The Cradle of the Christ: A Study in Primitive Christianity

The literary character of the fourth gospel must be remarked on as a peculiar indication of the mental exhaustion that accompanies the last stages of an intellectual movement. The literature of the century preceding Jesus fairly throbs with personal vitality. It is scarcely more than an expression of individual energies. The earliest writings of the New Testament, the genuine letters of Paul, are animated in every line by his own vehement personality; the speculative portions of them stir the blood, so real are the issues presented, so vital are the interests at stake. Shapeless, and sometimes incoherent, the thoughts tumble out of the writer's overcharged heart. The Christ is an ideal personage, but his mission is tremendously real; we are moved by a battle cry as the apostle's ideas burst upon us.

The literature of the succeeding period, though more elaborate and self-conscious, bearing traces of reflection, and even artifice in composition, is yet warm with the presence of a real purpose. But the fourth gospel is a purely literary work; a composition, the production of an artist in language. Its author, perhaps because he was simply an artist in language, is unknown. Trace of an historical Jesus in it there is none. No breath from the world of living men blows through it; no stir of social existence, no movement of human affairs ruffles its calm surface. The people are not real people, the issues are not real issues, the conflict is not a real conflict. We have a book, not a gospel.

The writer formally announces the subject of his spiritual drama, and then proceeds to develop it, according to approved rules of literary art. First comes the prologue, setting forth in a few sententious passages the cardinal idea of the piece. This occupies eighteen verses of the first chapter, and is followed by the introduction of John the Baptist and his testimony. This occupies eighteen verses more. The manifestation of the Logos to the first company of disciples is described with due circumstance in the remainder of the chapter. The symbolical opening of the public ministry, at Cana, the first open "manifestation of the glory" in the miracle of turning water into wine, by which is signified the calling to substitute a spiritual for a natural order, occupies the first ten verses of the second chapter. Then the ministry of revelation begins, with signs and demonstrations. The city of Jerusalem is chosen as the scene of it; and the scene never changes for longer than a moment, and then it changes without historical, or biographical motive. The cleansing of the temple is placed at the beginning, with undisguised purpose to announce his claim, and the dialectical contest is opened. Nicodemus, "a ruler of the Jews," seeks a nocturnal interview, betrays the ignorance of the kingdom which characterizes all save the regenerate, even the wisest, and gives occasion to the Christ to declare the intrinsic superiority of the Son of God, and the conditions of salvation through him; Nicodemus furnishing the starting point for a lofty declamation which soars beyond him into the region of transcendental ideas. The Baptist, instead of doubting, as in Matthew, and sending an embassy to the Christ to ascertain the reasons of his not disclosing himself, is himself questioned by skeptical disciples, and re-assures them by words that are an echo of the Christ's own.

The interview with the woman of Samaria is introduced for the purpose of extracting another confession of the Christ's supremacy from a different order of mind. Nicodemus represented Judaism in its pride of authority and learning. The woman of Samaria represents the ignorant, superstitious, yet stubborn idolatry reckoned by the Jews as no better than heathenism; her "five husbands" are the five sects into which Judaism was divided. She too is pictured to us as sitting by a well and drawing water. The conversation begins with the Christ's declaration of his power to create perennial springs of water in the heart, and leads immediately up to the great disclosure of himself. Superstition, like superciliousness, listens and is persuaded. The mention of Galilee is necessary to account for the episode in Samaria, but nothing occurs there. The next scene is laid again in Jerusalem. The water of Bethesda is brought into competition with the quickening spirit of the Christ; the cure of the sick man introduces a mystical discourse on the spiritual sufficiency of the Son of God.

Another scene is presented, and once more in Jerusalem. Another series of tableaux is arranged. This time the Christ is pictured as breaking bread and walking on water, whence occasion is taken to descant on the bread of life. For the purpose of making a fresh appearance in Jerusalem, and presenting his claim under a new aspect, Galilee is called into requisition again, but as usual, the drama is enacted in Jerusalem, which is the centre of the opposition. This time, the Christ, having declined to go up in his own character to meet his critics, goes up in disguise, incognito, and amazes the congregated multitude by his superb assumptions of authority, and his overwhelming denunciations of all who do not receive him; denunciations so uncompromising, that dissensions are created. "Some would have taken him, but none laid hands on him." As always, the demonstration results in bringing out his friends and enemies, in showing who were and who were not his own, which is the aim and end of every manifestation. The Logos presents himself, makes his statement, asserts his prerogative, offers the alternative of spiritual life or death, and retires, leaving the result to the spiritual laws.

The story of the woman taken in adultery which immediately follows this passage, probably made no part of the original gospel, as it appears out of all connection. It is pronounced by some of the best critics to be ungenuine. The obvious improbability of its incidents, the locality of it, – the Mount of Olives, – the Christ's mysterious proceeding of writing on the ground, and his unaccountable verdict, deprive the tale of all but literary interest. It is interesting in a literary point of view, or would be if it were set in literary relations; for it illustrates the Christ's supremacy, his supernatural power of rebuke and insight, his authority to grant absolution on purely theological grounds. The doctrine that none but the guiltless are entitled to pronounce sentence on guilt would put an end to censorship of every kind, but is quite in accordance with the ethical tone of the book. The author however, turns the incident to no account, but proceeds with new scenes in his speculative drama. "I am the light of the world; he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life;" the Christ enters once more into the old debate, once more the claim is challenged, once more the angry discussion flows on, becoming, at this juncture more violent than ever; terrible denunciations leap from the divine lips; the adversaries are called a devil's brood, liars, murderers at heart. At the close of the final outburst, the unseen hands raise the visionary stones, but "Jesus hid himself, went out of the temple, going through the midst of them, and so passed by."

The speech however is continued; the main doctrine of it, namely that the Christ is the Light of the World, being illustrated by the miracle of giving sight to a man "blind from his birth," – the story being told at great length and with exceedingly minute detail, so as to cover every point of circumstance. This seems to be a critical moment in the development of the idea. The vehemence subsides for a time, and the light of the world shines gently as a shepherd's lantern showing wandering sheep the way to the true fold. But the softest word stirs up anger; the "Jews" take up stones, not to throw them, but to exhibit temper, and the act closes tranquilly like those that preceded it.

The resurrection of Lazarus prepares the way for the closing scenes. That such a story, so artificially constructed, so evidently introduced for effect, told by one writer and not as much as alluded to by the others, told with so much circumstance and with so little regard for biographical probability, told for a dogmatical purpose, and fitted into the narrative at the precise juncture where a turning point was wanted, should be accepted as history by any unfettered mind; that a critic like Renan, professing a profound reverence for the character of Jesus, should have admitted it as in some sense true, and should have been driven in explanation of it to a theory utterly fatal to the moral character of the "colossal" man he celebrates, thus sacrificing the moral greatness of Jesus to a perverse sense of historical truth, proves the obstinacy of traditional prejudice. The narrative is too evidently a literary device, one would think, to deceive anybody of awakened discernment. Its manifest artifice is such that it alone would be enough to cast suspicion on all the miraculous narrations of the book.

"From that day forth the Jews took counsel together to put him to death." The crisis has come, and events hasten on towards the catastrophe, which, as has been said, was no catastrophe, but a consummation. Mary, instead of sitting at his feet as a disciple, anoints them with spikenard and wipes them with the hair of her head; the holy woman performing the act elsewhere ascribed to a sinner, the act itself being a ceremony of consecration, instead of a mark of penitence. The triumphal entry into Jerusalem, elsewhere described as the Messiah's own project, is converted into a spontaneous demonstration in his honor, rendered by "much people," who had heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem. "Certain Greeks" present themselves and ask an introduction, as to a royal personage. They are the first fruits of the Gentile world; their coming is welcomed as a sign of final victory. "The hour is come," says Jesus, on receiving them, "that the Son of Man should be glorified." The heavens echo his exclamation; an audible voice, interpreted as the voice of an angel, pronouncing the glorification certain and eternal. The Son of God adds his own interpretation, confirming that of his friends; prophesies the speedy judgment of the world and his own elevation to glory by means of the cross, makes his last statement, and the dialectical war is at an end.

The rest of the life is given to the disciples. The last supper, its agony and distress of mind omitted, is an occasion for impressing on "his own" the lesson of mutual love. The departure of Judas on his errand is the signal for a burst of rapture. Words of consolation, mingled with promises of the "Spirit of Truth," "The Comforter," words of blessing too follow, intended to beget in his friends the feeling that, though absent, he will still be present with them. They are bidden to remember him as the source of their life; are admonished to keep unbroken the spiritual bond that unites them to him in vital sympathy; are assured that the mission he came to earth to discharge will be fulfilled by the Holy Ghost; and finally are solemnly consecrated by priestly supplication as the rescued children of God.

The story of the arrest is told in a strain equally suited to the idea on which the book is constructed. In full consciousness of his position, Jesus steps forth out of the shadow of mystery to meet Judas and his troop, who have come, expecting to find him in his garden retreat. The soldiers, over-awed by the apparition, start backward and fall to the ground, prostrate before the Son of God. The trial goes on before Annas and Caiaphas, priests, and Pilate, Roman viceroy. The powers of Church and State pronounce on him; before the powers of Church and State he announces himself and makes his royal claim. In the presence of the High Priest, who is scarcely more than a name in this proceeding, introduced in order that Judaism might have one more opportunity of rejecting the majesty of heaven, Jesus suffers an indignity at the hands of one of the prelate's officers; but Pilate, the pagan, shudders before the awful personage who tells him that he could have no power at all except it were given him from above; that he was but a tool of providence. The guilt of the execution is thus transferred from his shoulders to destiny; for the Jews, no less than the governor, are fated. The hour of glorification has come, and the Son of Man moves with stately step towards his ascension.

The process of withdrawal from the visible sphere has already been described. It is not effected at once. As a lantern in the hand of one walking in a wood flashes out and again hides itself, becoming dimmer and dimmer until finally it quite disappears, so the Son of God is many times visible and invisible before he vanishes altogether from sight. No bodily ascension is necessary to bear away one whose coming and going are not conditioned by space or time. His form has always been a translucent veil, which could at pleasure be removed. His mission ended, there is no more occasion for his self-revelation, and he is unseen. The unreality of a representation like this must be too apparent to be argued.

From this exposition it appears that the New Testament literature is, in some sort, to the end, a continuation of the literature of the Old Testament. As the earliest phase of Christianity was Judaism, with a belief in the Messiah's advent superadded, so the first literature of Christianity is the literature of Judaism, written on the supposition that the Christ has come. Judaism is Christianity still expectant of a Christ to come, or, as with the radical Jews, unexpectant of a personal Messiah; Christianity is Judaism with the expectation fulfilled. The Judaic element was not limited to the little knot of Jerusalemites who hung about the holy city and waited there for the Christ's coming; it was conspicuous in the system of Paul, and so far from being absent from the later form, known by the name of John, determines the cardinal idea of that, and shapes its bent. Whatever additions are made, grow out of this cardinal idea, as branches from its stem. The strict monotheism of the Hebrew faith is sacrificed to the Messianic conception. The Christ in time becomes a twin Deity, a Holy Ghost being required to fill up the gulf between godhead and humanity.

But for the fury of the discord that arose and deepened between the Jews who accepted the Christ and the Jews who preferred still to wait for him, the later, as well as the earlier form of Christianity, might possibly have been merged in Judaism. The believers in the Messianic advent were radical to the point of fanaticism. They were the restless advocates of change, agitators, revolutionists. Their passionate zeal could not brook indifference or coolness. Nothing short of a fervid allegiance satisfied them. The recusants had to bear hard names, as the gospels attest. The ill-fortune of the Messiah, the bitter opposition he encountered, his untimely death, were charged upon the faithlessness of the nation who would not confess him. These, and not the Roman Government that actually put him to death, were held answerable for his crucifixion; thus a discord was planted, which all the generations of Christendom have failed to eradicate. There has, from that time to this, been implacable hatred between Christian and Jew.

The separation, which might have been healed or obliterated, had this been the sole cause of it, was widened by the subsequent breach between the christians themselves, which drew attention off from the previous issue. The position taken by Paul, that the mission of the Christ was extended to the Gentiles and comprehended them on precisely the same conditions with the Jews, was exceedingly disagreeable and even shocking to the conservatives, who held that the Christ was sent to Israel only, and especially to that portion of Israel that clung tenaciously to the traditions of the law. The necessary criticism of the Law which Paul's position required, the apparent disrespect shown to Moses and the prophets, the disregard of the ancestral claim set up by the "children of Abraham," the substitution of an interior principle – faith – which any heathen might adopt, for the old fashioned legal requirements to which none but orthodox Jews could conform, was hardly less than blasphemous in their regard; and a feud was begun, which in violence and rancor, excelled the quarrel between the orthodox christians and the Jews. The traces of this controversy, plainly marked in the writings of Paul, are visible on the literature of his own and of the succeeding period, and disappear only in the events of greater significance incident to the fall of Jerusalem, the complete dispersion of the Jews, and the blending of parties in the Western Empire. Ferdinand Christian Baur may have pushed too far in some directions, his theory that the entire gospel literature of the New Testament was determined as to its form by the exigencies of this controversy, the canonical books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and the "Acts of the Apostles" all being written in the interest of reconciliation; but his fundamental position, as in the case of Strauss, has never been carried, or even shaken, by assault. The extreme points in controversy are fixed with a good deal of certainty. Paul's own statement in the second chapter of Galatians is fairly explicable only on the supposition of a violent collision, the nature of which is there defined, the bearings of which are indicated in that and in other undoubted writings of the apostle. Many passages therein are unintelligible on any other hypothesis. The Apocalypse and the Epistle of James, as clearly set forth the opposite view, in language and implication of the strongest kind, and in a spirit of decided antagonism. The "Acts of the Apostles" is, as elsewhere hinted, prepared with a view of making it appear that no controversy existed; that Peter carried the gospel to the Gentiles, and that Paul insisted on the validity of circumcision, the mark of initiation into the Jewish church. The narrative is so forced, the incidents so artificial, the aim so evident, the limitation of view so marked, that the book betrays its own character. To admit the genuineness of the "Acts" is to throw into confusion the little history that we certainly know, and to unfix the continuity of events. How far the three first gospels correspond in purpose with the "Acts," is a nice question, which need not be answered here, which may be left unanswered without detriment to the soundness of the general theory. Whether or no the controversy was of such absorbing moment, whether or no it lasted as long as Baur believes, or exerted as wide an influence on literature, its effect in drawing the thoughts away from the earlier dispute between the Messianic and the anti-Messianic Jews, and in detaching the christians from their original associations is unimpaired. From the breaking out of that dispute, which occurred within fifteen or twenty years of the crucifixion, at the latest, Christianity followed its own law of development.

But, though thus discarded, disowned, finally detested, the very name of Jew, as early as the fourth gospel, being associated with a stiff-necked bigotry impenetrable to conviction, the old religion maintained its sway over the child that had taken its portion of goods and gone away to make a home of its own. The Palestinian and Asiatic literature of the young faith bears the stamp of its Hebrew lineage, as has been shown. The Christ sprung from its bosom, was instructed in its schools, was glorified through its imagination. The resurrection was its prophecy; the heaven to which he ascended was of its building and coloring; the throne whereon he seated himself was of its construction; the Father at whose right hand he reigned was its own ancient deity. His very name, the name he continues to bear to this day, – Messiah – is the name whereby she loved to describe her own ideal man. In the depth of his degradation, in the heat of his persecution, in the agony of his despair, the Jew could reflect that his relentless oppressor owed to him the very faith he was compelled to curse. The victim was the conqueror. The reflection may still have been bitter; whatever sweetness it brought was flavored with vengeance, except in the greatest souls who loved their religion better than their fame.

VIII.

THE WESTERN CHURCH

Our story is not yet told. As regards the New Testament books, though the genius that produced them was Eastern, the judgment that brought them together in a single collection was Western. No list of the New Testament books pretending to carry weight was made until the year 360. For two centuries and a half there was no Christian bible. The canon, as it now stands, was fixed by Pope Innocent I., A. D. 405, by a special decree. Why precisely these books were selected from the mass of literature then in existence and use, is – except in two or three cases where the prevailing sentiment of the actual Church threw out a book like Enoch or kept in a book like the Apocalypse – still open to conjecture. In such a dilemma Schwegler's conjecture, that the irenical or reconciling books were retained, and the partisan writings dropped, is as plausible as any, perhaps more so. The Church of Rome had two patron saints – Peter and Paul; it claimed to be founded by both Apostles, and, on this principle, adopted its canon of scripture. The New Testament, by its arrangement, was, it is claimed, an expression in literature of the Catholic claim.

As regards the Christ idea, though formed in the East, the West gave it currency, made it the central feature of a vast religious system, crowned it and placed it on a throne. Had the creative thought of Judaism been confined to the East, our concern with it need have gone no further. But the thought was not confined to the East, even in the widest comprehension of that term. The Jews were everywhere. The repeated disasters which befel their country gave fresh impulse to their creed. Their ideas spread as their state diminished; and their ideas were so vital that they captured and engaged the floating speculations of the Gentile world whenever they were encountered. In Alexandria, where Jews had been for two hundred and fifty or three hundred years, and whither they flocked by thousands after each fresh national disaster, the faith, instead of being extinguished by the flood of speculation in that busy centre of the world's thought, revived, drew in copious supplies of blood from the Greek spirit, and entered on a new career. If it be true, as is declared in Smith's Dictionary of Geography, that when the city of Alexandria was founded (B. C. 332) it was laid out in three sections, one of which was assigned to the Jews, their political and social influence must have corresponded to their numbers. Prof. Huidekoper revives and reärgues the belief, that travelled men of letters from Greece, preëminent among them, Plato, who visited Egypt, borrowed from the Jews the ideas which ennobled and beautified the Greek philosophy. The doctrines of the Stoics, Greek and Roman, bear, in Mr. Huidekoper's opinion, evident marks of Jewish origin. This is going, we think, beyond warrant of the facts. We may claim much less and still place very high the intellectual sway of this remarkable people. It may be confidently asserted, that in portions of Asia Minor, Syria, and Northern Egypt, their faith had largely displaced the ancient superstitions.

The splendid literature of the Apocrypha, Ecclesiasticus and Wisdom, the rich fund of speculation in the Talmud, the intellectual wealth of Philo, the Pauline and Johannean Gnosis, brilliantly attest their intellectual vigor. The Rev. Brooke Foss Walcott, in Smith's "Dictionary of the Bible," declares, that from the date of the destruction of Jerusalem, in the year 70, the power of Judaism "as a present living force, was stayed." But such a statement can be accepted only in a much qualified sense. The destruction of Jerusalem put an end to the State more completely than the overthrow of any modern city could do; for the holy city was the home of the national life in a peculiar sense; it was the seat of the national worship in which the national life centred. With the temple fell the institutions that rested on the temple. When the walls were thrown down and the grand buildings levelled, it was like erasing the marks of history, tearing up the roots of tradition and setting the seal of destiny on the nation's future. The territory was small; the power of the great city was felt in every part of it, and the quenching of its light left the land in darkness. But the catastrophe which terminated the existence of the State, gave a new life to the religious idea and opened a new arena for its conquests. It greatly increased the number of Jews in the city of Rome, the imperial city of the West, the conquering metropolis; raised the congregations already existing there to a position of considerable importance; served to unite, by the sympathy of a common sorrow, parties that had been divided; had the effect in some measure to weaken antipathies, harmonize opinions and inflame zeal; in a word, transferred to Italy the faith that, in outward form, had been crushed in Palestine. Thenceforth Judaism, which had been a blended worship and polity, ceased to be a polity, and became more intensely than ever, because more exclusively, a worship.