204
April 1927
T h e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
Easter In Jerusalem B y R ev . H erbert H . T ay , L a V e rn e , C a l if .
as we look down upon it from where we are standing, it resembles a mighty green serpent, twisting its way up the bottom of the trench. Slightly to the south of us lies a shimmering, blue body of water. It is the Dead Sea. It looks so beautiful from above, 'that one would hardly believe that no living thing can exist in its waters. Beyond the Jordan and the Dead Sea, rises the purple wall of the mountains of Moab and Ammon. How we would like to visit those countries “over Jordan” ! Perhaps we shall in the near future. Just now our objective is Bethany. We begin the descent of the eastern slope of the Mount of Olives. After we have proceeded about two miles from Jerusalem, we come upon a little plateau dotted with sil very olive trees. Looking down below us we see, not two hundred yards distant, nestling in a little cove in the hills, the village of Bethany, How quiet and peaceful it seems, as it lies there, surrounded by beautiful olive trees which are gently swaying in the breeze. The houses are in a very dilapidated condition, but we do not notice that. Our minds are flooded with a host of sacred memories, as we gaze upon this historic spot. It was here that Jesus spent each night, save the last, of His last week upon earth. This quiet little village provided an excellent place for Him to retire from the burden and heat of the day in the city, to enjoy a night of quiet repose. In the city, His life was a continual round of ceaseless activity. He was among those who hated Him. They disputed with Him, insulted Him, and mistreated Him in countless ways. What a relief it was, to be able to retire two short miles from such experiences, to the tranquil, quiet little village of Bethany, and be among friends. The soothing balm of sympathizing friendships, healed the cuts and bruises of the insults of the day, and He was refreshed for the day to come. In the center of the village stands the house of Martha and her sister Mary. Nothing remains but the walls and the floor, but still it is revered by all men, for we know that the feet of Jesus pressed the stones of that floor as He went in and out among His friends. B ack to J erusalem As we retrace our steps to Jerusalem, we descend the western slope of the Mount of Olives into a narrow valley, about five hundred feet deep. It is called in the Old Testament the Kidron valley, but in the New Testa ment the name is spelled Cedron. Near the base of the Mount of Olives, and directly alongside the Bethany road, is the Garden of Gethsemane. It afforded a fine resting place for our Lord, as He went back and forth between Jerusalem and Bethany. We enter the Garden by the gate on the North. As we do so, we instinctively bow our heads, and speak in hushed voices. If there is any spot in Palestine which can really be called sacred, it is this. It was here that the Saviour prayed—alone. It was» here that He wrestled alone with fears. It was here that He gained the victory which assured the successful consum mation of His work of the following day. “Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.” Truly this is a sacred spot. The Garden of Gethsemane today, is about two hun dred feet square,, and surrounded by a high stone wall. It is presided over by the Franciscan monks, who care for
The beautiful picture of the reputed sepulchre of Christ, on our front cover, was furnished us by Mr. Tay-—(an enlarged snapshot ).
O the person who is no more than a tourist, Pal-; estine is dry and uninteresting. To the average Christian, the Holy Land is somewhat disap pointing. One has been accustomed to hearing it referred to as a “land flowing with milk and honey,” and a land whose “hills drop down fat ness.” One who travels to Palestine only to “see,” soon has enough of it. But one who goes there to “ feel,” and to let his imagination carry him back through the centur ies, is loath to leave. Every hill, every village, every val ley, with its restless sea of tossing grain, brings new mem ories. If the hills and dales of Palestine could speak, what tales they could tell! What deeds of valor! What hero-: ism! What love! What hate! What religious devotion! Yes—what sacrifice! (All the familiar associations of sacred song and story cluster ’round this little land. From Hermon’s snow-crowned peak to Gaza’s gleaming desert sands—every foot of the Holy Land is vocal with inci dents in the history of God’s chosen people. It is the land of enchantment—the Holy Land—the Land of the Book. Is there any wonder that the Christian should love and reverence that land? But more than that—it is the Land of the Saviour. Those hills and valleys were pressed by the feet of the Son of God. The most somber and prosaic landscape becomes sacred, if He has been there. It is not the character of the place, but the presence of God, that makes anything holy. If one could choose the time and place which he desired to spend in Palestine, he would undoubtedly choose Easter in Jerusalem. “But now, once for all, in the con summation, of the ages, hath Christ appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself.” The very heart and cen ter of all God’s plan of the ages centers in the death, bur ial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Those events took place in Jerusalem. They took place at Easter time. What could be more blessed than to be in Jerusalem at Easter time, and follow in the footsteps of our Lord, visiting the places He did, during His last week upon earth ? B eg in at B e tha ny If we are to follow Him through the week, we'“must begin at Bethany. If we approach it from the city of Jerusalem, we must ascend the historic old Mount of Olives, which is “before Jerusalem in the East.” Upon its summit, and rocky slopes, are many gnarled and twisted old olive trees. These have braved the storms of the cen turies, and it was from their predecessors that the hill received its name. The view from the summit is awe inspiring. At one’s very feet is a yawning abyss which drops away to almost thirteen hundred feet below sea level. In the bottom of this mighty trench, we can dis tinguish a twisting band of trees. Here and there we catch the reflected gleam of the morning sun through the leaves, and we know that it comes from the Jordan river. The historic old stream is almost hidden in the trees, and
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker