* The Invisible Qlory, p. 60.
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2. The quiet ways of Christ. — Pretenders vaunt insolently of their claims, and are elated by a momentary triumph. He is "meek and lowly in spirit." His heart beats with even pulse, whether the palm branches are strewed in His path or the thorns are twisted for His crown. False Christs are turbulent and haughty, " boasting themselves to be somebody." He withdrew from the royalty which the people would fain have forced upon Him, and charged the healed demoniacs that they should not make Him known. Political demagogues raise tumults for selfish ends. He had no war with Csesar, forbade the sword to His disciples, steadily discountenanced the risings of their patriot pride, and impressed upon them that in the diviner monarchy, which was above trappings and legions. He reigned as King for ever. And so quietly has Christianity spread its influences upon men. Not the whirlwind, the pestilence, but the dew, the seed, the leaven — things which work quietly, mighty forces, resistless from the might of their silence — these are its emblems. The Kingdom of God cometh not with observa- tion. Physical convulsions may precede it. The whirlwind of passion, and the earthquake which shaketh the nations, and the fire, consuming to all olden wrong, and all encumbering circum- stance, may be the couriers of the Gospel, but it speaks in the " still small voice " — that majestic whisper which always makes a silence for itself — however loud and rude the clamour. It does not " strive nor cry," but without strife or crying makes its way into the conscience of the world.
1[ What a strange mode of bringing forth judgment ! What a strange mode especially of bringing forth judgment "to the Gentiles." A Gentile's evidence for a man's possession of the Divine Spirit was just the contrary ; it was his power to cry, to lift up his voice, to let his anger be heard in the street, to break the bruised reed and quench the smoking flax; it was for gifts such as these that the Eoman raised his heroes to the skies. But here is a new and unheard-of heroism. Here is a heroism whose strength consists in the power to suffer and not cry. Here is a Spirit which claims to be Divine on the ground not of breaking but of being broken, not of bruising but of being bruised. The Gentiles are judged by a new standard of strength — the standard of patience. They are no longer measured by what they can do but by what they can bear. They are no longer valued by thoa burdens they can impose, but by the burdens they can sustain.
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They are no longer asked how many towers they have pulled down, how many victims they have slain, how many homes they have made desolate. They are asked how many defeats they have borne undismayed, how many crosses they have received un- murmuring, how many obloquies they have endured unavenged. The valley has become a mountain, and the mountain a valley. The gentleness which was a mark of contempt has made its possessor great, and the testimonial for admission into the new army is this : " He shall not strive nor cry." ^
II.
His Tenderness with the Broken Reed.
" He shall not break the bruised reed." Here is the picture — a slender bulrush, growing by the margin of some tarn or pond ; its sides crushed and dented in by some outward power, a gust of wind, a sudden blow, the foot of a passing animal. The head is hanging by a thread, but is not yet snapped or broken off from the stem.
And the first thing that emerges from the metaphor is not only the solemn thought of the bruises by sin that all men bear, but the other blessed one, that no man is so injured that restora- tion is impossible, no depravity so total but that it may be healed, no one so far off but that he may be brought nigh. On no man has sin fastened its venomous claws so deeply but that these may be wrenched away. And so the text comes with its great triumphant hopefulness, and gathers into one mass as capable of restoration the most abject, the most worthless, the most ignorant, the most sensuous, the most godless, the most Christ-hating of the race. Jesus looks on all the tremendous bulk of a world's sins with the confidence that He can move that mountain and cast it into the depths of the sea,
Nature throws away her broken vessels with no compunction or pity whatever. Everywhere the weak and sickly among the lower animals are ruthlessly killed off, and only those remain which are able to do for themselves. The fit survive — the feeble perish. It is hardly necessary to lead any proof of this.
^ G. Matheson, Voices of the Spirit, p. 66,
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The stricken deer turns aside to die, while the fat herd sweeps on indifferent to its fate. The pack of lean wolves know of no surgery for a fainting comrade, except to fall on him and rend him in pieces. The frail bird that cannot fly with the rest of the brood is tumbled from the nest and left to its fate. Nature has, indeed, a great healing power for the strong and healthy in case of accident, so that wounds and broken bones soon come together again. But among wild animals sickness, disease, feebleness, and age meet with no compassion. In their warfare it is still Vae victis, for they cannot cumber themselves with the wounded. The halt and the blind get no chance at all. The weak and sickly are left to their fate, and the sooner it comes the better, for their kindred turn from them and their friends will not know them. Unfit for the struggle of existence which is their supreme business, they perish without ruth or remorse. Thus everywhere on sea and land, and in the lightsome air, among all creatures that swim, or fly, or creep, or run, we find this law working, and doubtless working for the general good of the whole, yielding a benevolent harvest of health and comfort to the unthinking creatures of God.