[ p. 145 ]
WHEN the Twelve first heard Jesus’ predictions of suffering, all their long preparation was still too slight for so drastic a message. That earthly disaster could overtake Jesus was incredible, almost blasphemous. It was then that Peter presumed to “rebuke” the Master, “That be far from thee, Lord; this shall not be unto thee”—presumption which met with a response so severe as to indicate the sharpness of temptation which the Master felt in its suggestion of possible compromise and escape. But this temptation had been finally and definitely overcome, and Jesus’ only present fear was lest it now affect the Twelve. So he warns them: “By avoiding the duty that now lies before us, we may win temporary ease— but at what a cost! The price would be the loss of eternal life; can any gain be worth that? Even in the present order can a man make any adequate exchange for his life? If he should gain the whole world and die at the moment of success, would the world then be worth anything to him? I must go forward to suffering, perhaps even to crucifixion; if any man would be my disciple, let him prove it by showing himself willing to take up his cross and follow me. Whosoever [ p. 146 ] would save his life shall lose it; and whosoever is ready to lose his life for my sake shall save it.” [1]
A few days later, with Jesus’ stinging rebuke still ringing in their ears, Peter, James, and John experienced the mysterious transfiguration on the mountain. The story is told in symbolic language, but its meaning is abundantly clear; it narrates, so to speak, the events of Peter’s confession transposed into a higher key. Once again Jesus’ Messiahship is declared, now by the great representatives of Law and Prophecy— Moses and Elijah. Once again, Peter attempted to bind heaven’s mysteries to earth by an interference which was meant to be kindly: “Fortunately we disciples are here, and we can make little houses where you three may dwell.” Once again Peter is rebuked, this time by the overpowering sense of God’s presence; and “they were sore afraid.” “This is no earthly Messiah. This is my beloved Son; follow him unflinchingly to death, for his destiny is beyond death.” And the supernatural radiance on Jesus’ face confirms the message.
What did the disciples understand by the term “Son of God”? Probably very little, as yet. It was one of the titles of the Messiah, but it was very ambiguous. It might be applied to any man specially favored. Of Solomon God had said, “He shall be my son, and I will be his father,” [2] while on one occasion Jesus is said to have included Peter with himself under the title “sons.” [3] Naturally the disciples were uncertain [ p. 147 ] how to interpret the phrase. But they must have had absorbingly significant ideas about the name, even though (quite naturally) they had not yet tried to formulate these ideas. Was Jesus God’s Son in some superhuman sense? Was it possible, as he had spoken of himself, that he claimed to be the divine Son of Man? Did that account for the glory of his face on the Mount of Transfiguration? Put yourself in their place and you would hardly know what you had seen or heard; certainly you would not know what you had thought or ought to think. That was the way Peter felt; he could only stumble through a few affectionate but blundering words about building shrines.
It appears, indeed, that the Twelve were, for the moment, unable to assimilate Jesus’ new teaching and warning. The ensuing days were largely made up of misunderstandings and cross-purposes. Peter, James, and John were so bewildered by the transfiguration experience that Jesus’ injunction to say nothing about it must have been an immense relief; at any rate this particular command they kept inviolate. As they came down from the hill, Mark tells us, they found the rest of the Twelve in despair, jostled by the crowd and tormented by the Scribes; they had attempted a cure, and their inadequate faith had made them fail. Shortly afterward Jesus detected them again disputing about their respective ranks, and peace had scarcely been restored when James and John came to him—at an almost miraculously inopportune moment—to ask for the two chief places in the Kingdom! It seems well nigh cruel for the Evangelists to record such [ p. 148 ] actions of the Twelve, who were to give such proofs of heroism; but the Evangelists were warning their readers—and so are warning us—against the same faults.
Jesus’ patience in dealing with the Twelve was so great as to show how fully and sympathetically he understood their difficulties. Only once—perhaps involuntarily—does a sharp reproach break forth, [4] and even then a moment later he is self-possessed and gentle once more. [5] Intensely interesting is his treatment of the dispute about rank. It turned on the missionary vocation which was now explained to the Twelve. The most important missionary, they argued, is he who deals with the most important converts. Jesus answered by calling a child. Putting his arms about the little one, he said: “Whoever in my service has the care of one such little child is caring for me; and whoever receives me, receives Him who sent me.” [6] In the value of God’s children there is no greater or less; the teacher of an infant class or the mother in a home has as sacred a work as that of the greatest dignitary. In dealing with James and John, there is not even a direct rebuke for their rashness. Jesus carries their request back to the eternal principle which lies behind it: greatness can come only through selfsacrifice. “Can you, too, drink of my cup of suffering? Can you, too, pass through the dark waters that will submerge me?” The brave reply, “We can!” [ p. 149 ] shows that despite all surface misunderstandings the progress of the disciples in their painful lesson was sincere. So Jesus tells them, very gently, that their request is beyond his power to grant: “To sit on my right hand or on my left is not mine to grant; it is reserved for those who shall prove themselves worthy.” Then, turning to the Twelve as a whole, he taught them: “The Gentiles think that the greatest man is he who wields the greatest power. It is not so among you; he who is truly greatest is he who renders the greatest and most unselfish service.” [7]
By way of contrast we are told the story of a man who gave up his opportunity at the first signs of difficulty. [8] Young and well-to-do, his life had been estimable, perhaps largely because in his position he had never been exposed to any great temptation. None the less, he was dissatisfied. Hearing of Jesus, with almost boyish impetuosity he ran to him, and kneeling asked, “Good Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus, seeing what was wrong, probed his understanding of the word “good”: did he really comprehend what infinite vistas of activity that adjective opened up ? [9] Then, reciting a list of elementary commandments, he asked the youth if he had kept them. The answer came, modestly, “Master, in all these things I have guarded myself from my youth.” Jesus, touched by his tone, “looking upon him loved him,” and offered him the greatest privilege any man [ p. 150 ] could receive. He was willing to enlarge the number of the Twelve to include the inquirer, to give him the supreme command, “Follow me!” Only, in this case he must be willing to part with his wealth and take his place with the others in a common brotherhood, where the presence of a specially favored member would have destroyed real fellowship. Nothing was said of suffering and death, but even the lesser sacrifice seemed impossible; “he went away sorrowful.”
Jesus, turning to his disciples after this “great refusal,” sighed and said: “How hard it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom.” Indeed, without God’s special help, it was wholly impossible. Jesus understood, in other words, that the life of luxury makes for moral softness; it is tremendously difficult for the man who lives at ease to be less than well contented with life as it is. He knew well that with wealth there is likely to come what Robert Louis Stevenson called “fatty degeneration of the moral nature.” And if this degeneration does nothing more than turn heroic possibilities into a pleasant amiability, it is deadly degeneration, none the less.
Returning now to the course of Jesus’ ministry, shortly after Peter’s confession he and his companions started on their way to go up to Jerusalem for the Passover. It was by no means the gay and joyous pilgrimage to which the disciples had looked forward, remembering other years when they had been a part of the happy-hearted crowds who always went singing on their way to the great festival.
[ p. 151 ]
It was dawning on the Twelve by this time that there lay before them no easy road to victory. They hardly understood what the full danger was, but they felt enough to dread the journey. They knew that at Jerusalem conservatism reigned. There, they knew, were the religious authorities and all the established order; there were the Roman power and the priestly caste, who, despite the superciliousness of the Jews, somehow seemed always bound strongly together when self-interest drew them.
And Jesus had aroused the antagonism of the religious rulers. It was plain that his reception in Jerusalem would not be friendly. Opposition was well under way and it would probably become harder and more bitter. The Twelve began to see that if Jesus persisted in his purpose to go up for the feast, there was bound to be trouble, conflict, disaster.
Now they were on the way. He had “set his face steadfastly to go up to Jerusalem.” He knew that the storm was gathering, could hear its mutterings, felt that it was just ready to break; but he went on with determined purpose, not sadly nor despairingly, but sure, steady, strong, expectant, fearless. No wonder we read that “they were amazed and as they followed they were afraid.” [10] Yet they did follow, even though again he warned them of the impending issue. Indeed, being Galileans, they even contrived to forget their anxiety and to revive their dreams of earthly glory; witness the request of James and John.
On the way, they passed through Jericho. Here [ p. 152 ] they met Zacchreus, whose penitent friendship the Master gained. [11] Here they saw him restore sight to Bartimreus. The blind man sat by the roadside, begging. One may easily picture the scene. The road was crowded with pilgrims. Some of the “women who followed Jesus from Galilee” were there, and hundreds of others as well—disciples and non-disciples—together with the crowds who had come out from the city. What was the blind man thinking of, as he sat there hearing the crowd go by? How much did he know of the gossip of the road? Assuredly he had heard the people talking about Jesus, and possibly he had heard what some of these friends of his said. If the visit to Zacchteus had occurred the previous evening, he had probably heard the citizens discussing the action of this alleged reformer in going to dine with a rich rogue. He remembered much that he had heard before of the prophet. Some called him only Jesus of Nazareth, and some actually spoke of him also as the Son of David, the Messiah.
Then something happened. The roar of the road struck a different note. There was a blockade of the people about him. He clutched one of the men in the crowd and asked what it was all about. They told him, “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by,” and in a moment he made up his mind. Basing his petition on belief that Jesus had power and authority, he cried out, “Jesus, thou Son of David, have mercy on me.” They tried to silence him; but he shouted all the louder, “O thou Son of David, have mercy on me.” Then [ p. 153 ] Jesus stopped and asked that the man be called. They told him of the summons, and jumping up and throwing off his cloak he stumbled through the mob, helped by his friends, and came to Jesus. “Sir,” he said, in answer to the question as to what he desired—“Sir, that I may receive my sight.” “Go on your way,” the Master replied. “Your faith has made you well again,” and at once his sight returned and “he followed Jesus in the way.”
The story is retold here, not merely for its vivid account of the healing—it bears about its recitation the marks of honest statement of fact—but chiefly for the reason which led the Evangelists to include it: Jesus, without rebuke, allows himself to be addressed by one outside of the Twelve as “Son of David.” He does not, to be sure, explicitly accept the Messianic title, [12] but neither does he reject it. In Galilee anyone who so addressed him would have been sharply charged, “Hold thy peace,” but now the end was too near to make silence of further importance.
As they moved toward Jerusalem the Twelve must have been turning over in their minds many things that had happened in the time they had been with their Master, things that the healing of Bartimteus would vividly recall. What did it all mean? They did not know. All that they knew was that they loved him. And now they were afraid—afraid for him as well as for themselves.
The Pharisees hated him because he had broken [ p. 154 ] their Sabbath rules, had been careless of ceremonials which they considered inspired rites, had denounced them for the cold-heartedness of their religion, a religion that made them careful of tithing, but careless of acts of oppression toward the poor; hated him because many a time he had declared that even the lowest of the people, the scum of society, had better chances of heaven than their own. They hated him for the “woes” he pronounced against them, for the parables he evidently intended should be applied to them, for the attack upon their practices.
Others honestly doubted. They sincerely believed that he was a dangerous radical. Some naturally opposed him as a blasphemer who made himself too like unto God and deserved death for his sin as well as because of his dangerous doctrine.
And the Twelve: They could only go stumbling on, remembering that he had said, “If you are ashamed of me and of my words, then will I also be ashamed of you, when I come again, in the glory of the Father, and with the holy angels.” They could only follow, even though they marched to death; because he had said, “If anyone would come after me, let him take up his cross and follow.” They never dreamed that they could be anything but faithful to the end. Had he not said, “What profit is it to a man, if he gain the whole world and yet forfeit his soul?”
So they went on from Jericho to Jerusalem; and six days before the Passover he rested in Bethany before going into the city with his troubled friends.
St. Mark viii: 34-37. ↩︎
I Chronicles xxii: 10. ↩︎
St. Matthew xvii: 26-27. ↩︎
St. Mark ix: 19. ↩︎
St. Mark ix: 28-29. ↩︎
The moral of this passage—St. Mark ix: 33-37—is often confused with the famous words about “becoming as little children”; the point at issue, however, is quite different. ↩︎
St. Mark x: 35-45. ↩︎
St. Mark x: 17-31. ↩︎
Compare page 44. ↩︎
St. Mark x: 32. ↩︎
Compare page 28. ↩︎
He certainly could not accept it in any “Son of David” sense. ↩︎