10. St. John At Home Again.

ST. JOHN AT HOME AGAIN.

XXXIV.

St. John shared with the other apostles the privilege of seeing several of the appearances of the risen Lord during the forty days; but in one of them he played a conspicuous part. This took place at the Sea of Galilee, and the scene is described with great fulness in the last chapter of his own gospel.

There hangs over this story an air of mystery. Indeed, some of the details have, at first sight, the appearance of irrelevance, if not mystification. This, however, is no rare occurrence in this gospel. One of the peculiarities of St. John as a writer is that now and then he puts down, with an air of simplicity, sentences which appear to have nothing in them at all, or at all events nothing relevant to the occasion. But, as the reader, after repeated trials, is turning away in disappointment and, perhaps, a kind of resentment, suddenly, from a sharp angle of vision, something flashes out on him and, turning back, he discovers it to be a clue by which he is guided into spacious treasuries of truth, where the difficulty is not that there is no meaning, but that the meaning is too manifold. In the present case the key seems to lie in the word “showed,” which occurs twice in the opening verse—“After these things Jesus showed himself again to the disciples at the Sea of Tiberias; and on this wise showed he himself.” In Greek this is a striking word, and apparently conveys more than that he made himself visible: it means that he made a fresh revelation of himself to them, showing himself in a new light or in a new character. They saw on this occasion in their risen Lord traits which were peculiarly fascinating and impressive.

One of these was a trait of tender humanity—his attachment to the scenes of his earthly experiences. The disciples had themselves returned to Galilee from the south with a delightful sense of coming home. Probably to their provincial minds Jerusalem had always been formidable. Its pride repelled them, its Sadducean coldness and Pharisaic formalism chilled them to the bone. During their last visit this repulsion had reached a climax, for their feelings had been put under an excessive strain, and their days and nights had passed in excitement and horror. At last, indeed, a great light had burst forth upon them in the resurrection of their Lord; but as yet it was a light which dazzled even more than it cheered; and their hearts craved for solitude, that they might collect themselves and consider what was the drift of their strange experiences. Now they were back in Galilee and standing on the shore of the lake, the scene of their accustomed adventures in former days. There were the mountains and the blue waters; there were the boats and nets of their relatives, which had once been their own; the old feelings suddenly awoke in them, and when Peter, who felt these most keenly, said, “I go a-fishing,” they were all ready to chime in, “We also go with thee.” Soon they were afloat, with the sails throbbing above their heads, the water rushing beneath the keel, and the fresh breeze blowing all doubts away out of their brains. But Jesus had preceded them to Galilee. So the angel told the holy women at the sepulchre — “Go your way, tell his disciples and Peter that he goeth before you into Galilee.” This no doubt was partly due to the fact that a majority of his adherents belonged to the northern province and he intended to show himself to them alive, as he subsequently did on the mountain where he had appointed them. But there was another reason. In some respects the risen Christ was altered; the form of his humanity and the mode of his movements from place to place are enveloped in mystery. But one exceedingly human trait appears to be unmistakable: he displayed a marked predilection for the spots which had been the scenes of his former activity. To him Jerusalem had been intensely dear, whatever it was to the disciples, and he lingered in it, instructing the apostles at the very last to begin the evangelization of the world there. Bethany, where Mary, Martha and Lazarus lived, had been to him an earthly home, and he led out his disciples at the last as far as Bethany, and there he took his parting look of the world. But Galilee seems to have been the chief scene of his forty days’ sojourn. It was the country of his childhood and youth; and in it had been achieved his earthly successes. The Sea of Galilee especially had been the centre of his ministry. There he had called his disciples; he had preached out of the boat on its shore; he had moved backwards and forwards from one side to another on his journeys; on its surface he had walked to the rescue of his disciples by night; within sight of it he had been followed by enthusiastic and thankful multitudes. Long it had been the focus of his thoughts and feelings; and now it draws him back. This shows how human he was even in his resurrected state; and it brings him near to us. This clinging to the past is characteristic of human nature; however far we may wander, our hearts turn fondly to the scenes of former experiences—to the home of our childhood, to the spots where we have loved, triumphed and suffered. Few sentiments are more sacred than these; if we completely yielded to them they might bring us to Jesus. May we not, besides, justly interpret his return to these scenes as a proof that the departed still retain an interest in the world to which they have belonged? Even the beatific vision will not blot out of the memory the charities of this earth. Heaven and earth may be far more alike than is supposed.

XXXV.

Another light in which Jesus revealed himself to the disciples on this occasion was as the Providence of their lives. In spite of the eagerness with which they had essayed the fisherman’s life again, yet that night they caught nothing. It looked as if their hands had lost their cunning. But this disappointment gave Jesus his opportunity. It was against the background of their failure that the divineness of his foresight shone out. So it is often. Many a man has been prepared for the visit of Christ by the ruin of his schemes and the break-down of his hopes. If it had always gone well with us, if the world had been entirely to our liking, and we had got everything our own way, we might never have felt any need of him. But when we had toiled all night and taken nothing, and were returning worn out and weary in the empty boat, there he was on the shore with assistance ready. And surely it is better to lose all and win him than to be so satisfied with our own success as to forget the heavenly inheritance. As soon as Jesus took the oversight of their operations, and they cast out the net where he indicated, their labor, which had all night been so bootless, immediately became brilliantly profitable: they secured a take of a hundred and fifty and three, all large fishes; and, for all there were so many, yet was not the net broken. If God comes nigh in the crisis of disappointment, surely also he is present in the hour of success. It is through his blessing that any labor of ours is profitable. It would be a shame if it were only through privation we could be affected, and if we had no perception of the divine hand in the gifts of life.

Jesus did not, however, merely give them abundance of fish and then leave them to enjoy what they had taken. When they came ashore they found a fire with fish laid thereon, and bread. Commentators have puzzled over the question where these came from. Did angels bring them? or did Jesus create them? or did he buy them or beg them from friends on shore? What does it matter? It is enough that he provided them, as the fisherman’s wife has a fire ready to warm her husband, along with the other comforts he requires, when he returns from his cold night’s toil. What a practical, everyday Christ! He does not allow those who look to him to lack any good thing. He is the Saviour of the body no less than of the soul. Godliness has the promise of the life which now is, as well as of that which is to come.

He invited them to bring of the fish which they had caught, to furnish the meal more sumptuously. Then, assuming the place of entertainer, he made them all sit down and with his own hands distributed among them the blessings provided.

It is very probable that these proceedings had a special bearing on the circumstances of the disciples at the time. Long before this, when he was calling them first to be his disciples, and they were naturally troubled about where support for themselves and their families was to come from, he taught them by a similar miracle how confidently they might depend on him while engaged in his service. But at this crisis the lesson required to be taught over again. Hitherto he had himself been with them, and his popularity had insured them against want; for those who had received his miraculous aid ministered to him of their substance, and the bag which Judas carried, if seldom overflowing, was never empty. Now, however, when he was away, would not the stream of supplies run dry? Very soon they were to be sent forth to preach the gospel; and they needed the assurance that their daily bread would not fail. So Jesus had once more to show them that all the resources of the world belonged to him.

While, however, he had this special end in view, we can, besides, say in general that the role thoroughly suited him. He delighted, when in the midst of his own, to be the Entertainer. It is astonishing in his life to note how often he was present at feasting, and how frequently in his teaching he made use of images borrowed from this section of human life. “The Son of man came eating and drinking.” He appreciated the uniting and sweetening power of hospitality; and he thereby left to his followers an example which they have been slow to learn. Hospitality is a Christian virtue, and it is one of the most effective modes of evangelization. Few efforts for the good of others are more fitted to be effective than when Christian men and women of standing invite to their tables the young and the humble, who see there the culture and the charm of a Christian home. But there was more in his love of the entertainer’s place. It was the expression of a nature conscious of its ability to distribute. He felt himself full of what was needed to satisfy and enrich the world. It is not for nothing that in the chief sacrament of his church he shows himself to all the ages in this character. In the Lord’s Supper he is the entertainer. And whom does he invite? He follows his own maxim: “When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee; but when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind; and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee.” Such are his guests. “This Man receiveth sinners and eateth with them.”

XXXVI.

Before looking at the other ways in which Jesus revealed himself on this occasion we may pause to mark what impression he was making on the disciples. The effectiveness of a revelation depends on the apprehension of it in the minds of those to whom it is addressed, no less than on its intrinsic importance. At first the disciples did not recognize at all with whom they had to do — “Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus.” It was in the grey of the morning that he appeared; and the imperfect light may have had something to do with this. But no doubt, also, their work absorbed them. Had they been assembled for prayer in an upper room, or had it been the Sabbath, they might have recognized him at once; but they did not expect him to visit them when they were engaged in business. The week-day Christ is not so easily recognized as the Sabbath-day Christ. On the sacred day we go to his house for the purpose of meeting him, and we put on our Sabbath clothes for the interview; but, if he meets us when we are in our work-a-day dress, if he is standing by while we drive our bargains, or if he comes into our homes in the hours of social mirth—and he does all these things—we are probably unprepared, and let him pass unnoticed. In the kind question, “Children, have ye any meat?” or at least in the order to cast the net on the right side of the ship, they might surely have recognized him. But I have been told by a friend well acquainted with the sea that it is sometimes possible for one standing on the shore to detect by a peculiar ripple on the surface of the water the presence of fish at a spot where those on the water see no indication. This may have prevented them from suspecting anything more than the hint of a shrewd observer.

It was only when the miraculous haul filled the net, recalling an early experience of the same kind, that the truth flashed through the mind of St. John; and, after casting a single reassuring look landwards, he whispered to St. Peter, “It is the Lord.” It only required a glance to satisfy Peter; and, hastily drawing on an upper garment, that he might not appear before the Lord in unbecoming guise, he sprang into the water and swam ashore, leaving boat, fish, comrades—everything—behind. The entire scene is eminently characteristic. It was St. John, the man of affection and insight, who discerned Christ first; it was St. Peter, the man of passion and energy, who reached him first. Each was before the other in one respect, and both were the leaders of the rest.

It is a picture of the Church’s life in all times. Believers are not all alike gifted, but all belong to the one body and are intended to serve it with their different powers. There are outstanding men needed to be leaders, and these possess diverse qualifications. Some are the eyes of the body—these are the Johns. Others are its hands and feet—these are the Peters. The highest function is that of the Johns—they are the seers, to apprehend new revelations, to point out the divine in common life, to discern the new path along which Christ is moving and calling the Church to follow. But only second in importance are the Peters—the men of enterprise and action, who advance in front of the ship and show the way. They lean on the Johns, being indebted to them for eyes, but the Johns are also dependent on them; as the national poet, who has struck out the note of liberty and made it vibrate in every heart, has to wait for the practical statesman or general who will arise to embody his dreams in deeds. Happy is the church when there are vouchsafed to her leaders of both sorts; she is happiest when she possesses them together, united in friendship as were John and Peter then, or as at the Reformation were Melancthon and Luther. The rest of those in the boat followed, dragging the full net to the shore, where they shared the privileges of the leaders. “And none of the disciples durst ask him, Who art thou? knowing that it was the Lord.” Apparently there was a difference in his appearance which might have justified such a question, but the evidence of the scene as a whole and the impression of his presence were too strong to leave room for any objections. Even Thomas, the doubter, who was one of the group of seven, was convinced. To us, who walk by faith and not by sight, the evidence of religion can never be such as to make doubt absolutely impossible, but it is often strong enough to exclude reasonable doubt. There must be few who cannot remember some incidents in their own experience which produced an overwhelming impression of God—such as a marvellous escape from danger, or the recovery of a relative from the jaws of death, or a deliverance from what seemed a fatal business difficulty, or the unexpected opening up of a path to usefulness and honor. There are many such incidents which inevitably produce on a healthy mind the impression of a presiding Providence. Others may debate whether the thing cannot be explained by natural causes, but the man whose secret it is cannot ask: he carries it through life as a token of the divine love and care, and as often as he recalls it he says, “It is the Lord.” Far stronger still, however, is the conviction springing out of a lifelong walk with Christ. Outsiders may venture to explain this away, attributing to the man’s own fineness of natural disposition the holiness by which he is distinguished; but he who knows what he is in himself, and what grace has done for him, is as certain as he is of his own existence that “it is the Lord.”

XXXVII. A third peculiarity of Christ revealed on this occasion was the absoluteness of his claim on the love and loyalty of his followers. This of course came out most conspicuously in the noted scene when he thrice asked Peter, “Lovest thou me?” which, however, we must here pass by. But it came out also in a subsequent scene in which St. John was directly involved. After restoring St. Peter to his apostolic mission, Jesus said unto him, Follow me,” and apparently moved away from the rest of the group. In obedience to this command St. Peter followed, and, without receiving a command, St. John did the same. St. Peter, hearing St. John’s step behind him, turned and said to Jesus, “And what shall this man do?” or, more simply, “And what of this man? The motive of this question has been much discussed. Some have ascribed it to irritation, as if St. Peter objected to his tete-a-tete with the Saviour being disturbed by the intrusion of a third party. Others have assumed the very opposite motive that it was out of brotherly regard for St. John’s welfare that he spoke. Jesus had just intimated to himself, under the veil of a figure of speech, by what death he should glorify God; and, vaguely at least, he had understood the warning. Now he asks, What of my friend: is he, too, to die the martyr’s death? That there was in the question an allusion to St. John’s future is manifest from the answer. Yet the motive was a more subtle one. The close dealing with his conscience, when Christ asked, “Lovest thou me?” had been painful in the extreme to St. Peter. Yet Jesus was now walking him away by himself; and for what purpose? Was it to press him with still more home-coming question, too sacred for the rest to hear? St. Peter was afraid of it; and this turning round to St. John, to put the question about his future, was an attempt to draw him into the colloquy; for a third in a conversation acts as screen to keep off too searching and personal topics. So he asked an idle question, apparently in anxiety about the fortunes of his friend, but really for the purpose of escaping too close contact with Jesus.

Thus almost unawares does the mind often try to avoid Christ, when he is coming near the conscience. At the well of Sychar, when our Lord was probing the conscience of the Samaritan woman, she attempted to divert the drift of the conversation by raising an ecclesiastical discussion: “Our fathers worshipped in this mountain, and ye say that Jerusalem is the place where men ought to worship.” This was a subject on which logic might have been chopped forever, and during the operation what directly concerned her would have dropped out of sight. And similarly, when conversation threatens to approach personal religion, people will, if they are allowed, drift off to questions of the idly curious kind. Even in their own minds men put up such themes to shield themselves from the pressure of the claims of Christ. There are always afloat in the atmosphere of public discussion problems which can be used for this purpose. Darwinism, the Higher Criticism, Future Punishments, or the like—a man will puzzle about one of these and imagine he is studying religion, when in reality he is using his difficulties as an excuse for refusing to come to close quarters with Christ and obey the voice of the Holiest. It is possible to have a great deal to do with the outside of religion, and to enjoy religious service in which we form part of the multitude, while we carefully avoid meeting with God in secret and would dread the full light of omniscience turned upon our conduct. In spite of St. Peter’s headlong rush through the water to get to Jesus, he was far from being as confidential with him as St. John; for the close and lonely intercourse which he was shirking would have been to St. John the height of enjoyment.

XXXVIII. On this occasion Jesus manifested his authority over his disciples, assigning to each his own work and his own destiny.

He met the idle question of the disciple with a sharp rebuke—“What is that to thee? follow thou me.” He was offended at Peter’s levity. The questions put to the backslider about his love ought to have driven him in upon himself and made him sober and silent; but, instead of being thus absorbed, he was starting curious inquiries about things with which he had nothing to do.

“There are two great vanities in man,” says a deep student of human nature, “with respect to knowledge—the one a neglect to know what it is our duty to know, and the other a curiosity to know what it does not belong to us to know.” And in no other sphere is this so true as in religion. At those solemn moments when Christ is distinctly calling and a decisive step which would change the whole course of the life is possible, how common it is, instead of replying simply and honestly, to turn round and ask, “What are others doing? what would my neighbors say?” When opportunities of usefulness arise, and Providence is inviting us to seize them, what do we say? Is it, “Here am I, send me,” or is it, “What are others going to do?” In giving, for example, to schemes for the spread of the gospel, or for the amelioration of the world, how rare it is to ask simply, “What can I give? how much would God wish me to give? what ought one blessed with as much as I have been to give?” but how common to look round and ask, “What are others giving?” Thus measuring ourselves by ourselves, and comparing ourselves among ourselves, we are not wise. Our whole experience is stunted by this habit of asking what others are going to do. “What is that to thee? follow thou me.” The reference to St. John’s future in the words, “If I will that he tarry till I come,” may contain a hint that the apostle whom Jesus loved was to be long spared and to escape the martyrdom destined for St. Peter, but the only thing which the words expressly imply is that St. John’s destiny was not the affair of St. Peter, but was taken by Jesus into his own hand. This saying has been quoted as a proof that Jesus expected his second coming to take place soon, as his early followers expected it in their own lifetime; and it is added that events disappointed his expectation, as theirs is usually reckoned a weakness. But the weakness lies elsewhere. The attitude of the apostolic Church was the right one—the attitude of a servant on the watch, not knowing at what hour his lord may come. The date of Christ’s coming depends on the faithfulness and success of the Church. So far as we are informed, he might have come even in the lifetime of his first disciples, had the faithfulness of the Church been perfect.

It is another illustration of how much easier idle curiosity is to the human mind than either accurate knowledge or plain duty that in consequence of this saying the rumor spread that St. John should not die. It not only did so at the time, but lasted long. It was said that, though buried, he was not dead, but only asleep; and St. Augustine mentions persons in his day who alleged that they had seen the earth moving above his grave. Indeed, down almost to our own time, the same superstition has reappeared every now and then in one grotesque form after another. But the evangelist expressly emphasizes the fact that Jesus did not say he was not to die, but, “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?”