The self-consciousness of Jesus — His thought of Himself, that is, and of His redeeming mission to the world — is not merely the greatest fact which concerns Him; it is the greatest fact in all history. It is from this point, therefore, that we ought to start.
It is right to emphasize at the outset the immense significance of the fact that Jesus Christ should have had an absorbing consciousness of Himself, or rather of God and Himself as bound up together. No man in his senses would dream of employing the phrase "God and I," yet just this is Jesus' tone. He cannot think of Himself without thinking also of God Who sent Him and Who is perpetually with Him. Still more amazing, He cannot think of God but that His mind instantly settles on Himself as God's indispensable organ and representative.
Take Buddha. When Buddha dies, he gives instructions that his disciples may forget him if only they remember his teaching and the way that he has shown them. Or, again, take Socrates. What he is concerned about at the end is the truth he has given his life to elucidate. These two are nearer to Jesus in moral power and originality than is any other; yet it is clear that it had not occurred to them to take a central position in the affections and thoughts of mankind. How different is it with Jesus! He came to lead men to God; and yet He knows no more sacred task than to point them to His own Person.
Men and women like ourselves have been re-created by His influence, changed in the depths and inmost secrets of being. In every man that change takes a different, because a personal, shape. His redemption is as original and individual a fact as the colour of his eyes. Each rising sun, touching the wing of sleeping birds, wakes over the woods a fresh burst of melody, as if the sun had never risen before; and just so, wherever a man finds and grasps redemption, faith in the heart is a new creation, as if he were the first to discover Jesus.
Christ remains past only as long as He is not faced in the light of conscience. So long as we bring into play our intellect merely, or the reconstructive fancy of the historian, He is still far off. The change comes when we take up the moral issue. If we turn to Him as men keen to gain the righteous, overcoming life, but conscious so far of failure, instantly He steps forward out of the page of history, a tremendous and exacting reality. We cannot read His greatest words, whether of command or promise, without feeling that He not only said these things to men in Palestine, but is saying them to ourselves now.
His eyes seem to follow us, like those of a great portrait. When men accept or reject Him, they do so to His face.
It is in the light of a sinner's conscience, and only there, that the fact of Christ becomes quite luminous. Within us all are two great elemental impulses, two vital and supreme desires. We crave an infinite gift which will satisfy even these insatiable hearts; a gift absolute, unending, eternal. We crave an infinite object also in which we may lose ourselves for ever and for ever. At once to take and to give in boundless measure; nothing less will satisfy the heart.
These two desires are met in the Christ whom we have studied. He is the Saviour, and He is the Leader. His gifts to us are wonderful — sin pardoned, sorrow lightened, death abolished, heaven opened, and a present God in every trouble. Through Him we are made personalities: no longer things, or links in a chain, but free men. But also He is the Leader, imposing on us an infinite demand. He leads us out into ever wider pastures of truth and duty, of service and self-denial from which there is no discharge, in a bond of union with Himself to which even death will make no difference.