just come to my house, and I have nothing to offer him." But the other answers peevishly, and without coming down, "Leave me alone! The house is locked up, and the children are asleep with me. How can I get up to find the bread and unbolt the door?" And yet I tell you he will do it, if not for friendship's sake, yet to satisfy the importunity that has disturbed his rest. For one reason or another he will put on his clothes and give you what you want. Do you think, then, that God will let you supplicate him in vain? There is something that shocks our sense of reverence in the application of such incidents of human life to God, and we never meet with any thing of the kind in the parables of undoubted authenticity. The same characteristics, however, reappear in several stories in the third Gospel, none of which, we have reason to believe, are genuine. We are therefore amply justified in questioning the authenticity of this description also. At any rate, we know already that Jesus did not really regard the efficacy of prayer as dependent on divine caprice, which must be wearied or forced into compliance. His experience taught him that the heavenly Father cannot allow the children who lay their spiritual wants before him to suffer need. It was prayer, then, that gave Jesus strength; prayer that kept his trust in God, his hope and his courage from fading away, that preserved him from ever failing in self-surrender, obedience, or love. Communion with God gave him all the strength he needed to persevere in his unwearied labors, watchfully to maintain the struggle, to make all things, even the keenest sufferings, minister to the development and hallowing of his character. The whole course of his life, and above all his death, proves that this was so. Prayer strengthened him for all things, and made him, when surrounded by dangers on every side, a perfect type of the tranquil power of faith. This conception is visibly set before us in an emblematic story, which so strongly resembles that of the storm at sea with which we began this chapter that it might almost be regarded as a later modification or elaboration of it. Nevertheless, it has a sufficiently strongly marked character of its own to deserve a special treatment. In the Gospels it follows immediately after the feeding of the five thousand. Jesus, with the most limited possible means at his command, had abundantly satisfied the wants of countless multitudes.1 1 See pp. 148, 149. Inmediately afterwards he commanded his disciples, who would rather have stayed with him, to embark alone and cross the lake. He would presently join them himself, but must first dismiss the crowd. As soon as he had done so, he went up the mountain to pray. He felt that he must be alone with God. It is an eloquent touch in the story, that shows us how even Jesus, who was so rich that he could give food to all that multitude, yet felt poor and helpless before God, and could do nothing without prayer! But what that prayer could enable him to do the sequel will declare. The shades of night had fallen upon the lake, in the midst of which were the disciples in their boat, while Jesus alone was on the land. He saw them from the hill, struggling in vain to make head against the strong west wind, while the mighty waves tortured and wrenched the vessel. Upon this he came to them, walking upon the water, about the fourth watch of the night (from three to six in the morning). He was on the point of passing them by (?) when they saw him walking upon the sea, and thinking it was a ghost, were terrified and shrieked for fear. But Jesus said at once, "Be of good courage! It is I. Fear not!" Then he got up into the boat, and the wind was hushed. In their own minds they were all filled with consternation, for their shallow hearts had not understood their Master's power, even when he fed the crowd miraculously. 2 If the story went no further it might be supposed really to refer to the Christian community rather than to Jesus himself. Bereft of his personal presence, given over to the world's hostility, the flock of Jesus looked forward through the night of persecution to his return, of which no man knew the hour, it might be in the first, the second, the third, or not till the fourth watch of the night! Or when not looking for his immediate return, the followers of Jesus at least expected his might to interpose on their behalf, and if he was with them, or lent them his help, they would at once be saved from their distress. Perhaps this is the meaning of the story in Mark, or his authority. But the first Gospel gives us a different impression, and has, we are inclined to think, preserved the original meaning more faithfully. Here another figure appears upon the canvas, probably painted in by a later hand, and removes the possibility of doubt as to the' meaning of the picture. When Jesus had striven to calm his 2 Matthew xxiv. 42, xxv. 13. 8 Compare Mark vi. 47, 48 with Mark xiii. 35. 1 See p. 260. terrified disciples, Peter, says the Gospel of Matthew, cried out from the ship, "Lord! if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." "Come then!" answered Jesus. Then Peter dropped from the ship and began to walk upon the water to him. But when he saw how the fierce gusts of wind were lashing the waves he was afraid, and immediately began to sink. Lord! help me!" he cried in terror, and Jesus put out his hand and seized him, with the words of gentle but serious rebuke, "Why did you doubt, O you of little faith?" As soon as they had ascended the boat the wind was hushed, and the men bowed down before Jesus and confessed, Truly thou art the son of God!" The picture is now as clear as we could wish. Jesus, in the might of prayer, walks calmly through the storm on the raging billows of the world. But his disciples, though their danger is far less than his, are beside themselves with fear. There is but one of them who has a moment's courage, and even his heart sinks almost directly. But for the delivering hand of Jesus he would perish. He lacks the mighty faith which makes all things possible to Jesus.3 It almost seems as if the three pictures of the Master himself, of the disciples, and of Peter must be meant to refer to the events of the last evening of the life of Jesus. But apart from personal references the story of the walking on the sea is a masterpiece. An art-critic of the highest rank has assigned it a place of honor among legends that excel in beauty and depth of meaning; for it puts, as it were, before our very eyes this weighty truth: Man can overcome the extremest difficulties and obstacles in the fulfilment of his task so long as he is supported by the ever fresh courage of faith, but no sooner does the smallest fear creep over him than he is lost. No man has ever exemplified this power of faith more strikingly than Jesus. Compare Job ix. 8; Daniel vii. 2; Revelation xiii. 1. 5 Compare Luke xxii. 32. 4 Goethe. 8 Compare Matthew xvli. 20. CHAPTER XXII. THE GATHERING STORM. MATTHEW XIV. 1-13a, xv. 1-20; LUKE XIII. 31–33.1 WITH ITHIN a few months, at most, after the commencement of the ministry of Jesus, clouds had already begun to appear on the horizon; but they had gradually risen in greater number, and were now gathering darkly over the Master's head. If the Evangelists had strictly followed the order of time in their narratives, the whole course of events would be clear to us, and we should understand how the relations between Jesus and the established powers became more and more strained, and the opposition to him grew in intensity. Even as it is, though our authorities often arrange their materials with reference to the subject-matter rather than the sequence of time, we may still follow the course of events with tolerable certainty; but to do so we must set aside certain isolated and incorrect statements to the effect that the enemies of Jesus had laid plots to get him out of the way, even at an early period. Our general impression, then, is that after Jesus had been at work for perhaps something less than a year, the storm began to gather from two quarters. The friendly disposition or complete indifference with which the popular leader of Nazareth and the new Messianic movement in Galilee were at first regarded now gave way to a hostile and even definitely aggressive line of conduct, in which it appears that the civil as well as the religious authorities took part. Let us begin with an event which must have moved Jesus deeply, both on its own account and as an omen of the fate he had to expect himself. This event was the death of John. The account we have of it runs as follows: The prophet of the wilderness paid, by the loss of his liberty, for his boldness in rebuking the tetrarch's marriage with his half-brother's wife. The only reason why he was not put to death at once was that Herod shrank from exasperating the multitudes too much, and they reverenced John as a 1 Mark vi. 14-29, vii. 1-23; Luke ix. 7-9. 8 See pp. 122, 123. pro het. According to other authorities Herodias desired the prophet's death, but her husband protected him; for once he had summoned him into his presence and had received so strong an impression of his uprightness and sanctity that he had ever since entertained a feeling of awe towards him, and had protected him from every injury. In fact, although the prophet's exhortations always threw him into great dejection and perplexity, he could not help sending for him repeatedly. All this did but confirm Herodias in her murderous design, for the implacable hatred of the offended woman was still further heightened by fear for her own future when she saw what a hold the prophet was evidently gaining upon the prince himself. At last her opportunity came. It was Herod's birthday, or perhaps the anniversary of his accession to the throne. The grandees of the kingdom, the captains of the army, and the heads of the most distinguished families were invited to court to give lustre to the feast. The splendor displayed was daz zling; the pleasures offered to the distinguished guests overpowered the senses; boundless prodigality and entrancing luxury reigned supreme. Herodias had prepared a surprise for the guests. The feast was far advanced when Herod's step-daughter was announced. As soon as she was admitted, she begged her prince and step-father to allow her to dance for the entertainment of his guests. Could a princess deign to display herself like a common dancing-girl before so many unchaste eyes? Had she no motive but affectionate attention to the founder of the feast? Herod had no suspicion, and readily accepted her offer. Then Salome, for so the girl was called, began. She threw herself into every bewitching attitude or movement which the very perfection of art admitted; and as her lovely form glanced or floated before their eyes, the spectators were so enraptured by her grace that they all gazed upon her in speechless admiration, till a great burst of applause greeted the close of her performance. Herod himself was transported with delight, and signified his pleasure by a promise of princely magnificence: "Ask what you will, and you shall have it." And when she seemed at first to decline any recompense, he repeated with a mighty oath, Name your boon! for it shall be granted, though it were half my kingdom!" "Then bring me the head of John the Baptist here on a salver!" she cried, for her mother had taught her her lesson well. Herod was thunderstruck by the request; but, however deeply moved, he dare not break the |