V.
It would be impossible to recount all the institutions, books, civilizations, laws, discoveries, inventions, homes and hearts, into which the force of Christ’s life has for the past nineteen hundred years been lifting itself. As the sun expresses itself in the meadow, and lifts itself into the trees of the forests, so Christ has been embodying himself in the institutions, homes, and thoughts of men. The scientists say all force can be accounted for. When force has risen up at one point it has subsided at another: the amount rising up being the exact equivalent of that subsiding. Upon this principle we are seeking to account for all this force that, coming from Christ, has expressed itself in the domestic, social, political, and ecclesiastical institutions of men. More has risen than can be computed by human arithmetic, or compassed by human imagination, or comprehended by human thought. Where did it come from? Where did it subside? At what point did it disappear to rise again in such overwhelming volume, and such sweeping and far-reaching influence? We go back through eighteen hundred years. We are standing in Jerusalem. We hear conflicting reports of a strange, daring young man. At length he is pointed out to us. There is nothing remarkable about his appearance. He is a Jew. He was born among the poor. He is not noted for culture. He has no social position. He has no money. He has no political power or prestige. He has no army at his command. He has no philosophical system. He is connected with no academy. He is only thirty-three years old. His words are contained in no books. They are simply in the memory of his disciples. He is misunderstood. His own disciples do not know what to make of him. Finally he is arrested, and tried, and condemned, and crucified. He dies between two thieves, scorned, scoffed, buffeted, and friendless. Keep in mind the principle we are considering. All force can be measured. No more force rises up than subsides. Action and reaction are equal. We are seeking to account, in accordance with this principle, for the vast amount of force Christ has poured into the institutions and thoughts of humanity. Is this young man’s life, seemingly so insignificant and weak, the exact equivalent of all the churches, schools, colleges, arts, literature, homes, governments, sacrifice, heroism, good works, martyrdom, patience, love, and hope that have by general consent resulted from his existence in the world? If so, was he only a man? Multiply thirty-three years by poverty, toil, contempt, sorrow, and crucifixion, and you have one product. Multiply nineteen hundred years by millions of churches, schools, and homes; by millions of books, paintings, and poems; by social position, wealth, and power; by success, triumph, and conquest; by love, mercy, and truth; by a hold upon humanity unequaled, and by an influence on home and thought unrivaled, and you have another product. The question is: does one of these products seem to be the equivalent of the other? Does not the outcome surpass by an infinite degree the income? Is not the evolution out of all proportion to the involution? Has not a great deal more force risen up than seemingly subsided? Is there not much more power seemingly on this side the Cross than there was on the other? Manifestly and clearly Christ’s life and work cannot be accounted for by the principle of the correlation of forces.
Mohammed’s success and disciples we can understand. He succeeded by the ordinary methods by which men succeed. He appealed to men’s love of fame, conquest, wealth, power, pleasure. He offered men, as a reward for their fealty to him, a great earthly kingdom, and such a heaven beyond the grave as would regale the senses, please the fancy, and gratify the appetites. He simply organized and applied the latent earthly forces already existing in his countrymen. His success is in line with that of Cæsar and Bonaparte. The kingdom which he proposed to establish was merely an earthly, sensual kingdom. His methods were carnal, the motives to which he appealed were sensual, and the hopes which he inspired were carnal. Christ, on the other hand, condemned men’s love of conquest, power, fame, riches, and pleasure. He made the conditions of discipleship to consist in the denial of self and in the relinquishment of all earthly hopes, gratifications, and prospects. “If you find your life in my kingdom,” said he, “you must lose it in this.” He proposed to build up a kingdom as wide as the world, and as lasting as eternity, without adopting a single method or utilizing any of the means ordinarily relied on for success. Not only did he propose a new kingdom, but to populate it with new men, motives, hopes, conceptions, and opinions. Hence, to come into his kingdom, men were to be made over. They were to die to self, to the world, to pleasure. So Christ’s work and influence in the world not only forms an exception to the principle of the correlation of forces, but here we have an unparalleled amount of force rising up when, to all human appearances, none subsided at all.