© 2003 Bruce Barton
© 2003 The Christian Fellowship of Students of The Urantia Book
The Man Nobody Knows … a Discovery of the Real Jesus" was written by Bruce Barton, who (I would discover many years later) was a famous advertising man. This book made a great impression on my young mind. Somehow I retained this book over the years. As a Urantian, many years later, I am amazed how close Bruce Barton came in 1924 to describing what I believe was the real Jesus. Thanks to the many Urantians who have expressed their interest in this work.
Larry Mullis
A wicked falsehood has come down through the ages. It reappeared in an English book as recently as last year. The author, in describing a visit to the high spirited Lord Fisher, tells of finding him less jovial than usual. Obviously something was weighing on his mind, and after a while he revealed it. “You know that Pilate was succeeded as Governor of Jerusalem by Lentulus,” he remarked in dull tones. … The new Governor gave a minute description of our Savior, concluding with the statement, ”Nobody has ever seen him laugh.” With that wretched remark Lord Fisher lapsed into meditative silence. He wanted to be reverent; he had been well grounded in the traditions of his church and class; he would do his duty as a Christian and an Englishman, no matter what the cost. But to worship a Lord who never laughed it was a strain. Lord Fisher made no pretense about that.
The quotation from Lentulus is a forgery, penned by an unknown impostor in a later century; yet how persistently it has lived, and with what tragic thoroughness it has done its work. How many millions of happy-minded folk, when they have thought of Jesus at all, have had a feeling of uneasiness. “Suppose,” they have said, "he were to enter the room and find us laughing and enjoying ourselves. When there is so much suffering and sin in the world, is it right to be happy? What would Jesus say? …” With such compunctions cheerful folk have had their brighter moments tinctured. The friendliest man who ever lived has been shut off by a black wall of tradition from those whose friendship he would most enjoy. Theology has reared a graven image, and robbed the world of the joy and laughter of the great companion.
It is not hard to understand when you remember the character of the early theologians. They lived in sad days; they were men of introspection, to whom every simple thing was symbolic of some hidden mystery; and life, itself, a tangle of philosophic formula. Baffled by the death of Jesus, they rejected the splendid truth, and fashioned a creed instead. Lambs were put to death in the Temple, as a sacrifice for the sins of the worshippers; ergo, Jesus was the Lamb of God. His death had been planned from the beginning of the world; the human race was hopelessly wayward; God knew that it would be and nothing would turn Him from His vindictive purpose to destroy it but the sacrifice of an innocent Son.
Thomas Paine remarked truly that no religion can be really divine which has in it any doctrine that offends the sensibilities of a little child. Is there any reader of this page whose childish sensibilities were not shocked when the traditional explanation of the death of Jesus was first poured into his ears? Would any human father, loving his children, have sentenced all to death, and been persuaded to commute the sentence only by the suffering of his best beloved? Small wonder that the Jesus of such a doctrine was supposed never to have laughed!
The Gospels tell a different story. But the writers were men of simple minds, and naturally gave greatest emphasis to the events which impressed them most. Since death is the most dramatic of all the phenomena of life, the crucifixion and the events immediately preceding it are set forth in complete detail. The denunciation of the Pharisees (as startling to the disciples as the denunciation of the United States Senate by a barefooted philosopher would be to us); the arrest by the soldiers at night; the trial before the Sanhedrin; the hushed moment of the appearance on the balcony of Herod’s palace; the long sad struggle out to Calvary, and the hours of agony on the cross — these were the scenes that burned themselves indelibly into their memories, and all the sunny days preceding faded into less importance. The life of Jesus, as we read it, is what the life of Lincoln would be if we were given nothing of his boyhood and young manhood, very little of his work in the White House and every detail of his assassination. All of the four gospels contain very full accounts of the weeping which attended the crucifixion — the final miracle; John alone remembered the laughter amid which the first one was performed.
It was in the little town of Cana, not far from Nazareth; and Jesus and his mother had been invited to a wedding feast. Often such a celebration continued several days. Everybody was expected to enjoy himself to the utmost as long as the food and drink lasted — and it was a point of pride with the bride’s mother that both food and drink should last a long time.
Enthusiasm was at a high pitch on this occasion when a servant entered nervously and whispered a distressing message to the hostess. The wine had given out. Picture if you will the poor woman’s chagrin! This was her daughter’s wedding — the one social event in the life of the family. For it they had made every sort of sacrifice, cutting a little from their living expenses, going without a new garment, neglecting a needed repair in the house. After it was over they could count the cost and find some way to even up; but until the last guest had gone, no effort should be spared to uphold the family’s dignity in the neighborhood. To this end the poor woman had planned it in her proud sensitive fashion; and now, at the very height of success, the whole structure of her dreams came tumbling down. The wine had given out.
Most of the guests were too busy to note the entrance of the servant or the quick flush that mounted to the hostess’s cheek. But one woman’s sight and sympathy were keener. The mother of Jesus saw every move in the little tragedy, and with that instinct which is quicker than reason she understood its meaning. She leaned over to her son and confided the message which her friendly eyes had read:
“Son, the wine is gone.”
Well, what of it? He was only one of a score of guests, perhaps a hundred. There had been wine enough as it was ; the party was noisy and none too restrained. Let them quiet themselves, say good-by to their hostess and get off to bed. They would feel much better for it in the morning… Or, if they persisted in carrying on, let the relatives of the hostess make up the deficiency. He was only a guest from another town. Doubtless the woman’s brothers were present, or, if not, then some of her neighbors. They could easily slip out and bring back wine from their own stores before the shortage was commented on … why should he be worried with what was none of his affair?
Besides, there was a precedent in the matter. Only a few weeks before when he was tortured by hunger in the wilderness, he had refused to use his miraculous power to transform stones into bread. If the recruiting of his own strength was beneath the dignity of a miracle, surely he could hardly be expected to intervene to prolong a party like this … “My friends, we have had a very pleasant evening and I am sure we are much indebted to our hostess for it. I think we have trespassed as far as we should upon her generosity. I suggest that we wish the happy couple a long and prosperous life, and take our way home.” Surely this is the solemn fashion in which a teacher ought to talk.
Did any such thoughts cross his mind? If they did we have no record of it. He glanced across at the wistful face of the hostess — already tears sparkled under her lids — he remembered that the event was the one social triumph of her self-sacrificing life; and instantly his decision was formed. He sent for six pots and ordered them filled with water. When the contents of the first one was drawn, the ruler of the feast lifted his glass to the bridegroom, and the bewildered but happy hostess: “Every man setteth on first the good wine,” he cried, “and when men have drunk freely, then that which is worse; but thou hast kept the good wine until now.”
The mother of Jesus looked on in wonder. She had never fully understood her son; she did not ask to understand. He had somehow saved the situation; she did not question how. And what was sufficient for her, is sufficient for us. The whole problem of his “miracles” is beyond our arguments, at this distance. We either accept them or reject them according to the makeup of our minds. But if they are to be accepted at all, then surely this first one ought not to be omitted. It often is omitted from the comments on his life, or at least passed over hastily. But to us who think first of his friendliness, it seems gloriously characteristic, setting the pattern for all the three years that were to follow. “I came that ye might have life,” he exclaimed, “and have it more abundantly.” So, at the very outset, he makes use of his mighty power, not to point a solemn moral, not to relieve a sufferer’s pain, but to keep a happy party from breaking up too soon, to save a hostess from embarrassment. See, the ruler of the feast rises to propose a toast … hark to the discordant strains of the neighborhood orchestra … look, a tall broad-shouldered man towers above the crowd … Listen, hear his laugh!
The Jewish prophets were stern-faced men; there are few if any gleams of humor in the Old Testament from beginning to end. It was the business of a prophet to denounce folks for their sins. Go to the Boston Public Library and look at their portraits. You are moved by their moral grandeur, but rather glad to get away. They are not the kind of men whom you would choose as companions on a fishing trip.
John the Baptist was the last of this majestic succession of thunderers. He forsook the cities as being wicked beyond any hope, and pitched his camp in a wilderness beside the banks of the Jordan. For clothes he wore the skins of animals; his food was locusts and wild honey. He indulged in long fasts and vigils, from which he emerged with flaming eyeballs to deliver his uncompromising challenge. “Repent,” he cried, stretching out his gaunt arm toward the thoughtless capital, “repent while you still have time. God has given up hope. His patience is exhausted; He is about to wind up the affairs of the world.” Many people flocked out to his camp and his fiery language burned through to consciences that were overgrown with a very thick crust.
Fresh from the carpenter shop came Jesus to stand and listen with the rest. To what degree was he influenced? Did he, too, believe that the world was almost at an end? Did he see himself cast in a role like John’s, a voice in the wilderness, crying destruction? There is some evidence to make us think so. He went away from John’s camp and hid himself in the woods, and there for forty days and nights he fought the thing through. But at the end his mind was made up. His place was among his fellows.
For a time his preaching bore a decided resemblance to John’s. He, too, talked of the imminence of the Kingdom of Heaven and warned his hearers that time was short. But little by little the note of warning diminished; the appeal to righteousness as a happier, more satisfying way of living increased. God ceased to be the stern, unforgiving judge, and became the loving, friendly Father. He, himself, was less and less the prophet, more and more the companion. So much so, that John — imprisoned and depressed began to be tortured by doubt. Was this Jesus really the man whom he had hoped would carry on his work? Had he, John, made a mistake? What were these rumors that came to him of Jesus’ conduct — his presence at parties, his failure to keep the stipulated fasts, the unconventional habits of his followers? What did such unprophetic conduct mean?
John sent two of his disciples to watch and to ask. And Jesus, knowing how wide was the difference between their attitude and his, refused to argue or defend. “Go and tell your master what you have seen and heard,” he said. "The sick are healed, the blind receive their sight and the poor have the gospel preached to them. It is true that I do not fast, nor forego the every-day pleasures of life. John did his work and it was fine; but I can not work in his way. I must be myself … and these results which you have seen … these are my evidence.”
He loved to be in the crowd. Apparently he attended all the feasts at Jerusalem not merely as religious festivals but because all the folks were there and he had an all-embracing fondness for folks. We err if we think of him as a social outsider. To be sure it was the “poor” who “heard him gladly,” and most of his close disciples were men and women of the lower classes. But there was a time when he was quite the favorite in Jerusalem. The story of his days is dotted with these phrases… “A certain ruler desired him that he should eat with him.” … “They desired him greatly to remain and he abode two days.” … Even after he had denounced the Pharisees as “hypocrites” and “children of the devil,” even when the clouds of disapproval were gathering for the final storm, they still could not resist the charm of his presence, nor the stimulation of his talk. Close up to the end of the story we read that a “certain chief of the Pharisees desired him that he would dine at his house.”
No other public character ever had a more interesting list of friends. It ran from the top of the social ladder to the bottom. Nicodemus, the member of the supreme court, had too big a stake in the social order to dare to be a disciple, but he was friendly all the way through, and notably at the end. Some unknown rich man, the owner of an estate on the Mount of Olives, threw it open to Jesus gladly as a place of retirement and rest. When he needed a room for the last supper with his friends he had only to send a messenger ahead and ask for it. The request was enough. A Roman centurion was glad to be counted among his acquaintances; the wife of the steward of Herod, and probably the steward himself, contributed to his comfort. And in the last sad hours, when the hatred of his enemies had completed its work and his body hung lifeless from the cross, it was a rich man named Joseph — a rich man who would have sunk into oblivion like the other rich men of all the ages except for this one great act of friendship — who begged the authorities for his body, and having prepared it for burial laid it in a private tomb.
Such were his associates among the socially elect. What sort of people made up the rest of his circle? All sorts. Pharisees, fishermen; merchants and tax collectors; cultivated women and outcast women; soldiers, lawyers, beggars, lepers, publicans and sinners. What a spectacle they must have presented trailing after him through the streets, or covering the side of the green slopes of the mountain where he delivered his one long discourse! How they reveled in the keen thrust of his answers, when some smart member of the company tried to trip him up. What heated arguments carried back and forth; what shrewd retorts, what pointed jokes! He loved it all — the pressure of the crowd, the clash of wits, the eating and the after-dinner talk. When he was criticized because he enjoyed it so much and because his disciples did not fast and go about with gloomy looks, he gave an answer that throws a wonderful light upon his own conception of his mission.
“Do the friends of the bridegroom fast while the bridegroom is still with them?” he demanded. “Not a bit of it; they enjoy every moment of his stay. I am the bridegroom; these are my hours of celebration. Let my friends be happy with me for the little while that we are together. There will be plenty of time for solemn thoughts after I am gone.”
This was his own picture of himself — a bridegroom! The center and soul of a glorious existence; a bringer of news so wonderful that those who received it should be marked by their radiance as by a badge. Of course he disregarded the narrow code of the Pharisees.
“You shall walk only so far on the Sabbath,” said the Code. He walked as far as he liked.
“These things you may eat and these you shall not,” said the Code. He responded: “You’re not defiled by what goes into your mouth,” he answered, “but by what comes out.”
“All prayers must be submitted according to the forms provided,” said the Code. "None others are acceptable.”
It was blasphemy to him. His God was no Bureau, no Rule Maker, no Accountant. “God is a spirit,” he cried. “Between the great Spirit and the spirits of men — which are a tiny part of His — no one has the right to intervene with formulae and rules.”
He told a story which must have outraged the self-righteous members of his audience. He said that a certain man had two sons. The elder, a perfectly proper and perfectly uninteresting young man, worked hard, saved his money, and conducted himself generally as a respectable member of society. But people were gloomier rather than happier when he came around. He never once gave way to a generous impulse.
The younger son was a reckless ne’er-do-well, who took his portion of the estate and went into a far country where he led a wild life and presently was penniless and repentant. In that mood he proceeded to work his way back to his father’s house. The father had never ceased to watch and hope; he saw the boy coming a long way down the road, ran to him, threw his arms around his dusty shoulders, kissed his forehead, and bore him in triumph to the front door.
“Bring a fatted calf,” he cried. “Make a feast; call the neighbors in to celebrate. For this my son which was gone has come back; he was dead to decency and idealism. Now he has cleaned up his thinking and is alive again.”
There were high doings in that house that day, and every one enjoyed them except the older son. He was sullen and self-pitying. “Where do I come in?” he exclaimed. “Here I work and save and have never had a good time. This irresponsible youngster has had nothing but good times and now, when he comes home after having run through his money, they give him a party. It’s wrong.”
The father did not defend the younger son, but he rebuked the elder. That was what hurt the smugly complacent members of the audience to whom Jesus told the story. The implication was too plain. “There are two ways in which a man may waste his life,” the story said in effect. "One is to run away from your responsibilities, causing sorrow to your parents and hurt to your associates, killing your finer nature. That is wrong, and a man must repent of such conduct and change his life if he is to be received again into his Father’s house.
“But the other thing is equally wrong. God is a generous Giver, and selfish-getting is sin. God laughs in the sunshine and sings through the throats of birds. They who neither laugh nor sing are out of tune with the Infinite. God has exercised all his ingenuity in making the world a pleasant place. Those who find no pleasure and give none offer Him a constant affront. However precise their conduct, their spirits are an offense. … Woe to you, Scribes and Pharisees. You are painfully careful to give exactly one-tenth of your incomes to the Temple, figuring down to fractions of pennies. But you neglect the weightier matters of the law — the supreme obligation to leave the world a little more cheerful because you have passed through.”
This was his message — a happy God, wanting His sons and daughters to be happy.
Jesus grew tremendously sure of himself as his ministry progressed. No passages in all literature are more scathing than his denunciations of the cheerless, self-righteous Pharisees. They smarted under the sting, and the crowds laughed at their discomfiture and cheered the young man who dared to call himself the greatest of the prophets and still proclaimed that life is a gift to be enjoyed, not a penance to be served. All achieving characters have a sublime disregard of criticism. “Never explain; never retract; never apologize; get it done and let them howl,” was the motto of a great Englishman. It might well have been the motto of Jesus. “No man can expect to accomplish anything if he stands in terror of public opinion,” he said in substance. “People will talk against you no matter how you live or what you do. Look at John the Baptist. He came neither eating nor drinking and they said he had a devil. I come both eating and drinking, and what do they call me? A wine bibber and a gluttonous man!”
He must have told it as a joke on himself and on John, though the Gospels do not say so. Indeed we must often wonder how much of his humor has been lost to us by the literal mindedness of his chroniclers. How about that incident, for example, at the pool of Bethesda? The pool was in Jerusalem near the sheep market and was supposed to have magic properties. Hundreds of sick people were left along the edges to wait for the moment when the waters would be stirred by the visit of an angel from Heaven; whoever managed to get into the water first, after the stirring, was healed. Passing by it one afternoon Jesus heard the whining voice of an old fellow who had been lying there for thirty-eight years. Every time the pool stirred, he made a half- hearted effort to jump in; but there was always some one with more determination, or more helpful friends. So the old chap would drop back on to his couch and bemoan his hard luck. He was bemoaning it on this day when Jesus stopped and looked at him with a whimsical smile.
“Wilt thou be made whole?” Jesus demanded. The old man was instantly resentful. What an absurd question! Of course he wanted to be made whole! Hadn’t he been trying for thirty-eight years? Why annoy him with such an impertinence?
The smile on the face of Jesus broadened. He knew better. Enjoying poor health was the old fellow’s profession. He was a marked man in those parts; in the daily grumblings, when the sufferers aired their complaints, he was the principal speaker. Nobody had as many pains as he; no other symptoms were so distressing. Let these newcomers take a back seat. His was the only original hard luck story. He had been there for thirty-eight years.
The keen eyes of Jesus saw deep into the souls of men. There was a twinkle in them now: “Get up,” he said briskly, “and walk.”
The old chap spluttered and grumbled, but there was no resisting the command of that presence. He rose, discovered to his own amazement that he could stand, rolled up his bed and moved off. A reverent hush fell on the assembled crowd, and before they could find their voices Jesus, too, was gone. The disciples were too deeply impressed for comment; they dropped back a respectful distance and Jesus walked on alone. Suppose they had followed closer? Wouldn’t their ears have been startled by something suspiciously like a chuckle? It was a good joke on the old chap. He imagined that he’d had hard luck, but his real hard luck was just beginning … No more of the pleasure of self-pity for him … What would his folks say that night when he came walking in? … What a shock to him in the morning when they told him that he’d have to go to work!
The shortest verse in the New Testament is “Jesus wept.” That tragic note in his story the Gospel record has carefully preserved. How we wish it might also have told us what occurred on the night after the chronic old grumbler was healed. Did Jesus stop suddenly in the middle of the supper, and set down his cup, while a broad smile spread across his wonderful face? If he did the disciples were probably puzzled … they were so often puzzled — but surely we have the reverent right to guess what was in his mind, as he pictured the home-coming of that cured old man. On that evening surely Jesus must have laughed.
Some one has said that genius is the ability to become a boy again at will. Lincoln had that type of genius. Around his table in Washington sat the members of his Cabinet silenced by their overwhelming sense of responsibility. It was one of the most momentous meetings in our history. To their amazement instead of addressing himself directly to the business in hand, Lincoln picked up a volume and began to read aloud a delightful chapter of nonsense from Artemus Ward.
Frequent chuckles interrupted the reading, but they came only from the President. The Secretaries were too shocked for expression. Humor at such an hour — it was well nigh sacrilegious! Heedless of their protesting looks, Lincoln finished the chapter, closed the book and scanned their gloomy faces with a sigh.
“Gentlemen, why don’t you laugh?” he exclaimed. "With the fearful strain that is upon me night and day, if I did not laugh I should die; and you need this medicine as much as I.”
With that remark he turned to his tall hat which was on the table and drew forth what Secretary Stanton described as a “little white paper.” The “little white paper” was the Emancipation Proclamation. Stanton could scarcely restrain his impulse to stalk out of the room. No one of his Cabinet really understood Lincoln. He was constantly scandalizing them by his calm disregard of convention, and his seemingly prodigal waste of time. The friends and advisers of Jesus were similarly shocked. How could any one with such important business allow himself to be so casually interrupted? One of the surest marks of greatness, of course, is accessibility and the appearance of having an unstinted allowance of time. “Extreme busyness is a symptom of deficient vitality,” says Stevenson. The disciples were extremely busy, Judas most of all. He was the treasurer of the group, harassed because expenses ran high and there was no certainty of tomorrow’s income. Jesus brushed away such petty worries with a smile.
“Consider the lilies of the field,” he exclaimed, "they toil not neither do they spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” That was all very poetic, very nice, but it did not fool Judas. He knew that you can not get anywhere in the world without money and it was his job to find the money. The other disciples had similar worries. They wanted to get it clear as to their relative positions in the new Kingdom; they were concerned because outsiders, not properly initiated into the organization, were claiming to be followers of Jesus and doing miracles in his name. They fretted because there was so much work to be done and the days too short for doing it.
But he towered magnificently above it all. Wherever he went the children flocked. Pomp and circumstances mean nothing to them. They are neither attracted by prominence nor awed in its presence. Their instinct cuts through all outward semblance with a keen swift edge; unfailingly they comprehend who are real and who are not. With a knowledge which is the accumulated wisdom of all the ages they recognize their friends.
So they swarmed around, climbing on his knees, tugging at his garments, smiling up into his eyes, begging to hear more of his stories. It was all highly improper and wasteful in the disciples’ eyes. With bustling efficiency they hastened to remind him that he had important appointments; tried to push eager mothers back.
But Jesus would have none of it. “Suffer the little children to come unto me!” he commanded. And he added one of those sayings which should make so clear the message of his gospel. “They are the very essence of the Kingdom of Heaven,” he said, “unless you become like them you shall in no wise enter in.” Like them … like little children … laughing … joyous … unaffected … trusting implicitly, with time to be kind.
To be sure he was not always in the crowd. He had his long hours of withdrawal when, in communion with his Father, he refilled the deep reservoirs of his strength and love. Toward the end he was more preoccupied. He knew months in advance that if he made another journey to Jerusalem his fate would be sealed; yet he never wavered in his decision to make that journey. Starting out on it, his mind filled with the approaching conflict, his shoulders burdened with the whole world’s need, he heard his name called out from the roadside in shrill unfamiliar tones. “Jesus … Jesus … thou son of David … have mercy on me.”
It was the voice of a useless blind beggar. At once the disciples were upon him, commanding silence. Couldn’t he see that the Master was deep in thought? Who was he to interrupt? Keep still, blind man … get back where you belong …
But frantic hope knows no reserve. It was the poor fellow’s one possible chance. He cared no more for their rebuke than they for his need. Again the shrill insistent voice: “Jesus, thou son of David, have mercy on me.”
Jesus stopped. “Who called my name?”
“Nobody, Master … only a blind beggar … a worthless fellow … Bariteeus … nobody at all … we’ll tend to him.”
“Bring him here.”
Trembling with hope he was guided forward. The deep rich eyes of the Master looked into those sightless eyes. The mind which had been buried in the greatest problem with which a mind ever wrestled, gave itself unreservedly to the problem of one forlorn human life. Here was need; and he had time.
Something more than a hundred years ago a sermon was preached in St. John’s Church, New York, which dealt very severely with the frailties of poor human nature, and put forth, with unctuous assurance, the promise of eternal punishment for a large proportion of the race. Among the worshippers was a gentleman of unfortunate reputation but keen mind, whose name lingers unforgettably in our history. As he left the church a lady spoke to him
“What did you think of the sermon, Mr. Burr?” she asked.
“I think,” responded Aaron Burr, “that God is better than most people suppose.”
That was the message of Jesus — that God is supremely better than anybody had ever dared to believe. Not a petulant Creator, who had lost control of his creation and, in wrath, was determined to destroy it all. Not a stern Judge dispensing impersonal justice. Not a vain King who must be flattered and bribed into concessions of mercy. Not a rigid accountant, checking up the sins against the penances and striking a cold hard balance. Not any of these … nothing like these … but a great Companion, a wonderful Friend, a kindly indulgent, joy-loving Father.
For three years Jesus walked up and down the shores of his lake and through the streets of towns and cities, trying to make them understand. Then came the end, and almost before his fine firm flesh was cold, the distortion began. He who had cared nothing for ceremonies and forms was made the idol of formalism. Men hid themselves in monasteries; they lashed themselves with whips; they tortured their skins with harsh garments and cried out that they were followers of him — of him who loved the crowd, who gathered children about him wherever he went, who celebrated the calling of a new disciple with, a feast in which all the neighborhood joined! “Hold your heads high,” he had exclaimed, “you are lords of the universe … only a little lower than the angels … children of God.” But the hymn writers knew better. They wrote:
“Oh to be nothing, nothing
For such a worm as I.”
His last supper with his disciples was an hour of solemn memories. Their minds were heavy with foreboding. He talked earnestly, but the whole purpose of his talk was to lift up their hearts, to make them think nobly of themselves, to fill their spirits with a conquering faith.
“My joy I leave with you,” he exclaimed.
“Be of good cheer,” he exclaimed.
Joy … cheer … these are the words by which he wished to be remembered. But down through the ages has come the wicked falsehood that he never laughed.
Many leaders have dared to lay out ambitious programs, but this is the most daring of all: “Go ye into all the world,” Jesus said, “and preach the gospel to the whole creation.”
Consider the sublime audacity of that command. To carry Roman civilization across the then known world had cost millions of lives and billions in treasure. To create any sort of reception for a new idea or product today involves a vast machinery of propaganda and expense. Jesus had no funds and no machinery. His organization was a tiny group of uneducated men, one of whom had already abandoned the cause as hopeless, deserting to the enemy. He had come proclaiming a Kingdom and was to end upon a cross; yet he dared to talk of conquering all creation… What was the source of his faith in that handful of followers? By what methods had he trained them? What had they learned from him of the secrets of influencing men?
We speak of the law of “supply and demand,” but the words have got turned around. With anything which is not a basic necessity the supply always precedes the demand. Elias Howe invented the sewing machine, but it nearly rusted away before American women could be persuaded to use it. With their sewing finished so quickly what would they ever do with their spare time? Howe had vision, and had made his vision come true; but he could not sell! So his biographer paints a tragic picture — the man who had done more than any other in his generation to lighten the labor of women is forced to attend the funeral of the woman he loved in a borrowed suit of clothes! Nor are men less stubborn than women in opposition to the new idea. The typewriter had been a demonstrated success for years before business men could be persuaded to buy it. How could any one have letters enough to justify the investment of one hundred dollars in a writing machine? Only when the Remingtons sold the Caligraph Company the right to manufacture machines under the Remington patent, and two groups of salesmen set forth in competition, was the resistance broken down.
Almost every invention has had a similar battle. Said Robert Fulton of the Clermont:
“As I had occasion daily to pass to and from the shipyard where my boat was in progress, I often loitered near the groups of strangers and heard various inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of scorn, sneer or ridicule. The loud laugh often rose at my expense; the dry jest; the wise calculations of losses or expenditures; the dull repetition of ‘Fulton’s Folly.’ Never did a single encouraging remark, a bright hope, a warm wish cross my path.”
That is the kind of human beings we are, wise in our own conceit, impervious to suggestions, perfectly sure that what’s never been done never will be done. Nineteen hundred years ago we were even more impenetrable, for modern science has frequently shot through the hard shell of our complacency … Assuredly there was no demand for a new religion; the world was already oversupplied. And Jesus proposed to send forth eleven men and expect them to substitute his thinking for all existing religious thought!
In this great act of courage he was the successor, and the surpasser, of all the prophets who had gone before. We spoke a moment ago of the prophets as deficient in humor; but what they lacked in the amenities of life they made up richly in vision. Each one of them brought to the world a revolutionary idea, and we can not understand truly the significance of the work of Jesus unless we remember that he began where they left off, building on the firm foundations they had laid. Let us glance at them a moment, starting with Moses. What a miracle he wrought in the thinking of his race! The world was full of gods in his day — male gods, female gods, wooden and iron gods — it was a poverty-stricken tribe which could not boast of a hundred at least. The human mind had never been able to leap beyond the idea that every natural phenomenon was the expression of a different deity. Along came Moses with one of the transcendent intellects of history. “There is one God,” he cried. What an overwhelming idea and how magnificent its consequences. Taking a disorganized crowd of folks who had been slaves in Egypt for generations, their spirits broken by rule and rod — Moses persuaded them that God, this one all-powerful God, was their special friend and protector, fired them with faith in that conviction and transformed them from slaves to conquerors!
Moses died and the nation carried on under the momentum which he had given it, until there arose Amos, a worthy successor. “There is one God,” Moses had said. “God is a God of justice,” added Amos.
That assertion is such an elementary part of our consciousness that we are almost shocked by the suggestion that it could ever have been new. But remember the gods that were current in Amos’s day if you would have a true measure of the importance of his contribution — the gods of the Greeks, for example. Zeus was chief of them, a philandering old reprobate who visited his wrath upon such mortals as were unlucky enough to interfere in his love affairs, and threw his influence to whichever side offered the largest bribes. His wife and sons and daughters were no better; nor was the moral standard of the God of the Israelites very much superior until Amos came. He was a trading God, ready to offer so much victory for so many sacrifices and insistent upon his prerogatives. It was the high privilege of Amos to proclaim a God who could not be bought, whose ears were deaf to pleadings if the cause was unfair, who would show no discrimination in judgment between the strong and weak, the rich and poor. It was a stupendous conception but Amos persuaded men to accept it, and it has remained a part of our spiritual heritage.
Years passed and Hosea spoke. His had not been a happy life. His wife deserted him; heartbroken and vengeful he was determined to cast her off forever. Yet his love would not let him do it. He went to her, forgave her, and took her back. Then in his hours of lonely brooding a great thought came to him! If he, a mere man could love so unselfishly one who had broken faith with him, must not God be capable of as great, or greater forgiveness, toward erring human beings? The thought fired his imagination; he stood up before the nation and proclaimed it with burning zeal — a God so strong that he could destroy, yet so tender that he would not!
One God
A just God.
A good God
These were the three steps in the development of the greatest of all ideas. Hundreds of generations have died since the days of Moses, of Amos and Hosea. The thought of the world on almost every other subject has changed; but the conception of God which these three achieved has remained in control of men’s thinking down to this very hour.
What was there for Jesus to add? Only one thought, but it was so much more splendid than all which had gone before that it has altered the current of history. He invited frail bewildered humanity to stand upright and look at God face to face! He called upon men to throw away fear, disregard the limitations of their mortality, and claim the Lord of Creation as Father. It is the basis of all revolt, all democracy. For if God is the Father of all men, then all are his children and hence the commonest is equally as precious as the king. No wonder the authorities trembled. They were not fools, they recognized the implications of the teaching. Either Jesus’ life or their power must go. No wonder that succeeding generations of authorities have embroidered his Idea and corrupted it, so that the simplest faith in the world has become a complex thing of form and ritual, of enforced observances and “thou shall nots.” It was too dangerous a Power to be allowed to wander the world, unleashed and uncontrolled.
This then was what Jesus wished to send to all creation, through the instrumentality of his eleven men. What were his methods of training? How did he meet prospective believers? How did he deal with objections? By what sort of strategy did he interest and persuade?
He was making the journey back from Jerusalem after his spectacular triumph in cleansing the Temple, when he came to Jacob’s Well, and being tired, sat down. His disciples had stopped behind at one of the villages to purchase food, so he was alone. The well furnished the water supply for the neighboring city of the Samaritans, and after a little time a woman came out to it, carrying her pitcher on her shoulder. Between her people, the Samaritans, and his people, the Jews, there was a feud of centuries. To be touched by even the shadow of a Samaritan was defilement according to the strict code of the Pharisees; to speak to one was a crime. The woman made no concealment of her resentment at finding him there. Almost any remark from his lips would have kindled her anger. She would at least have turned away in scorn; she might have summoned her relatives and driven him off.
An impossible situation, you will admit. How could he meet it? How give his message to one who was forbidden by everything holy to listen? The incident is very revealing: there are times when any word is the wrong word; when only silence can prevail. Jesus knew well this precious secret. As the woman drew closer he made no move to indicate that he was conscious of her approach. His gaze was on the ground. When he spoke it was quietly, musingly, as if to himself, “If you knew who I am,” he said, ”you would not need to come out here for water. I would give you living water.”
The woman stopped short, her interest challenged in spite of herself; she set down the pitcher and looked at the stranger. It was a burning hot day; the well was far from the city; she was heated and tired. What did he mean by such a remark? She started to speak, checked herself and burst out impulsively, her curiosity overleaping her caution.
“What are you talking about? Do you mean to say you are greater than our father Jacob who gave us this well? Have you some magic that will save us this long walk in the sun?”
Dramatic, isn’t it — a single sentence achieving triumph, arousing interest and creating desire. With sure instinct he followed up his initial advantage. He began to talk to her in terms of her own life, her ambitions, her hopes, knowing so well that each of us is interested first of all, and most of all, in himself. When the disciples came up a few minutes later they found an unbelievable sight — a Samaritan listening with rapt attention to the teaching of a Jew!
He prepared to go but she would not allow it. Running back to the city she summoned her brothers and relatives.
“Come,” she cried, “and see a man who told me all things that ever I did.”
They followed her out to the well — these prejudiced, reluctant men and women who, an hour before, would have thought it incredible that they should ever hold conversation with one of their traditional enemies. Suspiciously at first but with steadily ascending interest they listened to his talk.
It is said that great leaders are born, not made. The saying is true to this degree, that no man can persuade people to do what he wants them to do, unless he genuinely likes people, and believes that what he wants them to do is to their own advantage. The secret of Jesus’ success was an affection for folks which so shone in his eyes and rang in his tones, that even the commonest man in a crowd felt instinctively that here was a friend … The afternoon shadows lengthened while he talked. Other citizens, attracted by the gathering, made their way out to the well and added themselves to the audience. It came time for the evening meal; again he prepared to go. They would not hear of it. He must be their guest, meet their neighbors, tell them more, persuade them further!
“They besought him to abide with them; and he abode there two days.”
End of Part II
In the next issure, we will conclude “The Man Nobody Knows” by Bruce Barton. In this final installment Barton attempts to make a case that Jesus was the founder of modern enlightened business practices.
In the Urantia Papers, the account of Nalda is told with great depth and richness. One wonders what Bruce Barton could have done with the enlarged life and teachings of Jesus as portrayed in our Revelation! Here is a portion of the episode at the well from the Urantia Papers:
“Nalda now felt greatly ashamed that she had so unthinkingly spoken to Jesus, and she most penitently addressed the Master, saying: ”My Lord, I repent of my manner of speaking to you, for I perceive that you are a holy man or maybe a prophet.“ And she was just about to seek direct and personal help from the Master when she did what so many have done before and since — dodged the issue of personal salvation by turning to the discussion of theology and philosophy. She quickly turned the conversation from her own needs to a theological controversy. Pointing over to Mount Gerizim, she continued: ”Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, and yet you would say that in Jerusalem is the place where men ought to worship; which, then, is the right place to worship God?”
Jesus perceived the attempt of the woman’s soul to avoid direct and searching contact with its Maker, but he also saw that there was present in her soul a desire to know the better way of life. After all, there was in Nalda’s heart a true thirst for the living water; therefore he dealt patiently with her, saying: “Woman, let me say to you that the day is soon coming when neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem will you worship the Father … Your salvation comes not from knowing how others should worship or where but by receiving into your own heart this living water which I am offering you even now.”
But Nalda would make one more effort to avoid the discussion of the embarrassing question of her personal life on earth and the status of her soul before God. Once more she resorted to questions of general religion, saying: “Yes, I know, Sir, that John has preached about the coming of the Converter, he who will be called the Deliverer, and that, when he shall come, he will declare to us all things” — and Jesus, interrupting Nalda, said with startling assurance, "I who speak to you am he.” [UB 143:5.5-7]