Outspoken Essays

It is as a slave, not as an honoured help-mate, that the Social Democrats would treat any Christian body that helped them to overthrow our present civilisation. And rightly; for Christ's only injunction in the sphere of economics was, 'Take heed and beware of all covetousness,' He refused pointedly to have anything to do with disputes about the distribution of property; and in the parable of the Prodigal Son the demand, 'Give me the portion of goods that falleth to me,' is the prelude to a journey in that 'far country' which is forgetfulness of God (terra longinqua est oblivio Dei). Christ unquestionably meant His followers to think but little of the accessories of life. He believed that if men could be induced to adopt the true standard of values, economic relations would adjust themselves. He promised His disciples that they should not want the necessaries of subsistence, and for the rest, He held that the freedom from anxiety, covetousness, and envy, which He enjoined as a duty, would also make their life happy. This is a very different spirit from that which makes Socialism a force in politics.

Bishop Gore, we may be sure, will not willingly allow the High Church party to be entangled in corrupt alliances. When he handles what may be called applied Christianity, he does so in a manner which makes us rejoice at the popularity of his books. The little commentaries on the Sermon on the Mount, and on the Epistles to the Romans and Ephesians, are admirable. They are simple, practical, and profound. We subjoin a short analysis of the notes on the first part of the Sermon on the Mount, as an illustration of the teaching which runs all through the three commentaries.

From the later sections a few characteristic comments may be given in an abridged form.

These extracts will be sufficient to show what are the characteristics of these little commentaries. They exhibit extreme honesty of purpose, fearless acceptance of Christ's teaching honestly interpreted, scorn of unreality and empty words, and a determination never to allow preaching to be divorced from practice. No more stimulating Christian teaching has been given in our generation.

The valuable treatise on the Holy Communion, called 'The Body of Christ,' is too theological for detailed discussion in these pages. The points in which the Roman Church has perverted and degraded the really Catholic sacramental doctrine are forcibly exposed, and the true nature of the sacrament is unfolded in a masterly and beautiful manner.

A study of the whole body of theological writings from the pen of this remarkable man leaves us with the conviction that he is one of the most powerful spiritual forces in our generation. It is the more to be regretted that in certain points he seems to be hampered by false presuppositions and misled by unattainable ideals. His loyalty to 'Catholic truth,' as understood by the party in the Church to which he consents to belong, prevents him from understanding where the shoe really pinches among those of the younger generation who are both thoughtful and devout. He makes a fetish of the Creeds, documents which only represent the opinions of a majority at a meeting; and what manner of meetings Church Councils sometimes were, is known to history. He is still impressed with the grandeur of the Catholic idea, as embodied in the Roman Church, and will do nothing to preclude reunion, should a more enlightened policy ever prevail at the Vatican. But this country has done with the Roman Empire, in its spiritual as well as its temporal form. The dimensions of that proud dominion have shrunk with the expansion of knowledge; new worlds have been opened out, geographical and mental, which never owned its sway; the caput orbis has become provincial, and her authority is spurned even within her own borders. There is no likelihood of the English people ever again accepting 'Catholicism,' if Catholicism is the thing which history calls by that name. The movement which the Bishop hopes to lead to victory will remain, as it has been hitherto, a theory of the ministry rather than of the Church, and its strength will be confined, as it is now, mainly to clerical circles.

Catholicism and Protestantism (in so far as they are more than names for institutionalism and mysticism, which are permanent types) are both obsolescent phases in the evolution of the Christian religion. 'The time cometh when neither in this mountain nor yet at Jerusalem shall men worship the Father.'

A profound reconstruction is demanded, and for those who have eyes to see has been already for some time in progress. The new type of Christianity will be more Christian than the old, because it will be more moral. A number of unworthy beliefs about God are being tacitly dropped, and they are so treated because they are unworthy of Him. The realm of nature is being claimed for Him once more; the distinction between natural and supernatural is repudiated; we hear less frequent complaints that God 'does nothing' because He does not assert Himself by breaking one of His own laws. The divinity of Christ implies—one might almost say it means—the eternal supremacy of those moral qualities which He exhibited in their perfection. 'Conversio fit ad Dominum ut Spiritum,' as Bengel said. The visible or Catholic Church is not the name of an institution which has the privilege of being governed by bishops. It is 'dispersed throughout the whole world,' under many banners and many disguises. Its political reunion is (Plato would say) an ἑν μὑθω εὑχἡ, and is at present neither to be expected nor desired. Among those who are by right citizens of the spiritual kingdom, those only are in danger of exclusion from it who entrench themselves in a little fort of their own and erect barriers, which may make them their own prisoners, but which will not hinder the great commonwealth of seekers after truth from working out modern problems by modern lights, until the whole of our new and rich inheritance, intellectual, moral, and æsthetic, shall be brought again under the obedience of Christ.

ROMAN CATHOLIC MODERNISM

Beneath all the eddies which have broken the surface, the great stream has flowed on, and has flowed in one direction. The same logic of events which transformed the constitutional principate of Augustus into the sultanate of Diocletian and Valentinian, has brought about a parallel development in the Church which inherited the traditions, the policy, and the territorial sphere of the dead Empire. The second World-State which had its seat on the Seven Hills has followed closely in the footsteps of the first. It is not too fanciful to trace, as Harnack has done, the resemblance in detail—Peter and Paul in the place of Romulus and Remus; the bishops and arch-bishops instead of the proconsuls; the troops of priests and monks as the legionaries; while the Jesuits are the Imperial bodyguard, the protectors and sometimes the masters of the sovereign. One might carry the parallel further by comparing the schism between the Eastern and Western Churches, and the later defection of northern Europe, with the disruption of the Roman Empire in the fourth century; and in the sphere of thought, by comparing the scholastic philosophy and casuistry with the Summa of Roman law in the Digest.[50]

The fundamental principles of such a government are imposed upon it by necessity. In the first place, progressive centralisation, and the substitution of a graduated hierarchy for popular government, came about as inevitably in the Catholic Church as in the Mediterranean Empire of the Caesars. The primitive colleges of presbyters soon fell under the rule of the bishops, the bishops under the patriarchs; and then Rome suffered her first great defeat in losing the Eastern patriarchates, which she could not subjugate. The truncated Church, no longer 'universal,' found itself obliged to continue the same policy of centralisation, and with such success that, under Innocent III, the triumph of the theocracy seemed complete. The Papacy dominated Europe de facto, and claimed to rule the world de jure. Boniface VIII, when the clouds were already gathering, issued the famous Bull 'Unam sanctam,' in which he said: 'Subesse Romano pontifici omnes humanas creaturas declaramus, definimus, et pronuntiamus omnino esse de necessitate salutis.' The claim is logical. A theocracy (when religion is truly monotheistic)[51] must claim to be universal de jure; and its ruler must be the infallibly inspired and autocratic vicegerent of the Almighty. He is the rightful lord of the world, whether he gives a continent to the King of Spain by a stroke of the pen, or whether his secular jurisdiction is limited by the walls of his palace. In the fourteenth century the Pope is already called 'dominus deus noster'—precisely the style in which Martial adulates Domitian. In the Bull of Pius V (1570) the claim of universal dominion is reiterated; it is asserted that the Almighty,

But the final victory of infallibilism was the achievement of the nineteenth-century Jesuits, who completed the dogmatic apotheosis of the Pope at the moment when the last vestiges of his temporal power were being snatched from him.

Now a government of this type is always in want of money. The spiritual Roman Empire was as costly an institution as the court and the bureaucracy of Diocletian and his successors. The same necessity which suppressed democracy in the Church drove it to elaborate an oppressive system of taxation, in which every weakness of human nature was systematically exploited for gain, and every morsel of divine grace placed on a tariff. But this method of raising revenue is only possible while the priests can persuade the people that they really control a treasury of grace, from which they can make or withhold grants at their pleasure. It stands or falls with a non-ethical and magical view of the divine economy which is hardly compatible with a high level of culture or morality. The Catholic Church has thus been obliged, for purely fiscal reasons, to discourage secular education, particularly of a scientific kind, and to keep the people, so far as possible, in the mental and moral condition most favourable to such transactions as the purchase of indulgences and the payment of various insurances against hell and purgatory.

Another necessity of absolute government is the repression of free criticism directed against itself. Heresy and schism in an autocratic Church take the place of treason against the sovereign. Cyprian, in the third century, had already laid down the principles by which alone the central authority could be maintained.

Schismatics are therefore rebels, whose lives are forfeit under the laws of treason. Heretics are in no better case; for the Church is the only infallible interpreter both of Scripture and of tradition; and to differ from her teaching is as disloyal as to secede from her jurisdiction. Even Augustine could say, 'I should not believe the Gospel, if the authority of the Church did not determine me to do so'; a statement which a modern ultra-montane has capped by saying, 'Without the authority of the Pope, I should not place the Bible higher than the Koran.' Bellarmine claims an absolute monopoly of inspiration for the Roman Church on the ground that Rome alone has preserved the apostolic succession beyond dispute.[52] As for the treatment which heretics deserve, the same authority is very explicit.

In all matters which are not essential for the safety of the autocracy, an absolutist Church will consult the average tastes of its subjects. If the populace are at heart pagan, and hanker after sensuous ritual, dramatic magic, and a rich mythology, these must be provided. The 'intellectuals,' being few and weak, may be safely rebuffed or disregarded until their discoveries are thoroughly popularised. The pronouncements of the Roman Inquisition in the case of Galileo are typical.

The exigencies of despotic government thus supply the key to the whole policy and history of the Papacy. 'The worst form of State' can only be bolstered up by the worst form of government. There should therefore be no difficulty in distinguishing between the official policy of the Roman See—which has been almost uniformly odious—and the history of the Christian religion in the Latin countries, which has added new lustre to human nature. The Catholic saints did not fly through the air, nor were their hearts pierced with supernatural darts, as the mendacious hagiology of their Church would have us believe; but they have a better title to be remembered by mankind, as the best examples of a beautiful and precious kind of human excellence.

The papal autocracy has now reached its Byzantine period of decadence. During the Middle Ages Catholicism suited the Latin races very well on the whole. Their ancestral paganism was allowed to remain substantially unchanged—the nomina, but not the numina were altered; their awe and reverence for the caput orbis, ingrained in the populations of Europe by the history of a thousand years, made submission to Rome natural and easy; a host of myths 'abounding in points of attachment to human experience and in genial interpretations of life, yet lifted beyond visible nature and filling a reported world believed in on faith,'[54] adorned religion with an artistic and poetical embroidery very congenial to the nations of the South. But a monarchy essentially Oriental in its constitution is unsuited to modern Europe. Its whole scheme is based on keeping the laity in contented ignorance and subservience; and the laity have emancipated themselves The Teutonic nations broke the yoke as soon as they attained a national self-consciousness. They escaped from a system which had educated, but never suited them. Nor has the shrinkage been merely territorial. The Pyrrhic victories over Gallicanism, Jansenism, Catholic democracy (Lamennais), historical theology (Döllinger and the Old Catholics), each alienated a section of thinking men in the Catholic countries. The Roman Church can no longer be called Catholic, except in the sense in which the kingdom of Francis II remained the Holy Roman Empire. It is an exclusive sect, which preserves much more political power than its numbers entitle it to exert, by means of its excellent discipline, and by the sinister policy of fomenting political disaffection. Examples of this last are furnished by the contemporary history of Ireland, of France, and of Poland.

These considerations are of primary importance when we try to answer the questions: To what extent is the Roman Church fettered by her own past? Is there any insuperable obstacle to a modification of policy which might give her a new lease of life? We have seen how much importance is attached to the Church's title-deeds. Is tradition a fatal obstacle to reform? Theoretically, the tradition which she traces back to the apostles gives her a fixed constitution. So the Catholic Church has always maintained. 'Regula quidem fidei una omnino est, sola immobilis et irreformabilis.'[55] The rule of faith may be better understood by a later age than an earlier, but there can be no additions, only a sort of unpacking of a treasure which was given whole and entire in the first century. In reality, of course, there has been a steady evolution in conformity to type, the type being not the 'little flock' of Christ or the Church of the Apostles, but the absolute monarchy above described. It has long been the crux of Catholic apologetics to reconcile the theoretical immobility of dogma with the actual facts.

The older method was to rewrite history. It was convenient, for example, to forget that Pope Honorius I had been anathematised by three ecumenical councils. The forged Decretals gave a more positive sanction to absolutist claims; and interpolations in the Greek Fathers deceived St. Thomas Aquinas into giving his powerful authority to infallibilism. This method cannot be called obsolete, for the present Pope recently informed the faithful that 'the Hebrew patriarchs were familiar with the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, and found consolation in the thought of Mary in the solemn moments of their life.'[56] But such simple devices are hardly practicable in an age when history is scientifically studied. Moreover, other considerations, besides controversial straits, have suggested a new theory of tradition. A Cæsar who, like the kings of the Medes and Persians, is bound by the laws of his predecessors, is not absolute. Acceptance of the theory of development in dogma would relieve the Pope from the weight of the dead hand.

The new apologetic is generally said to have been inaugurated by Cardinal Newman. His work 'The Development of Christian Doctrine,' is no doubt an epoch-making book, though the idea of tradition as the product of the living spirit of a religious society, preserving its moral identity while expressing itself, from time to time, in new forms, was already familiar to readers of Schleiermacher. Newman gives us several 'tests' of true development. These are—preservation of type; continuity of principles; power of assimilation; logical sequence; anticipation of results; tendency to conserve the old; chronic vigour. These tests, he considered, differentiate the Roman Church from all other Christian bodies, and prove its superiority. The Church has its own genius, which yes and works in it. This is indeed the Holy Spirit of God, promised by Jesus Christ. Through the operation of this spirit, old things become new, and fresh light is shed from the sacred pages of Scripture. Catholic tradition is, in fact, the glorified but ever-present Christ Himself, reincarnating Himself, generation after generation, in the historical Church. It is unnecessary to enquire whether there is apostolic authority for every new dogma, for the Church is the mouthpiece of the living Christ.

This theory marks, on one side, the complete and final apotheosis of the Pope and the hierarchy, who are thereby made independent even of the past history of the Church. Pius IX was not slow to realise that the only court of appeal against his decisions was closed in 1870. 'La tradizione sono io,' he said, in the manner of Louis XIV. The Pope is henceforth not the interpreter of a closed cycle of tradition, but the pilot who guides its course always in the direction of the truth. This is to destroy the old doctrine of tradition. The Church becomes the source of revelation instead of its custodian. On the other side, it is a perilous concession to modern ideas. There is an obvious danger that, as the result of this doctrine, the dogmas of the Church may seem to have only a relative and provisional truth; for, if each pronouncement were absolutely true, there would be no real development, and the appearance of it in history would become inexplicable.

This new and, in appearance, more liberal attitude towards modern ideas of progress has raised the hopes of many in the Roman Church whose minds and consciences are troubled by the ever-widening chasm which separates traditional dogma from secular knowledge. While dogma was stationary—immobilis et irreformabilis—there seemed to be no prospect except that the progress of human knowledge would leave theology further and further behind, till the rupture between Catholicism and civilisation became absolute. The idea that the Church would ever modify her teaching to bring it into harmony with modern science seemed utterly chimerical. But if the static theory of revelation is abandoned, and a dynamic theory substituted for it; if the divine part of Christianity resides, not in the theoretical formulations of revealed fact, but in the living and energising spirit of the Church; why should not dogmatic theology become elastic, changing periodically in correspondence with the development of human knowledge, and no longer stand in irreconcilable contradiction with the ascertained laws of nature?

Thus the dethronement of tradition by the Pope contributed to make the Modernist movement possible. The Modernists have even claimed Newman as on their side. This appeal cannot be sustained. 'The Development of Christian Doctrine' is mainly a polemic against the high Anglican position, and an answer to attacks upon Roman Catholicism from this side. Anglicanism at that time had committed itself to a thoroughly stationary view of revelation. Its 'appeal to antiquity'—a period which, in accordance with a convenient theory, it limited to the councils of the 'undivided Church'—was intended to prove the catholicity and orthodoxy of the English Church, as the faithful guardian of apostolic tradition, and to condemn the medieval and modern accretions sanctioned by the Church of Rome. The earlier theory of tradition left the Roman Church open to damaging criticism on this side; no ingenuity could prove that all her doctrines were 'primitive.' Even in those early days of historical criticism, it must have been plain to any candid student of Christian 'origins' that the Pauline Churches were far more Protestant than Catholic in type. But Newman had set himself to prove that 'the Christianity of history is not Protestantism; if ever there were a safe truth, it is this,' Accordingly, he argues that 'Christianity came into the world as an idea rather than an institution, and had to fit itself with armour of its own providing.' Such expressions sound very like the arguments of the Modernists; but Newman assuredly never contemplated that they would be turned against the policy of his own Church, in the interests of the critical rationalism which he abhorred. His attitude towards dogma is after all not very different from that of the older school. 'Time was needed' (he says) 'for the elucidation of doctrines communicated once for all through inspired persons'; his examples are purgatory and the papal supremacy. He insists that his 'tests' of true development are only controversial, 'instruments rather than warrants of right decisions.' The only real 'warrant' is the authority of the infallible Church. It is highly significant that one of the features in Roman Catholicism to which he appeals as proving its unblemished descent from antiquity is its exclusiveness and intolerance.

The Cardinal is right; it is quite unnecessary to insist upon it; but, when the Modernists claim Newman as their prophet, it is fair to reply that, if we may judge from his writings, he would gladly have sent some of them to the stake.

The Modernist movement, properly so called, belongs to the last twenty years, and most of the literature dates from the present century. It began in the region of ecclesiastical history, and soon passed to biblical exegesis, where the new heresy was at first called 'concessionism,' The scope of the debate was enlarged with the stir produced by Loisy's 'L'Évangile et l'Église' and 'Autour d'un Petit Livre'; it spread over the field of Christian origins generally, and problems connected with them, such as the growth of ecclesiastical power and the evolution of dogma. For a few years the orthodox in France generally spoke of the new tendency as loisysme. It was not till 1905 that Edouard Le Roy published his 'Qu'est-ce qu'un dogme?' which carried the discussion into the domain of pure philosophy, though the studies of Blondel and Laberthonnière in the psychology of religion may be said to involve a metaphysic closely resembling that of Le Roy. Mr. Tyrrell's able works have a very similar philosophical basis, which is also assumed by the group of Italian priests who have remonstrated with the Pope.[57] M. Loisy protests against the classification made in the papal Encyclical which connects biblical critics, metaphysicians, psychologists, and Church reformers, as if they were all partners in the same enterprise. But in reality the same presuppositions, the same philosophical principles, are found in all the writers named; and the differences which may easily be detected in their writings are comparatively superficial. The movement appears to be strongest in France, where the policy of the Vatican has been uniformly unfortunate of recent years, and has brought many humiliations upon French Catholics. Italy has also been moved, though from slightly different causes. In the protests from that country we find a tone of disgust at the constitution of the Roman hierarchy and the character of the papal entourage, about which Italians are in a position to know more than other Catholics. Catholic Germany has been almost silent; and Mr. Tyrrell is the only Englishman whose name has come prominently forward.

It will be convenient to consider the position of the Modernists under three heads: their attitude towards New Testament criticism, especially in relation to the life of Christ; their philosophy; and their position in the Roman Catholic Church.

The Modernists themselves desire, for the most part, that criticism rather than philosophy should be regarded as the starting-point of the movement. 'So far from our philosophy dictating our critical method, it is the critical method that has of its own accord forced us to a very tentative and uncertain formulation of various philosophical conclusions.... This independence of our criticism is evident in many ways.'[58] The writers of this manifesto, and M. Loisy himself, appear not to perceive that their critical position rests on certain very important philosophical presuppositions; nor indeed is any criticism of religious origins possible without presuppositions which involve metaphysics. The results of their critical studies, as bearing on the life of Christ, we shall proceed to summarise, departing as little as possible from the actual language of the writers, and giving references in all cases. It must, however, be remembered that some of the group, such as Mr. Tyrrell, have not committed themselves to the more extreme critical views, while others, such as the Abbé Laberthonnière, the most brilliant and attractive writer of them all, hold a moderate position on the historical side. It is perhaps significant that those who are specialists in biblical criticism are the most radical members of the school.

The Gospels, says M. Loisy, are for Christianity what the Pentateuch is for Judaism. Like the Pentateuch, they are a patchwork and a compound of history and legend. The differences between them amount in many cases to unmistakable contradictions. In Mark the life of Jesus follows a progressive development. The first to infer His Messiahship is Simon Peter at Cæsarea Philippi; and Jesus Himself first declares it openly in His trial before the Sanhedrin. In Matthew and Luke, on the contrary, Jesus is presented to the public as the Son of God from the beginning of His ministry; He comes forward at once as the supreme Lawgiver, the Judge, the anointed of God. The Fourth Gospel goes much further still. His heavenly origin, His priority to the world, His co-operation in the work of creation and salvation, are ideas which are foreign to the other Gospels, but which the author of the Fourth Gospel has set forth in his prologue, and, in part, put into the mouth of John the Baptist.[59] The difference between the Christ of the Synoptic Gospels and the Christ of John may be summed up by saying that 'the Christ of the Synoptics is historical, but is not God; the Johannine Christ is divine, but not historical.'[60] But even Mark (according to M. Loisy) probably only incorporates the document of an eye-witness; his Gospel betrays Pauline influence.[61] The Gospel which bears his name is later than the destruction of Jerusalem, and was issued, probably about A.D. 75, by an unknown Christian, not a native of Palestine, who wished to write a book of evangelical instruction in conformity with the ideas of the Hellenic-Christian community to which he belonged.[62] The tradition connecting it with Peter may indicate that it was composed at Rome, but has no other historical value.[63]

The Gospel of Matthew was probably written about the beginning of the second century by a non-Palestinian Jew residing in Asia Minor or Syria. He is before all things a Catholic ecclesiastic, and may well have been one of the presbyters or bishops of the churches in which the institution of a monarchical episcopate took root.[64] The narratives peculiar to Matthew have the character rather of legendary developments than of genuine reminiscences. The historical value of these additions is nil. As a witness to fact, Matthew ranks below Mark, and even below Luke.[65] In particular, the chapters about the birth of Christ seem not to have the slightest historical foundation. The fictitious character of the genealogy is proved by the fact that Jesus seems not to have known of His descent [from David]. The story of the virgin birth turns on a text from Isaiah. Of this part of the Gospel, Loisy says, 'rien n'est plus arbitraire comme exégèse, ni plus faible comme narration fictive.'[66] Luke has taken more pains to compose a literary treatise than Mark or Matthew. The authorities which he follows seem to be—the source of our Mark, the so-called Matthew logia, and some other source or sources. But he treats his material more freely than Matthew. 'The lament of Christ over the holy city, His words to the women of Jerusalem, His prayer for His executioners, His promise to the penitent thief, His last words, are very touching traits, which may be in conformity with the spirit of Jesus, but which have no traditional basis.'[67] 'The fictitious character of the narratives of the infancy is less apparent in the Third Gospel than in the First, because the stories are much better constructed as legend, and do not resemble a midrash upon Messianic prophecies. "Le merveilleux en est moins banal et moins enfantin. II paraît cependant impossible de leur reconnaître une plus grande valeur de fond."'[68]

The Gospel of Luke was probably written (not by a disciple of St. Paul) between 90 and 100 A.D.; but the earliest redaction, which traced the descent of Jesus from David through Joseph, has been interpolated in the interests of the later idea of a virgin birth. The first two chapters are interesting for the history of Christian beliefs, not for the history of Christ. As for the Fourth Gospel, it is enough to say that the author had nothing to do with the son of Zebedee, and that he is in no sense a biographer of Christ, but the first and greatest of the Christian mystics.[69]

The result of this drastic treatment of the sources may be realised by perusing chapter vii of Loisy's 'Les Évangiles Synoptiques,' The following is a brief analysis of this chapter, entitled 'La Carrière de Jésus.' Jesus was born at Nazareth about four years before the Christian era. His family were certainly pious, but none of His relatives seems to have accepted the Gospel during His lifetime. Like many others, the young Jesus was attracted by the terrifying preaching of John the Baptist, from whom He received Baptism. When John was imprisoned He at once attempted to take his place. He began to preach round the lake of Galilee, and was compelled by the persistent demands of the crowd to 'work miracles.' This mission only lasted a few months; but it was long enough for Jesus to enrol twelve auxiliaries, who prepared the villages of Galilee for His coming, travelling two and two through the north of Palestine. Jesus found His audience rather among the déclassés of Judaism than among the Puritans. The staple of His teaching was the advent of the 'kingdom of God'—the sudden and speedy coming of the promised Messiah. This teaching was acceptable neither to Herod Antipas nor to the Pharisees; and their hostility obliged Jesus to fly for a short time to the Phoenician territory north of Galilee. But a conference between the Master and His disciples at Cæsarea Philippi ended in a determination to visit the capital and there proclaim Jesus as the promised Messiah. As they approached Jerusalem, even the ignorant disciples were frightened at the risks they were running, but Jesus calmed their fears by promising that they should soon be set on twelve thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel. 'Jésus n'allait pas à Jérusalem pour y mourir.'[70]

The doomed prophet made his public entry into Jerusalem as Messiah, and, as a first act of authority, cleared the temple courts by an act of violence, in which He was doubtless assisted by His disciples. For some days after this He preached daily about the coming of the kingdom, and foiled with great dexterity the traps which His enemies laid for Him. 'But the situation could only end in a miracle or a catastrophe, and it was the catastrophe which happened.'[71] Jesus was arrested, after a brief scuffle between the satellites of the High Priest and the disciples; and the latter, without waiting to see the end, fled northwards towards their homes. When brought before Pilate, Jesus probably answered 'Yes' to the question whether He claimed to be a king; but 'la parole du Christ johannique, Mon royaume n'est pas de ce monde, n'aurait jamais pu être dite par le Christ d'histoire.' This confession led naturally to His immediate execution; after which