THE COMPASSION OF JESUS

(FOR THE SUFFERING)

"Christianity raised the feeling of humanity from being a feeble restraining power to be an inspiring passion. The Christian moral reformation may indeed be summed up in this — humanity changed from a restraint to a motive."

Ecce Homo,

"Himself took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses." — St. Matt. viii. 17.

If asked to say what most characterizes the moral development of civilized man since the Christian era, we should answer without hesitation that it is the growth of compassion, of that sympathetic sensibility by which we identify ourselves with other selves, feel ourselves into other lives, and make their situation and interests, their well-being or ill-being, our own. Despite all that at the present moment seems to give the lie to such a statement, it is true that with ever-widening range the power of fellow-feeling is drawing mankind into one great brotherhood — the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, the wronged and the wrong-doer. By it hostile tribes, classes, and nations are gradually won from enmity to friendliness. Every hospital, asylum, and philanthropic institution, every effort by Church and State to protect the helpless, enlighten the ignorant, and raise the fallen is a tribute to the power of compassion. And, however marvellous it be, it is simple fact of history that this enthusiasm of compassion has had its origin mainly in the ministry of Jesus Christ, that the life lived by the Man of Galilee among the obscure folk of that obscure province was the handful of leaven whose contagion has done so much, and will yet do vastly more, to transform the world.

To think of Jesus is to think of compassion. In the Gospels no emotion is so often ascribed to Him, no other is so vividly expressed in His words and deeds. One of His disciples, a few weeks after His death, portrayed His Master in a single matchless phrase, "He went about doing good." This alone was His occupation; this He made His sole business. But we need the fuller picture of the Gospels to reveal the emotion which was inseparably intertwined with action. A cold-hearted person may be unselfish and may in his dry, unemotional way do a great deal of good; but he finds comparatively little joy in it, and therefore gives comparatively little joy by it. It is fellow-feeling that makes it blessed to give and blessed to receive. And in Jesus the "doing good" was always accompanied by the irrepressible tokens of a compassion which doubled its value. "Jesus, thou art all compassion": this is what men felt regarding Him in the days of His flesh; it was this that caused Him to be sought out by the broken-hearted and heavy-laden, that with mysterious, magnetic power drew to Him, as it draws to Him still, the children of need.

1. Its Leading Features.

Let us think first of the range, the universality, of Christ’s compassion. In His earthly life this had its necessary limitations. Jesus was "God lived by man." His emotions were real human emotions, and as such subject to the laws of human nature. For example, we are always most keenly touched with fellow-feeling for those to whom we are bound by some special affinity or affection. Human compassion is never impartial. The misfortune, even the slight misfortune, of a dear friend stirs us much more powerfully than the greater calamity of one with whom we have no special tie. So it was with Jesus. Twice only is it recorded that He actually wept: once at the grave of Lazarus, His friend; once for His own city, and the fate He saw silently hovering over it. Another condition of vivid emotion is actual proximity. A devastating earthquake in Japan touches our feelings less than a small disaster in our own street. The grief, the pain, the danger we see may awaken a feeling so acute as to be unendurable — we involuntarily avert our eyes from the sight; a far milder emotion is stirred by suffering of which we only hear by report and can realize only by an effort of imagination. And so was it with our Lord. It was at the sight of the leper’s misery that His whole heart was dissolved in compassion; it was when He beheld the doomed city that He wept over it; when "He saw Mary weeping, and the Jews also that came with her weeping," that His tears also overflowed. These tears of Jesus are the outpouring of a Divine compassion, a revelation of the very Heart of God; but therefore most human tears, the swift spontaneous outburst of the warmest tenderness of human emotion.

But within the limits imposed by flesh and blood, the compassion of Jesus is universal in its range; within that horizon, it is like the sun shining in the broad vault of heaven. Jew and Samaritan, Roman, Greek, and Phoenician, courtier and peasant, ruler of the synagogue and outcast from the synagogue, dignity and disguise, virtue and vice, the trivial embarrassment of the wedding-feast and the overwhelming sorrow of the new-made grave, the spiritual destitution of the multitude, the hunger, poverty, and sufferings of the physical life — all varieties of human characteristic and condition cross His path, and His compassion meets them all at their point of need. The compassion of Jesus was potentially — morally — universal. It radiated in all directions, and the extent of its radiation was circumscribed only by the mode of existence which belonged to His life on earth.

But in the words of my text, it is the depth, the intensity, of our Lord’s compassion that is emphasized. It was a strange and thrilling spectacle that was seen on that Sabbath evening in Capernaum: men and women spent with long sickness carried upon their pallets, gibbering lunatics and demoniacs raving and struggling against the friendly hands that were laid upon them, the maimed, the halt, the blind, all wending their way in the fast-failing light towards Peter’s house; the stream of suffering, excited humanity ever growing in volume until, as St. Mark says in his graphic way, "the whole city was gathered together at the door." The patients were there, and the Physician was there, laying His hands upon them, from which a healing virtue flowed until light came back to languid eyes and the sensations of long-forgotten health flowed through wasted frames, and not one was left unblessed.

But more important even than the description of the scene is the comment which St. Matthew’s Gospel makes upon it, quoting from the great Passion-chapter of Isaiah the words: "Himself took our infirmities, and carried our sicknesses." This is, to my mind, the most illuminating thing said in the New Testament regarding the miracle-working of Jesus. We might have thought of it as like the easy profusion with which a millionaire bestows a largesse that really costs him nothing; but here the Gospel guards against so unworthy a conception. It tells us that for every miracle He had to pay — full price — not out of His pocket, nor out of scientific knowledge and skill, but out of His own soul. Those who had eyes to see could read, in the convulsion of His features and the mute sorrow of His eyes, how completely He bowed Himself beneath the burden He lifted from others. It seemed as if literally He took their infirmities and carried the load of their sickness, as if He must Himself become the sufferer and feel the disease and the distress, must project His own soul into the leper’s corruption and the paralytic’s deadness, before He could communicate life and health. We should be venturing into depths beyond our fathoming, were we to inquire how these miracles were wrought — how, on the one hand, the faith by which Jesus continued always in perfect union with the will of God, and, on the other hand, the perfect sympathy which united Him to suffering humanity, were the channels through which power went forth to heal and save. But let us grasp the fact that so it was. Men not only received actual physical help at His hands, but were conscious of an ineffable compassion which enfolded them and drew them into His inmost heart. Here was One who knew and felt all. "Himself took our infirmities, and carried our sicknesses."

And, finally, we notice that this intense compassion of Jesus was always actively helpful; the sympathetic emotion invariably bore fruit in self-sacrificing deed. And this was its crowning perfection; it is in this that the test of character lies. For, like all instinctive emotions, compassion has of itself no moral quality. A wealth of sympathetic sensibility, a tender heart, is no more a guarantee of real goodness than is a delicate ear for music. Good men and bad men may alike possess it, and possess it in a high degree. It may, indeed, only disguise a peculiarly subtle selfishness. For we enjoy feeling simply as such. The popularity of the novel, the drama, of all emotional oratory, literature, and art, the eagerness with which people throng to the scene of any melodramatic happening or follow its details as unfolded in the newspapers, show how we like to have our emotions stirred, and to identify ourselves for the moment with the most poignant experiences of other lives. Thus compassion is apt to terminate in mere barren commiseration, or, worse, in the luxury of self-conscious feeling which we call sentimentalism.

In the complex working of our nature, emotion has but one purpose, to move the will to action. Good feelings are given us not that we may enjoy feeling them, but that we may do good actions, do with a warm heart what we could not do, or could not so effectually do, with a cold heart. They are the tide which floats the ship over the harbour bar on which otherwise it would be stranded. And in this we see our perfect example in the compassion of Jesus. Always as the needs of men entered into Him by the gateway of feeling, a costly virtue went forth from Him in words of comfort and deeds of power. When hindered from doing what He wished for sinful, suffering humanity, He did what He could. He gave His life, not a fragment but the whole, all its days and years, all its gifts and powers, all He might have used and all He might have won for His own pleasure and glory, — He laid it all down with a compassion that never failed and a stedfastness that never faltered. And when there was nothing else He could do for men than die, in infinite compassion He died.

2. An Eternal Truth.

Such, so far as my inadequate words can describe — and what words could be adequate? — was the compassion of Jesus for suffering men in its breadth, its depth, its practical power. What does it mean to us now? What is the value of these miracles of Jesus for us to-day? Did they really happen? is the question many are asking. But there is a prior question, it seems to me — What does it signify whether they happened or not? What is it that makes them more than a charming embroidery upon the Gospel narrative, naive anecdotes that have come down to us from a dim past and from which we may, perhaps, learn some edifying lessons? What light do they bring for the spiritual interpretation of life to-day; how do they enter into its meaning and its hope? Our answer, in the first place, is, that our faith finds in Jesus of Nazareth not a transient phenomenon but the Eternal Reality, and in His miracles a vivid revelation of the compassion and power that watch over us and rule our lives yesterday, and to-day, and for ever.

Do I speak to some who feel their need of such a friend and physician as Jesus was, one who can pluck from the heart a rooted sorrow, who can make us feel in all our troubles that God is near, and that underneath are the everlasting arms of His compassion and help? I proclaim to you the Christ of Capernaum as the Christ of this place and hour. He who took men’s infirmities and carried their sicknesses then is carrying yours to-day. He beholds you in your trouble as He beheld them, and He is as sorry for you as He was for them.

Think how the tears of a little child would touch Jesus as He passed along the street of Nazareth; they touch Him no less now. Wherever there are men and women in the crowd of this world fighting their solitary battle with temptation and care, alone with their poverty and grief, their burden of weakness and suffering, they are not alone. He is with them, feeling as if with the fibres of their own souls the troubles that beset them, and how these troubles become temptations to discontent, despondency, and distrust of God. Why should not all confide in this great-hearted Divine Friend? Why do we not all confide in Him more completely than we do?

For still that same compassion is putting the same power in operation for our deliverance. Ah! you say a statement like that makes too large a draft upon our powers of belief. The age of miracles is past. No longer does that Presence come to the sickbed and lay His hands upon the sufferers and raise them up. No! Who then does it? Whom do we praise and thank for it, when it is done? Is health, restored by use of the means His Providence supplies, less His work, than when it flowed immediately from His hands; daily bread less His bounty when it comes to us through the wonted channels of supply, than when He fed the multitude in the wilderness; sight less His gift when a surgeon performs a successful operation for cataract, than when He bestowed it by a touch? Yet there is a diviner way than this in which the compassion of Christ works for our deliverance. It is true that we no longer look for miracles, if we confine the thought of miracle to the physical side of things. But there is a triumph of spirit over material conditions which is in the highest sense more miraculous, intrinsically more divine, than any physical triumph. That is where I join issue with the Christian Scientists, who make the miracles of Christ, not His Cross, the centre of their gospel. But Christ’s miracles were not His mightiest works. You need but ask. yourselves, where was the grander manifestation of the power of God — in the brief respite from disease and death granted to the sick folk of Capernaum, or in the sufferings and self-sacrifice of Jesus Himself — in a blind man’s receiving his sight, or in the victorious submission which said, "The cup which My Father giveth, shall I not drink it?" — in the resurrection of Lazarus, or in Christ’s obedience unto death? Whether is it a diviner work to lift the burden from a man’s weak shoulders, or to strengthen his soul to endure, and win a victory of courage and fortitude otherwise unattainable? Only to ask such a question is to make plain how the compassion of Jesus puts a mightier power in operation than even that of Capernaum. If He does not bestow the good thing He gave to the sick folk of that city — and we know that there are times when He will not — it is because He would bestow that better thing He won for Himself, not to be exempt from suffering but to be made perfect through suffering. These miracles were but flashes of the Divine compassion, breaking the darkness which through a long night of sin and suffering had hid from men the face of God. They were needed. Without them, I cannot conceive how Jesus could in that age have effectively brought His revelation of God to the world. But now the Sun is risen. Far more than any occasional miracle is it to know Jesus Christ, and the Father in Him; to know that He is with us alway, who once "took our infirmities and carried our sicknesses," who still in some most real way has the touch of all we suffer upon the nerve of His infinite sympathy, and is withheld from making an end of all sorrow and pain only by the nobler purpose, that we may drink of His own cup and be baptized with His own baptism, and overcome, and sit down with Him on His throne.

3. An Example to Us.

Then, finally, let us remember that the compassion of Jesus is for our example. It is the plainest of its consequences that the Christian — he in whom Christ lives — must be a more than ordinarily compassionate man. In him compassion will not act merely in a negative way, to restrain from cruel words and deeds, to put a curb upon wrath and greed, and prevent the seeking pleasure or gain at the cost of others; it will be, as in Jesus, a mainspring of life, limited in its action only by opportunity and means. The man who can witness human want or suffering and pass by on the other side may be very religious in some way — but it is not Christ’s way; he may understand all mysteries and all knowledge, may be devout, sincerely and solicitously careful of religious observances and customs — but he is not a Christian.

"Himself took our infirmities, and carried our sicknesses." There was no other way of helping men for Him; there is no other way for us. You cannot effectually help any man unless by taking in some way his burden upon you. You must pay the price; and while for mere pecuniary help the pocket may suffice to pay, and for physical help the body, at the basis of all real help is soul-help, and for it you must pay with your soul.

Remember that sympathy — soul-help — is itself real help. We are tempted to ask sometimes, especially those of us who are of an impatiently practical bent, why burden ourselves emotionally with troubles to which we can bring no tangible, material relief? But men do not live by tangible, material things alone, bread and coal and blankets. If we cannot touch another’s burden with the hand of actual help, we may do a greater thing if we touch the man under the burden with the hand of brotherly sympathy and encouragement. To go down into the Valley of the Shadow with the mourner, to place ourselves beside the struggling and the fallen with a sympathetic understanding of their temptation and appreciation of their struggle — this is verily a ministry of grace. There is nothing more precious to have and to give than a heart tender with the love and compassion it has learned of Jesus Christ.

Sympathy itself is helpful; it is moreover the condition of all effective help. We cannot bless men unless in some way we put ourselves in their place. That is the principle of the Incarnation itself. When God would give His greatest help to man, He had to become man to do it. That is the principle of Christ’s ministry on earth. Wherever He went He was seeking to get into closest sympathetic touch with men and women, so that, taking their infirmities and carrying their sicknesses, He might impart to them, whether in body or soul, the contagious strength of His own life. There is no other way. We desire — we all really do desire — to help the miserable and raise the fallen; but we are unwilling to pay this price. We want to do it from a distance, by money, by legislation, by institutions and agencies — all most necessary and laudable, no doubt, but all tending to become mechanical and inhuman, all largely futile when they are made a substitute for the living contact of helper and helped, hand to hand and heart to heart. Here lies, in part at least, the cause of the Church’s failure with regard to a large and, it is to be feared, increasing section of our population. The Church — the Body Christ now has for making Himself visible, tangible, and effective on earth — is out of personal contact with it. And this personal contact can be achieved — well, only by personal contact. The gulf can be bridged only by making Christ’s ministry the law and pattern of our own. He preached to the multitude; but His compassion also touched the individual. Are not we trusting too exclusively to organization and large collective effort? Are not too many of us wishful to perform all our Christian service by proxy, to be tax-payers furnishing the sinews of war but never ourselves serving even as "Territorials"? Is there no one of all the tempted, struggling, poverty-stricken, sin-stricken around you, to whom you can show the compassion of Christ, and who might say of you, "He took my infirmities, and carried my sicknesses"? The only justification of the Church’s claim to be the Body of Christ is that in it He is still incarnate, that it is to Him eyes to behold, and heart to feel, and hand to succour the sore needs of humanity. You and I are members of that Body. Let us ask ourselves what that involves. Let us ask, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"