Luca 3:1-38

Capitolo 6

LA VOCE NEL DESERTO.

QUANDO l'Antico Testamento si chiudeva, la profezia aveva proiettato sullo schermo del futuro le ombre di due persone, proiettate nella luce celeste. Disegnate nei contorni piuttosto che nei dettagli, le loro personalità erano tuttavia sufficientemente distinte da attirare lo sguardo e le speranze dei secoli successivi; mentre le loro missioni diverse, sebbene correlate, erano chiaramente riconosciute.

Uno era il Venuto UNO, che avrebbe dovuto portare la "consolazione" di Israele, e che avrebbe dovuto essere Lui stesso quella Consolazione; e raccogliendo in un unico titolo augusto tutti quegli epiteti scintillanti come Stella, Shiloh ed Emmanuel, la profezia Lo salutò riverentemente come "il Signore", rendendoGli omaggio e adorazione futuri.

L'altro doveva essere l'araldo di un'altra Dispensazione, proclamando il nuovo Re, correndo davanti al carro reale, proprio come Elia corse da Achab al palazzo d'avorio a Izreel, la sua voce poi si spegneva in silenzio, mentre lui stesso svaniva dalla vista dietro il trono. Tali erano le due figure che la profezia, in una serie di visioni dissolventi, aveva proiettato dall'Antico al Nuovo Testamento; e tale fu l'onore significativo accordato al Battista, che mentre molti dei personaggi dell'Antico Testamento appaiono come riflessi nel Nuovo, la sua è l'unica ombra umana rigettata dal Nuovo nell'Antico.

Il precursore ebbe quindi un'esistenza virtuale molto prima del tempo dell'Avvento. Conosciuto con il suo sinonimo di Elia, il profetizzato, divenne come una presenza reale, muovendosi qua e là tra i loro pensieri e sogni, e accendendo la loro lunga notte con i fuochi di nuove e luminose speranze. La sua voce sembrava familiare, anche se giungeva loro in echi lontani, ei secoli di ascolto ne avevano colto esattamente sia l'accento che il messaggio.

E così il preparatore della via trovò preparato il proprio cammino: perché il cammino di Giovanni e «la via del Signore» erano la stessa cosa; era la via dell'obbedienza e del sacrificio. Le due vite furono così messe in congiunzione fin dalla prima, la luce minore che ruotava intorno al Maggiore, mentre compiono i loro corsi separati - separati in verità, per quanto l'umano debba mai essere separato dal Divino, ma più strettamente correlato.

Vivendo così attraverso i secoli pre-Avvento, sia nel proposito divino che nei pensieri e nelle speranze degli uomini, così presto designati al suo ufficio araldico, "Mio messaggero", in un senso singolare, come nessun altro dei mortali potrebbe mai essere, non è questione di scuse, o anche di sorpresa, che la sua nascita sia stata accompagnata da così tanto del soprannaturale. La designazione divina sembra implicare, quasi a pretendere, una dichiarazione divina; e nella storia della nascita del Battista i lampi del soprannaturale, come l'annuncio angelico e il concepimento miracoloso, vengono con una semplice naturalezza.

Il preludio è in perfetta sinfonia con il canto. San Luca è l'unico evangelista che ci racconta la storia della nascita. Gli altri tre parlano solo della sua missione, presentandocelo bruscamente, mentre, come un altro Mosè, scende dal suo nuovo Sinai con le tavole della legge in mano e la strana luce sul volto. San Luca ci riporta all'infanzia, affinché possiamo vedere l'inizio delle cose, il proposito divino avvolto in fasce, come una volta era alla deriva in un'arca intrecciata.

Dietro il messaggio mette l'uomo, e dietro l'uomo mette il bambino - perché il bambino non è una profezia o una fattura dell'uomo? - mentre intorno al bambino mette l'ambiente di casa, mostrandoci il sottile, potenti influenze che hanno toccato e plasmato la giovane vita profetica. Come una pianta porta nelle sue foglie più esterne gli ingredienti della roccia attorno alla quale si aggrappano le sue fibre, così ogni vita che sorge - anche la vita di un profeta - porta fino ai suoi confini più lontani l'influenza inconscia delle sue associazioni domestiche.

E così san Luca ci abbozza quella tranquilla dimora di campagna, le cui finestre si aprirono e le cui porte si volsero verso Gerusalemme, la "città del grande" e invisibile "Re". Ci mostra Zaccaria ed Elisabetta, veri santi di Dio, devoti di cuore e irreprensibili di vita, nelle cui placide vite è venuto un angelo, increspandole con l'eccitazione di nuove promesse e speranze. Dove potrebbe scorrere meglio il primo meridiano della Nuova Dispensazione che attraverso la casa di questi veggenti di cose invisibili, questi osservatori dell'alba? Dove potrebbe essere un ricettacolo così adatto allo scopo divino, dove potrebbe maturare così presto e così bene? Dio non li aveva eletti a questo alto onore e non li aveva egli stesso preparati per questo? Se non avesse trattenuto di proposito tutti i primi germogli inferiori, affinché tutta la loro crescita fosse verso l'alto, uno proteso verso il cielo, come la palma, i cui frutti si raccolgono attorno ai suoi rami più estremi? Possiamo facilmente immaginare quale intensa emozione avrebbe prodotto il messaggio dell'angelo, e che Zaccaria non avrebbe perso tanto il rapporto del linguaggio umano ora che i pensieri di Dio erano udibili nella sua anima.

Quale amorevole preparazione avrebbe fatto Elisabetta per questo suo figlio, che doveva essere "grande agli occhi del Signore!" quale musica avrebbe depennato dal suo nome, "John" (la Grazia di Geova), il nome che era sia il sesamo che il simbolo della Nuova Dispensazione! Come il suo cuore ansioso avrebbe superato i mesi lenti, mentre si lanciava in avanti in attesa tra le gioie della maternità, una maternità così esaltata! E perché si è nascosta per i cinque mesi, ma per prepararsi alla sua grande missione? Che nel suo isolamento potesse sentire più distintamente le voci che le parlavano dall'alto, o che nel silenzio potesse sentire cantare il proprio cuore?

Ma né l'entusiasmo di Elisabetta né l'ottusità di Zaccaria possono affrettare il proposito divino. Tale scopo, come la nuvola di un tempo, si adatta alle condizioni umane, alle lente processioni delle scienze umane; e solo quando il tempo è "pieno" la speranza diventa una realizzazione, e la voce infantile emette il suo primo grido. E ora è radunata la prima congregazione della nuova era. È solo una riunione di famiglia, poiché i vicini ei parenti si riuniscono per la circoncisione del bambino, rito che veniva sempre eseguito nel giorno corrispondente della settimana dopo la sua nascita; ma è significativo come il primo di quei cerchi sempre più larghi che muovendosi verso l'esterno dal suo impulso centrale, si diffusero rapidamente sulla terra, come ora si stanno rapidamente diffondendo su tutte le terre.

Zaccaria, naturalmente, era presente; ma muto e sordo, poteva solo sedere in disparte, spettatore muto. Elisabeth, come possiamo dedurre da vari riferimenti e accenni, era di carattere modesto e riservato, amava mettersi all'ombra, stare dietro; e così ora lo svolgimento della cerimonia sembra essere caduto nelle mani di alcuni parenti. Partendo dal presupposto che sarà osservata l'usanza generale, che il primogenito prenderà il nome del padre, procedono a chiamarlo "Zaccaria.

"Questo, tuttavia, Elisabeth non può permetterlo, e con un enfatico negativo dice: "Non è così; ma si chiamerà Giovanni." Persistenti ancora nel loro corso, e non contenti dell'affermazione della madre, gli amici si rivolgono al prete anziano e muto, e a segni chiedono come chiameranno il bambino (e Zaccaria aveva sentito la conversazione , certamente non avrebbe aspettato la loro domanda, ma avrebbe parlato o scritto subito); e Zaccaria, chiamando lo scrittoio, che senza dubbio era stato il suo stretto compagno, dandogli il suo unico tocco dell'altro mondo per il ancora nove mesi, scrisse: "Il suo nome è Giovanni.

"Ah, sono troppo tardi! Il bambino è stato chiamato anche molto prima della sua nascita, chiamato anche all'interno del Luogo Santo del Tempio, e da un angelo di Dio. "Giovanni" e "Gesù", quei due nomi, poiché la visita della Vergine, sono stati come due campane d'oro, che hanno lanciato onde di musica attraverso il cuore e la casa, dando il benvenuto al "Cristo che deve essere", il Cristo che ora è così vicino. "Il suo nome è Giovanni". ; e con quel breve tratto di penna Zaccaria quasi rimprovera queste intrusioni e interferenze dei parenti, e nello stesso tempo confessa la propria fede.

E mentre scriveva il nome "Giovanni", la sua attuale obbedienza facendo espiazione per un'incredulità passata, istantaneamente la lingua paralizzata fu sciolta, ed egli parlò, benedicendo Dio, gettando il nome di suo figlio in un salmo; perché cos'è il "Benedetto" di Zaccaria se non "Giovanni" scritto in grande e pieno, un dolce e forte ingrandimento della "Grazia e Favore di Geova?"

È solo naturale supporre che, passata l'ispirazione del canto, il discorso di Zaccaria cominci proprio dove si era interrotto, e che narri agli invitati la strana visione del Tempio, con la profezia dell'angelo sulla bambino. E mentre gli ospiti si allontanano verso le proprie case, ognuno porta la storia di questa nuova Apocalisse, mentre va a diffondere l'Evangelo, ea risvegliare tra le vicine colline gli echi del canto di Zaccaria.

Non c'è da meravigliarsi che la paura si abbattesse su tutti coloro che abitavano intorno, e che coloro che meditavano queste cose nei loro cuori dovrebbero chiedere: "Che cosa sarà dunque questo bambino?"

E qui finisce improvvisamente il racconto dell'infanzia, perché con due brevi frasi il nostro evangelista congeda i trent'anni successivi. Egli ci dice che "la mano del Signore era con il bambino", senza dubbio sistemandone le circostanze, dandogli opportunità, preparandolo per la dura virilità e la dura missione che dovrebbe seguire a tempo debito; e che "il fanciullo crebbe e si rafforzò nello spirito", la stessa espressione che in seguito usa in riferimento al Santo Bambino, un'espressione che possiamo interpretare meglio dalla profezia dell'angelo: "Sarà pieno di Spirito Santo anche da grembo di sua madre.

La sua nativa forza d'animo fu resa doppiamente forte dal tocco dello Spirito Divino, come il ferro, uscendo dal suo battesimo di fuoco, si indurisce e si tempra in acciaio. E così vediamo che nell'economia divina anche un'infanzia consacrata è una possibile esperienza; e il fatto che sia relativamente poco frequente è dovuto piuttosto alle nostre visioni distorte, che forse potrebbero aver bisogno di qualche aggiustamento, che allo scopo e al provvedimento divini.

Il bambino è nato nel dispiacere divino, marchiato fin dalla sua nascita con il marchio di Caino? Non è piuttosto nato nella divina misericordia e tutto è avvolto nell'abbondanza dell'amore divino? È vero che nasce da una razza peccatrice, con tendenze all'ostinazione che possono portarla fuori strada; ma è altrettanto vero che nasce nel patto di grazia; che intorno ai suoi primi e più indifesi anni viene gettata l'egida dell'espiazione di Cristo; e che queste tendenze innate sono tenute a freno e neutralizzate da quella che si chiama "grazia preventiva.

Nella lotta per quella vita infantile i poteri delle tenebre sono i primi sul campo, superando e superando in manovra i poteri della luce? Perché, il solo pensiero è mezzo calunnioso. Il tocco del cielo è sul bambino fin dall'inizio. Lo ignoriamo come possiamo, lo neghiamo come alcuni lo faranno, eppure agli albori della vita lo Spirito Divino sta rimuginando sul mondo informe, separando i suoi firmamenti di giusto e sbagliato, e modellando un nuovo Paradiso.

Il male è inevitabile? Ogni vita deve assaporare il frutto proibito prima di poter giungere alla conoscenza del bene? In altre parole, il peccato è una grande, ma terribile necessità? Se è una necessità, allora non è più peccato, e bisogna cercare un altro e più appropriato nome. No; l'infanzia è il possesso acquistato e peculiare di Cristo; e il miglior tipo di esperienza religiosa è quella che non è segnata da transizioni rapide, che irrompe nell'anima dolcemente e dolcemente come un'alba, i suoi inizi impercettibili, e così non ricordati.

Non è dunque senza senso che proprio alle porte della Nuova Dispensazione troviamo la culla di un'infanzia consacrata. Posta lì presso la porta, perché tutti la vedano, e posta alla luce, perché tutti la possano leggere, l'infanzia del Battista ci dice quale potrebbe essere più spesso la nostra infanzia, se solo i suoi guardiani terreni le cui mani sono così potenti per impressionare e plasmare l'anima plastica erano, come Zaccaria ed Elisabetta, essi stessi oranti, irreprensibili e devoti.

Ora la scena cambia; poiché leggiamo che "fu nei deserti fino al giorno della sua presentazione a Israele". Dal fatto che questa clausola è intimamente connessa con la precedente, "e il bambino crebbe e si rafforzò nello spirito" - le due clausole avevano un solo soggetto - alcuni hanno supposto che Giovanni fosse solo un bambino quando si allontanò dal tetto dei genitori e cercò il deserto. Ma questo non segue.

Le due parti della frase sono separate solo da una virgola, ma quella pausa può colmare un abisso abbastanza ampio per il flusso di numerosi anni, e tra l'infanzia e il deserto la narrazione ci costringerebbe quasi a mettere uno spazio considerevole. Poiché il suo sviluppo fisico era, in modi e proporzioni, puramente umano, senza alcun accenno di qualcosa di innaturale o persino soprannaturale, così possiamo supporre che fosse il suo sviluppo mentale e spirituale.

La voce deve diventare articolata; deve giocare sull'alfabeto e trasformare il suono in parola. Deve imparare, affinché possa pensare; deve studiare, perché sappia. E così il maestro umano è indispensabile. I bambini allevati dai lupi possono imparare ad abbaiare, ma, nonostante la mitologia, non costruiranno città e non fondano imperi. E dove poteva il bambino trovare istruttori migliori che nei suoi stessi genitori, le cui vite tranquille erano state trascorse in un'atmosfera di preghiera, ea cui erano familiari e cari gli stessi appunti e le parole della legge? Infatti, difficilmente possiamo supporre che dopo aver preparato Zaccaria ed Elisabetta per la loro grande missione, operando qualcosa come un miracolo, che lei e nessun altro sarà la madre del precursore,

È vero che erano entrambi "ben colpiti negli anni", ma quella frase coprirebbe qualsiasi periodo da sessanta anni in su, e a quei sessanta anni la solita longevità dei ministri del Tempio permetterebbe facilmente di aggiungere altri vent'anni. Non possiamo, quindi, supporre che il bambino-battista studiasse e giocasse sotto il tetto dei genitori, il fuoco luminoso a cui convergevano le loro speranze, i loro pensieri e le loro preghiere; che anche qui trascorse la sua fanciullezza e giovinezza, preparandosi a quell'ufficio sacerdotale a cui la sua stirpe lo intitolò e lo designò? Perché non dovrebbe essere sacerdote anche il "messaggero del Signore"? Non abbiamo più menzione di Zaccaria ed Elisabetta, ma non è improbabile che la loro morte sia stata l'occasione del ritiro nei deserti di Giovanni, ora giovane, forse, di vent'anni.

Secondo l'usanza, ora Giovanni avrebbe dovuto essere introdotto e consacrato al sacerdozio, essendo vent'anni l'età generale degli iniziati; ma in obbedienza a una chiamata più alta, Giovanni rinuncia al sacerdozio e rompe con il Tempio subito e per sempre. Ritirandosi nei deserti, che, selvaggi e tenebrosi, si estendono a occidente dal Mar Morto, e assumendo il vecchio abito da profeta - un ampio abito di pelo di cammello, legato con un laccio di cuoio - lo studente diventa il recluso.

Abitando qualche grotta di montagna, gustando solo i cibi grossolani che la natura offriva - locuste e miele selvatico - il nuovo Elia è arrivato e ha trovato il suo Cherith; e qui, ritirato lontano dalla "folla impazzita" e dal balbettio incessante del discorso umano, senza compagni tranne le bestie feroci e le luminose costellazioni di quel cielo siriano, mentre ruotano nella loro danza notturna, l'uomo solitario apre il suo cuore ai grandi pensieri e propositi di Dio, e con la preghiera costante mantiene in esercizio la sua voce chiara e squillante.

Evidentemente, John ne aveva visto abbastanza della cosiddetta "società", con le sue fredde convenzioni e ipocrisie; il suo occhio acuto aveva visto fin troppo facilmente il vuoto e la corruzione che si trovavano sotto la lucentezza e la vernice esterne, la sottile patina che nascondeva solo a metà il verme e il marciume che giacevano sotto. Giovanni esce nel deserto come un altro capro espiatorio, portando nel profondo del suo cuore i peccati della sua nazione: ahimè, che non sono ancora pentiti e non sono perdonati! Furono senza dubbio pensieri come questi, e il costante rimuginare su di essi, che davano al Battista quel tocco di malinconia che possiamo cogliere sia nei lineamenti che nel discorso. Austero in persona, con un lamento nella voce simile al sospiro del vento, o carico a volte di tuoni repressi, il Battista ci ricorda il Peri, che-

"Alla porta dell'Eden stava sconsolato".

Il peccato era diventato per John un fatto terribile. Non riusciva a vedere nient'altro. I frammenti delle tavole infrante della legge spargevano la terra, perfino i cortili del Tempio stesso, e dappertutto gli uomini inciampavano contro di loro e cadevano. Ma John ha visto qualcos'altro; era il giorno del Signore, ora, molto vicino, il giorno che sarebbe venuto feroce e ardente "come una fornace", a meno che, nel frattempo, Israele non si fosse pentito. Così rifletteva il profeta, e come meditava il fuoco ardeva nella sua anima, il fuoco del Raffinatore, il fuoco di Dio.

Our Evangelist characterizes the opening of John's ministry with an official word. He calls it a "showing," a "manifestation," putting upon the very word the stamp and sanction of a Divine appointment. He is careful, too, to mark the time, so giving the Gospel story its place among the chronologies of the world; which he does in a most elaborate way. He first reads the time on the horoscope of the Empire, whose swinging pendulum was a rising or a falling throne; and he states that it was "the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar," counting the two years of his joint rule with Augustus.

Then, as if that were not enough, he notes the hour as indicated on the four quarters of the Hebrew commonwealth, the hour when Pilate, Herod, Philip, and Lysanias were in conjunction, ruling in their divided heavens. Then, as if that even were not enough, he marks the ecclesiastical hour as indicated by the marble time-piece of the Temple; it was-when Annas and Caiaphas held jointly the high priesthood.

What is the meaning of this elaborate mechanism, wheels within wheels? Is it because the hour is so important, that it needs the hands of an emperor, a governor, three tetrarchs, and two high priests to point it? Ewald is doubtless right in saying that St. Luke, as the historian, wished "to frame the Gospel history into the great history of the world" by giving precise dates; but if that were the Evangelist's main reason, such an accumulation of time-evidence were scarcely necessary; for what do the subsequent statements add to the precision of the first-"In the fifteenth year of Tiberius?" We must, then, seek for the Evangelist's meaning elsewhere.

Among the oldest of the Hebrew prophecies concerning the Messiah was that of Jacob. Closing his life, as Moses did afterwards, with a wonderful vision, he looked down on the far-off years, and speaking of the coming "Seed," he said, "The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come". Genesi 49:10 Might not this prophecy have been in the thought of the Evangelist when he stayed so much longer than his wont to note times and seasons? Why does he mention Herod and Pilate, Philip and Lysanias, but to show how the scepter has, alas! departed from Judah, and the lawgiver from between his feet, and how the chosen land is torn to pieces by the Roman eagles? And why does he name Annas and Caiaphas, but to show how the same disintegrating forces are at work even within the Temple, when the rightful high priest can be set aside and superseded by the nominee of a foreign and a Pagan power? Verily "the glory has departed from Israel"; and if St.

Luke introduces foreign emperors, tetrarchs, and governors, it is that they may ring a muffled peal over the grave of a dead nation, a funeral knell, which, however, shall be the signal for the coming of the Shiloh, and the gathering of the people unto Him.

Such were the times-times of disorganization, disorder, and almost despair-when the word of God came unto John in the wilderness. It came "upon" him, as it literally reads, probably in one of those wonderful theophanies, as when God spake to Moses from the flaming bush, or as when He appeared to Elijah upon Horeb, sending him back to an unfinished task. John obeyed. Emerging from his wilderness retreat, clad in his strange attire, spare in build, his features sharp and worn with fasting, his long, disheveled hair telling of his Nazarite vow, he moves down to the Jordan like an apparition.

His appearance is everywhere hailed with mingled curiosity and delight. Crowds come in ever-increasing numbers, not one class only, but all classes-priests, soldiers, officials, people-until it seemed as if the cities had emptied themselves into the Jordan valley. And what went they "out for to see?" "A reed shaken with the wind?" A prophesier of smooth things? A preacher of revolt against tyranny? Nay; John was no wind-shaken reed; he was rather the heavenly wind itself, swaying the multitudes at will, and bending hearts and consciences into penitence and prayer.

John was no preacher of revolt against the powers that be; in his mind, Israel had revolted more and more, and he must bring them back to their allegiance, or himself die in the attempt. John was no preacher of smooth things; there was not even the charm of variety about his speech. The one burden of his message was, "Repent: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." But the effect was marvelous. The lone voice from the wilderness swept over the land like the breath of God.

Borne forwards on a thousand lips, it echoed through the cities and penetrated into remotest places. Judaea, Samaria, arid even distant Galilee felt the quiver of the strange voice, and even from the shore of the Northern Sea men came to sit at the feet of the new teacher, and to call themselves John's disciples. So widespread and so deep was the movement, it sent its ripples even within the royal palace, awaking the curiosity, and perhaps the conscience, of Herod himself. It was a genuine revival of religion, such as Judaea had not witnessed since the days of Ezra, the awaking of the national conscience and of the national hope.

Perhaps it would be difficult, by any analysis of ours, to discover or to define the secret of John's success. It was the resultant, not of one force, but of many. For instance, the hour was favorable. It was the Sabbatic year, when field-work was in the main suspended, and men everywhere had leisure, mind and hand lying, as it were, fallow. Then, too, the very dress of the Baptist would not be without its influence, especially on a mind so sensitive to form and color as the Hebrew mind was.

Dress to them was a form of duty. They were accustomed to weave into their tassels sacred symbols, so making the external speak of the eternal. Their hands played on the parti-colored threads most faithfully and sacredly; for were not these the chords of Divine harmonies? But here is one who discards both the priestly and the civilian dress, and who wears, instead, the rough camel's-hair robe of the old prophets.

The very dress would thus appeal most powerfully to their imagination, carrying back their thoughts to the time of the Theocracy, when Jehovah was not silent as now, and when Heaven was so near, speaking by some Samuel or Elijah. Are those days returning? they would ask. Is this the Elias who was to come and restore all things? Surely it must be. And in the rustle of the Baptist's robe they heard the rustle of Elijah's mantle, dropping a second time by these Jordan banks.

Then, too, there was the personal charm of the man. John was young, if years are our reckoning, for he counted but thirty; but in his case the verve and energy of youth were blended with the discretion and saintliness of age. What was the world to him, its fame, its luxury and wealth? They were only the dust he shook from his feet, as his spirit sighed for and soared after Heaven's better things.

He asks nothing of earth but her plainest fare, a couch of grass, and by-and-by a grave. Then, too, there was a positiveness about the man that would naturally attract, in a drifting, shifting, vacillating age. The strong will is magnetic; the weaker wills follow and cluster round it, as swarming bees cluster around their queen. And John was intensely positive. His speech was clear-cut and incisive, with a tremendous earnestness in it, as if a "Thus saith the Lord" were at his heart.

John's mood was not the subjunctive, where his words could eddy among the "mays" and "mights"; it was plainly the indicative, or better still, the imperative. He spoke as one who believed, and who intensely felt what he believed. Then, too, there was a certain nobleness about his courage. He knew no rank, no party; he was superior to all. He feared God too much to have any fear of man. He spake no word for the sake of pleasing, and he kept back no word-even the hot rebuke-for fear of offending. Truth to him was more than titles, and right was the only royalty. How he painted the Pharisees-those shiny, slimy men, with creeping, sinuous ways-with that dark epithet "brood of vipers!"

With what a fearless courage he denounced the incest of Herod! He will not level down Sinai, accommodating it to royal passions! Not he. "It is not lawful for thee to have her"-such were his words, that rolled in upon Herod's conscience like a peal of Sinai's thunder, telling him that law was law, that right was more than might, and purity more than power. Then, too, there was something about his message that was attractive. That word "the kingdom of heaven" struck upon the national heart like a bell, and set it vibrating with new hopes, and awaking all kinds of beautiful dreams of recovered pre-eminence and power.

But while all these were auxiliaries, factors, and co-efficients in the problem of the Baptist's success, they are not sufficient in themselves to account for that success. It is not difficult for a man of superior mental attainment, and of strong individuality, to attract a following, especially if that following be in the direction of self-interest. The emotions and passions of humanity lie near the surface; they can be easily swept into a storm by the strong or by the pathetic voice.

But to reach the conscience, to lift up the veil, and to pass within to that Most Holy of the human soul is what man, unaided, cannot do. Only the Divine Voice can break those deep silences of the heart; or if the human voice is used the power is not in the words of human speech-those words, even the best, are but the dead wires along which the Divine Voice moves-it is the power of God.

"Some men live near to God, as my right arm Is near to me; and then they walk about Mailed in full proof of faith, and bear a charm That mocks at fear, and bars the door on doubt, And dares the impossible."

Just such a man was the Baptist. He was a "man of God." He lived, and moved, and had his being in God. Self to him was an extinct passion. Envy, pride, ambition, jealousy, these were unknown tongues; his pure soul understood not their meaning. Like his great prototype, "the Spirit of the Lord God" was upon him. His life was one conscious inspiration; and John himself had been baptized with the baptism of which he spoke, but which he himself could not give, the baptism of the Holy Ghost and of fire.

This only will account for the wonderful effects produced, by his preaching. John, in his own experience, had antedated Pentecost, receiving the "power from on high," and as he spoke it was with a tongue of fire, a voice in whose accent and tone the people could detect the deeper Voice of God.

But if John could not baptize with the higher baptism, usurping the functions of the One coming after, he could, and he did, institute a lower, symbolic baptism of water, that thus the visible might lead up to the invisible. In what mode John's baptism was administered we cannot tell, nor is it material that we should know. We do know, however, that the baptism of the Spirit-and in John's mind the two were closely related-was constantly referred to in Scripture as an effusion, a "pouring out," a sprinkling, and never once as an immersion.

And what was the "baptism of fire" to the mind of John? Was it not that which the prophet Isaiah had experienced, when the angel touched his lips with the live coal taken from the altar, pronouncing over him the great absolution, "Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taketh away, and thy sin purged?" Isaia 6:7 At best, the baptism of water is but a shadow of the better thing, the outward symbol of an inward grace.

We need not quarrel about modes and forms. Scripture has purposely left them indeterminate, so that we need not wrangle about them. There is no need that we exalt the shadow, leveling it up to the substance; and still less should we level it down, turning it into a playground for the schools.

Thus far the lives of Jesus and John have lain apart. One growing up in the hill-country of Galilee, the other in the hill-country of Judaea, and then in the isolation of the wilderness, they have never looked in each other's face, though they have doubtless heard often of each other's mission. They meet at last. John had been constantly telling of ONE who was coming after-"after," indeed, in order of time, but "before," infinitely before, in preeminence and authority.

Mightier than he, He was the Lord. John would deem it an honor to kneel down before so august a Master, to untie and bear away His shoes; for in such a Presence servility was both becoming and ennobling. With such words as these the crier in the wilderness had been transferring the people's thought from himself, and setting their hearts, listening for the Coming One, so preparing and broadening His way.

Suddenly, in one of the pauses of his ministrations, a Stranger presents Himself, and asks that the rite of baptism may be administered to Him. There is nothing peculiar about His dress; He is younger than the Baptist-much younger, apparently, for the rough, ascetic life has prematurely aged him-but such is the grace and dignity of His person, such the mingled "strength and beauty" of His manhood, that even John, who never quailed in the presence of mortal before, is awed and abashed now.

Discerning the innate Royalty of the Stranger, and receiving a monition from the Higher World, with which he kept up close correspondence, the Baptist is assured that it is He, the Lord and Christ. Immediately his whole manner changes. The voice that has swept over the land like a whirlwind, now is hushed, subdued, speaking softly, deferentially, reverentially. Here is a Presence in which his imperatives all melt away and disappear, a Will that is infinitely higher than his own, a Person for whom his baptism is out of place.

John is perplexed; he hesitates, he demurs. "I have need to be baptized of Thee, and comest Thou to me?" and John, Elias-like, would fain have wrapped his mantle around his face, burying out of sight his little "me," in the presence of the Lord. But Jesus said, "Suffer it now: for thus it becometh us to fulfill all righteousness". Matteo 3:15

The baptism of Jesus was evidently a new kind of baptism, one in which the usual formulas were strangely out of place; and the question naturally arises, Why should Jesus submit to, and even ask for, a baptism that was so associated with repentance and sin? Could there be any place for repentance, any room for confession, in the Sinless One? John felt the anomaly, and so shrank from administering the rite, till the reply of Jesus put His baptism on different ground-ground altogether clear of any personal demerit.

Jesus asked for baptism not for the washing away of sin, but that He might "fulfill all righteousness." He was baptized, not for His own sake, but for the world's sake. Coming to redeem humanity, He would identify Himself with that humanity, even the sinful humanity that it was. Son of God, He would become a true Son of man, that through His redemption all other sons of men might become true sons of God.

Bearing the sins of many, taking away the sin of the world, that heavy burden lay at His heart from the first; He could not lay it down until He left it nailed to His cross. Himself knowing no sin, He yet becomes the Sin-offering, and is " numbered among the transgressors." And as Jesus went to the cross and into the grave mediatorially, as Humanity's Son, so Jesus now passes into the baptismal waters mediatorially, repenting for that world whose heart is still hard, and whose eyes are dry of godly tears, and confessing the sin which He in love has made His own, the "sin of the world," the sin He has come to make atonement for and to bear away.

Such is the meaning of the Jordan baptism, in which Jesus puts the stamp of Divinity upon John's mission, while John bears witness to the sinlessness of Jesus. But a Higher Witness came than even that of John; for no sooner was the rite administered, and the river-bank regained, than the heavens were opened, and the Spirit of God, in the form of a fiery dove, descended and alighted on the head of Jesus; while a Voice out of the Unseen proclaimed, "This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.

" And so the Son of man receives the heavenly, as well as the earthly baptism. Baptized with water, He is new baptized with the Holy Ghost and with fire, and anointed with the unction of the Holy One. But why should the Holy Spirit descend upon Jesus in the form of a dove, and afterwards upon the disciples in the form of cloven tongues of fire? We can understand the symbolism of the cloven tongues; for was not their mission to preach and teach, spreading and establishing the kingdom by a consecrated speech-the Divine word carried forward by the human voice? What, then, is the meaning of the dove-form? Does it refer to the dove of the Old Dispensation, which bearing the olive-leaf in its mouth, preached its Gospel to the dwellers in the ark, telling of the abatement of the angry waters, and of a salvation that was near? And was not Jesus a heavenly Dove, bearing to the world the olive-branch of reconciliation and of peace, proclaiming the fuller, wider Gospel of mercy and of love? The supposition, at any rate, is a possible one; while the, words of Jesus would almost make it a probable one; for speaking of this same baptism of the Spirit, He says-and in His words we can hear the beat and whir of dove-wings-"He anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor: He hath sent me to proclaim release to the captives to set at liberty them that are bruised." Luca 4:18

The interview between Jesus and John was but brief, and in all probability final. They spend the following night near to each other, but apart. The day after, John sees Jesus walking, but the narrative would imply that they did not meet. John only points to Him and says, "Behold the Lamb of God; which taketh away the sin of the world"; and they part, each to follow his separate path, and to accomplish his separate mission.

"The Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world." Such was John's testimony to Jesus, in the moment of his clearest illumination. He saw in Jesus, not as one learned writer would have us suppose, the sheep of David's pastoral, its life encircled with green pastures and still waters-not this, but a lamb, "the lamb of God," the Paschal Lamb, led all uncomplaining to the slaughter, and by its death bearing away sin-not either the sin of a year or the sin of a race, but "the sin of the world.

" Never had prophet so prophesied before; never had mortal eye seen so clearly and so deeply into God's great mystery of mercy. How, then, can we explain that mood of disappointment and of doubt which afterwards fell upon John? What does it mean that from his prison he should send two of his disciples to Jesus with the strange question, "Art Thou He that cometh, or look we for another?". Luca 7:19 John is evidently disappointed-yes, and dejected too; and, the Elias still, Herod's prison is to him the juniper of the desert.

He thought the Christ would be one like unto himself, crying in the wilderness, but with a louder voice and more penetrating accent. He would be some ardent Reformer, with axe in hand, or fan, and with baptism of fire. But lo, Jesus comes so different from his thought-with no axe in hand that he can see, with no baptism of fire that he can hear of, a Sower rather than a Winnower, scattering thoughts, principles, beatitudes, and parables, telling not so much of "the wrath to come" as of the love that is already come, if men will but repent and receive it-that John is fairly perplexed and actually sends to Jesus for some word that shall be a solvent for his doubts.

It only shows how this Elias, too, was a man of like passions with ourselves, and that even prophet's eyes were sometimes dim, reading God's purposes with a blurred vision. Jesus returns a singular answer. He says neither Yes nor No; but He goes out and works His accustomed miracles, and then dismisses the two disciples with the message, "Go your way, and tell John what things ye have seen and heard; how that the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, to the poor the Gospel is preached.

And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in Me." These words are in part a quotation from John's favorite prophet, Isaiah, who emphasized as no other prophet did the evangelistic character of Christ's mission-which characteristic John seems to have overlooked. In his thought the Christ was Judge, the great Refiner, sifting the base from the pure, and casting it into some Gehenna of burnings.

But Jesus reminds John that mercy is before and above judgment; that He has come, "not to condemn the world," but to save it, and to save it, not by reiterations of the law, but by a manifestation of love. Ebal and Sinai have had their word; now Gerizim and Calvary must speak.

And so this greatest of the prophets was but human, and therefore fallible. He saw the Christ, no longer afar off, but near-yea, present; but he saw in part, and he prophesied in part. He did not see the whole Christ, or grasp the full purport of His mission. He stood on the threshold of the kingdom; but the least of those who should pass within that kingdom should stand on a higher vantage-ground, and so be greater than he.

Indeed, it seems scarcely possible that John could have fully understood Jesus; the two were so entirely different. In dress, in address, in mode of life, in thought, the two were exact opposites. John occupies the border-region between the Old and the New; and though his life appears in the New, he himself belongs rather to the Old Dispensation. His accent is Mosaic, his message a tritonomy, a third giving of the law.

When asked the all-important question, "What shall we do?" John laid stress on works of charity, and by his metaphor of the two coats he showed that men should endeavor to equalize their mercies. And when Publicans and soldiers ask the same question John gives a sort of transcript of the old tables, striking the negatives of duty: "Extort no more than that which is appointed you"; "Do violence to no man.

" Jesus would have answered in the simple positive that covered all classes and all cases alike: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." But such was the difference between the Old and the New: the one said, "Do, and thou shalt live"; the other said, "Live, and thou shalt do." The voice of John awoke the conscience, but he could not give it rest. He was the preparer of the way; Jesus was the Way, as He was the Truth and the Life. John was the Voice; Jesus was the Word. John must "decrease" and disappear; Jesus must "increase," filling all times and all climes with His glorious, abiding presence.

But the mission of John is drawing to a close and dark clouds are gathering in the west. The popular idol still, a hostile current has set against him. The Pharisees, unforgetting and unforgiving, are deadly bitter, creeping across his path, and hissing out their "Devil"; while Herod, who in his better moods had invited the Baptist to his palace, now casts him into prison. He will silence the voice he has failed to bribe, the voice that beat against the chambers of his revelry, like a strange midnight gust, and that set him trembling like an aspen.

We need not linger over the last sad tragedy-how the royal birthday was kept, with a banquet to the State officials; how the courtesan daughter of Herodias came in and danced before the guests; and how the half-drunken Herod swore a rash oath, that he would give her anything she might ask, up to the half of his kingdom. Herodias knew well what wine and passion would do for Herod. She even guessed his promise beforehand, and had given full directions to her daughter; and soon as the rash oath had fallen from his lips-before he could recall or change his words-sharp and quick the request is made, "Give me here John Baptist's head in a charger.

" There is a momentary conflict, and Herod gives the fearful word. The head of John is brought into the banquet-hall before the assembled guests-the long flowing locks, the eyes that even in death seemed to sparkle with the fire of God; the lips sacred to purity and truth, the lips that could not gloss a sin, even the sin of a Herod. Yes; it is there, the head of John the Baptist. The courtiers see it, and smile; Herod sees it, but does not smile. That face haunts him; he never forgets it. The dead prophet lives still, and becomes to Herod another conscience.

"And she brought it to her mother. And his disciples came, and took up the corpse, and buried him; and they went and told Jesus". Matteo 14:11 Such is the finis to a consecrated life, and such the work achieved by one man, in a ministry that was only counted by months. Shall not this be his epitaph, recording his faithfulness and zeal, and at the same time rebuking our aimlessness and sloth?-

"He liveth long who liveth well; All other life is short and vain: He liveth longest who can tell Of living most for heavenly gain."