VI. THE CASE OF PILATE-A WARNING AGAINST WE are unwilling to leave the subject of Pilate's character and conduct, without attempting to apply it more particularly and practically than we have yet done to ourselves. For there are many Pilates still among us; and many occasions on which the Lord Jesus, if not personally, yet as represented in his cause, his gospel, and his people, comes before them for trial and judgment. And it may be interesting and profitable to observe how far, in such circumstances, our modern Pilates follow the winding track of their sorely harassed and desperately hunted predecessor of old. Let us trace, then, a parallel case. Instead of Pilate, let us place on the bench an individual of the present day; and let each reader conceive that "he is the man." Jesus comes before you to be tried; and his adversaries, the world, the devil, and the flesh, press for a sentence of condemnation. In plain language, the claims of serious religion, or vital godliness, are pressed upon you in a form and with an urgency which you find it difficult to evade. You are called upon, in a manner more peremptory than usual, to decide between God and mammon. You are shut up to the necessity of choosing whom you will serve. This crisis may arise in a variety of ways-either in reference to the general question of your condition and character before God, or in reference to some particular point of practical detail which brings that question specially to an issue. all You are living, and you have been living, perhaps, your days, in a state of quiet and secure indifference; -satisfied with a respectable routine of religious forms and moral decencies, and giving yourselves little concern about any deeper movement of soul, such as some might consider necessary to your being enrolled among the true followers of the Lamb. You hear, indeed, of proceedings in certain quarters, and among a certain class, which seem to indicate a very different tone of religious feeling from any thing with which you are familiar. You hear and read of convictions and awakenings, of changes and conversions, of intense excitement, of extraordinary emotions both of joy and sorrow, of earnest meditation, of burning zeal of things, in short, which show that the question which you take so easily and settle so smoothly, is found by others to be more engrossing, more agitating, more spiritstirring. You regard these things, however, as a mere idler might listen to the strange news of revolutions in other lands, scarcely knowing what to make of them-scarcely caring to know; or, as Pilate, might superciliously catch some floating rumour ban died in his vacant court-circle, respecting Him who was creating such a work in Jerusalem. But something occurs to bring the matter home to you. Suddenly you find Jesus-the gospel or the cause of Jesus-standing before you. And who, or what, has brought him? Perhaps your own conscience, half awakened-or your worldly inclinations-your worldly lusts. These have taken the alarm. Jesus-the gospel or the cause of Jesus is interfering with your allegiance to the master whom they serve the world, or the prince of the world. This religion is like to be troublesome. It is advancing very high and paramount claims-claims, as these advisers would fain represent them to you, incompatible even with the just and lawful demands of this world's necessary business. On this plea and charge, these accusers these worldly lusts of yours-or, it may be, worldly companions flattering your lusts-virtually bring the religion of Jesus to your bar, and press you summarily to dispose of it. Like Pilate, perhaps, you would gladly enough avoid the necessity of taking up the case at all. You shrink from the question, and are shy of meddling with it— you would rather keep this whole matter at a distance. You have a sort of uncomfortable feeling that it does not lie quite in your way-that the discussion of it might not be altogether to your taste-and that, if you once entertained it, you might not easily get rid of it. But then, on the other hand, there is great importunity, not to be beaten off, in the demand made on you for a decision. At this stage, it may be an importunity all on one side. There may be no very urgent pleading, no very close striving, as yet, in favour of religion. The Lord may as yet be silent. But his enemies-your sins, and the world's vanities—are clamorous; for they have taken the alarm. They see that, if the high authority which religion claims is to be acknowledged, or even tolerated, it strikes at the root of their power; and this or the other darling attachment must be sacrificed-this or the other favourite indulgence must go. Therefore they press for your decision against that authority. It is true, they may not venture to avow their real motive and design—any more than the Jewish rulers ventured to do before Pilate. They did not tell Pilate that they wished to get rid of Jesus because he was destroying their influence and detecting their arts: that would have been too plain speaking. They went about the matter more warily-more wilily. And on the same principle, it might be too plain speaking in those lusts and pleasures which regard Jesus as their enemy, to let you understand at once what they would have; or to avow that they hate him because he condemns them. It is not thus that you are to be managed, and, if possible, "hardened through the deceitfulness of sin." No; these plausible Jewish hypocrites sink the offence against themselves, and are only anxious lest Cæsar's lawful power be touched. And so the plea still is, that Jesus and his cross-or rather, that Jesus and his crownwould threaten even what is lawful in this world-its lawful and necessary pursuits, or its lawful and necessary pleasures. Yes; the fear is, that these high and uncompromising views of Christ's authority, as so paramount and so holy, are carrying matters decidedly too far, and encroaching upon every other province, and engrossing and swallowing up all things. It is plain that, if this kind of religion is to prevail, the world is at a stand. Such is the charge which certain secret sins in the heart, or certain open flatterers in the world, towards whom you have a lurking bias, and who have gained an ascendency over you-certain solicitors with whom you are inclined to comply-certain habits which, almost for very necessity, you are fain to indulge— may be urging,—against that godliness which, as they are beginning to suspect, would reprove and denounce them. And they may be insisting on the plea importunately, in the hope that you may be at once persuaded to acquiesce in the accusation, and give sentence accordingly. I. Well, and what is the first step in the process? You have no great objection to do what is asked. You would willingly enough dispose of the whole matter by coming to the abrupt conclusion that this allegation against all serious religion-at least against a religion so so very serious as that in question-is substantially well founded; that it will not do for this world; that it does involve danger to the quiet and orderly course of this world; and that it must, therefore, be sacrificed. Thus you would decide-your sympathies and predilections, as yet, being all against such a religion. Your interest, as well as your inclination, leads you to leave unmolested those principles and passions opposed to religion, which, if you do not positively desire to gratify, you are, at any rate, not prepared to mortify and offend. But you cannot altogether evade the necessity of at least appearing to deliberate. You cannot quite drown |