IT is John whom I beheaded," said Herod, as he heard of the fame of Jesus; for he could not imagine that there could be two prophets, whose testimony was so largely similar, and whose declaration of the coming kingdom seemed so identical.
But John had been beheaded! How then could he appear again? Said Herod, “He is risen from the dead." But a leading doctrine of that day taught that there was no resurrection of the dead; and doubtless Herod was acquainted with it.
Nevertheless, he lived under the conviction that John was risen. He could not persuade himself of the advent of another and infinitely greater servant of God. Such a thing did not appear probable; and, besides, his conscience smote him for the murder of John. The specter of that faithful prophet haunted his dreams; the ghastly form of the crowning sin of even his awfully sinful life appeared ever before his frightened vision, to appall his days and to scare his nights. “It is John whom I beheaded," was therefore the Nemesis of that man's miserable existence, the mighty counterpoise to his earthly exaltation, and the intolerable load that burdened his guilty' soul.
Oh! what an image must thus have been imprinted on the retina of his conscience, and how ineradicable? Some "sins fade from memory, others refuse to do so! The beheaded John was a chronic apparition, and flitted unasked across Herod's mental horizon, to bring sin to remembrance, and to embitter his heart.
The galling recollection of some sins is borne along upon the conscience of the sinner throughout his life on earth, and then forced upon his unwilling attention in a lost eternity. Sin cannot be erased from the tablet of memory. Allow recollection to brush aside the dust from memory's eye, and guilt is seen in its own imperishable enormity.
The sin of a beheaded John may pursue the soul like a sleuth-hound, whilst perchance an “idle word” may be forgotten; but it is for the latter, recalled in the light of that day, that “men shall give account in the day of judgment." All sins, great and small, are recorded in heaven, and engraven on conscience. There is no load so heavy as a guilty conscience. A smiling face leaves that load untouched, and the heart that carries it unrelieved.
A guilty conscience has driven thousands to despair, and is the parent of innumerable religions. Forms of penance the most painful, and of self-sacrifice the most superstitious, have been devised to obtain immunity from its torture. But the trouble remains. To give the fruit of your body for the sin of your soul would be unavailing.
Yet there is a remedy, and only one. It is God's remedy. Hearken! “The blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin." Thank God for that! The gravity of sin, instead of being thus lessened, is seen in its true and awful malignity.
No equivalent short of the blood of the Son of God could be found, and therefore, in deepest grace; that blood was shed.
Apart from this, salvation was impossible. God could not, consistently with His justice, vindicate the sinner. Justice demands satisfaction, and what infinite satisfaction is needed to meet the claims of God! Could man, already guilty, render it?
Impossible. But Christ, ever sinless and perfect, has done so; and now the guilty and burdened conscience can find, by faith in Him and His blood, rest from its heavy load.
A conscience, once and forever purged, is a primary doctrine of Christianity (Heb. 10), and the believer has "no more conscience of sins." Again, thank God for such a work as that of Calvary.
The believer is conscious of indwelling sin, and is bound to exercise himself to have a conscience void of offense before God and man; but as a believer he is purged before God by the precious blood of Christ, and rejoices in the God-spoken declaration, “Their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more.”
What a debtor is the Christian to Christ!
J. W. S.