The Making of a Man

by James W. Lee

We have seen how the forms of physical force in the shape of fuel, food, moving waters, and winds may be traced directly to the sun. Let us also consider some of the forms of spiritual force which are traceable directly to the life of Christ, and inquire if they may be accounted for as the force which comes from the sun may be, by the principle of the convertibility of force.

IV.

There is the conserved spiritual force of Christian literature. This is stored up in the Bibles of the world, in commentaries upon its text, in expositions of its principles, in books illustrating its meaning. If all the Bibles of the world, books written about the Bible—in favor of it or against it—and all the books which have been inspired by some truth or precept taught in the Bible, and all the books which owe their existence directly or indirectly to the Bible, were burned up, Christendom would be well-nigh without literature. All Bibles and all books and literature which have grown out of the Bible owe their existence directly to Christ. They have come as straight from him as the coal in the mountain has come from the sun. Much force has been expended in the writing of all these books and in printing them, binding them, circulating them. They represent millions of dollars, ages of painful, patient thought. Into them a marvelous amount of force has lifted itself—physical force, money force, thought force. We are to find its equivalent. All the force that has arisen in Christian literature has subsided at some point, and the amount that subsided is the exact equivalent of that which has arisen. It must be remembered, too, that distinctly Christian literature has not made its way in the world, as have the writings of Homer and Plato, by their affinity with man’s fancy. The wonderful interest which has ever centered around the Bible is totally different in kind and degree from that which centers around the works of Shakspere. Whatever there is of literary merit, of philosophic thought, or of poetic depth in the Bible is incidental.

There is the conserved spiritual force of Christian art. The masterpieces in painting, sculpture, music, poetry, and architecture are Christian. The inspiration which produced Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Handel’s “Messiah,” Powers’ “Eve,” and St. Peter’s at Rome, has all come from Christ. In the conception and production of these an immense amount of the most subtle, refined force has been expended.

There is the conserved force of Christian money. This has taken the form of church buildings, buildings for education, for orphans, for the sick, for the wretched and the poor. There is not a great city in the world to-day without a Christian church edifice. They are the expressions of a great force, of which we are seeking to find the equivalent. They owe their existence directly to the person of Christ. The millions of money which have been spent in their erection have been because of love to him. They are as directly related to him as the oak tree is to the sun. If all these churches were burned down to-day, men would begin at once the erection of better ones to take their places. The conserved force of Christian money, then, which tends to lift itself into church edifices, is not exhausted in those which already stand upon the earth; but just as much as has lifted itself into brick and marble, and window, and dome, and pinnacle is ready to take the same forms if the necessity for them were laid upon the Christian world.

There is the conserved force of Christian home life. The force here referred to is not manifest in the life itself, but in the form which family life has taken in the Christian world. There is hardly a home in Christendom to-day, but has been formed directly or indirectly with reference to Christ. Into those places where character is formed, where revolutions are started, where Wesleys and Gladstones are developed, where eternal issues pend, Christ has come quietly and silently to regulate, to dominate and control. To thus influence, regulate, and vitally touch homes, to thus determine their form, appointment, and character, requires a great deal of force.

There is the conserved force implied in the inception and perpetuation of the Christian Calendar. Infidels, materialists, and atheists, in dating their letters, pay tribute to the character of Christ in the fact that they recognize he has ushered in a new era. Christ has claimed and held through nearly two thousand years one day out of every week to be devoted to his service. The day upon which he was born is celebrated in the hearts of men and in the arts of men. To change the world’s calendar, to inaugurate and make permanent a new date, to impel the world to set apart a day for his worship, to furnish the world with new festivals and holidays, has required, certainly, a vast amount of force. This we are to trace and determine, and we are also to find its equivalent.

There is the conserved Christian force implied in the fact that Christ has won the hearts of men. To win the disinterested love of one man takes much force, more than most men have. To win the love of a state takes more. But to win and to hold, through the perturbations and revolutions of kingdoms and republics, the undying love of the best and purest men on earth requires an infinite amount of force. This point in Christ’s character greatly impressed the first Napoleon. Said he, “I know men. Christ is not a man. I have seen the time when I could inspire thousands to die for me, but it took the inspiration of my presence and the power of my word. Since I am away from men, a prisoner on Helena, no one will die for me. Christ, on the other hand, has been away from the world nearly two thousand years, and yet there are millions who would die for him. I tell you, Christ is not a man. I know men.”

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.