Now, John the Baptist, hermit of the wilderness, was a prophet after
their own heart. He played up to their ideal. He quickened their hot
imagination. He was aglow with colour. He was a human tornado. His
defiant attitude, eccentric apparel, and mystic fervour, were vividly
picturesque; they caught the eye and compelled attention. He was an
untamed child of the desert; he stood aloof from the common crowd. Even
high-toned Pharisees were glamoured by his romantic pose. They listened
raptly to his fiery message, and were fascinated by his insolent tongue
and audacious words shot bolt-straight at them. His hearers staggered
whilst he thundered burning condemnations on their smug sins and sordid
lives; they writhed in agony as he lifted them from their feet and
suspended them over the bottomless pit, choking in sulphurous fumes
ascending from the fires of the damned below. Such ghastly presentment
of the truth after the good old method of the prophets churned up the
muddy depths of their polluted hearts. It converted the masses quickly,
as a visitation of the plague could drop a panicky city to its knees,
and when the excitement slowed down be as quickly forgotten as a
nine-days’ wonder out of fashion. The religious revival subsided like
the froth blown off by the welcome wind of a new excitement. The
emotions of a day spent down on the banks of the Jordan with John the
Baptist, the idol of the people, were exhilarating, and something to be
remembered for a lifetime by these hard-headed old Jews, and an
interesting story to tell their children’s children in years to come.
The ministry of Jesus was not effervescent in character. He could have
stormed men’s imaginations with flaming pomp and splendour; He could
have ridden a chariot of fire attended by thunder and lightning as
running footmen to announce His presence, but men’s hearts would have
been unmelted by such fierce demonstrations of power. It might have
awoke astonishment and intoxicated them into religious frenzy, but
afterward it would have left behind a nasty chill on the heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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