The Syrian Christ

I

JESUS CHRIST, the incarnation of the spirit of God, seer, teacher of the verities of the spiritual life, and preacher of the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man, is, in a higher sense, ‘a man without a country.’ As a prophet and a seer Jesus belongs to all races and all ages. Wherever the minds of men respond to simple truth, wherever the hearts of men thrill with pure love, wherever a temple of religion is dedicated to the worship of God and the service of man, there is Jesus’ country and there are his friends. Therefore, in speaking of Jesus as the son of a certain country, I do not mean in the least to localize his Gospel, or to set bounds and limits to the flow of his spirit and the workings of his love.

Nor is it my aim in these papers to imitate the astute theologians by wrestling with the problem of Jesus’ personality. To me the secret of personality, human and divine, is an impenetrable mystery. My more modest purpose in this writing is to remind the reader that, whatever else Jesus was, as regards his modes of thought and life and his method of teaching, he was a Syrian of the Syrians. According to authentic history Jesus never saw any other country than Palestine. There he was born; there he grew up to manhood, taught his Gospel, and died for it.

It is most natural, then, that Gospel truths should have come down to the succeeding generations — and to the nations of the West — cast in Oriental moulds of thought, and intimately intermingled with the simple domestic and social habits of Syria. The gold of the Gospel carries with it the sand and dust of its original home.

From the foregoing, therefore, it may be seen that my reason for undertaking to throw fresh light on the life and teachings of Christ, and other portions of the Bible whose correct understanding depends on accurate knowledge of their original environment, is not any claim on my part to great learning or a profound insight into the spiritual mysteries of the Gospel. The real reason is rather an accident of birth. From the fact that I was born not far from where the Master was born, and brought up under almost the identical conditions under which he lived, I have an ’inside view ’ of the Bible which, by the nature of things, a Westerner cannot have. I know this, not from the study of the mutilated tablets of the archæologist and the antiquarian, precious as such discoveries are, but from the simple fact that as a sojourner in this Western world, whenever I open my Bible it reads like a letter from home.

Its unrestrained effusiveness of expression; its vivid, almost flashy and fantastic imagery; its naïve narrations; the rugged unstudied simplicity of its parables; its unconventional (and to the more modest West rather unseemly) portrayal of certain human relations; as well as its all-permeating spiritual mysticism, — so far as these qualities are concerned, the Bible might all have been written in my primitive village home, on the western slopes of Mount Lebanon some thirty years ago.¹

You cannot study the life of a people successfully from the outside. You may by so doing succeed in discerning the few fundamental traits of character in their local colors, and in satisfying your curiosity with surface observations of the general modes of behavior; but the little things, the common things, those subtle connectives in the social vocabulary of a people, those agencies which are born and not made, and which give a race its rich distinctiveness, are bound to elude your grasp. Social life, like biological life, energizes from within, and from within it must be studied.

And it is those common things of Syrian life, so indissolubly interwoven with the spiritual truths of the Bible, which cause the Western readers of holy writ to stumble, and which rob those truths for them of much of their richness. By sheer force of genius, the aggressive, systematic Anglo-Saxon mind seeks to press into logical unity and creedal uniformity those undesigned, artless, and most natural manifestations of Oriental life, in order to ‘understand the scriptures.’

‘Yet show I unto you a more excellent way,’ by personally conducting you into the inner chambers of Syrian life, and showing you, if I can, how simple it is for a humble fellow countryman of Christ to understand those social phases of the scriptural passages which so greatly puzzle the august minds of the West.

II

In the Gospel story of Jesus’ life there is not a single incident that is not in perfect harmony with the prevailing modes of thought and the current speech of the land of its origin. I do not know how many times I heard it stated in my native land and at our own fireside that heavenly messengers in the forms of patron saints or angels came to pious, childless wives, in dreams and visions, and cheered them with the promise of maternity. It was nothing uncommon for such women to spend a whole night in a shrine ‘wrestling in prayer,’ either with the blessed Virgin or some other saint, for such a divine assurance; and I remember a few of my own kindred to have done so.

In a most literal sense we always understood the saying of the psalmist, ‘Children are a heritage from the Lord.' Above and beyond all natural agencies, it was He who turned barrenness to fecundity and worked the miracle of birth. To us every birth was miraculous, and childlessness an evidence of divine disfavor. From this it may be inferred how tenderly and reverently agreeable to the Syrian ear is the angel’s salutation to Mary, ‘Hail, thou that art highly favored, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women! — Behold thou shalt conceive in thy womb and bring forth a son.’

A miracle? Yes. But a miracle means one thing to your Western science, which seeks to know what nature is and does by dealing with secondary causes, and quite another thing to an Oriental, to whom God’s will is the law and gospel of nature. In times of intellectual trouble this man takes refuge in his all-embracing faith, — the faith that to God all things are possible.

1 I do not mean to assert or even to imply that the Western world has never succeeded in knowing the mind of Christ. Such an assertion would do violent injustice, not only to the Occidental mind, but to the Gospel itself as well, by making it an enigma, utterly foreign to the native spirituality of the majority of mankind. But what I have learned from intimate associations with the Western mind, during almost a score of years in the American pulpit, is that, with the exception of the few specialists, it is extremely difficult, if not impossible, for a people to understand fully a literature which has not sprung from that people’s own racial life. — THE AUTHOR.

The Oriental does not try to meet an assault upon his belief in miracles by seeking to establish the historicity of concrete reports of miracles. His poetical, mystical temperament seeks its ends in another way. Relying upon his fundamental faith in the omnipotence of God, he throws the burden of proof upon his assailant by challenging him to substantiate his denial of the miracles. So did Paul (in the twenty-sixth chapter of the Book of Acts) put his opponents at a great disadvantage by asking, ‘Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead?’

But the story of Jesus’ birth and kindred Bible records disclose not only the predisposition of the Syrian mind to accept miracles as divine acts, without critical examination, but also its attitude toward conception and birth, — an attitude which differs fundamentally from that of the Anglo-Saxon mind. With the feeling of one who has been reminded of having ignorantly committed an improper act, I remember the time when kind American friends admonished me not to read from the pulpit such scriptural passages as detailed the accounts of conception and birth, but only to allude to them in a general way. I learned in a very short time to obey the kindly advice, but it was a long time before I could swing my psychology around and understand why in America such narratives were so greatly modified in transmission.

The very fact that such stories are found in the Bible shows that in my native land no such sifting of these narratives is ever undertaken when they are read to the people. From childhood I had been accustomed to hear them read at our church, related at the fireside, and discussed reverently by men and women at all times and places. There is nothing in the phraseology of such statements which is not in perfect harmony with the common, everyday speech of my people.

To the Syrians, as I say, ‘children are a heritage from the Lord.’ From the days of Israel to the present time, barrenness has been looked upon as a sign of divine disfavor, an intolerable calamity. Rachel’s cry, ‘Give me children, or else I die,’ does not exaggerate the agony of a childless Syrian wife. When Rececca was about to depart from her father’s house to become Isaac’s wife, her mother’s ardent and effusively expressed wish for her was,

‘ Be thou the mother of thousands, of millions.’ This mother’s last message to her daughter was not spoken in a corner. I can see her following the bride to the door, lifting her open palms and turning her face toward heaven, and making her affectionate petition in the hearing of the multitude of guests, who must have echoed her words in chorus.

In the congratulations of guests at a marriage feast the central wish for the bridegroom and bride is invariably thus expressed: ‘ May you be happy, live long, and have many children!’ And what contrasts very sharply with the American reticence in such matters is the fact that shortly after the wedding, the friends of the young couple, both men and women, begin to ask them about their ‘prospects’ for an heir. No more does a prospective mother undertake in any way to disguise the signs of the approaching event, than an American lady to conceal her engagement ring. Much mirth is enjoyed in such cases, also, when friends and neighbors, by consulting the stars, or computing the number of letters in the names of the parents and the month in which the miracle of conception is supposed to have occurred, undertake to foretell whether the promised offspring will be a son or a daughter. In that part of the country where I was brought up, such wise prognosticators believed, and made us all believe, that if the calculations resulted in an odd number the birth would be a son, but if in an even number, a daughter, which, as a rule, is not considered so desirable.

Back of all these social traits and beyond the free realism of the Syrian in speaking of conception and birth, lies a deeper fact. To Eastern peoples, especially the Semites, reproduction in all the world of life is profoundly sacred. It is God’s life reproducing itself in the life of man and in the living world below man; therefore the evidences of this reproduction should be looked upon and spoken of with rejoicing.

Notwithstanding the many and fundamental intellectual changes which I have undergone in this country of my adoption, I count as among the most precious memories of my childhood my going with my father to the vineyard, just as the vines began to ‘come out,’ and hearing him say as he touched the swelling buds, ’Blessed be the Creator. He is the Supreme Giver. May He protect the blessed increase.' Of this I almost always think when I read the words of the psalmist, ‘The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof!’

Now I do not feel at all inclined to say whether the undisguised realism of the Orientals in speaking of reproduction is better than the delicate reserve of the Anglo-Saxons. In fact I have been so reconstructed under AngloSaxon auspices as to feel that the excessive reserve of this race with regard to such things is not a serious fault, but rather the defect of a great virtue. My purpose is to show that the unreconstructed Oriental, to whom reproduction is the most sublime manifestation of God’s life, cannot see why one should be ashamed to speak anywhere in the world of the fruits of wedlock, of a ‘ woman with child.’ One might as well be ashamed to speak of the creative power as it reveals itself in the gardens of roses and the fruiting trees.

Here we have the background of the stories of Sarah, when the angel-guest prophesied fecundity for her in her old age; of Robecca, and the wish of her mother for her, that she might become ‘the mother of thousands’; of Elizabeth, when the ‘babe leaped in her womb,’ as she saw her cousin Mary; and of the declaration of the angel to Joseph’s spouse, ‘Thou shalt conceive in thy womb and bring forth a son.’

Here it is explained, also, why upon the birth of a ‘man-child,’ well-wishers troop into the house, — even on the very day of birth, — bring their presents, and congratulate the parents on the divine gift to them. It was because of this custom that those strangers, the three ‘Wise Men’ and Magi of the Far East, were permitted to come in and see the little Galilean family, while the mother was yet in childbed. So runs the Gospel narrative: ‘And when they were come into the house, 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, frankincense, and myrrh.’

So also were the humble shepherds privileged to see the wondrous child shortly after birth. ‘And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, “Let us now go to Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.” And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph and the babe lying in a manger.’

In the twelfth verse of the second chapter of the Gospel of Saint Luke, the English version says, ‘And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ Here the word clothes is somewhat misleading. The Arabic version gives a perfect rendering of the fact by saying, ‘Ye shall find a swaddled babe, laid in a manger.’

According to general Syrian custom, in earliest infancy a child is not really clothed, it is only swaddled. Upon birth the infant is washed in tepid water by the midwife, then salted, or rubbed gently with salt pulverized in a stone mortar especially for the occasion. (The salt commonly used in Syrian homes is coarse-chipped.) Next the babe is sprinkled with rehan, — a powder made of dried myrtle leaves, — and then swaddled.

The swaddle is a piece of stout cloth about a yard square, to one corner of which is attached a long narrow band. The infant, with its arms pressed close to its sides, and its feet stretched full length and laid close together, is wrapped in the swaddle, and the narrow band wound around the little body, from the shoulders to the ankles, giving the little one the exact appearance of an Egyptian mummy. Only a few of the good things of this mortal life were more pleasant to me when I was a boy than to carry in my arms a swaddled babe. The ‘salted’ and ‘peppered’ little creature felt so soft and so light, and was so appealingly helpless, that to cuddle it was to me an unspeakable benediction.

Such was the ‘babe of Bethlehem’ that was sought by the wise men and the shepherds in the wondrous story of the Nativity.

And in describing such Oriental customs it may be significant to point out that, in certain localities in Syria, to say to a person that he was not ‘ salted’ upon birth is to invite trouble. Only a bendûq, or the child of an unrecognized father, is so neglected. And here may be realized the full meaning of that terrible arraignment of Jerusalem in the sixteenth chapter of the Book of Ezekiel. The Holy City had done iniquity, and therefore ceased to be the legitimate daughter of Jehovah. So the prophet cries, ‘The Lord came unto me, saying, “Son of man, cause Jerusalem to know her abominations, and say, Thus saith the Lord God unto Jerusalem; Thy birth and thy nativity are of the land of Canaan; thy father was an Amorite, and thy mother a Hittite. And as for thy nativity, in the day thou wast born — neither wast thou washed in water to supple1 thee; thou wast not salted at all, nor swaddled at all. No eye pitied thee, to do any of these things for thee, to have compassion upon thee; but thou wast cast out in the open field, to the loathing of thy person, in the day thou wast born.” ’

III

And how natural to the thought of the East the story of the ‘star’ is! To the Orientals ‘ the heavens declare the glory of God,’ and the stars reveal many wondrous things to men. They are the messengers of good and evil, and objects of the loftiest idealization, as well as of the crudest superstitions.

I was brought up to believe that every human being had a star in heaven which held the secret of his destiny and which watched over him wherever he went. In speaking of an amiable person it is said, ‘His star is attractive ’ (nejmo jeddeeb). Persons love one another when ‘ their stars are in harmony.’ A person is in unfavorable circumstances when his star is in the sphere of ‘ misfortune ’ (nehiss), and so forth. The stars indicated the time to us when we were traveling by night, marked the seasons, and thus fulfilled their Creator’s purpose by serving ‘ for signs, and for seasons, and for days and years.’

In every community we had ‘stargazers’ who could tell each person’s star. We placed much confidence in such mysterious men, who could ‘arrest’ an absent person’s star in its course and learn from it whether it was well or ill with the absent one.

Like a remote dream, it comes to me that as a child of about ten I went out one night with my mother to seek a ‘star-gazer’ to locate my father’s star and question the shining orb about him. My father had been away from home for some time, and owing to the meagreness of the means of communication in that country, especially in those days, we had no news of him at all. During that afternoon my mother said that she felt ‘heavy-hearted’ for no reason that she knew; therefore she feared that some ill must have befallen the head of our household, and sought to ‘know’ whether her fear was well grounded. The ‘star-arrester,’ leaning against an aged mulberry tree, turned his eyes toward the stellar world, while his lips moved rapidly and silently as if he were repeating words of awful import. Presently he said, ‘I see him. He is sitting on a cushion, leaning against the wall and smoking his narghile, There are others with him, and he is in his usual health.’ The man took pains to point out the ‘star’ to my mother, who, after much sympathetic effort, felt constrained to say that she did see what the star-gazer claimed he saw. But at any rate, mother declared that she was no longer ‘ heavy-hearted.’

In my most keen eagerness to see my father and his narghile in the star, at least for mere intellectual delight, I clung to the arm of the reader of the heavens like a frightened kitten, and insisted upon ‘seeing.’ The harder he tried to shake me off, the deeper did my organs of apprehension sink into his sleeve. At last the combined efforts of my mother and the heir of the ancient astrologers forced me to believe that I was ‘too young to behold such sights.’

It was the excessive leaning of his people upon such practices that led Isaiah to cry, ‘Thou art wearied in the multitude of thy counsels. Let now the astrologers, the star-gazers, the monthly prognosticators, stand up and save thee from these things that shall come upon thee. Behold, they shall be as stubble; the fire shall burn them; they shall not deliver themselves from the power of the flames.’

Beyond all such crudities, however, lies the sublime and sustaining belief that the stars are alive with God. The lofty strains of such scriptural passages as the nineteenth Psalm and the beautiful story of the star of Bethlehem, indicate that to the Oriental mind the ‘ hosts of heaven ’ are no mere masses of dust, but the agencies of the Creator’s might and love. So the narrative of the Nativity in our Gospel sublimates the beliefs of the Orientals about God’s purpose in those lights of the firmament, by making the guide of the Wise Men to the birthplace of the Prince of Peace a great star, whose pure and serene light symbolized the peace and holiness which, in the ‘ fullness of time,’ his kingdom shall bring upon the earth.

IV

Of Jesus’ life between the period spoken of in the narrative of the nativity and the time when he appeared on the banks of the Jordan, seeking to be baptized by John, the New Testament says nothing. One single incident only is mentioned. When twelve years old, the boy Jesus went with his parents on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. In this brief but significant record, of all the filial graces which Jesus must have possessed one only is mentioned in the second chapter of the Gospel of Luke, where it is stated that he went down to Nazareth with his parents ‘and was subject unto them.’

This seemingly casual remark is full of significance. With us in Syria, ta’at-el-walideen — obedience to parents — has always been youth’s crowning virtue. Individual initiative must not overstep the boundary line of this grace. Only in this way the patriarchal organization of the family can be kept intact. In my boyhood days in that romantic country, whenever my father took me with him on a ‘visit of homage’ to one of the lords of the land, the most fitting thing such a dignitary could do to me was to place his hand upon my head and say with characteristic condescension, ‘Bright boy, and no doubt obedient to your parents.’

The explanation of the origin of sin in the third chapter of Genesis touches the very heart of this matter. The writer ascribes the ‘fall of man,’ not to any act which was in itself really harmful, but to disobedience. Adam was commanded by his divine parent not to eat of the ‘tree of knowledge of good and evil’; but he did eat, and consequently became a stranger to the blessings of his original home.

This idea of filial obedience has been at once the strength and weakness of Orientals. In the absence of the restraining interests of a larger social life this patriarchal rule has preserved the cohesion of the domestic and clannish group, and thus safeguarded for the people their primitive virtues. On the other hand, it has served to extinguish the spirit of progress, and has thus made Oriental life a monotonous repetition of antiquated modes of thought.

And it was indeed a great blessing to the world when Jesus broke away from mere formal obedience to parents, in the Oriental sense of the word, and declared, ‘Whosoever shall do the will of my Father in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.’

V

Of Jesus’ public ministry and his characteristics as an Oriental teacher, I shall speak in later papers. The remainder of this article must be devoted to a portrayal of the closing scenes in his personal career. The events of the ‘upper room’ on Mount Zion, and of Gethsemane, are faithful photographs of striking characteristics of Syrian life.

The Last Supper was no isolated event in Syrian history. Its fraternal atmosphere, intimate associations, and sentimental intercourse are such as characterize every such gathering of Syrian friends, especially in the shadow of an approaching danger. From the simple ‘ table manners ’ up to that touch of sadness and idealism which the Master gave that meal, — bestowing upon it the sacrificial character that has been its propelling force through the ages, — I find nothing which is not in perfect harmony with what takes place on such occasions in my native land. The sacredness of the Last Supper is one of the emphatic examples of how Jesus’ life and words sanctified the commonest things of life. He was no inventor of new things, but a discoverer of the spiritual significance of things known to men to be ordinary.

The informal formalities of Oriental life are brimful of sentiment. The Oriental’s chief concern in matters of conduct is not the correctness of the technique, but the cordiality of the deed. To the Anglo-Saxon the Oriental appears to be perhaps too cordial, decidedly sentimental, and over-responsive to the social stimulus. To the Oriental, on the other hand, the Anglo-Saxon seems in danger of becoming an unemotional intellectualist.

Be that as it may, the Oriental is never afraid to ‘let himself go’ and to give free course to his feelings. The Bible in general, and such portions of it as the story of the Last Supper in particular, illustrate this phase of Oriental life.

In Syria, as a general rule, the men eat their fraternal feasts alone, as in the case of the Master and his disciples at the Last Supper, when, so far as the record goes, none of the women followers of Christ were present. They sit on the floor in something like a circle, and eat out of one or a few large, deep dishes. The food is lifted into the mouth, not with a fork or spoon, — except in the case of liquid food, — but with small ’shreds’ of thin bread. Even liquid food is sometimes ‘dipped up’ with pieces of bread formed like the bowl of a spoon. Here may be readily understood Jesus’ saying, ‘He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me.’

‘Now there was leaning on Jesus’ bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.’ The posture of the ‘beloved disciple,’ John, — so objectionable to Occidental taste, — is in perfect harmony with Syrian customs. How often have I seen men friends in such an attitude. There is not in it the slightest infringement of the rules of propriety; the act was as natural to us all as shaking hands. The practice is especially indulged in when intimate friends are about to part from one another, as on the eve of a journey, or when about to face a dangerous undertaking. They then sit with their heads leaning against each other, or the one’s head resting upon the other’s shoulder or breast.

They talk to one another in terms of unbounded intimacy and unrestrained affection. The expressions, ‘My brother,’ ‘My eyes,’ ‘My soul,’ ‘ My heart,’ and the like, form the life-centres of the conversation. ‘My life, my blood are for you; take the very sight of my eyes, if you will! ’ And lookers-on say admiringly, ‘Behold, how they love one another! By the name of the Most High, they are closer than brothers.’

Was it, therefore, strange that the Master, who knew the deepest secret of the divine life, and whose whole life was a living sacrifice, should say to his intimate friends, as he handed them the bread and the cup on that momentous night, ‘ Take, eat; this is my body ’; and ‘Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood ’ ? Here again the Nazarene charged the ordinary words of friendly intercourse with rare spiritual richness and made the common speech of his people express eternal realities.

The treachery of Judas is no more an Oriental than it is a human weakness. Traitors can claim neither racial nor national refuge. They are fugitives in the earth. But in the Judas episode is involved one of the most tender, most touching acts of Jesus’ whole life. To one familiar with the customs of the East, Jesus’ handing the ‘ sop’ to his betrayer was an act of surpassing beauty and significance. In all my life in America I have not heard a preacher interpret this simple deed, probably because of lack of knowledge of its meaning in Syrian social intercourse.

‘And when he had dipped the sop, he gave it to Judas Iscariot, the son of Simon.’ At Syrian feasts, especially in the region where Jesus lived, such sops are handed to those who stand and serve the guests with wine and water. But in a more significant manner those morsels are exchanged by friends. Choice bits of food are handed to friends by one another, as signs of close intimacy. It is never expected that any person would hand such a sop to one for whom he cherishes no friendship.

I can never contemplate this act in the Master’s story without thinking of ‘the love of Christ which passeth knowledge.’ To the one who carried in his mind and heart a murderous plot against the loving Master, Jesus handed the sop of friendship, the morsel which is never offered to an enemy. The rendering of the act in words is this: ‘Judas, my disciple, I have infinite pity for you. You have proved false, you have forsaken me in your heart; but I will not treat you as an enemy, for I have come, not to destroy, but to fulfill. Here is my sop of friendship, and “that thou doest, do quickly.”’

Apparently Jesus’ demeanor was so cordial and sympathetic that, as the evangelist tells us, ‘Now no man at the table knew for what intent he spoke this unto him. For some of them thought, because Judas had the bag, that Jesus had said unto him, “Buy those things that we have need of against the feast,”or that he should give something to the poor.’

Thus in this simple act of the Master, so rarely noticed by preachers, we have perhaps the finest practical example of ‘Love your enemies’ in the entire Gospel.

Is it therefore to be wondered at that in speaking of Judas, the writer of St. John’s gospel says, ‘And after the sop Satan entered into him ’ ? For, how can one who is a traitor at heart reach for the gift of true friendship without being transformed into the very spirit of treason?

Again, Judas’s treasonable kiss in Gethsemane was a perversion of an ancient, deeply cherished, and universally prevalent Syrian custom. In saluting one another, especially after having been separated for a time, men friends of the same social rank kiss one another on both cheeks, sometimes with very noisy profusion. When they are not of the same social rank, the inferior kisses the hand of the superior, while the latter at least pretends to kiss his dutiful friend upon the cheek. So David and Jonathan ‘kissed one another, until David exceeded.’ Paul’s command, ‘Salute one another with a holy kiss,’ so scrupulously disobeyed by Occidental Christians, is characteristically Oriental. As a child I always felt a profound reverential admiration for that unreserved outpouring of primitive affections, when strong men ‘fell upon one another’s neck’ and kissed, while the women’s eyes swam in tears of joy. The passionate, quick, and rhythmic exchange of affectionate words of salutation and kisses sounded, with perhaps a little less harmony, like an intermingling of vocal and instrumental music.

So Judas, when ‘forthwith he came to Jesus, and said, “Hail, Master,”and kissed him,’ invented no new sign by which to point Jesus out to the Roman soldiers, but employed an old custom for the consummation of an evil design. Just as Jesus glorified the common customs of his people by using them as instruments of love, so Judas degraded those very customs by wielding them as weapons of hate.

Perhaps nowhere else in the New Testament do the fundamental traits of the Oriental nature find so clear an expression as in this closing scene of the Master’s life. The Oriental’s dependence, to which the world owes the loftiest and tenderest scriptural passages, finds here its most glorious manifestations.

As I have already intimated, the Oriental is never afraid to ‘ let himself go,’ whether in joy or sorrow, and to give vent to his emotions. It is of the nature of the Anglo-Saxon to suffer in silence, and to kill when he must, with hardly a word of complaint upon his lips or a ripple of excitement on his face. He disdains asking for sympathy. His severely individualistic tendencies and spirit of endurance convince him that he is ‘able to take care of himself.’ During my early years in this country the reserve of Americans in times of sorrow and danger, as well as in times of joy, was to me not only amazing, but appalling. Not being as yet aware of their inward fire and intensity of feeling, held in check by a strong bulwark of calm calculation, as an unreconstructed Syrian I felt prone to doubt whether they had any emotions to speak of.

It is not my purpose here to undertake a comparative critical study of these opposing traits, but to state that, for good or evil, the Oriental is preëminently a man who craves sympathy, yearns openly and noisily for companionship, and seeks help and support outside himself. Whatever disadvantages this trait may involve, it has been the one supreme qualification that has made the Oriental the religious teacher of the whole world. It was his childlike dependence on God that gave birth to the twenty-third and fifty-first Psalms, and made the Lord’s Prayer the universal petition of Christendom. It was also this dependence on companionship, human and divine, which inspired the great commandments, ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbor as thyself.’

Now it is in the light of this fundamental Oriental trait that we must view Christ’s utterances at the Last Supper and in Gethsemane. The record tells us that while at the Supper he said to his disciples, ‘ With desire I have desired to eat this passover with you before I suffer,’ — or, as the marginal note has it, ‘I have heartily desired,’ and so forth, which brings it nearer the original text. Again, ‘He was troubled in spirit, and testified and said, ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.’ ‘This is my body . . . This is my blood . . . Do this in remembrance of me.’ We must seek the proper setting for these utterances, not merely in the upper room in Zion, but in the deepest tendencies of the Oriental mind.

And the climax is reached in the dark hour of Gethsemane, the hour of intense suffering, imploring need, and ultimate triumph in Jesus’ surrender to the Father’s will. How true to that demonstrative Oriental nature is the scriptural record, ‘And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.’

The faithful and touching realism of the record here is an example of the childlike responsiveness of the Syrian nature to feelings of sorrow, no less striking than the experience itself. It seems to me that if an Anglo-Saxon teacher in similar circumstances had ever allowed himself to agonize and to sweat ‘ as it were great drops of blood,’ his chronicler in describing the scene would have safeguarded the dignity of his race by simply saying that the distressed teacher was ‘visibly affected’!

The darkness deepened and the Master ‘took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy. Then saith he unto them, “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death; tarry ye here, and watch with me.” ’ Three times did the Great Teacher utter that matchless prayer, whose spirit of fear as well as of trust vindicates the doctrine of the humanity of God and the divinity of man as exemplified in the person of Christ: ‘O, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt!’

The sharp contrast between the Semitic and the Anglo-Saxon temperament has led some unfriendly critics of Christ to state very complacently and confidently that he ‘ simply broke down when the critical hour came.’ In this assertion I find a very pronounced misapprehension of the facts. If my knowledge of the traits of my own race is to be relied on, then in trying to meet this assertion I feel that I am entitled to the consideration of one who speaks with something resembling authority.

The simple fact is that while in Gethsemane, as indeed everywhere else throughout his ministry, Jesus was not in the position of one trying to “ play the hero.” His companions were his intimate earthly friends and his gracious heavenly Father, and to them he spoke as an Oriental would speak to those dear to him, — just as he felt, with not a shadow of show or sham. His words were not those of weakness and despair, but of confidence and affection. The love of his friends and the love of his Father in heaven were his to draw upon in his hour of trial, with not the slightest artificial reserve. How much better and happier this world would be if we all dealt with one another and with God in the warm, simple, and pure love of Christ!

As the life and words of Christ amply testify, the vision of the Oriental has been to teach mankind not science, logic, or jurisprudence, but a simple, loving, childlike faith in God. Therefore, before we can fully know our Master as the cosmopolitan Christ, we must first know him as the Syrian Christ.

[The title of Mr. Rihbany’s next paper will be £ Bread and Salt.’ — THE EDITORS.]