And when you see Jonathan going thus into the woods he is going for the deliberate purpose of taking the crown off his own brow and putting it upon the brow of another. He is abdicating the throne in behalf of this outcast friend of his who is hiding here in the forest.
You will doubtless agree, therefore, that this old world has not been blessed with many visits so beautiful as this. Watch this Prince as he goes into the wood. His stride is like that of another:
"Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent; Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame.
But the olive trees were not blind to Him, And the little gray leaves were kind to Him, And the thorn tree had a mind to Him, When into the woods He came.
"Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content; Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame.
When death and shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last, "Twas on a tree they slew him--last When out of the woods He came."
Yes, Jonathan went into the woods to uncrown himself! to empty himself for his friend! Truly "the spirit and mind was in him that was also in Christ Jesus, who being in the form of G.o.d thought it not a thing to be clung to to be equal with G.o.d, but emptied Himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross."
But the "practical" man stands aside and looks on and says, "Jonathan, you have made a great mistake. You never wore a crown and you never wielded a scepter. You took your opportunity for earthly greatness and threw it away. It was a great mistake." And we take the words of Judas and say, "Why this waste?"
But after all, was it a mistake? He lost his crown, but he won his friend. He helped banish the discord and increased the melody of the world. He threw aside his scepter of temporal power to lay hold on an eternal scepter. He threw aside the crown that he might have worn for a day to lay hold on a crown that will last forever more.
If ever I get to Heaven I expect to give particular attention to the Visitors" Gallery. I think there is going to be an especial place, a very choice place in Heaven for the visitors. Not, you will understand, for those who are visiting Heaven, but those who were good at visiting here. For mark you, the Lord has spoken of a special reward that He is going to give to those of whom He could say, "Ye visited me." And about the handsomest, the loveliest face I expect to find among the immortal and blood-washed visitors is the face of this man Jonathan.
And now, will you hear this closing word? Jonathan uncrowned himself for his friend. And he won his friend and he won an immortal crown.
But there was another who gave up infinitely more than Jonathan. And He came to you and me when we were in an infinitely worse plight than that in which David was. He came to us when we were dead in trespa.s.ses and in sin. And what He says to us this morning is this, "I have called you friends. Ye are my friends."
The Prince who did that for us was not the son of Saul, but the Son of G.o.d. Through His renunciation He was crowned. By His stooping He was forever elevated. "Wherefore G.o.d has highly exalted Him and given Him a name that is above every name." But what I ask is this: Have you responded to His friendship as David responded to that of Jonathan? He has been a friend to you. Have you, will you be a friend to Him? That is what He is seeking. That is what He is longing for to-day as for nothing else in earth or Heaven.
You know why He came. You know why He is here now. Why did Jonathan visit David in the gloomy wood that day and uncrown himself for him?
It was just this reason: It was because he loved him. Again and again the story had said that Jonathan loved David as his own soul. I thought it was a mere hyperbole at first. I thought it might be a kind of poetic way of putting it, but it was only sober truth. And David spoke sober truth in that n.o.ble and manly lamentation when he said, "Thy love was wonderful to me, pa.s.sing the love of women."
And it is love that seeks you and me to-day. It is a love that longs to gain our friendship. It is a love that had been told to us, but at last was shown to us in the death of the cross. And we know it is true. David responded to the love that was shown him. He did not disappoint his friend. May the Lord save you and me from disappointing our Friend. "For He is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother."
VI
THE WOMAN OF THE SHATTERED ROMANCES--THE WOMAN OF SYCHAR
_John 4:4-26_
Look, will you, at this picture. There sits a man in the strength and buoyancy of young manhood. He is only thirty or thereabouts. About him is the atmosphere of vigor and vitality that belong to the spring-time of life. But to-day he is a bit tired. There is a droop in his shoulders. His feet and sandals are dusty. His garment is travel stained. He has been journeying all the morning on foot. And now at the noon hour he is resting.
The place of his resting is an old well curb. The well is one that was digged by hands that have been dust long centuries. This traveller is very thirsty. But he has no means of drawing the water, so he sits upon the well curb and waits. His friends who are journeying with him have gone into the city to buy food. Soon they will return and then they will eat and drink together.
As he looks along the road that leads into the city he sees somebody coming. That somebody is not one of his disciples. It is a woman. As she comes closer he sees that she is clad in the cheap and soiled finery of her cla.s.s. At once he knows her for what she is. He reads the dark story of her sinful life. He understands the whole fetid and filthy past through which she has journeyed as through the stenchful mud of a swamp.
As she approaches the well she glares at the Stranger seated upon the curb with bold and unsympathetic gaze. She knows his nationality at once. And all her racial resentment is alive and active.
A bit to her surprise the Stranger greets her with a request for a favor. "Give me a drink," he says. Christ was thirsty. He wanted a draught from Jacob"s well. But far more He wanted a draught from this woman"s heart. She was a slattern, an outcast. She was lower, in the estimation of the average Jew, than a street dog. Yet this weary Christ desired the gift of her burnt out and impoverished affections.
So He says, "Give me to drink."
There is no scorn in the tone, and yet the woman is not in the least softened by it. She rather glories in the fact that she has Him at a disadvantage. "Oh, yes," she doubtless says to herself, "you Jews with your high-handed pride, you Jews with your bitter contempt for us Samaritans--you never have any use for us except when you need us."
"How is it," she says, "that you being a Jew ask drink of me who am a woman of Samaria? You don"t mean that you would take a drink at the hand of an unclean thing like me, do you?"
But this charming Stranger does not answer her as she had expected. He makes no apology for His request. Nor does He show the least bit of resentment or contempt. He does not answer scorn with scorn, but rather answers with a surprising tenderness: "If thou knewest the gift of G.o.d and who it is that saith unto thee, Give me to drink, thou wouldest have asked of Him and He would have given thee living water."
Mark what the Master says. It is one of those abidingly tragic "ifs"--"If thou knewest." "The trouble with you," He says, "is that you do not know the marvelous opportunity with which you now stand face to face. Your trouble is that you are unaware of how near you are to the Fountain of Eternal Life. You do not realize how near your soiled fingers are to clasping wealth that is wealth forever more."
"If thou knewest"--if you only knew how He could still the fitful fever of your heart. If you only knew the message of courage and hope and salvation that He could speak through your lips, you would not be so listless and so careless and so indifferent as the preacher is trying to preach. If you knew the burdens that are ahead of you--if you knew the dark and lonely places where you will sorely need a friend, you would not lightly ignore the friendship and abiding companionship that is offered you in Christ Jesus, our Lord.
"If thou knewest." Do you not hear the cadences of tenderness in the voice of our Lord? Do you not get a glimpse of some bit of the infinite compa.s.sion that looks out from those eternal eyes? "If you only knew the gift of G.o.d, if you only knew who I am, instead of my having to beg you, instead of my having to stand at the door and knock--you would be knocking. You would be asking of me."
Now, isn"t that a rather amazing thing for Christ to say about this fallen woman? There she stands in her shame. Once, no doubt, she was beautiful. There is a charm about her still in spite of the fact that she is a woman of many a shattered romance. Five times she has been married, but the marriage relationship has had little sacredness for her. Her orange blossoms have been dipped in pitch and to-day she is living in open sin.
Who would ever have expected any marked change in this woman? Who would ever have dreamed that underneath this cheap and tarnished dress there beat a hungry heart? Who would ever have thought that this outcast heathen had moments when she looked wistfully toward the heights and longed for a better life? I suppose n.o.body would ever have thought of it but the kindly Stranger who now sat upon the well curb talking to her. He knew that in spite of her wasted years, in spite of her tarnished past, in spite of the fact that the foul breath of pa.s.sion had blown her about the streets as a filthy rag--there still was that within her that hungered and thirsted for goodness and for G.o.d.
And, my friend, you may a.s.sume that that thirst belongs to every man.
There is not one that is not stirred by it. It belongs to the best of mankind. It belongs to the elect company of white souled men and women that have climbed far up the hills toward G.o.d. It belongs to the great saints like David who cries, "My soul thirsteth for G.o.d, for the living G.o.d," who sobs out in his intensity of longing, "As the hart panteth after the water brook, so panteth my soul after thee, O G.o.d."
And thank G.o.d it does not belong to the saints alone. It belongs also to the sinners. It does not belong simply to those who have climbed toward the heights, but also to those who have dipped toward the lowest depths. About the only difference between the saint and the sinner in this respect is that the saint knows what he is thirsting for. He knows who it is that can satisfy the deepest longings of his soul, and the sinner does not know. But both of them are thirsting for the living G.o.d.
Jesus Christ knew men and women. He knew the human heart, and knowing man at his deepest, He knew what we sometimes forget. He knew that in every man, however low, however degraded he may be--that in every woman, however soiled and stained she may be, there is an insatiable longing for G.o.d. They do not always realize that for which they are thirsting. But I am absolutely sure that Augustine was right when he said that "G.o.d has made us for Himself and we never find rest till we rest in Him." Every human soul that is in the Far Country is in want, is hungry for the Bread of Life and thirsty for the Water of Life.
Do you remember what the Greeks said to Andrew that day at Jerusalem?
""Sir, we would see Jesus." We would have a vision of the face of G.o.d"s Son." And this is a universal longing. It is a thirst that has burned in the heart of man from the beginning of human history. It is older than the pyramids. It is a cry that is the very mother of religion.
As we sit by our Lord and see this unclean woman coming with her earthenware pot upon her shoulder we would fain warn Him. We would whisper in His ear, "Look, Master, yonder comes a degraded woman, yonder comes that creature that in all the centuries has been the most loathed and the most despised and who has been regarded as the most hopeless. Yonder comes an outcast." But Jesus said, "You see and know only in part. Your knowledge is surface knowledge. You do not know her in the deepest depths of her soiled soul. Yonder comes one, who in spite of her sin longs to be good and pure and holy. Yonder comes an immortal soul with immortal hungers and thirsts. Yonder comes a possible child of mine that longs ignorantly but pa.s.sionately for the under-girding of the Everlasting Arms."
And believe me, my friends, when I tell you that this longing is universal. You have feared to speak to that acquaintance of yours who seems so flippant, who seems so utterly indifferent to everything that partakes of the nature of religion. But that is not the deepest fact about him. Whoever he is and wherever he is, there are times when he is restless and heartsick and homesick. There are times when he is literally parched with thirst for those fountains that make glad the city of G.o.d. Dare to speak to him as if he wanted Jesus Christ. For he does want Him, though he may not know it and may be little conscious of it.
"If thou knewest the gift of G.o.d ... thou wouldest have asked of Him." That was absolutely and literally true, though I seriously doubt if the woman herself would have believed it of herself. If you knew the gift of G.o.d, if you knew what G.o.d could do for you, how much he could mean to your wasted and burnt out affections--you would ask Him.
You would seek for Him. You would change this well curb into an altar of prayer. You would change this noon-tide glare into an inner temple, into a holy of holies where the soul and G.o.d would meet and understand each other.
This reply of the Stranger awakens the interest of the woman while at the same time it mystifies and bewilders her. He is evidently sincere, and yet what can He mean? And in puzzled wonderment she asks Him, "Whence then hast thou living water? You have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Are you greater than our father Jacob who gave us the well and drank thereof himself and his sons and his cattle? Jacob was a great prince, a man of power with G.o.d and man. Do you know a secret that he did not know? Can you do what he could not do?"
And this winsome Stranger does not hesitate to say that He can. Will you listen to the claim that He makes to this woman. No other teacher however great and however egotistical ever made such a claim before or since. "Yes," He replies, "I am greater than your father Jacob. I am greater because I can give a gift that is infinitely beyond his.
"Every one that drinketh of this water shall thirst again, but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst. But the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.""
Did you notice here the two-fold declaration of the Master? He said in the first place that this old well would not satisfy permanently. And what is true of that well is true of all wells that have ever been digged by human hands. What is wrong with them? For one thing, they never satisfy. They never slake our thirst. To drink from them is like drinking sea water--we become only the more parched and thirsty as we drink.
Do you remember "The Ancient Mariner"? He is on a ship in the ocean and he is parched and dying with thirst. What is the matter? Has the sea gone dry? No--
"Water, water everywhere And all the boards did shrink; Water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink."
There is water, but it is not water that will satisfy.
And so men have digged their wells. They have been real wells. They had held real water of a kind, but it has been water that was utterly powerless to slake the thirst of the soul. Here is a man who has digged a well of wealth. Treasure is bubbling up about him like the waters of a fountain. He is rich beyond his hopes, but is he satisfied? Listen! "Soul, thou hast much good laid up for many days, eat, drink and be merry." But his soul has no appet.i.te for that kind of bread. His soul has no thirst for that brackish and bitter water.
It is hungry and thirsty for the living G.o.d, and nothing else can satisfy.
Here is another who has made the same tragic blunder.
"I"m an alien--I"m an alien to the faith my mother taught me; I"m an alien to the G.o.d that heard my mother when she cried; I"m a stranger to the comfort that my "Now I lay me" brought me, To the Everlasting Arms that held my father when he died.