“For the love of Christ constraineth us: because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead: and that lie died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them, and rose again.” - II Corinthians 5:14-15
It may be, that in reading these verses some of us have understood them in a sense foreign to that of the apostle. It may have seemed that the arguments ran thus-Because Christ died upon the cross for all, therefore all must have been in a state of spiritual death before; and if they were asked what doctrines are to be elicited from this passage they would reply, “the doctrine of universal depravity, and the constraining power of the gratitude due to Him who died to redeem us from it.” There is, however, in the first place, this fatal objection to such an interpretation, that the death here spoken of is used in two diametrically opposite senses. In reference to Christ, death literal-in reference to all, death spiritual. Now, in the thought of St. Paul, the death of Christ was always viewed as liberation from the power of evil: “in that He died, He died unto sin once,” and again, “he that is dead is free from sin.” The literal death, then, in one clause, means freedom from sin; the spiritual death of the next is slavery to it. Wherein, then, lies the cogency of the apostle’s reasoning? How does it follow that because Christ died to evil, all before that must have died to God? Of course that doctrine is true in itself, but it is not the doctrine of the text.
In the next place, the ambiguity belongs only to the English word-it is impossible to make the mistake in the original: the word which stands for were, is a word which does not imply a continued state, but must imply a single finished act. It can not by any possibility imply that before the death of Christ men were in a state of death-it can only mean, they became dead at the moment when Christ died. If you read it thus, the meaning of the English will emerge-“if one died for all, their all died;” and the apostle’s argument runs thus, that if one acts as the representative of all, then his act is the act of all. If the ambassador of a nation makes reparation in a nation’s name, or does homage for a nation, that reparation, or that homage, is the nation’s act-if one did it for all, then all did it. So that instead of inferring that because Christ died for all, therefore before that all were dead to God, his natural inference is that therefore all are now dead to sin.
Once more, the conclusion of the apostle is exactly the reverse of that which this interpretation attributes to him: he does not say that Christ died in order that men might not die, but exactly for this very purpose, that they might die; and this death he represents in the next verse by an equivalent expression-the life of unselfishness: “that they which live might henceforth live not unto themselves?” The “dead” of the first verse are “they that live” of the second.
The form of thought funds its exact parallel in Romans vi. 10,11. Two points claim our attention:
I. The vicarious sacrifice of Christ.
II. The influence of that sacrifice on man.
I. The vicariousness of the sacrifice is implied in the word “for.” A vicarious act is an act done for another. When the Pope calls himself the vicar of Christ, he implies that he acts for Christ. The vicar or viceroy of a kingdom is one who acts for the king-a vicar’s act, therefore, is virtually the act of the principal whom he represents; so that if the Papal doctrine were true, when the vicar of Christ pardons, Christ has pardoned. When the viceroy of a kingdom has published a proclamation or signed a treaty, the sovereign himself is bound by those acts.
The truth of the expression for all, is contained in this fact, that Christ is the representative of humanity-properly speaking, the representative of human nature. This is the truth contained in the emphatic expression, “Son of Man.” What Christ did for humanity was done by humanity, because in the name of humanity. For a truly vicarious act does not supersede the principal’s duty of performance, but rather implies and acknowledges it. Take the case from which this very word of vicar has received its origin. In the old monastic times, when the revenues of a cathedral or a cure fell to the lot of a monastery, it became the duty of that monastery to perform the religious services of the cure. But inasmuch as the monastery was a corporate body, they appointed one of their number, whom they denominated their vicar, to discharge those offices for them. His service did not supersede theirs, but was a perpetual and standing acknowledgment that they, as a whole and individually, were under the obligation to perform it. The act of Christ is the act of humanity-that which all humanity is bound to do, His righteousness does not supersede our righteousness, nor does His sacrifice supersede our sacrifice. It is the representation of human life and human sacrifice-vicarious for all, yet binding upon all.
That He died for all is true-
1. Because He was the victim of the sin of all. In the peculiar phraseology of St. Paul, He died unto sin. He was the victim of sin-He died by sin. It is the appalling mystery of our redemption that the Redeemer took the attitude of subjection to evil. There was scarcely a form of evil with which Christ did not come in contact, and by which He did not suffer. He was the victim of false friendship and ingratitude, the victim of bad government and injustice. He fell a sacrifice to the vices of all classes-to the selfishness of the rich and the fickleness of the poor: intolerance, formalism, skepticism, hatred of goodness, were the foes which crushed Him.
In the proper sense of the word He was a victim. He did not adroitly wind through the dangerous forms of evil, meeting it with expedient silence. Face to face, and front to front, He met it, rebuked it, and defied it; and just as truly as he is a voluntary victim whose body, opposing the progress of the car of Juggernaut, is crushed beneath its monstrous wheels, was He a victim to the world’s sin: because pure, He was crushed by impurity; because just and real amid true, He waked up the rage of injustice, hypocrisy and falsehood.
Now this sin was the sin of all. Here arises at once a difficulty : it seems to be most unnatural to assert that in any one sense He was the sacrifice of the sin of all. We did not betray Him-that was Judas’s act-Peter denied Him-Thomas doubted-Pilate pronounced sentence-it must be a figment to say that these were our acts; we did not watch Him like the Pharisees, nor circumvent Him like the Scribes and lawyers; by what possible sophistry can we be involved in the complicity of that guilt? This savage of New Zealand who never heard of Him, the learned Egyptian, and the voluptuous Assyrian who died before He came; how was it the sin of all?
The reply that is often given to this query is wonderfully unreal. It is assumed that Christ was conscious, by His omniscience, of the sins of all mankind; that the duplicity of the child, and the crime of the assassin, and every unholy thought that has ever passed through a human bosom, were present to His mind in that awful hour as if they were His own. This is utterly unscriptural. Where is the single text from which it can be, except by force, extracted? Besides this, it is fanciful and sentimental; and again it is dangerous, for it represents the whole Atonement as a fictitious and shadowy transaction. There is a mental state in which men have felt the burden of sins which they did not commit. There have been cases in which men have been mysteriously excruciated with the thought of having committed the unpardonable sin. But to represent the mental phenomena of the Redeemer’s mind as in any way resembling this-to say that His conscience was oppressed with the responsibility of sins which He had not committed-is to confound a state of sanity with the delusions of a half lucid mind, and the workings of a healthy conscience with those of one unnatural and morbid.
There is a way, however, much more appalling and much more true, in which this may be true, without resorting to any such fanciful hypothesis. Sin has a great power in this world: it gives laws like those of a sovereign, which bind us all, and to which we are all submissive. There are current maxims in Church and State, in society, in trade, in law, to which we yield obedience. For this obedience every one is responsible; for-instance, in trade, and in the profession of law, every one is the servant of practices the rectitude of which his heart can only half approve-every one complains of them, yet all are involved in them. Now, when such sins reach their climax, as in the case of national bankruptcy or an unjust acquittal, there may be some who are in a special sense the actors in the guilt; but evidently, for the bankruptcy, each member of the community is responsible in that degree and so far as he himself acquiesced in the duplicities of public dealing; every careless juror, every unrighteous judge, every false witness, has done his part in the reduction of society to that state in which the monster injustice has been perpetrated. In the riot of a tumultuous assembly by night, a house may be burnt, or a murder committed; in the eye of the law, all who are aiding and abetting there are each in his degree responsible for that crime; there may be difference in guilt, from the degree in which he is guilty who with his own hand perpetrated the deed, to that of him who merely joined the rabble from mischievous curiosity-degrees from that of willful murder to that of more or less excusable homicide.
The Pharisees were declared by the Saviour to be guilty of the blood of Zacharias, the blood of righteous Abel, and of all the saints and prophets who fell before He came. But how were the Pharisees guilty? They built the sepulchres of the prophets, they honored and admired them; but they were guilty, in that they were the children of those that slew the prophets; children in this sense, that they inherited their spirit, they opposed the good in the form which it showed itself in their day, just as their fathers opposed the form displayed to theirs, therefore He said that they belonged to the same confederacy of evil, and that the guilt of the blood of all who had been slain should rest on that generation. Similarly we are guilty of the death of Christ. If you have been a false friend, a skeptic, a cowardly disciple, a formalist, selfish, an opposer of goodness, an oppressor, whatever evil you have done, in that degree and so far you participate in the evil to which the Just One fell a victim you are one of that mighty rabble which cry, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” for your sin He died; His blood lies at your threshold.
Again, He died for all, in that His sacrifice represents the sacrifice of all. We have heard of the doctrine of “imputed righteousness;” it is a theological expression to which meanings foolish enough are sometimes attributed but it contains a very deep truth, which it shall be our endeavor to elicit.
Christ is the realized idea of our humanity. He is God’s idea of man completed. There is every difference between the ideal and the actual-between what a man aims to be and what he is; a difference between the race as it is, and the race as it existed in God’s creative idea when He pronounced it very good.
In Christ, therefore, God beholds humanity; in Christ Ye sees perfected every one in whom Christ’s spirit exists in germ. He to whom the possible is actual, to whom what will be already is, sees all things present, gazes on the imperfect, and sees it in its perfection. Let me venture an illustration. He who has never seen the vegetable world except in Arctic regions, has but a poor idea of the majesty of vegetable life-a microscopic red moss tinting the surface of the snow, a few stunted pines, and here and there perhaps a dwindled oak; but to the botanist who has seen the luxuriance of vegetation in its tropical magnificence, all that wretched scene presents another aspect; to him those dwarfs are the representatives of what might be, nay, what has been in a kindlier soil and a more genial climate; he fills up by his conception the miserable actuality presented by these shrubs, and attributes to them-imputes, that is, to them-the majesty of which the undeveloped germ exists already.
Now the difference between those trees seen in themselves, and seen in the conception of their nature’s perfectness which has been previously realized, is the difference between man seen in himself and seen in Christ. We are feeble, dwarfish, stunted specimens of humanity. Our best resolves are but withered branches, our holiest deeds unripe and blighted fruit; but to the Infinite Eye, who sees in the perfect One the type and assurance of that which shall be, this dwindled humanity of ours is divine and glorious. Such are we in the sight of God the Father as is the very Son of God Himself. This is what theologians, at least the wisest of them, meant by “imputed righteousness.” I do not mean that all who have written or spoken on the subject had this conception of it, but I believe they who thought truly meant this; they did not suppose that in imputing righteousness there was a kind of figment, a self-deception in the mind of God; they did not mean that by an act of will He chose to consider that every act which Christ did was done by us; that He imputed or reckoned to us the baptism in Jordan and the victory in the wilderness, and the agony in the garden, or that He believed, or acted as if he believed, that when Christ died, each one of us died; but He saw Humanity submitted to the law of self-sacrifice; in the light of that idea He beholds us as perfect, and is satisfied. In this sense the apostle speaks of those that are imperfect, yet “by one offering He hath perfected forever them that are sanctified.” It is true, again, that He died for us, in that we present His sacrifice as ours. The value of the death of Christ consisted in the surrender of self-will. In the fortieth Psalm, the value of every other kind of sacrifice being first denied, the words follow, “Then said I, Lo, I come to do thy will, 0 God.” The profound idea contained, therefore, in the death of Christ is the duty of self-surrender.
But in us that surrender scarcely deserves the name; even to use the word self-sacrifice covers us with a kind of shame. Then it is that there is an almost boundless joy in acquiescing in the life and death of Christ, recognizing it as ours, and representing it to ourselves and God as what we aim at. If we can not understand how in this sense it can be a sacrifice for us, we may partly realize it by remembering the joy of feeling how art and nature realize for us what we can not realize for ourselves. It is recorded of one of the world’s gifted painters that he stood before the masterpiece of the great genius of his age-one which be could never hope to equal, nor even rival-and yet the infinite superiority, so far from crushing him, only elevated his feeling, for he saw realized those conceptions which had floated before him, dim and unsubstantial; in every line and touch he felt a spirit immeasurably superior yet kindred, and he is reported to have exclaimed, with dignified humility, “And I too am a painter!”
We must all have felt, when certain effects in nature, combinations of form and color, have been presented to us, our own idea speaking in intelligible and yet celestial language; when, for instance, the long bars of purple, “edged with intolerable radiance,” seemed to float in a sea of pale pure green, when the whole sky seemed to reel with thunder, when the night-wind moaned. It is wonderful how the most commonplace men and women-beings who, as you would have thought, had no conception that rose beyond a commercial speculation or a fashionable entertainment-are elevated by such scenes; how the slumbering grandeur of their nature wakes and acknowledges kindred with the sky and storm. “I can not speak,” they would say, “the feelings which are in me; I have had emotions, aspirations, thoughts; I can not put them into words. Look there! listen now to the storm! That is what I meant, only I never could say it out till now.” Thus do art and nature speak for us, and thus do we adopt them as our own. This is the way in which His righteousness becomes righteousness for us. This is the way in which the heart presents to God the sacrifice of Christ; gazing on that perfect Life we, as it were, say, “There, that is my religion-that is my righteousness-what I want to be, which I am not-that is my offering, my life as I would wish to give it, freely and not checked, entire and perfect.” So the old prophets, their hearts big with unutterable thoughts, searched “what or what manner of time the spirit of Christ which was in them did signify, when it testified beforehand of the sufferings of Christ, and of the glory which should follow;” and so with us, until it passes into prayer: “My Saviour, fill up the blurred and blotted sketch which my clumsy band has drawn of a divine life, with the fullness of Thy perfect picture. I feel the beauty which I can not realize:-robe me in Thine unutterable purity:
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”
II. The influence of that sacrifice on man is the introduction of the principle of self-sacrifice into his nature-“then were all dead.” Observe, again, not He died that we might not die, but that in His death we might be dead, and that in His sacrifice we might become each a sacrifice to God. Moreover, this death is identical with life. They who in the first sentence are called dead, are in the second denominated “they who live.” So in another place, “I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live;” death, therefore, that is, the sacrifice of self, is equivalent to life. Now this rests upon a profound truth. The death of Christ was a representation of the life of God. To me this is the profoundest of all truths, that the whole of the life of God is the sacrifice of self God is love; love is sacrifice-to give rather than to receive-the blessedness of self-giving. If the life of God were not such, it would be a falsehood to say that God is love; for even in our human nature, that which seeks to enjoy all instead of giving all is known by a very different name from that of love. All the life of God is a flow of this divine self-giving charity. Creation itself is sacrifice-the self-impartation of the Divine Being. Redemption, too, is sacrifice, else it could not be love; for which reason we will not surrender one iota of the truth that the death of Christ was the sacrifice of God-the manifestation once in time of that which is the eternal law of His life.
If man, therefore, is to rise into the life of God, he must be absorbed into the spirit of that sacrifice-he must die with Christ if he would enter into his proper life. For sin is the withdrawing into self and egotism, out of the vivifying life of God, which alone is our true life. The moment the man sins he dies. Know we not how awfully true that sentence is, “Sin revived, and I died?” The vivid life of sin is the death of the man. Have we never felt that our true existence has absolutely in that moment disappeared, and that we are not?
I say, therefore, that real human life is a perpetual completion and repetition of the sacrifice of Christ-“all are dead;”the explanation of which follows, “to live not to themselves, but to Him who died for them and rose again.” This is the truth which lies at the bottom of the Romish doctrine of the mass. Rome asserts that in the mass a true and proper sacrifice is offered up for the sins of all-that the offering of Christ is forever repeated. To this Protestantism has objected vehemently, that there is but one offering once offered-an objection in itself entirely true; yet the Romish doctrine contains a truth which it is of importance to disengage from the gross and material form with which it has been overlaid. Let us hear St. Paul: “I fill up that which is behindhand of the sufferings of Christ, in my flesh for his body’s sake, which is the Church.” Was there then something behindhand of Christ’s sufferings remaining uncompleted, of which the sufferings of Paul could be in any sense the complement? He says there was. Could the sufferings of Paul for the Church in any form of correct expression be said to eke out the sufferings that were complete? In one sense it is true to say that there is one offering once offered for all. But it is equally true to say that that One offering is valueless, except so far as it is completed and repeated in the life and self-offering of all. This is the Christian’s sacrifice. Not mechanically completed in the miserable materialism of the mass, but spiritually in the life of all in whom the Crucified lives. The sacrifice of Christ is done over again in every life which is lived, not to self but to God.
Let one concluding observation be made-self-denial, self-sacrifice, self-surrender! Hard doctrines, and impossible! Whereupon, in silent hours, we skeptically ask, Is this possible? is it natural? Let preacher and moralist say what they will, I am not here to sacrifice myself for others. God sent me here for happiness, not misery. Now introduce one sentence of this text of which we have as yet said nothing, and the dark doctrine becomes illuminated-“the love of Christ constraineth us.” Self-denial, for the sake of self-denial, does no good, self-sacrifice for its own sake is no religious act at all. If you give up a meal for the sake of showing power over self, or for the sake of self-discipline, it is the most miserable of all delusions. You are not more religious in doing this than before. This is mere self-culture, and self-culture being occupied forever about self, leaves you only in that circle of self from which religion is to free you; but to give pp a meal that one you love may have it is properly a religious act-no hard and dismal duty, because made easy by affection. To bear pain for the sake of bearing it has in it no moral quality at all, but to bear it rather than surrender truth, or in order to save another, is positive enjoyment as well as ennobling to the soul. Did you ever receive even a blow meant for another, in order to shield that other? Do you not know that there was actual pleasure in the keen pain far beyond the most rapturous thrill of nerve which could be gained from pleasure in the midst of painlessness? Is not the mystic yearning of love expressed in words most purely thus, Let me suffer for him?
This element of love is that which makes this doctrine an intelligible and blessed truth. So sacrifice alone, bare and unrelieved, is ghastly, unnatural, and dead; but self-sacrifice, illuminated by love, is warmth and life; it is the death of Christ, the life of God, the blessedness and only proper life of man.