07. St. John’s Besetting Sin.

ST. JOHN’S BESETTING SIN.

XXII. The destiny of St. John was to be near to Christ. From the outside world he entered first within the circle of Christ’s disciples. From there he moved inwards, within the circle of the Twelve. Still he pressed nearer, being admitted into the circle of the Three. And, finally, he was the One whom Jesus loved.

It was a glorious destiny. Many a man would say that the greatest distinction of his life has been the set of friends he has known. Even a single friendship, with a specially gifted man or woman, may be the most golden memory of a life. But no friendship the world has ever seen can be compared with that enjoyed by St. John. To lie on the breast of the Son of man, to share his inmost thoughts, to be formed by daily and hourly contact with his personality—this was an unparalleled privilege.

Like all great privileges, however, it had its penalties. And one of these was the exposure of the disciple’s weaknesses. None could come near to Christ without being dwarfed by his stature and darkened in his light. We see, especially in the final scenes of his life, how this happened to his enemies. One after another approached him—Judas, Caiaphas, Herod, Pilate and the rest—only to have every spot and wrinkle of his own character made everlastingly visible. But the same happened, in a different way, to his friends. No doubt Jesus drew forth all that was good in them; whatever seeds of promise their natures contained were rapidly developed by the influence of his companionship. But the evil in them was brought to light too. Sometimes, when a block of freestone is brought from the quarry and dressed in the sculptor’s yard, it looks beautiful, but after it has been fitted into its place in the building the action of the weather has a strange effect. The stone begins to bleed, as the phrase is; its surface becomes covered with discoloring exudations. These proceed from iron or sulphur hidden in its interior; and the disfiguration may be so great that the stone has to be removed from its place altogether. The fellowship and work of Christ have a similar effect on his followers, bringing to the surface their concealed vices and unconscious weaknesses.

Weaknesses like those of St. John are especially tested by Christ’s work. In human nature there are two opposite poles of sin, within which all the other forms of evil find their places. Where the constitution is soft and loose, the temptation is self-indulgence in its various forms; but where, on the contrary, the elements are finer and more compact, the danger lies in self-conceit, with all its developments of arrogance, ambition and intolerance. St. John’s was a refined and reserved nature, and pride was his besetting sin. On this the work of Christ has an exciting effect, because it separates a man from his fellows and places him in a superior position. He possesses a secret which others do not share; he criticises their conduct from the height of his own ideal; he approaches them as a reprover and a revealer. Unless he has learned from some other quarter the secret of humility, his position may make him scornful and overbearing.

There is a legend of St. John’s later life which, if it were true, would prove that this failing clung to him to the last. Meeting the heretic Cerinthus in the bath, it is said, he fled from the building, alleging as his reason that it was not safe to be under the same roof with such an enemy of God, because the judgment of God might at any moment destroy the building which contained him. But we will hope that the education imparted in the school of Christ had long before the arrival of old age made St. John more charitable in his judgments and more watchful of his words.

XXIII. The most conspicuous occasion on which the tendency to pride showed itself in St. John’s conduct was when, with his brother and his mother, he came to Jesus to petition him for a certain thing.

It is not clear whether the ambitious notion originated in the minds of the sons or in that of the mother. In one of the gospels the mother appears to take the initiative, bringing her sons to Jesus and prostrating herself before him, to ask on their behalf that they should sit, the one on his right hand and the other on his left, in his kingdom; but it is possible that she was only the catspaw through whom they sought their ambitious ends. If so, their design was well planned. A woman is a more effective petitioner than a man. Even the excess of pride in her sons which she may display has an amiable appearance and moves sympathy rather than antipathy. She no doubt approached Christ with a smile, and what in them might have looked offensive seemed admirable in her. Besides, she had claims. She was the aunt of Jesus, in all probability. She had been one of those women who in Galilee had followed him, ministering to him of their substance. Above all, she had given him her two sons, who had been among the very best of his followers. Salome was herself a true lover and disciple of Jesus. But her devotion to the cause was mixed with selfish elements; and, because her ambition was on behalf of her sons rather than herself, she may have indulged it with the less fear. She had not yet learned to know her Teacher well enough, or to feel how small all such selfish desires were to be made by the tragedy of his fate.

There can be no doubt, however, that her sons, though they kept in the back-ground, were quite as full of ambition. Indeed, in one of the gospels they are represented as presenting the petition on their own behalf; and this lets out the secret: the design was more theirs than hers. Some have discerned good elements in their ambition. It sprang, they think, from their desire to be near Christ; it showed at least their faith in his royal dignity and claims. “The juice of the ripe apple is the same,” it has been remarked, “that it was in the green fruit, plus sunlight and sunheat.” And it is true that what in youth is self-conceit and intolerance may, through maturing of experience and the influence of sanctification, grow into the dignity and stability of a self-respecting character. The self-suppression of St. John’s later writings may be only the self-assertion of his youth in a ripened and sanctified form; and the intolerance of his youth may in his old age have mellowed into the firmness of principle and the perseverance of tireless love. But certainly at this early stage his ambition was of the earth, earthy; and its manifestation was both unlovely and hurtful.

One of its evil results was to inflame the rest of the apostles. When they heard the petition of James and John they were indignant. It seemed to them that the brothers were trying to take a mean advantage of them. And this was too true. Yet their own anger sprang from the same root. They also were dreaming of thrones and dignities. From other incidents we learn that the whole apostolic circle was at this time inwardly convulsed by such desires and disputes. Yet day by day Jesus was, at this very time, telling them that he was to suffer and die. Self was reigning in them, and so their eyes were blinded. He might have said to them, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”

XXIV.

He did speak to them on this occasion, and in words of great dignity and profundity set before them the contrast between the selfish spirit which they had been displaying and the true spirit of his kingdom; but he spoke with kindness and consideration, not in anger but in sorrow, for he knew how difficult was their situation and how little they were yet able to take in the truth: nothing but events could disabuse their minds of the prejudices in which they were held.

“Ye know not what ye ask,” he said to the brothers. Their petition was that they might be on his right hand and on his left; but his prophetic eye, looking forward to the crisis which now arrested his attention whenever he thought of the future, saw on his right hand and on his left—what? On each hand a cross, with a victim upon it. To be in the place of the two thieves, crucified with him, was what they were asking, if they had only known. The favorites of a king, seated on his right hand and on his left, may have the privilege of drinking out of the royal cup and dipping their fingers or napkins in the vessel in which he washes his hands; and James and John had had this honor in their thoughts. But the thoughts of Jesus flew forward to a cup of which he was to drink, and a laver in which he was to bathe; but the cup was his agony, and the laver the bath of his own blood. With deep emotion he, therefore, asked, “Are ye able to drink my cup and be baptized with my baptism?” “Yes,” they replied, “we are able,” not knowing what they said. And again, as his prophetic eye glanced into the future, he added, “Ye shall, indeed, drink of my cup and be baptized with my baptism;” for he foresaw that St. James was to fall a martyr under the sword of Herod, and he knew by what manner of death St. John was to glorify God.

“But,” he added, “to sit on my right hand and on my left is not mine to give, but it shall be given unto them for whom it is prepared of my Father.” These words sound like a limitation of the knowledge and authority of Jesus; as if this were one of those mysterious things which, he declared on another occasion, the Father had kept in his own hand. But probably the meaning is simple. Salome and her sons had asked Jesus to bestow the honors of his kingdom in answer to their petition. Such was the bad practice of Oriental monarchs: they gave places away to favorites capriciously, without regard to services or merits. Jesus says there is to be in his kingdom no such favoritism or giving away of positions: every post will be given to the man for whom it has been prepared, or to the man who has been prepared for it. The man on whom God has conferred the necessary gifts and graces, and who, employing well his talents in a few things, has qualified himself for being entrusted with many things— to him will the place of honor be given. In addressing the Twelve Jesus made this contrast still more clear and emphatic. The way of earthly monarchies is that birth gives position, and he who has the position uses it for his own pleasure and aggrandizement; his station is measured by the numbers who are ready to bow to him and serve him. In the kingdom of God the ruling principle is exactly the reverse. Greatness is measured not by the number of those who serve you, but by the number of those whom you serve, and by the value of the services you render them. A high position is to be coveted, not because it confers ease or fame, but because it supplies the opportunity of doing more extensive good.

Never, surely, did Christ utter a more revolutionary word or characterize more clearly the difference between the world and Christianity. For what are the men and women of the world toiling, moiling and striving? To see who shall be uppermost; who shall command and control others; who shall be flattered and feared. But that, says Jesus, is not greatness: he is great who makes the world a wholesome and sunny place for others, and who, by the sacrifice of his own happiness, if necessary, makes others rejoice. Who is king of men and queen of women? He and she who make the greatest number good and glad.

How slowly the world learns this lesson! How slowly the Church learns it! Yet it is the lesson of the life of Christ. Why is he the greatest among the children of men? Because he took the whole human race into the embrace of his beneficence, and because the blessing which he conferred on them was the greatest of all—the gift of salvation. “The Son of man came to minister, and to give His life a ransom for many.”

XXV.

There was another occasion on which St. John showed the same infirmity of temper. It came out during a scene of indescribable beauty in the life of Christ. Among the disciples there had been a dispute which of them should be the greatest; and their Master, knowing their thoughts, took a child and set him in the midst; then, clasping him in his arms, he proceeded to speak to them of the childlike spirit which they ought to cultivate, and of the danger of doing any offense to one of his little ones. As the discourse proceeded in this strain, some of its words struck upon the conscience of one of the listeners. It was St. John, who remembered an incident of the recent past which seemed to be placed in a new light by what the Master was saying. Perhaps even at the time he had been doubtful about it; but now he was convinced that he had done wrong; so he made his confession. And it is to his honor that he was so prompt both to feel the prick of conscience and to make a public acknowledgment of his mistake. The story was that, on a certain occasion when they were separate from their Master, the apostles had fallen in with one who was casting out devils in his name; and they had forbidden him, because he followed not with them: he did not belong to the company of Jesus. It is interesting to learn that faith in Christ had thus spread sporadically, outside the circle round about himself, and that it was strong enough even to cast out devils in his name. In a similar way we find the teaching of the Baptist taking root far from the scene of his labors and apart from the regular succession of his disciples. But St. John and his companions had forbidden this humble and imperfect believer. It was a good work in which he was engaged, for surely the more victims could be delivered from the power of the devils the better, but they discovered some irregularity in his method of procedure; though he had the power of the Spirit he lacked the proper legitimation. Therefore, it seemed to them, he was poaching on their preserves, and with the pride of authority they silenced him.

It is pitiable to think, with this standing in the gospels, how often the same mistake has been repeated— how often the officials of the church have silenced testimony or stamped out good work inspired by the Spirit of God, because it has seemed to them to be in some way out of order or destitute of authority; how this or that branch of the church has considered itself the only legitimate one; and how the good of one section of the church has been evil spoken of by the rest. On the other hand, it would be vain to deny that toleration is one of the most difficult virtues to exercise. It is not easy to find the golden mean between Sadducean laxity on the one hand and Pharisaic censoriousness on the other. We may be censuring the disciples at the safe distance of the centuries and doing the same thing ourselves.

Yet Jesus laid down on this occasion a broad rule: “He that is not against us is for us.” On another occasion he said precisely the reverse: “He that is not for us is against us.” How shall we reconcile these opposite maxims? It is not difficult: obviously the one is a rule for judging others, the other a rule for judging ourselves. When we are criticising our own conduct we should be stern and searching and this word should sound in our souls: “He that is not with me is against me;” but when we are criticising the conduct of others we ought to be lenient and charitable, remembering this word: “He that is not against us is for us.” We know the motives of our own actions and the feelings which follow them; but we do not know the motives and feelings of others.

“One point must still be greatly dark: The reason why they do it; And just as lamely can we mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it;

What’s done we partly may compute, We know not what’s resisted.”

XXVI. The third case in which St. John’s arrogance and heat of temper came out was during the last journey to Jerusalem.

Jesus was passing from town to town, as he journeyed towards the capital, healing the sick and proclaiming the kingdom of God; and it seems to have been his practice to send on messengers in advance, to place after place, to announce his coming and perhaps also to make some provision for the entertainment of himself and his company. Two of these messengers were sent to a Samaritan village; for his road lay through Samaria; but they were met by an outburst of fanatical ill-feeling: the Samaritans would not receive them because they were on their way to Jerusalem. The Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans; the Samaritans worshipped “in this mountain,” but the Jews considered that Jerusalem was the place where men ought to worship. The rivalry was ancient and bitter, and at any moment it was liable to break out. The hatred of the Samaritans not infrequently vented itself on the Jewish pilgrims going to the feasts at Jerusalem; and it was in this character that Jesus and the apostles appeared to the Samaritan villagers on this occasion. But the apostles were furious: this was an insult to them and an insult to their Master, whose greatness these rude fanatics wholly ignored. James and John especially distinguished themselves by their zeal; and they asked their Master, “Shall we call down fire on them from heaven, as did the prophet Elijah?” It was a strange question. There was in it the pride of miraculous power: they were confident that they could have produced the lightning. Yet almost unconsciously they felt that their proposal was unchristlike; for they did not ask him to do it, but said, “Shall we call down fire?” Very significant was their appeal to Elijah. This prophet had once brought down fire from heaven in Samaria; and their thought was justified to their own minds by appealing to so great an example.

Yet it was the old man in them that was speaking. It was, indeed, the same provincial and fanatical spirit as had spoken in the refusal of the Samaritans to entertain them. The old race hatred between Jews and Samaritans had blazed up in their hearts, attempting to wield the weapons of Christ and to wear the mantle of Scripture. How often have such passions—between Guelph and Ghibelline, for example, or between Roman-catholic and Orangeman—made the same attempt, speaking the pious language of religion and quoting the sanction of Scripture. Men have mistaken their own evil passions for the inspiration of the Spirit of God, and have believed themselves to be doing God service when they have let loose the demons of persecution, harrying innocent countries with fire and sword, and driving to the gallows and the stake men and women often a thousand times better than themselves. But Jesus at once put his foot on this strange fire, with which his apostles sought to honor him. “Ye know not,” he said, “what manner of spirit ye are of.” This may mean, “Ye know not what spirit has at present possession of you; you think it is the spirit of religion, but it is the spirit of evil, masquerading in its clothes.” Or it may mean that they were yet imperfectly acquainted with the spirit which, as his followers, they ought to cultivate. They had appealed to Elijah, one of the foremost representatives of the old covenant; but they ought to be aware that they were now under a better covenant. The spirit of the old dispensation was legal and stern; the spirit of the new was love. “The Son of man came not to destroy men’s lives, but to save them.” This is the supreme rule and example; although they had not yet seen the supreme effort of their Master’s forgiving love. If ever anyone was entitled to feel resentment against his fellow-creatures, it was the Son of God; justly might he have cursed and blighted the human race. But instead of doing so he gave his life for the world. We may ourselves, like these surly Samaritans, have refused to entertain him, keeping him out of our heart and refusing to have him to reign over us. Yet he has not ceased to love us; he is still waiting to be gracious. And it is when we have recognized how magnanimous and forgiving he is to us that we learn the lesson of forgiveness. Having obtained so great mercy we learn to be merciful.

It is strange to think that St. John was ever a prey to such passions as ambition, intolerance, and persecuting zeal—he whose very name is now a synonym for love. But it is an encouraging fact: it shows what changes grace can work. Intercourse with Christ transfigured St. John. Above all, he was altered by the passion of his Lord: the sight of that self-sacrifice for the sake of enemies made all resentful feelings die out of him; in the cross he saw that love alone is great, and he could not hate his brother man any more. The cross of Christ is the school of charity.