A Life of St. John for the Young

by George Ludington Weed

John rent his garments as a sign of distress. Weeping he cried with a loud lamentation, "Alas! alas! to what a guardian have I trusted our brother!" The tender, faithful heart of the aged Apostle yearned for the young man. He was ready to say, "How can I give thee up!" He knew the mercy of God, and the power of love, human and divine; and determined that the robber-chieftain should know it too.

Immediately he procured a horse and guide, and rode toward the stronghold of the robbers. It was in a wild mountainous ravine, with rushing torrents and rugged rocks overgrown with brushwood and luxuriant herbage. It was a place of grandeur, and yet of gloom—a fitting haunt for the robber-band. Few travelers passed that way, and that hurriedly and in terror.

At last the Apostle and his guide heard from behind the rocks the hoarse shouts of revelry. But he heeded them not, so intent was he on his errand. He was seeking the prodigal, his adopted son—who was not seeking the loving father. He drew the reins of his horse, while he told his guide that their journey was ended, and prayed for themselves and for him whom they sought. His nearness was discovered by one of the band, who led him to the rest, and bound his guide. There was a great contrast between the old man with his snowy locks and beard, in his humble garb; and the younger, the wild looking bandit with his streaming hair and loose white kilt; between the defenceless captive, and his captors armed with Roman swords, long lances, and bows and arrows before which he seemed perfectly powerless.

As he looked upon their hardened features they looked into his benignant face, and stood awed in his presence. Their rough manner, words and tones were changed by his smile and even friendly greeting. He made no resistance. His only motion was a wave of his hand. It was mightier than sword or lance or bow. His only request was, "Take me to your captain." Over-awed by the dignity of his manner and his calmness, the captors obeyed their captive and silently led him to their chief. In an open space the tall handsome young man was seated on his horse, wearing bright armor and breastplate, and holding the spear of a warrior. At a glance he recognized his old master, instructor and guide, who had been to him as a father. His first thought was, "Why should this holy man seek me?" He answered his own question, saying to himself, "He has come with just and angry threatenings which I well deserve." John had been called "a son of thunder." As such the trembling chief thought of him, ready to hear him pronounce an awful woe. So with a mingled cry of fear and anguish, he turned his horse and would have fled—a strange sound and sight for his fellow-robbers.

But St. John had no thunder tones for him, no threats of coming punishment. The kind shepherd had found the sheep that had been lost. The father had found the prodigal, without waiting for the wanderer's return. John sprang toward him. He held out his arms in an affectionate manner. He called him by tender names. With earnest entreaty he prevailed on him to stop and listen. As young Saul, when near Damascus caught sight of Jesus and heard His voice, dropped from his horse to the ground; so did the young chieftain at the sight and voice of St. John. With reverence he kneeled before him, and in shame bowed his head to the ground. Like Peter who had denied the same Lord, the young man wept bitterly. His cries of self-reproach and his despair echoed strangely in that rocky defile. As St. John had wept for him, he wept for himself. Those were truly penitential tears. John still spoke encouragingly. The young man lifted his head and embraced the knees of the Apostle, sobbing out, "No hope, no pardon." Then remembering the deeds of his right hand, defiled with blood, he hid it beneath his robe. St. John fell on his knees before him and enfolded him in his arms. He grasped the hand that had been hidden, and bathed it in tears as if he would wash away its bloody stains, and then kissed it, in thought of the good he said it should yet perform.

That hand cast away the sword it had wielded in murder, and lovingly, gratefully held that of John, as the Apostle, and the robber-chief now penitent and forgiven, together left the wilderness; within sight of the astonished band; some of whom were greatly touched by what they had seen and heard, while others were ready to scoff at what they called the weakness of their leader.

Another tradition is a beautiful illustration of the tenderness and sympathy which we may judge was increasingly manifest in St. John's character, the spirit of the Lord "whose tender mercies are over all His works," the spirit St. John had seen in his Master who noticed the sparrow falling to the ground. True it is,

"He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear Lord who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."

There was a young tame partridge in which St. John took delight and found recreation in many an hour from which he had turned from labor for rest. A young hunter anxiously seeking the great Apostle was surprised to find him in what seemed a frivolous employment. He doubted for a moment whether this could be he. John asked, "What is that thing which thou carriest in thy hand?" "A bow," replied the hunter. "Why then is it unstrung?" said John. "Because," was the answer, "were I to keep it always strung it would lose its spring and become useless." "Even so," replied the Apostle, "be not offended at my brief relaxation, which prevents my spirit from waxing faint."

We have already alluded to a tradition which is perhaps the best known of all, and universally accepted. In Ephesus, in extreme old age, too infirm to walk, St. John was carried as a little child to the church where he had so long preached. In feebleness his ministry had ended. The last sermon as such had been preached. He could no longer repeat the words of Christ he had heard on the mountain, and the sea-shore, and in the Temple. He could no longer tell of the wonders of which he was the only surviving witness. In Christians he saw the child-spirit, whether in old or young. In his old age he was a father to all such as none other could claim to be. His great theme —his only theme—was love. So his only words, again and again repeated as he faced the congregation were "Little children, love one another." And when asked why he repeated the same thing over and over, he told them it was the Lord's command, and if they obeyed it, that was enough.