# Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII.
IT was winter and a little group of disciples clustered round a fire of wood. These were wondrous times, when none who believed sought rest, or, if compelled to, allowed themselves but little sleep.
Believing Jerusalem was convulsed, disbelieving Jerusalem triumphant, that the expected miracle—the raising of Lazarus—had not taken place. During the absence of the Lord the disciples themselves were debating it with wonder. One gave as a reason that "He feared the publicity," another that He durst not do this miracle on account of His friendship with Mary and Martha.
"If they have not believed hitherto, will they believe because He raise up Lazarus?" asked Peter.
"Nevertheless, for very love, methinks He will yet do it."
"What said He unto thee when thou didst give Him the message of Simon the Leper?"
"He said, 'Let us go unto Judæa again.' "
"And I," said John, "brought to His remembrance that the Jews sought to stone Him, and 't were not wise to go thither again."
"And what answered the Lord?" inquired another.
"He answered, 'Are there not twelve hours in the ​day? If any man walketh in the day, he stumbleth not, because he seeth the light of the world; but if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him.' "
"And how interpreted thou this saying?" asked another.
Then John, leaning forward, said: "Who can fathom the words and doing of our Lord? Yet, it seemeth to me that He spake that the time was not yet fitting; that, when the hour should come, then the Jews would seek Him out, for He hath told us further—'Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go that I may awake him out of sleep.' "
"If he sleep, he shall do well," said one.
"Yet one hath been from Bethany to-day saying that they have laid him in his grave. Have the physicians so far erred that they take sleep for death? Luke, thou art a doctor, tell us, can such things be?"
"It hath been known that those in a trance have been laid in their grave, and, after many days, have been raised again. But my heart telleth me it is not so in this case. For the glory of God hath it been that our Master was not there; else they that seek to slay Him, or to entangle Him in His talk, would speak of some bedazzlement or trickery. So much the Lord doth love Lazarus that, had He seen him sick, for very love He would have restored him, but now that he hath lain in the grave three days, surely the world will believe, if He do bring him back to life."
"'T is difficult to believe," said Thomas; "for study hath given to each argument an answer."
​"Study hath given no answer for bringing back the dead," said Peter, cynically; "yet I would my Lord did not return to Bethany, for I fear the Jews: This death of Lazarus the ruler doth make them bold, and Nicodemus was ever an unstable reed, drawn hither and thither by divers doctrines."
At that moment one of the disciples threw another log on the fire, and a flame leapt up, making visible the dark foliage of the fig trees, and lighting with a thousand glancings the damp rocks behind.
There, in the midst of them, illumined by other lights than earthly ones, stood motionless the Nazarene; and, as if in answer to their wonderments, He murmured, in His sweet, sad voice: "Lazarus is dead."
"He hath seen Martha," said one, "for I was told that she was near here this eve."
"Tut, the Lord needeth none to tell Him," said another.
Then the sweet, murmuring voice went on: "And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe. Nevertheless, let us go to him."
All sprang to their feet at the Lord's command. Doubtless He would start on His way at night, in order to reach Bethany before daybreak; and Thomas, believing in His power to restore, but not in His power to save them, yet full of undying love, turned to his fellow-disciples and addressed them.
"Let us also go, that we may die with Him," he counselled.
Then, falling down at Jesus' feet, they murmured: "We will follow Thee wheresoever Thou goest, and we will die with Thee."
​And the earnest, loving voice made answer: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
It had been happy, that home at Bethany, on which such grief had fallen. Separated from their father, Simon, by the laws of the country, by reason of his leprosy, they yet nurtured great affection for him, and often visited him.
Martha and Mary, united by the common grief of widowhood, had agreed to share the house in Bethany, and to make a home for their younger brother, Lazarus, a man whose learning and integrity had earned for him the place of youngest ruler of the Synagogue. They represented in the Jewish people a type of persons that, before and since, has been found in every place, in every country namely, a quiet, God-fearing family, who, from the very discretion of their acts, brought no comment and no interference on themselves.
From their earliest youth they had been trained to follow, not so much the laws of the High Priest as the ancient commandments of Moses; and, till their father had been struck with sudden leprosy for having, in a fit of drunkenness, blasphemed, they had merely led moral, orthodox lives according to the Jewish tenets, without concerning themselves with any special sect or doctrine. It was only when this swift visitation came upon them, with its awful certainty and rapid judgment, followed by the compulsory alienation from the home, and later, when the sorrow of widowhood was added, that their thoughts, pressed back into the purifying furnaces of ​grief and solitude, began to turn to things divine. Rigidly brought up in strict morality, devoted to their parents, they had to witness the death of their mother, through grief at the disgrace wrought in the family by the plight of Simon. A horror of sin, if such were its results, had terrified them into submission to the divine will; but to Mary alone had been vouchsafed the revelation of the possibility of an inner life of love and devotion that depended neither on necessity nor fear—that true philosophy that comes of faith, that choosing of a good part which should not be taken away from her. Who can tell when her heart first burned within her? Perhaps abuses of the Jewish law had excited in her revolt at all that was not true. Perhaps the narrow-mindedness of Martha's views, or the love of luxury in which Lazarus had indulged; or, perhaps, the favour of the Lord. Who can tell what gave to Mary the loving heart of a little child who seeks but to be with the object loved, that trustfulness which Jesus had so often upheld in contrast to the self-righteousness of the self-seeking Pharisees? Doubtless it was in great measure due to the chastening influence of the griefs that she, in common with her brother and her sister, had endured; sorrow had drawn them to the Man of Sorrows. Who can apportion the quota of humanity in the Christ, or say how far He was constrained by cords of human sympathy and bands of human love? Sure, if the best emotions of humanity did not move Him as powerfully as they move mankind—yea, far more so—this Godhead were of none avail; for the will to love, to comfort, to redeem, could only come with absolute knowledge of man's ​feebleness. A Man of Sorrow and acquainted with grief—surely in that lies our greatest comfort,—who felt more keenly than all others and had more often to suffer the bitterness of desertion.
"Couldst thou not watch with Me one hour?" and the bursting soul, thirsting for human sympathy, not for the sake of comfort—for none but the Divine could comfort Him,—yearning for loving converse and companionship; longing to win souls to God; turned for refreshment to a family who, if still ignorant, desired to learn the truth. Little wonder if, in that time of superstition and disbelief among a priest-ridden populace, a family that sought to understand, and welcomed the Saviour of mankind, should find favour in the eyes of God and be honoured with the greatest miracle the world has ever known. Little wonder, too, that if they shared the privilege of His friendship, the participation of His mysteries, the comfort of His divine assurances, the manifestation of His power, they should also, later, share His humiliations, His scorn—nay, the threats of death, the persecutions that He had undergone. For when our Lord should have died and risen; when the thirst of vengeance of the priests and Pharisees should still remain unsatisfied, whetted, rather, by the lingerings of belief in the breasts of the Jews, who than Lazarus could be better fitted to carry on the witness of tradition; who be a better buffet for the faults of others; who more feared or more detested by the lovers of power than he who, by his very presence and his experience of death, could transmit to the world living proof of the power of the crucified Messiah?
​For his fleshly body to rise again would not be unmixed happiness. It would mean to have suffered the pains of death without entering into rest or peace or joy. It would mean the being made the witness of Christ's work on earth. It would mean a repetition of his sufferings, and, later, a second dissolution of the body; perhaps, also, a prolonging of existence beyond the ordinary span of life, and, therefore, extra suffering. It would mean, further, life made more intolerable by the knowledge of eternity and the impossibility of persuading men of what he knew. Above all, it would mean a greater responsibility as regards the daily actions of life—to him that seeth is the greater sin.
There must have been something infinitely sweet in the appearance of Lazarus; for when the Lord looked on him He loved him. The Nazarene, weary with infidelity, worn out by disbelief, distressed, perhaps (who knows?), that most of His followers were of the lower class, uneducated, and therefore the more obstinate in their superstitions, in their understanding the more obtuse; overwrought with the intricate controversies that the Pharisees had forced upon Him, hoping to entangle Him, had turned in very weariness towards the little children who stood about as though inspired with added hope by the fresh eagerness of their faces; as if to illustrate, by their meek trustingness, the only possible means of peace.
"Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." Who can tell the weariness of trying to force by controversy and argument the acceptance of a proposition that was so simple? "Verily I say ​unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein."
And He had taken them up in His arms and laid His hands upon them and blessed them.
Lazarus had stood near when the preceding words left the Saviour's lips. For months he had been following the Nazarene from place to place, thirsting for knowledge; yet for all he was a lawyer and a ruler of the Synagogue, unable to recognise the teaching of the Christ, unable to grasp the startling doctrines, to reconcile them with the teachings of his childhood and the surroundings of his daily life. He had heard the Nazarene pray, and he had prayed, but there had seemed a pall of unbelief upon his heart. Arguments, such as he had learnt in his legal profession (for almost every man that made any claim to position in those days was a lawyer), seemed ever to crop up. If this Man could save to the uttermost why did He not do so? If He really was all-powerful, what need to suffer and to toil and to preach? All the quibbles of unbelief, the torment of uncertainty, which is the world's greatest curse, which, since the world began, has raised its beguiling voice, like the voice of a siren, to lure men from the path of life; all the demons of despair, had torn at the heart of Lazarus ever since he had heard the preaching of the Nazarene; but the answer to his prayer had been coming, though he knew it not, coming, as it always does, by inward revelation, not as the result of argument. He had heard the chirping voices of the Jewish boys and girls as they clustered round the Christ, and he had approached to learn how Jesus spoke to the young.
​With the suddenness of a flash of lightning from above, and with infinite peace and infinite gratitude, his eyes had been opened; for the first time he had seen. For the first time in his life's dark gropings there had shone a little light.
"Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein."
Children, who argue not, who understand not, and yet who believe. At that moment he had realised the wondrous truth.
Christ's kingdom is not the creature of inductive reasoning; its being cannot be proved by argument.
Much that we see and hear is cruel, unjust, untrue. Nature alone is the witness of God, revelation alone that of the power of Christ. Miracles, prophecies, the law, the letter—what were these to unquestioning obedience, to devoted love, to trust in Christ? The one had nothing to do with the other. Theology was but a science built up on contradictions. If there was an all-powerful God, why were sin and misery and illness and injustice? Why were suffering millions only, after a short span, to die? Why did animals groan with the burdens of men? Why did He not reveal Himself in such a way as to exclude all unbelief and make eternity of damnation impossible? That is, that will be, to the world's end, the constant question, and only nature can give the answer. Since there is a world, and there are trees and flowers and times and seasons, for which thou canst not account—for canst thou bind the sweet influence of Pleiades or loose the bands of Orion?—since thou thyself art but helpless organism, albeit a being with a brain and a throbbing heart, that hath ​not love, nor mercy, nor understanding, stand undoubting and contemplate the works of a Creator. Thou canst but acknowledge Him; and if, in His mercy, He reveal to thee eternity, instead of leaving thee for endless years in gloom, in doubt, in trouble for thy future, welcome that revelation, and believe, as thou canst not but believe, for all thou canst not understand, and fall down and worship with thy soul and body that Being thou wilt never comprehend. For only God can comprehend God's nature. To grasp eternity thou must be eternal; to plumb the depth of sin thou must be spotless; to fathom love thou must be Christ; and since thou canst be none of these, be content to trust, to worship, to love that human God who hath placed Himself within thy grasp.
Such thoughts had come to Lazarus, and salvation had seemed, as it often seems to us, for a few moments a simple thing. But as the voices of the children had grown more faint and the Lord's image less distinct along the road, only a white gleam in the growing dusk of evening seeming to speak of the glory that was going by, it had seemed to him as if a spirit walked beside him muttering, the while, words of mistrust and doubt: "What if it should not be true? What if it is all a lie?"
The voice had sounded so distinct that Lazarus had turned quickly to see whether any one was there. Then, in his troubled vision, it had seemed as if two black wings had rustled away; but it might have been but the effect of clouds, or quivering evening shadows; yet, in very fear of losing the new faith, the young ruler of the Synagogue had ​murmured: "Satan, Satan, trouble me not, for I seek the Lord."
Then, filled with the terrors of the vision, if vision it were, and lest the Lord should disappear, he had cried out appealingly: "Lord, help me! Lord, help me!"
That is a cry that hath ever reached the Holy One. Full of His own meditations, sad and troubled as they were, the Lord had checked His steps. In the glowing gloom His white garments had seemed to gleam and His eyes to blaze like two burning coals; and as the glow in the western skies had illumined his features with its dying rays, Lazarus had thought he had never seen anything so radiantly glorious yet so solemn. Then, as the Lord had stretched out His arms towards him, His shadow had made a faint cross on the red sand behind. Then, as human sympathy springs into being one knows not how, Jesus, in whom it was as strong as His divinity, deigned to be drawn to the young ruler who thirsted so for knowledge, and who was so near to the truth; who, by his own effort, had thus prepared himself for revelation.
Seeing the young ruler approach, the disciples, who from respect to their Lord were walking apart from Him, lest they should raise the dust upon their Master, had moved on, as though to leave the two alone.
Then, kneeling down before that glorious image of a perfect Man who, without the added glory of angels or pomps or kingdoms, could, by the power of His own purity, force men into obeisance, Lazarus had cried out: "Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?"
​And, floating on the evening air, interwoven with the scent of flowers and cedar wood, had come the question: "Why callest thou Me good? there is none good but one, that is, God."
It was as if the voice had said, "Thou givest Me the attribute of God, yet believest not that I am He."
Then, knowing that He spoke to one well versed in the Mosaic Law, the Nazarene had gone on in a tone of pity, mingled with a little scorn—as though implying, "Hast thou not enough in thy religion to save thee that thou comest to Me?—"Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honour thy father and thy mother."
And then Lazarus, with tears almost in his voice, as though he feared the guidance to eternal life were not forthcoming, had replied: "Master, all these things have I observed from my youth."
Then Jesus had perceived that in this man there lacked one thing only. The love of Christ was in him. The wish to know the religion He came to preach, the sighing and longing after righteousness, the yearning for salvation, all these were his, but he was hampered by the luxury that incites to indolence, the love of comfort that fetters action. He was a philosophic dreamer only, and as so many are, believing, trusting, hoping, but hanging back, for fear of what he might lose of temporal wealth and earthly pleasures, perhaps of social position. And Jesus had known all this, and in His heart there had come a longing that this yearning soul should be one of ​those who followed Him. Beholding him, He had loved him, and with infinite pity and tenderness had made answer: "One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow Me."
A look of disappointment had come over the face of Lazarus. This was not what he had expected. He had expected some mystic word that would direct him straight to the eternal throne. He had known that he had led such a life, in regard to purity and uprightness, as the Nazarene preached; but this, to give up his possessions—for Lazarus was a rich man—this would mean ceasing to be a ruler of the Synagogue, a lawyer, and a great man in Bethany and Jerusalem. Was this then the spirit of a little child, to be the possessor of nothing, to look to the Father for everything?
Surely this thing was not so easy. A life of believing and uprightness, yes; but poverty? pitiful poverty, to a man who had worn purple robes and been greeted in the market place with the cry of Rabbi, Rabbi! Verily they said truly that this Man was but the God of the poor and of sinners and, grieving at the Messiah's words, wishing inwardly that the test of love had not been so severe, he had gone on his way, followed by the sad, sweet eyes of the Nazarene, yet with the words of Jesus deeply rooted in his mind. In the garden of the house, the garden in which his soul delighted, and which the Lord would have him to give up, he had seen Martha and Mary walking with arms entwined, watching the beauty of the dying day, while they waited for their ​brother's return before partaking of the evening meal. He had called out to them, and there had been that in his weary, anxious tone which had struck sadly on Mary's sympathetic ear.
Martha, at sight of her brother, had hurried into the house to see that all was in readiness for him, for she prided herself on naught so much as the well ordering of her household. But Mary had come to greet him, and, kissing him, had bade him come and be seated on the terrace. Although it was winter, the air was warm enough, the very slight chilliness only making it the clearer and adding ruddy gorgeousness to the flame-washed sky. From the terrace, which hung high above Jerusalem, was a lovely view of the city, and beneath lay the valley of the Jordan with the tall cypresses and cedar trees of the Wood of Ephraim filling in the gap. Here and there a star was beginning to twinkle; opal and pearly tints, then grey, like the breast of the turtle dove bathed in sapphire, were stealing slowly over primrose and carmine; the pale new moon was rising steadily, looking almost white, then turning golden with departing day. "Verily it is like twilight and dawn meeting together," had said Mary. Then, linking her arm in his, she had murmured gently: "Hast thou seen the Lord to-day?" Then, at sight of the pained look on his face, she had murmured softly: "Art tired, Lazarus? Rest thee and speak not."
Surely this woman was beloved by the Lord, for she represented the very essence of sympathy, which, only in that house, He had found in its veriest perfection. And Lazarus had answered wearily: "I ​have seen Him, Mary, I have entreated Him this day, but He hath asked too much of me. Mary, I cannot do as He would have me."
And overwrought with weariness of soul and body, already attacked by the fever which was soon to bring about his death, Lazarus had laid his head on the marble supports of the seat and sobbed like a little child. And Mary, wondering truly, but loath to ask, had clasped him to her bosom and let him sob out his heart there in the solitude and darkness of the garden he was so soon to leave. Then, in the growing darkness, she had raised her eyes inquiringly to the pale lamps of heaven and, with tears pouring down her cheeks, had sought for words with which to calm the troubled soul of the dear brother; and softly, like one who soothes an ailing child, she had murmured the words that had come uppermost: "Seek the Lord, and ye shall find Him. Knock, and it shall be opened unto you." And, as if in answer to her words and to the unuttered prayers that struggled in the heart of each, a voice had called with yearning, "Lazarus, Lazarus!"
And from the deepening shadows, standing with feet that gleamed brightly on the dew-bathed turf, had appeared the form divine of the Nazarene.
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