There is the conserved Christian force implied in the fact that Christ has won the hearts of men. To win the disinterested love of one man takes much force, more than most men have. To win the love of a state takes more. But to win and to hold, through the perturbations and revolutions of kingdoms and republics, the undying love of the best and purest men on earth requires an infinite amount of force. This point in Christ’s character greatly impressed the first Napoleon. Said he, “I know men. Christ is not a man. I have seen the time when I could inspire thousands to die for me, but it took the inspiration of my presence and the power of my word. Since I am away from men, a prisoner on Helena, no one will die for me. Christ, on the other hand, has been away from the world nearly two thousand years, and yet there are millions who would die for him. I tell you, Christ is not a man. I know men.” V. It would be impossible to recount all the institutions, books, civilizations, laws, discoveries, inventions, homes and hearts, into which the force of Christ’s life has for the past nineteen hundred years been lifting itself. As the sun expresses itself in the meadow, and lifts itself into the trees of the forests, so Christ has been embodying himself in the institutions, homes, and thoughts of men. The scientists say all force can be accounted for. When force has risen up at one point it has subsided at another: the amount rising up being the exact equivalent of that subsiding. Upon this principle we are seeking to account for all this force that, coming from Christ, has expressed itself in the domestic, social, political, and ecclesiastical institutions of men. More has risen than can be computed by human arithmetic, or compassed by human imagination, or comprehended by human thought. Where did it come from? Where did it subside? At what point did it disappear to rise again in such overwhelming volume, and such sweeping and far-reaching influence? We go back through eighteen hundred years. We are standing in Jerusalem. We hear conflicting reports of a strange, daring young man. At length he is pointed out to us. There is nothing remarkable about his appearance. He is a Jew. He was born among the poor. He is not noted for culture. He has no social position. He has no money. He has no political power or prestige. He has no army at his command. He has no philosophical system. He is connected with no academy. He is only thirty-three years old. His words are contained in no books. They are simply in the memory of his disciples. He is misunderstood. His own disciples do not know what to make of him. Finally he is arrested, and tried, and condemned, and crucified. He dies between two thieves, scorned, scoffed, buffeted, and friendless. Keep in mind the principle we are considering. All force can be measured. No more force rises up than subsides. Action and reaction are equal. We are seeking to account,