Proceeding to another subject, the speaker dwells upon the comparative unimportance of terrestrial affairs. He advises men not to lay up treasure on earth, but in heaven, for where their treasure is, there will their heart be also; and he goes on to say, "Take no thought for your life what you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor for your body what you shall put on. Is not the life more than nourishment, and the body than raiment? Look at the birds of the sky, for they sow not, neither do they reap nor gather into barns, and your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not much better than they? And which of you by taking thought can add a single cubit to his stature? And why do you take thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin: and I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed like one of these. And if God so clothe the grass of the field which exists to-day and to-morrow is cast into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?" Therefore his disciples are to take no thought about eating, drinking, or clothing (as the Gentiles do), for their heavenly father knows that they have need of these things. They are to seek the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and these will be added. They are to take no thought for the morrow, but let the morrow take thought for itself (Mt. vi. 25-34). Upon which extraordinary argument it would have been interesting to ask a few questions. In the first place, how did Jesus suppose that it had happened that men had in fact come to trouble themselves about food, drink, and clothing? Did he imagine that an inherent pleasure in labor had driven them to do so? Would he not rather have been compelled to admit that, not by any choice of their own, but just because their heavenly father had not provided these things in the requisite abundance, they had been forced to "take thought" for the morrow, all their primitive inclinations notwithstanding? Every tendency of human nature would have prompted men to take no thought either for food or raiment, had not hunger and cold brought vividly before them the necessity of doing so. But for this they would only have been too glad to live like the birds of the air or the lilies of the field. But let us examine a little more closely the reasoning of Jesus. Birds neither sow nor reap; God feeds them; therefore he will feed us without sowing or reaping. A more unfortunate illustration of the care of Providence for his creatures it would be difficult to find. Was Jesus ignorant of the fact that he feeds some birds upon others whom they seize on as their prey, and these again upon an inferior class of animals? So that, if he is careful of the hawk, it is at the expense of the dove; and if he is careful of the sparrow, it is at the expense of the worm. Cannibalism, or at least a recourse to wild animals as the only obtainable diet, must have been the logical results of the doctrine of Jesus. Not less singular would be the effects of his teaching as to clothes. The lily which remains in a state of nature is more beautifully arrayed than was Solomon. Granted; but does it therefore follow that we are to imitate the lily? We might agree with Jesus that nudity, alike in flowers and in human beings, is more beautiful than the most superb dressing: yet there are conveniences in clothes which may even justify taking a little thought in order to obtain them, and those who really omit to do this are generally the lowest types of the human race. That God would not give us clothing if we ourselves made no effort to obtain it, is not only admitted, but almost asserted, in the argument of Jesus; for he refers us to the grass of the field, which remains in its natural condition, as an example of the kind of raiment which our heavenly father provides. So absurd are these precepts, that no body of Christians has ever attempted to act upon them. Some there have been, indeed, who took no thought for the morrow, and who never exerted themselves to procure the necessaries of life. But then they lived in the midst of societies where these things were provided by the labor of others, and where they well knew that their pious indolence would not leave them a prey to hunger, but would rather stimulate the charitable zeal of their more secular brethren.
After laying down the rule against judging others, which has been already referred to, Jesus gives the excellent advice to those who would pull the mote out of their brother's eye to attend first to the beam in their own. This is followed by the proverbial warning not to cast pearls before swine. A singular passage succeeds, in which the doctrine is broadly stated that whatever men desire of God they are to ask it, "for every one who asks receives, and he who seeks finds." And it is added, that as they give their children good gifts, so their heavenly father gives good things to those who ask him. But what of those who do not ask him? Does he, like an unwise human parent, give most to those who are the loudest in their petitions, neglecting the humble or retiring children who make no noise? These verses allow us no option but to suppose that Jesus thought he did, and this inference receives strong confirmation from the parable of the unjust judge, who yielded to clamor what he would not give from a sense of justice (Lu. xviii. 1-5), as also from the illustration of the man who was wearied by the importunity of his friend into doing what he would not have done for the sake of friendship (Lu. xi. 5-9). In the former case, the parable is related for the express purpose of showing "that men ought always to pray and not to faint;" in the latter, the illustration is given in connection with the very verses which we are now criticising. There is, then, no escape from the conclusion that the conceptions Jesus had of the deity were of a nature to lead to the belief that God might be worried by continual prayer into concessions and favors which would not otherwise have been granted.
Excepting a single verse, the remainder of the sermon is occupied with a warning that the way to life is narrow, that to destruction broad; with a caution against false prophets, and a very fine description of the future rejection from heaven of many who have made loud professions of religion, and contrariwise, of the reception of those who have done their father's will, and whom he likens to one who has built his house upon the solid rock as distinguished from one who has built it on the sand. One verse, however, remains, and that not only the most important in the whole of this discourse, but ethically the most important in the whole of its author's system. That verse is the well-known commandment: "All things whatsoever you may wish men to do to you, thus also do you to them. For this is the law and the prophets" (Mt. vii. 12; Lu. vi. 31). Whether Jesus perceived that in this brief sentence he was enunciating the cardinal principle of all morality is of necessity uncertain. But from the addition of the phrase "this is the law and the prophets," it is probable that he regarded it as a summary of the moral teachings of the religion he professed. If so, he has rightly laid the foundation of scientific ethics. Utilitarians, who believe that the object of morality is human happiness, may claim him (as one of them has already done) as the father of their system. While Kant, who gives the fundamental law, so to act that the rule of your conduct may be such as you yourself would wish to see adopted as a general principle, will be equally in agreement with him. Nor does it detract from the merits of Jesus that this very doctrine should have been announced in China about five centuries before he proclaimed it in Judea. He remains not less original; but we, while giving him his due, must be careful to award an equal tribute to his great predecessor, Confucius. Twice over did that eminent man assert the principle taught in the Sermon on the Mount. In the first instance, "Chung-kung asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, 'It is, when you go abroad, to behave to every one as if you were receiving a great guest; to employ the people as if you were assisting at a great sacrifice; not to do to others as you would not wish done to yourself; to have no murmuring against you in the country, and none in the family'" (C. C., vol. i. p. 115.—Lun Yu, xii. 2). Much more strikingly is this law enunciated in the second case. "Tsze-kung asked, saying, 'Is there one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one's life?' The Master said, 'Is not RECIPROCITY such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others'" (C. C., vol. i. p. 165.—Lun Yu, xv. 23). And we have another statement of the rule in the work ascribed to the grandson of Confucius, where he is reported to have said, "What you do not like when done to yourself, do not do to others" (Chung Yung, xiii. 3.—C. C., vol. i. p. 258). It is true, as remarked by the translator, that the doctrine is here stated negatively, and not positively; but practically this can make little difference in its application. Not to do to others what we wish them not to do to us would amount to nearly the same thing as doing what we wish them to do. Obviously it prohibits all actual injury which we should resent if inflicted on ourselves. But it also enjoins active benevolence; for as we do not like the lack of kindness towards ourselves when in distress or want, so we must not be guilty of showing such lack of kindness to others. Take the parable of the good Sâmaritan, told in illustration of the kindred maxim to love our neighbors as ourselves. Plainly we should not like the conduct of the priest and the Levite were we in the situation of the plundered man. And if so, the behavior of the good Sâmaritan is that which the Chinese as well as the Jewish prophet would require us to pursue.
Much more might be said of the doctrines of Jesus, but it is time to bring this over-long section to a close. What answer shall we now return to the query which stands at the head of this final division? What are we to think of him? Is our judgment to be mainly favorable or mainly unfavorable? or must it be a mixture of opposing sentiments? The reply may be given under three separate heads, relating the one to his work as a prophet, the next to his intellectual, and the last to his moral character. Considered as a prophet, he forms one of a mighty triad who divide among them the honor of having given their religions to the larger portion of Asia and to the whole of Europe. Confucius, to whom Eastern Asia owes its most prevalent faith; Buddha Sakyamuni, whose faith is accepted in the south and centre of that continent; and Christ, to whom Europe bows the knee, are the members of this great trinity not in unity. All three are alike in their possession of prophetic ardor and prophetic inspiration. Two of them, the Chinaman and the Jew, speak as the conscious agents of a higher Power. The other, of whom his creed prevents us from saying this, is yet represented in his story as predestined to a great mission, becoming aware of that destiny at a certain epoch of his life, and thenceforth feeling that no temptations and no sufferings can induce him to swerve from his allotted task. Of these three men it would perhaps be accurate to say that Confucius was the most thoughtful, Sakyamuni the most eminently virtuous, and Christ the most deeply religious. Not that a description like this can be regarded as exhaustive. Each trespasses to some degree on the special domain of the others. Especially is it hard to compare the moral excellence of Jesus with that of Buddha. The Hindu, as depicted in his biographies, offers a character of singular beauty, and free from some of the defects which may be discerned in that of the Jew. History, however, was too much despised by these Oriental sectaries to enable us to form a trustworthy comparison. All we can affirm is, that, assuming the pictures of both prophets to be correctly drawn, there is in Sakyamuni a purity of tone, an absence of violence or rancor, an exemption from personal feeling and from hostile bias, which place him even on a higher level than his Jewish fellow-prophet. Supposing, on the other hand, that either picture is not historical, then it must be conceded that primitive Buddhism attained a more perfect ideal of goodness than primitive Christianity. Both ideals, however, are admirable, and they closely resemble one another.
Morally not unlike, Jesus and Sakyamuni have another point of similarity in a certain mournfulness of spirit, a sorrowing regret for the errors of human kind, and a tender anxiety to summon them from those errors to a better way. Each in his own manner felt that life was very sad; each desired to relieve that sadness, though each aimed at effecting his end by different means. Sakyamuni offered to his disciples the peace of Nirvâna; Jesus, the favor of God and the rewards to be given in his kingdom. There is a striking similarity in the manner in which the summons to suffering humanity is expressed in each religion. Here are the words ascribed to Buddha: "Many, driven by fear, seek an asylum in mountains and in woods, in hermitages and in the neighborhood of sacred trees. But it is not the best asylum, it is not the best refuge, and it is not in that asylum that men are delivered from every pain. He, on the contrary, who seeks a refuge in Buddha, in the Law and in the Assembly, when he perceives with wisdom the four sublime truths, ... that man knows the best asylum, the best refuge; as soon as he has reached it, he is delivered from every pain" (H. B. I., p. 186). Still more beautifully is the like sentiment expressed by Jesus: "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and you shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light" (Mt. xi. 28-30).
While in tenderness and sympathy for human sorrow Christ resembles Buddha, in the nature of his moral precepts he sometimes resembles Confucius. The plain duties of man towards his fellow-man are inculcated in the same spirit by both, while in Buddhism it is generally the most extreme and often prodigious examples of charity or self-sacrifice that are held up to admiration. Buddhism, moreover, teaches by means of long stories; Confucius and Jesus by means of short maxims. To a certain extent, indeed, Jesus combines both methods, the first being represented in his parables; but these are much simpler, and go far more directly to the point, than the complicated narratives of the Buddhistic canon. On the whole, we may safely say that Jesus is certainly not surpassed by either of these rival prophets, and that in some respects, if not in all, he surpasses both.
Another comparison is commonly made, and may be just touched on here. It is that between the Hebrew prophet and the Athenian sage, "who," in the words of Byron, "lived and died as none can live or die." Without fully endorsing this emphatic opinion of the poet, we may admit that Socrates is not unworthy to stand beside Jesus in the foremost rank of the heroes of our race. He shares with the prophets who have been already named the inspiring sense of a divine mission which he is bound to fulfill. At all hazards and under all conditions he will carry on the special and peculiar work which the divine voice commands him to do. And this plenary belief in his own inspiration is not accompanied, as sometimes happens, by mental poverty. Intellectually his superiority to Jesus cannot be disputed. It is apparent in the very manner of his instruction. Socrates could never have enunciated the truths he had to tell in that authoritative tone which is appropriate to the religious teacher. Whatever knowledge he thinks it possible to acquire at all must be acquired by reasoning and inquiry; and must be tested by comparison of our own mental condition with that of others. Nothing must be assumed but what is granted by the hearer. Socrates would have thought that there was little gained by the mere dogmatic assertion of moral or spiritual truths. He must carry his interlocutor along with him; must compel him to admit his errors; must stimulate his desire of improvement by bringing him face to face with his own ignorance. Much as we must value the moral teaching of Christ, it must be confessed that the peculiar gift of Socrates is one of a far rarer kind. The power of inculcating holiness, purity, charity, and other virtues, either directly by short maxims (as in the Confucian Analects, in Mencius, or in Marcus Aurelius), or indirectly by stories (as in Buddhagosha's parables), is by no means so uncommon as the Socratic gift of searching examination into men's minds and souls. If Jesus is unsurpassed in the former—"primus inter pares"—Socrates is absolutely without a rival in the latter.
Whether the shock of the elenchus of Socrates, or the touching beauty of the parables and the Sermon on the Mount, produced the greatest benefit to the hearers is a question that can hardly be determined. The effect of either method must depend upon the character of those to whom it is applied. Outward appearances would lead us to assign more influence to the method of Jesus; for Socrates left no Socratics, while Christ did leave Christians to hand on his doctrine. But, in the first place, it may be confidently asserted that no lasting sect could have been formed upon the basis of the few truths taught by Jesus himself; and, in the second place, the fact that he became the founder of a new religion must be attributed as much to the state of Judea at the time as to his personal influence. That the influence of Socrates was not small in his own life-time might be inferred from the bitterness of the prosecution alone, even if Plato had not remained to attest the abiding impress he left upon an intellect by the side of which those of Peter, James, and John, are but as little children to a full-grown athlete. We can imagine the havoc that would have been made in the statements and arguments of Jesus had Socrates met him face to face and subjected him to his testing method. How ill would his loose popular notions have borne a close examination of their foundations; how easily would his dogmatic assertions have been exposed in all their naked presumption by a few simple questions; how quickly would his careless reasoning have been shattered by the dialectic art which would have forced him to exhibit its fallacies himself before the assembled audience! But there was no one competent to the task, and when his opponents attempted to perplex him by what they thought awkward questions, he was able to baffle them without much trouble by his superior skill.
It is not, however, as an intellectual man that we must consider Jesus. He himself laid no claim to the character, and, if we would do him justice, we must judge him by his own idea of his function and his duties. So judging, there can be no question that we must recognize in him a man of the highest moral grandeur, lofty in his aims, pure in his use of means, earnest, energetic, zealous, and unselfish. No doubt he was sometimes misled by that very ardor which inspired him with the courage required to pursue his work. No doubt he suffered himself to forget the charity that was due to those who could not accept his mission nor bow before his preaching. No doubt he returned curse for curse, and hatred for hatred, with unsparing hand. Perhaps, too, he was sometimes the first to give way to angry passion, and to express in scathing words the bitterness he felt. Yet his failings are those of an upright and honorable character, and while they ought not to be extenuated or denied, neither ought they to outweigh his great and unquestionable merits. Appointed, as he believed, to a special work, he bravely and honestly devoted his powers to the fulfillment of that work, not even shrinking from his duty when it led him to the cross.
His unhappy end has cast its shadow over his life. He has been continually spoken of as "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief." There is no reason to suppose that in any special sense he corresponded to the prophetic picture. Undoubtedly he had his sorrows; undoubtedly he was acquainted with grief. But unless there had been in his private life some tragedy of which we are not informed, those sorrows were not of the bitterest, nor was that grief of the deepest. There is no doubt in his language a tinge of that sadness which all great natures who are not in harmony with their age must needs experience. He believed that he had great truths to tell, and he found his countrymen unwilling to receive them. Here was one source of unhappiness; and another he had in common with all who are deeply conscious of the miseries of human existence. But in no special or transcendent sense can he be termed a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. So far as our evidence goes, he was exempt from the most terrible calamities that befall mankind. Free from all earthly ties but those of friendship with his chosen companions, he was not exposed to many of the anxieties and trials which afflict more ordinary men. Dying young, he did not suffer (so far as we know) from any serious illness, nor from the troubles, both physical and mental, that scarcely ever fail to beset a longer life. Bereavement, the most terrible or human ills, never afflicted him. Whether in his youth he had suffered the pains of unrequited love at the hands of some Galilean maiden we cannot tell. But there is nothing in his language or his career that would lead us to see in him an embittered or disappointed man.