this kind and gracious guardianship, he
resolves his own will into the will of The Supreme! All that concerns him
and his are parts of a vast harmonious plan. The future (mazy, dark,
mysterious,) is fully known to One who sees the end from the
beginning—educing good out of seeming evil—order out of apparent confusion.
Even when a cross (a shadow of his Lord's) looms gloomily on his path, he
breathes with unmurmuring lips, "Even so, Father!" and sets his face
steadfastly to endure his baptism of suffering and blood!
II. Another reflection which would, doubtless, sustain
Jesus in this farewell hour, would be the thought of past fidelity and
devotedness in His great work.
How faithful, how devoted, the great Redeemer was during
these brief but eventful years of residence within and around Capernaum, we
have often had occasion to note; from His first utterance in its Synagogue,
as the anointed Preacher of glad tidings, down to the hour here spoken of,
when He took His last view of Galilee, and proclaimed to its cities, and to
the world, those healing words on which His own death was now to impress an
untold significancy and value—"The Son of Man is come to save that which was
LOST!"
We found, in a former chapter, how His weary human nature
often sank under physical exhaustion, gladly snatching a few hours of sleep,
as best He could, on the planks of a rough fishing-vessel, or on the brow of
the midnight mountain. His was the ceaseless activity of holy work; curing
physical maladies; expounding heavenly truths; pointing the weak and
weary—the burdened and backsliding—the neglectful and the lost—to that
wondrous salvation He was sent from heaven to purchase and proclaim. "Never
a man spoke"—never a man toiled and labored, wept and prayed
like this Man! Yes, the consciousness that He had been enabled to fulfill
His God-like work with such unwearying devotedness, could not fail mightily
to uphold His spirit when about to confront more terrible experiences—"the
hour and power of darkness."
Let us ask, How is it with us? In the prospect of the
time when we too are to be "received up"—that moment which sooner or later
awaits us all—when our spirits shall wing their flight from an irreparable
past into a changeless future—can we anticipate or meet it with the joyous
humble hope, "I have not lived in vain—my work is done—I have served my
God—I have been for long reposing on the merits of that blessed Redeemer—I
have sought to spend existence under the sovereignty of the lofty motive to
please Jesus!" Or, alas! is it with us, as with many; Christians in name,
but whose lives are a mournful blank? If they have love to God; it is a
fruitless love; if they have faith in Christ, it is a faith without
works"—withered, sapless, unproductive, dead!
Reader, if you would seek, when the last Messenger comes,
to receive his summons with calm composure and tranquil joy—live now to God!
Study, as your model, that lovely Life we have been tracing in its three
most momentous years—that "Rose of Sharon," as it bloomed and blossomed on
the shores of Tiberias. Let its tints and fragrance follow you to your
homes, your closets, your places of business, your scenes of enjoyment. Let
all your daily thoughts, words, actions, be molded and regulated by the
inquiry, "How would Jesus have acted here?" As activity, in His
Father's work, was the great law of His being, make it also yours. "Lo, I
come, I delight to do Your will, O my God," was His utterance when,
(pillowed in that bosom of everlasting love), the Redemption plan was first
proposed to Him. Sacredly did He fulfill His high resolve, from the moment
He entered our world as the Babe of Bethlehem, until, with the voice of a
Conqueror, He could proclaim—"I have glorified You on the earth, I have
finished the work which You gave me to do."
Like Him, too, "work while it is called today." His
appointed period for active energy on earth was short—three brief years
included it all. Your probation time may not be longer; it may not be so
long. Ah! "the night is coming when no man can work." Think, before it is
too late, how terrible to be confronted by Death, all unfit and unprepared
to die—the oil not bought—the lamps flickering—hours wasted—opportunities
neglected—an unprovided-for eternity lying at your door!
If tonight the angel-messenger were to deliver his
command—"The time has come for you to be received up;" could you, with the
joyful alacrity of your Lord, set your face steadfastly to meet the great
struggle-hour of nature? could you adopt the words uttered from the noblest
of deathbeds—"As for me, my life has already been poured out as an offering
to God. The time of my death is near. I have fought a good fight, I have
finished the race, and I have remained faithful. And now the prize awaits
me—the crown of righteousness that the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give
me on that great day of his return." 2 Tim. 4:6-8
III. Jesus willingly "set His face to go to Jerusalem"
and accomplish His decease, when He thought of the glory that was to
follow.
If His last utterance, at this time, in sight of
Gennesaret was, that His mission as the Son of Man was "to save the
lost," what a theme was this with which to nerve His soul in the
prospect of that dreadful baptism!—"THE LOST," who by these sufferings would
be reclaimed—the countless myriads whose robes, through that blood-shedding,
should through eternity be made white!
At that eventful moment His omniscient eye must have had
mapped out before it all terrible realities of Gethsemane's Garden and
Calvary's Cross—every thorn of the crown—every mark of the nails—every gash
of the spear. But if such was the dark foreground in the earthly picture,
there was a bright and glorious background—the perspective of a palm-bearing
multitude of triumphant victors. For the joy that was thus set before Him He
"endured." He beheld, in this transporting vista-view, myriads who must
otherwise have become monuments of inexorable Justice in the dark
prison-house of despair, made everlasting pillars in the temple of God,
saved by His bleeding love and mercy. Oh, when He thought of that goodly
harvest which was to be reaped—a harvest of which His blood was the costly
seed; when He estimated that revenue of glory which, by means of His cross
and passion, should, through everlasting ages, roll in to the triune God, He
willingly turned His back on the peaceful homes and hamlets of Galilee,
fearlessly to confront the hour of His own tragic sufferings.
Is ours the same joy? does this cheer us under all the
trials to which we may now be subject—does it nerve and sustain us in the
thought of death itself—that soon the night-songs are to melt into the
praises of eternity—the night-shadows to merge in the glories of
unending day? Amid the light afflictions of the present, are we keeping in
view the bliss which is hereafter to be revealed; forgetting the tossings of
the intervening ocean, in the prospect of the quiet haven and the
everlasting rest?
The earthly father, going to a foreign land to provide
for his dependent family, is cheered amid all the difficulties and
privations which may beset him, with the thought of again rejoining
them—that after a brief struggle in an uncongenial region, he will be back
again amid cheerful faces and joyous welcomes. Shall we not willingly submit
to any loss, any cross our gracious God sees fit to appoint us, if we can
exult in the well-founded hope of a blissful future—a glorious immortality,
where these very losses and crosses will be found to turn into eternal gain?
Let the sweet chimes, coming floating on our ears from the towers of the New
Jerusalem, cheer our spirits and quicken our languid footsteps. Let us set
our faces towards there; and though we may have our Kedron-brooks and
Gethsemanes of bitter sorrow now, let us think of the sinless, sorrowless,
tearless heaven beyond, where these shall never more be known or dreaded!
And now, in conclusion, let us ask, Are we ready for
Death?—do the words of this passage fall on our ears as a truthful, a
beautiful description of the "inevitable hour," the time when we are to be
"received up?" How many are there to whom every thought of dissolution is
strangely different—to whom death is the most harrowing of prospects—a dark
portico at whose shadow they tremble—a Grim Monarch, whose very name carries
with it terror and dismay? No wonder that it is so, if you are content to
live in guilty unreadiness for its advent—if your peace is to this hour not
made with God—if you are squandering existence without one thought of Hell
or Heaven.
But if it is otherwise—if you have fled to Jesus, the
Sinner's Savior and the Sinner's Friend—if you have personally appropriated
all the benefits of His purchase, and are living by faith on the Son of God,
who loved you and gave Himself for you, then is the King of Terrors disarmed
of his might—he is an unsceptered and crownless monarch—and when you
anticipate that solemn hour when he is to make inquisition at the house of
your earthly tabernacle, you need no longer think of it with dread—you may
rather associate it with descending angels and ministering saints smoothing
your pillow, and waiting as a celestial convoy to "receive you up."
Yes, I again say, Beautiful figure! It speaks of death as
an hour of emancipation and triumph. Up to that moment you are, like the
fettered eagle, chained down in the earthly cage; but a Messenger comes from
the Spirit-world, snaps the encumbering bond, that you may soar a free-born
citizen to your true home in the skies!
That time must before long arrive when you shall be
called to die. Are you so living, that you could bid a joyful farewell to
your pilgrim warfare and joyfully enter on your pilgrim rest?
If you cannot yet contemplate unappalled that final hour—if you are still
living at a conscious distance from God, eternity unprepared for, your soul
unsaved—delay no longer repairing to Him who alone can give you peace; and,
as you hear Jesus proclaiming the grand focus truth of His Gospel—the Son of
Man has come to save the lost—as one of the lost accompany Him in
this His final journey to Jerusalem—go with Him to His cross! gaze on His
bleeding wounds! His dying agonies!—see what He did to save you and such as
you! As you listen to His expiring cry, "It is finished!"—remember its
comforting accents were meant to reach your souls.
Do not think that Jerusalem towards which He calls you to
set your face is a prize beyond your reach! He has flung open its portals
for you. Having overcome the sharpness of death, has opened the Kingdom of
Heaven to all believers. Ah! were the procuring of that Heaven dependent on
yourself, then you might well despond and despair. But He is "the Way, the
Truth, the Life"—"By Me if any man enter in he shall be saved!" It is
because His face was set to the Earthly Jerusalem that the Heavenly has
unbarred its gates to you! He Himself, by His doing and dying, has let down
the patriarch's typical ladder; by it, you are invited to enter within the
gates into the city. Relying on Him who has thus "abolished death and
brought life and immortality to light," you can, like your Lord, set out on
the final Journey, saying, with the cross beside you and the crown above
you, "Into Your hand I commend my spirit; for You have redeemed me, O Lord
God of truth."