The manifestation came to certain shepherds watching their flocks in the fields about Bethlehem; simple men, quite unable to take in the meaning of what they see and hear. One cannot help thinking of what it would have meant in the way of an intellectual revolution if to some Greek or Roman philosopher, speculating on the destiny of humanity, the truth could have come that the future of the world was not in the court of Augustus, that it was not dependent on the Roman armies or Greek learning, but that it was bound up in the career and teaching of a Baby that night born in a stable in an obscure village in Judea. As we imagine such a case we see in the concrete the meaning of the revolution set in motion by this single event; and we are led to adore the ways of God in that He has chosen for the final approach to man for the purpose of redemption, this way of simplicity and humbleness. Man would not have thought of this as the best path for God to follow in this purpose of rescue, but we can be wise after the event and see that this Child born in poverty and obscurity would have fewer entanglements to break through, fewer obstacles to overcome.

But these thoughts are far away from the night in Bethlehem. In the stable there where a Baby is lying in Mary's arms and Joseph stands looking on, there is no speculation about the world-consequences of the event. There is rather the splendour of love: the love of the mother in the new found mystery of this her Child; the love of God who has given her the Child. And all is a part of the great mystery of love, of the love wherewith God loves the world. "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son." Here is the Son, lying in Mary's arms, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and Mary looks into His face as any human mother looks into the face of her child. But through the eyes that smile up into Mary's face, God is looking out on a world of sorrow and pain and sin that He has come to redeem, and for which, in redeeming it, to die. Presently, the shepherds come in and complete the group, the representatives of universal humanity at the birth of their King, We have the whole world-problem in small, but here there is no consciousness of it. No echo of world-politics or of movements of thought break in here. But we know that here is the beginning of that which will set at naught world-politics and revolutionise movements of thought, that here is the centre about which humanity will move in the coming time. Here is that which is fundamental and abiding because here is the one invincible power of the universe—love. All else will fail: prophecies, systems of philosophy, religions, political and social structures; each in the time of its flourishing, proclaiming itself the last word of human wisdom,—these in bewildering succession have arisen and passed away. But love has survived them all. Love never faileth; through the slow succession of the centuries it is winning the world to God.

It were well if we could learn to look on the happenings of this world as the miracles of divine love. We think of the power, the justice, the judgment of God as visible in this world's history; but these are but the instruments of love, and all that He does has its foundation in love and receives its impulse from love. This Nativity is the divine love coming into the world on its last adventure, determined to win man, all other means failing, by the extremity of sacrifice. The final word about this Child will be that having loved his own He loved them unto the uttermost, he loved them without stinting, with the uttermost capacity of love. Understanding this meaning of the love of God, we are prepared for the further fact that God uses all sorts of instruments as the instruments of His love. He shares Himself. He pours Himself into human life. He takes men into partnership in the work of redemption. Whenever a soul is mastered by love, it becomes a tool in God's hands. The progress of the Church—of God's Kingdom—might be described as the accumulation of these tools wherewith God works—souls who are so devoted to Him as to be the medium of bringing His power, the power of love, to bear on the souls of their brethren.

To be the highest, the most perfect, of all the instruments of redemption God chose Mary of Nazareth to be the Mother of His Son. She is the most complete human embodiment of God's love. She, in her perfect purity, can transmit that love as power with the least loss of energy in the process of transmission. When we think of the saints as the means of God's action, we think of blessed Mary as the highest of the saints and the means most perfectly adapted to God's ends. Here at Bethlehem she holds God in her arms and looks into the human face that He has taken for this present work and all her being is absorbed in love. Oblivious, we think her, of her mean surroundings, of the animals that share with her their stable, of the shepherds who come in and look on in wonder, of S. Joseph standing by in sympathy. Love is all. Love is a passion consuming her being—what can the attendant circumstances matter? And to-day, after all these centuries: to-day the Child is the Ascended and Enthroned Redeemer, His risen and glorified humanity, transmitting something of the divine glory, seated at the right hand of the Majesty of God. And Mary, the Mother? Can we have any other thought than that she who on the first Christmas morning looks into the face of her Baby, still, to-day, looks up into the face of her divine Son, and the look is the same look of love? And can we think of the look that comes back to her from eyes that are human, taken from her body, though they be in very truth the eyes of God—can we think, I say, of the eyes of her Child and her God bringing anything else than the message of love? Can we think that when in answer to our invocation she presents our prayers in union with her own, that love will fail?

But let us come back to earth—to Bethlehem—on that first Christmas eve and listen to the songs of the angels as they sing over the star-lit fields. How near heaven seems! How real is God! How joyful is this season of peace to men of good will! The message is of peace, but that peace will need to have its nature explained in the coming years if men's hearts are not to fail them and their faith wither away. It is not a general peace to the world that is being proclaimed. Later on our Lord will say: "My peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you." It is such a gift as can be enjoyed only by men of good will; converted men, that is to say, men whose will is close set with the will of God. For how should there be peace in any world on any other terms? How can there be peace for those who are in rebellion against God? Our Lord can promise peace, and can fulfil His promise because He is bringing a new potency into human life. He is a new way of approach to God, a new way into the Holiest of all. Through His humanity God is united to man, and through it man, any man, can be united to God. And one of the results of that union is this gift of peace, and the fact that it arises from the union explains its new character, why our Lord calls it His peace.

This peace is the Christmas gift of the divine child to us. This is the method of God's work, from the inside out; from the spiritual fact to its external result. We do not begin by finding peace with this world: "in the world ye shall have tribulation." And most of the failure to attain peace, and much of men's loss of faith is due to repudiation of the divine method. We live in a disordered and pain-stricken world where human life is uniformly a life of trial and struggle, and our easy yielding to temptation is an attempt at some sort of an adjustment with the world such as we think will produce peace and quiet. We constantly demand of religion that it should effect this for us. So far as one can see much of the revolt against religion to-day has its ground in the failure of religion to meet the demands made upon it for a better world. Men look out on a world seething with unrest and filled with injustice, and they turn upon the Church and ask, "Why have you not changed all this? Are you not, in fact, neglecting your duty in not changing it? Or if you are not neglecting your duty, you must at least confess to your impotence. Your self-confessed business is to make a better world."

True; but only on the conditions which love imposes. Religion does not propose to improve the world by a more skilful application of the principles of worldliness. It does not propose to turn stones into bread at the demand of any devils whatsoever. It does not say, "If you will support me and give me a certain superficial honour, I will bless your efforts and increase the success of your undertakings." Religion proposes to improve the world on the condition that the principles of religion shall be accepted as the working principles of life; on condition, that is, that love shall be made the ground of human association. Religion can make a better world, it can make the kingdoms of God and of His Christ; but it can only do so on the condition that it is whole-heartedly accepted and thoroughly applied. The proof that it can do this is in the fact that it can and does make better individuals. Wherever men and women have lived by the principles of the Gospel they have brought forth the fruits of the Gospel. It has done this, not under some specially favourable circumstances, but it has done it under all circumstances of life and in all nations of men. What has been done in unnumbered individual cases, can be done in whole communities when the communities want it done. It is quite pointless in times of great social distress to ask passionately, "why does not God make a better world?" The only question which is at all to the point is, "why has God not made me better?" The problem of God's dealing with the world is, in essence, the problem of God's dealing with me. If He has not reformed me, if I do not, in my self-examination, find that I am responding to the ideals of God, as far as I know them, there is small point in declamations about the state of society. Society that is godless, is just a mass of godless individuals; and I can understand why God does not reform the world perfectly well from the study of my own case. What in me prevents the full control of God is the same that prevents that control over the whole of society: and I know that that is not lack of knowledge, but lack of love. Men ignore the primary obligation of life: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God ... and thy neighbour as thyself." As long as they ignore that, there can be no reformed world, no world reflecting the divine purpose, no society,—whatever may be its widely multiplied legislation,—securing to men conditions of life which are sane and satisfactory.

Therefore the Child who is born of Mary in Bethlehem while the angels are singing their carols over the fields where the shepherds watch, the Child Who brings peace to men of good will, still, after nearly two thousand years, finds His gift ignored and His longing to lift men to God unsatisfied. "He came unto His own and His own received Him not"—and the conditions are not vitally changed to-day. When we think of a world of fifteen hundred million human beings, the number of those who profess and call themselves Christians is comparatively small; the number of actually practicing Christians, of men and women who do live by the Gospel, without reserve and without compromise, is vastly smaller. The resistance of the principles of the Gospel is to-day intense; the demand for compromise is insistent. We are asked to throw over a system which has obviously failed, and to accept as the equivalent and to permit to pass under the same name a system which is fundamentally different; a system whose end is man and not God, whose means are natural and not supernatural, which seek to produce an adjustment with this world that means comfort, rather than an adjustment with the spiritual world which means sanctity.

The ideal achievement of peace is here in Bethlehem where the mother holds the Holy Child to her breast, while her spirit is utterly in union with Him Who is both man and God. There is never any break in the pure peace of S. Mary because there is never any moment when her will is separated from the will of God, when her union with Him fails. This peace of perfect union has, through the merits of her Son, been hers always; she has never known the wrench of the will that separates itself from God. She has always been poor; she has been perplexed with life; she has suffered and will suffer intensely, suffer most where she loves most; but peace she has never lost, because her will has never wavered in its allegiance. What visibly she is doing in these moments of her great joy, holding God to her breast in a passion of love, she in fact is doing always—always is she one with God.

That undisturbed peace of a never broken union is never possible for us. We have known what it is to reject the will of God and go our own way and indulge the appetites of our nature in violation of our recognised standards of life. If we are to come to peace it must be along the rough road of repentance. And it is wholly just that it should be so; that we should win back to God at the expense of shame and suffering; that we should retrace the road that we have travelled, with weary feet and bleeding heart. This after all does not much matter: what does matter immensely is that there is a road back to God and that we find it. What matters is that we discover that repentance and reformation are the only road to peace. We are offered many other roads alleged to lead to the same place; but not even a child should be deceived by the modern substitutes for repentance, by the shallow teaching whereby it is attempted to persuade men of the innocence of sin. They are never worth discussing, these modern substitutes for repentance. Men accept them, not because they are rational or convincing, but because they offer a justification for going the way that they have already made up their minds to go. But it is plain that whatever else they do they do not afford a basis for peace. They are no rock foundation for eternity. Other foundation for peace can no man lay or has laid than the acceptance of the salvation offered in Jesus Christ. He is our peace; and when we discover that, He makes peace in us by the application to our souls of the Blood of His Cross. This is the peace He came to bring. This the peace that the angels announced as they sang over Bethlehem. This is the peace which is ceaselessly proclaimed from the altars of the Christian Church, the peace of God which passeth understanding, the peace which is offered to all men of good will.

How shall we attain it? By being men of good will, plainly. But what constitutes good will in a man? That which I have already discussed, perhaps abundantly, simplicity and childlike obedience of character. S. Joseph, the guardian of Mary and her Child here in Bethlehem, is the best example we can have of a man of good will, a man who under the most difficult circumstances responded with perfect readiness and complete obedience to the heavenly message that came to him. This is to be his course through the few years that he will live, to give himself to the will of God in the care of Jesus. We are men of good will if we do whatsoever our Lord says to us, if we are seeking first of all the Kingdom of God and its righteousness, if our estimate of values corresponds to our Lord's.

There is our trouble—that old trouble of feebly trying to live the life of the Kingdom when what we actually want is the offer of this world. There is, there can be, no peace in a divided life. There is a certain spiritual sloth which has the exterior look of peace, as a corpse looks peaceful, but it has no relation to the peace which God gives. It is in fact the wages of sin, wages easily earned and long enjoyed. But so long as we are spiritually alive, so long we cannot enjoy whole-heartedly even the most fascinating of sins because there is lurking in the background the sense of the transitoriness of our sin and of the imminence of death and judgment. There is the skeleton in every man's closet until he finally makes choice on one side or the other. For we are not ignorant of the spiritual obligations of life. We always know more than we have achieved. When we talk about our ignorance and perplexity, we are not meaning ignorance and perplexity about the obligation to live in a certain way, and to perform certain duties, on this particular day: rather we are making this alleged ignorance of the future an excuse for not taking action in the present, action which we know to be obligatory.

And peace is so wonderful a gift! To feel oneself in harmony with God, to know that one is carefully seeking His will and making it one's first and highest duty to perform it. To have found the peace of the forgiven soul as the result of absolution, at the expense of much shame and repugnance, it may be, but with what marvellous compensations when we go away with a sense of restored purity and the friendship of God—life looks so different when we look at it through purified eyes! The old life has held us so tightly, the old sins have clung so close; and then there was a day when we gave up self and turned to God and the Gift of God in Jesus Christ; and then we saw how miserable and vile and naked we had been all through the time of our boasted freedom; and we came as children to Mary's Child and offered ourselves to Him for cleansing. We kneel and offer to Him our wills and ask that they may be made good, and kept good in union with His most holy will. Then we find how true this word is: "In Me ye shall have peace: in the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world." It is true, is it not? not only as we commonly interpret, that the disciples of Christ shall have tribulation in this world; but that much that we, giving ourselves to the world, counted joy, was in reality tribulation, and we are glad to be rid of it.

A babe is born to bliss us bring. I heard a maid lulley and sing. She said: "Dear Son, leave Thy weeping: Thy, Father is the King of bliss." Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.

"Lulley," she said and sung also, "My own dear Son, why are Thou wo? Have I not done as I should do? Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.

"Nay, dear mother, for thee weep I nought, But for the woe that shall be wrought To Me ere I mankind have bought. Was never sorrow like it i-wis." Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.

"Peace, dear Son! Thou grievest me sore: Thou art my child, I have no more. Should I see men mine own Son slay? Alas, my dear Son, what means all this?" Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.

"My hands, Mother, that ye now see, Shall be nailed to a tree; My feet also fast shall be, Men shall weep that shall see this." Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.

"Ah, dear Son, hard is my happe To see my child that lay in my lap,— His hands, His feet that I did wrappe,— Be so nailed; they never did amisse." Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.

"Ah, dear Mother, yet shall a spear My heart asunder all but tear: No wonder if I care-ful were And wept full sore to think on this." Now sing we with Angelis: Gloria in excelsis.



PART TWO

CHAPTER VIII

THE MAGI

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, Behold, there came Magi from the East to Jerusalem, Saying, Where is he that is born king of the Jews?

S. Matt. II, i.

Hail to thee, Mary, the fair dove, which hath borne for us God the Word. We give thee salutation with the Angel Gabriel, saying, Hail, thou that art full of grace; the Lord is with thee.

Hail to thee, O Virgin, the very and true Queen; hail, glory of our race. Thou hast borne for us Emmanuel.

We pray thee, remember us, O thou our faithful advocate with our Lord Jesus Christ, that He may forgive us our sins.

COPTIC.

Out of the East, over the desert, we see coming to Bethlehem the train of the star-led Magi. The devout imagination of the Church, dwelling upon the significance rather than the bare historical statements of the Gospel, have seen them as the representatives of the whole Gentile world. We often think of the treatment of the sacred story by the teachers and preachers of the Church as embroidering the original narratives with legendary material. We can look at it in that way; and by so doing, I think, miss the meaning of the facts. What we call ecclesiastical legend will often turn out on examination to be but the unfolding of the meaning of an event in terms of the creative imagination. The object is to present vividly what the event actually means when the meaning is of such widely reaching significance as far to overpass the simple facts. It is thus, I take it, that we must understand the story of the Magi as it takes shape in pious story. That the Magi were kings, and that they were three in number, emphasises the felt importance of their coming to the cradle of our Lord. Actually, they were understood to represent the Gentile world offering its allegiance to our blessed Lord, and therefore they would naturally represent the three branches of the Gentile world as it was understood at the time. The importance of their mission was reflected in the presentation of them as kings—no less persons were required to fill the dignity of the part. There was, too, a whole mass of prophecy to be reckoned with and interpreted in its relation to the event, the most obvious of which was that of Isaiah: "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising."

The Church story is essentially true, is but a dramatic rendering of the Gospel story. We may however content ourselves with the more simple rendering. We can hardly think of the stable as the setting of the reception of the Eastern Sages. Just when they came we cannot tell; but we seem compelled to put the Epiphany where the Church puts it in her year, somewhere between the Nativity and the Presentation, and the scene of it will still be, the Gospel implies, Bethlehem. "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, Behold, there came Magi from the East to Jerusalem." And at the direction of Herod, and guided by the Star they came to Bethlehem and offered their gifts and their worship. "They saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh."

We try to get before us what would have been the mind of S. Mary through all these happenings which attended the birth of her Child. What is written of her here is no doubt characteristic: "Mary kept all these and pondered them in her heart." Wonder at the ways of God had been hers for so many months now—wonder, with devout meditation upon their meaning. Where there is no resistance to God's will but only the desire to know it more fully there is always the gradual assimilation of the truth. S. Mary moves in a realm of mystery from the moment of the Annunciation to the very end of her life. It is so difficult to understand what is the meaning of God in this unspeakable gift of a Son conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit, and in the constant accompaniment of pain and disaster and disappointment which is the unfolding experience of her life in relation to Him. But we feel in her no speculation, no rebellion, no insistence on knowing more; but we feel that there must have been a growing appreciation of the work of God, unhesitating acceptance of His will. Just to keep things in one's heart is so often the best way of arriving at an understanding of them; is the best way, at least, of arriving at the conviction that what we in fact need to understand is not so much what God does as that it is God Who does it. Our true aim in life is to understand God, and through that understanding we shall sufficiently understand life. Failure in human life is commonly due to an attempt to understand life without any attempt to understand it in relation to God. It is like an attempt to understand a work of art without an attempt to understand the artist, to estimate in terms of mechanical effort, rather than in terms of mind. A work of art means what the artist means when he creates it: life means what God means in His creation and government of it, and it is hopeless to expect to understand it without reference to the mind of God.

Therefore Mary's way is the right way—the way of acceptance and meditation. So she sought to follow the mind of God. We are told little of her, but we are told quite enough to understand this. We know well her method, that she kept things in her heart. And we have one splendid example of the result of the method in the Magnificat. There the results of her communion with God break forth in that Canticle which ever since has been one of the priceless treasures of the Church. The Gospels never tell us very much; but if we will follow Mary's method they tell us enough to let us see the very hand of God in the working out of our salvation; they give us sample events from which we easily infer God's meaning otherwhere.

And we may be sure that the months that followed the Annunciation would have been months of ever-deepening spiritual communion, resulting in a rapidly advancing spiritual maturity. One necessary result would have been to prepare the blessed Mother to receive new manifestations of God's Providence, and to fit them into the whole body of her experience. She would not at any time be lost in helpless surprise before a new development of the purpose of God. Surprised as she must have been when the Eastern Sages came to kneel before the Child she carried at her breast, and hail Him as born King of the Jews, she would have set to work to fit this new experience into what her acquired knowledge of the divine meaning had become. And one can have no doubt that these visitors from afar would have told her enough of the grounds of their action to illumine for her the prophecies concerning her Son.

The special incidents that the Gospel select for record leave us always conscious that they are a selection and therefore must have special significance. That we are told that the Magi offered certain gifts, rather than told the words of homage wherewith they presented them turns our attention to the nature of the gifts as presumably having a significance in themselves rather than because of any actual value. In the gifts of these Gentiles come from afar to kneel before Him Whom they recognise as King of the Jews, we are compelled to see a certain attitude of humanity toward Him Who is revealed to be not only the King of the Jews, but Lord of Heaven and earth; they give what humanity needs must always give—the gold of a perfect oblation, the incense of perpetual intercession, the myrrh of a humble self-abandonment.

These which are offered as the ideal tribute of humanity by the star-led Magi are found in their highest human perfection exemplified in the Mother of the Child to Whom the tribute is made. Perfect are they in our Lord; and she who is nearest Him in nature is nearest Him in the perfection of nature. We turn from God's ideal as set out in our blessed Lord to see it reflected as in a glass in the life of her whose perfection is the perfect rendering of His grace. Mary is so perfect because, by God's election, she is "full of grace."

We, alas! limp after the ideal at a long distance. One pictures the life of sanctity under the familiar symbol of the race course, where many start in the race, and many, one by one, fall out by the wayside. Those who go on the race's end, go on because of certain qualities of endurance that we discover in them. In those who run the spiritual race for the amaranthine crown these qualities of endurance are not natural, but supernatural: they come not of birth but of rebirth. They are qualities which we draw from God. "It is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy." The hand that sets the race confers the gifts that enable one to win it. "So run that ye may obtain."

And perhaps the chiefest of all those gifts is that which makes us, the children of God, capable of the adoration of our Father. Worship is no other than the utter giving of ourselves, giving as Christ gave, "Who being originally in the form of God, thought it not a thing to be grasped at to be equal with God, but emptied Himself, and took upon Him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men"; giving as the blessed Virgin gave when she gave, as she must have thought and have been willing to give, her whole reputation among men in response to the call of God; giving complete, in which there is no withholding. That is worship, sacrifice, the pure gold of self-oblation.

But it is possible to think of the power of worship from another point of view. God never takes but He gives. What He appears to take He gives back with His blessing, and we find the restored gift multiplied manifold. So in the very act of our worship God confers on us power.

For it is true, is it not, that in the very act of worship we experience, not exhaustion but exhilaration. In the very act of giving ourselves to God, God gives Himself to us, and in overflowing abundance. That is what we find to be true in our highest act of worship, the blessed Eucharist. Here God and man meet in a perfect communion. Here we offer ourselves in sacrifice—ourselves, our souls and bodies—in union with the sacrifice of our Lord; and here our Lord, Who is the sacrifice itself, not only offers Himself, but also He imparts Himself to those who are united with Him. And out of this sacrifice, thus issuing in an act of union, there flows the perpetual renewing of the vitality of the spiritual life. We are sustained from day to day by this sacrificial feeding; our strength which is continually being drawn upon by the demands of life, by the temptations we have to resist, by the exertion that is called for in all spiritual exercise, is renewed by our participation in the Body and Blood of our Lord. I am sure that all those who are accustomed to frequent communion feel the drain upon their strength when at any time they are deprived of their great privilege. I am also sure that many who feel that their spiritual life is but languid, or those other many who seem only dimly to feel that there are spiritual problems to be met, and spiritual strength needed for the meeting of them, would find themselves immensely helped, would find their minds illumined and their strength sustained in more frequent participation in the sacrificial worship and feasting of the Church. The attitude of vast numbers of those who are regarded as quite sincere Christians is wholly incomprehensible. The life of God is day by day poured out at the altars of the Church, and they go their way in seeming unconsciousness of its presence, of its appeal, of its virtue, or of their own sore need of it. The Magi come from a far distance on a hazardous journey into an unknown country that they may offer the gold of their adoration to an infant King; and the Christian feebly considers whether he is not too tired to get up of a morning and go a short distance to receive the Body and Blood of the Redeemer of his soul!

The Magi came also bringing the incense of their intercession. Their privilege was that they were admitted to the very Presence Chamber of the great King. That the Infant in Mary's arms did not show any sign of kingship, the humble room where they were received bore no resemblance to the presence chamber of such kings as they were accustomed to wait upon, was to them of no consequence. They were endowed with the gift of faith, and believed the supernatural guiding rather than the outward seeming. The faith that had followed the star from so great a distance was not likely to be quenched by the antithesis of what must have been their imagination of the reality, of all the pictures that had been filling their minds as they pushed on across the desert. It was no more incredible that the King Whom they were seeking should be found in humble guise in a peasant's cottage than that they should have been guided to Him by a heavenly star. The gift of God to them was that they should be permitted to enter the presence of the King.

This right of admission to the divine Presence is the precious gift of God to us. Since the heavens received the ascending Lord the Kingdom of heaven has been open to all believers. Prayer is a very simple and common thing in our experience; and yet when we try to think out its implications we are overwhelmed with the wonder of it. It implies a God Who waits upon our pleasure: it reveals to us a Father Who is ever ready to listen to the voice of His children. No broken hearted sinner, overwhelmed with the conviction of his vileness, cries out in the agony of his repentance but God is ready to hear. "He is more ready to hear than we to pray." No man pours out his thanksgivings for the abundant blessings he discovers in his life but the heart of God is glad in his gladness. No child kneels at night to repeat his simple prayer but God bends over him and blesses him. The wonder of it is summed up in our Lord's words: "The Father Himself loveth you," which are as an open door into the inner sanctuary, an invitation to enter to those who are hesitating on the threshold of the Holy of Holies.

And there is no danger of tiring God: we come ceaselessly, endlessly. The cries of earth go up to Him, pitiful, ignorant, foolish cries; but they find God ready to hear and answer, fortunately not according to our ignorance but according to His great mercy. We think of the clouds of prayer in all ages, from all nations, in all tongues, and the very vastness of them gives us an index of the divine love.

And it is not simply for ourselves that we pray, nor do we pray by ourselves; it is of God's love that in the work of prayer we are associated with one another. There is nothing further from the divine plan of life than our present individualism. Our temptation is to be egotistic and self-centred; to want to approach God alone with our private needs and wishes. We incline to travel the spiritual way by ourselves; we want no company; we want no one between our souls and God. But that precisely is not the divine method. We come to God through Christ; we come in association with the members of the Body. Our standing as Christians before Him is dependent upon our corporate relation to one another in His Son.

Important issues are involved. We attain through this associated life of the Christian the power of mutual intercession. We find that it is our privilege to share our prayers with others, and to be interested in one another's lives. We have common interests and we work them out in common. Therefore when we try to put before us an ideal picture of the power of prayer, it will not be the solitary individual offering his personal supplications to the Father, but it will be the community of the faithful assembled for the offering of the divine Sacrifice. It is the praying Body that best satisfies our ideal of prayer, where we are conscious of helping one another in the work of intercession. We remember, too, when we think of prayer as prayer of the Body of Christ, that it is not just the visible congregation that is participating in it, but that all the Body share in the intercessions, wherever they may individually be. Our thoughts go up from the little assembly in the humble church and lose themselves in the splendour of the heavenly intercession where we are associated with prophets and apostles and martyrs, and with Mary the Mother of God.

There was a third gift that the Magi brought to Him Whom they hailed King, a gift that is more perplexing as a gift to royalty than the other two. That gold and incense should be offered a King is clearly His royal right; but what has he to do with the bitterness of myrrh? But to this King myrrh is a peculiarly appropriate gift, for it is the symbol of complete self-abandonment. He who came to do not His own will but the will of Him that sent Him; Who laid aside the robes of His glory, issuing from the uncreated light that He might clothe Himself with the humility of the flesh, is properly honoured with the gift of myrrh.

And as it was the symbol of His humility, so is it the symbol of our humanity in relation to Him. It suggests to us that uttermost of Christian virtues, the virtue of entire abandonment to the will of God. This is a most difficult virtue to acquire. We cling to self. We are devoted to our own wills. We rely on our own judgment and wisdom. We are impatient of all that gets in the way of our self-determination. We have in these last days made a veritable religion out of devotion to self, a cult of the ego.

But he who will enter into the sanctuary of the divine life, he who will seek union with God, he who will be one with the Father in the Son, must abandon self. He must lose his life in order to save it. He must let go the world to cling to the Lord of life. This will of the man which is so insistent, so persistent, so assertive, so tenacious, must be laid aside and the Will of Another adopted in its place. Often this is bitter. Very true of us it is that when we were young we girded ourselves and walked whither we would; but it must be in the end, if we make life a spiritual success, that when we are old another shall gird us and carry us whither we would not.

The secret of life is found when the bitterness of myrrh is turned to sweetness in the discovery that the outcome of the sacrificial life is not that it be narrowed but enlarged; and that for the life which we have entrusted to Him God will do more than we ask or think. When our will becomes one with the will of God we are surprised to find that we have ceased to think of what we once called our sacrifices, because life in Christ reveals itself to us as of infinite joy and richness, so that we forget the things that are behind and gladly press on.

Queen of heaven, blessed may thou be For Godes Son born He was of thee, For to make us free. Gloria Tibi, Domine.

Jesu, Godes Son, born He was In a crib with hay and grass, And died for us upon the cross. Gloria Tibi, Dominie.

To our Lady make we our moan, That she may pray to her dear Son, That we may to His bliss come. Gloria Tibi, Dominie.

Sixteenth Century.



PART TWO

CHAPTER IX

THE PRESENTATION

And when the days of her purification according to the law of Moses were accomplished, they brought him to Jerusalem, to present him to the Lord.

S. Luke II. 22.

O come let us worship the Holy Trinity, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,—we the Christian nations, for He is our true God.

And we hope in Holy Mary, that God will have mercy upon us through her prayers.

Hail to thee, Mary, the fair dove, who hath borne for us God the Word.

COPTIC

The reading of a story in the Gospels is often like looking through a window down some long arcade; there is in the foreground the group of actors in whom we are presently interested, and beyond them is the whole background of contemporary life to which they belong, of which they are a part. If we have time to think out the meaning of this surrounding life we gain added insight into the meaning of our principal characters. It is so now as we watch this group of humble peasant folk coming up to the temple to fulfil the demands of the law of Moses. In the precincts of the temple they are merged in a larger group whose interests are clearly identical with their own, and whom we easily see to be the local representatives of a party—the name, no doubt, suggests an organisation which they had not—scattered throughout Judea. Their interest was the redemption of Israel. They were the true heirs of the prophets, and among them the prophecies which concerned the Lord's Christ were the subject of constant study and meditation. Amid the movements and intrigues of political and religious parties, they abode quietly in the temple, as Simeon and Anna, or in their homes, as Zacharias and Elizabeth, waiting. Their power was the silent power of sanctity, the power that flows from lives steeped in meditation and prayer. They constitute that remnant which is the depository of the hopes of Israel and the saving salt which prevents the utter putrefaction of the body of the nation.

We cannot for a moment doubt that Mary and Joseph were of this remnant, and that they were in complete sympathy with those whom they found here in the temple when the Child Jesus was brought in "to do for him after the custom of the law." The actual ceremony of the purification was soon over, the demands of the law satisfied. Neither Jesus nor Mary had any inner need of these observances; their value in their case was that by submission to them they associated themselves closely with their brethren, our Lord thus continuing that divine self-emptying which he had begun at the Incarnation. We are impressed with the completeness of this stooping of God when we see the offering that Mary brings, "A pair of turtle doves," the offering of the very poor. Our Lord has accepted life on its lowest economic terms in order that nothing in His mission shall flow from adventitious aids. He must owe all in the accomplishment of His work to the Father Who gave it Him to do. It will be the essence of the temptation that He must soon undergo that He shall consent to call to His aid earthly and material supports and base His hopes of success on something other than God.

Accidentally, there is this further demonstration contained in the poverty of the Holy Family, that, namely, the completest spiritual privilege, the fullest spiritual development, is independent of "possessions." It is no doubt true that "great possessions" do not of necessity create a bar in all cases to spiritual accomplishment; but to many of us it is a consolation to know that the completest sanctity humanity has known has been wrought out in utter poverty of life. We shall have occasion to speak more of this later; we now only note the fact that those whom we meet in the pages of the New Testament as waiting hopefully for the redemption of Israel are waiting in poverty and hard work.

What we find in S. Mary as she passes through the ceremony of her purification from a child-bearing which had in no circumstance of it anything impure, is the spirit of sacrifice which submission to the law implies. She has caught the spirit of her Son, the spirit of selfless offering to the will of God. It is the central accomplishment of the life of sanctity. The life of sanctity must be wrought out from the centre, from our contact with God. No one becomes holy by works, whatever may be the nature of the works. Works, the external life, are the expression of what we are, they are the externalization of our character. If they be not the expression of a life hid with Christ in God they can have no spiritual value, whatever may be their social value. The kind of works which "are done to be seen of men" "have their reward," that is, the sort of reward they seek, human approval; they have no value in the realm of the spirit.

But the life that is lived as sacrifice, as a thing perfectly offered to God, is a life growing up in God day by day. It is our Lord's life, summed up from this point of view in the "I come to do thy will, O God." Its most perfect reflection is caught by blessed Mary with her acceptance of God's will: "Behold, the handmaid of the Lord." But it is the life expression of all sanctity; for the saint is such chiefly by virtue of his sacrificial attitude. It is the completest account of the life of sanctity that it "leaves all" to follow a divine call. It is the response of the Apostles who, as James and John, leave their father Zebedee and the boats and the nets and the hired servants, to follow Jesus. It is the answer of Matthew who rises from the receipt of custom at the Master's word. It is the answer of all saints in all times. Sanctity means the abandonment of all for Christ: it means the embracing of the poverty of Jesus and Mary.

Is sanctity then, or the possibility of it, shut within the narrow limits of a poor life? Well, even if it were, the limits would not be so very narrow. By far the greater part of the human race at any time has been poor, as poor as the Holy Family. Unfortunately, Christianity is forgetting its vocation of poverty and becoming a matter of well-to-do-ness. But we need not forget that the poor are the majority. However, the fact is not that economical poverty is automatically productive of spirituality, but that accepted and offered poverty is the road to the heart of God. It is not denied that the rich man may consecrate and offer his goods to God and make them instruments of God's service; but in the process he runs great risk of deceiving himself and of attempting to deceive God—the risk of quietly substituting for the spirit of sacrifice the spirit of commercial bargaining, and attempting to buy the favour of God, and of ransoming his great possessions by a well-calculated tribute. It is not so much our possessions as the way we hold them that is in question; it is a question whether the inner motive of our life is the will to sacrifice or the will to be rich. "They that desire to be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts which drown men in destruction and perdition,"

These dangers S. Paul noted as the besetting dangers of riches are counteracted by the possession of the spirit of sacrifice which holds all things at the disposal of God, and views life as opportunity for the service of God. And in so estimating life, we must remember that money is not the only thing that human beings possess. As I pointed out the vast majority of the human race have no money: it by no means follows that they have no capacity or field for the exercise of the spirit of sacrifice. There is, for instance, an abundant opportunity for the exercise of that spirit in the glad acceptance of the narrow lot that may be ours. Probably many, indeed most, poor are only economically poor; they fall under S. Paul's criticism in that "they desire to be rich," and are therefore devoid of the spirit of sacrifice that would transform their actual poverty into a spiritual value. But all the powers and energies of life do in fact constitute life's capital. A poor boy has great possessions in the gifts of nature that God has granted him. He may use this capital as he will. He may be governed by "the desire to be rich," or by the desire to consecrate himself to the will and service of God—and the working out of life will be accordingly. He may become very rich economically, or he may devote his life to the service of his fellows as physician, teacher, missionary, or in numberless other paths. Once more, the meaning of life is in its voluntary direction, and whatever may be his economic state, he may, if he will, be "rich toward God."

If what we are seeking is to follow the Gospel-life, if we are seeking to express toward man the spirit of the Master, we find abundant field for the exercise of this spirit of sacrifice in our daily relations with others. S. Paul's rule of life: "Look not every man to his own things, but every man also to the things of others," is the practical rule of the sacrificed will. It seeks to fulfil the service of the Master by taking the spirit of the Master—His helpfulness, His consideration, His sympathy—with one into the detail of the day's work. It is one of the peculiarities of human nature that it finds it quite possible to work itself up to an occasional accomplishment, especially in a spectacular setting, of spiritual works, which it finds itself quite impotent to do under the commonplace routine of life. The race experience is accurately enough summed up in the cynical proverb: "No man is a hero to his valet." It expresses the fact that in ordinary circumstances, and under commonplace temptations, we do not succeed in holding life to the accomplishment which is ours when we are, as it were, on dress parade. In other words, we respond to the opinions we desire to create in others; and the spirit of sanctity is a response not to public opinion, but to the mind and thought of God. When we seek the mind of Christ, and seek to reproduce that mind in our own lives, seek to be possessed by it, then we shall gladly render back to God all life's riches which we have received from Him, and acknowledge in the true spirit of poverty that "all things come of Thee, O Lord, and of Thine own have we given Thee."

The world has got into a very ill way of thinking of God as force. Force seems in the popular mind to be the synonym of power. The only power that we understand is the power that compels, that secures the execution of its will by physical or moral constraint. With this conception of power in mind men are continually asking: "Why does not God do this or that? If he be God and wills goodness, why does He not execute goodness, use power to accomplish it?"

It ought to be unnecessary to point out that such a conception of power is quite foreign to the Christian conception of God. Goodness that is compulsory is not goodness. Human legislation, in its enforcement of law, looks not to the production of goodness but to the production of order, a quite different thing. But God's heart is set upon the sanctification of His children and is satisfied with nothing less than that. "This is the will of God, even your sanctification." But sanctification cannot be compelled. The divine method is, that "when the fulness of time was come, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem them that were under the law, that we might receive the adoption of sons. And because ye are sons, God sent forth the Spirit of His Son into your hearts, crying, Abba, Father." Through this method we "were reconciled to God by the death of His Son." The result is not that we are compelled to obey, but that "the love of Christ constraineth us." The account of the apostolic authority is not that it is a commission to rule the universal Church, but "now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us; we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God."

The study of this divine method should put us on the right track in the attempt to estimate the nature of sanctity and the results we may expect from it. We shall expect nothing of spiritual value from force. We shall be quite prepared to turn away from the governing parties in Jerusalem as from those who have repudiated the divine method and are therefore useless for the divine ends. We shall turn rather to those who gather about the temple and there, in a life of prayer and meditation, wait for the redemption. It is to these, who are the real temple of the Lord, that the Lord "shall come suddenly," that the manifestation of God will be made. And their hearts will overflow with joy as they behold the fulfilment of the promises of God.

The power of God is the power of love; and it is that love, and that love alone, that has won the victories of God. It is a very slow method, men say. No doubt. But it is the only method that has any success. The method of force seems effective; but its triumphs are illusory. Force cannot make men love, it can only make them hate. The world is being won to God by the love of God manifested in Christ Jesus our Lord. And it is as well to remember, when we are tempted to complain of the slowness of the process, that the slowness is ours, not God's. The process is slow because men will not consent to become the instruments of God's love for the world, will not transmit the crucified love of God's Son to their fellows. They continually, in their impatience, revert to force of some sort, for the attainment of spiritual ends. They become the tools of all sorts of secular ambitions which promise support in return for their co-operation. And the result may be read by any one not blinded by prejudice in the futility and incompetence of modern religions of all sorts. It is seen perhaps most of all in the pride of opinion which keeps the Christian world in a fragmentary condition, and which approaches the undoing of the sin of a divided Christendom with the preliminary announcement that no separated body must be required to admit that it has been in the wrong. Human disregard of the divine method of love and humility can hardly go farther; and the only practical result that can be expected to follow is such as followed from the negotiations of Herod and Pontius Pilate—a new Crucifixion of the Ever-sacrificed Christ.

We have risen to the divine method when we have learned to rely for spiritual results upon God alone. Then is revealed to us the power of sanctity. We turn over the pages of the lives of the saints, of those who have been great in the Kingdom of God, and we are struck by the growing influence of these men and women. They are simple men and women whose life's energy is concentrated on some special work; they are confessors or directors; they work among the very poor; they lead lives of retirement in Religious Houses; they are preachers of the Gospel; they are missionaries. The one thing that they appear to have in common is utter consecration to the work in hand. And we see, it may be with some wonder, that as they become more and more absorbed in their special work, they become more and more centres of influence. Without at all willing it they draw people about them, become centres of influences, arouse interest, become widely known. In short, they are, without willing it, centres of energy. Of what energy? Obviously, of the energy of love: the love of God manifested in them draws men to God. The man at whose disposal is unlimited force compels men to do his will; but he draws no one to him except the hypocrite and the sycophant who expect to gain something by their servility. The saint draws men, not to himself, but to God; for obviously it is not his power but God's power that is being manifested through him.

Unless we are very unfortunate we all know people whose attractiveness is the attractiveness of simple goodness. They are not learned nor influential nor witty nor clever, but we like to be with them. When we are asked why, we can only explain it by the attractiveness of their Christlikeness. What we gain from intercourse with them is spiritual insight and power. Their influence might be described as sacramental: they are means our Blessed Lord uses to impart Himself. They are so filled with the mind of Christ that they easily show Him to the world; and withal, quite unconsciously. For great love is possible only where there is great humility.

And this power of sanctity which is the outcome of union with God is a permanent acquisition to the Kingdom of God. God's Kingdom is ultimately a Kingdom of saints. The sphere of God's self-manifestation in human life increases ever as the saints increase; and the power of sanctity necessarily remains while the saint remains, that is, forever. The saint remains a permanent organ of the Body of Christ, a perdurable instrument of the divine love. To speak humanly, the more saints there are, the more the love of God can manifest itself; the wider its influence on humanity. And the greater the Saint, that is, the nearer the Saint approaches the perfection of God, to which he is called—Be ye therefore perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect—the more influential he must be; that is the more perfectly he will show the divine likeness and transmit the divine influence. When we think of the power of the saints as intercessors that is what actually we are thinking of,—the perfection of their understanding of the mind of Christ.

But to return to this world and to the gathering in the temple on the day of the Purification. These are they in whom the hope of Israel rests. Israel is not a failure because it has brought forth these. God's work through the centuries has not come to naught because in these there is the possibility of a new beginning. The consummate flower of Israel's life is the Blessed Mother through whom God becomes man; and these who meet her in the temple are the representatives of those hidden ones in Israel who will be the field wherein the seed of the Word can be sown and where it will bring forth fruit an hundredfold. Jesus, this Child, is God made man; and these around Him to-day, Mary and Joseph, Simeon and Anna, are those who will receive His love and will show its power in the universe forever.

And so it will remain always; the good ground wherein the seed may be sown and bring forth unto eternal life is the spiritual nature of man, made ready by humility and love,—"In quietness and confidence shall be your strength." In the quietness that waits for God to act, the confidence that knows that He will act when the time comes. It is well if our aspiration is to be of the number of those who live lives hid with Christ in God; who are seeking nothing but that the love of God may be shed abroad in their hearts; who are "constrained" by nothing but the love of Jesus. It is true that this simplicity of motive and aim will bring it about that our lives will be hidden lives, lives of which the world will take no note. We may be quite sure that none of the rulers of Israel thought much about old Simeon who passed his time praying in the temple. And if we want to be known of rulers it is doubtless a mistake to take the road that Simeon followed. But the reward of that way was that he saw "the Lord's Christ," that it was permitted him to take in his arms Incarnate God, and then, in his rapture, to sing Nunc Dimittis. We cannot travel two roads at once. When the Holy Family goes out from the temple it can go, if it will, to the palace of Herod, or it can go back to Bethlehem. It cannot go both ways and we know the way that it took. And we in our self-examination to-night can see two roads stretching out before us. We can go the way of the world, the way that seeks (whether it finds or no) popularity and prominence, or we can join the Holy Family and in company with Jesus and Mary and Joseph go back to the quietness and hiddenness of the House of Bread where the saints dwell. With them, sheltered by the Sacrifice of Jesus and the prayers of Mary and Joseph we can wait for the Redemption in the full manifestation of the life of God in us, and for the time when the love of God shall be fully "shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given us."

O Sion, ope thy temple-gates; See, Christ, the Priest and Victim, waits— Let lifeless shadows flee: No more to heaven shall vainly rise The ancient rites—a sacrifice All pure and perfect, see.

Behold, the Maiden knowing well The hidden Godhead that doth dwell In him her infant Son: And with her Infant, see her bring The doves, the humble offering For Christ, the Holy One.

Here, all who for his coming sighed Behold him, and are satisfied— Their faith the prize hath won: While Mary, in her breast conceals The holy joys her Lord reveals, And ponders them alone.

Come, let us tune our hearts to sing The glory of our God and King, The blessed One and Three: Be everlasting praise and love To him who reigns in heaven above, Through all eternity.



PART TWO

CHAPTER X

EGYPT

The angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt.

S. Matt. II, 13.

Deliver us, we beseech Thee, O Lord, from all evils past, present, and to come: and at the intercession for us of Blessed Mary who brought forth God and our Lord, Jesus Christ; and of the holy apostles Peter, and Paul, and Andrew; and of blessed Ambrose Thy confessor, and bishop, together with all Thy saints, favorably give peace in our days, that, assisted by the help of Thy mercy, we may ever be both delivered from sin, and safe from all turmoil. Fulfil this, by Him, with Whom Thou livest blessed, and reignest God, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, for ever and ever.

AMBROSIAN.

Those who live in intimate union with God, the peace of whose lives is untroubled by the constant irruption of sin, are peculiarly sensitive to that mode of the divine action that we call supernatural. I suppose that it is not that God wishes to reveal Himself to souls only at crises of their experience or under exceptional conditions, but that only souls of an exceptional spiritual sensitivity are capable of this sort of approach. Communications of the divine will through dream or vision of inner voice are the accompaniment of sanctity; one may almost say that they are the normal means in the case of advanced sanctity. Most of us are too much immersed in the world, are too much the slaves of material things, to be open to this still, small voice of revelation. Our eyes are dimned by the garish light of the world, and our ears dulled by its clamour, so that our powers of spiritual perception are of the slightest. This is quite intelligible; and we ought not to fall into the mistake of assuming that our undeveloped spirituality is normal, and that what does not happen to us is inconceivable as having happened at all. If we want to know the truth about spiritual phenomena we shall put ourselves to school to those whose spiritual natures have attained the highest development and in whose experience spiritual phenomena are of almost daily happening.

To the man "whose talk is of oxen," whose whole life is absorbed in the study of material things, a purely spiritual manifestation comes as a surprise. His instinctive impulse is to deny its reality as a thing obviously impertinent to his understanding of life. But one whose life is based on spiritual postulates, who is, however feebly, attempting to shape life in accordance with spiritual principles, though he may never have attained anything that can be interpreted as a distinct revelation from God by vision or voice or otherwise, yet must he by the very basic assumptions of his life be ready to regard such manifestations of God as intelligible, and indeed to be expected. So far from regarding divine interventions in life as impossible, we shall regard the Christian life which has no experience of them as abnormal, as not having realised its inheritance. The degree and kind of such intervention in life will vary; but it is the fact of the intervention that is important: the mode in a special case will be determined by the needs of that case. As we think along these lines we reach the conclusion that what we call the supernatural is not the unnatural or the abnormal, but is a higher mode of the natural.

We are not surprised therefore to find that those whose spiritual development was such as to make it possible for God to choose them to fulfil special offices in relation to the Incarnation; who could be chosen to be, in the one case, the Mother of God-incarnate, and in the other, to be the guardian of the divine Child and His Blessed Mother, have the divine will in regard to the details of the trust committed to them, imparted to them in vision and in dream. So far from such vision and dream suggesting to us "a mythical element" in the Gospel narratives, they rather confirm our faith in that they harmonize with our instinctive conclusions as to what would be natural under the circumstances. We are prepared to be told that at this crisis in the Holy Child's life "the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word; for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him. When he arose, he took the young child and his mother by night, and departed into Egypt."

Thus early in our Lord's life is the element of tragedy introduced. The Incarnation of God stirs the diabolic powers, the rulers of "this darkness" to excited activity. The companion picture of the Nativity, of the Holy Child lying in Mary's arms, of the wondering shepherds, of the Magi from a far country,—the shadow of all this idyllic beauty is the massacre of the Innocents, the wailing of Rachel for her children. It is, as it were, the opening of a new stage in the world-old conflict where the powers of evil appear to have the advantage and can show the bodies of murdered infants as the trophies of their victory.

But are we to think of the death of a child as a disaster? Has any actual victory redounded to the Prince of Power of the Air? One understands of course the grief and sense of loss that attends the death of any child, the breaking of the dreams which had gathered about its future. What the father and the mother dreamed over the cradle and planned for the future does not come to pass—all that is true. But in a consideration of the broader interests involved, does not the death of a baby have a meaning far deeper than a disappointment of hopes and dreams? It is true, is it not? that the coming of the child brought enrichment into the life of its parents? There was a new love born for this one child which is not the common property of all the children of the family, but is the peculiar possession of this child and its parents. Life—the life of the parents—is better and nobler by virtue of this love. They understand this, because when they stand by the side of the child's coffin they never feel that it had been better that this child had not come into existence. And more than that: as they commit this fragile body to the grave they know that there is no real sense in which they can say that they have lost this child. Rather, the child is a perpetual treasure, for the moment contemplated through tears, but presently to be thought of with unclouded joy. It is so wonderful a thing to think of this pure soul caught back to God; to think of it growing to spiritual maturity in God's very presence; to think of it following the Lamb withersoever He goeth. Yes: to think of it also as our child still, with our love in its heart, knowing that it has a father and a mother on earth, and, that, just because of its early death, it can be to them, what otherwise they would have been to it—the guard and helper of their Jives. In God's presence are the souls of children as perpetual intercessors for those whom they have left on earth; and they may well rejoice before God in that what appeared the tragedy of their death was in fact a recall from the field of battle before the testing of their life was made. We wept as over an irreparable loss,

While into nothingness crept back a host Of shadows unexplored, of sins unsinned.

The artists have imagined the souls of those who first died for Jesus attending Him on the way to Egypt as a celestial guard. In any case we are certain that the angels who watched about Him so closely all His life were with the Holy Family as they set out upon the way of exile. It would have been a wearisome march but that Jesus was there. His presence lightened all the toils of the desert way. Egypt, their place of refuge, would not have seemed to them what it seems to us, a land of wonder, of marvellous creations of human skill and intelligence, but a place of banishment from all that was dear, from the ties of home and religion. The religion which lay wrapped in the Holy Child was to break down barriers and hindrances to the worship of God; but the time was not yet. For them still the Holy Land, Jerusalem, the Temple, were the place of God's manifestation, and all else the dwelling place of idols. They must have shuddered in abhorrence at those strange forms of gods which rose about them on every hand. We cannot ourselves fail to draw the contrast between the statues which filled the Egyptian sanctuaries and before which all Egypt, rich and poor, mighty and humble, prostrated themselves, and this Child sleeping on Mary's breast. The imagination of the Christian community later caught this contrast and embodied it in the legend that when Jesus crossed the border of Egypt, all the idols of the land of Egypt fell down.

We cannot follow the thought of the Blessed Mother through these strange scenes and the experiences of these days. No doubt in the Jewish communities already flourishing in Egypt there would be welcome and the means of livelihood. But there would be perplexing questions to one whose habit it was to keep all things which concerned her strange Child hidden in her heart, the subject of constant meditation. Why, after the divine action which had been so constant from His conception to His birth, and in the circumstances which attended His birth, this reversal, this defeat and flight? Why after Bethlehem, Egypt? Why after Gabriel, Herod?

It brings us back again to the primary fact that the Incarnation is essentially a stage in a battle, and that the nature of God's battles is such that He constantly appears to lose them. He "goes forth as a giant to run His course"; but the eyes of man cannot see the giant—they see only a Babe laid in a manger. We are tricked by our notion of what is powerful.

"They all were looking for a king To slay their foes and lift them high; Thou cam'st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry."

The battle presents itself to us as a demand that we choose, that we take sides. The demand of Christ is that we associate ourselves with Him, or that we define our position as on the other side. "The friendship of the world is enmity with God" is a saying that is true when reversed: The friendship of God is enmity with the world. An open disclosure of the friendship of God sets all the powers of the world against us. This may be uncomfortable; but there does not appear to be any way of avoiding the opposition.

Our Lord, in His Incarnation, not only stripped Himself of His glory, took the servant form, and in doing so deliberately deprived Himself of certain means which would have been vastly influential in dealing with men, but He also declined, in assuming human nature, to assume it under conditions which would have conferred upon Him any adventitious advantage in the prosecution of His work. He would display to men neither divine nor human glory: He would have no aid from power or position, from wealth or learning. He undertook His work in the strength of a pure humanity united with God. He declined all else. And He found that almost the first event of His life was to be driven into exile.

And they who are associated with Him necessarily share His fortunes. Unless they will abandon the Child, Mary and Joseph must set out on the desert way. They had no doubt much to learn; but what is important is not the size or amount of what we learn, but the learning of it. When we are called, as they were, to leave all for Christ, it often turns out as hard, oftentimes harder, to leave property as riches; and the reason is that what we ultimately are leaving is neither poverty nor riches, but self: and self to us is always a "great possession."

Therein, I suppose, lies the solution of the problem of the relation of property and Christianity in the common life. Idleness is sin; every one is bound to some useful labour, no matter what his material resources may be. And if we work for our living, if our labour is to be such as will support us, then there at once arises the problem of possessions. Useful, steady labour will ordinarily produce more than "food and raiment." Under present social arrangments accumulated property is handed on to heirs. A man naturally wants to make some provision for his family. Or he finds himself in possession of considerable wealth and the impulse is to spend in luxuries of one sort or another,—modern invention has put endless means of ministering to physical or aesthetic comfort within his reach. He can have a motor car, a country house, an expensive library; he can have beautiful works of art. And then he is confronted with the picture of the Holy Family which can never have lived much beyond the poverty line. He realises the nature of our Lord's life of poverty and ministry. And though the plain man may not feel that he can go very far in imitating this life, he does feel that there is a splendour of achievement in those who take our Lord at His word and sell all to follow Him.

But the literal abandonment of life to the ideal of poverty is clearly not what our Lord contemplated for the universal practice of His followers. He nowhere indicates that all gainful labour is to be abandoned, or that having gained enough for food and raiment we are to idle thereafter, or even give ourselves to some ungainful work. The Kingdom of heaven does not appear to be society organised on the lines of socialism or otherwise. Our Lord contemplated life going on as it is, only governed by a new set of motives. It has as the result of the acceptance of the Gospel a new Orientation; and as a result of that it will view "possessions" in a new way. The acceptance of the Gospel means the self surrendered utterly to the will of God, and all that self possesses held at the disposal of that will. We may expect that God's will for us will be manifested in the events of life and its opportunities, and we shall hold ourselves alert and ready to embrace that will. It may be that the call will come to sell all, and we need to beware lest the thoroughness of the demand terrify us into the repudiation of our Lord's service; lest the thought of the sacrificed possessions send us away sorrowing. Ordinarily the call is less searching than that; or perhaps the mercy of God spares us from demands that would be beyond our strength. In any case, the truly consecrated self will regard luxury as a dangerous thing, replete with entanglements of all kinds, that it were well to avoid at the expense of any sacrifice. One does well to hold "possessions" in a very loose grip, lest the hold be reversed, and we become their servants rather than they ours. And it is well to emphasise again that the mere size of possessions is of small importance. There is a not very rational tendency to think of this as being a matter of millions, for the man of moderate income to think that there is no problem for him. The problem is as pressing for him as for any man. His minimum of comfort may be as tightly grasped as the other man's maximum. The only solution of the problem will be found in the converted self. Those who have really given themselves to God hold all things at His disposal. They are not thinking how they can indulge self but how they can glorify God.

Egypt to many will stand for another sort of abandonment which much perplexes the immature Christian: that is, the sort of isolation in which the new Christian is quite likely to find himself when first he attempts to put Christian principles into practice. We imagine one brought up in the ordinary mixed circles of society, where there are unbelievers and lax Christians mingled together, and where there are no principles firmly enough held to interfere with any sort of enjoyment of life which offers. Such an one—a young woman, let us suppose—in the Providence of God becomes converted to our Lord, and comes to see that the lax and indifferent Christian life she had been leading was a mere mockery of Christian living. Speedily does she find when she attempts to put into action the principles of living which she now understands to be the meaning of the Gospel that a breach of sympathy has been opened between her and her accustomed companions; that many things which she was accustomed to do in their society and which made for their common fund of amusement are no longer possible to her. The careless talk, the shameless dress, the gambling, the drinking, the Sunday amusements—such things as these she has thrown over; and she finds that with them she has thrown over the basis of intimacy with her usual companions. It is not that they are antagonistic but simply that their points of contact have ceased to exist. Her own inhibitions exclude her automatically from most of the activities of her social circle. She finds herself much alone. Her friends are sorry for her and think her foolish and try to win her back, but it is clear to her that she can only go back by going back from Christ.

This is the common case of the young whether boy or girl to-day, and the practical question is, Can they endure the isolation? It is easy to say: Let them make Christian friends; but that is not always practical, especially in the present state of the Church when there is no cohesion among its members, no true sense of constituting a Brotherhood, of being members of the same Body. We have to admit that the attempt to hold a high standard usually ends in failure, at least the practical failure of a weak compromise. But there are characters that are strong enough to face the isolation and to readjust life on the basis of the new principles and to mould it in accord with the new ideals. The period of this readjustment is one of severe testing of one's grasp on principles and one's strength of purpose. But the battle once fought out we attain a new kind of freedom and expansion of life. We look back with some amusement at the old life and the things that fascinated us in the days of our spiritual unconsciousness much as we look back at the games that amused us in our childish hours. The desert of Egypt that we entered with trepidation and fearful hearts turns out not to be so dreadful as we imagined, and indeed the flowers spring up under our feet as we resolutely tread the desert way.

These trials must be the daily experience of those who attempt to put their religion into practice, and these perplexities must assail them so long as the Christian community continues to show its present social incompetence; so long, that is, as we attempt to make the basis of our social action something other than the principles of the spiritual life. A Christian society, one would naturally think, would spring out of the possession of Christian ideals; and doubtless it would if these ideals were really dominant in life, and not a sort of ornament applied to it. Any social circle contains men and women of various degrees of intellectual development and of varying degrees of experience of life; what holds them together is the pursuit of common objects, the objects that we sum up as amusement. Now the Christians in a community certainly have a common object, the cultivation of the spiritual life through the supernatural means offered by the Church of God. One would think that this object would have a more constraining power than the attractions of motoring or golf; but in fact we know that this is not so save in individual cases. There is not, that is to say, anywhere visible a Christian community which is wrought into a unity by the solidifying forces of its professed ideals. Those very people whose paths converge week by week until they meet at this altar, as they leave the altar, follow diverging paths and live in isolation for the rest of their time.

One of the constant problems of the Church is that of the loss of those who have for a time been associated with it—of those who have for a time seemed to recognise their duty to God, and their privileges as members of His Son. They drift away into the world. We pray and meditate and worry over this and try to invent some machinery which will overcome it. But it cannot be overcome by machinery, especially by the sort of machinery which consists in transferring the amusements that people find in the world bodily into the Church itself. It cannot and will not be overcome until a Christian society has been created which is bound together by the interests of the Kingdom of God, and in which those interests are so predominant as to throw into the shade and practically annihilate other interests. And especially must such spiritual interests be strong enough to break down all social barriers so that the cultured and refined can find a common ground with the uneducated and socially untrained in the spiritual privileges that they share in common. When the banker can talk with his chauffeur of their common experience in prayer, and the banker's wife and her cook can confer on their mutual difficulties in making a meditation, then we shall have got within sight of a Christian society; but at present, while these have no spiritual contact, it is not within sight. The primitive Christian community in Jerusalem made the attempt at having all things in common. Their mistake seems to have been that they, like other and more modern people, by "all things" understood money. You cannot build any society which is worth the name on money, a Church least of all. It is unimportant whether a man is rich or poor; what is important is his spiritual accomplishment: and it is common spiritual aims and accomplishments which should make up the "all things" which possessed in common will form the basis of an enduring unity. But not until accomplishment becomes the supreme interest of life can we expect to get out of the impasse in which we at present find ourselves; in which, that is, the person can be converted to Christianity and enter into union with God in Christ and become a citizen of the Kingdom of Heaven, and wake to find himself isolated from his old circle by his profession of new principles; but not, by his new principles, truly united to his fellow citizens in the Kingdom of God! One is tempted to write, What a comedy; but before one can do so, realises that it is in fact a tragedy!

Mother of God—oh, rare prerogative; Oh, glorious title—what more special grace Could unto thee thy dear Son, dread God, give To show how far thou dost all creatures pass? That mighty power within the narrow fold Did of thy ne'er polluted womb remain, Whom, whiles he doth th' all-ruling Sceptre hold, Not earth, nor yet the heavens can contain; Thou in the springtide of thy age brought'st forth Him who before all matter, time and place, Begotten of th' Eternal Father was. Oh, be thou then, while we admire thy worth A means unto that Son not to proceed In rigour with us for each sinful deed.

John Brereley, Priest (Vere Lawrence Anderton, S.J.) 1575-1643



PART TWO

CHAPTER XI

NAZARETH

And he went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.

S. Luke II, 51.

The Holy Church acknowledges and confesses the pure Virgin Mary as Mother of God through whom has been given unto us the bread of immortality and the wine of consolation. Give blessings then in spiritual song.

ARMENIAN.

After the rapid succession of fascinating pictures which are etched for us in the opening chapters of the Gospel there follows a space of about twelve years of which we are told nothing. The fables which fill the pages of the Apocryphal Gospels serve chiefly to emphasise the difference between an inspired and an uninspired narrative. The human imagination trying to develop the situation suggested by the Gospel and to fill in the unwritten chapters of our Lord's life betrays its incompetence to create a story of God Incarnate which shall have the slightest convincing power. These Apocryphal stories are immensely valuable to us as, by contrast, creating confidence in the story of Jesus as told by the Evangelists, but for nothing more.

We are left to use our own imagination in filling in these years of silence in our Lord's training; and we shall best use it, not by trying to imagine what may have occurred, but by trying to understand what is necessarily involved in the facts as we know them. We know that the home in Nazareth whither Mary and Joseph brought Jesus after the death of Herod permitted them to return from Egypt was the simple home of a carpenter. It would appear to have been shared by the children of Joseph, and our Lady would have been the house-mother, busy with many cares. We know, too, that under this commonplace exterior of a poor household there was a life of the spirit of far reaching significance. Mary was ceaselessly pondering many things—the significance of all those happenings which, as the years flowed on without any further supernatural intervention, must at times have seemed as though they were quite purposeless. Of course this could not have been a settled feeling, for the insight of her pure soul would have held her to the certainty that such actions of God as she had experienced would some day reveal the meaning which as yet lay hidden.

In the meantime other things did not matter much, seeing she had Jesus, the object of endless love. Every mother dreams over the baby she cares for and looks out into the future with trembling hope; so S. Mary's thoughts would go out following the hints of prophecy and angelic utterances, unable to understand how the light and shadow which were mingled there could find fulfilment in her Child. But like any other mother the thought would come back to her present possession, the satisfaction of her heart that she had in Jesus. With the growth of Jesus there would come the unfolding of the answering love, which was but another mode in which the love of God she had experienced all her life was manifesting itself. Jesus grew in wisdom and stature and we are able to enter a little into the over-flowing love of Mary as she watched the advance, this unfolding from day to day. The wonder that was hers in guiding this mind and will, in teaching our Lord His first prayers, in telling Him the story of the people of whom He had assumed our nature! There was here no self-will, no resistance to guidance, no perversity to wound a mother's heart. In the training of an ordinary child there are from time to time hints of characteristics or tendencies which may develop later into spiritual or moral disaster. There are growls of the sleeping beast which make us tremble for the future: there are hours of agony when we think of the inevitable temptations which must be met, and suggestions of weakness which colour our imagination of the meeting of them with the lurid light of defeat. But as Mary watched the unfolding character of Jesus she saw nothing there that carried with it the least suggestion of evil growth in the future, no outcropping of hereditary sin or disordered appetite. A constantly unfolding intelligence, and growing interest in the things that most interested her, an eagerness to hear and to know of the will and love of the eternal Father, these are her joy. That would have been the centre—would it not?—of the unfolding consciousness of Jesus: the knowledge of the Father.

Training by love, so we might describe the life in the Home at Nazareth. And we must not forget the grave ageing figure who is the head of the household. The Holy Family—that was the perfect unity that their love created. There is a wonderful picture of these three by Sassaferato which catches, as no other Holy Family that I know of does, the meaning of their association. S. Mary whom the artistic imagination is so apt, after the Nativity, to transform into a stately matron, here still retains the note of virginity which in fact she never lost. It is the maiden-mother who stands by the side of the grave, elderly S. Joseph, the ideal workman, who is also the ideal guardian of his maiden-wife. And Jesus binds these two together and with them makes a unity, interpreting to us the perfection of family life.

Family life is a tremendous test, it brings out the best and the worst of those who are associated in it. The ordinary restraints of social intercourse are of less force in the intimacy of family life: there is less need felt to watch conduct, or to mask what we know are our disagreeable traits. It is quite easy for character to deteriorate in the freedom of such intercourse. It is pretty sure to do so unless there is the constant pressure of principle in the other direction. The great safeguard is the sort of love that is based on mutual respect,—respect both for ourselves and for others. We talk a good deal as though love were always alike; as though the fact that a man and a woman love each other were always the same sort of fact. It does not require much knowledge of human nature or much reflection to convince us that that is not the case. Love is not a purely physical fact; and outside its physical implications there are many factors which may enter, whose existence constitute the differentia from case to case. It is upon these varying elements that the happiness of the family life depends. One of the most important is that character on either side shall be such as to inspire respect. Many a marriage goes to pieces on this rock; it is found that the person who exercised a certain kind of fascination shows in the intimacy of married life a character and qualities which are repulsive; a shallowness which inspires contempt, an egotism which is intolerable, a laxity in the treatment of obligations which destroys any sense of the stability of life. A marriage which does not grow into a relation of mutual honour and respect must always be in a state of unstable equilibrium, constantly subject to storms of passion, to suspicion and distrust.

And therefore such a marriage will afford no safe basis on which to build a family life. But without a stable family life a stable social and religious life is impossible. It is therefore no surprise to those who believe that the powers of evil are active in the world to find that the family is the very centre of their attack at the present time. The crass egotism lying back of so much modern teaching is nowhere more clearly visible than in the assertion of the right of self-determination so blatantly made in popular writings. By self-determination is ultimately meant the right of the individual to seek his own happiness in his own way, and to make pleasure the rule of his life. "The right to happiness" is claimed in utter disregard of the fact that the claim often involves the unhappiness of others. "The supremacy of love," meaning the supremacy of animalism, is the excuse for undermining the very foundations of family life. No obligation, it appears, can have a binding force longer than the parties to it find gratification in it. Personal inclination and gratification is held sufficient ground for action whose consequences are far from being personal, which, in fact, affect the sane and healthy state of society as a whole.

The decline of a civilisation has always shown itself more markedly in the decline of the family life than elsewhere. The family, not the individual, is the basis of the social state, and no amount of theorising can make the fact different. Whatever assails the integrity of the family assails the life of the state, and no single family can be destroyed without society as a whole feeling the effect. "What," it is asked, "is to be done? If two people find that they have blundered, are they to go on indefinitely suffering from the result of their blunder? If an immature boy or girl in a moment of passion make a mistake as to their suitability to live together, are they to be compelled to do so at the expense of constant unhappiness?"

It would seem obvious to say that justice requires that those who make blunders should take the consequences of them; that those who create a situation involving suffering should do the suffering themselves and not attempt to pass it on to others. It is not as though the consequences of the act can be avoided; they cannot. What happens is that the incidence of them is shifted. It is a part of the brutal egotism of divorce that it is quite willing to shift the incidence of the suffering that it has created on to the lives of wholly innocent people; in many cases upon children, in all cases upon society at large. For it is necessary to emphasize the fact that society is a closely compact body: so interwoven is life with life that if one member suffer the other members suffer with it. Breaches of moral order are not individual matters but social. This truth is implied in society's constantly asserted right to regulate family relations in the general interest even after it has ceased to think of such relations as having any spiritual significance. We need to-day a more vivid sense of the community lest we shall see all sense of a common life engulfed in the rising tide of individual anarchism. We need the assertion in energetic form of the right of the community as supreme over the right of the individual. We must deny the right of the individual to pursue his own way and his own pleasure at the expense of the rights of others. And to his insolent question, "Why should I suffer in an intolerable situation?" we must plainly answer: "Because you are responsible for the situation, and it is intolerable that you should be permitted to throw off the results of your wickedness or your stupidity upon other and innocent people."

And it is quite clear that should society assert its pre-eminent right in unmistakable form and make it evident that it does not propose to tolerate the results of the egotistic nonsense of self-determination and the right of every one to live his own life, the evils of divorce and of shattered families would presently shrink to relatively small proportions. The present facility of divorce encourages thoughtless and unsuitable marriages in the first place; and in the second place, encourages the resort to divorce in circumstances of family disturbance which would speedily right themselves in the present as they have done in the past if those concerned knew that their happiness and comfort for years compelled an adjustment of life. When as at present any one who loses his temper can rush off to a court and get a marriage dissolved for some quite trivial reason, there is small encouragement to practice self-control. If a man and woman know that the consequences of conduct must be faced by them, and cannot be avoided by thrusting them upon others, they will no doubt in the course of time learn to exercise a little self-control.

The family is the foundation of the state because, among other things, it is the natural training place of citizens: no public training in schools and camps can for a moment safely be looked to as a substitute or an equivalent of wholesome family influence. If the family does not make good citizens we cannot have good citizens. The family too is at the basis of organised religious life; if the family does not make good Christians we shall not have good Christians. The Sunday School and the Church societies are poor substitutes for the religious influence of the family, as the school and the camp are for its social interests.

One is inclined to stress the obvious failure of the family to fulfil its alloted functions in the teaching of religion as the root difficulty that the Christian religion has to encounter and the most comprehensive cause of its relative failure in modern life. The responsibility for the religious and moral training of children rests squarely upon those who have assumed the responsibility of bringing them into the world, and it cannot be rightly pushed off on to some one else. To the protest of parents that they are incompetent to conduct such training, the only possible reply is a blunt, "Whose fault is that?" If you have been so careless of the fundamental responsibilities of life, you are incompetent to assume a relation which of necessity carries such responsibility with it. It is no light matter to have committed to you the care of an immortal soul whose eternal future may quite well be conditioned on the way in which you fulfil your trust. It would be well as a preliminary to marriage to take a little of the time ordinarily given to its frivolous accompaniments and seriously meditate upon the words of our Lord which seem wholly appropriate to the circumstance: "Whoso shall cause to stumble one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea." It is the careless and incompetent training of children which in fact "causes them to stumble" when the presence of word and example would have held them straight. It has been (to speak personally) the greatest trial of my priesthood that out of the thousands of children I have dealt with, in only rare cases have I had the entire support of the family; and I have always considered that I was fortunate when I met with no interference and was given an indifferent tolerance. It is heart-breaking to see years of careful work brought to naught (so far as the human eye can see: the divine eye can see deeper) by the brutal materialism of a father and the silly worldliness of a mother.