Charles H. Spurgeon

Now let us VIEW THE HUMANITY AS IT IS HERE DESCRIBED. The words teach it to us — holy child.

Christ’s humanity was perfectly holy. Upon this doctrine you are well established—but you may well wonder that Jesus was always holy. He is conceived of a woman, and yet no sort of sin cometh from his birth. “That holy thing which is born of thee shall be called the Son of God.” He is educated in the midst of sinful persons. It could not be otherwise, for there were none on earth that could be called good — all having become unprofitable, and yet, though tabernacling in the midst of sinners, in him is no taint or trace of sin. He goes into the world, and as a physician must mingle with the sick, so he is found in the very worst of society. The harlot may speak to him, and from the publican he turns not away, yet from none of these did he receive any corrupt influence. He is tempted, and it is usually supposed that a man can scarcely be tempted, even should he overcome the temptation, without receiving some injury to his innocency; but the prince of this world came and had nothing in Christ; his fiery darts fell upon the nature of Christ as upon water, and were quenched at once. Satan was but as one who should whip the sea; he left no mark upon the perfect holiness of Christ. Imputation of sin would be the nearest approach to making our Lord a sinner; but let it ever be remembered that though Jehovah made him to be sin for us, yet he knew no sin. The world’s sin was put upon the shoulders of Christ, and yet he had no sin for all that; the imputation was accomplished in such a manner that it did not in any sense or in any degree derogate from his title to perfect holiness. I have read sermons upon the imputation of sin to Christ, which have left painful impressions upon my mind, because I remember to have met with the expression that Christ was the greatest sinner that ever lived, because he stood in the room of millions of sinners.

Now it is true that Jesus took the sinner’s place, but yet he never was a sinner, nor ever can in any sense be thought of as unholy. Perfect, pure, spotless, the great Redeemer stood; and even in the conflict, when all the powers of hell were let loose against him, and when God himself had withdrawn — that withdrawal of God from us would have hardened our hearts, but it did not harden his heart. The taking away of God’s grace from us is the ruin of our graces; but he had a well-spring of grace within himself, and his purity lived on when God had withdrawn from him. From the first dawn of his humanity in the womb to the time when he is laid in the new tomb, he is “holy.”

The next word is one that requires most attention. Why is Christ called a “holy child?” We can understand his being called a child while he was so, but why a “holy child” now that he is ascended up on high? Why, dear friends, because the character of Christ is more aptly pictured by that of a child than that of a man. If you conceive of a perfectly holy child, you have then before you a representation of Christ. There is that in childhood, in holy childhood, which you cannot find even in holy manhood. You note in childhood its simplicity, the absence of all cunning. We dare not in manhood usually wear our heart upon our sleeve as children do; we have lost the trustfulness of our youth and are upon our guard in society. We have learned by very painful experience to suspect others, and we walk among our fellow men often with our heart locked up with many locks, thinking that when thieves are abroad, good housekeepers must not leave the door on the latch. We have to practice the wisdom of serpents, as well as the harmlessness of doves.

But a child is perfectly guileless; it prattles out its little heart; it has no caution or reserve; it cannot scheme, for it cannot go round about with the skillful words of the politician; it knows not how to spin the web of sophistry; it is plain, transparent, and you see through it. Now, such was Christ. Not foolish, for there is much difference between simplicity and folly. He was never foolish; they who mistook him for such, and sought to entrap him, soon discovered that the child was a wise child. Still he is ever a child — he tells his heart out everywhere. He eats, he drinks like other men. They call him a drunken man and a wine-bibber; does he, then, from prudential motives, therefore, cease to eat and drink as other men? O no! He is quite a child. In every thing that he does there is an artless simplicity. You see through him and you can trust him, because there is a trustfulness about his whole nature; he knows what is in man, yet he does not act with suspicion towards men, but ever with simplicity.

In a child we expect to see much humbleness. There is a humbleness of association. There is a little child yonder — it is a king’s daughter, and here is another little child belonging to a gipsy woman. Leave the two in a room and see if they will not be at play together in five minutes. If it had been the queen and the gipsy woman they would have sat as far apart as possible. O no! They do not associate together at all! Distinctions of rank and all that kind of thing they studiously maintain, and, therefore, remain isolated; but the two children will be down on the floor together, and if there happen to be some little heap of dust or a few pieces of broken crock, the princess will find in them almost as much mirth as the beggar-woman’s child. Here is humbleness of mind. So with Christ; he is King of kings and Prince of the house of David, yet he is always with the poor and needy, and sympathizes with them just as heartily as though he were altogether such as they were. You do not find little children sitting down and planning how they shall win crowns — in what way they shall obtain popularity or applause. O no! They are quite satisfied to do their father’s will, and live on his smile. It is so with Christ. What a childlike act that was — when they would have made him a king, he went and hid himself, and how childlike does he seem when he rides upon the colt, the foal of an ass, through the streets of Jerusalem, and must have the mother ass there too, lest either of the two creatures should be distressed. He is the friend of the brute creation as well as of man in general; so thoughtful and so kind, so simple, so humble in all that he does.

We picture a holy child as being all obedient. You have but to say to it “Do this,” and it doeth it. It asketh no questions. Was it not so with Jesus his whole life long? “My meat and my drink is to do the will of him that sent me.” “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?”

So, again, we look in holy children for a forgiving temper. We know that sometimes the blood comes up in the little face, and a little angry quarrel ensues, but it is soon over, and with their arms about each other’s neck, and many a loving kiss, it is soon made up again by the little ones. Well, with Jesus this characteristic of childhood is carried out to the fullest extent, for his latest words are, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Ah! holy child! no fire from heaven dost thou call, like John; no denunciations come from thy lips against sinners. “Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more,” saith he to the woman taken in adultery. He is the child all through. Scripture calls him the man-child, and what if we call him the great child-man! He was a child when he had become a man. He never had childish things to put away in the sense in which the apostle speaks of it, for as to all the folly, and the littleness, and giddiness of youth, Christ knew not these, but everything that is beautiful, and lovely, and just, in the virgin innocence of a pure and holy child — such as children would have been, if their parents had not fallen — all this you see in the person of Christ Jesus.

Beloved, I think there is something very sweet in this picture of Christ’s humanity, because we are none of us afraid to approach a child. Men that are childlike men — we are never afraid of. You know certain people in the world — you could not tell your trouble to them; they have a haughty manner, they look down upon you, you feel that you can never reach their hearts. There are certain others with an open and honest face, and you instinctively feel, “There, I can tell that man anything, I know I can. If I were in any kind of distress, or trouble, I would go to him — I know he would help me if he could.” Well, that is because such a man has a degree of childlikeness about him. Now in the person of Christ there is all this carried out to the fullest degree. Come then, and tell Jesus everything. Whatever your trouble or difficulty may be, stand not back through shame or fear. Wilt thou fear Immanuel, or dread the Lamb of God? Wilt thou be afraid of a holy child? Nay, rather come, and like Simeon take him in thine arms and own him as thy consolation and thy trust. I would I could get a hold this morning on those timid ones who always say, “I am afraid of Jesus.” Why, dear friends, how can you talk so? You do him wrong. You know him not, or you would not thus speak. This is the unkindest cut of all, to think that he is unwilling to forgive. Dying for you, living as a holy child for you, O can it be, can it be possible that he should be hard to forgive and receive you?

Thinking of a holy child while I looked through this verse, I turned to Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s story of Eva and little Topsy. She gives a graphic picture there of a holy child indeed. There is the law in the person of Miss Ophelia: she whips the child, but the more she whips her, the worse she is, she gets no further than, “I’s so wicked, I can’t help it; I’s so wicked.” That is all the law can do; it can only make a man feel he is “so wicked,” that he cannot help it, and he goes on sinning still. But what a picture is that when St. Clair draws the curtain and sees the two little children sitting with their cheeks together. Eva says, “What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won’t you try and be good? Don’t you love anybody, Topsy?” “Donno nothing ‘bout love; I loves candy and sich; that’s all,” said Topsy. “But you love your father and mother?” “Never had none, ye know; I telled ye that, Miss Eva.” “Oh, I know,” said Eva sadly; “but hadn’t you any brother, or sister, or aunt, or —” “No, none on ‘em — never had nothing nor nobody.” “But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you might —” “Couldn’t never be nothin’, if I was ever so good,” said Topsy. “O Topsy, poor child, I love you!” said Eva, with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy’s shoulder, “I love you, because you haven’t had any father, or mother, or friends — because you’ve been a poor, abused child! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan’t live a great while; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good, for my sake; it’s only a little while I shall be with you.” The round, keen eyes of the child were overcast with tears; large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand. Yes, in that moment, a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul! She laid her head down between her knees, and wept, and sobbed—while the beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner. Now something like this, only in a far nobler style, Jesus Christ has behaved towards us. He sees us lost and ruined, wicked, hopelessly wicked, and he comes as a holy child and sits down by our ruined humanity, and he says, “I love you — I love you because you are so lost, so ruined, so hopelessly ruined; because I know the dreadful doom into which you will fall. There is nothing in you that makes me love you, but I do love you; I cannot bear to see you die like this. I would sooner die than you should remain a sinner. I would sooner die and bear my Father’s wrath for you, than that you should be a sinner, and disobedient to him.” The holy child sits down by you this morning and weeps for you. Will you grieve Immanuel? Will you break the heart of Jesus, your soul’s lover?

Oh, will you open his wounds afresh and crucify him again? If ye would not, then trust him now; fly to him, give yourselves up to him. He waiteth to be gracious to you; his loving arms are wide open to receive you. “Whosoever will,” saith he, “let him come, and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.” Such is the coming of the “holy child Jesus.”

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Sermon no. 545 – Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit, Vol. 9.

Courtesy of Chapel Library