The Reason and Nature of Christ's Sufferings

General Washington once said, “Men’s minds are as variant as their faces.” Our visions of truth are as variant as our minds; but truth is one, and the comparison of the many gives the better grasp of the truth. Emerson said, “Our knowledge is the amassed thought and experience of innumerable minds.” Innumerable minds have put their best thought—to say nothing of experience—on this subject, and we should profit by the result. There is no subject more important than this, for it lies at what should be the very heart of all our preaching, as well as of our experience, and, unless our position on this is right, all our work must be seriously affected. Rightly apprehended, it is not only the very shrine of our lives, and the key to every problem, and the crown of all teaching, but it is the center from which and to which all paths of thought should lead. And it will be necessary in this discussion to note at least the trend of some of these paths.

I may seem to some almost sacrilegious in the wording of my subject, as if the sufferings of our Lord were too sacred for analysis and discussion, and we ought rather to veil our faces in reverential awe. But analysis is helpful to knowledge, and so may help even reverence, for ignorance is not the mother of true devotion, but knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven. The botanist is blamed for destroying the beauty of the flower, when he tears it to pieces for analysis, yet the apparently ruthless botanist knows and appreciates the flower’s beauty better than others do. The microscope and scalpel may not reveal the soul, but they make manifest more perfectly the beauty that life enshrines in form; so discriminating analysis, though it will not create the flame of love that springs responsive to the love of God, may add new power to that love in the life. Objection has been made here to approaching such a subject from the side of philosophy; but philosophy is the reason of things, and the objection properly lies only against false philosophy. A reasonable being adds to his knowledge, and so to his power, by discerning reasons, which is philosophizing, on any subject,—much more on this most important subject.

Again, it has been said that induction should be used rather than deduction. But one cannot be complete without the other. Our deductions from supposed intuitive principles must be verified by all the facts, and our inductions from facts must be confirmed by the intuitions of reason. Either is unsafe alone, and it makes little difference with which we begin if each has its full share in the process. Yet, again, we have been told that this subject should be discussed from the standpoint of the Fatherhood of God rather than of his Sovereignty, and this sentiment has been prominent in recent years, in part perhaps from an undue emphasis on sovereignty in previous periods. It has been supposed that love is the chief characteristic of the one, and justice of the other, and that the two are not quite compatible in God’s dealings with fallen man. Moreover, the prevalence in this country of republican ideas has somewhat discredited monarchical sentiments; so much so, that a recent article in a review, by a conservative writer, declares that these democratic sentiments are out of place in discussing God’s relations to man. But we believe that the whole history of our country, confirmed by the wonderful providence of God, has proved the truth of what was so tersely stated by Abraham Lincoln, and long before in nearly the same words by Daniel Webster, that the government of the people must be by the people, for the people.

Accepting this as true, it is necessary to show briefly how it harmonizes with the idea of the Sovereignty of God, and that with his Fatherhood, both of which are important and necessary. Many monarchs have ruled as if they thought that the subjects existed solely for the benefit of the ruler, and that the only object of government was to promote his interests. But when we admit, as reason compels us to do, that all men are born free and equal, we can see no object in a human government except the good of the governed,—i.e. the government of the people must be for the people. Must it also be by the people? The common verdict is, “Yes.” Many suppose that it is the same thing to say that a government derives its just powers from the consent of the governed. But the two are very different, and this sentiment was discredited, shall we say disproved, by our late civil war. The truth of the other is shown as follows: Every man is a sovereign to himself by his endowment of reason, which is a copy of the Trinity of Deity, and ethically, as conscience, has its legislative, judicial, and executive departments, by which the man is a law unto himself, perceiving more or less clearly, and enforcing more or less perfectly, the law that should govern his relations to others, including God. The government of a community is for the adjustment of the mutual relations of all its members, and for the enforcing of law securing their highest good. All being by birth equal in rights, the government should be in the hand of those best qualified to administer it; and, under ordinary circumstances, those individuals are best secured, or appointed, by the collective wisdom of the community, so far as it can voice itself by election or similar means. But the authority of the government comes from its representing the sovereignty of the individual members of the community, so far as representation can be secured under the circumstances. Therefore a right human government in normal cases must be by the people. Sometimes, however, a government is imposed upon a people by circumstances other than the direct choice of the people, and it justifies itself by its excellence; so that rebellion against it would be justified only by the successful providing of a better government, and, failing this, must be regarded as treason. God is constrained to occupy the position of sovereign by a threefold obligation: First, because of his infinite wisdom, infinite power, and perfect holiness, he is the one best fitted to rule, and therefore the good of his creatures demands his ruling. Secondly, he, being the author of their being, is responsible to them, to other beings, if there are any, and to himself, for their best well-being. This also demands his ruling them. This relation includes Fatherhood and all that it implies. Thirdly, the innate sovereignty of each man, which demands that human governments, in normal circumstances, be by the people, finds its archetype and its source in him. The spirit of man is finite reason: God is absolute Reason. But Reason is one. Therefore God actually represents man better than any man or any other being can; indeed, he represents normal man perfectly. And therefore Reason demands that God rule. This threefold bond makes God our sovereign, and, at the same time, confirms the dictum of a government of a people being rightly by the people and for the people. We see thus that God necessarily stands in the relation of ruler to mankind and to all rational beings, and that this relation includes Fatherhood, while it is more comprehensive than that.

As ruler he is bound to promulgate law, which is the standard for action of the members of the community in attaining their best good. They have the law in themselves, but none of them sees it clearly or perfectly. Therefore the promulgation of law is for the best good of the community.

He is also bound to enforce the law, to secure conformity to it, for this is the best good of the community, and subjects view it more or less one-sidedly, and perhaps do not realize the importance of conforming to it. But law is enforced by sanctions, which are rewards and punishments. Appointing these secures the honoring of the law by showing in a most impressive way the estimation of the importance of the law by the lawgiver, who is the one most competent to estimate it. So these sanctions are for the best good of the community. They are not intended to act through selfish motives, as hope of gain, or fear of loss or of suffering, which could never secure true obedience, but to make impressive the promulgation of the law, and so help to secure its regard and observance.

Justice is often defined as acting according to law. But it is something more than mere conformity, which is a negative quality, the absence of non-conformity. Justice is the right relation to the law. In a ruler, justice is a proper regard for law, and therefore a proper regard for the best good of his subjects; it is honoring the law himself, and causing others to honor it. Injustice is therefore a disregard of the Lest good of the community, and is impossible to a perfect ruler. This is not making law some horrible juggernaut car that rolls remorselessly and regardlessly over all that comes in its way. There is no more of benevolence in the love of a father, than there is in the justice of a good ruler. But the ruler must always put the good of the community above the good of the individual. In a family but few individuals are concerned at the most, and it may sometimes be the case that justice, or the good of all, may be of less importance than the loss or harm that would come to the individual thereby, though even there such cases must be rare. For usually, what seemed the slight loss to the small community will react and cause greater loss to the whole, and also harm to the individual especially concerned. But God can never be other than perfectly just, both from the necessity of his nature, and because he is infinite Love. God’s holiness is enthusiasm for law, and therefore but another side of love.

Punishment is not a mere consequence of wrong-doing, or even a consequence ordained at creation by the lawgiver as creator. It is that, and more: its most important element is a manifestation of disapprobation by the ruler, causing distress or suffering to the offender. Punishment can never be righteously inflicted on an innocent person even if he volunteered to receive it. It would be abhorrent to every right mind, for disapprobation cannot be shown to one worthy of approbation. Suffering consequent on wrong-doing may fall upon the innocent, but it cannot be called punishment. Punishment of a transgressor can only be remitted when an equivalent substitute for the punishment, not for the sinner, has been secured. By equivalent, we mean of equal valency or potency, i.e. accomplishing the same result. The object of punishment is the honoring of the law, and any substitute for punishment must do the same to the same degree, and with some added advantage; otherwise there would be no reason for the exchange.

Before considering how Christ’s suffering does this, we need to consider carefully the nature of sin. The word “sin” is used in various senses, and there are several words more or less synonymous with it. The Old Testament makes three classes, called respectively iniquity, transgression, and sin; or, in-equity, deliberate acts against the law, and sinful character; or, in more popular language, sins of omission, sins of commission, and the sinful character. The New Testament more usually puts the first two together, and makes two classes, transgression and sin; or, the wrong act, and the wrong character from which the acts may proceed. If this distinction is kept in mind, we easily solve what is a puzzle to many. John says, “He that is born of God cannot be a sinner.” He does not say, He cannot transgress. If he did so, he would be contradicting every-day experience. What he does say is really self-evident, yet needs to be asserted. John says again, Sin is anomia, the negative of law, or that which is contrary to law. That which can avoid conformity to law, i.e. to the standard of action, is proved by that fact to be free and responsible, the author of its own action, and, in that respect at least, a creator of its action out of nothing. This is what we mean by free-will. And sin is always, and only, a free choice against the standard. Sin, therefore, cannot be inherited or imputed. Each man sins for himself.

Yet there is truth in the Bible statement, that “through one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners.” Man is tripartite. The body and animal soul, which Paul calls “the flesh,” are inherited, or received by partition, from the parents; while the spirit, which gives personality, is the gift of God, and comes pure from him. The flesh presses for self-interest, or for satisfying the desires: the spirit, as conscience, presses for what is right. Thus a conflict begins very early in life, and is heavily handicapped by heredity; so much so, that the sin of our first ancestor may be said to have made all his descendants sinners. This handicap would be unfair, if a way of escape were not provided, as it is for every one. But this very handicap makes deliverance from sin possible. The angels were without it, and one-third of them chose wrong in the full light, and by that choice so fixed their characters that a reversal of choice was impossible. There was no salvation for them. Under the influence of strong temptation from one of these fallen angels, enforcing the impulse of the flesh, our first parents also chose wrong. The temptation was not an excuse; but the consequent choice was less absolute, and a reversal was possible. Their descendants inherit, each generation from the preceding, an abnormally strong lower nature, such that, when the conflict between the flesh and the spirit comes, as come it surely must, and that very early, even before the rational nature has fairly wakened to consciousness, the flesh frequently carries the day, and the child transgresses from time to time. Because of the stress of temptation both within and without, and the more or less dormant or undeveloped state of the spirit, one transgression does not fix the character, nor do even several fix it. It is not until from five to ten years or more have passed, that repeated wrong partial choices, or transgressions, seem to have resulted in a controlling choice, or to have fixed the character. Before that time, the grace of God in answer to prayers, and the training of parents and others, may secure a controlling choice for the right, which is called the new birth.

In fact, in Christian homes this is what should be expected, and is one justification of infant baptism. If the little ones are called from this world before the permanent choice is made, it must be made afterwards. But it is then made under no great stress of temptation, because the lower nature is sleeping in the grave, and the spirit, in communion with Christ and good spirits in heaven, is led to realize the love of God in Christ as manifested so especially for itself with other human beings, and is sure to choose the right. This is not probation, for the result is not uncertain. These little ones are the lily-blooms of heaven, and do not need forgiveness. They do need a holy choice, and the revelation of Christ secures this.

Those who have come to years of discretion in this world do need forgiveness, both for acts of transgression and for the sin of character, which is an abiding choice, although it may have been made only as a result of many minor evil choices or transgressions. Forgiveness is a passing over, or remitting, of punishment, and it would be unfair to allow it if an equivalent substitute is not secured. That which is substituted must secure the end or object of punishment in honor to the law, both by the subjects and by the lawgiver, for only so can the object of government, the good of the subjects, be secured. It must also, in order to be seen to be a substitute, be seen to be connected with the sin, and must have some resemblance to the punishment for which it is substituted.

I said that punishment is essentially a manifestation of disapprobation by the ruler, causing distress or suffering to the offender. If, now, the ruler voluntarily suffers for the sinner, it will manifest his disapprobation as much as anything else could. It will not be enough that it is seen that he suffers as a consequence of sin, for his disapprobation will not be thereby sufficiently manifest. The element of voluntary suffering is essential and important. Moreover, although the amount of suffering is not necessarily equal, because of the position of the ruler and because quantity cannot be measured, trifling suffering on his part will not answer the need. It must be intense, impressive, and as great as can be conceived, in order to have unlimited efficacy. It must resemble the punishment, because that was not arbitrary, but so fitted to the sin as to, so far as possible, remedy the evil of sin to the community as a whole.

One consequence of sin was declared to-be death,—not physical, but spiritual. Death nowhere means extermination, but a ceasing to be able to perform normal functions. This is the only definition that applies to all forms of death, whether of plant, or animal, or spirit. The choice of evil is such a reversal of the normal action of a spirit that it makes a wreck of the spirit. It involves the suffering of remorse, or the biting back of the spirit on itself. As Byron says,

                            “There is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self-condemned
He deals on his own soul.”

“No ear can hear, nor tongue can tell,
The tortures of that inward hell.”

This is a natural consequence, and can be called a punishment only by the ordaining of the Creator. More strictly, as I said before, punishment is the manifestation of the disapprobation of the ruler. This involves a sense of separation from God. The spirit of man being made for union with God, this separation, of itself, causes distress. How far the resemblance was carried, we shall see in considering the facts.

We have perhaps discussed the a priori side sufficiently, and are ready now to consider the facts as given in the Bible. We have various statements: Peter says, “Christ bore our sins in his own body on the tree”; in the Epistle to the Hebrews we read, “Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many”: and Christ himself said that his blood was shed for many for the remission of sins, and that he gave his life a ransom for many; and Paul says he gave himself a ransom for all. Remission of sins means forgiveness, the same word being so translated in the Lord’s Prayer. “Ransom” is explained by Peter as the price paid; in this case, not silver and gold, but precious blood. These passages, and others like them, seem to indicate that what Christ suffered, especially on the cross, was chiefly for the forgiveness of sins. The price paid to purchase our freedom from punishment could not be said to be “to the devil,” as has been said, except by a strong metaphor. It was the price paid to justice, or, if we like it better, a price required by the circumstances, just as we say our country paid a heavy price for liberty in the Revolution, and again a heavy price for establishing the supremacy of the national government in the Civil War; so Christ paid the price which the circumstances required, without which he could not secure the result, the deliverance from the bondage and the penalty of sin, and this is the same as saying it was paid to justice, which the good of the community required.

The first point to notice in the facts is that Christ was the lawgiver. It is not necessary here to prove his divinity,—we all accept it, but it is necessary to note briefly his person. Some have said that he suffered in his humanity, and this was made worthy by its union with deity, which did not suffer. Perhaps it is not necessary to call attention to the fact, that if deity, as such, did not suffer, the suffering was not adequate, for only the lawgiver could be a substitute. The Bible teaches that the spirit in Christ was the divine Logos, or eternal Son of God, self-limited by union with the body and soul inherited from his human parent, as other men inherit from their parents, and by this limitation, or kenosis, made equivalent to a human spirit; so that he was a real man, in all points like us,—in consciousness, knowledge, experience, etc. Yet the spirit, having existed from eternity, and having a character fixed in holiness, could not shake off or lay aside this character, even if desired, so that he was “non posse peccare.” This did not destroy or diminish the reality or force of his temptations, on which the success of his mission depended. A man standing against a wall may experience and feel a push as severely as the man standing in the middle of the floor, who is pushed over by it. Christ felt the push or impulse in the body, soul, and spirit, successively, and more or less simultaneously, as much as any one ever did. So he was tempted in all the ways we are, and yet without sin.

An old divine says that we are not to blame if foul birds fly over our heads, but we are to blame if they make their nests in our hair. The writer to the Hebrews says these temptations made it possible for him to succor those who are tempted, and it connects this directly with the idea of his being a merciful and faithful high-priest to make propitiation for the sins of the people. The idea of propitiation, as understood by the Hebrews, was a covering of the sins, and comes to the same, as we noted before, a way for forgiveness or overlooking of sins. The reality and variety of the temptation proved not only his sinlessness, but his real humanity and likeness to us, and in the fourth chapter of Hebrews the writer points out that it proves his perfect sympathy “touched with the feeling of our infirmities.” These temptations, therefore, were necessary to the result, but they do not seem to have been counted as a part of suffering for the remission of sins, although they are called his sufferings. The whole of Christ’s life was a revelation of the Father.

We cannot, as some attempt to do, make a distinction between the human and the divine in Christ. In him, as in every man, the body, soul, and spirit are so bound together that one cannot act without the others: the three constitute the man. Even though the body and soul, or flesh, strive against the spirit, that strife is within the man: his actions are of the man—the resultant of the strife. The spirit shares in the weariness of the body, and the body is affected by the anguish of the spirit. Therefore, in Jesus Christ, every word, thought, act, and feeling was a revelation of God in human conditions, and every word, thought, act, and feeling was intensely and truly human. The writer to the Hebrews saws that he was made perfect through sufferings, and again that he was made perfect through the things that he suffered, learning obedience by them. These sufferings seem to have been especially those in the garden of Gethsemane, as strong crying and tears are spoken of. This would indicate that they were due, in part at least, to conflict between the flesh, which was weak, and the spirit, which was willing. Christ was always free from sin, but he was not perfected until the spirit gained such a complete victory over the flesh that there was no longer any conflict or possibility of strife. This victory was perhaps completed in Gethsemane, though possibly the finishing stroke was given on the cross; as the actual surrender of life in the case of other martyrs seems to have some crowning effect, such that makes it unnecessary for them to wait as long as other believers for reunion of spirit with soul and body from the grave, but allows them to have a first resurrection before the millennium, while other believers are not made perfect until the troublesome lower nature, which has been put to sleep in the grave, is raised at the last day to join the spirit, which has meanwhile been gaining strength by enjoying the presence of Christ in heaven.

But this part of Christ’s sufferings we only refer to as throwing a little light on those on the cross, which the Bible seems to make of supreme importance. Some minds are more impressed with the physical aspect of his sufferings, and dwell upon them; but there is perhaps danger, in so doing, of obscuring the real nature of his greatest sufferings. The physical torture was no doubt intense; but thousands have been crucified, and most of them suffered three days, instead of three hours, or six, as Jesus did. We may paint vividly his distress of mind at the cruel mockings of those he came to save, the desertion by his own disciples, the denial by Peter, the betrayal by Judas, etc. Some one has said, “The Judas kiss is evermore the bitterest cup of our Lord and of his church.” These were bitter indeed; but we have the clue to something far more bitter than these. We are familiar with the suggestions made by Stroud, that Christ died with a broken heart. Ordinarily at death the heart is nearly empty of blood. But great grief causes a sudden filling of the heart with blood, impeding its pulsation; and when the grief is excessive, the heart bursts with the effort to beat, and death ensues, while the pericardium is filled with the accumulated blood, which in a little while separates into clot and serum. John emphasizes the appearance of the blood and water, both in his Gospel and in his First Epistle, as if it were of special significance; as indeed it was, for that spear-thrust opened to our view the heart of God, and that flood saves us.

Christ died of grief. What that grief was he indicated by his words, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” God could not forsake him, he was God himself; and, although he came forth from the Father by his incarnation in such a way that he had a separate consciousness and personality, the Father could not look with displeasure on his beloved Son at any time, much less at such a time. Yet the words must indicate something real. Isaiah says, “Your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you.” In Christ Jesus was no trace of sin. But his perfect infinite love toward man, manifested in sympathy, led him to so identify himself in thought with men that he felt their sins as his own. This is to a less degree manifested in a mother with a criminal son. She shrinks from public gaze as if herself a criminal. She actually feels remorse. The more horror she feels for the crime, the more she realizes the abhorrence of the community, just so much the more she cowers from the condemning gaze of the public. The identification in feeling of one who loves, with the object of love, becomes more perfect, the more perfect the love.

At the same time the pure and holy nature of Christ realized more perfectly than any other being God’s abhorrence of sin. This abhorrence or hatred of sin is the other side of love. The more a being loves, the more he abhors that which tends to harm the object of his love. Christ realizing this, his perfect sympathy with God as well as with man made him feel as if the wrath of God against the sin of the world were directed against himself, as if God had indeed forsaken him. It was not a mere pageant: it was very real to him. The very fact that he had a separate personal consciousness made this quite possible; indeed, made it necessary. The horror of a man lost in the Mammoth Cave, when he feels that his companions have forsaken him, is but a faint shadow of that horror of great darkness. This woe was greater than the physical frame could bear, and his heart burst with grief. But it was love that caused that grief. Paul says he was “crucified through weakness,” which seems to mean that he died on the cross through weakness. It was the weakness of the physical frame, which could not endure the strain that came upon it. It was the limitations of humanity.

Some object to saying that he bore the weight of the wrath of God. The statement is liable to misapprehension. The wrath of God was not against him, but it seemed to him as if it were, and therefore he felt its weight. But if that spear-thrust revealed to our gaze the heart of God, with its pain of mind, in the conflict between hatred of sin and sympathy with the sinner, was that the essence of the atonement, and did it indicate a permanent state of the divine heart, and why did it especially affect Jesus at that time? Because of the reality of his humanity, Jesus, like all of us, realized the full meaning of events and facts in proportion to their nearness and their vivid presentation. The probability of the cross presented itself in the third and severest temptation in the wilderness, the certainty of it began to cast its shadow over him from the time of his transfiguration, but its full weight only came upon him at the supreme hour, when he was lifted up. The wickedness of man never made a more striking exhibition than at that time. And every circumstance conspired to make it impressive, and to make him realize his position as representative of man to God, and of God to man. This grief of mind was not new to the heart of God,—before the flood he was grieved at his heart at the sin of man, and Isaiah says that in all the afflictions of his people he was afflicted.

It is sometimes said that there is no past and future with God. Divisions of time like past and future depend upon succession of events. When God alone existed, there was no succession of events; but as soon as the existence of finite things and beings began, succession of events began; and this, being real, must be real to God himself, and, his sympathy being real, he has always grieved with mankind in their misery. This thought does not conflict with our conception of God’s perfection. His blessedness depends on his character, and cannot be affected by passing events. As in the ocean the storms that beat upon its surface create tremendous commotion, and yet a few hundred feet below there is not a tremor to disturb the unbroken calm; so, though the heart of God grieves exceedingly from sympathy with suffering man, his blessedness is undisturbed, for he sees the end from the beginning, and knows that the result will be supremely worthy and glorious. In one sense the Lamb was slain from the foundation of the world, the cross was in God’s plan when he created, and he knew then the pain that would come to him. It might seem as if this pain of heart were a mere consequence of the sin, and as if Christ’s supreme suffering were only a more complete revelation of this, intended to impress the heart of man and secure reciprocating love. But it was this and more than this. The relation between the divine sufferings and the law must be impressively set forth not only for the gaze of this world, but of countless other worlds, which Paul says are to be kept from sin by the tragedy of sin and salvation, as enacted here. The Lord rejoices more over the one saved sheep or world, than over the ninety and nine that went not astray, because the saving of the one means the preserving of the ninety-nine, and not because one was of more value than another. The slightest relaxation of justice would have stupendously disastrous effects through the whole universe, which would also react on this earth. The law is the foundation of mercy, just as the mercy-seat of the ark rested on the tables of the law.

We are now prepared to see the connection between Christ’s sufferings and the law and justice. First, it was the most impressive possible honoring of the law by the lawgiver. He, the lawgiver, was made under the law. Being in the form of God, he took the form or position of a servant, and by his perfect obedience honored the law. But this was only preliminary. It was necessary that the lawgiver manifest his regard for the law by suffering for it, publicly and intensely, and in a way that showed that he intended the suffering to be a substitute for the punishment, and not a mere consequence of the evil. As Paul says, God set forth Christ Jesus to be a propitiation, to show his righteousness, and that he is just when he justifies (Rom. 3:25-26. The element of voluntariness is important, as I said before. This is manifested in various ways. Jesus “gave himself for our sins” (Gal. 1:4); “gave himself a ransom for all” (1 Tim 2:6); “the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.” Christ voluntarily went to the cross, when he might easily have avoided it or escaped. But we may carry the voluntariness back to the incarnation: he came for the purpose of the cross. And we may press it still further back: God created man, knowing what it would cost him. So the voluntary element is manifest in the beginning and at every step, but chiefly at the cross. We may also suppose that Jesus at this time directed his attention more intensely to the situation, knowing that this would cause the death, and in order that it might. His death was truly voluntary. The ^ intensity of his sufferings could not have been more impressively set forth.

Their resemblance to the punishment was shown in various ways. He was condemned as a criminal, and suffered what is usually inflicted on criminals. He was “made for us,” though this expression may also have a deeper meaning, and refer to his feeling as if the sin of the world were his own. He also was made a curse for us, by being nailed to the cursed tree. Spiritual death is the consequence and natural penalty of sin. Physical death is its type and shadow, and he suffered physical death. The chief element of punishment is the manifested disapproval of the ruler. Christ’s position seemed to others as if he were under the manifest disapproval of God. The bystanders said, “He trusted in God; let him deliver him now, if he will have him.” More important than all, it seemed to him himself as if he were forsaken. In these and other ways, Christ’s suffering on the cross was seen to be a substitute for the punishment of sinners, “set forth,” as Paul says, to be “a propitiation,” or ground for forgiveness.

Because it answers the purpose of punishment and has advantages besides, it perfectly satisfies justice; or, to express it another way, it honors the law on the side of the lawgiver. It also secures honor to the law on the part of those subjects who have not sinned. And also, on the part of those who have sinned, it does it better than the punishment; for, in the case of some, it leads them to cease dishonoring and to begin honoring it, and, in the case of the others who do not begin to keep the law, it at least compels them to acknowledge God’s justice and bow the knee to the glory of God. As all sin is a voluntary choice, so the turning from sin must be a voluntary choice. The one who has chosen wrong sees everything from the standpoint of his choice, and so of himself will not choose contrary to his previous choice. But the Holy Spirit can present the case to a man’s heart so that he can see it in some degree as it is, and so reverse his choice. The love of God in Christ is theoretically the strongest possible motive to a choice for good. Yet of itself, even with the Holy Spirit’s enforcing, it is practically ineffective. The pressure of a motive for good results in harm if it is not successful. This most powerful motive is usually only successful when Christ is presented practically and, as we might say, tangibly by Christians. Christ must be lived over again, and his sufferings suffered over again by his followers, to make his sufferings effective. Otherwise, the knowledge of them is a “savor of death.” The reasons and modus of this we need not now discuss.

But one point is yet to be considered. We see how Christ’s sufferings were a sufficient substitute for the punishment of all sinners as far as God’s honoring of the law is concerned. If the sinner does not repent and begin to honor the law, the substitute avails nothing for him. If a sinner begins honoring the law perfectly, justice is satisfied for the future, and the substitute avails up to that time, i.e. for his past dishonoring. But what is the point of connection? It is not a matter of mere imputation, which, being contrary to fact, cannot be honest. Adam’s sins cannot be imputed to us, even on the ground of race connection, or federal headship, or similarity of character. We can honestly be charged only with conscious personal, free volitions against the law. No more can we. be honestly credited with what we have not done.

The point of connection lies in such a real union with Christ that we can claim through him to have honored the law more than we have dishonored it. We often speak of it as if his holiness were credited to us. This may do as a figure of speech, but we must not be misled by it. If what he did is attributed to us, then the saving of the world is attributed to us, which would be absurd. Our laying hold of him is an approval of what he did, and therefore an honoring of the law. In the sight of the universe, and of God himself, our ranging ourselves on the side of Christ, indorsing what he did to honor the law, and entering into sympathy with him so that we feel with him, and even share his sufferings, is an honoring of the law greater than the dishonoring for which we are responsible. Therefore justice is satisfied, not by our works of obedience but by our position, because of what Christ did. This attitude, this laying hold of Christ, is faith. And this solves the puzzle as to justification, which is neither making holy nor reckoning the unholy to be holy, both of which would be impossible to God. It is neither more nor less than setting a man right with the law. A sinner has dishonored the law. Nothing that he can do will make the fact not to be, or even to be as if it were not. But what Christ has done makes it possible for him, by laying hold of Christ, i.e. by faith, to honor the law more than he dishonored it; so he is set right with the law, the law is satisfied, the best good of the community is satisfied.

I said that turning from sin is a voluntary choice; so is faith. The two go together, one involves the other. Some people say faith is the gift of God. Neither the Bible nor reason says so. The Bible says, “By grace have ye been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.” What is the gift? the faith? Nib; the grace or the salvation is the gift of God. As Paul says elsewhere, “The gift of God is eternal life.” Faith is the agency. It is through faith, because this is a laying hold on Christ, and this justifies us or sets us right with the law. This is not contradicted by Paul’s saying, “Christ was delivered up for our trespasses, and was raised for our justification.” This seems to mean that forgiveness of sins is made possible by Christ’s sufferings, but that, though we are not set right with the law except by faith, this is only made possible by his resurrection; for, if he had not risen, our faith would be vain. Faith is union with Christ. But the perfect union is best described as love, which has three elements: first, the giving of ourselves; second, the receiving, meeting, or mutual resting, we in him and he in us, for love is not perfect unless it is reciprocated; and third, the experience of satisfaction. This alone is perfect union, and by this Christ’s sufferings are made available for us, for this includes faith. We have thus the whole scheme before us,—complex in the many elements involved, but simple in the whole, for love is the key to the whole, and is the warp and woof of the whole fabric. The law is love; the lawgiver “is love”; Christ died through love; we are saved by love, God’s love and our love, and yet justice is perfectly secured, and love is perfected in the result. Mercy and truth are met together. Righteousness and peace have kissed each other.

Since writing the above, two articles have appeared in this Review by Dr. E. M. Merrins, discussing negatively the question “Did Jesus Die of a Broken Heart?” The first one brings forward testimony of physicians to prove that a normal healthy heart is never ruptured by stress of emotion. But there is nothing to prove that Jesus had a healthy heart. It is true that we have been accustomed to suppose that Jesus, being a perfect and ideal man, must have had a perfect body— and that it was never weakened by sin or by excess of any kind. Yet the fact that he was “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” and that he spent whole nights in prayer, may have affected his health, and the normal state of his heart, so as to have weakened it. We may even go further and assume, if it is necessary to meet the case, that he had a heart congenitally weak. If it was necessary, as would seem to be the case, that he should die with a broken heart, and if that is the prerequisite condition to such a sequel, there is no objection to supposing such to have been the case. The writer to the Hebrews, adapting a passage from the Old Testament, says, “A body didst thou prepare for me.” He says again, that he took part in human flesh and blood, in order that he might die. This death was the chief object of his coming into the world. And all the circumstances of his birth and life were preparatory to that great event, and such a structural weakness might well have been a necessary condition of the completing his work. Paul says, “He was crucified through weakness” (2 Cor. 13:14). Just what is meant by this statement we cannot be positive, but it might well mean a heart weakness. We may be sure it was some sort of physical weakness, by which he was not able to bear the suffering that came upon him. The writer says, also, that the symptoms of rupture did not occur at the time it was assumed that the rupture took place. But there is no need of assuming anything about it. If Dr. Stroud assumed that the rupture took place at the time Jesus cried, “Why hast thou forsaken me,” there is no need that we should do so. If the symptoms indicate any other moment, as they evidently do, there is no objection to so understanding it. Such understanding is no evidence against the supposed fact that Jesus died with a broken heart. It is more probable that the rupture took place just after Jesus cried, “It is finished;’ and, “Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit.”

In the second article Dr. Merrins tries to show that the incidents that followed the death do not harmonize with the theory of a broken heart, e.g. that there could not be a copious flow of both blood and water, as Dr. Stroud asserts. In case of a rupture, he says, there might be a free flow of serum, looking like water, but that the dark clot would adhere to the sides of the heart, and would not flow with the clear serum or either before or after it. This hardly seems a serious objection. There is no reason why we may not suppose that the soldier made a large wound, not only by a straight thrust, but by turning the spear in the wound in such a way as to disengage the clot so that it would come out with the point of the spear, either adhering to the point or mingled with the last of the serum, so as to give in either case the appearance of blood. The amount is not stated, but the record seems to imply a considerable quantity of both, which could not be accounted for, except by a heart rupture some time previous.¹ Dr. Merrins objects to the “contending emotions,” as being inconsistent with the calm serenity of Christ’s submission to the Father’s will. There might not have been such a conflict of emotions as described by Dr. Stroud. But the Bible account certainly implies intense agony, such as we have attempted to analyze. We do not need to dwell upon the details, in order to have “a persuasive appeal to the emotions,” by depicting “heartbroken despair,” and “morbid anguish.” What was manifested there, as it seems to us, was infinite love in sympathy, and at the same time an overpowering sense of God’s abhorrence for sin, Christ not thinking it were directed against himself, but, in his perfect sympathy, feeling as if it were against himself.