Let us also go, that we may die with him.- Joh_11:16.
The first scene in which he becomes prominent is the narrative of the raising of Lazarus from the dead.
1. There had been a commotion in the streets of Jerusalem. The transition of Jesus from the work of a reformer to the work of a theologian had produced also a transition in the feelings of the multitude. They passed at a bound from applause to reprobation. Goaded by the suggestion of heresy in His teaching, they assailed Him with stones. The majesty of Christ's presence saved Him-paralyzed the directness of their aim. Evading the fury of the populace, He retired into a secluded place, and for some time was visible only to His disciples. At last, to this desert spot came tidings of the death of Lazarus. Then Jesus resolved to return. The disciples were startled-on His account and their own. They were very unwilling to come into the vicinity of a place which had been so fraught with fear, so full of danger. Jesus, for His part, is determined. He says, “I go.” He does not ask anyone to accompany Him; He simply expresses His personal resolve. Then through the silence one man speaks out for the company-“Let us also go, that we may die with him.” It is the voice of Thomas.
I have always felt that is one of the greatest and noblest things any human being ever did say. You talk about the martyrs-well, the martyrs were noble people and they nobly died, but if you read the records of the martyrs you will find that they were often sustained wonderfully by their faith, and that in the act of martyrdom they were often so lifted up above the common and the material that the common and material things seemed hardly to touch them. If you know anything of the records of the martyrs, you will know that the very flames seemed warm and beautiful to them, that they saw the chariots and horses ready to take them away straight to heaven, and notwithstanding their courage there is a gladness of heart that lifts them up, and enables them to endure material pangs. Just as artists have delighted to depict Saint Sebastian stuck all over with arrows, and yet with a beatific smile on his face as if he were enjoying it. You find that continually in the history of the martyrs-they are elevated by their faith above the things they see. For religious faith Wesley's words are true:
Lo! to faith's enlightened sight,
All the mountain flames with light;
Hell is nigh, but God is nigher,
Circling us with hosts of fire.
But Thomas was not like that at all. He had no exaltation, or, as I think he would have put it, he suffered from no illusions. He simply saw the material things. He knew the jaws of death would devour him. He thought a stone was a stone, and that the stones would hurt and kill that would be flung at him. He took no rosy, optimistic, religious view of the scene. He simply saw all the crude material forces. It was a cruel death, and his flesh shrank from it. He was under no illusions, or, to put what I mean from the point of view of faith, which indeed is the true point of view, he had not the faith that exalted him above the material world, and made him realize the powers of the world to come. He saw death in all its hardness and cruelty and pain; and yet notwithstanding that he says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”1 [Note: J. E. Rattenbury, The Twelve, 197.]
2. Now that which the Lord Jesus expects is a service according to the measure of each man's capacity, a service according to the character and disposition of each disciple. He requires from each man his own service, not that of his brother. This He demands, and will be content with nothing less. We may be dullwitted, with no splendid vision breaking in upon our imagination, and yet may possess a clear sense of duty, a true knowledge of our appointed way, and the loyal devotion that is ready to follow Christ whithersoever He may lead, though it be into the midst of foes. Devoid of the impetuous outflow of love, such as Simon Peter knew, there are disciples of Christ, like Thomas, who in quiet, undemonstrative fidelity are prepared for the hardest lot this fidelity may bestow. There are some whose lives never rise above the common level, hardly reach thereto, they may think-men with limited capacities for service, with meagre intellectual and emotional endowments, whose labours never strike the imagination of their fellows, whose professions never thrill and move the multitude. They may hear voices that would undermine their faith, and see the gilded bait set to allure them from their service; they may be unduly despondent of themselves, of their fellows, and of the trend of things around them, and may exaggerate the perils and losses of their association with Christ, His Church, His Kingdom. Yet in their deepest heart there may dwell a quiet fervour of love that will be faithful unto death, a loyal devotion that only in the presence of peril asserts its full strength and nobility, as it says, in the spirit of consecration that moved St. Thomas, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”
Erasmus confessed that he was not constituted of the stuff of which martyrs are made, and many of us feel a similar misgiving concerning ourselves. But if we resolve to be on the Lord's side He will wonderfully strengthen and deliver. The goldencrested wren is one of the tiniest of birds; it is said to weigh only the fifth part of an ounce, and yet, on frailest pinions, it braves hurricanes and crosses northern seas. It often seems in nature as if Omnipotence worked best through frailest organisms; certainly the omnipotence of grace is seen to the greatest advantage in the trembling but resolute saint. Give me the spirit of those who are faithful unto death!1 [Note: W. L. Watkinson, The Gates of Dawn, 311.]
